Pathway to Japanese Literature

Chapter One

“Sir, sir.”

Despite being right before his eyes, the maid’s loud call made the middle-aged guest—a slender man of refined bearing wearing a yukata layered with a rented wide-sleeved haori—pause his chopsticks mid-motion.

“Oh, what is it?”

“How is it? Is it delicious?”

Tilting her head back to look at him, the maid peered around restlessly.

The guest seemed startled by how abrupt it was—whether due to his limited experience or sheer frequency of dining out, at inns or restaurants alike, he had never before received such a naive yet earnest—or rather downright reckless—question from serving staff.

Now, since it was by no means unpalatable,

“Yes, it’s delicious.”

With that, he resumed eating.

“That’s good! Number one in the northern provinces, right?”

It didn’t seem to be a joke; she settled into a solemn expression.

“Hmm... Well, not exactly.”

This time, it was the guest who looked at her face. Her features were ordinary—or rather average for a human—with a swarthy complexion that suggested robust health. Though her well-defined mouth was pleasing, the slight pointedness of her lips resembled a fox whose transformation had gone awry, yet this carried not an eerie quality but rather a peculiar charm. She wore a handwoven striped padded kimono with rough texture, a crumpled half-collar beneath it, and had clumsily tied a Chinese crepe obi high on her pigeon chest, her hair done up in a plain bundled style.

Taking another look at this, the guest noticed. This appeared to be the same maid who had earlier proclaimed "Number one in the northern provinces!" at full volume—her short-hemmed kimono exposing sturdy calves as she swung her hips and darted behind an old gold-leaf screen that partitioned the entrance to the next room with a dancer’s lightness.

Now, the painting on that gold-leaf folding screen—a vividly colored work signed by a certain Kano artist—depicted Emperor Xuanzong and Yang Guifei leaning against the same daybed while he played a flute, creating a rather comical scene.

It was under the following circumstances.

The guest arrived at this Ōmiya Inn in Yamashiro Hot Springs, Kaga Province, a little past noon on the same day.
When he stood at the entrance, an oval-faced, gentle-mannered man around forty—later revealed to be the proprietor—with no airs about him and dressed modestly came out to greet him. Rubbing his hands together deferentially, the man asked whether he would be staying over or just bathing briefly. Upon hearing the guest say, “I’ll be in your care for one night,” he bowed deeply at the waist and replied, “This way, please,” then personally handled the luggage and guided him to this inner upper-class room at the rear.
The next two rooms were attached.
"Unfortunately, as our establishment is currently under renovation, we humbly ask your kind forbearance for any inadequacies in our service. Please make yourself comfortable…” After delivering this polite apology and bowing, the person who then brought tea—who would later be recognized as this maid—appeared.

In truth, were one to abruptly enter from the bright thoroughfare of a late autumn day, one could discern neither people's faces nor their conditions at all.
The veranda was wide with a deeply extended overhang, and precisely because it was old-fashioned and serene, even the pattern of the carpet laid across the ten-mat room appeared dim, like autumn leaves piled in a valley.
The large alcove's triptych depicted mountains receding into thick mist, a boat, and only the faint shadow of a small immortal, making it unclear what scene it portrayed—so much so that even with a lamp lit, one could hardly discern it clearly.
Yet pale sunlight filtered onto the garden's red clay, and moss of a vivid blue-green patina covered the towering pagoda-shaped stone lantern.
There stood a solitary pine tree, its branches cast freely over the stepping stones as shadows pooled beneath them and a gust of wind swept through, carrying the sound of tranquil water into the stillness.
The garden's front ended abruptly at a sheer cliff where natural mixed woods—bush clover and azalea bushes interspersed with maples—crowded together. In one corner, a narrow path wound through mountain bamboo grass, carved into a massive natural boulder and ascending high into the treetops where a two- or three-story annex stood.
There was a guest room in the detached house, its corridor peeking through like a wooden lattice.
From that area, through the maple leaves, came a woman's voice resembling the warbling of a Japanese robin—a voice befitting a geisha—but—

A gloomy middle-aged woman with blackened teeth entered, came to the edge of the sliding door, added charcoal to the brazier, arranged the tea utensils, and placed the silver kettle.
This area was arranged like a water preparation room, and at the entrance to the main corridor stood the aforementioned gold-leaf folding screen.
Namely, Emperor Xuanzong and Yang Guifei; the silver kettle was fine, however.
...Next, when the guest looked at the woman who had come out again wearing a yukata layered with wide sleeves, there appeared a ruddy-faced, stout nursemaid carrying on her back a boy of about four in a boldly striped sleeping-child jacket. She thudded down onto the carpet with knees as round as a monk’s pillow, then pushed the child’s face out from over the jacket’s shoulder toward him. “Now, say ‘good day’ to you,” she instructed, tilting her own face along with his.

The scholar was taken aback—for this guest was Sakaki Sankichi, a professor of French at a Kyoto university and a man of letters—but even bandits know to humor an innocent child... Be he professor or scholar made no difference; with an amiable smile, he replied, "Good day." In this manner, unexpected things kept appearing in the dimly lit hall, so the maid couldn’t make sense of what was what at all.

The midday meal had been prepared by this nursemaid; he then went down to the bath and took a bath…… Indeed, the interior of the inn was undergoing major renovations.
Carpenters and plasterers worked here and there like a midnight raid at high noon……The clamor of adzes, saws, and iron hammers.—Then, far removed, the thud-thud-thud-thud of chopping on a cutting board echoed faintly……A vulgar tale, this—preparing thrush—but having once stayed at the Fourth Higher School in Kanazawa, the scholar, with prior knowledge of local seasonal fare, privately nursed expectations of delicacies as he slipped past the main entrance with its elongated flagstone path from the gate, crossed the wide corridor, and ascended a steep step.
At the entrance to the guest room, a sign clearly marked “Upper-Class Room” stood.
Having returned cautiously to the room from behind the gold-leaf folding screen, he—in a posture slightly unbecoming for a guest of the upper-class chamber—lay down using the overturned armrest as a pillow. As he stretched out, the brazier’s fire blazed as crimson as burning maple leaves, while steam from the silver kettle swiftly veiled Yang Guifei.
Listening to the sound of wind through pines by his pillow, for a time both logic and scholarship vanished.
But then, suddenly realizing he had forgotten to request that a flask be added to the lunch tray, he sat up.

No matter where he searched, the call bell was nowhere to be found.

He knocked two or three times—but this never held any prospect of success from the start.
The service area was quite far away.
He went to the entrance of the guest room, knocked, and while knocking, descended another step of the corridor.

“This is astonishing,” he thought.

Still, nothing responded.

After all, he had come here quite pleased upon hearing that this Ōmiya Inn at Yamashiro Hot Springs was a laid-back establishment that handled matters in a relaxed manner and was not overly eager in its business dealings these days—but this was simply too laid-back.

Like a monk who had wandered down from the mountains to the village in a mushroom-induced daze, he knocked and knocked his way to the entrance hall, thinking this time they would surely hear him—but just as he was about to rap again, from behind the screen at his feet darted out the boy whom the nursemaid had been carrying earlier, peering up with a friendly face and beaming warmly.

With this pointed nose, the knocking wasn’t working.

Resignedly, he forced a smile and quietly returned to the guest room.

He gave up.

Restless, he crouched before the gold-leaf folding screen, poured hot water from the silver kettle into the teapot, and was about to make tea when footsteps—far too heavy for a child—resounded. Peering out, he saw the boy together with a woman bouncing lightly at the entrance.

“Hey, Sis! Sis!”

Thudding footsteps approached,

“Sir? Did you call?”

“Yeah, I called.”

he let out a breath,

“Do something about this—no matter where I look, there’s no call bell, and clapping gets no response—I’m at my wit’s end.”

“Huh?”

With her head and shoulders bearing down on the guest, she barged into the room.

