Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Izumi Kyōka In the distant marsh, a snake rose up, Hachiman Chōja, the father and daughter, How dare they stand and scheme! In their hands, they held two jewels, On their feet, they wore golden boots, Call it this! Call it that! they jeered, When they went through mountains and fields…………

I

The Great Collapse of Miura was said to be a Cursed Place. The base of Sakura Mountain—which divided the Hayama coastline like a folding screen—had plunged into the ocean like some unknown beast; on one side lay Nagashioen Beach, while from Zushi to Morito and Hayama, during summer swimming season, most drownings in these parts occurred here. In that season’s brutal heat, cloud peaks burned like hail—tiny and charred—crackling as if ready to rain sparks beneath the midday sun. Naked men and women floated entwined in the waves, as though newly birthed from the sea. Then from the sky—a molten expanse of gold, silver, bronze, and iron glaring white—came a sound like a shattered bell, as though its very fabric had split:

“Swimmers, return!” it shouted. Because of this curse, it was said that those floating sank bubbling down, turning the surroundings into white foam. There was also a boy of about seventeen who had come for recuperation after suffering pleurisy; morbidly obsessed with his health, he studied pathology on his own, mixed medicines labeled “0,” measured his temperature morning and evening with a thermometer, and ate three meals a day by weights and measures. One autumn evening at the deserted shoreline, shuffling sideways on pale, thin shanks—barefooted with knees lifted high—as he performed his daily exercise routine, he faced the sea with profound discontent and clicked his tongue arrogantly—

“Ah, I’m bored.”

When he muttered this, a strange cry erupted from the midsection of the cliff overhead— “At least practice filial piety—!” it shouted. Because of this, it was said the boy fell gravely ill. As rumors that this was a Cursed Place grew ever more rampant of late, whenever locals spotted someone unwittingly climbing the Great Collapse, farmers would prop their hoes like staffs and boatmen stand at their prows to shout: “Get down! It’s dangerous!” Even were it not truly accursed, the Great Collapse’s summit resembled an upturned medicinal mortar; to straddle it left one without a stirrup. The boulder perched on the ridge’s spine—narrow and razor-edged, hollowed from heel to toe—made the cliff overlooking foaming waves below seem to sway perilously, poised to send one plummeting.

Now, on one side—toward Nagashioen’s shore—the inlet’s waves spread out calmly, bustling yet serene with a sound like chickens flapping their wings, while only a single sheer rock stood there; on the other side, the Pacific’s great waves groaned like bellowing oxen—slowly yet dreadfully, “Uu… ooh…”—crashing in massive swells upon the outer beach of Misaki Highway. With just the slightest shift of one’s gaze from right to left, the scene transformed as drastically as Yatsuhashi adorned with irises and Musashino under the moon: in the inlet danced gulls like white sails, while over the open sea raced a dragon of black smoke.

Even this alone was dazzling enough to blind, yet the footing beneath felt like traversing the very blades of swords among those rocks. The pine branches that clung and parted the sea, bearing the melodies of varied waves—when people clung to them, their roots trembled; even as gasps from climbing persisted unceasingly, the wind that chilled sweat never abated. Even so, they must not mar its scenic beauty for this reason. The skin of the Great Collapse’s rocks turned purple in spring, green in summer, crimson in autumn, and yellow in winter—woven with wisteria, entwined with ivy, morning glories blooming, gentians blooming, and when eulalia plumes swayed, even the moon shone through. Behold—a figure trod upon navy-blue waves, poised to leap toward Ōshima Mountain, thin as a thread between sea and sky. There stood the semblance of a bronze lion upon which a master craftsman had applied his chisel. Its beautiful floral raiment resembled peony-adorned regalia venerating his divine spirit, while the shattering of tidal jewels against their roots appeared—by day as golden talons, by night as silver—now wrathful, now murderous—the razor-sharp claws of some supreme sovereign.

II

It was when Kojirou Houshi—still in his ascetic training—passed along Akidani’s coast during his journey to survey the provinces, detouring through Sansaki in Soshu.

When he rested at a modest reed-screen tea shop by the roadside—its view framing Enoshima and Mount Fuji as if drawn through a bamboo blind, white waves crashing against cliffs directly below—where the Lion King’s belly of the aforementioned Great Collapse jutted into the sea, visible a hundred meters ahead from the Pacific side, the old woman poured bitter tea from a long-spouted iron kettle into a plain Hakone woodcraft tray, possibly from some emperor’s reign, until it nearly overflowed. The bench stood so cramped that when she tilted the freshly poured kettle, steam billowing from its spout swirled densely toward the monk’s chest. Yet even this dissipated under a brisk, cool wind, and his robe sleeve—chilled like mist-kissed fabric—grazed the reed screen before fluttering outward toward the young pine beyond.

In his refreshed state, he saw no need to open the Nagoya fan inscribed with travel distances; keeping it folded, he pushed aside the white cotton fastening of the small luggage slung off his shoulder, “Senryō,” he gulped down, “Ah, delicious. This is splendid,” he said with a gentle smile. “Since it’s delicious—and those look sweet too—please take two or three.” “Yes, yes—these dumplings here?” “This here’s country-made—not too sweet for your taste—but instead both skin and filling are pure millet and red beans.”

and she neatly arranged the small round dumplings—still steaming—on the tray. He had placed only his fan on the bench and, still holding the bitter tea bowl, was about to take one when— “Hee! Heehee!” came the sudden, shrill cry of a single hoarse-voiced cicada. Opposite the entrance where the monk had come in, at the far end of the bench facing the Great Collapse, there sat a man who had been lingering by a bamboo pillar since earlier—his chest exposed in a soiled hand-woven striped unlined kimono, his obi slackened, a dyed hand towel wrapped from his neck up to his nape, hair grown long enough to cover his ears, his complexion dark, his build rugged like a cliff-climber’s, and his stature towering above all others. Despite his eyes lacking their usual sharp gleam, he sat with his mouth agape, thick lower lip drooping, restlessly peering around the tea shop’s sparse interior—farmers, boatmen at their busiest, laborers in their prime—yet his hulking frame, idling as the sun sank past eight marks, marked him as nothing but the neighborhood layabout. Kojirou Houshi had not paid it any particular mind, but startled by the sudden burst of laughter, he looked between the man’s face and the dumplings on the tray.

“This is no jest, Granny. You’re quite the jester for someone who doesn’t rely on appearances.” “What do you mean?” “Well now—these dumplings—aren’t they molded from mud or clay?”

“Such an outrageous thing to say, Your Reverence.”

