Pathway to Japanese Literature

“Ha! Ha! Haaah!...”

It may sound like a vaudeville theater barker’s call, but one should consider this a chant with the vigor of “Come on, come on, let’s go!”

“Haaah!”
“Eight kan—hmm, eight kan, eight kan, eight and ten... nine kan? Nine and ten... Ten kan!”

Holding a damp-hued sea bream about eight sun long beneath his eyes—its tail swaying in the air alongside the knot of his forehead headband—the auctioneer gripped the fish diagonally against his hairy chest. Bare-chested beneath a blind-striped hanten work coat with its straight sleeves pulled back, he gradually lowered the fish’s head from his lower abdomen to his kneecap while chanting to amplify its perceived bulk,

“Ha! Ha!”

Pivoting at the waist and arching his chest, he lowered it again from tail to head with a creaking strain.
This was his method for driving up the price.

“Ha! Ten kan and ten... Ten kan two hundred, three hundred, three hundred and...”

The old man’s face flushed vermilion, his snout like an octopus’s, while the fish’s fins glowed a yellowish-green.

“It must take real strength—gripping the tail and lowering the head bit by bit to auction it off like that. It does require stamina, but watching it feels downright gloomy.”

The man in the black coat murmured this to his companion—her spirited, graceful round chignon bobbing—in a low voice.

“Right.”
“But when handling large sea bream, isn’t that how they do it everywhere?...”

The man who had been peering from behind the crowd started walking along with them,

“To tell the truth, I’m rather ashamed to admit I don’t even know much about Tokyo’s fish markets—though it might seem abrupt to mention here, there’s Matsue in Izumo...”
“Wait—wasn’t it the opposite of what we’re seeing now? The method I witnessed at the market near the inns in Chamachi...”

He lifted his coat sleeve with one hand,

“When driving bids up to ten kan and a hundred there, they’d hold the tail down and raise the head higher and higher... The atmosphere was so lively—you’d watch the price settle itself until someone shouted ‘Yō!’ Then they’d hoist that sea bream overhead and fling it over people’s heads with a flourish—and someone at the back would catch it right away, yelling ‘Yō!’ as they did.”
“...Such vigor!”
“And yet their waist ink cases were just like here—but how they’d tuck those wide navy aprons like porters wear into their belts, how they draped those fresh festival towels around their necks... Truly magnificent in that provincial way.”

“That does sound lively… But this place here is a recent development. The fish are just an afterthought—they mainly deal in vegetarian goods here.”
“Though if I say that, the old man there might scold me for undermining his ten kan and ten bids… but everyone does call this the Lotus Root Market.”

“I see, quite so.—And in fact, you and I… made a detour to see the old lotus pond, didn’t we?”

And so, the Man in the Black Coat crossed his arms, not holding his Western-style cane.

Within this narrative—since this man showed no need to remove his coat, though it might seem irreverent—we shall beg his indulgence given their familiarity and keep him as “The Man in the Black Coat.” Even just a traveler would suffice.

However, this traveler of mine was in fact a homecomer returning after a long absence. I had heard before—two or three times—that in his homecoming tales, the companion had always been that comely older cousin of his. But now, with his younger female cousin unfortunately away on pilgrimage to Kyoto’s head temple, his present companion was this girl called O-machi… though “girl” stretched the term for a divorced returnee of twenty-seven or twenty-eight.

Yet this beauty surpassing her parents shone with striking clarity against the winter sky. Even so, her figure—bearing some unspoken diffidence—rendered the striped kimono all the more delicate; with her haori’s shoulders narrowing slenderly, she presented such a chaste appearance that one might wish to enfold her.

However, given her family’s trade—their business lying in the eastern pleasure quarter—she could easily claim to manage a bar or café these days for better social standing. Regrettably, it was a teahouse—what they call an ‘on-machiai’—awkward to mention but unavoidable.

It was precisely this that would gradually reveal through her subsequent conduct the girl’s worldly poise and lack of reserve.

Perfect timing.
The homecomer wasn’t returning in glory.
Therefore, with that old black coat—through movie scripts and procured works for mass consumption—he somehow managed to make his way in the world.

“The atmosphere is lively enough, and besides—it’s not surrounded by mountains. Right past that market lies a huge lake, you know—the famous Lake Shinji.”

“Oh, even if it were in the mountains, Uncle, we have both a sea and a lake here—large ones at that.”

As for the lake she couldn’t verify—but to call their sea small would be absolutely unthinkable.
After all, though she normally preferred Tokyo talk and rarely boasted of her hometown, facing this provincial counterpart seemed to have stirred faint resentment in the girl.

Indeed, the lake shone radiantly.
But the water glistened high in the azure sky.
The nearby mountains, unlike those facing the town’s central castle, here at the outskirts became foothills pressing close at their base. Though distant peaks piled like waves, their depths—where thick rain clouds gradually thinned into mist—loomed near enough to graze one’s brow. The mountain ridge adorned with pampas plumes resembled a massive wild boar lying on its side; what might be called its snout—jutting into mid-air with white tusks—was in fact the lake.
Beyond the hill, a single blue line was the sea.

The water’s light cast shadows upon the ground beneath their feet, the chestnut-plum pattern of the haori becoming vividly clear while the fluttering designs on its sleeves took on the semblance of plovers.
Looking over, the auctioneer—standing somewhat apart on a raised platform—resembled a bronze statue in the heart of this late autumn day, the evening moon resting upon his shoulder.

“That chimney’s in the way.”

At the entrance to the privately operated market where his companion had said “Let’s go in here,” the Man in the Black Coat turned around and, looking up at the boar’s nose at the mountain’s base, remarked:

“Oh, that’s the hot spring.”

“Hot spring?”

“Didn’t we just pass through there, Uncle?”

“Ah, the one that faced the dye shop’s drying yard… where the crickets used to chirp…”

Crickets… even here, they chirp.

“That dye shop too—it existed long ago.”
“The fence and everything else are gone—it’s just a grassy field now, isn’t it?”

“Now that you mention it… Actually, there was a classmate from the same elementary school living in that row of houses. …Hatta something…”

“That story about using rice grains to catch frogs for fun—is that different from the mansion by the lotus pond you’re so fond of?”

The sea bream still hadn't found its price.
Pressing his headband against the pampas grass at the mountain's edge, that old man leaned back again.

“It’s different… Not that it’s anything worth making a fuss over now,” he said, “but kids are strange creatures—seeing rice fields all around, I thought ‘Ah, Hatta!’ even though there weren't actually eight fields.”

He found it funny to recall how he'd convinced himself of such things．With everything looking so different now，he began feeling uneasy．Then he carelessly let slip—a movie theater had been built… but it was deserted．‘Business must be bad,’ he thought with a start．Then decided，‘No—probably just closed during the day.’

