Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Morning—the lake’s name derived from its famous clam broth.
...Since heating sake would be too much trouble, I took a sip of the whiskey I’d brought in my basket.
Clam broth with whiskey made for a somewhat odd pairing, but that too felt fitting for a journey...

It was fine weather and warm, but since this was the northern country, I wrapped myself in a thick coat and left the hot-spring inn.

In one corner of the outdoor square before the public bathhouse, the ladder of the fire watchtower reached high into the early winter sky, and there, even as it withered, the great willow tree hung its branches damply and quietly—it seemed to say, “There’s no fire here.”

From the side alley, one could immediately survey the scene—the bow of a boat visible among the reeds along the shore, its stern hidden, while through gaps in the leaves and at their tips, the figure of a boatman rustled through the reed spikes as he moved about the vessel’s hull.
Yet there came the hammer’s clang.
Not in a decorated happi coat but in a bulky quilted jacket like those worn by farmers rowing field boats—perhaps he was a ship carpenter—the clang clang of his hammer reverberated to the snow-capped peak of the northern mountains beyond the vast lake, and between each strike,

“This is Hakura, a fisherman of Miho no Matsubara.”
“Over ten thousand leagues of splendid peaks, clouds abruptly rise; upon the lone tower’s bright moon, rain first begins to clear…”

The chanting, though distant, sounded as clear as if held in one’s hand.
The ship carpenter chanted his Noh verses—a somewhat uncommon sight. …Moreover, to eyes that had tumbled here dazedly from the earthquake-stricken capital, it seemed an entirely different world.

The reeds stretched tall, intermingled with withered ones, growing sparse as they continued… Beside them, at the sleeves of the wooden storehouse and thatched hut, yomena flowers bloomed meekly, lingering on… At that doorway, a celestial maiden stripped of her feather robe—holding a hand pot—seemed even to be toiling away for that man.

“Upon this pine hangs a robe most fair; approach and behold—its hues and fragrance wondrous…”

he chanted.
Beside the wooden storehouse lay a vegetable field where a persimmon tree glowed vermilion at its center, standing tranquil and serene.
Across outstretched branches, morning glories no larger than abalone shells clung and bloomed upon strings of drying daikon radishes, while beneath the vines, cockscombs smoldered faintly like bonfire embers lingering under morning frost.
That sunlit clearing, attuned to mountain spirits, appeared as a jeweled missive that had cast forth a sealed message of maple leaves.

The village was still too early for autumn leaves.

The garden path spread out in a fan shape, as though viewed through a telescope.
The lake, the ship carpenter, the phantom celestial maiden—they seemed to disrupt the jade letter one might compose, so precious was it that to tread near felt almost a desecration…

I—

(This story was told by Kizaki Seki Yutaka, a friend of the author.)

Changing paths—for instance, from the inn’s guest room toward Komatsu Mountain across the lake, faintly wrapped in thin mist and white sand—he headed in that direction.

On the shoji paper door of a small shop was posted:

(Kombu rolls available starting today.)

……It was a leisurely scene.
The wording pleased him, but kombu rolls would prove cumbersome for a stroll.
Alongside the cheap sweets displayed under the eaves, persimmons lay arranged in a bamboo basket.
These could slip easily into a sleeve.
Using the “available” notice as conversational pretext,

“Madam, about these persimmons…”

The chili peppers in the ceiling were bright red, but from the dim storage room, the wart-bottomed fellow poked out his face,

“Those persimmons, hmm.
“Nah, they can’t be eaten.”

“Huh?”

“The astringency ain’t gone out yet.”

“Hmm, then when will they be ready to eat?”

Both the questioner and the answerer were quite the characters,

“Earliest… next month around this time, I’d say.”

“I see.”

Truly, mountain folk were carefree.
Right before one’s very eyes stood a structure called a roten—an open-air terrace—built with ornamental bricks.
Even though this was a bustling spot where a single hot-spring inn had to include some Western-style section—whether called an annex or new construction—

“I’ve troubled you.”

“Well, come on in.”

Here’s another odd thing.
……Being tedious wouldn’t do.
Though not elaborately outfitted, a somewhat haphazardly quasi-Western sundry shop surrounded by glass-paned doors stood at the corner where the narrow path met the main thoroughfare.
For me—shoes.
I had come out wearing the inn’s rental geta—made of pale paulownia wood with two teeth, their thongs loose—making each step clatter and clatter as I struggled to walk.
I entered this shop because I spotted zori sandals, but not a single pair remained of the bamboo-bark or straw-woven zori I remembered from childhood shops like this.
Even the crudest ones were lined, their thongs stylishly arranged in the latest fashion.
No indeed... Even if persimmon astringency lagged by a month and a half, zori sandals raced to keep up with the times.

