Pathway to Japanese Literature

“Well, it’s been a while!”

At the journalist’s exclamation—delivered with such force—the driver abruptly brought the automobile to a halt.
...the truth was that his tone—having abruptly cut off the conversation of the Shuzenji inn owner seated beside him—had risen to an awkwardly high pitch.
“No, don’t mind me… please proceed.”
When the journalist spoke somewhat bashfully to the driver, who had turned around, the automobile lurched forward with a slight creak.

Heading toward Numazu, they raced past the belated spring scenery of coastal inlets—the locals called Mitsu-no-ura “Mitto”—now passing so close to the water’s edge that waves nearly grazed their path. However, this was a detour.

Having secured a brief respite, he visited Shuzenji—the journalist, caught in late spring rains for some three days, found even the inn’s comings and goings reduced to paper umbrellas; frustrated by this unintended confinement, he now took his scheduled return journey along the coast—just as the skies cleared.
——“From this Shuzenji through Kuchinohama, Tabi-no-ura, Eno-ura, Shishihama, and Magomezaki—viewing Mount Fuji as you follow Suruga Bay toward Senbon Matsubara—why, if you come by automobile, not even the wealthiest person... Ah, you there! Such luxury would beggar even them, I assure you.” The journalist—who had just given a small tip—found himself not a little intimidated when the inn owner delivered this speech while knocking his knee.
But having committed to the journey, he grew rather cocky about the automobile—the inn owner had business in Numazu.
——And so they set out in the same automobile.

Passing through Ōni Town, Sanpuku, Tadenomiya, Moriki, Sōkōji Nawate, and Nanjō—the mention of Nanjō brought up talk of Hōjō.
...they would pass through Yokkaichi Town, then cross Koshiro’s Ema and Nagatsuka to reach Kuchino—the coastline—as the usual route....

Though deutzia blossoms remained premature, patches of Chinese milk vetch across Yamada Oda’s fields mingled with lingering rapeseed flowers and clusters along roadside trees—all while the Kano River flowed blue like patterned damask.
A skylark trilled high above the rocky hill as dandelion fluff scattered in the tires’ wake.
Yokkaichi Town carried a fresh atmosphere.
Clear streams ran along both sides of the road. Behind houses, in sunlit spaces between fences, young wisteria bloomed gently like drooping cotton ties, while beneath trees shading rooftops, kerria smiled faintly at the water’s surface... as though every household had conspired to create this scene.

When the journalist was carelessly gazing about, the inn owner drew up one knee and leaned forward. “Tatsusuke—there’s supposed to be roadwork ahead. Will the way be clear?”
“Hmm...”
“Don’t just ‘Hmm’ me! If that’s your answer, the automobile won’t get through.”
“Though it’s been about half a month since then,” said the driver, peering ahead at the single path leading toward the mountain’s base as he leaned back slightly.
“Even if it’s been half a month, that doesn’t mean things are settled yet."
“No—I’d been meaning to be more careful about the road ahead ever since leaving Shuzenji, but I got carried away talking with our honored guest here.—”
“Can’t we take the coastal route?”
“No, if we return to Nanjō and head out to Mitsu, there should be no issue—though I’ve made an oversight here.
“…Tatsusuke, you’d better go ask someone once.”
“Yes, we shall do so.”
“You’ve become terribly polite now,” said the inn owner, wrinkling his face into a wry smile as he adjusted his tea-colored fedora.
“The sooner you go ask, the better—”
However, apart from the kerria and wisteria, in the midday quiet of the village path, there was no shadow of birds peeking at them.
Instead, at the edge of town where the road branched left onto the national highway, a young man in a happi coat—resting before a small corner shop with what appeared to be a sundries cart—called out from beneath the eaves’ wisteria as they approached.
“Where are you headed, Tatsusuke? …The construction at Nagatsuka is a commotion like building a castle.”
“Still can’t get through? Hmm…”
The shopkeeper’s wife also stood up and came out.
“They say it’ll take until mid-next month.”

“Ah, thank you.”
“Well, let’s turn back.”
“For a business operating in a hot spring resort—one entrusted with guests’ transportation—to remain ignorant of road conditions is most unconscionable.”... With a touch of theatricality in his voice, the journalist bought cigarettes at that shop.

They turned back to Nanjō, kicking up sand, and crossed the Kano River.
Kona, Nagaoka—on the mountain path beyond Nagaoka, late-blooming peony cherry blossoms flowered in pale purple.
They passed through Nagase and emerged at Mitsu-no-hama.