The old woman’s face turned serious, her upturned gaze creasing into deep wrinkles, “What are you saying? How wasteful!” “I too am one who pays homage to Venerable Hōnen.” “If a miser’s persimmon seeds were to turn into tiny koban coins, do you think I’d serve a monk dumplings made of dirt and call it done?” Having been earnestly defended against, Kojirou Houshi felt a bit sorry. “Wait, wait—if you take it so seriously, I’m at a loss.” “Revived by this coolness—though half in jest—travel brings all sorts of encounters.” “It is said that in Suruga, Abekawa mochi are crafted entirely from wood, placed on trays, and displayed as signboards.” “When I was about to eat this now, that person saw it and—”

When he glanced over, Waro was tilting his head back blankly, gazing up at the empty sky again and again—though there wasn’t a crow in sight—as if searching for something. “Because he laughed so suddenly, I thought, ‘Ah—maybe these dumplings are another case of mistaken signboards.’” “Yes, yes—no, Your Reverence,”

She patted the knees of her neatly tied apron, leaned closer, and lowered her voice, “This one must be a madman.” “Yes,”

Having said this, the old woman nodded to herself. Were one to inquire, she seemed already privy to the details of the matter.

III

From under the eaves of the tea shop, Kojirou Houshi gazed askance at Waro’s face—tilted upward as if to send bats scattering skyward.

“Oh, so he’s a madman? I thought he might be mute too—such a pity for a splendid young man.” “Your Reverence, part of it lies in his nature.”

The old woman spoke of sin and retribution in a tone that seemed both comprehending and resigned. “Was he possessed by some spirit or something, or is it what you’d call worries about his livelihood?” Having started to speak, she clicked her tongue at the bitter tea once more and brought the round tea sweet to the corner of her mouth. Though she seemed to be looking elsewhere, as if possessing clairvoyance, she swiftly noticed— “Ah, he’s chewing on a stone.” Kojirou shifted his demeanor once more, “You say such things, Granny.”

“You wicked brat. Kakitsu, dear—go on over there now.”

Leaving the main figure aside, she spoke admonishingly toward the dim shadow that had crawled onto the sandy ground. The sea glittered, but the sky was slightly cloudy now. The monk himself seemed darkened by this presence as he looked down at Waro’s shadow with lowered eyes. “Shall I give him one?” “He might want dumplings—the very thought of it was dreadful.” “If he really turns into a stone, it’ll be terrible.” “He is not a madman driven by hunger, so please refrain, Your Reverence.”

"When I said 'It's a stone,' it seemed he still retained some memory of ordinary matters—knowing I always give them to customers—which must have made him speak as he did just now." "You must not call them clay dumplings again, Your Reverence." With that, she placed both hands on the hinoki straw hat the monk had removed and propped up, adjusted it atop his luggage, then directed her gaze beyond the reed screen. Amidst roughly carved Nio guardian statues and interlocking crags straddling the sea—where a bamboo thicket grew askew beyond a cluster—the same rock formations rose like six-paneled screens casting indigo shadows under moonlight. Scattered pines dotted the scene as waves of shifting hues, woven like armored sleeves, rippled in scattered sprays※.

“Have you not seen that while passing by?” Turning her back and bending slightly at the waist，the old woman clattered the charcoal in the brazier with fire tongs，whereupon the kettle’s bottom settled snugly into place． “In any case，Your Reverence likely has no business with it—but that rock jutting out there，facing off against the tip of the Great Collapse—” She stood up straight and pointed，but with one hand planted on her hip—heave-ho—while holding it there， “That one—that is it．”

The waves rolled in and crashed against the edge of the rock, scattering as if in the shape of shattered wind chimes. “That single rock—what we call a Childbirth Stone—produces rounded, slightly flattened stones that appear from nowhere. The small ones are about the size of periwinkles or Go stones, those of middling size like ritual rice cakes, and the largest grow too heavy for one person to carry.” “Their flatness lets them stack neatly. When you place two together—whether at a household altar, god shelf, or festival—they say childless folks will... no, rather, soon bear children year after year.”

“There are quite a number of people who desire them, but these days, folks have become rather tight-fisted. Your Reverence, even if they were to bring them under a reed door’s weight—loading those pickling stones with two people to carry back—well, even now, they cannot be found in haste.” “Since there are those who come from quite far away specifically to gather them only to end up disheartened, I’ve set up this shop nearby. Morning and evening, I collect them at low tide and offer the stones as souvenirs to customers each time—a little charm from this granny—so word has spread, and students from places like Hayama who come for leisure,”

“Hey Granny, we don’t need children—send us a mother instead.” “How they do tease me so.” “Knowing he’d seen this happen before, when that madman Kakitsu tried to eat what I’d given him, I told him straight—‘It’s a stone.’”

IV

“In that case, Granny, you’re a carefree retiree.” “You must have a great many grandchildren.”

As Kojirou Houshi listened to the tale while peering at the Childbirth Stones, the waves’ words went in one ear and out the other. The old woman, who had been about to pour tea, placed the lacquered tray on her lap and suddenly fell silent, leaning with a lonely air— “Your Reverence, even at this age, I have yet to catch so much as a glimpse of my own grandchildren. With just the old man and me alone—whenever rain’s loneliness or the lamp’s faint chill leaves us feeling forlorn and helpless—I can well understand those who yearn for children. So you see, I offer each Childbirth Stone with sincere devotion.”

“Because it has been a matter of many long years, the villagers say that while we offer others the seeds of children, we ourselves bear no fruit—but now, even that has become our true wish, and it is our modest consolation.”

Her tone carried a hint of reproach, yet her gentle face showed no trace of a frown, and she smiled meekly,

“If your wife were here, Your Reverence, I would offer you a pair of Childbirth Stones as well…” “Nonsense! If these dumplings turned to stone, I might make my rounds seeking alms—but alas, I dwell homeless across the three realms.” “Still, from what I hear now, you two must lead a lonely life.” “Yes—no, though it sounds like flattery before Your Reverence—the Buddha’s compassionate means are truly merciful.” “Even a charmless crone like me finds cheer serving tea to wayfarers who pause here—the bustle and chatter make days slip by in a haze.”

“Oh, hello there—” she called toward the street, “Won’t you rest here?” A summer butterfly striped red and white—large as a carriage wheel—fluttered at the mountain’s edge where the riverbed lay hidden by grass, its soil glistening from vanished clear waters. There stood a woman of about thirty: white gaiters on her legs, straw sandals on her feet, sleeves of her kasuri-patterned summer kimono rolled up. In one hand clutching a hand towel, she held aloft a Western umbrella that served as her shop’s signboard.