“I’ll take these.”

In the shop stood a young man who seemed to be a second son just shy of marriageable age, wearing a bulky haori and standing with ponderous stillness.

“I’ll take them and put them on.”

Having made this declaration… he promptly changed into them—though there was no one to carry his old footwear, nor anyone offering assistance or even speaking a word, merely standing there smirking as they watched—he had no choice but to commit fully to the act.
……

“How many rolls?”

“I really don’t know.”
“Could you ask someone?”
The young clerk was still smirking,
“There’s no one else here now, you see…”

“Then I’ll take them on my way back.”
“I’m staying at that inn over there.”

“Right away, much obliged—”

It was truly such a leisurely scene.
In some travelogue’s illustration I recalled—on an embankment where pampas grass and wild rose berries lay scattered—about three chestnuts were piled salt-cured on a tray.
I recalled a mountain path scene where tubes were inserted into slender bamboo, four places marked with four-mon coins, and straw sandals arranged beside them.

II

“What do you call this mushroom?”

A small stream ran through dwarf bamboo along the mountain. On one side, taking the sunlit back door sideways, there stood increasingly sparse thatched-roof houses—their occupants being part-time farmers (or perhaps part-time fishermen, since those who made their livelihood by fishing in this lagoon were said to exceed three hundred), who also engaged in minor trade—straw sandals were displayed alongside steamed sweet potatoes at this shop. At the village outskirts, where eaves met the road, stood an old woman with disheveled hair, wearing a dark blue tucked-sleeve jacket over her kimono, peering into a small basket filled with bright yellow mushrooms arranged in such a manner. Holding a basket, her clothing shabby, face haggard, hair disheveled in a gingko-leaf updo yet glossy as if damp—a gentle-figured, pale-complexioned woman in her early twenties walked with measured steps.

The mushrooms were arranged with their stems upward, facing downward, placed sparsely here and there.

The truth was—when I had stayed at this hot spring once the previous year, again in the early morning… At that time, I had walked toward the town and, at the entrance of a stew shop on the street, encountered a fish-selling woman from this coastal area—a towel around her neck and a sedge hat on her head—approaching the spot where she had set down her carrying pole. There, alongside fresh small fish arranged as accents, I had seen these very same mushrooms artfully placed in her basket.

Flatfish blanketed by ginkgo leaves beat their black tails in vigorous flaps. Small tiger shrimp, heaped in amber clusters, snapped taut legs of leek-green hue. Gurnard fins etched rainbows while octopus flesh—five violet patches—drifted like shredded clouds... Against the blues of gobies, grays of rockfish, and birch-toned minnows, the yellow mushrooms glowed with ethereal beauty.

Having grown up in mountain country, I possessed no scholarly learning... yet knew ten, fifteen names for mushrooms. But this one I'd never seen before.... And strangely, mushrooms held peculiar fascination for me. Peering closer, I asked its name—"Shimokoshi," came the reply.

"Ah, *shimokoshi*." Early November—too cold now even for *shimeji*, let alone *matsutake*. Did "frost-crosser" mean it outlasted winter's touch? Or did its sprouting summon frost—a "frost-bearer"? No time to ponder—the fishmonger thrust her basket forward: "How 'bout some, sir?" Meanwhile the stew-shop matron—stout as a barrel yet loose-tongued as a minstrel—

“Go on and buy some.”
“Sir, for a drinking snack… Ha ha ha ha! That’s tasty—boar flavor!” she laughed with her mouth agape.
“Though I can’t say it too loudly before ladies and gentlemen—‘boar’ in our local dialect… well, I’ll leave that to your imagination.”

I had learned it through song.

If one gazes upon the hot spring town from Yakushi Mountain, wild boars groom their manes and adorn themselves.

No—I had just uttered that denial when I found myself directionless... At that time I hurried toward the train station where I'd arrived the previous night—let mockers mock—yet what remains unforgettable isn't the rustling wind but the lake's blue water gliding through reed leaves, that elegance of frost-crossing yellow mushrooms sweeping over unloaded cargo—over small fish and fungi alike.
I won't say it was everyone's reason, but half my purpose in returning to these hot springs lay captivated by these mushrooms.

