Pathway to Japanese Literature

Time.

Modern times, early winter.

Place.

The plain in the prefectural suburbs.

Characters.

Artist.
Maid.
(disguised as a crow)

Noblewoman.
Old Gentleman.
Young Gentleman.

Five Children.

—Additionally, three crows.
(same disguise as the Maid)

Child 1: “Hey, from way over by the station—something’s coming this way, I tell ya.”

Child 2: “What is it? What is it?”
Child 3: “Ah, he’s carrying something huge and staggering this way, I tell you.”

Child 4: “Even his shadow’s swaying along with him!”
Child 5: “Is it heavy, I wonder?”
Child 1: “What—is he moving house or something?”

“Who cares? Whatever it is!”

Child 3: “Look! He’s carrying something taller than his back that looks like a sliding door—it’s like a kite walking this way.”

Child 4: “Let’s pretend to attach a string and fly it!”

Child 5: “Let’s go, let’s go! This’ll be fun!”

Those with kites flew them; those with tops spun them.
A person with empty hands faced one direction, pretended to pull a kite string, and laughed.

The Artist carried a silk painting still in its frame, hastily tied with cords on the back of his worn-out suitcoat; in early winter, under the evening sunlight of a withered field, his face flushed and yet lonely.
He entered with a drunken gait......Failure, failure—utter failure.
His staggering body propped on a cane—the very image of an exhausted woodcutter.
After a moment, he shouted: "Damn you—take a good look at this mess!"

Startled by the voice and seeing the animated toy drawing near, the child who had been pulling the string recoiled and feigned ignorance.

The Artist, unaware of this, comes to a halt and gazes at the frolicking children.

"How well they're playing… Ah, how enviable."
"How's this?"
"Is it fun, everyone?"

The children, observing his demeanor, stifled giggles.
Among them was one who had been pulling the string.

Child 3: "Ah, that was fun!"

Artist (in a lecturing tone): "What? 'It was fun'?"
"'It was fun' won't do."
"At your tender age."
"...I grab you—your youth is strange too."
"(Laughs) Ha ha ha! 'It was fun' sounds so forlorn."
"It feels like it's already in the past—how pathetic."
"Say it's fun! Enjoy it, enjoy it!"
"And on top of that, make it more fun!"
"Hmm—how's this?"

Child 3: But mister, you’d get angry, wouldn’t you?

Artist (not comprehending): I’d get angry? About what... What would I even get angry about? Risked my life painting it, prostrated myself at the Ministry of Education Exhibition—get this—crawled on my knees till my suit trousers bulged out, what a sight! Then that same guy who kowtowed at the examination hall’s grand entrance got thwacked away by a paper popgun—pon!—and crumpled like a rag! Couldn’t even get angry at that—isn’t he just a man who quietly clung to his cane and carried it back home? If it were liquor gulped down with hearty horse meat, I’d be kicking up a fuss and raging all right—but with this rotten stomach hit by hollow hunger, I can’t even manage soba. A fake Edokko who drank udon broth in front of the station, innards squirming like earthworms, utterly devoid of vigor—how could such a man even muster the anger to get upset? Hmph, what a disgrace.

The other children were glancing around restlessly.

Child 3: “I don’t know why, but just now, we were attaching a string to you, mister, coming from over there, and reeling you in.”

Artist: “What’s this—you attached a string… and pulled it? No—I won’t get angry. What kind of game are you playing?”

Child 1: “Mister, you know… when you came swaying over like that, you know…”

Child 2: “From far away—it looked just like a kite.”

Artist: “Ah—a kite?”
(Looking at the painting on his back) Hmm… So that’s what they were doing—pretending to mimic the motions—and having fun with it. So, since I came this close, they must’ve stopped their mischief, worried they’d get scolded. So that’s why they said it was fun? …Using the past tense is lonely. Boring.
“Enjoy it heartily—enjoy it more! Come on—reel in the string! Lift it! Pull! I’ll become a kite and soar up! I’ll ascend, and from the high sky, look down on Ueno’s Exhibition. I’ll see Kyoto and Osaka. I’ll see all of Japan—no, the world! …Come on, that kid over there—wave it! You there—lift it up from that side! Come on, do it, do it!”
(Laughs) “Ha ha ha, this is fun!”

