Pathway to Japanese Literature

A wind laden with rain suddenly blew through, heavy with the briny scent of the seashore—though beneath this layered sky of clouds it should have felt muggy for the season, the air after today’s thorough downpour since around two o’clock remained bone-chillingly cold……

The droplets spilling from the leaves were cold.……Perhaps a fine drizzle still fell.
What came plopping down intermittently—though the trees stood dark enough on their own, it seemed not solely from those droplets—the stone steps of the shrine’s guardian deity lay straight and high, winding damply through the forest canopy where scattered oak leaves appeared on the verge of becoming crabs, each one glistening.
Along the way, though summer grasses thickly covered patches of the path, cloud shadows deepened the gloom.

Roads crisscrossed every which way, but below the steps lay flooded fields not yet converted to rice nurseries and neglected farmland—though the merchant town with its farming and fishing lodgings wasn’t far off. Amidst the rustling wind, the sound of the sea rang out with a startlingly desolate echo.
As the saying goes—the surroundings stretched boundlessly, shrouded in a bone-chilling mist, not a soul in sight—and thus, twilight drew near: that hour when evil spirits walk abroad.

While hidden by townhouse roofs, the sea spread out to the southeast.
At the opposite side—where the mountain’s skirt dips into a hollow—against the left edge of the stone steps, something clung plastered flat like a sewer rat crawling upward: rags against skin, no hat worn, desperately gripping a slender single staff.
The staff’s tip protruded above its head where it dug into the shoulder—those backward-facing shoulders quivered and trembled—the stature barely reaching three feet.
A child? A dwarf? A small man?
Only something no larger than a shipworm’s shadow spread seeping into the mist crawled up step by step.……

Drenched and bedraggled, each time he writhed, faint, mournful chirps rose—an eerie, sinister sound. Was it the sound of a rotting lung breathing—or perhaps the creak of bone being wrung out, since his soaked hem dripped droplets—? It sounded eerie, those faint, mournful chirps like the ancient ribs of an umbrella groaning in the wind.

“Heave,”

“Hup,”

Hss, hss, hss.

Raising a work chant... this side was lively.
Using a suitably sized log as a carrying pole, two half-naked, burly fishermen hauled a massive fish between them.
The fish’s head bound with a hooked rope, its tail nearly dragging on the ground.
Moreover, fresh harpoon wounds—flesh torn open—sent streams of bright blood dripping from the crown of its head, gills, and beneath its fins onto the rain-drenched path, staining the grasses crimson.

In depicting this fish within the tale, I would have preferred—were it possible—to call it a small whale. Unless it were a giant tuna, a shark, or a sawshark, I felt its enormity and ferocity wouldn’t truly come across. There was also the anglerfish—had it been that, one would have merely observed its bloated belly. In truth, it was a stone-throwing fish. Large and warm with minor toxicity—though such traits would normally keep it beyond our sight—the specimen they carried measured over five shaku in length, weighed twenty kan in full, and stood as robust as a sturdy man. It dwells in rocky reefs of stormy seas, with razor-sharp scales, a grimacing visage, and rigid fins. At first glance, it resembled a shachi—whereas those mythical creatures adorn castle keeps in gold and silver like feudal lords, this one was being jostled by a lowly figure in a red raincoat, its bluish-black body glistening with blood from beneath as it swayed ponderously.

As for the value of such a large stone-throwing fish, it did not amount to even a few ryō.
I later heard it was worth no more than seventy or eighty sen, which left me feeling rather glum.
However, this was not bound for wholesalers or markets but destined for our fishing town’s evening meal—hauled up from a boat that lay moored against rugged rocks, belching smoke in reckless abandon, dragged by hand hooks along the cliff’s flank, then carried barefoot over the rocky shore path.

With heavy footsteps as if still treading the ship’s hull, their shins brushing against the ridges of the fields as they swayed side to side, they jostled the large fish—flapping loosely through the grass—

“Heave,”

“Hup,”

Hss, hss, hss.

Unlike its blood-soaked worldly manifestation, beneath stone steps that rose like layered blue agate through the rainy season’s twilight forest, they formed a horizontal line—fishermen and fish.

The wooden torii—not immediately visible here—stood precisely at the midpoint between the front path and the town’s backstreet that ran laterally across a single broad ridge, separated perhaps by winds sweeping in from the sea it repelled or a depression prone to sudden flooding. Its position mirrored the striking point of a ritual bell striker’s crossbar.

The shrine pillars, viewed from below, resembled faded movie or playhouse banners—soiled hand towels in murky tea and indigo hues, as lifeless as listless abalone or young bonito, sagging limply on their poles—a sight profoundly desolate.

The front fisherman’s shoulder stepped onto the stone step; the rear one’s leg rose; then—at precisely the step’s height where that strange little man clung clawing to the edge—the gills of the central large fish emerged vividly, attempting to stitch his cheek with blood from their fins.

At that moment, the small man stretched up and peered over the log,

“Shameless! Look at you!” he said, his eyes glinting fiercely. “May I too curse this world!” As he shook his head, the hair covering down to his ears quivered violently... reeking of fish.

After a short while, along the edge of rice paddies where the mist had been brushed with another layer of diluted ink, the fishermen turned back in a manner of fearful caution, hunched over. Empty-handed, their posture showed no sign of attempting to retrieve the large stone-throwing fish. They looked as though they might pounce on a loach were one present. They fled just now, dropping the entire log with a thud. Ah, no—they had indeed fled… Let even their red loincloths burn with shame.

“Ain’t that big fish turned into a stone Jizo-sir?” he said while confirming that the stone-throwing fish remained just as it was—a stone-throwing fish collapsed in the field.

One of them stared fixedly up at the stone steps,
“Ain’t nothin’ here.”

“Oh, ain’t here—can’t be here, you.”
“Played one damn trick ‘n vanished.”
“That bastard ain’t the type to stick around forever.”