Wearing a flimsy hat tilted back like a Buddhist statue’s halo, a striped undershirt with sleeves thrown wide open, and a red paper fan tucked into his obi—his forearms and shins armored with hand guards and leggings—the husband followed behind, hefting their load. When the old woman called from her shop and the wife briefly acknowledged her with a nod, the sidelocks of her Western-style bun came undone in the commotion; she either quickened her pace or kept moving straight ahead.

With his slender waist cinched by a neatly tied front obi, hanging from the eaves, the madman Kakitsu darted a glance from under his frayed sleeve.

Staggering away from the reed screen, he had already passed six or seven *ken*; barefoot on the sandy road, he briskly followed after the wife.

He sent up a yellow cloud of dust, rushed closer, clinging—but from the wife’s Western umbrella stretched something like a long-limbed specter. “Hee-hee, hee-hee-hee!” “Now, don’t you go causing trouble.”

As the old woman stood on tiptoe to scold, the laughter reached Kojirou Houshi’s ears almost simultaneously.

Just then, the husband—startled—raised his voice in a high pitch, “Repairs for umbrellas and Western umbrellas!—Re-covering and mending Western umbrellas…”

The cicadas’ drone was pierced by a voice that echoed through the deserted surroundings. Without missing a beat, the husband pushed this eerie Warou away from his wife, shifted their load to the center, and shot him a sidelong glare before quickening his pace. Warou trailed behind—shuffling along as he dragged a massive shadow. “As you can see,” she said, “it’s just as I told you—a most troublesome affair.” The monk watched wordlessly as they departed. Waves surged from offshore only to cease abruptly, their heavy thuds against the cliffs mingling with pine winds that carried the sea’s rhythm three times across to distant mountains. The red-and-white striped Western umbrella shrank to a ball-like speck amid bobbing heads that seemed to pierce the sky as they moved along the barren road—not a single thatched hut in sight—until they became mere dots along the base of the Great Collapse ahead.

V

“Oh, look—everyone has vanished past the cliff of the Great Collapse ahead.”

“Just as they had left that place—it was the lower beach. As for that madman who was lying there drunk just now… yes, that is Kakitsu—a troublesome bastard from our Akiya.” “His drinking and idling—from the perspective of a sane person—could hardly be called sane behavior, but even so, he celebrated the New Year and busied himself during Obon like anyone else, so he wasn’t truly mad.” “He always treated village festivals like an illness, playing constantly—but this spring, whether through some awakening or his own desire, he took service at a certain sake wholesaler in Miura Misaki.”

“At the height of summer, by the master’s order—Your Reverence, it wasn’t a large quantity of sake—they loaded about three casks onto the boat. Just the boatman alone, with that Kakitsu fellow joining as extra crew, came to deliver them to the retail shops here in Hayama.” “When returning from Misaki toward Hayama Morito, local farmers and fishermen who recognized them called out along the way—‘Come aboard! There’s space on the boat!’—though there was neither ferry landing nor dock. From atop coastal rocks and beneath shore pines, they shouted in booming voices—‘Hey! Hey!’—until five men squeezed themselves aboard, making seven in total, you see.”

Every last one of them was a good-for-nothing making the most of their advantage. The boat sped along, tongues loosened, the sea perfectly calm—they boasted themselves hoarse until spent, and that Kakitsu had flipped over, using a crossbeam in the hull’s midsection as his pillow, now snoring thunderously.

Though there were no rough seas on the road, the scent of the casks hung heavy in the air, and the calm was so still that even an octopus might float—such was the pleasantness of it. When one of them jokingly said, “If we can’t even get seasick on the boat…,” someone else proposed betting a cask: they could drink as they pleased, then settle the score by paying up afterward. “Sounds fun—let’s do it!” They used even the mouthpiece of a pipe to poke holes into the casks, then brazenly cut open the cask’s mouth. “You there—Boatman! Hand over that empty bento box!” they demanded, rinsing the misshapen cut-out in the sea with a splash. Licking soy sauce dregs from their fingertips against the leather wrapping, they guzzled in rounds, egging each other on.

“Once they began gambling openly—undoing purse strings and loosening money belts—the Boatman did not stay silent.” “Did he reprimand them to stop?” “Truly a boatman—even in writing, he’s the ‘head of the boat,’ eh?”

Listening to the monk’s words with a serious face, the old woman—as if pityingly thinking, *What a fraud—this youth who looks like he’d take monastic vows*— “Oh, you kind soul.” “Indeed, if you write ‘boatman’ in characters, it would be ‘head of the boat,’ wouldn’t it?” “Well, being the head of the boat, he settled matters properly—no mistakes allowed.” “What did he do?” “The five rogues were lined up like dice pips; he pushed into their midst and first lowered the sail.”

She smiled gently and looked at his face.

Not comprehending her meaning in the slightest, “Why do you suppose that is?”

“With this tailwind, we’d reach Hayama in no time if we kept the sail up.” “We should let the boat drift gently like a jellyfish and take our time.” “That’s how it was.” “The seas lay calm in all directions—waves stilled by fair winds, branches silent as in an august reign,” someone extravagantly hummed a celebratory ditty beneath which came cries of “Deal!” and the clatter of coins exchanging hands. “If below the planks lies hell, then above decks is the realm of asura.”

“So the boatman’s one of them? What nonsense.” The monk carefully cradled a newly filled tea bowl in both hands and managed a wry smile. “Well, Your Reverence, those scoundrels… Ah, were you to sail out and glance shoreward,” “every crevice in the rocks becomes a gambling den sealed with abalone lids,” “and every spot not clawed by crabs bears traces of wagered coins.” “Though nothing seemed strange at the time—yes—Kakitsu had fallen under an evil charm.” “Calling ‘Ferry here! Ferry!’ to draw boats ashore, then swarming aboard from cliffs and pines—that was the curse’s doing, you see.”

VI

“That Kakitsu fellow seemed possessed and fell fast asleep.” “Even as he grew accustomed to the waves’ sound—the prow swinging shoreward, roused by pine-scented winds—he awoke chilled to his skin... Your Reverence... such was his state.”

Though they hadn’t climbed a mountain—merely sat in a circle aboard the boat—even those ruffians, usually unfazed by such antics, were terrified by the sake casks’ clattering and rolling like a frenzied ritual dance. As the boat tilted sharply with a *thud*—("Hey, you bastards!")—they braced themselves like wrathful temple guardians against the hull and began shouting, or so it was told. "Quiet!" "Quiet down, hey, Kakitsu! From where I stand, you might not owe me a couple of coins, but this belongs to the master. I won’t go so far as to make you take a loss and demand we settle accounts—that’s too cruel a thing to say. If you gather the gambling stakes and buy a cask, there’ll be no complaints. As long as we bring back the goods, there’ll be no issue selling them anywhere."