Now that he thought about it，with the chimney right in front，it hadn't looked nearly as tall as one would expect．That's why he'd mistaken it for a skylight at first．

……A movie skylight would be a bit odd，wouldn't it．

“Something's not right here．”

He said with a laugh,

“So… a hot spring… In a place like this.”

“They boil it… just plain water.”

“Plain water would’ve been better, I suppose.”

“But calling it a hot spring sounds more prosperous, you see.
And you see, Uncle—that one we just saw—they call it Mujina Hot Spring.”

“Mujina Hot Spring?......”

By the time he looked at his companion’s face, they had already passed halfway through the market.
Still new and seemingly makeshift, it was a straight passageway with shops lining both sides, yet here and there hollow gaps pocked the structure, giving an odd impression of a chest of drawers missing one compartment.
At the entrance they had just come through, a geta shop and dagashi-ya faced each other; the presence of steamed sweet potatoes and boiled peas being sold at the dagashi-ya—alongside conspicuously bright red children’s footwear lined up before the geta shop—all contributed to a desolate air.
Buckets of konnyaku stood beside pails of crucian carp; baskets of loaches lay next to a fishmonger’s back lattice where a balance scale remained propped—through scattered gaps in the woodwork, pampas plumes from the vacant lot peeked inward… such was the scene.

――Upon later reflection on the geographical layout, this was said to have been the entrance to what was once the Lotus Pond.
――

“It seems everyone’s selling those creatures’ kin.”

“What?
“Uncle.”

“No—the Mujina Hot Spring one.”

“Oh my, if they heard that, it would be unseemly.”

Her reproving gaze—eyes fluttering butterfly-like across liquor shop bottles—caught faint blushes from label cherry blossoms against pale cheeks.

“I meant no ill will… If there were five or six punning lanterns here now—
“—wouldn’t this resemble the First Horse Day festival in the back alleys?
“I was likening it to a festive occasion.”

“You didn’t… get thirsty for a drink after calling it a festival, did you?
“Mother—your cousin—might do such things, but how vulgar! Me, sitting for a drink in this place.”

“Don’t worry. No matter how much you like them, you can’t drink chili peppers.”

he said.

At what appeared to be a dried goods store by the market exit, crimson chili peppers hung in abundant clusters.
...Though newly established, it had the appearance of a venerable old shop.
Wakame, arame, hijiki—the briny aroma of shoreline vegetation hung thick in the air.
Yet beneath the dim ceiling that seemed poised to conjure an autumn drizzle, wheel-shaped wheat gluten filled the space—bent into rings, strung on rods, and neatly arranged.

“Magnificent.”
“With that rain machine installed in the village theater’s ceiling, it’s oddly dreary.”

It was no stage trick.

A sudden shower swept across the sunny spot, with the rustling sound of pampas grass leaves.
――Truly, the winter sky of the northern lands.

The two of them briefly stepped under the eaves, but—

“It’ll clear up soon—a fox’s wedding procession.”

Along the diagonally slanting market’s back lattice—where red knotweed and dayflowers persisted as withered blooms—what might have been those fox-fire lanterns glistened damply amidst their clash with pampas plumes… then drifted away.

“I see—I thought it was another fox’s thread factory. Doesn’t it look like the white streaks of rain are cascading down from those wheel-shaped wheat gluten pieces on the ceiling?”
“How disagreeable, Uncle.”

she twisted slightly, shoulders hunched,

“That’s creepy.”

“Alright, let me rephrase that. This seems to be where the Lotus Pond once was, and with this thread, one could weave a mandala.”

“Yes, because that thread won’t do, whether in paradise or hell.”

“So the thread is no good?”

“……Because that’s where the Old Mujina Woman spins her thread wheel, you know. It’s also called the Bean Washer.”

She looked around,

“Well, they say she was the lord of the castle’s dearly beloved elder sister,”
“Long ago, there was a beautiful shrine maiden there whose prayers worked like magic, and they say that’s the mujina she commanded, you know.”

“Don’t you know?” O-machi said, her voice hushed as if restraining itself from speaking.

――Across from this dried goods store at a right angle stood a lotus root wholesaler.
It was a large house with an expansive earthen floor, deep recesses, and forest-like darkness—they said this was why people also called the place Lotus Root Market.
Behind the sloping roof ridge at what seemed like the mountain’s mid-slope hung something resembling a single black cloud drifting downward—the crown of an ancient chinquapin tree whose age none could tell.
Since time immemorial, there had dwelled at its roots an entity called the Old Mujina Woman, who manifested strange spectral phenomena at every opportunity.
They said she always spun her wheel during idle hours.
The traveler had originally come to visit his elementary school friend’s former residence……Though he must have played back and forth there in those days, O-machi pressed suspiciously: “How could you not know that Old Mujina Woman?”
Yet even a child of eight or ten—their parents would not have deliberately frightened them with such tales.
……His friend must not have boasted about having an ancient mujina dwelling nearby.

—The name of the town’s hot spring also originated from that.
I see—the Great Mujina of the Chinquapin Tree, the Standing Sutra Mujina, the Transforming Hag.

“Oh?”

“……”

“How disagreeable you are, Uncle.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Like a kingfisher fleeing gunfire, she darted through sunlit drizzle into the lotus roots, her beautiful kimono hem fluttering.
The Man in the Black Coat followed after O-machi with a wry smile, pursuing her across the earthen floor of the lotus root wholesaler’s shop.

“I never meant it as a threat.—At first I thought it was a snake—gave me quite a start.”

While listening to the story of the Old Mujina Woman, they suddenly noticed a head and tail slipping into view among the wheel-shaped wheat gluten pieces on the ceiling.
As they saw what appeared to be a snake coiling up and down around them, the wheel-shaped wheat gluten began spinning rapidly, and the karmic wheel rolled past with an undulating motion.
They shuddered, but upon closer inspection, it was a rat—or perhaps a sewer rat—crawling through the falling rain, thoroughly drenched.
……Given the circumstances, well, a small mujina had carelessly chattered away up on the ceiling, startling a beautiful bird into flight toward the Lotus Pond.

“Who on earth would be startled by such a thing?”

“But… well, it’s alright now. There’s a human mujina here.”

With a grand flourish of a lotus leaf,

“Gon-chan—are you here?”

If it were a beast, its two eyes would gleam.
Even so, one might think there was someone there.
Peering through revealed a counter area—beyond it lay the large earthen floor divided by logs on the inner side (where morning markets were held)—and circling outside that division to the right emerged Gon-chan... his solid-striped straight sleeves thrust into his kimono's breast fold with hands tucked in his sleeves, resembling less a raccoon dog than a fur seal as he appeared with a smirking grin.
A pleasure quarter beauty with social sway.
When Gon-chan appeared, O-machi meticulously wiped the bench protruding into the outer earthen area with her handkerchief—since market days meant shoe-clad feet trampling there—and sat down. Though sitting directly by the charcoal brazier would have been better—despite it being snack time when kettle water might be boiling somewhere—she made Gon-chan bring everything from the distant kitchen entrance instead of formalities... Then declaring “this big boy’s shy despite looks,” she spun him around and mimed striking him—his cowering “heh-heh” response formed no sacred gestures but seemed bewitched by her witchcraft.