“Like I said before, for somethin’ that targeted this fish, it’s a small one.”

“Exactly—doesn’t seem like somethin’ that followed us from the sea.”
“Soon as it showed up, planted itself right there on them stone steps.”

“I’m thinkin’ it mightn’t be nothin’ but a vengeful spirit that crawled out from the fish’s guts.”

As he started to grab the large fish’s gills, he jerked his hand back as if startled by his own voice and said:

“After all, ain’t nothin’ but a water creature.”
“If it were foxes or weasels from the wilds, their faces’d be white or yellow.”
“Frog-green in color, wart-covered, with a sharp beak, and hair hanging down like stringy seaweed.”

“That’s it, that’s it!”
“That’s when it finally clicked.”
“It’s the spittin’ image of a kappa straight outta the picture books!”

And with that, he became strangely fired up.

People commonly dismiss pictures as mere fantasies, but I believe the reader will now come to understand that they are no such thing.

“Damn it... Never heard rumors ’bout such things bein’ around these parts till now.—Glad it didn’t bolt toward the shore.—If it’d fled to the fishin’ grounds an’ blabbered to its pals—they’d come swarmin’ as backup.”

“That’s it.”

“He ran off to the village—left behind are women an’ kids.”
“Ain’t no time for discussin’—we turned back quick. Perfect move!”
“If you an’ me’d been snatched by that kappa, there wouldn’t be no place left to stand—face down or up—for these mugs o’ ours, huh?”

“That’s right, that’s right.”
“We did good.—Damn you, come out again!”
“Crush that head plate o’ yours, spread butter on the pieces, an’ take a bite!”

Needless to say, they pulled out the log, drew it close, and glared up at the stone steps.

“Scary.”

With a voice like insect chirping, he stuck out his bluish earthworm-like tongue in one swift motion.
The suspicious little man, having climbed past the steps, protruded only his blue beak from the trunk of an ancient cedar, peered down at the foothills while opening his mouth like a split akebia fruit, and grinned once more.

To the right of that cedar, the mountain path continued hidden among trees, where roots, rocky outcrops, and weeds grew wildly higher than a human’s back. The dokudami’s fragrance hung thick, thistles bloomed fiercely, and even the white wild roses—all bathed in the untimely twilight’s faint glow—confused the eye and blocked the way forward with their tangled profusion.
The sound of waves resonating through the treetops, the sea breeze blowing ashore—swirling the weeds into vortices that disorient east and west.
How far does this slope stretch on?
The valley deepens, the peaks recede into the distance—suggesting vastness beyond measure.
However, after advancing a mere hundred meters, one quickly reaches the edge of the precipice; let us call this place Uomizaki.
The town and sea spread out in a single sweeping view; then, abruptly curving left, another solitary stone step appears.

The small man’s head emerged at the tips of the grass on this precipice edge, shaped like a mushroom cap, slipping out smoothly.

At the foot of the hill, the two fishermen abandoned the large fish lying on its side. One had forgotten his straw hat; the other’s headscarf now resembled a pumpkin. Clutching only their sticks, their shadows grew indistinct as they sank darkly into the furrowed shadows.
The reason was simple—the fish proved too heavy to carry up.
Thinking a demon might be pressing down on them, they swung a log through the air to check.
Naturally, there was no tangible resistance.
That creature might’ve burrowed from mouth to belly.
The gills moved; the eyes began to glow. At this, they feigned aggression but had already lost the courage to strike the fish’s belly.
Oh, Princess Deity—the august deity who manifests in female form—must have deigned to desire provisions for the evening meal; thus did their words unite in truly peaceful, effortless, yet most wondrous agreement, leaving behind an offering—not a naked white maiden—before returning.

The ashen small man emerged onto the second stone steps.
The pure shrine precincts, encircling a natural hill like a dried-up marsh, were dimly lit and thoroughly drenched, bearing no resemblance to the slope’s darkness.
Diagonally to the right, amidst the towering spear-shaped cedar tree’s branches densely grown into the void, stood a shrine.
From this side—in a gesture already expressing penitence—he raised the planted staff from the ground and placed one hand upon his chest.
But his left hand dangled limply, twisted grotesquely from the shoulder within a tattered sleeve that resembled a torn armor skirt.
There must be a reason for this.

Listen first.—Though the moss-steeped wind blew down grasses on the slope with inherent stillness, the scattered evergreen leaves—strewn across steps, greenery, and shrine hall—now did not stir even faintly.

Not only that—when the elderly lamp-lighter emerged alone at the base of these steps, the wick placed atop his oil holder—that very wick—did not so much as tremble even when the evening storm, hastening sunset’s end, suddenly gusted forth. Was it not strange?

With soft rustling steps he drew near, advanced with the same hushed sounds, and let his staff clatter down. He spread out his sleeves like a soaked rat and knelt at the base of the steps.

His eyes alone gleaming, he looked up at the golden characters on the azure plaque, then—with one hand unusable—struck his emaciated chest three times in lieu of clapping.

“I humbly beseech you...”
“…this evenin’.”

With a shrill yet pitiful voice, he pressed his head to the ground.

“I humbly beseech you... Please.”
“Please—”

From behind the frontal plaque, a single white butterfly appeared as though an evening glory blooming faintly, then fluttered down and swept over the small man’s head.—When this butterfly, cutting through the shrine precincts with fluttering wings, alighted upon the lantern at the stone steps’ entrance—its wings seemingly kindling the lantern’s glow—the elderly priest, nearing eighty years with a face carved like sculpture or painting yet bearing cheeks slightly rounded, stood in wilted shrine vestments: leggings tied tight against mosquitoes, an aged deerskin tinder pouch hanging large at his hip, a bundle of wicks in one hand and an oil holder in the other, wearing a crushed eboshi cap where white hairs—perhaps ten or seven strands of thinning locks—peeked from behind ears at the hollow’s edge. He positioned himself against the half-crumbled railing’s giboshi ornament, his footsteps pattering precisely closer.