Fuji floated.
…There was a well-known story—someone once asked whether Sado Island had railings encircling its entire perimeter…and got scolded by the islanders for it.
Yet the stone railing constructed between the jagged path at the mountain’s base—carved through steep cliffs resembling a turban shell’s spikes—and the water’s edge amounted to little more than a low balustrade rather than a proper embankment.

“The stone balustrade spanning your garden stream—lower than a bridge corridor’s railing—…is right where the waves sweep up to Fuji’s foothills.”
“It doesn’t get battered much by the wind, does it?”

“It’s perfectly safe, I assure you.”
“To the rear lies Nagahama; that over there is Benten Island.”
“The automobile’s rear view isn’t very clear—there’s a solitary mountain floating yonder, see?”
“That’s Awashima.”
“Encircled by those islands and Washizu Mountain above, this coastline—once you reach Koai, Jūji, Kuchino and beyond—has Suruga Bay’s turbulent waters digging ever deeper into the mountain roots before you. You’ll find little fear of storms here—instead, every remote corner of these foothills becomes wilderness… In days past, only woodcutters occasionally passed through from the villages—places so isolated they might as well have been devoid of human traces. Glance at any map and you’ll see those symbols for perilous terrain and wretched roads—like crackling senko hanabi sparks—dancing about the mountains overhead… In my youth, skipping school to boat across to Awashima and eat lunch by that summit torii was child’s play. But this stretch from Mitsu through Jūji to Kuchino? Why, even in full marching gear it’d make for a hard-won adventure.—From offshore when you survey these inlets, Benten Island trails like the tail of a great dragon spanning two or three ri—white waves for scales, blue crags for hide—with Washizu Mountain as its crown. They say around Tabi’s deeply indented areas, it appears as though the dragon spreads its arms—claws grasping a jewel.”
“It truly does look just so.”

“So we’re riding it! And now that we’re riding it… my feet feel rather ticklish somehow.”

The journalist shifted his position in the seat.

“No, I’m absolutely not trying to startle you with that.”
“So then, if you gaze upon this rocky mountain from Benten Island’s edge or… well, Awashima’s peak—it’s like something from books showing fairylands and demon realms… In such a moment, if a woman with long sleeves were perched on this cliff, you’d think she’d materialized from the Dragon Palace to do her shopping.”
“The route to Shishihama and E-no-ura had been connected long ago, but from Kuchino onward…”

The automobile was already winding its way through stone railings that jutted out into the sea here and there, bending at multiple turns.

“The road connecting Mitsu to Nagaoka was completed only in recent years—though even that must have been twelve or thirteen years ago now.”
“—I have a curious tale to tell.”

The inn owner took two quick puff-puffs of his rolled tobacco, inhaling deeply,

“…This stone causeway was first constructed… On what you might call its opening day, this village’s headman—still alive today—came out to welcome guests at the village entrance with a large crowd.”
“The governor’s entourage was the first to arrive in… You—that carriage—”

With the automobile’s horn blaring repeatedly,

“Imagine the carriage appearing directly ahead, filling your entire view of this causeway.”
“The village headman—that old man—suddenly let out a strange cry like a child of seven or eight: ‘Goodness, look! Rats are pulling the carriage!’—utterly like something out of a tale, I tell you.”

“Hey, wait a minute!”

It was at this moment that the journalist involuntarily called out—

Leaning in with both shoulders and chest,

“Seeing a carriage approaching from afar along the mountain foothills at the water’s edge—rats were pulling the carriage—indeed, but is that fact true?”

The journalist’s unexplained eagerness was casually dismissed by the inn owner.

“Ha ha ha, just a tall tale,” he said.
“…But fact or fiction—this humble one attended the neighboring county’s association…badges and all as witness.”
“I was there myself and saw how that old headman panicked.”
“Yet there’s nothing strange about it.”
“On such treacherous paths as I described—why, even a palanquin would struggle—and that village headman nearing seventy had never once in his born days seen a horse enter our village, you understand.”

“Seeing horses as rats… It feels like there’s some old tale about that, which is odd—but ah, then by that logic, mightn’t it also be possible to see rats as horses?”

“Huh?”

“Rats might look like horses, but what do you think?”

“Well, as you say.”

The inn owner tilted his head slightly but,
“It’s just that story,…I’ve never given it much thought, but now that you mention it, there might be some resemblance—though only with the black ones, mind you.”