The passing shower had fully cleared, but the earth remained wet and cold, jade-green shadows slipping over clogs before reflecting anew……Tucking up her kimono hem, she moved along the dried goods store’s eaves—though not in red-thonged sandals—with slender shoulders entering the market in a manner suggesting swift passage toward a stage entrance. Soon, a beer bottle in one hand and a glass cup grasped in the other aligned so that the light split them into twin presences—could it be Miss O-machi meant to share a drink?

“Bid! Bid!”

Uncle involuntarily let out an auctioneer’s cry while raising his hand and slapping his coat’s knee with the other.

“Well done indeed.”

The earthen floor was suddenly transformed into spring; as O-machi bent her lips—like a lone flower bud glimpsed through hazy moonlight—to drink from her beer glass, this moment might well be called true fulfillment for one who had come to revisit the Lotus Pond of old.
Freshly dug lotus roots—magnificent specimens—formed an abatis of paradise both within and beyond the fence.
It seemed almost sacrilegious—amidst what resembled the misarranged yet orderly arms of the Five Hundred Arhats—to find two large baskets of arrowhead tubers.
O-machi took three or so tubers—some still mud-caked, others from a basket lightly dyed indigo and briskly rinsed blue—rolling them onto the charcoal brazier. She brushed off ash with fire tongs while maintaining her coquettish kimono drape, fanning flames with tissue paper as she shielded her hair’s sheen with a handkerchief. A faint coral translucence—whether from lips, hairpin’s glow, flower or bud—filtered through her third glass cup before dissolving into ethereal haze.

“Miss Machiko, Miss Machiko.”

“Yes?”

Tilting the smooth, long whiteness of her neck, she performed a coquettish gesture.

“Putting on airs, are we?”

“Oh…”

“What on earth is this going to turn into?”

“Dengaku-style arrowhead tubers, ohoho.”

And then, the coral of her hairpin and her lips moved separately from the arrowhead tubers within the haze,

“They say Uncle was going to be sent off to a temple as an acolyte when he was little…… Not because he was some mischievous brat—he was clever and well-behaved.”
“If that had happened, he surely would have become a renowned monk-scholar.—That’s what Mother used to say.”

"My apologies."
"That would've been better."
"I'm truly sorry."

This time she poured herself a drink with a heavy glug.

"Ohohoho! Maybe that's why—being such a devout vegetarian who loved roasted arrowhead tubers—he'd come over and stuff himself silly... Oh Mother!"

"Ah, how pitiful."
"Arrowhead tubers? What absurdity."
"Even with similar spiritual awakening—if this were a loach I could perform last rites—but like this? All I can do is chant prayers. Ah, O-machi dear."

He blew out an intentionally cheerful sigh—suddenly exhaling—
“……Come to think of it, the night before last… at Shikaochi Hot Spring where we stayed on the way.”

“Yes.”

“I actually chanted the nembutsu prayers at midnight proper.”

“Midnight.”

Upon the charcoal brazier, cheeks that had been flushed with the fire’s warmth now sank into solemn stillness.

“...When you consider it properly, it’s rather trivial—but Shikaochi makes for a lonesome place.”
“Not that I planned it that way, but I did stop there overnight on my journey here.”
“Being built mid-slope facing straight north toward the sea, you traverse this long wooden corridor fashioned in switchback bends.”
“—You might already know this.”
“—The guest rooms were on what they call the third floor, though from below it felt more like the fourth.”
“The evening’s squid and prawns were excellent, mind—what with the red dragonflies and sea mist at dusk, the views too were fine—but given the season, that penetrating night chill seeped right into one’s bones.”
“All through that region they use these sleeveless futons—four layers of thick cotton batting gone lumpy and ponderous—till your shoulders wouldn’t stop quaking.”
He’d taken hot sake at his bedside and, riding the glass cup’s momentum, still managed to fall into leaden slumber.
Now—what hour might it have been?
Midnight proper, after all.
When heading to the privy and descending the back stairs—their sturdiness put one in mind of some titanic boulder split asunder.
Upon descending, five guest rooms stood lined along one side—only those at the farthest end appeared occupied.
Yet with connecting chambers beyond, only the depths held dim illumination—the rest lay dark.
“One side held the washroom—a great stone basin beside it for crouching hand-washing, fed by bamboo pipes channeling stream water... drip... drip... plash. Now this sound, mark you—it carried clear to our pillows in the guest room, yet not a breath of wind could be heard.”

“Oh…”

“Right there—a sprawling expanse of black wooden flooring with the toilet beyond—but only a single electric light was lit in that washroom. Made all the dimmer by the late-night mountain air pressing down, you can imagine how faintly lit it was.”

“How dreadful.”

“It can’t be helped… Because it’s real.”
From what I’d recalled seeing that evening, there had been a wooden sliding door here with one panel left open—or so I’d thought—but now not a trace remained.
It must have been a mistake.

The cold mountain fog—with the cliffside forest right outside—appeared to rise through windows and cracks, gathering into a mist-like veil that stood at the threshold, its surface seeming to bear woodgrain patterns.
“By the way, when I slipped on my sandals, they rustled like stepping on dry bamboo leaves… There were three pairs lined up in the dark.”

“Um… That Shikaochi…”

As she focused her eyes, the mist faintly reflected on O-machi’s brows.

“It’s the place where you descended the third-floor back stairs, right? Three were lined up.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Why… what happened next?”

O-machi countered and drew another breath.

“The middle door went bang…”

“Oh…”

“No, I’m not trying to scare you.
If you’d thought it had suddenly opened there, you’d have been even more startled—but it had been open all along.
Only, on the inner frame of that black door that had been open, a white something was snaking along in a single line.”

“…………”

“I wonder if a light was seeping through from somewhere…? At its edge, where it tapered delicately—a finger rose, pale and sharp—and just as it moved, the door slid shut swiftly.”
“It looked as if it had been beckoned open, but it wasn’t mischief—someone had gone there and closed it.”
“Even when I recalled it later, that hand was utterly pale—a beautiful woman’s hand—ah, what’s wrong?”

Her lips twisted along with her brows—a scent wafted lightly, a chill pierced her chest—the handkerchief from her round chignon nearly slipping away, separated by only a single layer—when O-machi’s hands seized the coat’s sleeve as if to wring it, clinging to both shoulder and sleeve in an instant.
The hem of her undergarment scattered, spilling like sasanqua petals.