Though I had nearly learned the name, drawn closer to something familiar, I found myself asking once more.

"What do you call this mushroom?"

No matter what—one being another man’s wife, the other undoubtedly a lady of refinement—to thrust my face between them like that was, upon reflection, utterly ill-mannered; in the city, this would earn a scolding from the police box.

"It’s shimokoshi, you see," said the old woman buyer.

"You’re beautiful."

I blurted out without thinking.
As the young woman drew near, struck by her beauty, I averted my gaze without thinking.

“This one here,”

and about three in the corner.
This one was tea-brown with its cap upturned—contrasting against the yellow shimokoshi like withered brier leaves scattered across patrinia roots—and as I pointed to it while abruptly comparing them to these two women standing there,

“Kappa.”

The old woman answered brusquely, her words carrying a melodic lilt as if spat from her mouth…

“Ah, kappa.”

“Hohoho.”

At this collision of two kappa-faced beings, the young woman—her slightly soiled hair arranged in a sisterly coiffure reminiscent of tea-picking maidens in ukiyo-e prints—let a smile seep into the folded edge of her hand towel.

“Not the dreadful river-dwelling kind—when rains come, you see, their color matches what you’d wear henceforth.”

“So what’s your price?”

Disregarding decorum, the old woman hooked gnarled fingers over the basket’s rim.

“Well now, ten sen for this lot.”

“What a rip-off!”

With that, she opened her bleary eyes wide. While glaring at her face,

“Too high, too high—three sen! I’ll push for three sen!”
“—three sen’s fair.”

“Well,”

“Make it three sen.—You’re in the wild greens trade too.”
“You can’t go around expecting tips from customers, I tell you.”

“But…”

Though the mushrooms cast no shadow, the woman’s eyelids were faintly tinged.

That’s a bargain… I thought to buy them at her asking price and tried to speak up, but there was no opening.
As the woman released her hand and pulled back the basket in one motion, the old woman briskly walked into the earthen-floored area.

I folded my arms and left the spot.

In the past, even when we had set out from the dim light of dawn with the formidable gear of straw sandals, hand sickles, and provisions to hunt through mountains and valleys, we rarely gathered mushrooms in numbers comparable to those we’d seen.

Only three sen—how pitiful.

“Please forgive me.”

From behind came Namiji—approaching without a footfall’s sound, already skirting past reeds in the hollow and mountain roots along the narrow path—modestly passing before me, her worn straw sandals frosted at the heels.

“Ah, Sis.”

I inadvertently called out.

III

“Sir, interfering with those insects won’t do any good—they’re such a bother…”

The conversation having grown somewhat more relaxed, while smoothing back stray hairs,

“If you leave them be and pass on by, they’ll disperse on their own.”

“There’s so many… What are these insects called?”

“They aren’t found in Tokyo.”

“Well, after the rain clears, they do come out in sunny spots like flowerbed fronts, but…”
“They don’t seem to gather in such numbers.”
“Though I don’t pay much attention… they’re even smaller than (shōjō) and look like smoke… There’s another swarm gathered here too.”
“What are these insects called?”

“Is it called the Tarō insect or the Rice-pounder insect? I believe it must be one or the other.”
“When a small child sees these insects, sir…”

And her words trailed off.

“When a small child sees these insects...?”
“Um...”

“What should we do?”

“We chant songs and play rhythms, you see.”

“What do you call… that song?”

“It’s rather embarrassing… (Taro pounds rice, Jiro at dusk, dusk.)… Come twilight, they swarm all the more thickly.”

……I remembered.
My hometown was lonely, and during breaks in the winter showers, we too would sing.

“Let’s get along—don’t oppose me.”

As if batting at something unseen, I brushed off my face, my ears, my head, and my sleeves. Resuming my walk in the manner of Chaban no Saimeiji-dono—where the sun beat down mercilessly and the heat grew oppressive, my discarded overcoat now carried by the woman—I ventured:

“...Because I share my name with these insects.”

Yet this was no humble comparison to vermin. In truth, it recalled how Taro had been mythologized as Urashima’s child and imaginatively transformed into a pearl diver.

Far across the lake—separated by walls, pillars, and tiled roofs of hot spring inns whose section gleamed like dragon scales—the sounds of iron hammers and chants could no longer be heard; yet at the edge of the protruding sandbar, appearing as a solitary speck shaped like a rolled eboshi cap, both that ship and the ship carpenter remained visible.
The thatched hut of Kinōya resembled nothing so much as the sleeve of that unadorned white robe.