He crouched down, clutching his knees.
At that moment, he placed a wick beside the oil holder in the corner of the steps.

——

“Is it Waro?”

“He’s three ri away.”
“I... humbly belong to the border’s waterhole.”

“Well, well—must be from the Inba Marsh and Tega Marsh clan, judging by appearances.”

“I’m Saburō, the young one from Akazuma.”

“Well met, Kappa folk.”
“Now then, judging by that appearance, climbing these stone steps must’ve been quite laborious for you, young one.”
“…If only Waro and his ilk possessed the knowledge to fly through the skies.”

“As you say-shu, Priest-sama.”
“Though my body bears injuries as if crushed by a motorcar-shu, were I to swim through this rainy season sky-shu, I’d not lose to any kite crow-shu.”
“Leaping down from the treetops instead of properly approaching via the torii gate’s ceremonial path would’ve been disrespectful to Your Highness-shu, I reasoned-shu.”

“Hoh, hmm... Devout.”

He nodded contentedly.

“I also stripped an old scarecrow in Haidzuka Forest-shu.”

“Devout, devout… A remarkable one, my boy.”
“...What? You mean that’s how you got those terrible injuries—what happened?”

“That is why-shu, that is why-shu I have come to make my plea-shu.”

“This old relic can grant nothing.”
“In any case, it’s a plea to the Princess Deity, I suppose.”
“I shall convey your request, my boy, but the purpose—is it medicine?”

“It’s not medicine-shu.”
“I wish to take vengeance-shu.”

“Ah, ah, I see, I see.”
“Vengeance… Hmm. That—however—doesn’t suit a youth and is behind the times.”
“Vengeance isn’t practiced these days, you know.”

“It’s not that-shu!”
“It’s retaliation-shu! I want to retaliate for the fight-shu!”

“Did you have a fight?”
“A fight, you mean?”

“My left hand was broken-shu.”

He shuddered violently.
Wringing his sodden shoulders, droplets dripped; clumps of blood resembling water shield plants seemed still to flow.

The pointed beak was wart-covered and still pale.

“How pitiful— What’s to be done?”
“And who might this opponent be, pray tell?”

“Damn humans!”

“Quiet—”

He coughed hoarsely,

“You there.”

The kappa shrank back sharply.

“Today-shu, around noon-shu, with the first fine weather in ages-shu, I emerged from Orora Marsh-shu.”
“I descended the cliff to that beach’s Kamadoiwa Rock-shu.”
“Priest-sama—since I had no desire-shu for small crucian carps or loaches with swollen bellies-shu, nor for shellfish or small crabs-shu—I pretended the white waves’ crashing rocky shore was an eight-petaled lotus-shu, imitated a boat’s halo with the screen-like crag behind me-shu, and sat in meditation… Elder-sama-shu, you must know-shu.”

That was—the hidden hamlet in the nearby villages.
“Rarely noticed by human eyes-shu, they hide and emerge with Yamane tidal shifts-shu, carving around jagged crags that pile up like uneven tiles-shu. The fishermen use natural fish traps and makeshift boats to store their catch-shu, but even sea bream and flounder remain unseen in this rainy season dampness-shu.”
“…The leftover tiny sardines went *ch-ch-ch* (laughing)… With their blue fins in procession, they glinted through Kamadoiwa Rock’s racks, basking in southern sun.”
“Smiling and watching that, watching—with my glistening body wetting my hands… I was playing at imitating-shu how fishermen mend their nets-shu.”
“At that moment—a cool, clear woman’s voice, unfamiliar to these parts and mingling with a man’s—came from the rocky path atop the cliff, stepping on and clinging to crag edges—a patterned happi coat with ‘Katsurai’ written on it-shu.”

“Ah, right—the inn in this town, it is.”

“Yes, that damn clerk guided us-shu.”
A middle-aged woman with a round chignon and a long-faced man in a summer hat who appeared to be her husband.
“The motorcar driver came steadily to one place-shu.”
“But that middle-aged woman—the pretty young woman of twenty-four or twenty-five with plump features who called her ‘Auntie’—shu—when that auntie spoke, it sounded like ‘Oba-shan’... That clear, sweet, tender voice was unbearable-shu.”

“Hmm, an unusual voice.”
“It’s not something I would imitate-shu.”

“Ah, ah, I see, I see.”

He nodded with undivided attention—though the wind now blew fiercely—his parched lamp wick remaining mysteriously undisturbed, his white hair ethereal and detached from worldly concerns, exuding an Elder-like dignity.

“Elder-sama, the young woman—plump and well-rounded with skin of indescribable texture—went splashing into the tide.”
“She swirled her kimono hem roundly.”

“Danger! Right before you.”
“Right before your eyes.”

“The whiteness of her shins—entwined with shadows of tropical flowers—swayed back and forth in the sea breeze-shu, but—the middle-aged woman joined in, and so did the summer hat.”
“The clerk also tucked up the hem of his happi coat-shu.”
Along the base of the rocks—abalone, abalone, turban shells, turban shells. …The beauty of the small sardines’ colors.
“It’s only natural, given that someone like Murasaki Shikibu favored such things… to say ‘O-Murasaki’ when she’s truly purple… that’s what-shu the girl said, in that voice of hers.”
“The faint ointment and white powder still carried the girl’s scent exactly—crawling into the white tabi socks she’d removed on the rock, their texture merely rough against my skin—I peered intently-shu, but…”
“A wave surged up—right at the feet.”
“When I saw that—the hem snagging on shins, the hem billowing up, red sails swelling on a lily-white boat racing across vivid blue waves—I couldn’t make sense of it, Elder-sama.”

“This is rather unpleasant to listen to.”