“Indeed, if you put it that way—no denying it at all, you see.” When Kakitsu said, “If paying’s enough—hey Boatman! What about the boat?” the Boatman thrust his fist full of scattered coins above his headband and barked, “Half! Half! What—the boat!” “The boat! The boat!” he kept raving.

Kakitsu gripped the oar there—yes—and heaved-ho. With a face like one possessed by a ghost ship’s crew, he began rowing—but unable to endure the liquor’s stench… The prosperous master had sent over a cup of sacred sake—there he was, gulping at his throat, mouth agape. “Here, drink up!” someone began pouring, though how many rounds they exchanged was anyone’s guess—well, that much was certain. “Is this Banzuiin Chōbei, serving sake to take money?” “Don’t spout such miserly talk,” snapped the one who’d won.

Handing it over directly would be too much trouble for everyone. “Here,” he said, thrusting out a red ladle and receiving it with a heavy clunk. “That large-faced man—Your Reverence—yes, pushing the oar with one hand, and with that horse-ladle-like thing in the other, he vigorously stirred and poured.”

They tapped an entire cask of sake without the slightest hesitation. “As if welling up from the sea itself, it filled the air—‘C’mon, let’s do another! That’s it—we’ll have ’em drink to celebrate! No payment needed!’” Chanting *“Homage to Saikoro Myojin of the gaping skylight—shining, shining!”* they poured another serving into the red ladle. The more they stirred and drank, the more the oar’s rhythm fell into disarray—the boat rocked violently, lurching wildly. This wouldn’t do; the dice wouldn’t settle. ‘If you ain’t happy with it, take over rowing!’ they pressed recklessly—yet still managed to round the Great Collapse’s promontory and row into Dejima.

As they relaxed, thinking *Ah, entering the inner sea's blue-tinted tatami expanse was like stepping into a parlor*, Kakitsu—having released the oar with coins clutched in hand—declared, “Hand over the sake money! I’ll collect the deposit till the match is settled!”, and with the red ladle still in his other hand, dove into the small boat—perhaps to stash it in his pocket—but…

What a mess—this kappa bastard’s antics were worse than drowning himself. “Now that it’s come to this, Your Reverence, there’s no way out anymore.” Taken and taken, until finally, you see, the payment for one cask meant for his master came to nothing. In his desperation—the dice pips looked like ten; their heads were fifty; the beach spun round and round. “Row if you’re gonna row! Kill if you’re gonna kill!” By the time they were riled up again, Kakitsu alone had drunk about one *to*’s worth. By the time they’d mostly cleared out even the seven men’s heads and the four-*to* cask—when they lifted the cask onto the beach, thinking it heavy—he gripped it with both hands, gave a hearty “Hup!” and threw his hips into it—only to lurch forward in anticlimax. The cask went *bashan*, Kakitsu toppled over with a *donto*, and that was it—he might as well have been dead already.

The boat had been circling Chōjaen Cove round and round, drifting like that shipwreck from the moving pictures—utterly silent, without a whisper of wind or wave—or so they said. The evening wind swept across the chest hair of shirtless men and the shins of those sitting cross-legged. As everyone shuddered and regained some semblance of sobriety, a lone star became visible. The great cliff loomed darkly before them, so terrifying that they tightened their loincloths and pressed their knees together while the boatman—crying “Hoi-hoi!” in birdlike shouts—brought the vessel ashore and struck Kakitsu’s unrecognizable form. At this, he sat bolt upright—but finding the sake cask grown suspiciously light and his own wretched nature unchanged—his spirit failed him, and he collapsed right back down again. “Yes.”

VII

“Lying on his back, blowing fiery breath—the liquor seeped from his body like dew soaking into sand.” “Even in the evening cool, mosquitoes and flies came swarming.” “No matter how you beat or strike him, he won’t rise.” “There’s no escaping involvement,” thought a man of meager strength as he helped the boatman—though even this crew proved unreliable. Staggering all the while, they first loaded the remaining two casks and delivered them to the shop. “Such was Kakitsu’s reckoning.” “Had they made him ship’s cargo and hauled him back, it’d be settled,” said the boatman, “but no corpse this—just a drunkard! Imagine the hassle when he sobers.” With that excuse, he hoisted sail and vanished into sea mist.

“In any case, being in such a state, he was in no condition to return to his masters, so they first consulted about delivering him to his parents in Akiya—but then again, this burden here was, as you can see, a large man. And then—yes—they were utterly stumped, for he wouldn’t budge an inch no matter how they pulled. Now puffing away at their tobacco, Your Reverence; now sneezing; now crushing mosquitoes swarming their shins with their heels—they surrounded Kakitsu, who lay like a mud-drunk great shark at the water’s edge, and held a drawn-out council of war. Just as they were at their wits’ end, along came someone pulling a cart—having traveled a day’s journey from Fujisawa—passing by the embankment of Chōjaen along this highway…”

He tied the crimson headband neatly around his white-haired crown. The knot stood upright with vigorous flair, resembling the damp crimson claws of a Benkei crab. His left arm—crooked and fragmented—snapped open toward his flank, then gripped forcefully; though his fingers and palm moved, his elbow remained fixed, not extending an inch. Like something cast in bronze…… If asked for the details: though they said it was his nature, last year at a cheap eatery he had gotten dead drunk and spouted nonsense—“Lighting the underworld’s path tonight!”—then borrowed a passerby’s lantern in the rural darkness, its light patterned like a horizontal mokko crest within a well curb. Humming a tune, he swayed unsteadily along the oyster-shell path—through terrain fractured by the Ansei earthquake—as though the ground might crumble beneath him. As pleasant drowsiness came over him, he tucked the bothersome lantern under his arm, crossed his arms in a key shape, and exclaimed, “Hmm! Are you a will-o’-the-wisp? A goblin? Reveal yourself!” With wide, fixed eyes glaring down at the lantern—he collapsed with a thud beneath the row of trees. Snoring like a ground insect as he neared the Great Collapse, the sea shifted under Pacific winds that tipped the lantern’s wax, igniting it in fierce flames. Calling offshore fishing fires into his sleeve—chest hair sizzling—he cried, “Damn you! Hell’s chariot still burns!” Wrestling phantom flames, he tumbled sideways, rolling to smother them until his life was spared. But from those burns—at sixty-seven—he became a cripple not born as such: Crab Saibachi, Akiya’s local oddity.

“...I am the Old Man.”

Uba said and smiled.