“In such a large place, what do you expect to hear by clapping your hands? Ain’t there a telephone? Use that to call the front desk.”

“Where is it?”

“There it is. Can’t ya see?”

Flying into the room from before the guest and pointing abruptly—it was the splendid desk telephone atop the ebony table set against the latticework beside the alcove.

“Ah, that thing?”

“This here’s it.”

“I’d once again mistaken it for an actual telephone.”

“Oh!”

Her eyes widened as she darted her gaze around,

“But this here’s a real telephone.”
“Or is there somethin’ wrong with it or what?”

“No—my apologies,… the mistake was mine. So this is how you call them.—Understood.”

"Ain’t this some fancy setup?"

“It’s an impressive setup.”

“Northern Provinces’ Finest, ain’t it?”

—And with that remark, just as she was bouncing lightly on tiptoe out of the room, he called out from behind and ordered a flask of sake.

“Please bring me a good one.”

As he called after her,

“Got it, got it.”

Turning around, she nodded emphatically,

“Northern Provinces’ Finest.”

Swaying her hips from behind the folding screen, she slipped out lightly.
It was here that he heard that "Northern Provinces’ Finest" once again.

II

“Come on, go ahead and serve the meal.”

“Ah… I suppose I should have the meal served now…”

Now, the guest, with an expression that suggested he thought the conversation had finally started flowing, took a sip of sake from his cup during the intermission.……

“Miss, if you go right from here and pass through the bustling area with those big postcard shops and small eateries, you’ll find what looks like an old thoroughfare lined with merchant houses. Where does that road lead?”

“Well, Sir, that road goes from Nata to Katayamazu.”

“I see—so there’s a modest paper shop in the middle there, between the antique shop further up and the tung oil sedge hat shop closer by. It also deals in sundries... What’s the name of that place?”

“They sell face powders and perfumes, with canned goods and soap boxes all shiny, but it’s this damp, gloomy place you’re talking about, right?”

“Exactly—a gloomy interior.”

Having said that, the guest pondered.

“That’s… Sir—ah, ah, ah… what shop was it called again? I’ve forgotten.
“It’s on the tip of my tongue, but…”

tapping the serving tray like a ball against her knees,

“That shop’s Jihei the Monk’s house, I tell ya.”

“It’s not a pun? In the paper shop context, isn’t ‘Jihei’ wordplay?”

“What, everyone says that, you know. Dunno if it’s his real name or what, but ‘Jihei the Monk’ gets the point across plain enough. Sir, ain’t you heard ’bout that house?”

The guest had earlier gone out to make a purchase.
In truth, having run short of writing paper during his travels, he had considered either requesting some through the front desk or sending someone to fetch it. But given this inn’s easygoing and leisurely manner—grand in style yet unhurried—even with its “Northern Provinces’ Finest” telephone, arranging orders and deliveries would take time. Fetching it himself would be quicker… And there would still be time before the meal arrived.
Having thought that, he left without even putting on his hat, silently and abruptly.

He had checked the tobacco shop at the corner of Makinomachi and peered into the postcard shop, but he couldn’t find anything of that sort. He walked half a block, then a full block... Captivated by the novel sights of this mountain hot spring town, he paused before antique shops, caught the scent of matsutake mushrooms, until at last he found one establishment—that gloomy sundries shop. A narrow shop, the back of its side entrance dark as if the mountain loomed over it. The wrappings on the displayed scroll papers had faded in color, but the neatly stacked writing paper inside the cupboard remained white. “Excuse me? Hello?” he called out two or three times, but there was no response. But being someone who had experienced such things even at shops in Kanazawa’s Mekugi-machi district, he did not leave it at that impatiently. When he called out again, “Is anyone here?” a sweet, coquettish voice replied, “Yes,” followed immediately by a repeated “Yes” that sounded listless and frail. No sooner had he registered this than there was a swift rustle of movement—the hem of a glossy underrobe fluttered as someone sidestepped smoothly from the storehouse into the light. The white nape of her collar and her pale profile remained slightly downturned. As she stood there, her sleeves hung limply from her shoulders, not like those in a sunlit greenhouse but as if drawn from a cold cellar vault. Keeping her face averted, she murmured in a subdued voice, “Yes, what may I offer you?” One eye, reddened as if from weeping, stayed lowered, pressed shut by the pale blue lining of her crimson-edged aizome-dyed sleeve.

At the middle of her back, the woman’s soft hair—her intricately arranged Shimada chignon—had become tangled, spilling over her softly rounded cheeks in a way that was both pitiable and heartbreaking. When he stated his request, she replied “Yes,” and as she turned toward the cupboard, releasing the hand that had been pressing against her eye, she straightened up, extracted some writing paper, and turned back—her hair swaying with the movement of her hem—only to bow her head again as tears she could no longer restrain fell in scattered drops like melting frost upon white sasanqua flowers, inadvertently catching them on the paper… She seemed to startle… In that moment, hiding her face only left it more drenched.

She absentmindedly tried to hand it over, then seemed to notice—"Oh, let me replace that—" "No, this is fine…"

He took it into his pocket and left straight away.
But after leaving the shop, when he thought about it—if those were indeed the tears of that meek woman, he would have caught them in his sleeve.
The lipstick’s color would not remain, but here lay the paper wrapped around the jewel-like drop alongside the shadow of her eyes.
—That must have been why he hadn’t responded at all.
As he pondered having stumbled into such an uncanny situation—or rather, no—her eyes were swollen, and particularly the eyelid she had pressed was reddened, much like pale sunlight filtering through petals of white sasanqua flowers; perhaps she was suffering from an ailment.
Perhaps she had cried from the pain of suddenly getting dust in her eye—that might explain it. But even if that weren’t the case, no matter how grievous her circumstances might be, for a young woman working in trade to shed tears enough to wring paper before a customer seemed a touch too sentimental.
It was probably an eye ailment.

“If it were trachoma or something, that would be troublesome,” he thought, folding the tear-stained paper deep into his pocket—though before long, upon returning to Ōmiya Inn and stepping onto the stone pavement further inside, he found empty sake barrels and pickle tubs spilling out by the storage room entrance, where a stonemason sat clattering away at stone—the very same sound he had earlier imagined as that of a small bird’s bones being tapped.

"...Even tears come like this."

The professor involuntarily formed a wry smile and,

"But that proved fortuitous..."

Entering the parlor this time, before he could even settle into a seat, a face popped over the gold-leaf folding screen with a “Bet you’re starvin’, eh?” and in stomped none other than this very maid standing here now. With the black-lacquered rice container tucked briskly under her arm, she plonked it down before the guest’s knees. Still mid-stride, she stood abruptly and peered intently at his face—prompting him to shoot her another startled look—then shook her padded sleeves up and down in a bobbing motion. “Shall I serve you?” she declared.

The professor resigned himself and calmly settled,
“Hey now, what’s going on here—the meal still hasn’t arrived, not even the serving tray or anything!”

“Oh, right!”

No sooner had she frantically raised one foot than she set it down, then raised and lowered the other foot repeatedly.

“You must be starving, so I thought I’d get you fed quick, you know.”
“I hurried, I tell ya, Sir!”

No sooner had she dashed about than—

“Northern Provinces’ Finest!”

and she hurled herself into a dash.

After declaring that self-pouring was customary with sake and finally being excused from the practice, he—now properly settled for the first time—quietly tipped back a flask’s worth befitting a person of modest drinking capacity. It was around this time that she peered out from behind the folding screen and entered the room in an oddly timid manner, resuming her serving duties with newfound caution.

The story skipped ahead, but the tear-stained paper was there.
The guest casually seized the moment to inquire.

“I just went out to do a bit of shopping, but…”

he continued,

“In that house—there must be a beautiful woman, whether a wife, daughter, or such.”

“Northern Provinces’ Finest!”
“Ahahahaha.”

And then she suddenly burst into loud laughter.