“Though unspoken aloud, humans and Saburō of Akanuma are no different-shu.”
“Elder-sama—at that moment-shu, with this sucker-equipped water paddle prepared-shu, I was about to closely stroke your backside when…”

“Ah, you cannot escape the promise.”
“Waro and his clan—the whole family line—have suffered injuries generation after generation because of that, I tell you.”

“That’s wrong-shu! If that injury had been my own doing-shu, I’d bear no grudge-shu.”
“…With frog-like hands, I swam closer along the bottom, and my mouth snapped open—”

“That mouth of yours, eh? That very mouth.”

“Heh, heh, heh—when I looked skyward and saw patches of maidenflowers upon the waves and a belt of bellflowers, why, through the back amulet’s gate appeared either Nakayama Hokke-ji Temple, which those travelers had visited along their way, or perhaps Zōshigaya with its long-standing divine protection—a crimson pomegranate blazed gloriously, and there stood Kishimojin’s sacred form-shu! So I squirmed like an octopus, clinging to the rock again and again, shifting colors as I ascended the shore.”

The open sea eventually clouded over-shu.
“Oh my, how eerie—did a wave just crash over us?”
“...Spouting nonsense like ‘Damn bitch of a pretty young woman’-shu.”
...pinching the white tabi socks.—

Them coming up to the rocky shore, gathering in the shade of pines at the crag's base to eat and drink beer and rice crackers—I feel neither envy nor anything-shu.
While clinging to the screen-like crag and watching with apparent relish as the young woman’s white chin quivered ever so slightly, that driver fellow came to stand at the edge of the crag, gazed out to sea, planted his hands on his hips, and struck a pose-shu.
Thinking I wouldn’t be found—slipping through behind them at our first encounter—on the narrow sandy beach they call Jō no Hama, since the four girls were standing together-shu, I was about to leap nimbly onto the rocky path when—

“Wait—wait—wait—”

came the young woman’s voice-shu.
“Had they glimpsed my entranced face? ‘Blast it!’ I scrambled to hide in the hole beneath my feet-shu wa.”

The awkwardness lay precisely in it being the horse clam’s hiding place.
“ ‘They say if you put salt on them, they’ll jump right out,’ ” she remarked—and the young woman’s eyes became a lid over the hole, peering intently.
“ ‘Hey Kappa, make an *akanbe* face!’ she taunted-shu… But the beauty of her peering eyes—their loveliness rivaled the Moon Palace’s pool-shu, her eyelashes like willow-tipped ripples stitching along the shore, fluttering-shu ga.”
"—Becoming but a single dewdrop, falling backward to be sucked away—when I went limp, pain—throbbing—pain—throbbing!"
“They thrust a broken stick through the sand and crushed the base of the shoulder.”

“That’s the injury.”

“Priest-sama.”
“Instead of luring out the horse clam with salt, they wrenched it out using a thick Western cane—though that summer-hatted oaf owned the stick-shu! The real villain was that damned inn clerk! The scoundrel flashed his gold tooth at the womenfolk while committing indecencies!”

“Ah, ah, I see, I see.”
“Poor lad... Your grudge targets the clerk.”

“Wrong-shu, Elder-sama! Before I knew it—*gasp*—I leapt from the horse clam’s hole! The field-crab went scattering-shu, rolling through sand-foam to escape! In my rage, I spat a mighty gob onto that showoff’s fancy boots—his precious polished shins! With this single curse-shu, those treasured boots’ll rot full of holes! For him, this’ll ache worse than rheumatism!”
“Revenge enough-shu!”
“My true grudges are Priest-sama—the girls, Summer Hat, and his wife—three in total-shu ga.”

“I’ve heard the full account—ah, yes, yes.”
“...Neither force nor reason are matters this old man can decide alone.”
“I must eventually report this to Her Highness, but this retaliation of yours seems to stray from reason—though not entirely without justification.”
“Have you taken in what was said?”
“I can’t...”

“Your Highness of the tutelary shrine—unless you’ve heard my plea—I cannot take revenge even as I stare at my enemy before me! I cannot—I cannot—waaah!”

He burst into tears at once—but would a kappa cry so readily? Unaware, he carried on like a spoiled child throwing a tantrum.

“My boy, my boy… It’s too soon… Don’t weep.”

The Elder laughed palely.

"Great compassion resides solely with Buddhas and Bodhisattvas. Though this faltering old mind has often offered counsel, Princess Deity—you who bear this chivalrous spirit—it appears you've already heeded the plea of one who clung to your sleeve."

"I shall now relay it once—here we go..."

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—from the side door, swiftly to the veranda.
"...How frivolous this is, again."

Near the corner of the cloister’s edge, where a willow curtain hung beneath low clouds, the ethereally divine form turned with regal precision at the Elder’s voice—her slender face bearing a white-jade nose bridge, eyes carved from crystal with authoritative corners.
Her forehead hair and arched brows faintly visible through a pale violet sleeve-hood were surpassed by the lingering fragrance of her trailing tresses. A crimson-gold brocade sash draped low as she gathered long violet sleeves with elegant drapery—modestly clasping a lacquered-bone fan at layered cuffs—the rotting floorboards’ blue miscanthus brushed by her underrobe’s faintly burning scarlet while she crossed on bare white feet smooth as budding stems.
——Deity? Mortal? Priestess?

“I wish to see the people of that tale, Elder. While I rejoice at the villagers’ kindness in planting cherished willows by the veranda railings, the town’s Katsuai Hall stays concealed beneath this lush foliage.”
“To the front shrine grounds—let us go there.”

With a fluttering motion—her pale shins spilling slightly like lotus fronds—she scattered snow-bright shadows of path-purification while her divine station manifested fully through skin-guarding majesty. From her composed visage further removed from worldly grime, not even to the lust-addled eyes of a kappa could she appear as mere female flesh.