“Master—if you’ll at least tentatively affirm that much, then there’s something I must tell you.”
“Currently, and in this very land, it is a fact that I have personally witnessed.”
“Since it seems too outlandish—I haven’t actually told anyone about it yet.”
“There are those close by who have long patronized your establishment—Mr. Satomi, Mr. Nakategawa, and more recently, Mr. Akutagawa.”
“In the art world, it would be Yokoyama and Mr. Yasuda, I suppose?”
“Although I am acquainted with them as well, I haven’t spoken to even those people, for instance.”
“Someone like Mr. Akutagawa is an excellent conversationalist and listener—though lean in build, he has a generous spirit—so he’d likely listen with apparent delight, but I imagine he’d only offer a pained smile, which is precisely why I’ve refrained from telling even him.—Master.”

“Hmm, well... And this matter you mentioned—”

“Well, it’s nothing so extraordinary.”
“Actually, last year around this same time... it was about seven or eight days later.”
“...As it turned out, I had received hospitality at your esteemed inn, and on my return journey, I took the train from Ōni.”
“On the twentieth of this month during that Daishikō event in Shuzenji—right in the middle of the stone steps leading to the temple across Kokei Bridge near your esteemed inn—given the massive number of pilgrims, they must have set up partitions to manage the flow up and down.”

“Indeed.”

“They spanned it with a single green bamboo pole—its height, its splendidness, the thickness of its circumference were beyond compare. There’s a saying that bean-sized tanuki dwell in bamboo shoot roots and hollow foxes carry things in bamboo tubes, but those are all lies—like fishing with a rush wick.”
“I had thought it impossible for anyone to enter or exit through such a thing, but given its thickness, even a puppy could slip through snugly.”
“…Is Shuzenji famous for its bamboo? Now that you mention it, there are some remarkably splendid ones growing vigorously here.”
“Along the roadside, you see bamboo shoots lined up brightly in rows—they seem abundant, yet there’s no sign of anyone harvesting them.”
“‘Wakatake ya’—the opening of a certain verse that even masseurs told me had astonished the poetry master—‘I truly thought this was a bamboo paradise.’”
“But you see, this was debunked by your bath attendant.”
“Well, they don’t dig up bamboo shoots because selling mature bamboo brings more money… I must admit, it left me somewhat disillusioned.”

The inn owner gave a wry smile.

“However—as for the kind used in Shuzenji, I’d never seen anything like it—or so someone from Takyō might say.”

“At the hot spring—through an acquaintance’s introduction—I encountered a man. Or rather, as I was telling him it was my first time seeing such a person—there he sat across from me: a leather handbag beside him, documents stacked atop a fukusa-wrapped bundle. He wore a Turkish-style fur hat, had an oval face tinged jujube-red, a white beard, and a black crest-patterned overgarment—the very picture of a refined tea ceremony master…”

The inn owner nodded while half-listening.

What the inn owner had mentioned there was Ukishima Zenji—also known as Tōen Koji—a retired landholder connecting Mishima and Numazu.
...Though wanting for nothing in life, he pursued various arts and cultivated refined tastes—particularly favoring the preaching of popular Buddhism akin to the Shingaku school—reputed to be an erudite figure who instructed communities across neighboring provinces.
The inn owner also noted that privately, people called him Ukishima Jii-san—a nickname derived from reading “Ukishima” as “Kanade.”

“That venerable layman—or rather—he addressed me with a knowing smile… ‘How extraordinary! You see, there exists a village called Chino—three ri into the mountains toward Usami—a valley celebrated for its bamboo groves. Their devotional group takes such pride that each year they bear offerings while chanting *Namu Daishi Henjō Kongō*…’ he explained.”
“…Then through our growing acquaintance, it came to pass that he spoke of Fuji’s white snow melting beneath morning sunbeams—melting and flowing down to Mishima… or so the tale goes.”

The automobile sounded its horn.

The inn owner deliberately deepened his frown at the base of his eyebrows and turned his face as if bending with his nose.

“Hmm...”

“Well, it certainly melted and flowed down—but there’s no way such a fishy tale about it being cosmetic water for Mishima’s courtesans could have arisen from the start.”
“It might have been known through that venerable gentleman.”
“It’s been a long-standing ascetic practice.”