“Now, now—let’s stick with ‘Northern Provinces’ Finest!’ What’s this about a daughter? A wife?”

Once again in a loud voice,

“Did you get smitten? Sir.”

“Don’t startle me like that.”

“You were surprised, weren’t you? By that beauty.”
“That’s it—that’s Koharu.”
“She’s a geisha here. And they call the young master of the sundries shop ‘Jihei the Monk,’ don’t they?”

“I see—that’s the owner of that sundries shop.”

“He’s a young man who’s the talk of the town—whether he’ll live or die.”

“So I understand the ‘Jihei’ part… but why ‘the Monk’?”

“Why, Sir—he’s short-tempered, jealous as can be, with a downright contrary nature! And on top of that, he’s persistent and constipated to boot!”

“What?…”

“Jock itch and ringworm, see?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, hahaha! Jock itch and ringworm, see?”

“That’s rather crude.”

“In a place like Yamashiro Hot Springs, things just won’t get settled. If that young master doesn’t get seven days’ cure at Kasawaizu Hot Springs for his beriberi up in the mountains, he can’t get a decent rest for ten days or even half a month—scratching himself raw all over till his eyes bulge out, see? On top of that, he’s poured money, his shop, even his fields into Koharu. For a time, he even brought her into his home and had her as his wife for about three months, you know.”

—Now I understood about the first wife and her bridal circumstances—

“Since he ain’t properly paid up the money, the teahouse owner won’t agree to keep her.”
“After all that pushing and pulling, Koharu still keeps her dignity, see? But when a woman he once made his wife goes back to entertaining customers, just you wait till night falls—scratching at his itchy sores ain’t enough to settle him! He’ll be stomping through the fields, gnawing on jock itch beans, fit to burst!”
“Even with his blood all flushed up, he’s got a gloomy nature—that gaunt face of his like a withered lotus, pale and sunken, see? But Jihei’s got a fighting spirit, so when he talks to folks, his whole head and lips twist sideways like they’re heading down an alley!”
“He gets all flushed in the head, his face burning bright red, even though he’s supposed to be Koharu’s sweetheart—fancies himself a real ladies’ man, but look at that hair! Slicked down to a monk’s stubble—that’s Jihei the Monk for ya, or should I say Monk Jihei, eh, Sir?”

When I heard this, I felt ashamed for thinking it was trachoma or some eye ailment.
The teardrops on the Japanese paper wrapped in my sleeve were indeed sasanqua dew.

“Sir, what’re you thinkin’ about?”

Three

“I see—when I stopped by earlier to shop, that geisha was crying.”

“Huh? Was Koharu at the monk’s shop, I wonder…”
“Even if he spurns or despises her, being a tender-hearted geisha, she must’ve gone to meet him in secret.”
“Truly, it’s already the Ten Nights—Jihei’s difficult mother and those noisy geisha house bosses have been clamoring around with their prayer group these past day or two. She must’ve seized that chance to sneak off and meet him in secret.”

“This is no trifling matter.”

“Who knows if she’s weepin’ from affection or bein’ pestered to tears?”

“You ought to leave such affairs… to those you cherish.”

the guest said solemnly.

“What a bothersome affair.”

“You truly despise it… Yet given that persistent, jealous nature—what would you do if someone tried to court you?”

“I’d slap him clean across the face.”

“I’m astonished.”

“Northern Provinces’ Finest! That’s the Yamashiro tomoe emblem plaque. I can carry two rice bales of four to eight shō each with both hands.”

“Impressive!… Use that vigor to take Koharu’s side.”

“Ah, sure thing, if Master says so.…”

“Deliberately… though it’s but a trifle, it’s a congratulatory gift.”

Shrugging her shoulders in a sulky manner,

“Don’t need it. —I… someone like me… Master. —You shouldn’t go wastin’ money on your travels.”
“And…”

She turned her face back and peered at the guest from beneath slightly raised eyelids,

“Master, when are you returning?”

“Your kindness is appreciated, but inquiring when one who has just arrived will depart seems rather harsh.”

“Even so, when you came earlier, didn’t you say you’d stay just one night?”

“Exactly. Tomorrow I intend to go to Yamanaka.”
“It’s a busy tour group.”

“It would be fine if you stayed at your leisure—then do come again soon.”

“Then do come again soon,” she said with a straight face.

The guest, as if moved by those words,

“Of course I’ll come, but when I do, you won’t be here, Miss.”

“Huh? Why…?”

“Because you’ll be getting married.”

She gave a vigorous shake of her head,

“Hmm, ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“They say Jihei the Monk’s set his sights on you.”

“Don’t talk nonsense.—Whether it’s Jihei or Chūbei or whoever… I ain’t marryin’ nobody. I’ll wait my whole life.”

“Then, rather than going anywhere, shall we stay here forever?”
“If you’d take me as your husband…”

“You bet I will.”

“Since I have no income, as a husband I’d have to be adopted in.”
“Would you provide for me?”

“Sure, I’ll take care of you.
“From morning till night, I’ll let you bathe whenever you like, have your meals, and amuse yourself—that should be fine, right?”

“That sounds almost too splendid.”

“For something like that… I’ll take care of it with my wages.”

“Really?”

“But here’s the thing, Master.”

“Look here—that’ll change soon enough.”

“Hmm, that’s true—but we can’t manage in a grand room like this. You should settle into a four-and-a-half or six-tatami back room instead. The feast on the tray won’t be this fancy, but I’ll handle everything discreetly.”

The guest—his face a reddish-black with pointed mouth and pimply, swollen features—stared at her,

“Miss, what’s your name?”

he asked, laughing.

She shook her head with muffled chuckles.

“What do you mean?”

“Cut that out.”

Her earlobes flushed crimson.

“Hey, what’re you even sayin’?”

“O-Hikari.”

With that, she planted her thick hands on the rice tub and hoisted her hips up.
She squatted defensively.

“So it’s O-Hikari... And your age?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, how old are you?”

“It’s the face.”

“What?”

“It’s my face—like a monkey’s, see?”

“So, how old are you then?”

“Peaches and chestnuts take three years—so I’m three, hahaha!”

she dashed out laughing.
Her face—redundant as it may seem—turned around to face Yang Guifei above,

“Twenty… A weasel… Beh-beh-beh-beh, bey—”

IV

There stood a white branch hospital of the Ninth Division Garrison Hospital.
Along with Yakushiji Temple， Manshōen Garden， and Kasugayama Hill， the sanatorium was counted among Yamashiro’s notable sights.
There were picture postcards.
Take a look.
That a hospital was depicted as a scenic spot—in all of Japan， perhaps only here.

In this sunny spot that seemed warm, before the gate of a pale building stood a boundary line of seven or eight cherry trees—half-dead leaves tinged with color—planted in a row. Here marked the outskirts of the hot spring town’s edge, where the road sloped into a small hill. On three sides stretched open fields, while to the east lay Yakushi Mountain’s base, forming a wide ridge.
It was the highway leading to a place called Katsuradani.
Dividing the hospital’s rear, a winding range of mixed pine and deciduous hills lay just beyond a field, so close it nearly touched—distant mountains and rugged peaks alike were obscured.
As a result, the scenery was serene, and the sky was gentle.
The serene blue sky, brushed here and there with white clouds like silk floss, held a slightly slanting sun enveloped in an early winter mist that seemed to pervade everywhere. It glowed softly—its light was weak, yet when it shone directly, the warmth was enough to make one flush.
Yet the recesses of the shade were unnervingly cold.