The children hesitated for a moment.
Seeing the Artist’s cheerful mood, one child embraced his back and mimed fanning a kite.
One child rushed out to take distance.
That one.

Child 3: "Whoa, this big kite’s too heavy for one person!"

Child 4: "Yeah, I'll help out."
(Tucking the spinning top into their pocket and lining up) "Blow, wind! Blow!"
"Mountain winds, come blow!"
(They chanted in unison.)

Artist (releasing the child’s hand while spreading his arms wide): "Now it’s a kite painting! A lantern seller!"
"There—start scooping! Draw water! Let’s get to work!"

Driven along by the children’s pulling of the string, he staggered and dashed around the stage, eventually collided with a tree root, and gasped in anguish.

Dusk arrived.

Child 3: “The kite’s string snapped.”

Child 1: “It’s gotten dark.”

——Just right.

“Let’s do that… thing again.”

“Let’s do it, let’s do it!” cried the others——(not holding hands, they gradually spaced themselves apart and formed a circle, singing.)

Mount Aoyama, Mount Hayama, Lord Haguro Gongen—
Hollow-Bellied Pot Deity, without fore or aft—
They sang as they circled, repeating the chant.

The Artist stood there blankly in silent contemplation, then let out a sigh, stood up, and looked at them. “Hey, hey—what kind of song is that?”

“Ah, I don’t know what kind of song it is—but when we sing like this, you know, someone starts dancing.”

“Dance?”
“Who dances?”

Child 2: “Who dances? Well, you know—the one who goes into the circle and sits down—that’s who dances.”

Artist: “But no one’s gone in there, have they?”

Child 3: “But it’s creepy, you know.”

“Creepy, you say?”

“Well... You see—it’s not like they decide to dance and then do it.”
“They just start moving on their own.”
“Even if they try not to.”
“That’s why it’s creepy!”

“Let’s try it—put me in!”

“Hey, mister—you coming in?”
“I’ll enter—wait.” He took his painting and leaned it against a large tree trunk. “Alright, ready?”
“You’re supposed to keep your eyes covered.”

“Fine! To dance drunk through this world—that’s my true calling!”

Mount Aoyama, Mount Hayama, Lord Haguro Gongen

The children circled around the artist while singing.
As the circle's pulse throbbed—expanding and contracting—the artist began moving one hand and then one leg in an unnatural manner, almost unconsciously.
The singing voices grew increasingly piercing as darkness gradually deepened.

At that moment, from the shadow of a tree emerged a single bizarre entity—its face black, its beak black, with a crow’s head and a pitch-black cloak-like garment draping to the hem—which slipped between child and child as it circled in unison.

The Artist, crouching on the ground, raised himself into a half-crouch at that moment and swayed his upper body from side to side in imitation of dancing.

Following this came three more entities—crows in human form identical to the first pitch-black one.

They emerged from the tree's shadow, mingled among the children, and encircled the Artist.

The children kept singing without pause.
None of them seemed to notice the forms of those strange creatures.
Around the time the three subsequent crows emerged and joined the circle, the Artist fully stood up and began dancing in a trance-like state, utterly unaware of himself.
The first crow joined in, and especially the three crows that came later leaped about so vigorously their feet barely touched the ground.
When they danced wildly, the children ceased their song.

They all (each taking two stones in hand and clacking them together): “The demon’s come, den den!”
The shadow bloomed, swirling darkly.
(Chanting in desolate unison four or five times) “It really came.”
It came.

One of them—no one could tell which—shouted this, and they scattered in all directions, splitting left and right to flee into hiding.

Leaves fell.