Just moments earlier, when this woman had passed by on the narrow path—basket in hand still cradling leaves used to cushion mushrooms—I suddenly recognized in her retreating figure the semblance of that celestial maiden from earthly realms bearing an iron pot.
Casually calling out, I began by asking, “So… did you sell them for three sen?”
Was I meant to lecture her on Enbudagon’s worth? Here I stood quoting three sen to a heavenly being.
……Petty though it seemed, being myself left no alternative.
Cutting through her “Yes,” I burst out with “This is absurdly cheap!”—having hoped they’d pay half her asking price—but she replied in tones tinged with discomfort at haggling with me: “Since you were the one who found them, sir...”
“……Forgive my asking—does this help your household?” Yet even as intended, it proved woefully insufficient.
Praying for her ailing mother’s recovery—“For Inari-sama’s offering,” she murmured—her slightly chapped yet supple fingers slipped into the frayed day-night obi, where a turmeric-stained wallet hung indistinct from a plectrum pouch, only her crimson waist sash vivid against the drabness.
“I’ll honor your price, Sis.”
“At the inn they said matsutake grow in that pine grove… but guests crowd every room and maids scurry about… Venturing alone felt unwise.”
“While we’re here—guide me where those shimokoshi might lurk now. Let me gather just one or two…… Mushroom hunting’s my passion.—” As I spoke, I lost myself in the words until emotion welled up unbidden.

I have a memory of a fleeting love.

She was already a married woman from elsewhere now, but back when she was a girl older than I, she joined our mushroom hunts that doubled as autumn mountain excursions. There were many men and women among us too. Mushroom hunting required no finery, though we weren’t venturing deep into the mountains. Since we had brought tiered boxes and spread felt mats over the reed grass, everyone dressed neatly nonetheless. Among them was a shabby, motherless boy with a soiled collar—the young woman took his hand without hesitation and kindly led him up the slope. Wrapped in the fragrance of robes amid wisteria-purple clouds, I saw nothing else. Cold yet dazzling—where tenderness grazed my cheek on her sleeve—I gazed at her blue obi shining like moonlight while my heart traced mountain paths through empty skies. Soon everyone scattered across valleys and peaks to hunt mushrooms. Seeing that delicate figure sitting alone on the felt mat—on a sun-warmed hill overlooking the distant castle town—her haori removed and one sleeve draped over a lacquered box as she sighed in respite—the boy descended into the valley. But what could he have hidden? Behind where she now sat stood a lone pine marking my deceased mother’s grave.

On the facing hill, amidst autumn leaves, the daytime moon hung clear in the void—there stood the Moon Deity’s Hall.
Young as I was, I had forgotten all about earthly mushrooms, hidden in the grass while gazing up solely at that most beautiful figure in existence.

They gathered around the lunchboxes.
The siphon sake was unsealed.
“Seki-chan… Seki-chan…”
My name—though none called it—was tenderly spoken by her.
Knowing full well they would pierce me, I gripped them anyway—thorns digging into my chest as I stifled my voice—for had I released them now, I might never hear it again…… That nostalgic voice I mistook for Mother’s—how I yearned to hear it once more, just once more, repeating endlessly.
“Toss it aside—they’ll come swarming out to feed.”
I hid so near the men that even their murmurs reached me clear.
I chewed grass blades.
Dew on the grass, tears in my eyes; into the clinging earth seeped crimson threads of water mirroring maple leaves—a quiet, steady flow.

“Seki-chan… Seki-chan…” The clear sky darkened slightly.
Just as I thought her voice might cloud over with worry—that person rose with dignified poise, noble and slender.—At this moment, beneath a sky stripped of sun and moon, she alone stood regal upon that hill.
The insect that had clung tearfully to the grass now burst forth like a cricket; with a silken rustle and sudden sweetness like pine resin—she who moved with quiet grace—glided across the reed mat in white tabi socks and clasped his shoulder: “Oh good! Sis was worried you might’ve hurt yourself.”
The boy discovered hot tears.

After the time came when I could no longer catch even a glimpse of that person’s figure—as fate would have it—my heart and soul drifted through longing, wandering even my house, even my town, through mist as if in a dream.—At the crossroads of my hometown’s main street, beneath the eaves of an old bookstore, the local newspaper was displayed day after day, its front page slid into a display frame.
As I gazed absently at the illustrated serial story in the upper section of page three—though unable to follow the preceding developments—there unfolded a scene of young lovers mushroom hunting in the mountains.
I took one look and felt my face flush, my heart race.—I had forgotten the title; as it’s all dim now, I’ll say no more.
……For fear of prying eyes, the lovers entered separate valleys to hunt—divided by obstacles, blocked by crags, enveloped by trees, attacked by ruffians, threatened by beasts, lured by malevolent spirits—until daylight dimmed…… As their paths grew ever more distant, they called out each other’s names with all their might.
A phrase—a voice—there it was... there it was...!
They accumulated.