The foothills of the nearby mountain lay half in shadow, but opposite the hospital—slightly lower than this ridge and sloping downward—a sun-drenched path of withered grass meandered along until its trail and the ridge’s intersection formed a gentle triangle, creating a single field of about thirty square meters.
It lay alone in the open wilderness.
At the boundary with a vast harvested field on one side, there likely once had been a fence—but now the bamboo and fence lay broken and shattered, leaving only a single decayed post, gray as if it had at least transformed into a scarecrow. Pampas grass, dimly on the verge of vanishing yet drinking deeply of the sunlight—ah, ah—as if letting out a peaceful yawn, leaned against that post.
In the field where straw lay scattered and leaves were strewn, after the ladlewort—a plant cultivated abundantly around here, also called lotuswort for its white-stemmed resemblance—had been thoroughly uprooted, the warm weather caused sprouts to emerge slender and blue from patches of dry soil that swelled warmly.

The field’s edge merged into the cluttered jumble of townhouses and farmhouses at the town’s rear; amidst the trees enveloping a small stream, it stretched far into the distance as a mountain path where, due to the clouds’ whims, the sun cast a pale crimson light sharply.

Colors and sky alike held their breath—only above this sunlit triangular field, where crimson leaves fenced the cloud’s edge like a barrier, swarmed countless red dragonflies. Meeting, parting, darting swiftly up and down.
Those crimson and pale crimson wings of beautiful little celestial maidens—their crystal-clear surfaces sparkling brilliantly—yet winter had come... Their play now at its peak, they seemed entranced, drifting through dreams as they floated and sank weightlessly, rippling through the air.
As if occasionally awakening, they flashed their wings brilliantly, but then grew dim again, drifting hazily through the warm air as they mingled in flight.

They were the rainbow princesses of Hinata.

Enchanted by the poetic atmosphere, Ōmiya Inn’s lone guest stood at the corner of the triangular field, mountains encircling his back as he wandered aimlessly.

The serenity enveloping all sides.

Yet this tranquility—after finishing lunch—led him to stroll out aimlessly in the opposite direction of his earlier shopping errand, circling the hot spring quarter: past shops fronted by dazzling Kutani ware and deeper within, richly colored lacquerware stores. The shops lining both sides soon gave way to a single row, and after passing five or six charming red-latticed facades, a narrow stream flowed alongside Yakushi Mountain. Beyond the great torii of Kureha Shrine, travelers coming and going vanished entirely. Beneath the cedar boughs of a dilapidated liquor store, brown and black puppies—no larger than stretched-out balls—tumbled over one another, leisurely nibbling ears or lightly nipping snouts. […] Witnessing this scene, perhaps envious, another puppy of similar size wobbled out from the shadow of a barrel, stretching its legs—yet in the village’s hushed stillness, not even a child clutching a stick could be found.

And when he arrived here… From beneath the mountain ahead emerged a tall, hooded old man in straw sandals, one hand gripping a long-handled sickle while a one-shō flask—whether filled with water or sake—hung from a rope at his side. Trudging steadily along the ridge, he passed by with a single sway of the massive basket on his back—a basket they called a “snake mat,” heavily laden with fern leaves that exuded the fragrance of matsutake mushrooms.
His figure, keeping rhythm with the flask and sickle as he swung his arms wide, naturally exuded an air of triumph—a pride in having secured the mountain’s bounty. […] Within the basket, beneath those rustling clusters of leaves, matsutake mushrooms—large-headed ones that seemed to leap about like catfish or crucian carp—disappeared into the direction of the hot spring town.
For a while, the only person he encountered was that one.

The guest, eyes still entranced by the sunlit red dragonflies, suddenly caught their reflection in the pampas grass at the field’s edge—when the shadowed sleeve shuddered. Once releasing arms that had been firmly clasped before him, he touched slightly trembling fingertips to his temple—and with a heavy sigh, his face darkened.

Like frost scattered in Hinata, white hairs flickered here and there at his temples. At that moment, a crimson-red dragonfly—as if forgotten—swiftly descended and alighted upon the tip of the post beneath the pampas grass... Once folded wings suddenly spread wide, glinting sharply—those green eyes flickered ever so slightly toward this side.

Even the puppies’ play was endearing.
He had reverted to a childlike state.

Professor Sakaki blossomed into a smile.
But as he firmly pressed his lips together, bending his back beneath the jet-black thickness of his greatcoat, he stealthily approached—extending his right hand to waist height with precise intent.
Yet try as he might, he couldn’t move as lightly as a child.
A jerk, a gasp—now was crucial… then a tentative lunge.
...By the Three Treasures! The red dragonfly evaded him in a flash.

It was the moment he jolted in realization.

“Ohohohohoh.”
“Hahahahaha.”

In a florid, high-pitched tone, a young woman’s laughter resounded.

The puppies had already vanished from view in the distance.
When he swept his gaze across the deserted surroundings and realized someone was laughing at him, he instinctively twisted his face into a scowl and spun around sharply—

From the grove at the edge of this triangular field stretched another ridge path through the wilderness—separated by a slope of harvested fields—that wound toward the mountain base like a folding screen. But halfway along its length, it disappeared behind towering rows of dried rice stalks he hadn’t noticed before.
Peering through a gap in the stalks, he saw the snow-capped peak of a distant mountain erupt into the blue sky like a white rabbit racing across the moon.
Below, waves of pampas grass spread white like water.
Tiered with yellow remnants of uncut millet ears, they floated in a rising blue mist that veiled the air.

When he turned to look, there—amidst wild chrysanthemums lining the ridge, on this side of the dried rice stalks with her back to the vast harvested field stretching beyond sight—stood a pale-skinned woman with lustrous hair and a pale blue collar. The moment their eyes met, she abruptly turned away and pressed one sleeve to her mouth as if slapping it there, yet her laughter resounded high and clear across the pristine sky over the fields.

“Ohohohohoh… Ohohoho… Ohohohohoh!”

Oh, is there something on my face?… Handling my sleeve and reflexively stroking it, this must have looked like the spit-on-eyebrows trick foxes use to bewilder their victims.

“Ohohohohoh!” came her shrill laughter.

About ten steps ahead stood a man.
Though his striped pattern remained indiscernible, he wore muted attire with a celadon fedora tilted forward—a small-statured, gaunt man of persistently clinging form.
This man had halted as if startled by the bright peals of laughter and now watched the woman with a sidelong glare.

What are you laughing at, Professor? Again... He thought it must be his overcoat worn in this mild weather that looked absurd... Needless to say.
——Along his path earlier, whether observing youths or elders, he had not seen a single soul wearing an overcoat.
In the hot spring quarter, all strolled through willow groves in wide sleeves.
The hardier ones wore but a single yukata; flashes of bare skin showed through.
To be sure, when leaving the inn he had wavered about the coat—but the starch in his borrowed yukata had stiffened rigidly, its wide sleeves failing to cling to his skin and letting in drafts that made him shiver; thus he had bundled himself fully within it.
Indeed, standing solitary in the field with his jet-black hat and overcoat, he must have resembled a shadow puppet possessed by a fox—more ludicrous to young women than a man standing stark-naked on dry land with only a loincloth dangling…

No—dragonfly catching.

Ah, that’s it.

The moment he realized the frost at his own temples—those scattered white hairs—he unintentionally let out an irrepressible bitter smile, and their faces met again.

The woman burst out with a “Pfft!” of laughter and, as if unable to contain herself, swished her hem back five or six steps in the original direction, bending forward as though twisted at the waist.

“Oh ho ho ho!”

Arching her chest and leaning backward,

“Ahahahaha!”

Suddenly whirling around to face away, she revealed the back of her small-patterned haori scattered with maple leaves, then turned forward again—lowering her head in a posture of frantic bowing toward the snow-capped distant mountains.

“Ohohoh, ahahaha, ahahahahaha!”
“Ahahahahaha!”

Eventually, covering her mouth with a pale pink handkerchief, breathing through her shoulders, she straightened up and attempted to walk forward with an aloof composure in profile.
But to her surprise, her own eyes turned back toward him.
She sobbed into the handkerchief two or three times, pressed it against her face, and laughed again.

“Ohohohohoh, ahahaha, ahahahahaha!”