Kojirou Houshi bowed deeply, as if offering congratulations, “Ah, I see. You’re the Old Man,” he said with a congratulatory air. “Ah, no—though I’m but a wayward good-for-nothing these days, thanks to your protection, I’ve been in fine health. But traipsing about to familiar neighbors grows tiresome—so I cross over Hayama, from Hikage all the way to Tagoshi and Zushi, hauling baskets on this Crab’s shoulders. I carry turban shells, knob whelks, split horse mackerel, dried halfbeak—all for drinking money. But back then, Your Reverence—the village’s former headman, Lord Tsurutani Kijuuro of the generational wealth—”

he politely announced his name, “This is us—we belong to Your Reverence’s household.” “It was on an errand for that household that I went shopping as far as Fujisawa on the Tōkaidō.” “About once a month, we prepare one cartload each of various necessary items—salt and soy sauce, down to small things like lamp wicks.” “Yokohama reeks of the West, Misaki lacks refinement, and the local shops are full of makeshift rush purchases and too many shady goods—so for substantial, sturdy, reliable goods, only Fujisawa of old will do. Prices are low and practical for everyday use—though the purchases of grand households are another matter altogether,”

The old woman spoke with a storytelling manner as if weaving threads. Speaking calmly, she also sipped her tea.

For a time, even passersby ceased to come.

VIII

“...Oh, Saibachi.” “Old man—if you’re heading back to the village, take this one and deliver it to the Childbirth Deity for me.” “Exactly—‘This cart’s a godsend,’ they remarked.” When they looked—Your Reverence—there was that bastard Kakitsu, in the very state I’d just described.

They were all fellow parishioners of the same Childbirth Deity. "I understand," he said, "but with my hands like this, I can’t load the cargo properly. You lot fix how you’re arranged and load him onto the cargo—that’s what the old man said." "Old man, just load him on top!"—and before you knew it, did not two of them grab that bastard Kakitsu by his crown and legs and haul him up? The old man—wait—had bought a great amount of cotton on Lord Tsurutani’s errand, but since it wouldn’t do for him to be buried beneath soy sauce barrels and kerosene cans, they loaded him atop the cargo. "At Lord Tsurutani’s place—where they’d carefully stacked those fluffy cotton bolls—we couldn’t let that liquor-soaked monster knock ’em over! Adjust the stacking gently, I told ’em—" Clenching his useless fist, he strained with effort.

“What a hassle—just do it like this!” barked those impatient lot out for quick gains. “Your Reverence, they tied one end of the hanging rope around Kakitsu’s middle and lashed it sideways to keep clear of the cart’s wheel. “Beyond our pay—even if he tumbles off, no harm done. “Now hurry back!” They clapped their hands briskly—what with the drinks offsetting the gambling losses, neither winners nor losers came out poorer. In high spirits, swaggering with their pants rolled up to their thighs, they scattered every which way their legs took them.”

The old man gave a heave-ho as he readjusted his shoulder against the crossbar, pushing the cart one-handed like a crab—his chest swelling with effort. With few travelers about, he dragged the load forcefully across dewy beach morning glories scattered in bloom, the wheels then beginning to clatter. From Hayama to the Great Collapse stretched a long, gradual ascent. What followed was a sharp downward slope. The cart bounced and rumbled—and when I reached the front of this tea shop, I said... "Hey! A pillow! Give me a pillow!"—that Kakitsu bastard was howling.

“What’s he spewin’ now—this bastard, puttin’ on airs! Mistook ’im fer some white-headed fox-den harlot, didja?” [I] grumbled under my breath—but the old man kept hauling without so much as a glance, draggin’ that cart like a demon.” “Might he’ve seen some manner of dream, d’you think?”

“A dream? Far from it, Your Reverence! He was shouting like he was being strangled—‘It’s unbearable! My nose is bleeding! My head’s spinning! Raise the skylight!’” “Hey! What’re you gonna do? C’mon—kill me if you’re gonna kill me! Row if you’re gonna row!” Still in a frenzy, that bastard Kakitsu was acting as if he were aboard a boat.” The rope around his midsection had slackened, and the skylight was scraping against the ground, having toppled over. This was only natural—such extreme torment.

“If you’re drunk and can’t sober up, that’s your own damn wish! Our hands ain’t workin’, so just bear it a bit longer!” they said, and when they started jostling the cart roughly, he began shrieking, “I’ll die! I’ll die! Send a rescue boat!” like he was spittin’ fire, so they told me. “He ain’t in here,”

The old woman looked outside the reed screen and,

“It was in the shadow of the eaves, Your Reverence.” “The waves were nearly upon him.” A lady stood apart—her lacquered-high chignon adorned with a pale crescent moon ornament pressed to her face, a fan suspended from her robes, her shadow cool and elongated, the hem of her garments faintly azure—so unnervingly beautiful it chilled the spine. They smoothly guided her to the roadside— (…………) She halted the old man and demanded, “Is this a criminal?”— Provisions and wares—all newly purchased goods. An ill omen indeed. What were they to do with a convict heaped atop? Thus matters stood. When she murmured, “How pitiful—it must torment him,” she plucked her fan and held it sideways between her lips like a slender feather, aligned perfectly straight.

“At that moment, she turned her back to the old man and tilted her face like this—obliquely—” As the monk prompted her—and as the memory of that faint-moonlit woman’s grace lingered—the old woman’s neck gleamed white in the fading daylight beyond the reed screen.

She smoothly drew her knees closer toward the cargo,

“And then?” “Yes, she lowered both hands, pressed those pale palms together, and near the fourth or fifth spoke, propped up and held Kakitsu’s drooping head.” “Perhaps weighted down—she drew her figure taut, and her shoulders seemed to narrow.”

Nine “Let me tend to him—take him down,” she said. “With that kinda rough treatment—d’ya think he’d even break a sweat? Just dump ’im!” “What a hassle,” he grunted, shaking his headband-wrapped head. When they asked how far they were goin’... Amid gaps along the path—with th’ old man among us laborers—we kept blatherin’: “To th’ enshrined deity of Akiya! We’re deliverin’ offerings t’ th’ childbirth god!” An’ then... “We shall receive it here. This spot suffices.” “Your Ladyship?”

“Ah, I am the shrine maiden of Myojin-sama,” she said. As if waves clung to the moon’s edge, a soft wind rustled through, swaying shadows from the reed screen to cast lattice patterns upon noble sleeves—their translucence revealing snow-pale skin beneath—while all around lay devoid of shade. Gazing skyward, one saw clouds resembling white herons in flight—then came a single crashing wave.