Now then—what would the bamboo shoots of such magnificent bamboo be like?
From talk of how tasting them would be a rare delicacy across ages came discussion of the udo from Shuzenji’s inner sanctuary mountains—its characters resembling those for “vajra,” thus called “dokko udo” for its similar shape; a delicacy of immortals. In autumn, wild yams—all of these made today’s rejuvenation methods seem utterly vulgar and incomparable.
To put it simply: blanched peony petals and peonies dressed in vinegared miso.
He found my awestruck panting amusing—for while we spoke of blanched peony petals, there was no need for such dreary plucking of blossoms one by one; collecting fallen flowers from ikebana arrangements would suffice perfectly well.
However, speaking of extravagance—there truly existed what was called “orchid rice,” rice cooked with orchid blossoms—the Hōsui of Zen practitioners. This could well be termed an elixir of immortality.
“Master—this much should be safe.”
“If I were to tell Mr. Akutagawa up to this point, he’d likely hollow his pale cheeks, rest his hand against his mouth…but the rest proves a bit troublesome.—”

“At that time, I had been thinking from the start—originally intending to go down to Mishima—that I wanted to see much further into that indescribably beautiful roadside stream I always only glimpsed from the train.”

“In other words—the cosmetic water.”

“Wait a moment. It’s absolutely not the end of that stream. There’s no doubt I wanted to see the white snow melted by the morning sun just as it was. When I mentioned getting off at Mishima, the Venerable layman insisted on accompanying me and offered to guide me around Mishima’s waters. I declined, but he insisted—‘Please, just this once’—and I found myself feeling quite obliged. In truth, it seems I needn’t have been so excessively deferential.”

“‘Venerable layman, good day to you,’ said what appeared to be local fellow passengers—an old woman, a young woman, and someone who seemed to be a merchant—all three of them. Though their luggage was small, they each helped carry it piece by piece, and indeed, they were quite reverent. However, it seems he was somewhat eager to get off at Mishima in front of these people. Under some pretext, I found myself made a companion in this refined excursion.”

“The tea shop in front of the station seemed familiar, so we left my luggage there together before setting out—and this route followed the old Tōkaidō highway, crossing what remained of Hakone’s checkpoint early on, descending from Usukorobashi Slope. As we looked ahead, lights flickered on both sides of Mishima beyond the bridge by the riverbed—then he pointed out a town at midday so quiet it resembled an old pasted-wall painting. From within the cold, damp interiors of houses lining the street came wafts of something—dull white powder and red oil—evoking memories of the past. ‘Or rather,’ he stated, ‘though one might call these traces of an inn district, such brazen displays of carnal trade along thoroughfares gravely corrupt public morals.’”

On the right-slanting second-floor corridor, there was a coquettish woman standing with a white hand resting on the railing. Her upper body was half-hidden by wooden planks arranged in a crosshatch pattern, but she had slightly raised herself so that her slim obi-waist became visible… Her glossy round chignon, tied with a pale blue-green hand-scarf, leaned out a little as if peering down at us passing through Mishima’s post town—*Ahem!*—the Venerable layman gave a loud cough.

When the woman nimbly turned her face away and looked down at the eaves, the cat from next door began moving along the roof. “It was rather hot, so the Venerable layman removed his Turkish-style hat and wiped his sweat with a neatly folded hand towel....”

The inn owner also adjusted the fit of his Homburg hat for some reason and chuckled under his breath.

“There’s no need for me to explain geography before you, Master—it was under repair. We visited the shrine, passed through the forest behind its rear gate, detoured briefly along a path through rice fields, proceeded past rows of storehouses and granaries, entered what might be called an old residential quarter, and then reached Enoki-no-miya Hachiman Shrine—‘These precincts,’ the Venerable layman said, ‘are practically the source itself, where melted white snow springs forth.’...Enoki trees, towering camphors, ancient oaks—the forest rose dark and dense, their roots coiling like veins across lapis lazuli plates and agate slabs, like rows of medicinal mortars. Even beneath the depths of boulders, under a single blue pebble, the water did not gush forth turbidly but welled up trickling-trickling-trickling-trickling, as if silver bells were dancing. Pardon my presumption, but I touched it with fingers purified at the water ablution pavilion. It’s cold—like ice. Each bubbling note welled up one by one, and I felt as though I were gathering jewels in my palm.”

“We turned back and immediately took a small bridge from Miyamae-dōri—where water also flowed—past nothing but a gate where no house structure remained. When we pushed through the latticed gate and entered, three or four nurserymen-like figures were digging and carrying soil.”