Amid the falling leaves, the lone artist and four black figures danced fervently.
The Artist was putting on his boots, and the three later crows were black down to the tips of their claws.
The first crow alone, its hem spilling crimson, had white feet.

The Artist (exhausted, collapsing supine): “Water… Give me water!”

They all ceased dancing.
The three later crows spread their bodies apart as if exchanging wings to one side, stood with their arms entwined, and gazed.

The first crow spoke in a young woman’s voice: “He’s asleep.”
“My… what slovenliness.”
“Humans… one wouldn’t wish to become like this.”
“Once he wakes, he’ll depart on his own—he shan’t trouble the banquet hall anyway.”
...Now then—(she took crossed bamboo tripods from pampas grass thickets under the tree’s shadow, set them down, then placed a circular board atop to fashion it like a small table.)

The subsequent crows, at this time, all three approached in silence and, as if assisting, placed two canvas-made folding stools of the same construction opposite the small table.

The first crow took out a bottle of wine from the travel bag and placed it on the small table.
The subsequent crows took out bottles of blue wine and red wine, followed by cups, and arranged them in order.

Before long, the first crow took a single candle and lit it.

The stage brightened.

First Crow (with deliberate poise, poured wine from a bottle into a jade cup and held it up to the candlelight.) “How beautiful.”
The candlelight reflected through it, turning crystal-clear—just like that time when it shone with sunset hues, resembling the eye of a rainbow that once stood in the eastern sky, as madam had said when she held it against thin clouds to examine—the jewel of the ring on her white, slender finger that seemed so heavy.

Three Crows leaned forward, listening intently.

“Ah, if I drank wine thinking a jewel had dissolved in it, what would it taste like?”
(Removing the black cloth covering her crow-headed throat to reveal a young woman’s face, she hesitated before drinking.) “Hmm—this is my mouth, but for a crow, it’s exactly the throat.”
“How revolting.”
“If this were a throat, it feels like blood would flow.”
“Doing such things... it unsettles me.”
“I’ll stop.”
“Well... talking to myself like this—it almost feels like I’m conversing with someone...”

(Looking around) “Right, right—when kindred spirits want to communicate secretly in public, a single small table will discreetly raise and lower its legs—a subtle yet pulsing, blood-flowing code—so that without a word, ciphers are formed. Madam always says that’s how it works.—Miss Table” (knocks on table) “Especially you, with your three legs! You’re practically a fox spirit just as you are.”

“Because I thought you’re just like something alive, I ended up talking to you.”

“But since I’ve carelessly let slip something important, you’ll just have to keep what you heard to yourself, okay?”

“You mustn’t tell anyone.”

“Hmm—what should I do with this poured wine?”

“Ah—I have an idea.”

She approached the drunken Artist who had collapsed.

One of the subsequent crows likewise drew near, cradled the Artist’s neck, and turned him supine.

“Drunkard—here, cold water.”

The Artist drank while half-conscious. “Ah—the sun’s out… but I’m in eternal night.”
He rolled over just as he lay.

“The sun’s out,” you say—well, peering through this red wine at my crow form.
“He must have been dreaming of the sun he painted.”
“He’s saying something rather cryptic, isn’t he? —Come now, let’s get the bedroom ready.”
(Returning to their original position, they pulled out a canopy from the pampas grass this time, covering the small table and setting it up around.)
The three crows assisted with this from both sides.
(The canopy’s interior was arranged to remain unseen from the viewing seats.) “What fun, isn’t it?”
(The first crow stood facing forward with the canopy behind it.)
The three crows walked slowly on both sides.

The day had completely darkened.
(At that moment, for the first time, he suddenly noticed crow figures standing beside him.)
Yet with an air of doubting his own eyes.
He walked around here and there, little by little.
As he walked on, seeing the crow figures moving around him, his suspicion gradually mounted—when he raised his hand, the crows likewise raised theirs; when he waved his sleeve, they uniformly waved theirs; when he stood on tiptoes, they stood on tiptoes; and when he crouched, he perceived through their crouching—now seized by intense terror, he hastily dashed away.