――I grew so restless awaiting each new day that I couldn’t sleep at night—standing before that newspaper day after day to read obsessively.
Yet even after three days, five days, six days, seven days passed, those two remained separated by valley after valley.—Rocks…—trees…—even commas…—all seemed obstructive yet maddening.
Yet each one loomed as a towering crag or dense forest.
Even punctuation marks appeared like valleys deeply carved.
……Those sensational red newspapers—they still exist somewhere even now…… But this local one used paper dyed blue.
That blue resembled a crystal-clear autumn sky at its deepest hue—each character an autumn leaf.
The girl in the story became my lover—and what stood dimly before me as I read seemed like tiny mushrooms.

――There exists a love turned to stone.
The boy became a mushroom.

“Seki Yutaka.”
Ah, what a waste… Startled when my father—who had worriedly come searching after my peculiar state—thumped me on the back, I tumbled dazedly from the newspaper like a tengu shedding its wing, returning to the world where I saw people on the street, carriages, and beyond the rooftops, my hometown in the distance.—

O nostalgic mushroom hunting.

For over twenty years thereafter, I had not even had occasion to engage in anything resembling proper mushroom hunting.

“...I will accompany you.”
“But since we’ll be gathering in a group, as long as there are mushrooms…”

The woman from the hot-spring town led the way.…

When the path curved along the lake’s edge, what seemed to be the ridgeway continuing toward Matsuyama lay with sun-warmed white soil.
Late-blooming asters tinted the maple-like grass blades; sunlight filtered through withered reeds.… Amidst this flew lapis lazuli-colored grasshoppers.

Separately, beyond this ridgeway, I heard that harvested fields lay submerged and grebes floated—as if a great lagoon had welled up—remnants of the violent storm two nights prior.
We crossed the bridge arching over reed plumes—for tides had uniformly filled the vast river channel flowing alongside.
The water glittered.

At the bridge’s base, atop the reeds, everywhere—rice weevils danced like heat haze, swirling down in dense clusters, then suddenly darting upward only to flutter down again in swarms.

A single path seemed to drift across the lake’s very center like mist.

Riding the clattering train to stay overnight at Ikuhata’s Urashima—even this princess seemed presumptuous here.

“I really am called Taro—it’s Taro. —Sis, what’s your name?...”

“…………”

“Sis, what’s your name?...”

The woman stammered repeatedly while holding the edge of the handkerchief between downcast eyes,

“Namiji…”

Namiji said.

—thus she spoke.

...Dear readers, it seems the woman’s name was Namiji.

IV

Over there, an old man could be seen alone.

On the ridge path of a white-sand hillock, drawing near while pausing to rest his waist against a thick cane—as if consoling himself with his own shadow that seemed warmer than the greens of the vegetable fields—he could be seen wearing a yellow, bun-shaped hat resembling a Daikoku hood, draped in a sleeveless haori that revealed a towel-like garment at his waist… In one hand hung a basket with a net attached; on his feet were patched old tabi socks and straw sandals.

“I have a small inquiry to make.”

Peering into the gentle runoff stream’s stepped trickling outlet, leaning against the old man’s staff—on which he had paused to rest once more—I spoke.

The old man tilted his yellow cap back on his head, his beardless round face deeply wrinkled around the nose; his pale lips moved mumblingly in the sunlight,

“Now then—if you go straight along this vertical path I just came by, steadily onward, you’ll come to where the pine grove meets the fields and the path curves sideways… Follow that all the way through, and there’s a marsh.”
“There, in that narrow spot, an earthen bridge spans across.—Yes yes, right about here.”

He raised his staff with one hand as though drawing attention—or bending a fishing rod—and pointed toward the pine treetop.

“But y’see,”

and shook his head slowly from side to side,

“You must not cross that now.”
“(he said sternly) …If you don’t cross it, you may have to backtrack a bit from the bridge’s end—but take the left and ascend the small rise.”
“That be the Sanemori-zuka mound you’re seekin’, indeed ’tis.”

He straightened his staff.