At this movement, the arrowhead tuber on the charcoal brazier rolled and flew off with a clatter.
One, its scorched mark turned purplish, trailed a tail like a frog’s will-o’-the-wisp across the dark earthen floor.

After a while, having regained her composure with a fortifying sip of beer, O-machi ate the frog-fire apparition herself, while offering Uncle the perfectly normal ones after peeling off their skins. Thus we readers could now safely listen to what followed.

In truth, when The Man in the Black Coat mentioned Shikaochi's white hand at this moment, he never intended to frighten the girl with ghost stories. Since it was nearby, he had wanted to pass beneath that chinquapin tree after leaving—traditionally haunted by eerie presences like the Well-Bucket Dropper and Azuki Bean Washer—where trilling insects would mingle with sounds resembling thread-spinning.

Seeing how her alarm at the wheat-gluten mice might make her refuse to accompany him further, he hurriedly explained in a debunking tone—like exposing a specter as mere withered grass—"Miss Machiko, that white hand on the privy door was simply a woman inside hastily closing it when she saw a shadow. I only chanted sutras because I got startled." Maintaining a composed solemnity, he added that Shikaochi Inn's middle restroom among the three had since been demolished—asserting preemptively that she must already know this...

Wait—come to think of it, when I relieved myself again this morning at that middle stall where I’d thought there was a white hand, I recalled that its wall had been hollowed out, crudely broken, with thickly matted undergrowth visible beyond.
Well… Last night in the darkness, I must have failed to see it, yet I hadn't given it a second thought.
……

Suddenly, Uncle felt a slight chill creep over him,

“Come to think of it, the middle one wasn’t there… come morning. …Then does that mean there’s some particular reason?”

“Uncle—so you saw a ghost, didn’t you?”

“A ghost.”

“I... When I feel this unsettled, I can’t bring myself to push it away with words like ‘how dreadful’ or such.”
“She’s such a pitiable soul.”
“That’s from... well, you know Ugui-tei—the river fish restaurant upstream... You’re familiar with it?”

“I know it well.”
“Why, just yesterday I had lunch there.”
“It’s quiet and calm—a tastefully somber place—but not a trace of anything ghostly about it.”

"No, the waitress from there passed away at Shikaochi Hot Spring."
"Her name was Ms. O-Mosho—a graceful and gentle woman."
"...Uncle, that white, slender thing—that's Ms. O-Mosho's hand."

"Now don't go frightening people."
"Don't go frightening your uncle," The Man in the Black Coat laughed.

—Earlier this year during the lingering cold, Satomi and Shiga traveled through the snow to share a drink at this region’s premier Japanese restaurant—mentioned alongside Niigata’s Nabechaya—then changed locations and encountered some beauties.
They asked whether those beauties had graced the upstream Ugui-tei with their presence, to which that person reportedly replied it would make for an even finer souvenir.
The existence of Ugui-tei was invoked merely to borrow the prestige of both family names.
In this chapter, both families naturally bore not the slightest connection to The Man in the Black Coat.

Next, I would like to state that I have not been commissioned to place advertisements for Sennyo Incense or Edo no Mizu, following the latter’s precedent of discretion.

Lately, it seems to have prospered enough to become the subject of rumors.

When The Man in the Black Coat was growing up in his hometown as a child, it had declined to the point where its popularity nearly vanished. From the edge of town, crossing one bridge and moving along the base of the mountain for about five blocks along the riverbank through a stretch devoid of houses, the path would inevitably be buried in snow.

Constructed in Heike-style architecture with an eccentric teahouse layout, it featured four or five scenic elements—a flowing water channel, gushing spring water, and wisteria trellises—scattered throughout. Patrons would traverse in garden clogs from the main building toward the base of the mountain.
The room faced the river, but immediately there was a gravel bank; the water flowed along the opposite shore in indigo and blue, its quietness making it all the more nostalgic.
Rooted in a low stone wall no taller than a hedge stood a large willow tree, its trunk slanting diagonally toward the gravel bank while its branches spread magnificently in all directions, covering every window and eave of the room.
In moonlight, it linked threads of jade waterfalls; in snowfall, it strung beads into curtains.

Moreover, the front was a pine grove—no towering ancient trees among them—but moderately bright, neither too dark nor too exposed. A path damply carpeted with pine needles and brushed aside amid scattered pine cones wound through ridged roots, its depths profound.
There always seemed to linger the scent of pine truffles, and indeed, first-flush mushrooms and shimeji mushrooms grew among these fallen leaves.
At the entrance stood a lattice door of bush clover branches, roofless, with a woven bamboo door attached.
Then five or six clusters of pine trees.
Immediately, the white gravel path continued onward, and where the stone-laden board roofs of townhouses—like an enclave—seemed to sink into the mountain's base, there stood that bridge.

In days of old, children would come as far as the bridge, captivated by bats or chasing fireflies, but at night, they could not pass along Ugui-tei’s riverside.
According to The Man in the Black Coat, about midway along the path, on the low gravel bank where the foothill jutted out, there stood three or so hastily built huts with reed screens—resembling a collapsed weir—and an old haiku came vividly to mind: *“The short night— / (somehow) / river ablutions.”*
It is said that this was the site of open-air Buddhist services, and that mountain dwellers would come drawn by the sweet water.
Beyond that eerie hamlet strewn with human ashes and dog bones stood the teahouse where dimly the pine grove loomed darkly tangled and owls cried.
As for Japanese dace, goby, rockfish, and such—these were exceptions—but the teahouse’s famed one-shaku iwana char was rumored to involve an otter transforming the willow roots by that riverbank into brocade trees adorned with fins, all while some woman—whether a daughter or a wife—vied in her allure to claim association with it.
With a touch of the supernatural about it, it had grown all the more desolate.
While people could appreciate the ayu held by a cormorant as a form of killing, the iwana clutched by an otter was considered eerie, even if it spoke of romance.

Now that even automobiles came and went through this once-isolated path, maids wearing striped kimonos patterned with willow motifs would accompany guests out as far as the branch-lattice door beneath the pine trees, their farewells graceful and tender-hearted.
At that very moment when a comely middle-aged woman happened to be attending to service duties—this was indeed something The Man in the Black Coat had personally witnessed.
Incidentally, let me describe those iwana.
The salt-grilled fish—about three feet long with dorsal fins removed and tails chopped off—lay arranged like dancers leaping through river rapids across an overflowing platter; its flavor proved truly exquisite.
When they marveled at this dish, one of those mountain old men—who transported them live on foot from five or seven ri upstream through mountain depths—had been their supplier for over fifty years despite being past seventy years old.
This being so—though both were otters—since mountain otters specifically brought them here through those waterways.
However—according to O-machi’s account—this mountain old man from five or seven ri upstream reportedly told every guest.