A hat pulled low over his eyes, wearing a mouse-gray overcoat, and grasping a thick Western cane, the Old Gentleman made his entrance with a heavy, melancholy air.

The First Crow suddenly collided with him.
Startled, he drew back.
The Old Gentleman grasped that sleeve.
The First Crow, attempting to break free and pretending to intimidate, let out a *caw caw*—a crow’s cry.
It was a voice like a woman’s weeping.

Old Gentleman: “So you’re carrying hell’s gates on your back while pretending to fly through the sky?”
(The First Crow wrenched away as if struggling against his grasp.)
The First Crow thudded to the ground and sat.
The three crows made exaggerated gestures of surprise.) “A crow crawling on earth has a different cry, wouldn’t you say?”
“Hmm? Wouldn’t you?”
“What sound does an earthbound crow make?”

“I most humbly beg your pardon. Please, I beg your pardon.”

“Hah! So you croak ‘beg your pardon,’ do you?”
“(Repeating) So you croak ‘beg your pardon,’ do you?”

First Crow: “Yes.”

Old Gentleman: “Hmm,” (nodding gravely) “I heard.”
“In any case, I heard your voice.”
“—Do you comprehend my voice?”

First Crow: “Yes.”

Old Gentleman: “I’m asking if you comprehend my voice.”
“Here.”
“Raise your face.—What say you?”

First Crow: “My lord, um…”

Old Gentleman (pressing down on her hem with his cane): “Don’t rustle about.”
“Unless you want a spear through your ribs—and you’ve no body fit to climb trees—quit flapping, wench. Steady your hands and speak plainly.”

“I most sincerely apologize; I have committed an outrageous impropriety.”
“…The other day—when madam hosted her preferred garden party masquerade at the mansion—this outfit I prepared looked so becoming that everyone praised it. So I… mistakenly began this improper affair.”
“Um… afterward, during your absence when my lord undertook his journey—with fewer duties at the mansion—I requested leave from madam under pretexts like shopping and errands… came out here… found it unbearably amusing to startle passersby… until it became a habit… and tonight too… I have shown inexcusable disrespect toward my lord.”
“Please… I beg your forgiveness.”

Old Gentleman: “Is that all you have to say?”
First Crow: “Yes?” (inquiring)

“Is that all you have to say to me, wench?”

“Um,” (stammering) “what has happened tonight? My form… that is, my shadow figure stands out clearly in this evening gloom of the open field. Unsettling enough on its own—but when I look carefully, two or three more move right along with me.”

The Three Crows split into three directions and walked slowly; they nodded in unison again.

“It became too frightening, and I ran out in a frenzy—so I ended up… um… my lord—when did you return from your journey?”

“My trip?”
“Hmph.”
(In a self-mocking tone) “Do ye think I went on some journey?”

“Yes—since the day before yesterday, heading toward Hokkaido.”

“My Hokkaido lies right around my mansion.”

“Hah?” (startled).

“My journey is akin to a passage to the underworld. Since ancient times, when such matters arise nearing ruin, all resort to this. A commonplace method. Too trite by half—yet unavoidable nonetheless. However detestable this underworld passage may seem, none may refuse it. Moreover, ye too know full well—when such affairs reach their end, ’tis ordained that the house master, husband, or fitting substitute—myself—embarks on such a journey as final measure. You mightn’t know, but that cunning one does. Even you grasp fragments. Knowing this—ye exploit my ‘travels’ as opportunity. Deliberately lulling them into ease to commit brazen acts. Hmph—’tis stealing bells while muffling ears. Resign yourself—the clamor shall rise regardless. Speak plainly—hold nothing back. When was it? When precisely? This.”

“When you say ‘when,’ um… would that be regarding the shadow figures?”
“That would be just now…”

“Silence! Whether shadow figures or whatnot matters not—’twas when your three black hearts took form and began to prowl through my mansion’s every corner.”