With crimson spilling from her lips and the glimmering whiteness of her arms flashing through the air, she shook herself violently, rubbing her limbs as she writhed in convulsive laughter.

The rigidly standing man from the group took a retaliatory step backward, thrusting out his clenched fist as if to physically suppress her mirth. Craning his neck upward from his hunched posture to glare at her face, he emitted a scornful laugh himself before redirecting his venomous gaze toward the Professor.

Professor Sakaki too found himself unable to maintain composure—left standing half-dazed in solitary bewilderment, his lips twisting in a lonely smirk—until the overwhelming absurdity of the situation finally compelled him to commit what could only be deemed a monumental social blunder.

With a “Kyah! Eek!”, she bent backward at the waist, then doubled forward, pressing her flank with her arm—but it was no use.
Writhing in agony and rubbing her shoulders until she seemed utterly spent... She carelessly knelt on the red-leaved grass at the edge of the ridge.
The indigo half-collar bloomed with wild chrysanthemums,

“Ohohohohohoh… Ahahahaha… Ohohohohoh!”

There, her underarms, breasts, and chest were all tickled by the squirming pampas grass! As she adjusted the gaping collar’s whiteness, in that fleeting moment of adjustment, her disheveled kneecaps spread like snow. The Shimada chignon came undone, strands splitting and fluttering down,

“Have mercy… Ohohohoh… Ahahahahaha!”

As she swung her hand, clinging desperately to the scarecrow’s rope as if biting into it, the clattering scarecrow in the harvested field echoed through the mountains—clatter clatter clatter, clatter clatter clatter.

“Ahahahahaha!”
“Ohohohohoh!”

With his body bristling imposingly above her Shimada chignon, the man swung both clenched fists as if to deliver a blow. As the sullen man advanced, she panted while scraping her knees, drew back her hips, undulating her spine as she writhed upright. Finally standing, the woman turned while hastily adjusting her kimono hem, then swiftly bowed her waist slightly in acknowledgment to the Professor.

With a “Kyaa—!” of laughter, she impulsively darted off and hid behind the dried rice stalks after the man.

The dried rice stalks drank in the full sunlight and swarms of sparrows, swelled until they creaked audibly, and still unable to contain themselves, soaked up the ohohohoh laughter until—overwhelmed—they burst open.
No sooner had the rice ears swayed in unison with a rustle than the woman’s face suddenly emerged, her hair jet-black, her lips crimson,
“Ohohohohohohoh! Ahahahahahaha!”

“You damned fool!”

As the seething voice roared, the startled woman fled down the old path. The man’s hand stretched toward her retreating back—she twisted to evade it but collapsed sideways with a thud.

He lunged forward. Without uttering a word, his fist struck two or three times—not clearly aimed at cheek or shoulder—with force enough to crush pampas plumes.

Her face and hair smeared with dirt, she clasped her pure white hands in desperate prayer as she tried to rise from her sleeves. The man swept aside her arm and kicked.

It lasted but the blink of an eye.

“What are you doing? What are you doing?”

It was nothing more than a mountain village romance.
Yet Professor Sakaki Sankichi—who had once honed his body at the First Higher School as a stalwart of Kōryō—now held dominion over lofty heavens and a vast world, his indomitable spirit undiminished from those days when he’d been an unwitting casualty of lovers’ quarrels.

“What are you doing? What do you think you’re doing?”

The grassy path proved frustratingly sluggish.
Disregarding field ridges and harvested plots alike, he cut straight through and closed in with brisk determination.

Propelled by this momentum, the man fled toward the mountainside of Katsuradani, weaving through the dried rice stalks and flying away alongside the crows.

“Oh!”

“Ah! That’s... Why, it’s Sir from earlier.”

The man who fled was Jihei the Monk—as O-Hikari had informed him—and the woman was Koharu.

“I put on the coat and hat… was mistaken for someone else… Ohohohoh… How rude of me… What should I do?”

Koharu pressed a weak hand to her disheveled collar and obi at the chest while clinging to the coat sleeve with her other hand, her face pale as she laughed through tear-filled eyes.

"Ohohohohoh! Forgive me... I beg your pardon... Ahahahahaha!"

She was in the bloom of youth.
Thinking indignantly—She’d laugh even if a chopstick fell—he kicked off his wooden clogs and embraced the shoulder of the woman whose bare feet lay pristine, shoulders and knees flushed and disheveled as she half-rose.

“Forgive me, Master. When you were trying to catch red dragonflies—playing about—your... your figure was too... too... Ohohohohoh.”

“Well, I must say—when I think about it myself, it’s absurd.”
Laughing was only natural.
But I pitied her.
“That man from their group—what brutality.”

“Well, at home I’d only attract more attention… Ohohoh… I came here to discuss a lovers’ suicide, you see… Ahahahaha!”

Pressed her face into her chest, crying,

“Ohohohohohoh.”

Five

“Master... If that’s how it is... then... wouldn’t it be better if I didn’t die...?”

“There’s no need to say it—you’re the one who deceived me purely out of greed… but I’m a geisha.”
“What sin? What retribution?”
“Moreover, from what I gather, you’ve already exhausted every ounce of human compassion and duty you could muster. …Being forced to accompany some self-serving gangster or wastrel who’s hit rock bottom—his so-called lovers’ suicide is just a noble-sounding farce—is utterly intolerable. What’s more, he isn’t even alone in this world. Didn’t you meet a suddenly blind old man on your way here and weep over having a father with similarly afflicted eyes?”

That Koharu of Yamashiro—who had collapsed amid the drying rice stalks and yomena plants along the ridge, clinging to this five-shaku pine to stand—being taken back to Ōmiya Inn would have met with anyone’s ready approval. She was a geisha. That there had been no particular complication in simply bringing her along likewise needed no elaboration.

Furthermore, it was learned that the lovers’ suicide was not merely a discussion. In such a place and circumstances—where they would attract less notice than at midnight—they had planned to seize the quiet southern daylight hours, then immediately take the fork toward Katsuradani, where stood Jōgyōji Temple of the Montoshu sect... There, intending to die before nightfall, Jihei the Monk had prepared not only merchandise (though specifics were unclear) in his sleeve but even a dagger in his pocket, it was said.

Her obi slipping down from her waist—Koharu’s figure, following a few steps behind while anxiously fussing with her loosened sash and brushing back stray strands of hair with one hand, seemed less like someone who had fled a lovers’ suicide attempt and more like a sacrificial offering rescued from some mountain deity’s altar.

When they arrived at the forked road marked by signposts—*Left: Yamanaka Road; Right: Katsuradani Road*—from the direction of Yamanaka Road came a spindly-backed old man with a sharply pointed chin and emaciated frame. He wore a single-plaited sedge hat squarely on his head, a cloth bundle swaying at his waist, tattered gaiters on bare legs, and straw sandals as he shuffled forward, drawn along by a bamboo staff.

The one grasping this bamboo staff midair, clutching its tip, guiding it sideways without stepping forward while dragging weary legs was a boy of about eight years old wearing an oversized, aged hunting cap that nearly concealed his eyes and ears.
The boy also carried a cloth bundle tied at the middle in a Saigyo-style backpack, but as he emerged weakly onto the road, the staff they pulled sideways between them became an obstruction. At the crossroads marked by the signpost, Professor Sakaki halted his steps and let them pass ahead.
Though the rivulet would soon flow, the torii gate would soon come into view, and the town would soon bustle, the blind old man—stiffly planting his legs, flexing and unflexing his calves as if testing their strength—proceeded to grope blindly forward, one hand outstretched while being led by a staff gripped by a child no larger than a coin purse.
Were she not a woman who had just narrowly escaped death, he might have been tempted to say to Koharu, “Let me take that hand”—so deeply had the winter mountain village’s shadows plunged the town, eaves, water, and torii gates into twilight.