When the Princess’s form—so vividly silvered it seemed dyed in metallic sheen—glossily reflected in the front lattice, Yamagarasu no Hashibuto—two of them—scurried along the edge in quick steps, clacking each single clog into place on the platform with their beaks. Yet perhaps they were not crows but transformed shoes, for at that same moment, their jet-black feathers vanished.

The feet floated up, flickering high—for a white butterfly had slipped beneath the metal-lined base of those lacquered geta and danced upward.
Looking on, the Princess Deity descended through the air as though lightly riding upon that butterfly.

“The camp stool! The camp stool!”

When the Elder called out—“Squirrels! Squirrels!”—the old squirrel’s offspring emerged with a hop, clutching in its forepaws a tree root glossy as ebony, its grain resembling an orchid carved in relief.

Near the sleeve—ah, pitiful—the small lord of Akanuma, his forehead pressed against the back of one hand, raised his eyes and screamed as if possessed.

“Ah, I can see-shu… In yonder hill—the corner room on the second floor—three people sit-shu.”

Under the Princess's purple hem, summer grasses in the mountain's embrace sank dark as abysses, wild brambles tangled whitely alone.

The lights of two or three offshore boats resembled stars, while the town’s rooftops—arranged like soundless waves—were enveloped in forest-clouds. The inn, Katsuai, floated there: its second-floor railing like the deck of a great ship.

Yet drawn into the demon’s eyes, the sheer stone steps at the shrine precinct’s base—like a ladder swiftly ascending a ship’s flank—disrupted all laws of perspective. There, near the veranda of an eight-tatami room called the Corner Chamber, Saburō of Akanuma saw them delineated clearly through the mist: a bundled hairstyle with temple tassels, a middle-aged woman’s rounded chignon of thin strands, and even a man in a striped rented wide-sleeved robe.

“What of… those three?”
“Ah, so it is regarding that matter.”
The Elder shielded his eyes and leaned forward.

In the black clouds that had chained the sacred tree’s crown, a suspiciously clear woman’s voice resounded—

“Elder—relay this. …Hoo, hoo-hoo.”

She was the Female Owl.

“They are all from Tokyo’s downtown areas.”
“The Middle-aged Aunt is a dance instructor. Hoo, hoo-hoo.”
“The young one is likewise a fellow instructor—the daughter of the senior member.”
“The man is the Middle-aged Aunt’s husband.”
“Hoo-hoo.”
“The flutist is one of the hayashi performers.”

“Oh! Oh! Clairvoyant!”

When the Elder looked up,

“Oh, it’s not quite like that.”
“Hoo-hoo.”

She called out into the air.
The kappa’s single shoulder rose,

“Are they entertainers-shu? Strayers from the four estates—wretches.”

“Saburō-san, but they do say they’re rather skilled, hoo-hoo.”

For the first time, the Elder listlessly shook his head sideways.

“Even their basic arts are no trifling matter.”
“To name them ‘skilled’ strains credence for humans—to say ‘proficient’ goes too far.”

“Your Highness, squelch-squelch-shu! Those wretches deserve a squelch-squelch-shu!”

And the Kappa, with his webbed hand, slobberingly rubbed beneath his nose.

“I deem your understanding to be roughly sufficient.”
“Saburō of Akanuma—in what manner do you desire retribution?”
“Surely you do not intend to claim lives.”
“Should it be severe—the flutist blinded in one eye, the women with ears sliced or noses shorn, crippled beyond mere lameness—or lenient: fainting… then reviving them ere long.”

“Hey, Priest-sama! They mistreated the small creature that hid in a horse clam’s hole. In retaliation—look here—take that blood-drenched great fish sprawled beneath the stone steps and send it crashing down from the clouds—THUD! Abruptly, I want you to hurl it into that room where the three are-shu. Whether they faint or collapse, whether noses are broken or teeth shattered—whatever outcome the great dice roll brings—that is my wish-shu.”

“Ho, ho—raining down a great fish and casting it like dice?”
“That would be amusing.”
“My boy, your scheme is most ingenious, but presently this shrine stands unattended.”
“That fish—in both bulk and weight—is like a broken temple bell, you see. It simply isn’t manageable.”

said the Elder.
Hearken to this metaphorical statement from the Elder who serves the gods.
The author struggled to manifest the large stone-throwing fish.
But such an apt description lay beyond ordinary consideration.

From the cedar of the castle keep came a woman’s voice once more...

“There’s no need to carry such a heavy thing.”
“Hoo-hoo—those three are about to head out to town for amusement.”
“If we apply just a little lure—hoo-hoo—they’ll come right near the shrine.”
“If we simply pull it close to the base of the stone steps and send the vengeful spirit of the stone-throwing fish upward, that alone should suffice for our purpose.”
“Hoo-hoo—oh look, the young woman is smoothing her tangled hair—how white her neck is.”
The middle-aged aunt took her place before the mirror in the next room.
Admirable—the young woman now wore a chignon—that pattern’s pale blue looked cool.
“Hoo, hoo-hoo—she’s smoothing the chignon’s side locks.”
“There’s something endearingly modest about such interactions between women.”
“Without knowing they’re about to meet a terrible fate.”
“……Hoo, hoo-hoo—poor things... though.”
“……They’ve already come out to the veranda.”
“The man goes first, putting on airs with something like a Western-style cane—that’s the one, right?”
“The one who stabbed Saburō-san—intending to cling to a cane on their return journey, hoo-hoo… Now they’re about to emerge at the entrance this very moment—do behold.”

Hidden within pitch-black cedars, the owl with a woman’s face—her long ears twitching side to side, black hair parted—laughed through a crimson beak, appearing eerily visible and dreadful. Her face had not transformed into the moon.

As if guided by the words "Behold," peering through a tunnel-like passage, far ahead in their direct path, the grand entrance of Katsuura Hall—bathed in the faint reddish glow of electric lights—suddenly appeared.