“It was said that a restaurant was rebuilding what had been sold as a villa.”

“It must be the remains of an artificial hill.”
The irises retained only their leaves, roots torn loose, while Kirishima azaleas flickered intermittently beneath swinging hoes.
“Oh Venerable Layman! Great Master!” The nurserymen bowed in unison.
“We’ll be but a momentary hindrance.”
Crossing the splintering plank bridge, we emerged onto a silvery stream’s bank—
less a river than a square-shaped lake.
“A first-rate spot with clear water.”
The Venerable Layman proclaimed this.
Cultivated fields stretched endlessly ahead, Otome Pass visible in the distance... This wild garden’s watery edge, behind Enoki Shrine where we’d just worshipped, lay shrouded in growth so dense it verged on darkness.
From that shadowed depth flowed water like translucent mist—eighteen meters wide—its current tracing delicate silver threads across the landscape.
“Were two plump waves to rise upon this surface, they’d instantly recall a beauty’s breasts.”
With Miyanomori’s forest as raven tresses where liquid veins pulsed like blood against alabaster décolletage—the robe’s hem cascading across foothills in snowfall’s perfect drapery.—

A single camellia—cold yet blazing—floated up smoothly,...the drifting algae—the waterweed too held beauty.
Six to nine meters long, the yellow-green fronds swayed in layered clusters—their lush growth clear to the streambed’s depths, translucent, with tender slender leaves clinging to round dewdrops mirrored in the water—while the scarlet mountain camellia passing by...drawn to the algae’s gentle undulations, drifted diagonally across the surface, settled smoothly upon the weed, and ripened.
...Even the shallows at this moment lay hushed like an abyssal pool.
Another came drifting.
This time, the prior camellia seemed to tilt slightly as if beckoning; settling upon the algae where it had lingered as the newcomer rippled away and parted.

Another bloom floated in.
"Somehow resembling celestial hairpins swimming through the Milky Way's currents—I became entranced, no, utterly dumbfounded."
"This embodies true refinement..." murmured the Venerable layman too, untying his drawstring tobacco pouch and drawing contented puffs through a silver pipe adorned with raised carvings of grapes and squirrels.

Before our eyes—the water bifurcated into sharp prongs from the far bank, fanning out like a garment's hem constricted by wind to half-width, slender aqueous limbs rising—when abruptly a jet-black plane surfaced.
"Ah! Into this realm of ethereal grace—a savage trespasser!"
Observing closely—a slimy elongated surface roughly one foot wide swung laterally, hiss-hissing through parted waters as it sliced directly toward us.
Before we could resolve whether it was loach/carp/crucian/catfish—both rising abruptly, eyes meeting—the vision burned into our retinas with undeniable vividness, permitting no deliberation.

“—It’s a horse…”

“It’s a horse…!” cried the Venerable layman in a thick, frightened voice.
I too recoiled in shock.

“No—it sounds like a tall tale, but whether you imagine a horse from distant Lake Ashi swimming here or see phantoms straight from ancient war chronicles—the truth remains we thought it a horse in that instant, as if dreaming.”

“Hey! It’s escaping over there… Swimming! Damn thing—damn!”
The scamps—four or five of them—scattered along both edges of the field and took positions on the far bank.

“It’s a rat… a rat, damn thing—”

It was the first time the Venerable layman had spoken.
Splash-splash—the water splashed up like icicles as the children hurled stones in rapid succession.
In this commotion, about three nurserymen came rushing over and stood watching, barely containing their amazement as it swam and swam and swam...

It was a magnificent display.
It swam with remarkable skill.
Yet it could not quite pass beyond midstream.
When pebbles fell before it, it swiftly retreated.
When leaping sideways, it nimbly dodged.
As it crossed while evading, there came pauses.
At first only its head floated above water, but when seen leaping to avoid pebbles and surfacing fully, it revealed itself as a terrifying mottled giant rat.
"Damn thing—in my youth I could handle a shuriken single-handed—" grinned the Venerable layman as he picked up a stone and took aim.
The stones from the children fell just beyond effective range as it closed in from all directions—there the Venerable layman struck thrice in succession.
Twice it sank until its form vanished beneath the surface, twice swelled back up calmly to slice through water again—but on the third strike, he hit!
By that third strike, it sank once and for all—vanishing completely…