“I beg your forgiveness, my lord. I know nothing at all.”

Old Gentleman: “The preparations are complete.”
“Wench, there’s a pistol in my coat pocket!”

Maid: “Yes.”

Old Gentleman: “Out with it.”

Maid: “My lord, please forgive me.”
“It was a spring evening.”
“A beautiful rainbow arose, and in the garden pond—where its reflection mingled with blooming wisteria flowers and azaleas—there appeared a large bird with a pale violet head, a chest enmeshed in flames, and crimson azalea-like wings interlaced with the rainbow’s trailing tail, peering into the second floor as though gazing through it.”
“On that day—during your absence, my lord—madam looked out over the railing at the scenery and said to me, who was at her side: ‘Ah, how beautiful—look at this white cloud and the great bird swelling within the azure sky! This bird has come so that its head may become my hairpin and its tail my sash.’”
“Like a nine-horned dragon that adorns a great general—its head as his helmet, its tail spread beneath his armor skirt—as he faces his enemy.”
“…But since the rainbow had no eyes to spot me, I dipped my head into the water and slumped dejectedly.”
“‘Well, let me look—’ she said, and there it was—the crimson jewel of the ring she deigned to wear on her right middle finger.”
“If opened, it wouldn’t show in the rainbow; if covered, madam couldn’t see it.”
“Therefore, please remove that ring.”

“Hmm—so she removed the ring.”
“Hmm—removed the ring.”

“And then, when her ladyship deigned to toy with the ring upon her snow-white finger—fitting it into the rainbow’s membrane high among verdant leaves—the sky’s hue shone through her hand. The crimson jewel, suddenly catching the evening sun, became verily the rainbow’s pupil, blazing radiantly.”
“It was at that very moment.”
“Both garden and pond turned utterly dark, I believe.”
“The rainbow vanished too.”
“A black shape burst forth—wings spread as if to strike one blind—and when I knew it, the crow had already snatched the ring from madam’s hand and taken flight.”
“It must have mistaken that crimson jewel for a dewy berry glistening among leaves.”
“Over pine crests of the artificial hill it flew, not far at all, alighting upon the fence at this field’s edge.”
“There against a great scarlet sun—perfectly round—it stayed blackly visible.”
“Barefoot I rushed down into the garden.”
“When I called out as I ran, straight over the fence it flew again.”
“That very spot was where the back gate stands.”
“In five years since entering your service, that gate had never once been opened.”

“Hmm—’tis not a gate meant to be opened,” said the Old Gentleman. “Since my earliest memory, ’twas only twice opened—and that by dire necessity to expel calamities.” He leaned forward, his voice hardening. “Yet even then ’twas but to drive out evils already within. No ill ever crept through from without.” The pistol’s barrel caught candlelight as he rasped: “—Was it thy hand that unsealed it this time?”

“Yes, though the lock’s key was firmly set, having cut through the red rust, when pressed, it opened.”
“It had corroded and fallen away.”
“Beyond the fence stood what appeared to be a solitary stroller.”
“The man had laid upon his palm that very ring of madam’s—dropped from the crow’s beak—and stood gazing at it fixedly.”

Old Gentleman: “That brat—is that the one?”

“Yes.”

“The opponent—’tis that one.”

“Um, when I explained the situation and asked him to return the ring,” said the Maid, “he mockingly—no—rather declared: ‘This has left human hands; since I received it from a crow’s beak, it shan’t be returned.’”
“Of course,” he added with a laugh, “if it were to a crow, I’d return it anytime—”
“Even so,” she continued, “he absolutely would not return it.”
“And then—‘I’ll keep it safe; I’m no careless fool’—he said, and properly produced a business card from his coat pocket.”
“Madam said, ‘How amusing—’”
“Then a day was fixed upon—at that same evening hour—and he was summoned beyond the gate.”
“In the meantime, this—er—crow costume was commissioned.”
“And so I wore it and went out, intending to retrieve the ring—but madam said, ‘Let us toy with him,’ and deigned to don the crow costume herself, venturing beyond the fence—though suddenly mindful that children playing in the field might see her suspicious form and raise a fuss, she summoned him to the gazebo instead.”