With the clip-clop of wooden clogs, from the shadow of Kureha Shrine’s torii gate at the base of the stone steps emerged a figure with a peach-parted damp coiffure and scarlet-dappled angular-patterned kasuri.
Her hairpin not yet fastened, wearing a pitifully plain kasuri-patterned everyday kimono with a black satin collar that bore cold-looking white powder stains… the young geisha—nobly earnest, likely returning from a visit to the shrine—darted out in haste, an old-fashioned hand towel tucked slenderly between her apron and obi.
But no sooner had she passed the blind old man and stepped ahead than she came to an abrupt halt as though seized from above, turning around.

“Oh! Sis!”—the boy darted over.

In an instant, the young geisha’s crystal-like wide eyes were filled with tears.

Koharu stealthily drew near.

"Sis... Papa—Papa's goin' blind... Says he wants... wants to see ya... just for a bit..."

While presenting the cloth bundle carried Saigyō-style over his shoulder in a timid manner,

“Sis, I brought your favorite bean mochi.”

Unable to speak, the older sister stroked her brother’s head before tilting her gaze upward to study the hat’s interior.
To the daughter mired in this wretched world, his figure standing there with that sedge hat did not appear as some pitiful, miserable, shabby suddenly blinded old man—rather, he resembled a withered Jizō Bodhisattva.

The old man seemed about to embrace her, thrust out a groping hand only to jerk it back as if scalded, pressed that hand in prayerful clasp, bowed to his surroundings, and kowtowed indiscriminately,

“Forgive me, forgive me,” he said.

“They visited Shōnenji-sama first and were heading to Kichin.”
“The one who just arrived—that geisha… I escorted her to the mansion.”

As they turned the corner of what seemed to be a dead-end alleyway, Koharu, in passing, whispered “Later” to the young geisha as they parted—then said those words to the professor.

The suddenly blind old man they had encountered on their way—this was he—

Before long, at Ōmiya Inn’s parlor—where Koharu was treated as an honored guest with a meal laid out—Professor Sakaki earnestly counseled her.

“...Even if I don’t die, wouldn’t that be all right?”

“There’s no enduring death! The mistake lies in dying itself.”

“But, Master… What tormented me most was the thought that people would call me a heartless woman who knows neither duty nor compassion.”
“No matter what people may say, I will heed only your words, Master. However much that man may condemn me, I will flatly refuse any lovers’ suicide.”
“Thanks to your protection, I was saved.”
“Now I can see the beloved faces of my parents and siblings again.”
“For about a year now, morning and night, I’ve done nothing but cry—there was nowhere left for me to live.”
“That bitterness has lifted too.”
“You are a god.”
“You are a Buddha.”

“No—if these are gods and Buddhas, they take the form of red dragonflies.”

“Ohoho.”

“Ah, you really laughed—that settles it. You must never die.”

“Even if it’s wrong, I’ll live by your words alone.”
“Though some may say I lack womanly virtue—call me heartless or a whore… I won’t voice it aloud, but in my heart I’ll find solace knowing it’s through your words.”

“Don’t hesitate. Since I—this very me—told you not to die, say without hesitation that you won’t die—it’s absolutely fine to say it.”

“No, that’s too generous—I even had the audacity to ask for your calling card.”
“I won’t tell anyone else, but.... I’m happy.... Truly happy.—Master.”

“…………”

“Um, about that… Perhaps because I felt relieved, I became disheartened and lost all strength.”
“What is it? My body feels so insubstantial, and I’ve grown terribly uneasy.”
“Please let me come closer…… If it weren’t for this moment, I wouldn’t have the courage—though even now I cannot see your face properly. But still, it’s too dark… I still can’t see anything, I’m afraid.”

And with her hands pressed firmly on her knees, her upturned face was faintly pale.
The fragrance from lustrous hair and brows that seemed faintly perfumed lingered close at hand, yet the upper room was now nearly pitch-dark.

Six

In truth, when they had earlier returned to this inn with Koharu, it had already grown so dark that this woman—accustomed to navigating the corridors—took her hand, and even the parlor was barely distinguishable in black and white.
From beneath the clothes rack facing the gold-leaf screen—where guests had hung their discarded garments—something that had been crouching there, who knows how long, emerged with a sudden jerk, its dōrokujin-like shadow swaying unsteadily.
It was that O-Hikari who, exclaiming “Northern Provinces’ Finest!” at Koharu’s startled cry and the professor’s shock, then darted down the corridor in an instant.

Immediately, Koharu—understanding the guest’s intention—used that desk telephone to send through their two meals to the front desk. Then, the one who emerged this time to take the order was that same teeth-blackened, lonesome woman from before, her dejected movements making her appear somehow like a woman who had died in childbirth—though not much time had passed, this parlor felt particularly gloomy.

So robustly and cheerfully lively as to feel reassuring was the cliffside protruding parlor visible beyond the eaves’ edge with its railing, where what seemed a large number of guests mingled with four or five geishas in varied voices—singing, playing instruments, dancing.

Like the protruding prow of a ship, another parlor stacked upon it also resounded with shamisen music, while occasional booming laughter—echoing like a mountain demon’s call—filled the air. Though the garden below the cliff grew dark, the electric lights remained unlit.

Koharu’s pale indigo collar and cold shimada hairstyle peered over the veranda edge time and again, waiting together for the light.

At the very end of this veranda stood a toilet with floorboards laid over packed earth, where water from its mechanical outlet had once flowed refreshingly. Yet in that murky dimness, when Professor Sakaki entered, not a drop of hand-washing water emerged. Upon his mentioning this to Koharu, she hurried to the front desk without even using the telephone. After some time, she returned with a brass water pitcher and explained: the hand-washing water was drawn up by a motor, but due to a malfunctioning battery—the same reason the electric lights were delayed—or so they claimed at the front desk.
There, in the earthen floor of the middle veranda, stood a large stone hand-washing basin. Yet with two or three fallen leaves strangely resembling lit lanterns, it remained bone-dry, devoid of water.
Leading him there, kneeling with alluring grace, she let the water flow smoothly—

“Oh—I must’ve dropped my handkerchief on the rice field path when I came back...”

“That too was Death’s own bundle cloth.”

“How terrifying, Master.”

As for that water pitcher… it could now dimly be seen placed at the edge of the hand-washing basin.
The scene resembled an egret at dusk poised with its long beak; vaguely, the faint sound of water seemed to lap nearby—but now, as if transformed into a horned owl, everything had plunged into utter darkness.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong? …Oh—you’re crying? —I—”

“Ah! Master!”

As the wooden toilet door opened a crack from within, Koharu’s figure seemed poised to disappear—

“I—I just—it was an accident—this shameful crying… There’s no water here.”

“I see.”

The professor opened the door himself while saying—

“Come here—I’ll pour it for you. There.”

“Yes.”

“Is this enough? Thoroughly…”

“Oh dear—this is too much! I’ll incur divine punishment.”

Shadows from upstairs scattered across the folded paper.
...A candle flame flickered along the high corridor’s railing.

“The punishment falls on me.
“But this is my first time pouring water for a woman since birth.
“Look well—I’ve become an infant.
“My white hairs vanished under these bangs—turned jet black now.”

Truly, his hair was black.
The professor’s face was bright.

“This hand-washing basin is just like Shigemori’s head-washing pond.”

“Yes, but that’s inauspicious, Master.”

“Well, adulterous wench.
Ugh, you wretches.”

“Northern Provinces’ Finest! ……Careful now.”

Amidst the murderous shouts and groans—clattering, thudding noises—the red electric light trembled like konjac jelly and flickered on almost simultaneously with the cheers of “Banzai!” and the roaring applause from the opposite second floor.

Seven

When the professor, who had positioned himself to shield Koharu with his back, looked, he saw O-Hikari—her radish-red knees exposed—pinning down Jihei the Monk face-first, the latter’s satin black tabi flapping wildly in the air where its thong had torn.