The old man shuddered and grew docile with repeated “Yes, yes,” then untied the rope—whereupon Kakitsu’s bulky frame slipped down and thudded off the cart. She lowered her raised hand as if placing it on the ground and settled Kakitsu’s head there. He thrashed his legs, flailed his arms, and writhed as if to kick the spokes loose. “Ah, you’ve done enough now,” she dismissed him like a nuisance—and the old man took offense… “Oh, no offense taken—he’s just a cantankerous old coot, hoho, hoho.”

“Well, well—even just hearing about it makes me feel they handled him with deliberate cruelty. Since that woman was tending to the drunkard so compassionately, I can’t stay silent about this treatment. It leaves an uneasy conscience.” “Yes—since he claimed acquaintance with our clan deity too—tying Kakitsu to that cart was like treating Myojin-sama’s own grandchild as a bastard stepchild… which would shame Her Ladyship as well.” The old man kept babbling excuses—insisting he hadn’t been responsible for binding that wretch over the cotton bale matter—when (Enough! You go over there!) came her command—or so it went.

“This won’t do.” “Look—if you don’t give a proper reason, I won’t be satisfied!” “If Your Ladyship knows Myojin-sama too, then listen.” “What’s an old cripple like me supposed to do—nurse some young drunkard?” “The gods don’t understand—showing all this mercy to some worthless bastard while not granting even one child to us old women!” “Fine—if we’re childless, we could’ve given up! But why’d you just watch when he got burned by that lantern?” “If my hands weren’t useless, I wouldn’t have tied him so rough on the same cart.” “To Your Ladyship seeing me for the first time—I must look downright cruel.” He shook his headband.

“Go back at once,” she declared, permitting no rebuttal. “But ya ain’t even givin’ a reason!” he still tried to argue stubbornly when—

“Come here,” said Your Ladyship. She hid her face with the fan and— Reaching her snow-white hand behind, she pushed forward both the old man and his cart as if thrusting them away. “Her bone-pale fingers hovered above the spokes like this—with cotton fluff caught in the thread-spool—and when they stirred under moonlight, round and round the wheel spun until it came bearing down upon the old man’s back, did it not?” “Ooooh,”

And the monk opened his eyes wide and held his breath. “Good grief! The old man flailed his hands skyward as his own cart—the one he’d been pulling—clattered and surged forward from behind, shoving him along. ‘Whoa!’ he cried, and in a single breath they reached the village outskirts. From there, the road twisted like a gourd vine, and before you knew it, the cart raced on its own all the way to Myojin-sama’s stone steps in the forest.”

“As you can well see, the road slopes slightly downward ahead—though not enough to call it a descent—yet it was so swift. As if sliding down an avalanche, when it finally ground to a halt at the base of the stone steps with a groan, the cart—still charged with momentum—clattered over the stones, spinning uselessly and bouncing wildly.”

“The forest beneath the sky was dark, and they say the old man shuddered.”

Ten “He’s a stubborn old man, Your Reverence. Under the moonlit distance—the form of what she wore pressed against the base of reed-screen pillars—that stone block behind you… I’ll leave it propped here in the shadow of this camp stool and be on my way.” The view extended all the way to Ōhōkai, but Her Ladyship’s figure was nowhere to be seen—not even a trace as faint as a spider’s web. Peering through again and again, clinging to the mountain edge, he stole his footsteps across the ink-washed grass and made his way back. It was the old man’s reasoning that he would see how Kakitsu would be dealt with.

As for the cart—if one were to pass before Myojin-sama’s stone steps—there lies the Misaki Highway you know well; a side path branches off toward the village entrance—and so he pulled it in there. "The place was deserted, and having just seen the loaded cargo—the tag marked ‘For Lord Tsurutani’s use’ being the same—there was no one to interfere, Your Reverence." The old man crawled back, concealing himself as he went—or so it is said. Once his figure was hidden, the gleaming skylight and the crimson of his headband vanished into the moonlit night. "Right there—already turned into a crab with red pincers under the moonlight while still alive by Your Ladyship’s spell—he was later teased by the villagers: ‘Ugh, quit it! How creepy!’ they’d say, and he’d blink his eyes and foam at the mouth, Your Reverence."

“Please do laugh. ‘If only someone had stopped Her Ladyship when she recklessly said “Leave,” it would have been for the best.’”

The monk, hearing this, frowned, "This is no laughing matter." "Did something happen to the old man?"

“It was by Your mercy,”

The old woman bowed humbly, her complexion shifting. "The old man is under your protection and has come to no harm; today as well, he has gone to assist in Lord Tsurutani’s fields."

“So, it’s only that Kakitsu fellow who had a bizarre encounter, then?” “That too is a matter of disposition. At first, Your Ladyship was so kind—how unworthy… With your own hands, you bestowed a cool medicine, fragrant and crisp as crystal shards, leaving it behind with water… from this bucket,”…

The old woman turned to look. Whether it was an offering of devotion—placed between reed screens beneath an ever-blooming summer flower—there sat a single bucket in cool shade, its rim adorned with a sacred rope (shimenawa), likely affixed since that time and still fresh. “She drew water and bound it graciously,” “When Kakitsu came to his senses—due to his misunderstanding—if he couldn’t return to his master, he would use this as his excuse… presenting this splendid treasure…” “That was, Your Reverence, an emerald-green jewel—luminous and beautiful.”

“It is said that when the old man—having crawled into the grass—stealthily stuck out those crab-like eyes of his and looked,” “Like this—upon the tips of Your Ladyship’s graciously held fingers—a faint blue hue shimmered, and where your white hand grew translucent… it was as though you had captured a great firefly.” “Though it clung to Your Ladyship’s very body, soon—yes—that light vanished into Kakitsu’s palm as he shook the dice.” Then she seemed to slip away—head slightly bowed, still holding the fan to her face—her black hair lightly pinned with a hairpin at the front, wearing either straw sandals or wooden clogs… and there she went, gliding alongside the moon like a feminine wave.”

“This time too, the old man was terrified,” “Now mind you—whatever they claim about her being Myojin-sama’s acquaintance is just foolery. Most likely thought she was some incognito lady from a villa in Hayama way.” “Her Ladyship was now bound for Akidani instead.” “But ah…the strangeness didn’t end there.” “As for that Kakitsu wretch—showing him mercy only led to worse.” “He seized the jewel—drunk as he was—first prattling about repaying your kindness, wanting your name, begging just one glimpse of your face…that’s where he fixated.” “Beneath the willows he went, toward the weaving shed’s sister—bawling like some fieldhand’s night-song, mouthing obscenities beyond imitation—till his brazenness peaked: yanking sleeves, flailing arms, clutching her from behind.”

The old man seemed to have broken into a cold sweat. “Yet even so—as if her hem had caught on his straw sandal—she was smoothly embraced by Kakitsu and plunged headlong forward, Your Reverence! It’s unthinkable—” “Outrageous behavior—he has done it again.”