Along with the historic site of Ataka no Seki, I had heard that Sanemori-zuka was a renowned landmark.
……But that was not what I had come to inquire about now.
Along the way, we had already searched two pine-covered hills by the roadside, but with Namiji growing endearingly anxious and not a single mushroom or matsutake resembling their proper form to be found—though it felt absurd to ask others about our catch—out of sheer restlessness, I abruptly called out to him, leaving my companion behind.

“No—about Sanemori-zuka—I was thinking whether to go or not… What I actually came to ask about was—”

“Aye, aye. Then, this must be it, eh?”

As he moved the basket in one hand, a lapping sound followed, and the golden scales of a fish that had flipped its belly with a light flutter glinted.

“That’s a splendid carp.”

“Nay nay, this be a crucian carp.”
“Well now... Judging by your look, you went with young lady-sama*, eh?”

He stretched his nostrils and grinned slyly.

Involuntarily turning around at his words**, my companion*** had turned face sideways into coat fabric—silver grass concealing form like bashful tailflower petals—hair hanging heavy over downcast eyes.
As if lured by lapping shallows*****, snow-white toes trembled visible through reed gaps******, shoulders and sleeves swaying mirror-like with feathergrass*******.
Fingers******** fumbled crimson thornberries*********—clustered rubies********** circling wrists like coral prayer beads***********.

“Hmm, hmm.”
“You there—this one.”
“Hey old man… hand over that crucian carp to me,” he said, as if you two—Sis and yourself—looked like you wanted to release it into the lagoon for some Buddhist release ritual. Hmm, hmm.
“Ohaha!”

Laughing all the while, he plopped the basket into the trickling waterfall with a splash—the crucian carp arched its black-backed form into the air, fins ringing out alongside the water’s sound.

“No need for such concern. I won’t be splitting this open for an old man’s meal—this here’s an offering for Lord Inari’s shrine. Once you’ve seen it proper-like, back to the water it goes.”

The staff he drew close tugged at his shoulder as he hunched forward to peer into the stream.

“This fish is hardy.”
“……No call to fret.”

“Pardon me, old man—we meant to ask about the mountains, not the water.”

I laughed.

“I’d like to gather some mushrooms—matsutake and such—but where might one find shimokoshi mushrooms around here? Do you happen to know?”

“Aye, aye.”

He moved his yellow bun-shaped hat in a nodding motion.

“If ’tis mushrooms—matsutake—you seek, then even this old man wouldn’t know where to find ’em, I tell ya. Ohaha! The young lady’s a local here. Young, wide eyes see clearer than this old man’s, they do. Have her search proper-like.”

“Pardon the intrusion—my apologies.”

“Ah now, none o’ that formal fuss…”
“Forgive me.”

“Hush now.—’Tis time to enjoy yourselves.”

“What’s wrong—Sis, what is it?”

“Ah, how dreadful… It feels both wasteful and yet blessed—ah, how dreadful it was.”

“…………”

“What we have here now must be either Lord Inari of the mountain or the Dragon God of the Lagoon—on calm, serene days like this, they say such deities often stroll through these parts.”

Though the sound of water still echoed from where he had just lifted the basket, the old man—now a shadow stretching upward into the mist where Taro beetles and rice-pounding insects hummed—vanished from sight, and even the southern sun’s retreating glow could no longer be seen.

“But damn if it didn’t look like some shimokoshi yellow mushroom that’d shape-shifted itself into being.”

“What a waste… Sir, you…”

V

“Oh! What’s this now?”

“Shimokoshi? Yellow mushrooms.”
“Ahaha! These hag’s mushrooms—what’re they s’posed to be?”

“What ‘matsutake’?”
“Look here—tear this open, an’ inside’s pitch-black, crawlin’ with maggoty veins (a fox’s ballocks), I tell ya!”

“Sir, best wet your brows with spit.”

“Well now—been enchanted by a she-fox, ain’tcha?”

“This here raincloak mushroom—it’s just some bloke’s overgrown nose hair, I tell ya!”

The return path.
On the bridge, those who encircled us completely were the old crones of Hamagata Kukkyō—called by twisted names like “Jāma,” honored as “Onja,” and reviled as “Aba.”
They were the fishwife hags who lorded over the town’s commerce.
A trio returning from their morning trade—swaying their hips and thighs in rhythm with their loads and carrying poles—had gathered around the basket I held on the bridge spanning the reed-lined stream, shouting and jeering in unison.
Some poked at the shimokoshi mushrooms with their fingers.
Others crushed the matsutake mushrooms, went “Tch,” and flung them into the water.