Old Gentleman: "That scoundrel entered through that gate."
"Yes, through that gate."

Maid: "'Watch him be startled,' Madam whispered to me."
"Madam said, 'Crows do not receive things with their feet,' then opened here—" (indicating her throat) "—and took into her mouth the ring the man had placed on his palm."

Old Gentleman: "With your mouth—from that very moment."
"You viper!"
"The wench hooks her fists into upper and lower jaws, tearing through translucent teeth and crimson-stained lips with a sickening crunch."
(He raised his foot and trampled the withered grass.)

Artist: Ugh... (let out a couple of groans, as if plagued by a nightmare.)

Old Gentleman: (suddenly noticing) “Wench, come here.”
(Pointing in one direction with his cane.)

Maid: (trembling) “Yes.”

Old Gentleman: “Properly don your headgear. Cover up.”
“Dance before me like a crow—fly!”
“You must clearly commit to memory the form of that black thing rampaging through the mansion.”
“Dance!”
“There’s a pistol in the coat pocket.”

The Maid moved the black sleeves like a crow’s.
She trembled in the same manner.
The Old Gentleman followed behind and entered.

Three Crows (shouting in unison): “It’s not our fault!”

**First Crow** (laughs): “Hahahaha—what should I say here?”

**Second Crow**: “No need for trivialities.”
“After all, one must conclude the rest is the crows’ fault.”

**Third Crow**: So, does that mean we take on what the humans have done?

**Second Crow**: “Whether we take it on or bear it—”
“Whether we take it on or bear it—the things humans have done are just humans among themselves arbitrarily balancing their ledger pages and settling accounts within their own ranks.”
**Second Crow**: “We have no business concerning ourselves with it at all.”

**Third Crow**: “I see. So sins and retributions are things humans take turns bearing and donning among themselves.”
“Now then, while it’s true this whole affair started with your mischief there, First Crow—well, now that things have come to this, we can just watch from on high and be done with it.”
“Tilting our beaks and clacking them in thought—when you get down to it, we’re not exactly a virtuous bunch, are we?”

**First Crow**: “Nah, nothin’ wrong at all.”
“From a human’s view, they can call it good or bad however they please.”
“I was just up on a roof ridge earnin’ that dinner of ours.”
“Then that fancy Noblewoman—or whatever they call ’em in your human world—kept wavin’ this ‘rainbow eye’ thing (points to beak) right at my jet-black nose tip.”
“Lately I ain’t had meat nor blood to savor—let alone fancy eyeballs like that.”
“Heard even phoenix marrow an’ qilin gills count as rare treats in this world.”
“A rainbow eyeball, eh? ‘Live eight thousand years!’—I dashed ’long the steep eave’s edge, took the Hiyodori-goe path. You could call it a life-riskin’ job.”
“Kites might snatch fried tofu, but grabbin’ stuff right from human hands? That ain’t our style.”
“Managed to clink it in my beak an’ slip through the courtyard fine—but this ‘rainbow eyeball’ substitute? Couldn’t even bite into it.”
“Hard as stone, I tell ya.”
“This beak’s been peckin’ snails since my ancestors’ time—utterly useless here.”
“This overhang’s got my tongue root all slack.”
“Damn nuisance—just shook it off an’ flew plain away.”
“So whatever them humans do or don’t—ain’t none of my business nohow.”

“Reason? Preaching now?” sneered Second Crow. “I speak a truth more certain than Buddha himself! If we condemn First Crow’s ring-snatching as wrong, then we must damn the sky-cleansing rain as wrong, the sun-warmed breeze as wrong—even the rainbow itself as wrong!”

“But what remedy exists for unwelcome rain or weather? When rainbows arch through fair skies, strange flowers bloom below—not peonies nor chrysanthemums plucked by monkeys for raincloak adornments. Nameless blossoms. Ephemeral as rainbows.”