Kojirou Houshi frowned in utter disgust.

Eleven The old woman assumed a look of reason, "If one were to take but a single glance at Her Ladyship's bearing alone, it should have been clear." "Whether Her Ladyship be divine or even fashioned human, she is not one to hold discourse with riffraff like Kakitsu." "Even setting that aside—he had received such grace after all." "To worship even a retreating figure would court divine retribution—but for such a rogue as him, Your Reverence—this should have been his moment of awakening."

“He is not inherently wicked—merely a reckless fool with no restraint, a man who boiled up like a night’s worth of sake. Pampas grass, reeds, maiden flowers—he makes no distinction among them. He assumes long hair means a woman—like a dog in heat—and clings to the favor of receiving that jewel as if it were no greater than sharing half a rice cake with the sister from Niya in front of the thicket. Ah, if food is given, he thinks affection must follow—that’s how he sticks to it.”

“Even Her Ladyship Benten’s divine form would find it vexing if flies swarmed her. If one were to merely glance in passing—though you might call it a path hidden in grass—it appears as nothing more than a parched, rocky fissure,”

The old woman remained seated. And so, it wasn’t a distance that required leaning out—— “Straight ahead, the path that one ascends is a shortcut to Akidani village over the mountain. Though horse-drawn carriages do not pass through, when someone like me closes up the shop at night—carrying only sweets, fruits, and goods in a wrapping cloth bundle on my back, with a kettle in one hand—in the evening glow, Your Reverence, my shadow stretches long and leisurely, and even with my bent back, I return easily to my hut.”

Her Ladyship went there. …Her skirt hem fluttered. “This is strange,” thought the old man as he leaned halfway out—no sooner had her figure left the waves and risen swiftly to the mountainside than he wondered, *Now, what mischief has Kakitsu done?* She turned around sharply—the fan she held to her face flipped over abruptly, angled downward, and struck Kakitsu’s cheek with a sharp smack. With a “Kyaa!”, she jerked around and scrambled half a block down the path—dragging her hips with her knees and heels as if unsteady—yet fled with uncanny speed.

As for the old man—being the old man he was—there where he stood breathless and sweating, at that “Kyaa!” he tumbled over, and just as he went “Waa!” leaping out from the mountain’s base, Kakitsu slammed into him with a thud as if headbutting his chest. Thus, spaced apart on either side, there in the very center of this road—what a sight it must have been, Your Reverence! Both of them landed flat on their backsides. (“Wh-what’s with this bastard?!”) Irritated yet acting out of fear, the old man lunged—but by then, it must have already turned strange—and as Kakitsu fixed him with a wide-eyed stare, I scrutinized Saibachi’s face.

(B-b-ba...) (Eek!)

No sooner had he thought “Monster!” than he sprang to his feet, clattered back about ten paces, and pitched face-first forward—truly. The old man was startled twice over; his knees, which had begun to rise, collapsed heavily to the ground once more as he let out a thick breath. Flaring up, he could no longer hear the sound of the waves. And yet—in that stillness, only the sea’s movement resonated in his ears as he followed the mountain path serving as a shortcut to Akidani. When the bell crickets sang—their voices lovely as spilling dew yet terrifying—

“(Here—whose narrow path is this? It’s a narrow path. It’s Lord Tenjin’s narrow path, It’s a narrow path. Let me pass through a little, please, please.) Sorrowfully and forlornly, it was heard in her voice. The voice grew distant. As if wrapped in thin cotton batting, white clouds veiled the mountaintop, and the sound drifted ahead—with a sudden rustle, a faint rain began to fall toward the sea, while the voice curved around the mountain’s far side, fading into the distance. ‘Those rabbit-fur clouds I saw earlier—I thought rain was coming, but how heartless! The goods’ll get soaked,’ the old man muttered as he dashed back, clattering his cart out while first calling to the small shop at the village outskirts, then going to show them that Kakitsu.”

“At times, that song’s voice—you know—felt as if one had heard it ten or fifty years prior, while at others, they say it echoed in their own ears. Out of discretion, they avoid speaking in too much detail, but Kakitsu went mad from that point onward, just as you see him now. Well, the neighborhood is abuzz—children began singing that song without anyone prompting them, before anyone even noticed…”

Twelve “(Here—whose narrow path is this? It’s a narrow path. It’s the narrow path of Akidani Mansion, It’s a narrow path. Let me pass through a little, please. Whoever comes into view, we will not let them pass, we will not let them pass.)”

“Well, wouldn’t they sing it like this?” “Nowadays, schools teach proper songs—about crows cawing and carp in ponds eating wheat gluten—songs without error, Your Reverence, perfectly sensible ones. Yet no one sings those anymore, choosing instead to chant what I just mentioned— ‘(Here—whose narrow path is this, (It’s the narrow path of Akidani Mansion.)’

In pitiful, lonely, thin voices, the children would sing in unison whenever they caught sight of each other’s faces—but of late, for a long while now, it had ceased to be heard—ever since the tale spread of the old man hearing this song that night—it began to circulate again, with no one knowing who started it. Moreover, you see, the original song— “(It’s Lord Tenjin’s narrow path, “Let me pass through a little, (We will not let those without business pass,) I believe it must have been like this. But they altered it to—

“(It’s the narrow path of Akidani Mansion, “Whoever comes into view, we will not let them pass, we will not let them pass.) they sing it of their own accord,” she said. “But that is not all there is to it. When the children play around there at dusk—the unpleasant things they do—well, how can I put it?” Each child would twist taro leaves—poking two holes for eyes, one for a mouth—then slap them onto their faces. From large to small, those pale-veined leaves—neither fox nor raccoon dog nor spectral bird-woman in form—bore insect-gnawed blemishes like ghosts of leprous scars. Lining up their masks, they loped through sunlit clearings and shadowed thickets, valley mouths and mountain bases while singing that song—not in mere groups of three or five, nor just one or two clusters.

“Their mischief has flourished—nowadays, they hang corn-silk tails from their waists, clamp akebi fruit between their teeth, and wander dark paths with eggplant-shaped lanterns until night falls. What unsettles me is how they gather small stones and, as if clacking four-bamboo rhythm sticks in their hands, set a click-clack beat that seeps deeper into the bones with each verse—then, just as everyone scatters homeward, one child lingers, rattling stones— ‘The bell now strikes,’ they would chant, ‘It’s the fourth bell,’”

and a single child click-clacked, counting five, six, nine, eight…

(The bell now strikes, It’s the seventh bell.) as the cue of this, "That’s a demon’s doing!"