It must have been due to the water and the willow tree.
The maids all appeared beautiful.
If they had wives or daughters, one could imagine how beautiful they would surely be.

Now, the greeting uttered at the lattice door—“Please come again and grace us with your presence”—lingered with an enduring resonance carried by the pine wind, strangely ethereal, making guests feel drawn back to the green willows.
What lent even greater lingering sentiment was that when dusk fell, they would see guests off along the pine-shaded path with small bamboo-handled lanterns—or so it was said.
The color of the hem’s edge glistening with dew as it slid onto scattered pine needles—how utterly enchanting it must have been.

“They say it was just like that with Ms. O-Mosho’s situation too. And they say it was already past ten o’clock.”

It was five years ago, on the night of June sixth.
To state it plainly, that marked Ugui-tei's O-mosho's departure into becoming the phantom of white hands.

That night, the guest from the Chukyo region (Nagoya)—a damned playboy—who had been seen off through the pines with a small lantern, lingered at the lattice doorway upon parting and forcibly compelled O-mosho to accompany him all the way to Akechi-no-ya, a teahouse in the eastern red-light district—that is, to O-machi’s house.

O-mosho had been acquainted with O-machi’s household from the beginning, but this became an even deeper karmic bond.

“That lantern looks so forlorn… When you think about it… It’s crude, like an unpainted paper lantern.”

“Ugui”—written on one side—with “tei” on the reverse of the encircling script.
However, depending on how one turned it, only the “Ugui” would emerge starkly black—not resembling sutra script but rather something like Sanskrit characters—appearing as if it were illuminated upon a new grave in the cemetery, she reasoned.
—This interpretive analysis of O-machi’s, seemingly reaching the apex of Three Lifetimes physiognomy, was rather hard to accept.

And hanging it on a pine branch—the Nagoya Guest was waiting.
“Is it not like guiding a soul’s journey to the afterlife?”—they said of that white lantern glowing dimly in the May-dark pine forest... Indeed, the loneliness was profoundly lonely…

The narrative had shifted slightly in time—at Ugui-tei, Tsukisetsuka confections were served as part of the seating arrangement. They also presented rakugan shaped like rice bales and cloves—somewhat greedily adding variety. On each piece was written a woman’s name. It was said that prominent geisha from the nearby eastern pleasure quarter contributed these as promotional handbills. Of course, this was quite removed from reality, but they claimed any geisha would respond with shamisen playing if summoned. Five years prior, on the night of June sixth—the Nagoya Guest—it should be noted that since that evening, they had become acquainted and corresponded, but as O-machi steadfastly refused to disclose his name… he remained simply as the Nagoya Guest. ……Let us continue.

“They all seem like fine women.”
“From what I’ve seen.”
“Among them, the ones shaped like rice bales are delightful.”
“Here, the ones shaped like snow patterns—well, they’re called…”

“What a terribly humble offering this is.”

With her white hands, the sake bottle seemed to tilt, and her light blue hair ornament’s rounded coiffure bowed heavily downward.—As she was known to be a delicate woman, her appearance required little imagination.
Within the drooping green willow branches along the railing lay the familiar one-shaku iwana.
Japanese dace and water shield in vinegar miso.
Walnuts; bowls of sweet-simmered goby; bowls of goby with shredded burdock root—the scene arrayed before the meal tray stood vivid…

“Though I had secretly set this one aside and meant not to show it to you, sir, how ever did it get mixed in?”――

“Ah, but the circumstances at that time were truly―”

Later at Akechi-no-ya in the pleasure quarter, the Nagoya Guest―in company with two or three geishas he knew through the rakugan―reportedly repeated this tale and grew quite boisterous.

The geishas who had contributed the rakugan―being that she was head maid and for proper presentation―had taken care to place only the name of O-mosho, beautiful and graceful, right at the forefront among them.

Needless to say, by the time of The Man in the Black Coat’s visit yesterday, O-mosho’s name alone was no longer present among the rakugan.

Now, with the antiquated bill—its writing nearly illegible—settled, and having seen him out with the ugui lantern, the Nagoya Guest came to a halt before the folding door.
He went to summon the rakugan geisha from the pleasure quarter.
"You must escort me, Ms. O-mosho."
Even if a first meeting wouldn’t suffice—even if one were to try persuading by telephone—he wouldn’t agree, buoyed by drink and high spirits.
And then he remained as motionless as a sleeve-length pine tree.
Though not being one to accept such invitations, through some twist of fate she inquired with the mistress and obtained permission.
After returning to Omo-ya, she hung on a branch the lantern—the kind O-machi had described as resembling those unvarnished paper lanterns found in graveyards—and waited for a while.
In that faint light, now transformed like a mushroom cap, she waited squatting with her hat upturned.

When he came out, O-mosho had applied light makeup and changed into a long underkimono.

In that long underkimono… she had slept at Akechi-no-ya—a tomo-zome garment of faint ibis hue with snowflake patterns reserved in white.
Along the path, flickering—this tomo-zome with a small lantern—the river wind skimmed the water’s surface past wild roses and deutzia flowers.
Moreover, when the grasses at the mountain’s base stirred in scattered disarray with faint glimmers, even Mukōse’s current must have drawn near to komageta-clad feet, crossing over wild pinks upon the low gravel bed……

The wind gusted violently, and Hasune Market's earthen floor grew as dark as rainy season gloom beneath the eaves.
A downpour threatened.
The conjoined arms of Five Hundred Rakan statues shifted as though about to envelop them both.

The narrative had reached its pivotal moment.
They needed now to stand aligned in formation.
In that configuration...in those exact positions...
...with Miss O-machi among others keeping their kimono hems properly tucked—
—for O-mosho too had reportedly lifted her skirts from dewy path grasses.

To begin with, The Man in the Black Coat—despite his advanced age—possessed an unsavory charm, and when just now a girl from Akechi-no-ya, terrified by O-mosho’s white hands, had clung to him, he had likely secretly embraced her soft bosom…… But that wasn’t all.
Initially, as their group passed through the samurai district dense with garden trees—it was said that long ago when the Jizō statue (once a field Buddha at Edo’s Gojinenhara) smiled gently in the hazy moonlight and murmured “Carry me away…”, a peerless warrior of their domain—a three-hundred-koku retainer who happened by—had shouldered it all the way back along the Nakasendō and Hokurikudō roads. The hollow of its enshrined abdomen, over three meters tall, stood within an old estate’s gates adorned with flower vases and a water basin equipped with a ladle. When O-machi guided The Man in the Black Coat to this site and he paid nostalgic respects, she grew delighted and impressed—then, seizing the moment while embodying the slain castle mistress’s form, proposed: “The match-severing deity resides in yonder forest shrine—let us go together!” …What did The Man in the Black Coat say?
“I don’t want to visit the match-severing deity together,” he bitterly retorted.