The gold tooth in his back teeth glinted as the clerk in the patterned happi coat stood by the shoe removal area, polishing long boots.
No, he wasn’t polishing them.
Moreover, they weren’t the guests’.
The complexion, twisted and gloomy, rotted with the kappa’s slime in pitiful decay, seemed to have burst open into a gaping hole.
Despite it being early evening, the clerk’s state spoke to the inn’s desolation…… Behind it, backed by mixed woodland, only the corner room in the L-shaped two-story structure held a lit lantern—the very room where three guests had closed the shoji screens before departing.

When they energetically emerged from the lower corridor into the entranceway, the women moved swiftly—stomping across the footboard in pairs and aligning their own geta—so the clerk, startled, remained clutching the long boots, bared his gold tooth in an obsequious smile, and performed a servile bow.

Two maids came out to see them off.
With the entrance lantern at their backs, the three followed the winding stone path through the lawn and young pine plantings, descended the steps beneath the stone-framed gate lantern—their shadows blackening—and emerged onto the sandy road.
But on the slope set back just a short distance from town, one side became fields while the other was bordered only by the inn’s long stone wall—no passersby, and all dimly lit.

Suddenly—down the slope toward town they shuffled… No sooner had they left the faintly white gate lantern behind than their three right hands, aligned as if choreographed, danced upward in unison—a poised gesture thrust skyward.
It was simultaneous.
They twisted their hips in unison.
When their geta floated up and their hands pulled in unison, the same three hands swiftly flowing left marked the beginning; the single line rotated, swirling into a tomoe pattern, opened, and spun into a dancing circle.
The young women’s vibrant laughter resounded through the night’s depths, then swiftly turned—hands flowing, kimono hems fluttering.
Their legs moved down the slope like water striders skimming—skitter-skitter-skitter—across the surface. No—even faster than that.
The silver-dewed autumn grasses on the young woman’s obi and the light indigo-dyed painted fireflies on the chignon-adorned woman’s sash danced together, cast their beauty upon the eggplant field, swiftly vanished, then burst into bloom.

“That Flutist is drunk-shu.”
“The women have had a few cups too,” the Kappa tsked and said.

“Very well, very well—whether far or near, there’s no need to trouble ourselves with handling that broken bell. From the mountain’s grassy thickets, let us dispatch three braided cords of yellow-bellied, red-backed mountain lizards to scurry toward those dancers’ feet—then from the eggplant field, ensnare their wriggling white shins as they kick free.”
At this moment, the white-haired one stirred.

“Old man.”

“Haah,” responded the eboshi-capped figure with a bow.

The Princess sat upright upon her camp stool.

“That man keeps rhythm under his breath, yet...”

The Elder pressed a wrinkled hand to his ear and listened intently.

“’Tis no mere rhythm—more akin to muttered incantations.”

“Truly a showman’s craft—he’ll not play flute now. What chant does he raise instead?”

“We comprehend,” resonated through the forest’s depths.

“...Suwa’s sea—pebbles aglow in sunless depths—grasped yet sleeves stay dry... O-mo-shi-ro~ ’Twould seem a kagura dance unfolds.”
“O-mo-shi-roshi—white as hoary pates—Fuji’s foothill mists—snows crowning peaks eternal.”

“In that case, Your Excellency Fuji and Your Excellencies Suwa may yet grant them audience—wait… Oh, how impatient.”

When the purple sleeve came unfastened, the folding fan struck the willow’s knee with a crisp *tonk*.

Startled, the three flickering tongues withdrew.
Rushing downwind from near the fish corpse’s decaying fin, they dragged themselves back up the stone steps in unison to gaze skyward at the Princess—a single sickle-shaped head resembling a nyoi scepter, its serpentine tail trailing endlessly behind.

In that corner room on the second floor, the three exchanged glances and simply sat there in utter stupefaction.

This being a perfectly plausible scenario, even the young woman who should have been their troupe’s leading actress was not fifteen or sixteen but rather three or four years past twenty.
The chignon-adorned woman was nearly forty, and the flutist was pushing fifty—yet there they were, hands aligned, feet raised, hips swaying as they danced in the street.
——As for more intrusive details: behold them in their relieved exhaustion, gathered around the central table from three sides. Upon it flanking the tea utensils lay what one might call the most whimsical of worldly treasures—a brand-new grinding stick and rice paddle—arranged with such comic flair that their lack of painted faces seemed almost strange.
It was such a bizarre night out that it seemed almost strange their faces didn’t morph into a rice paddle and grinding stick.

“What in the world happened?”

And then, the young woman broke the grinding stick’s silence,

“I wonder if someone saw us. How mortifying, me.”

When she said this with a pointed chin, the middle-aged woman looked down with the rice paddle, appearing lonely—yet around her eyes lingered traces of laughter that refused to fade,

“Who’d see such a thing? Rather than dancing, parading through town with this grinding stick and rice paddle we bought—you and me—is far more absurd.”

“But Auntie—Uncle said even solemn tools get used at mountain god festivals… That they’re like sacred wands… So I carried them properly through town, but thinking now—it’s odd, isn’t it?”

“No—proper they are. How dare you forget our debt to this grinding stick and rice paddle? Treating them like comic props—Okame and Hyottoko masks—such disrespect defies measure!”

Now, as for the Flutist—he sat with knees drawn up, his face marked by an elongated philtrum, holding a plaything purchased in town: a bamboo contraption fashioned like a miniature bow where a sparrow traversed a wire, its beak jingling a bell—*Chin, karakarakarakara, Chin, karakara*—as it fluttered about.
No—the folly of reverting to foolishness—had that dance continued as it was and surged down the slope, they would have twirled into the town center, leapt over the fishing town’s rooftops, and tumbled into the sea.