The water flowed clear, but when a breeze arose and rustled through—surely it couldn’t have dived beneath to escape—the mountain camellias that lay piled in the pitch-dark beneath Miyanomori’s forest rustled and swayed, one after another scattering, falling, and floating up.
……The large camellia tree within the forest now parted its shadows as though aflame, peering at its companions.—This too became a spectacle—as we watched, countless camellia blossoms wove themselves into lines and flowed away.
……About one chō downstream stood the first waterwheel.
At four or five ken ahead appeared another waterwheel, then a third, fourth, and fifth in succession.
At the stream’s bend, the sixth peered out in a half-moon shape.—As we observed, a single red camellia caught on the first waterwheel’s teeth—then three or four more followed, swiftly spinning until seven or ten… In an instant, they spiraled into crimson layers. Immediately, the same entanglement repeated at each subsequent wheel—all carried by the flowing current, leaving no time to ponder speed.
It looked as though crimson snowflakes were settling uniformly, each one swaying and glinting in the water like dissolved crystal as they danced.
Dazzled by the sight, I kept thinking, *Ah, how beautiful!*—when suddenly, as though droplets had been cast to stir a crimson mist along the stream, pillars of water rose in unison by the riverbank houses—higher than their eaves—blazing upward like fiery crests.

The Venerable layman stomped his feet two or three times with a clatter, shook his chest, and—“A fire!… The inn!… Otani-san’s place—forgive me!”—scampered out in hiyori geta sandals. As he tried to dash through the gate, he turned back—“Ah, everyone, come along!”—this was no ordinary matter.
The nurserymen too were summoned, and every last one of them came clattering out.

I stood dumbfounded, feeling as though I alone had been left behind on a remote island. “On such an island, I thought that strange giant rat might dwell as well—and somehow steeling myself, I looked around.”

“Haa...”

“It was no more than three ken away.”
At Miyanomori—in what seemed like a boundary area—there lay a sunken pool where water collected. A decayed railing and part of a pond bridge had collapsed into it, barely visible above the stream’s surface as fallen camellias accumulated atop them.
“Hollow and utterly alone—when I saw it then—the flowers squirmed and stirred before revealing a pitch-black surface—a sharp-faced horse.”

“Ah.”

“It’s the rat.
The giant rat plunged noisily through the water, like a catfish crowned with a Greek pointed helmet—looming upright as it glared sharply in this direction with yellow eyes.”

“……”

A clang resounded, and everything turned pitch-black.
They were passing through the tunnel.

“Damn it—!” I blurted out involuntarily.
“I shouted ‘Damn it!’ but it fled in a frenzy.”
Around the waterwheel, there was nothing—only the stream echoed clearly through the stillness.
But―Otani-san―she must have realized by now.
The representative of Mishima post town, leaning against the railing and peering down at the Tōkaidō.
“…she says she detests rats so much that even seeing their very image would make her pores stand on end.”

There, the Venerable layman had his sideburns dyed like a knight's—this being how it came to pass.
Before that two-story inn stood a great crowd... Both the second-floor shutters with their railings and the large eaves doors were shut tight.
Hearing the fragmented chatter, I learned that Otani-san—still in her morning makeup and clutching her toiletries—had just set foot on the gate's small bridge to visit the baths when she cried, "A red rat!"
With an "Ah!" she swallowed her voice and retreated inside, then clattered up the stairs with thunderous footsteps, dashing about the second floor wailing "Oh no! Oh no!" before emerging at the railing.
It appeared the crimson rodent had pursued her even there.
With a piercing "Kyaa!", the woman screamed and leapt into empty air.

“Knocked down Kume the Sage—and that paleness of hers!” the young fireman-looking fellow said something outrageous.
Just then, the Venerable layman came charging through as if clawing at smoke-filled air with both hands while shouting “Fire!—Ah, Otani! The flames’re licking the eaves! What’re you doing?!”—he bolted upstairs with drumbeat intensity to the second floor and collapsed on the veranda... It was then the maids finally helped carry her in, they say.
“With this ruckus, keeping doors shut couldn’t be helped.”

“I was astonished, truly astonished… To call it Mishima’s number one rat while it’s actually the Tōkaidō’s number one—what a tenacious creature.”

The automobile entered tunnel after tunnel.

“We’ve crossed the border,” said the inn owner.

“Now—though this follows our earlier conversation—having heard that account, I find I can no longer remain silent.”
“...Well now, precisely last year around that same time.”
“There was an object drifting into Eno-ura Kuchino’s inlet—quite the commotion it caused for a while.”
“The coastal folk retrieved it.”
“That—most perplexing—was the large green bamboo segment over three feet long mentioned in the tale.”