“Here—take a look at real shimokoshi.”
“This here’s the real deal, ain’t it?”

They pulled their carrying poles along with their hips, swaying them before my eyes.
Indeed different.

“This is hardly what you’d call matsutake.”

and one of them knocked the uppermost basket,

“Dull and hollow, then poof—that’s supposed to be fragrant, eh?”

Indeed different.

“Over here we’ve still got freshly dug potatoes left.”
“If sir saw this bucket’ll octopus he’d say.”

“How ’bout one good whack t’move you along?”

“Carryin’ crone-mushrooms—filthy!”

“Eat that, and your fertilizer bucket’ll turn into a coffin—drop dead on the spot! Ptui! Ptui! Ptui!”

I stood dumbfounded.

When I looked, Namiji had shrunk into herself dejectedly, her head hanging low.

Ah, you lot—old crones, wait!…

Indeed, as was just stated—when compared, they were as different as jewels and stones. But whether they're similar yet different or outright poisonous—do you know the care this kind woman took to bring me here, to gather even these?

From there, weaving through vegetable fields and entering deeper into Pine Mountain's pines—though we crossed peak after peak, dune after dune, valleys of hollows—it remained too pristine... Save for the occasional stray pine needle, not a single scattered leaf lay about.

It goes without saying that this Namiji had been considerate and devoted her heart to the task.

“Old crones, do you know this?”

Suddenly finding a small red mushroom that resembled spilled lipstick, I was just delightedly reaching for it when Namiji intercepted my hand to stop me. As she sank down by the pine roots with sleeves gathered dejectedly, her flushed cheeks glistened with sweat while her exposed neck stretched forth pale as if awaiting execution.

“Old crones, do you know this?”

Placing a single pale-pink mushroom before her knees like a votive lamp and pressing her sleeves together in prayer, she said in a gentle, childlike voice: “Komatsu-san, mountain gods—please grant us mushrooms. Bestow them upon us.”

“Komatsu-san, mountain gods—”

“Please grant us mushrooms.”

“Bestow them upon us...”

The true heart remains song itself.

I too was drawn into chanting softly.

“Ah—there it was.”

“Ah, there it is!”
“There it is.”

What he suddenly found was a single mushroom—slenderly sprouted and elegant, like a dwarf half-opening a subdued snake-eye umbrella.

“Sir, quickly—you, over here, here!”

“Ah! The one we saw earlier—it’s a kappa.”
“A kappa shimeji mushroom…”

“Since there’s only one, we call it a single-stem shimeji mushroom too.”

First she lined the basket with withered pine needles, then gently uprooted the mushroom by its base and settled it in place.

Next came the discovery of a yellow shimokoshi mushroom—imagine the exhilaration of that moment. The culmination. The realization of a life’s desire.

“The mountain gods have granted this to us.”

Namiji clasped her hands together again.

“I gratefully accept this offering.”

I too bowed respectfully to the mountain.

Once one was found, then—like patrinia branches—their roots spreading to lay a yellow carpet, foam-like clusters intermingled with those as fine as needle tips.
She picked up a pine branch and dug.
Even though the tip wasn’t sharp, since it was sandy soil, it came out easily.

“Matsutake, oh matsutake—sir.”

“Splendid!”

When she scratched at something dome-shaped like a dried iidako octopus’s mantle puffing up sand, it became coated in grit, and unsteady leg-like appendages came loose.
She patted its head,

“More than a rice octopus, this resembles a jellyfish—a mountain jellyfish, isn’t it?”

“Oh, truly…”

Well now—those old crones—what they just called “fox’s testicles” was precisely that.

But wait—the mushroom hunting and matsutake gathering had reached their peak excitement.

Namiji ducked through branches here and there.
Over the pines flew a white heron—its neck or shin visible—and a mountain pheasant’s wings fluttered.
It let out a sound like a small bird.

The waves of sand dunes piled endlessly upon themselves, leaving no one but us two.—I shuddered inexplicably.
When those wings—that sash—might chance to drape over her, would they be mistaken for some gaudy bird and shot through with a hunter’s rifle?
Only that morning, I had seen four or five marksmen leave the inn clad in cunning disguises like divers.

In the distance, spotting a discarded coat through leaves and branches like a black island floating, I called out, “Namiji—sister—” my voice clouded with love from long ago.—When I called to her whose figure I’d lost sight of and finally saw her smiling face, I knew a joy unmatched in this world—as if reunited with a lover.