They were merely foolish, not madmen, so their lives unharmed, they calmed down.—Now then, their absurd antics unspent, inspired by the shaman’s bell, it began with buying this sparrow from a dusty old toy shop—the Flutist had once participated in a festival hosted by a great landowner near Azabu who combined a passion for local folklore with scholarly pursuits and ground-purification ceremonies, inviting a group of mountain villagers from remote hamlets nestled in valleys upon valleys where Hida, Mikawa, and Shinano’s borders intertwined.
Cherry blossoms, irises, mountain pheasants—a flower dance.
Red oni, blue oni, white oni—their masks exceeding three shaku in size performed a ritual dance with axes.
In the purified sand-laid open-air ritual ground of the broad courtyard, sacred streamers were hung and shimenawa ropes strung across; as for the path of the arriving gods—if one were to say ("a thousand paths, a hundred ropes, seven roads"), others would chant ("weave brocade and lay out silk to invite them")—so profoundly that the mountain people lavished skill upon their hereditary papercrafts, rendering those thousand paths and hundred ropes like a rainbow.
For the decorative birds, they had carved pheasants, mountain hens, autumn grasses, and maple leaves into threefold—sevenfold layers—billowing them aloft. At their center, stacked logs blazed fiercely, smoldering as a great cauldron boiled water whose droplets scattered like hail. Through this chaos, figures darted forward and back, veering left and right—around torch flames where oni, humans, shamans, priests, beauties, nudes, tiger pelts, and crimson hakama burned bright or vanished dark. All while singing of *Suwa’s sea—pebbles illuminating the depths*—they soared through black clouds with such startling vigor… Meanwhile, strolling through town and gesturing animatedly about this kagura dance: blue-faced Okame and black-faced Hyottoko—costumed performers wielding rice-paddle ladles caked thick with grains and oversized grinding sticks slathered in miso—pranced about to ambush spectators. At the slightest cry of *“Ah! Kyah! Wah!”*—they thrust forth to smear not just gentlemen pilgrims but even finely dressed noblewomen’s faces with *splat-squelch-glop*… By the time this tale concluded, the chignon-coiffed woman clutched her sides sideways while the young lady doubled over laughing as if in prayer.
If the dance were to possess them again, they’d have to ride the momentum and make that clerk burst out… Let’s tease the maids. ……And then—what do you know—at the hardware store, instead of wrapping it in old newspaper as suggested, they took it just as it was.
First, having received [the items] with their youthful allure fully exposed, they delighted in how the hardware store wife—rather than laughing in amusement—made a face as if warding off some curse then took a turn around the desolate night stalls.
Cutting through back alleys into the rice fields—as they had intended from the start—until they reached the base of that stone staircase at the mountain forest’s shrine, they had the momentum of one riding both horses and boars.

There... What do you think they saw? —They disappeared into a passing car, barely three minutes...

By the time they fled back to the inn—their faces drained of color—the two women had tucked the rice paddle and grinding stick beneath their sleeves as far as possible.
Ah well—the Flutist showed prudence—Chin-karakarakara-Chin.
He deliberately made the sparrow jingle—*Chin-karakarakara*—to divert the eyes of the maids who had come out to greet them.

“You could say they’re ceremonial treasures—even if they end up on an unseasonal dining table, there’s nothing eerie about them.”

“Even if they aren’t eerie, it’s still strange. I said as much on our way back too—when we left the inn earlier on our way out, who was it that suddenly started dancing?”

“That’d be me. No deception there.”
“I’ve even told you about it before—since I’m the one who actually witnessed that festival dance firsthand.”

“But this much can’t be said to be your doing either.”
“……Just hearing the story makes me feel it might have been me who did it.”

“Oh my—it must’ve been me! How my hand suddenly rose up all on its own.”

“Don’t play innocent if you got swept up in this—that’s your own affair! For a girl who vows to tie her hair in takashimada should she fail to catch a husband…”

“Uncle, how cruel! If I made a mistake，it’s not a takashimada—I’d have to go with a Western-style hairdo out of necessity.”

“Despite being so meek and plump，I occasionally say such things.—It’s quite startling.”
“Once before at a hot spring inn in Shuzenji，there was this stream where they’d channeled river water near the corridor’s bridge area，you see.”
“A small waterfall crafted from rockwork cascades down，and the pond’s carp all gather to vie in climbing it，you see.”
“The carp could ascend the smooth flow with relative ease，but where the current whipped up fiercely at the rocky lip of the waterfall’s edge—that crossing proved agonizing… After watching awhile，gradually they all made it over—all but one，who at that final moment when success seemed within reach，tumbled back into the basin below.”
“Right there—‘Hold on!’ they told this girl—at first she merely voiced it，but finally fixed her eyes and stared intently—then，still in her post-bath yukata，before you could blink，she’d crossed that towering railing barefoot—barefoot—that’s what they said at the front desk.”
“She was quite the tomboy—whoosh!—clambering over second-floor roofs to neighboring rooms，though some girls might peek into lower guest quarters through wisteria trellises from tiled eaves．But crossing that railing？They say it hadn’t happened once since the inn first opened ages ago．…This girl…The very one herself！She leapt rock-to-rock like a mountain goat，suddenly grabbed that carp，and made it swim right up the waterfall，didn’t she？”

“No explanation needed.”
“I was watching too.”
“I was shocked.”
“She occasionally pulls off wild stunts.”
“That’s why she’s still single.”
“Take for instance—even if you’d made a proper bow before a man.”
“That wasn’t stepping over—it was leaping.”
“No—she lifted her leg into the air.—”

“I don’t know, Uncle.”

“Though when walking together along some path—when our opinions differed about left or right turns—once I proved correct—there in the Ginza crowds—‘Well? See that?’ I’d thrust out my white...”

“Many thanks.”
“Impressive.”
“Retract.”
“There was a time when she thrust her arm—with a fist clenched in boxing stance until her upper arm showed—suddenly like an elephant’s trunk right before my eyes, you know.”