“In such remote places—if it isn’t a Genji clan’s field, then it must be where Heike refugees hide—we always hear strange things.”
“This road wasn’t opened until quite recently… Wait—this entire inlet is a sardine fishery. From mid-October onward, they haul what’s called bag nets. When the catch is large—no exaggeration—they dry sardines across three or four *ri* of coastline, stretching all the way to Shizuura town, covering every inch of the beach.”
“There were no furrows or fields left—they packed sardines from under the eaves to the hearths in dirt-floored rooms, and sometimes even spread them across this stone fence.”
“But even during what they called a bountiful catch, at that time, an enormous number of sardines were hauled in again.”
“In Shishihama Village, a father and son named Ryosuke and Jikichi changed tack and went offshore for squid fishing.”
“It was a dark night.”
“—But they didn’t catch a single one.”
“They finally resolved to row back past the hour of the Rat—and nearing the inlet, you see… when they came this side of Red Island, the moon instead cast a dim, hazy light.”
“With a splish-splash and a splatter, a black thing thrashed and swam entangled by the gunwale.”

“Rat.”

“No—wait, it was a human.”
“The father and son apparently exchanged glances, but when they pulled him up, it was a soaking-wet monk. Even when questioned about the details, he said nothing.”
“With his slender hand dripping with droplets, he simply pointed toward land and said, ‘Lift me up,’ you see.”

“How repulsive.”

“Since they helped haul him up, there was no arguing with that.”
“The beach—well, at that time was so thick with sardines you could walk right across them… Then the monk says, ‘Shall I eat all these?’”
“It’s one thing to ask if a monk would eat sardines given his vows, but the way he said it reeked of arrogance.”
“...These fishermen were hot-blooded—of course they took offense,” said the younger one. Then he barked, “I’ll eat as much as any man!” grabbed two fistfuls, and shoved them into his mouth.
“As he kept stuffing his cheeks—grabbing and devouring handful after handful—he gradually stretched his neck squirming along the ground until he was sucking up entire mounds of sardines. Five *koku*, ten *koku* vanished in moments. A light rain tapped on seashells along the shore while a dim moon glimmered on the sand.”
“‘Still more?’ The monk sat up, his belly swollen slack like a sack, glowing blue like sardines as he spat a fishy breath from his mouth.”
“The sheer audacity made both father and son faint.”
“They call him the Anglerfish Monk… Even now, eerie whispers ride the coastal winds—though none know what manner of creature he truly was.”

At this point in the tale—
“However, last year—this time’s flotsam was not such a repulsive thing, so…”
“…Inside the green bamboo lay a female statue of incomparable beauty.”
“Now, some likened her to a celestial maiden; others claimed she resembled Funadama-sama—the ship guardian goddess—while still others described her as a Chinese noblewoman bedecked with shimmering hairpins and jade earrings. Yet none who saw what should have been plainly visible ever truly grasped her form—not that this humble one need elaborate.”
“What we call flotsam has always carried countless mysterious legends.”
“That was when the wonder manifested itself before their very eyes.”
“First, it was not merely a bamboo tube.”
“To say it lay sealed within another layer—a cement barrel—would be understatement. More extravagant tales claim a small oar accompanied it aboard some box-like craft, or so they say.”

“In any case, the beautiful statue alone was an undeniable fact.”
“In the secular world, such things shouldn’t be handled recklessly—a most sensible judgment.”
“We coastal folk immediately decided to entrust it to a nearby mountain temple.”
“Yet before three days had passed, the temple returned it to its caretakers.”
“From the very night they took it in came an unprecedented rat rampage—disturbances even in broad daylight!”
“...Quite a predicament—though this too follows your story—they all target the statue. Not enough hands to guard it properly.”
“Even that mountain temple priest—the one who could make cats meow by poking paper bags—found himself vexed by rats.”
“Afterwards, we asked nearby temples twice more—sent back every time.”
“Same rat troubles there too.”
“...But as I mentioned earlier—even at that first temple—the rats went straight for her feet.”
“...Like gnawing morning glory vines.”
“...Strange how everyone still describes it that way.”
“Targeting feet like morning glories.”
“Whether her pale toenails or hems shimmering lapis-blue and crimson—that part stays unclear.”
“They say the Venerable layman’s peony greens make rats crave morning glory sashimi!”
“Ah—getting ahead of myself—but from the start... you see... she’s barefoot.”
“Bare feet looking painfully raw—so pitiable... Sacred objects differ... Most Buddha statues go unshod without remark! Yet hers aren’t merely bare—truly exposed... Like some exiled noble’s wandering plight... utterly pitiable.”
“That rats ravage there suggests symbolic meaning seeping into people’s hearts.”
“So we coastal folk conferred—searched thoroughly near where she washed ashore for fitting places.”
“Easier spotted by boat than land.”