Old crones, do you know this?

Making her put on the coat against her will, I too rested.

The disheveled Futago-ori cloth at her chest—wrapping blood—was smoother than habutae silk.

The lake’s color soaked brightly through the blue sky and Komatsu Mountain’s emerald hues.

As before, two boats followed the distant shoreline—one ahead, one behind—gliding with sails hoisted. Their sails shifted between purple and crimson, reflections staining Namiji’s collar and skin.
Migratory birds chirped crisply.

“Oh, Komatsu Mountain-sama has…”

“Ah, ah—how could these old crones—do they know this beauty?—”

“Sir, why not go dampen those brows?”

“You fox.”

As one of them thrust through Namiji’s obi and passed by,

“Who knows how many’ve had their way with you on the beach.”
Another followed, jerking his chin upward.

“Come strut your charms again, why don’tcha?”

“At least keep your legs shut in broad daylight.”

“For a female fox to let someone grab your balls—now that’s rich! Ahahaha!”

“That’s where you did your shape-shifting.”

“Oh… how terrifying.”

“Hey there, sir! How ’bout I sell you the real stuff—matsutake, golden caps, whatever you need?”

“Pay up good money for ’em!”

Those who had passed turned back all at once over the vegetable patch, their faces tangling together as they looked.
They resembled three-faced, six-armed demons—some with mouths gaping black from tooth-blackening dye.
Waving their limbs wildly, they marched off bellowing like crows.

As she seemed about to vanish, I pressed close, embracing her back as if to keep her from slipping away.
On the hair of the woman leaning against my shoulder—in her unadorned bangs where no comb had been placed—a single pine needle stood slanting, vivid green and gracefully poised as though skillfully arranged, perfectly resembling a hairpin called *maekozou*. I marveled at this sight.
While hunting mushrooms, a pine needle from Komatsu Mountain had fallen and, as if by miracle, inserted itself of its own accord.

“Ah, there’s something wonderful.”
“Sis, even if these aren’t the right mushrooms—it doesn’t matter.”
“I got something good today—show me your face.”

With her sleeve hiding it,

“No—show me your bangs properly. Just touch it with your hand and see—it’s something remarkable.”

“Yes.”

When she gently pulled it out, it rested lightly on her palm.
If there were a pine in my name, this would indeed be its very tattoo.

“What a splendid hairpin!
Stuck in your bangs like that—the way it looks—it’s just perfect.”

Tears added beads to the pine needle,

“Sir—please forgive me… All along the way, I’ve been hearing stories from your childhood.
Even though it was your true request… No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find a single one… Knowing it was a lie, I gave you those mushrooms.
I wanted them so desperately that even to me, they looked like real mushrooms… Though this body of mine is shameful, just as you said, I… I even accompanied you all the way back to the inn… Had you eaten those mushrooms, I would have surely tasted them first and vomited blood in your stead.
I deceived you with my life on the line.
...Please forgive me.”

“What are you saying? That’s absurd.—Here, try putting that pine needle in your hair yourself for a moment.… It looks indescribably good on you. Perfect, you know.”
“Please, I beg you.”

He pressed on with forceful words, but his chest tightened and his voice broke.

“I’m begging you.”

“Yes… Um, like this?”

“Well done.”
“You can even style your own hair.”
“Ah, it suits you so well.”
“Now, take a look.”
“What’s this—even if you reflect it in your sleeve, would it show?”
“Is this an ebb tide? The water’s shifting.”
“Here’s better.”
“That spot where the pine shadows lie clear.”

“Ah, forgive me… Please forgive me… If I’m reflected, I’ll turn into a fox.”

“I guarantee it, it’s safe.”

“Oh…”

“Look—isn’t this just like a slender jade? A langgan bead—a gift to you from Komatsu Mountain’s god or the dragon deity herself.”

Here too, amidst the emerald of flitting grasshoppers.
——

“No—the pine needle glitters; it’s undoubtedly platinum.”

“Yes. Your kindness, sir, is jade, is platinum… But I’m gradually… Oh no, my mouth is splitting.”

“Yes.”

“My eyes are slanting up…”

“What nonsense.
“If the one who lied with mushrooms is a fox, then I who deceived with a pine needle am a raccoon dog.”
“—A raccoon dog….”

he said and took her pure white hand.

Along the quiet river through the reeds connecting to the lagoon drifted an ownerless small boat.

January 1924 (Taishō 13)