“It still feels like we’re dancing through this conversation.”

“Auntie—that sudden dancing outburst—I can’t shake the feeling it must’ve been me too.”

“No—something lured us all. Like a prearranged pact—no first or last—all three of us moved together.”

“Disgusting business. Gives me chills.”

“Auntie—at dusk before drinks… When I watched the eggplant field past the gate from here—a shadow-puppet of an old woman hobbled out from nowhere with her cane. Stood dazed in the field’s center and made motions like cutting nine sacred seals with that stick—didn’t she?”
“I remember… It wasn’t any farming tool.”
“Wasn’t what we held actually a ritual striker?”
She shuddered.
“Could that have been witchcraft? Have we been ensnared?”

“Don’t worry—that’s just how things are done in the countryside.”
“It’s the ‘born-and-born eggplant’ charm to make things auspicious.”

"But down the path below the fields, there's an old granary—maybe a fox or raccoon dog?"

“Such a thing is absolutely impossible.
As I thought about it, I came to understand clearly.
What with the continuous rain, the stone steps being slippery, and you all saying snakes were terrifying—I made my excuses and left. Even tonight, I merely went as far as the torii gate—though I clap my hands in prayer every morning, I still haven’t ascended the sacred mountain.
Above that lofty forest, the chigi-adorned roof could be seen... This must surely be the divine will of our enshrined Princess Deity.

Amidst May’s lingering rains came their resolve to watch dances.—Now then—with renewed spirit came their determination to perform earnestly once more.
True artistry worthy of divine eyes held no place for pride.
The Rice Scoop Dance and Mortar Pestle Dance.
The two had deliberately brought those implements—soberly earnest were they—sa sa sa.
“Ready?”

The Flutist, wearing an unlined summer kimono of fine Satsuma indigo kasuri with a borrowed obi, adjusted it using Hakata cloth to retie the sash properly into a shell-shaped clasp, slid open the side shoji screen, and made his way to the shrine.
The troupe withdrew, and the two women also—modestly clasping their hands—prostrated themselves.

A squirrel flipped over onto its back.

There came a clink, clatter, clatter-clatter-clatter—the flutist’s hands fluttered like sparrows; the rice paddle went sha-sha-sha, the pestle su-su-su as they thrust it forward, pulled it back, dancing in circles.
“L-look at this serious face!”
“How can you not laugh?”

Saburō of Akānuma, who had been frothing at the mouth, biting his tongue, and muttering in feverish agitation, inadvertently let slip a grin.

The Princess, at her crimson brocade obi's side, fastened the same pouch cord—not to present a ceremonial dagger—but drew out smoothly a single jade flute, her crimson-flower lips holding an icicle slantwise as she coolly, nobly poised the mouthpiece—

An owl gave a soft hoot.

When the shrine’s lattice door swung open with a whoosh, a white rabbit appeared—cradling a drum, shaking its belly with laughter—and struck a low, faint drumbeat.

The Kappa’s hand shot up once, then shot up again, his feet tapping out a rhythm.

The Princess Deity turned her gaze back,

“Show mercy to the three.”

“Ah, ah, ah, Your Highness.”
“You can’t fight while dancing.”
“Hmm, hehe… Even snakes dance!”
“Even a fox peers from the thicket’s hole—ahaha, the stone-throwing fish too stood rigidly upright.”

With a sudden uproar and shrill screams, a crowd of fifty or sixty people went leaping about in confusion at the base of the stone steps.

Saburō of Akānuma placed his hands on the ground—"I humbly submit, Your Highness..."

“How ungracious you are.
Though pinks and lilies grow here, rather than plucking living blooms, you should take this folded token.”

To grant it to him, she held alongside her flute-bearing hand a deep purple lady’s fan, bestowing it through the brush of her sleeve.

A single hand—what could it possibly do now?

“The august jeweled light clings to your form; the scarecrow’s rags become brocade court robes.”

The old priest raised his hand at his side.

“Do not trouble yourself with the stone steps; take flight.”

“Ah, how utterly shameful I feel now.”
“In the vast blue expanse of the sea dwell Batsunatta Dragon King, Shakara Dragon King, Manasu Dragon King—each building their palaces. Even dragon gods and maidens face trials of worldly desires.”
“In the outer sea’s small lakes dwell mud-dwelling fiends; timid underlings.”
“Even if one falls into a horse clam’s hole, flying through the sky remains effortless.”
“Even this is due to Your Highness’s grace.”
“With the matter concluded, should Your Highness summon me, water—as ever—obeys freely.”
“Lightning fires, earth fires, kalpa-ending fires, enemy fires, explosive fires—even with one hand, I can extinguish them all, I beg your pardon.”

With that, he soared into flight with a whoosh.

Whoosh, whoosh.

The old priest flapped his hands in a flutter, laughing and laughing,

“The fishing town bathes at its appointed hour.”
“Even without that spectacle, seeing that wounded one tumble down with his pale shins would move any heart to pity.”
“Send him off properly now—crows, crows!”

Caw, caw.

Whoosh, whoosh.

Caw, caw.

Whoosh, whoosh.

The clouds hung low, swollen with lye-like intensity, as the airplane—manifest and unmediated—flashed through ten thousand ri of raging seas and eight thousand ri of wilderness beneath May's darkness in the azure firmament's depths where blackness streamed, sweeping past in something resembling flight yet being no true flight at all.

Whoosh, whoosh.

Caw, caw.

Though pointing northward—the contrary wind blowing from the north proved no hindrance—amidst the turbulent waves of the ocean, when a sudden downpour came crashing down, they flew alternating between high and low, crisscrossing through the skies,

Caw, caw.

Whoosh, whoosh.

Caw, caw.

Whoosh, whoosh.

Caw, caw.

Whoosh,

Whoosh.

…………

…………

Shōwa 6 (1931), September