“Amidst tree roots and jagged rock edges on this rocky mountain’s sheer cliff stood a cave chamber fit for enshrinement,” he narrated. “The stonemasons went in, chiseled it smooth, then sealed it tight with a stone door—best defense against those crafty rats when they enshrined it.”
“Since they’d fished it from the sea on a Snake Day, they called it Mi-no-Hi-sama.”
“But seeing as that fell on Benzaiten’s sacred festival too, folks soon took to saying ‘Mi-no-Toki-sama’—‘Lady of the Snake Hour,’ as they now call her.”
“Morning till night I hear tell of it, yet this humble one hasn’t paid respects.”
“Reaching Numazu or Mishima means a mighty detour through here.”
“Whenever I might go, business keeps me rushing…”

“Given your schedule today—if this humble one might also pay respects while guiding you…”

“That’s exactly what I was hoping for.”

At that moment, the driver—whom the inn owner seemed about to call out to—abruptly brought the automobile to a halt on Tatsusuke’s side.

“What happened?”

It was yet another tunnel mouth—cold and gusting sharply.

“Yes—an automobile heading for that exit.”

“Oh, I see… Yes, you mustn’t move it recklessly—that’s dangerous.”

“It seems they passed us over there.”

As they roared through the tunnel in one breath and emerged gasping, the other vehicle slipped past them into the entrance.

“Look out, damn it!”

At the same moment he shouted, Tatsusuke applied the brakes.
From the clear water trickling down the rocky surface, we broke into a cold sweat.
The passing automobile, looming over us as if to engulf our vehicle, vanished into the pitch-black darkness of the tunnel.

The inn owner laughed strangely, forlornly,

“Somehow, there seemed to be a sharp-mouthed, black-colored fellow riding along.”

“It looked as though pricked-up ears were reflected into the tunnel.”

said the journalist.

“Tatsusuke.”

The inn owner called out to the driver, who was about to depart,

“Mi-no-Toki-san—that shrine where they enshrined the female statue’s visiting deity, wasn’t it further ahead?”

“Master, we’ve passed through.”

“Oh now, that’s odd... I thought this would bring us out to Shishihama.”

“No—it’s a cliffside area set deep within Tobi.”

“Ah! This must be that crucial spot where the dragon’s claw grips the jewel.”
“...Quite so.”

“Let’s turn back.”

“The automobile will turn around.”

Along the way, the automobile—diminishing into the distance along the coast—appeared like a scurrying rat before disappearing behind the cape.

Mountain wisteria tinged purple, camellias embracing the towering ultramarine rock where a pure white stone door—still new—stood firmly chained, with several pairs of scarlet camellias, not fallen but tenderly placed, enshrined before it. Though one could reach the flowers, their low position meant that without a ladder or proper platform, the door remained untouchable. Tatsusuke stood tall, planted his feet on the rock’s base, and stretched upward. But he let out a piercing cry, arched backward in a leap, and thrashed his limbs like a startled frog.

In the shadow of another offered bundle of leaves, a large black rat had pricked up its ears and sharpened its snout.

Hateful beast!

To strike the stone was equivalent to knocking on that door.
All the more so as there was a risk of inflicting damage.

“Unleash every ounce of noise this automobile can produce at its highest degree.”

said the journalist.

The driver leaped into action.
When a tremendous roar erupted, even the grass seemed startled into wild commotion.
In an instant, leaping from the road, the rat flew into the sea, headed toward Akashima, and rode the azure waves.

――A horse――A horse――A horse――

A shout rang out in the distance; its echo reverberated. The small boat’s bow pitched, and a fisherman raised his hand.

As for how it swam—that we shall leave to the reader’s imagination.

Having entreated a future audience with Her Ladyship of Mi-no-Toki, the two bowed profoundly.

As it was, toward Numazu, the automobile raced along the back of a white-scaled blue serpent.

Taishō 15 (1926), October