Therefore, having borrowed this child in such a manner, even if she were used there as a mere tool for the journey, there should be no cause for regret.

There along the riverside street—yes, yes, yes, walking shoulder to shoulder as they were—without crossing the bridge, they made about three turns along the earthen walls of the samurai district. Passing beneath the Myōkendō Hall on the mountain, they abruptly entered the brightly lit pleasure quarter—still carrying their small lanterns—arriving at Akechi-no-ya’s entrance like a scene from a drunken reveler’s painted lantern. There, the Ugui light vanished.

“—Ms. O-mosho’s wisteria-purple half-collar had parted slightly, revealing its reverse side, while the crimson sashiko-weave underkimono’s edge—its threads flickering like flames—glimmered as her eyelids closed gently over her pale, pale skin.”
“...The six-mat room was enclosed, what with the southerly wind blowing, and on top of that, it must have been too warm.”
“Her sideburns clung damply—stretched across the pillow in that ghastly way—to her long, full throat, yet their color was faintly bluish, they say....Even as the hem of the tomo-zome bedding tapered away like vanishing mist—what disarray, Uncle! Even if geisha grow accustomed to such things through their trade, maids remain strict amateurs, don’t they?”
“Called by the Nagoya Guest...O-shin—yes, that maid of ours with the ginkgo-leaf twist hairstyle, the one who just now aligned our komageta at the entrance—was passing through the second-floor hallway when...‘Hey, miss! Fetch me some hot water.’...”

“Shall I fetch some fresh water? It’s right here by the pillow.”
“No—it’s hot water… This happens sometimes. It seems I drank too much and feel chilled.”……This was their exchange through the sliding door……

“Me?……I visit Myōken-sama on the mountain every morning just as I always do.”
“Mother was still in bed.”
“After transferring the water bubbling furiously in the kitchen’s iron pot to a silver kettle‚ she carried it up on a lacquer tray—‘Pardon me’—and there‚ in that figure now illuminated by sunlight filtering through the courtyard’s verdant leaves veiled in green mist… You could tell she was unaccustomed to this—her obi‚ waistband‚ and haori all disheveled as if clawed apart‚ clearly removed by a man’s hands… That pale ibis hue with snowflake motifs—where does her breast end and the long underkimono begin?”
“It’s a six-mat room… Hard to reach from Ms．O-mosho’s face all the way to the pillow.”
“When O-shin stood blankly at the entrance‚ the Nagoya Guest said‚ ‘There．’ …Apparently she then placed it by the edge of the futon as instructed．”

The Man in the Black Coat shrugged his shoulders.
He instinctively sensed danger.

"As the Nagoya Guest started sitting up, he reached out, grabbed the whole tray, and when he yanked it through the air toward the pillowhead—the lacquered tin tray slipped."
"It was like a white boar belching fire from black clouds—the lid flew off and boiling water surged upward onto Ms. O-mosho’s entranced sleeping face—was that blood? Blue demon-fire? Or maybe purple if those burning droplets… A blast of scalding steam shot up."
"...Ms. O-mosho got boiled in hell’s own pot."

“That beautiful nose and mouth—from that moment on, she never showed them to anyone… Not even we could see them.”

“What happened to that bastard?”

The fist on The Man in the Black Coat’s knee jerked upward.

"Well... but it was settled through mutual understanding."
"The guest finished dressing and came down from the second floor—before my mother, who had risen to meet him at the long brazier, he formally placed his hands on his knees—"

("—A minor incident has occurred."
"The woman acknowledges it."
"I shall take my leave shortly.)——"

Along with an exorbitant sum of money, he produced an imposing business card—insisting on strict confidentiality—but as he moved toward the entrance platform, ("Just a moment, sir,") they detained him; though not yet having washed his face, he stomped back upstairs, hastily circled the corridor, and from beyond the sliding door—

“(—Madam—)”

“It was said she had been quiet.”

“(—Madam, the master will be returning.)——”

In a muffled voice, as if wrapped in cloth—
“Please come… and do visit again…”—
they say his words trembled and broke into fragments.

“Uncle, when I returned from Myōken-sama, it was already after Mother had accompanied her to the hospital by car.”
“According to O-shin and the others, she’d hidden her face with an eggshell-colored silk handkerchief—by then it had fused to her skin and wouldn’t come off.”
“…Even when tying her obi.”
“They say that after they’d hemmed the handkerchief’s edge with crimson thread—‘moyo’ style—her lips, twisted in pain and clenched tight, showed through the fabric like shadows. Her tears fell like melting snow all the way down to her nape.”

“Unthinkable...”

The Man in the Black Coat hurriedly brushed off the handkerchief that had been placed on O-machi’s face.

The rain began to fall violently.

“There’s nothing to be said… But are you suggesting she went to Shikaochi Hot Spring for treatment then?”

“The idea that it was just a hot spring cure—this wasn’t that sort of injury.”
“The treatment had finished long ago, but they were such terrible burns after all.”
“She withdrew to live with parents—just her mother remaining—never going outside.”
“Even when we visited her—they say only her eyes remained unharmed—wearing black-rimmed eyewear with an elder-sister headscarf and mouth mask while practicing sutras.”
“From the guest came proper compensation arrangements—though he promised annual visits while years passed… Yet when that boiling water poured—(‘Please save one man.’)”
“‘…I will manage succession my whole life.’—they say she pressed both hands down and pleaded.”

“Ms. O-mosho had resigned herself to death after a single night’s passion—nodding in hell’s cauldron as if already dead.
“So while the guest kept his promise technically, it amounted to keeping her confined for life.”

“Why would she make that journey?”
“It was toward Shikaochi—you can guess why.”
“November—the night trains were empty then. If she hunched down, no one would see her face.”

“They say she reached the hot spring inn by night train and it was already midnight.—Do you suppose this is a common sort of tale?”
“She knew better than to use the middle of three lavatories—but precisely because no one else did, she relied on that emptiness and went in late… How pitiful… Finally removing that stifling black headband and mask within those confines—and then even the darkness of the great stairway seemed wondrously strange, like beholding a rocky mountain, while the water basin with its bamboo pipe…”

“Ah, I see.”

“It must have felt like seeing Ugui-tei’s garden together with the river and mountains after how many years—how pitiful that she kept peering and looking about until she grew cold from the fading bath warmth.”

“—It was written in the suicide note—”

With a start, she reached out and pulled the door shut from the inside.
“Suddenly someone came.—That was a slender white hand.”

“Hmm, a fellow like me.”

While laughing sadly, he bristled and shuddered.

“With a shriek, the man tumbled down with a dreadful noise. …The night watchman rushes over, people make a commotion.”
“Pity and shame are transcended—what truly bears disgrace must be the ghost with her burned face.”