“Careful—he’s got a blade!”

While stitching the carpet, she paid no heed to how Jihei’s dagger—resembling a rusty centipede—writhed beneath the reddish-black electric light.

“What’s this? Even dogs have fangs, cows have horns—right?”
“What’re ya gonna do with this pathetic human’s dagger?”
“You bastard!”
“If I hadn’t come, he would’ve ended up hurting our important guest, huh?”
“You’re one hell of a jealous bastard.”
“Should I call the front desk with a big shout, Master? What’ll you do?”
“Should I give him one good wallop from the side?”

“Ah, calm yourselves—violence is unacceptable.”

The professor drew the threshold inward as he settled into the veranda’s rattan chair.

“Who exactly do you mean to kill?”

“Hmph—you first… Only natural.”
“Hmph—release me! This humiliation burns!”

“Aren’t you making a spectacle?”
“A traveling guest calls a hot-spring geisha for amusement—what crime is that?”

“You—dragging me to my own shop—sneaking off for trysts, you adulterous snake!”

“Cease this madness! Misunderstandings matter little here—your vileness appalls me. […] If squandered gold has ruined you, die alone if you must cling to error. But clinging to life while forcing death upon this woman? That’s cowardice! What miser strings a woman’s fate to his wasted breath?”
“A man cheaper than usurers demanding interest on wedding gifts.”
“When with a fair woman, even an extra flea biting her should make you plead ‘Drink my blood instead’—that’s compassion.”
“Is it not a man’s duty to fret ‘Don’t catch chill’ when insects sing in cool air? If your life’s so worthless, twist your nose-hairs to splice what remains onto hers!”
“How dare you plot murder against this gentle soul?”
“Hear me.”
“I claim no greatness for these words.”
“We’re both vermin in humanity’s fold—but I’m a book-gnawing moth, cleaner than you by courtesy.”
“Hear this too—when suicide pacts brew, old men laugh at dragonfly-catchers’ folly… Even now—a woman finds no water to wash, trapped by her own purity… That daughter-like innocence, lips barely grazed…”

“Ugh… ugh…,” Jihei groaned.

“This shame’s got my whole body shaking.”
“What’s this? You—a self-righteous bean lecturing me about that woman? A pond snail in your place—how disgusting!”
“Facades! Husbands! Double suicides! What’s killing or saving even matter?”
“—Get out quietly! Go soak in Awazu Springs—you’ve only got one life to nurse!”

“You brat! Damn you!”
“Whoa, not so fast!”

“Hmph—let go!”
“Miss—release me.”
“Master—danger!”

“No—I don’t yet feel like being killed or cut down by that person.”
“Let me go.”

“Oh, quite right! With me holding down this hand, you can’t do a thing.”

“Now—bare your chest. Open your sleeves.”
“I haven’t pressed a single finger.”
“If the woman gets up and clings there, it’s a different matter.”
“Since they call it Katsura Shimizu, I’ll wash my face and start fresh—there, look there.”
“See how the woman’s hiding small behind the chair, trembling? —Go home.”

Once again, the electric light—as if perishing—gasped its last breath and vanished in an instant.

“Both of you—remember this well.”

“You bastard—where did you get in?”
“Ah—so that’s it.”
He slipped through the three-mat window—that small one—and came in from the neighbor’s wall along the garden boundary.
It can’t be disputed, I’m telling you.
He’ll have to leave through the same spot he came in.
“Rubbed against the wall, crawled through the window, clung to that wooden fence—you lizard bastard.”

Koharu, like a flower gasping for breath, clung to the professor’s sash from behind and sobbed bitterly.

Eight

The willows in this pleasure quarter were lovely.
Tonight especially was a moonlit night.
Five, six, seven trees stood tall and swayed smoothly, lushly moist; all the hot spring inns facing each other around Mitsuke could be glimpsed through the leaves.
Each had red pillars and white walls—fifteen-ken frontages, ten-ken frontages, eight-ken frontages—blurred with thin gofun-like hot spring mist into the shape of a massive “舍” character, floating in the moonlight. Dew on roof tiles congealed into purple hues, while the moon hung sharp in midair yet grew hazy from lingering warmth in the air.
And from mountains rising behind, mist welled up and flowed through patches of narrow town visible here and there—the scenery inlaid with electric lights’ blue flakes like Hiroshige had painted a dream of pyramids.

Beneath the willows were two or three precautionary water ponds—reservoirs enclosed by stones arranged in a tortoise-shell pattern. However, dried up and desolate, hosting neither clouds nor stars, with willow leaves scattered all over, they appeared to have formed a mound by gathering fallen leaves from the mountains and valleys. In that case, the moon cast its gaze. ...When one peered in, the flickering light revealed water’s presence; shadows shimmered, and willows adorned themselves. Particularly this year, under the warmth, the drooping black hair [of willows] grew even thicker; among them, one willow at the very center—its sleeves draped over a fire watchtower that stood tall like lacquer bathed in moonlight—bore the air of a courtesan leaning against the ladder-like steps of a lapis lazuli ceiling.

Around here, sporadic strollers passed by.
At the gate of the Mitsuke Front Communal Bath, flags in pale blue, navy, and brown stood like hand towels, while inside the baths, the lively commotion—mingled with women’s voices—made one think it was a festival.
The water sloshed thickly.
Beneath the eaves lined with cheap sweets shops, sweet sake stalls, syrupy baths, and fruit parlor night stalls, when customers gathered, bathhouse women came calling.
In the sweet sake sipped by a bearded man, no song’s soul could be seen, but the persimmon peel pared by a white hand transformed into dyed threads resembling bamboo crabs.

Enveloped in rising steam, even the cotton-padded garments took on the hue of yukata. A flurry of comings and goings ensued. Two or three catering lanterns glowed—red ones signaling oden, white ones soba. When the crowd burst from the side alley and trailed beneath the eaves of an inn with its gate half-closed, a hush momentarily settled. Yet liveliness returned with theatergoers coming back from Ten Nights festival performances. Wives, daughters, and young men spilled out in a straggling procession from an earthen-walled backstreet lane. Then a group of forty or fifty in white attire—returning from an Army Hospital charity event—passed through like frost’s emissaries, making even the illusory spring warmth that had briefly softened the chilly night grow all the more desolate.

The moonlit crow flew low, gliding from willow to willow as though diving through water.

“Ugh—so annoying… Disgusting—Big Brother…”

After the theatergoers had dispersed, beneath the recessed eaves along an earthen wall—at a gateway where a sliding door stood slightly ajar—a shadow-like woman lingered, her sleeves pale blue in the moonlight, obi black, sleeves drawn together in an expectant pose, shoulders hunched against the cold, as though calling out to customers or beckoning them in.
Then, from the back alley, he emerged nonchalantly and sidled up from the side to seize her shoulder.
Peering intently at the man’s face beneath the crushed hat—she said.

“You’ve got the wrong house. Best be off to Koharu’s place now,” she said, spinning round to face the latticework.

The paper merchant wordlessly drew back and pressed himself—hat still clinging to his head—against the neighboring house’s pillar beneath the eaves, arm shielding his eyes as though warding off a blow.

What sort of mimicry this was—several similarly dressed young men, haori pulled over their heads from the start, moved along the ditch, two or three of them sneaking about suspiciously.

It was at this moment.

The night was already late—past eleven o’clock, perhaps the Hour of the Rat.
――With willows standing sentinel at its heart, gates chained and doors shut tight, roof and eaves resting upon the mist like a great ship cloaked in thatch—silent but for an owl performing on a wooden kabuki stage—the kitchen door of Ōmiya Inn clattered thrice, slid open with ease, and revealed the front desk as the kitchen lit up――there emerged a black overcoat.

Following behind—her long underrobe slipping smoothly beneath a haori worn like an obi sash—the disheveled figure in nightclothes carried the fragrance of post-bath cosmetics that pulsed in the moonlight before suddenly dissolving into mist.