“In human dwellings they sprout like udumbara flowers on walls. To our eyes, their sudden blooming in mankind’s dim world shines dazzling—no sight rivals these spectral flowers that bloom heedless of home, self, or life!”

“This latest bloom sprang from First Crow’s crimson seed. We should’ve wrapped it in Yoshino-paper mist, sealed it in dew-hardened glass! But human hands—black as our wings—grab and scatter such beauty once glimpsed.”

“Fools fancy them yellow gloves or pearly armbands. We see their true darkness.”

“Is their ‘black’ accusation against us just? That newcomer geezer waves fire-wreathed arms like iron rods, seeking to pulverize our wondrous flower!”

“Philistine! Let even ill-fated blossoms bloom splendidly for beauty’s sake.”

“How puzzling! You there, Second Crow—for all your lofty talk, you’re just Waro scrambling for breakfast among morning crows, morning blossoms, morning dew, morning winds!”
“What’s this? ‘Let even ill-fated flowers bloom beautifully’?”
“Don’t make me cackle!”
“What are we even doing here?”
“Aren’t we just waiting for that rainbow to scatter—then devour it, peck it, savor it, suckle it—night after night, all this time… clacking our throats and beaks?”

“That’s precisely why we’re waiting,” said the Second Crow. “Though one might accuse us of trampling cherry branches, we spill neither petals nor dewdrops—countless as insects.”
“As for this wondrous bloom upon its rainbow dais—this flower sprung from a ruby stamen—would we ever lay hands on such?”
“Until poppies scatter and bear fruit, the wind keeps vigil over its luring.”
“In hues of passion, love’s fervor—save those two blossoming flowers—all humanity is but wind.”
“And among them, these so-called masters—these self-styled lords—differ not from abyssal dwellers or peak-residing sovereigns: they are the tempests, the whirlwinds.”
“They scatter all without respite.”
“Ah, how pitiless!”

“Clacking that so-called beak of yours—who exactly is it that’s secretly waiting for it all to scatter?”

“Ha ha ha! It’s us! Ha ha ha!”
“With their mouths alone, they spout noble words—but in truth, they’re all just waiting to devour each other.”
“Moreover, this flower—though it bloomed from a ruby stamen into a rainbow—when it scatters, becomes flesh, becomes blood, becomes five-colored entrails.”
“Before long, watch—the delicacy called fatty anglerfish liver slips out smooth as silk.”

**Third Crow**: “When did that happen? Ah, just hearing of it is unbearable.”
(With a noisy flap of wings.)

“Don’t rush. Either way, it’ll be ours.”
“Until the prey loosens its soft, pale limbs and becomes a lacquered tray of tree roots with brocade-patterned leaf platters, we must guard the blooming flower’s fate to the utmost and let it revel in its frenzied dance.”
“Do they not say the taste of sea bream differs between net-caught and line-caught?”
“We mustn’t let them suffer, mustn’t let them grieve—make them swim through seawater turned to wine.”

“Hmm—so now we’re even helping with chairs and tables and raising-lowering tents?”

Third Crow: “That they still don’t realize we’ve been helping them—from hauling that monstrosity—” (gestures at the tent) “—to cleaning up afterward, shielding their eyes with these black wings while they smugly think they’ve hidden everything in the mist… Their stupidity grates.”
“But step back and look—what we’re doing here is indistinguishable from scullery work.”
“What self-respecting crows beneath heaven would debase themselves so?”

Second Crow: “Lions, tigers, leopards—earthbound beasts.”
“Among skyborne kin, eagles, hawks, ospreys might seize prey with grace… Observe how bears reverently gather acorns in that posture.”
“Though we name it ‘crane,’ watching one wiggle its rump chasing loaches deserves no ovation.”
“All creatures sacrifice refinement and dignity to feed.”
“Yet this is the prey we claim.”
“When we strike, no quarter given.”
“We’ll gnaw their bones clean.”
“The prey’s cruelty—no, rather, the succulence of marrow simmering in those bones—”
(Shivers.)