“Having abandoned all hope for herself and the world, she headed straight to… the railway tracks…”

“Was it right after leaving the lavatory?”

“Who knows? Perhaps she broke through in a moment of shame and resolve to end her life.”
“They say the old wall had crumbled enough for a slender body to slip through, but leaving without even purifying her hands—for someone in Ms. O-mosho’s position, I find that revolting.”
“……Then where could she have written the suicide note? They say she was hit by the train just as dawn was breaking.”
“Though it does say she wrote it by the faint moonlight’s glow.”
“She must have returned to her room at least once.”
“When one’s soul and heart vanish in some desperate moment—their very form disappears too. Before the crowd gathered around that gawking third-rate actor, she must have slipped through like mist and calmly washed her hands at the bamboo pipe.”

“How terrifying.”

“But what’s unclear is—though it was in the papers too—her clothes were soaked straight through to the skin, despite her hem being properly arranged. …Did she perform a water ablution ritual, or perhaps fall into a stream along the way?”

“Ah, the bench is getting wet.”

He took O-machi’s hand, adjusted their position, and said carefully.

“And what’s more… her neck… her face was gone.”
“You see, her breasts, hips, and limbs—all coldly white—were left intact.”
“…must have been utterly crushed.”
“In the pool of blood—like whitefish swarming—Ms. O-mosho’s face and cheeks.”

Away from the embankment—on the telegraph wires above that area… Upon a chinquapin branch midway up the cliff, the jet-black hair that had flown upward—its roots coiled tightly like an utterly black little straw cape—yet, being that of a gentle soul, lay smoothly damp with morning dew.
“And yet, trickling down each strand of hair, the falling droplets pooled below—they say it was blood.”

“It’s gotten cold. …Shall we go? —Ah, I thought the setting sun was shining—it must be the red peppers over there.”
He was flustered.
But the rain had cleared up.

Without a lantern—the two started walking.
That O-machi’s presence commanded attention became evident when she leaned into the lotus roots and glanced back at the two umbrellas propped there—all before one realized it had happened.

“……There’s a person standing over there—slightly away from the bench, leaning against the handrail.”

“Yes, I noticed during the downpour.”
“I thought it was your shadow, Uncle.”
“There was still some beer left, wasn’t there?”
“How stylish of you to save a sip for later.”

“What’s this? ‘A crow that just cried now comes out laughing’—that’s supposed to describe someone with more commendable character, you know.”
“For some reason, I felt it might be that man—Hatta—the one whose house stood near the dyer’s drying grounds. Since elementary school days.”
“That may be too fanciful an idea, but out of nostalgia for the old days, he might still wander around here.”
"—Being accompanied by a woman, he probably hesitated to call out……"

If that were true, he'd be the sort to drink there—but something more tangled lurked.
—When I left Shikaochi at dusk on the night train here, a gloomy youth with gleaming eyes sat directly across.
Facing me, he took the propped-up gun—some hunting rifle—vertically, clinking open and snapping shut its brass lid.
Shaking his long hair once—("Look like a hunter?")—he smirked: ("Hmph—living incognito. A disguise.")
From his bag came a bloodied bunting—("Take this")—as he turned the gun sideways and clanked the hammer down.
("A rough-leaf cigar—care for it?") He produced one received elsewhere, locking eyes—("Luxury items? As principle, I abstain")—and clicked the hammer again.

I thought scattering birds with buckshot seemed far more extravagant than smoking a gifted cigar—but then again, we were barreling through multiple tunnels in that clattering wooden-and-iron contraption they called a train, like some sort of flying dumpling on rails.
In short, he must’ve been a Danjūrō before Nakazō came along, I supposed.

There, I wrapped a memorial offering for the little bird.

Around 10:40, we got off at a mountain station two stops ahead.
But when parting ways, he took out a name card from his sleeve as if to hand it over—only to withdraw it again, eyes gleaming sharply.

—The bird was wrapped in something like hira.
Hira tore and from the train window—the bird was—rewrapped and, after arriving at the inn, released into the back river.
"But since they say gobies are called toads in the proverb, that bloodied bunting would become an ugui.—And about that man’s business card—I somehow thought there might have been someone who looked like they had business standing there, you see."

Given the family trade, understanding came quickly.

“If it’s people from over there, I know most of them. …No, it’s not just thieves and those from the red-light district.”

“No—that’s not quite right.”
“I felt relieved… By the way… I’d actually thought to have you pass through the chinquapin tree, but Ms. O-mosho’s story was still unfinished.”
“Let’s save that for next time.”

“Yes, either way… But just past this eave—beyond the wall—is where that chinquapin tree stands.”
“The ridgepole casts its shadow.”
“That’s why the alley stays dark.”

“It appears to be a large shop, yet feels utterly desolate.”
“What sort of establishment could this be?”
“This is the renowned yuba shop.”

“Yuba shops—those are what that fellow who failed to become a monk loved most, along with arrowheads.”
“In the tofu broth, they create box-shaped waves, then skim the spots where the skin stretches and floats.”
“I often used to peek into the East Market… That was quite fascinating.”

“Let’s go in.”

“The shoji’s open—hah—a large ‘Yu’ character.”
“This time I didn’t mistake it for a movie.”
“But there’s no one here... Is this all right?”

“If someone says something, I’ll greet them properly.”
“For a little visit—what should I say—for a tour, ho-ho-ho.”

The wide swept-clean earthen floor—alas—held no warmth of fire; it was merely a cold room.
Strangely, as if suspended in midday stillness, not a soul was in sight.
The window arrangement resembled a schoolroom with chairs put away, but extending in a single row were about ten units set at right angles with carpenter’s square precision, followed by five or so copper square pots lined up—though only liquid filled them, the withering leaves of a Chinese parasol tree were reflected within.
The full moon too must harbor its shadow.
When they tried to leave, flickering lights ignited from the far end, and gradually fire spread to the hearth.
Whether they used electricity or gas, the illumination burned in nearly prismatic hues.
It suddenly blazed up.

When this fire encircled everything at once, the windows turned black as if curtains had been lowered—and strangely enough, folds formed and wrinkles emerged across the earthen floor where they stood, taking on a glossy sheen like dampened silk.

O-machi tightly grasped the hand.

From behind,

“Excuse me, but you…”

The shadow figure from earlier at the Lotus Root Market—now clad in traveling attire—transformed into a pale-skinned gentleman and appeared, his ring tinged with the hearth fire’s light.

“Oh, this—”

The son-in-law of a prominent wealthy family in Nagoya and a professor at a certain school—known to people… that is, he was formerly the young master of this Hasuike Residence.

“You must recognize this.”

He turned obliquely and said to O-machi.

“Oh!”