...As she saw him off—reaching to tap his shoulder while leaning forward—she carelessly stepped over the freshly prepared mullets and flounders arching on the earthen floor, her pale shins betraying alarm even as her lips formed a faint smile.

"You damn bastard!"

It was obvious.
But when she—having narrowed her eyes intently to watch the overcoat depart—was noticed by that man turning back for a cheek caress, she shook her Shimada chignon along with stray hairs and turned away; yet weakening, drew her face close.

What would Jihei do upon seeing this?
The blood burned like fire, its scales bristling and jutting out sharply.

Instantly, Koharu’s figure vanished.

Bearing the great door behind him like a golden frame, the black overcoat—lavish in its extravagance—strolled nonchalantly past the red chambers, gazing leisurely at willows, peering into ponds, and looking up at the fire watchtower while savoring the drifting fragrance without restraint as he soberly admired the moonlit scenery. Wherever he went, cherry blossoms bloomed out of season and citrus fruits ripened.…… Sauntering past other inns’ gardens and hedges, he eventually approached the communal bathhouse and arrived before a 24-hour udon stall that was just opening shop, setting a pot atop its cart.

Granny of Otter Bridge—as the locals called her—had opened her stall… It was already past twelve o'clock.

A dog-sized lizard, burning with shura-like wrath, attacked like a gust of smoke.

“You wretch!”

No sooner had he groaned than Jihei the Monk, from behind the overcoat, thrust the knife’s hilt sharply and stabbed with a sickening force.

“Ugh…” she groaned—then collapsed with a thud.

Granny of Otter Bridge poked her face out from her still unlit stall and grinned.
She must have thought it was a charade.

“Northern Provinces’ Finest—!”

As she cried out loudly—the sleeves of that overcoat billowing—the crimson hem fluttered wildly.

Nine

“Koharu, please have that adorable young geisha and the blind old man come here.”
“Then you’ll act as host—all of you should bathe together, enjoy a feast, comfort each other and be comforted.”

“Has Jihei the Monk ever met your parents or younger brother?”
“If not—all the better.”
“If we explain things to those people—being in similar circumstances themselves—they’ll understand well enough. Present the old man as your father and the child as your brother, as if they’ve come here unexpectedly. Then we can turn Jihei’s attention their way.”
“Depending on how things go, we might officially summon Jihei here for a meeting.”
“That blind man, that pitiful child—even a demon’s horns would soften at the sight of them.”
“There’s likely nothing to worry about—though we can’t say mistakes are impossible.”
“To prevent future troubles, nothing works better than making Jihei’s spirit wilt and calming his mind.”

I will rise at once and go into the mountains.

Though contrived—I did consider moving to a separate room—but having resolved against it, you shall remain here with the old man and his family.
Even were I to forbid their concern—though human nature scarce permits such detachment—dust yet swirls before my eyes.
Should they refrain from interference still—my concentration would fray regardless.

“Cry if you must, laugh if you will—but so long as neither wounds your heart, enjoy yourself thoroughly.”――
When he called that gloomy maid, she—calm and composed as ever—understood and took it in well.
Understanding this intention, the inn’s kind-hearted proprietor came once more to offer his respects, and amidst the crowd seeing them off, it was in fact around eight o’clock that very night when the professor departed from Ōmiya Inn.
Of course, Koharu offered to see him off, but he stopped her—reasoning that even now, with Jihei the Monk still unstable—and since there were onlookers, when passing by the stonecutter’s workshop, the intended shed, he shook his sleeve free……

O-Hikari, carrying a medium-sized bag, walked with long strides—shoulders squared—and came straight to the tram’s departure point to see him off.

The road was close, and the departure point was just ahead.

“Master, you said that even if a girl gets bitten by fleas, she’s pitiable—is that really true?”

In the crowded station plaza—suddenly accosted by that loud voice—the professor hesitated considerably before silently nodding twice.

“Master! I’m beggin’ you—just gimme one thing off your person! A snot rag’ll do! A hankie! Anythin’!”

The professor smoothly took off the overcoat.
He draped the just-removed overcoat onto O-Hikari’s shoulders exactly as it was.

Under this weight—as if pressed down with a thud—she set the bag down and briskly exited the station.
He had thought it half in jest—surely she wouldn’t walk off still carrying it like that—but upon exiting the station, he saw her on the narrow straight path, merely resting a hand on the sleeve of the long overcoat he had draped over her, its hem trailing limply along the ground just as he had placed it. To his wonder, she trudged dejectedly homeward in that state—and he clasped his hands together, moved to tears despite himself.

The tram departed.

—O-Hikari, when night had deepened, put this on and delightedly went outside.
…first headed to the upper room,

“Northern Provinces’ Finest.”

She showed it off to Koharu, the Young Geisha, the Blind Old Man, and the children—who still lay awake on a thick habutae-silk futon with four pillows, heads aligned together, exchanging whispered confidences about life’s sorrows like lovers sharing pillow talk.
But as she left—Koharu having just draped her haori over her shoulders—O-Hikari led her by the hand all the way to the kitchen. Ah! What crowned O-Hikari’s head at that moment was none other than a child’s hunting cap—!

The rumor that a bathhouse woman clad in a black overcoat had been murdered—stabbed—before the public bath raced by tram alongside passengers, instantly reaching Yamanaka, Katayamazu, Awazu, and Daishōji.

When the professor, already asleep at the Yamanaka Hot Springs inn, heard the shrill voices in the corridor, he threw off his white nightshirt and rose.

He called for a car from his bed, returned to Yamashiro, and transferred to the hospital… When he stood on the floor of O-Hikari’s hospital room, his chest tight,

“Master… Miss Hikari became your substitute.”
“…I was too late.”

Having said that, Koharu clung tearfully and bashfully.

“Miss Hikari—it’s me, Sakaki. Do you recognize me?”

“Master? Master?”

In an abrupt high-pitched tone—like delirious rambling—she began,

“Welcome… To think such a thing… They said my face and body were like a mountain monkey pressed with hot irons, but everyone only ever praised my hair.”
“No more.”
“Koharu.”
“You’re all greasy and pitiful, but cut this off and give it to the Master.”

Both physicians in attendance blinked their eyes and, while bowing to the professor, nodded.
It was said that her death was now imminent.

“I have received it. —I got it!”

“Master, I want to see your face… but I can’t anymore.”

“Here, here—cling to this.”

Drawn by some inexplicable bond of fate, the young geisha Kotomi and her brother—the adorably named Kojirou—followed along, even their cane seeming bewildered as they came. The blind old man, who had been weeping, fumblingly tried to make O-Hikari’s hand grasp the bamboo staff.

“Take hold! Cling on!
“I can see the merciful buddha!”

“Even with these eyes that can no longer see... I wonder if I’ll get to see Buddha when I die.”

“Oh, you’ll see Him alright, you know.”
“Praise be to Amida Buddha!”
“Praise be to Venerable Shinran! Praise be to Venerable Rennyo! Look here—they’re all lined up shining bright, like lotus flowers blooming on this staff, I tell ya.”
“Come now, behold them! Offer your prayers to them!”
“Praise, praise, praise, praise, praise.”

“I don’t wanna see any of that.”

With that, she knocked the cane away with a swift motion.

“Even if I die, I’ll stay by your side and look upon your face, Master.”

“What a waste.”

Muttering this under his breath, the blind old man stretched his neck like a black specter, clung to his cane to rise up, and fixed his sightless eyes in a squinting upward gaze—but

“Nah, that’s reasonable.”
“I’d rather see my daughter’s face than Amida Buddha or the Venerable Founder!”

Having said that, he flung the cane he held with a snap.
His bearing appeared just like that of a great priest presiding over a mountain temple, or a saint in solitary devotion.

Taisho 12 (1923), January