First Crow (who had been staring fixedly at the drunkenly collapsed artist since halfway through listening): “You there—Second Crow.”

Second Crow: “Aye.”

Third Crow: “Aye,” he spat. “The fiends grow bold.”

Second Crow: “If that’s your wish, I’ll even coo ‘precious’ for you.”

First Crow: “Enough jests. I’ve been thinking—the banquet preparations are well enough, but what of this prey sprawled before us?”

Third Crow: “That’s just it—shouldn’t we settle this matter of filling our bellies before drowning in blood-wine? I’m starved half to death.”

“Practically supper time for us all,” said the Second Crow. “I’ve taken note of it for now, but I don’t think that human’s ripe for eating yet. Just to be safe—look at his face.”

The three crows flapped over, sniffing at his head, hands, and feet with wet snuffling sounds.

“Unbearable stench,” said the First Crow.

“Ah, looks delicious,” said the Third Crow.

“No—it’s not quite time for that yet,” countered the Second Crow. “Look at how he’s clenching his teeth. Any man who keeps his mouth shut while sleeping’s like a closed shellfish. Stick your beak in carelessly, and snap—there goes your precious tongue. Let those greedy stray dogs come lick at him first. We’ll let these four-legged wretches test the waters—if it’s safe, then we’ll swoop in afterward.”

“Is the prey no good?”

“A lean human.”

“At this point, even dried provisions will do,” said the First Crow.

“Do you think gobbling dried scraps at risk of your life preserves dignity?” retorted the Second Crow. “Wait for the lacquered delicacies.”

Third Crow: “Ah, speaking of waiting—right on cue—a faint fragrance drifts our way.”

First Crow: “Oh, it reeks of human! That’s a woman’s stench.”

Second Crow: “Hmm, vulgar fellow—say instead that a mysterious flower’s fragrance drifts here.”

“Oh, *Ranjatai*! *Ranjatai*!”

First Crow: “Even at Suzugamori, this fragrance only came two or three times in a hundred years.”

Second Crow: “The transformed bird speaks of ancient things.”

Third Crow: “He must think it’s some riddle. Hahaha!”

First Crow: “No—laughing like this in the dark unsettles even myself.”

Third Crow: “What would people say if they heard?”

Second Crow: “‘Just crows cawing,’ they’d sneer.”

First Crow: “Do they truly know nothing?”

Third Crow: “Tiresome creatures.”

Second Crow (clasping hands): “Ah! I see it! I see it now!”
“Greet them with the Maid’s essence.”
(He drew a lit candle from the tent, standing shadowed in the field as he held it aloft.)
(First and Third Crow knelt at Second Crow’s hem.)

Beyond the pampas grass, deep on the stage, diagonally behind the tent, the figures of a man and a woman stood revealed.
One was the Young Gentleman, the other the Noblewoman—their forms radiant with beauty.

“Love is wind,” chanted the Second Crow, “transience is wind; passion dew, life dew. Parting fleets, beckoning fleets; weeping insects, singing insects. What remains is a field—do as you will.”
(He incanted in an uncanny voice.)
The First and Third Crows knelt as one, bowing to the sky.
A gust swept through—the light vanished.
(The stage plunged into momentary darkness.)

At first there was no moon; now a hazy moon emerged.
The stage brightened, but neither the Noblewoman, the Young Gentleman, nor the Three Crows were anywhere visible.
Only the tent remained.

The Artist awakened abruptly.

As if plagued by a nightmare, he glanced around, hurriedly opened the painting bundle, fumbled through his coat pocket for matches, and set fire to the withered grass.

The wildfire blazed.
Three crows appeared on the silk canvas.

He stared.

As if an enemy lurked there, he raised his arm and glared about.

Artist: Look at my painting.—Wait—but is this just paint... or them made real?

―CURTAIN―

Taishō 2 (1913), July