The prosperous son-in-law was holding a hat,

“I was just about to pay a visit later.”

A shocking revelation—once again, the client at Ugui-tei that night was he.

A meeting of three.
But it did not come to a conclusion.
It was when six toe tips of the three took their first step into the same quarter.

With only the rustling of fallen leaves for sound and no footsteps to be heard—from a narrow dark earthen floor that seemed to connect this factory to a residence at a carpenter’s-square angle—emerged a small hunched old woman well over eighty years of age. Her white hair grew thick and straight; eyes and mouth dried up like brown lacquer; stature low. Clad in a thick patched padded kimono, she bent at the waist as she appeared.

O-machi turned pale and stepped back.

“Granny, you’re here to watch the show.”

Magnanimously and calmly, the former master of the residence said.

To think—the old woman jutted her chin, popped her eyes open with two fingers, and glared up sharply.

“Was it not permissible to enter without permission?”

The Man in the Black Coat said politely, while sensing something slightly uncanny.

“Do as you will.”

She muttered through a mouthful of spittle and froth, then snorted “Hmph, hmmph,” swaying her hips with arms still folded beneath her knees as she moved to stand before the pot at the exact spot where the row of pots met the earthen floor at a right angle—the one blazing with fierce heat. Straightening sharply, she spread her elbows and suddenly thrust her crumpled face into the billowing steam.

But between the scum layer pulled out with a splattering sound and the tofu skin clinging thickly in vivid yellow—which had more wrinkles! Crouching low as if crawling, she suddenly raised the long face of the tofu skin—featureless save for its form. The area around her mouth twitched violently as she thrust out a long, moss-green tongue. With slurping noises that seemed to cry "Look! Look!", she licked downward, making the tofu skin slip and peel away. Now bearing black bead-like eyes and a mask stretching to its ears, the white face—its mouth gaping open—expanded to twice the size of a single tofu skin, dominating the center of the earthen floor.

Simultaneously, like a snake, the tongue undulated again as it licked around, then her entire face crumpled with a sickening squelch, crushed into a mangled crimson mess.

I had been gripping O-machi’s shoulders tightly with both hands when my legs—rooted in place—began to stagger, and I thought I had collapsed with a thud.
The Nagoya Guest leaned forward and plunged his face into the first boiling copper pot nearby.

“Agh!”

As she gripped the sleeve with one hand, the stiffened tip of her padded kimono’s hem flipped up with a swift motion, and the crone’s buttocks were darkly concealed in a corner.
The hearth fire subsided its flames and went out all at once.

Simultaneously, as if the rain were closing in again, the blackness of the windows stirred by the wind revealed the city arrayed yet laid bare, where early evening electric lights cast crimson shadows and each copper pot flashed like lightning.

His footing faltered.
Just as the earthen floor's creases seemed ready to split, the Nagoya Guest's face—which had stubbornly clung despite being pulled—rose scattering steam, then he collapsed with a thud, limbs thrashing like a landed fish.
Grabbing him under both armpits, they lifted his body—the fire-blistered skin rippled with purple folds of suppurating flesh that shifted like waves.

The clamor of voices around the market now swelled; through the old chinquapin's branches rustled a wind heavy with earthy pungency.

As for the hospital—they deliberately chose a different one from O-mosho’s time.

There were no complications regarding his life.

He was a man.
His appearance was beyond consideration.

Yet even if one were to heed O-machi's endless complaints, they said not a single stray black hair—let alone any resentment—lingered in the brushstrokes of O-mosho's suicide note——

In modern times—in a certain sense—the turning of karma's petty wheel amounts to little more than rats skittering past wheel-shaped wheat gluten along ceiling beams.

Wait—even that holds its own eeriness.

Demons—oni—seem to exist.

Postscript.

This year on April 8th during Kanbutsu-e (Buddha's Birthday Festival), I visited the flower-decorated hall at Shinpo Temple in Kōjimachi 6-chome—its giboshi-shaped roof casting peach shadows—accompanied by Mr. Endo from across the way and my wife.
Within the temple compound stood an Enma Hall.
Mr. Endo peered through its door and prayed using his sleeve,

"What exactly connects Shakyamuni Buddha and Lord Enma?"

Having just offered incense water at the seven-colored Flower Hall, I found myself confounded by this thirty-year-old Dragon Girl's profound yet delicate inquiry.
With knowledge limited to reciting essential sutras, both doctrinal exposition and spiritual salvation lay beyond my reach.

“Well, that... you see, pertains to the ‘Thus have I heard’ section of scripture. Now then—having exited through the temple gate—what say you to Misako’s Sushi Shop?”

“No.”

“Let this serve as my greeting.”

Given that it was someone who hadn’t even left monkhood selling kohada sushi, it was no wonder he was so standoffish and unwelcoming.

“I’ve just finished breakfast.”

It was 3:30 in the afternoon.

“Listen.”

“I invited you counting on that.”

“I thought as much myself.”

When they walked a short distance along the main street, a woman with a kushimaki hairstyle—her slender back visible as she cradled a furoshiki-wrapped bundle in her haori sleeves—approached quietly from the opposite direction, kept her gaze downcast, and passed them by.

“What a lovely woman, isn’t she?”
“Did you see her?”

“Honestly.”

“A dewy beauty with such poise—eyes overflowing with passion, lips shaped by tenderness, yet touched by loneliness.”

When all three turned around, in the shadow of the town’s trees, the nape appeared pale and shoulders emaciated.

They felt they had come face to face with O-mosho’s likeness—one long described to them by The Man in the Black Coat.

In the back alleys, children’s drumbeats clamored.
Peering inside, at a backstreet corner stood an Inari shrine with banners raised.
It was exactly the eve of the old Hatsuuma festival, yet no crowd had gathered.
Punning lanterns cast midday shadows everywhere, and though candy stalls and oden shops had emerged once more—perhaps tricking the mind—they conjured that same market mid-conversation.

They went straight along the main thoroughfare, cut through Naka-Roku, turned left—hugging the Joshi Gakuin wall—then retraced their homeward path back toward Naka-Roku in sequence. Once again from the opposite direction came someone whose appearance and facial features were identical—this being a young woman with a Shimada mage hairstyle—an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old passing by.

“The spitting image.”

“It seems rather unsettling，doesn’t it?”

My wife also said.
After hesitating and pausing briefly，the three of them turned around in unison to see a wisp of crimson dust—lightly carrying flower petals—accompanying her departing figure……That girl too looked back at the town’s three-way crossroads.
In late spring，the cherry blossoms of Banchō stand quiet.

They returned home and—after offering rice cakes and flowers before the image of Maya Bunin (that holy mother of the infant Buddha from the Flower Hall earlier, which would allow immediate sermonizing)—burned incense, then began to write.

Showa 6 (1931), July