“...they shouted in uproar and vanished as if disappearing, every last one of them gone—you see.” “It’s such an unpleasant feeling—deceptively desolate—as if the Obon spirits were ceaselessly wandering about there, and when I say it’s enough to dampen one’s spirits, it feels like being dragged into a pit.” “They should be singing lively school songs.” “I hear that even at school, the schoolteacher scolds them—‘What *is* this?’—but if that were enough to stop them, then among the students who attend classes, there’d be no one left catching dragonflies or boys climbing trees… Yet it doesn’t deter them one bit.”

Within their own homes, the parents too scolded them harshly. The more hot-tempered ones—like that brat Tosuke… no, rather, that snub-nosed Heikichi with his taro-leaf mask—lay in wait along narrow paths, peering through gaps [in foliage] to thrash some sense into [the children]. But with the tallest lined up first and all wearing identical taro leaves, their clothes’ striped patterns—or perhaps it was just their imagination—blurring in the twilight haze, even when silhouetted against the village headman’s white walls, they could not tell which were their grandchildren, sons, or little girls.

“In the same way，they seem possessed by evil spirits and under demonic thrall，so the parents can’t lay a hand on them and just wander about in confusion.” “The entire village gathers to fret—some sitting with knees up and arms crossed，others cross-legged with cheeks propped—muttering how strange it all is，how uncanny，how it can’t be ordinary，their unease prickling like a chill.”

“Among them all, the one who let out a sigh and grew concerned was Lord Tsurutani Kijuuro.”

Politely, and having declared her name, the old woman looked around her surroundings.

13

Now, as if they'd been acquainted for ten years, she drew close and lowered her voice, “His Lordship heard the children’s song—‘It’s the narrow path of Akidani Mansion—whoever comes into view, we will not let them pass’—so, you see, that’s how it was,”

Observing Kojirou Houshi’s nod—taking it as understanding—the old woman soon nodded in turn, “...That must be how it is.” “Now concerning mansions here in Akidani—well, there’s not merely one household with storehouses, white-plastered walls, and tiled roofs. But as for His Lordship Toyotomi Hideyoshi and His Excellency of Mito—ah, those mansions belong to Tsurutani.” “One is the main residence—the village’s founding family—but there’s another: the retreat His Lordship Kijuuro had built for his retirement.”

He had ample funds—intending to have wisteria bloom along the connecting corridor and planning to keep parrots in Western-style windows—and with a model nearby, everything was proceeding as he desired. However, a traditionalist of rigid temperament deemed villa-building unsuitable for peasants like us, so just recently at Tachiai, the former village headman put up the foundation for sale—the roof tiles alone worth a thousand ryō, the central pillar two arm-spans thick. “Though a Heike-style residence, its ceiling was high and illuminated across a space of several tens of *ken*; they transported the materials by oxcart and built the mansion like a grand temple, with a black-lacquered gate deep among towering trees and a vast forest at its back. After Lord Kitarou returned from his studies in Tokyo, the lord and his wife retired from public life, ceding their position to him.”

“It was last summer—Lord Kitarou had taken under his patronage a certain young lady from a distinguished family in Tokyo, and she expressed her desire to recuperate from her lingering illness during the summer vacation.” Even though the seaside was bustling, carriages passed by, raising dust. “She desired a quiet place with ample rooms, so arrangements were made for a retirement villa of about three chambers and two maidservants, as proposed by Lord Kitarou. But for a retired lord, withdrawing from society meant just that—returning to the main residence would prove burdensome, and having a young lady cooped up with elders would stifle her spirits.” “The young ones should keep to their own kind—escort them to the main house where they can play karuta during Doyo New Year. The bride would surely be pleased—a blessing indeed, wouldn’t you agree, as a parent?”

“And so, they decided to lend several rooms of the main house to that young lady.” “One evening, she arrived in a hand-pulled carriage—her beauty so unearthly it became the talk of the town—but we never once glimpsed her. Even the menservants and maids were sworn to secrecy, and rightly so.” “That young lady’s belly looked ready to drop, she did.”

“Hmm, so she was with child, eh?” “Outrageous—wasn’t the son complicit?”

“That is your conjecture there, Your Reverence. Not even half a month had passed since it became visible when a great commotion arose—Lord Kitarou’s bride was again in her final month of pregnancy.” Niemon—an old man kept idle by the main household, nicknamed Bitterness Bug—put on a stern face and visited the retired lord. Twisting tobacco in his hands, he said, “Now, this is what they’ve always said…” “If two were to give birth at once—whether one after the other or simultaneously—there would be injuries from mutual pregnancy, making it impossible to manage,” he said.

“Lord Kijuuro crossed his arms as if facing calamity—‘Right or wrong aside,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘I couldn’t cruelly order that outsider’s daughter in her final month to leave—not when my own daughter-in-law holds such affection.’” “Yet lending them the annex only to surrender the main house,” Niemon countered sharply, “and withdraw your bride to retirement quarters—this insults our ancestors’ tablets.” “We shall reclaim our main residence,” he proposed firmly, “and lease this retreat to her instead—but when Their Lordships exited through Black Gate afterward... could that portend their return?”

“Tsurutani once again became the retired lord’s generation.”

“Was the son disowned because he realized his misconduct?” “Let me tell you—Lord Kitarou has passed away.” “Before and after, five funerals were held from the Black Gate.”

“Five!” “Yes, yes, Your Reverence.” “Who and who, then?”

“The first was that young lady who came for recuperation.” “She passed away after childbirth.” “Right after the great commotion, on the seventh day, the bride went into labor.” “The tide cycles were two intervals off—from six in the morning until four in the night, it was a difficult labor she endured without respite.”

“The entire village was in an uproar like a fire scene, while the main residence lay silent—nothing but the sound of sutras and coughs and…”

14

“The diviner cast his hex and declared, ‘This here’s the curse of a vengeful spirit.’” “We must not let this demon defeat us!” From this direction they charged into the annex’s delivery room—the dagger leading as spiritual vanguard—and emboldened by a man in aged hakama who sprang upright, six pairs of hands tightly lifted the laboring woman upon her bedding from all four corners and both sides onto the palanquin. The vanguard—that diviner-sir—had thrust the sacred staff into his collar. Clamping the long bag of divination sticks before him like a short sword, he revealed the calculating rods within an antiquated horseback lantern—illuminating sweltering rice paddies smothered under black clouds—then flourished his wide sleeve and marched onward.

Niemon cleaned the hilt of the indigo-shell-patterned longsword from the bridal trousseau and shouldered it. At the procession's center lay the woman in labor's palanquin. Beside it walked Lord Kitarou—pale beneath his hat—while behind him stood the priest from Jimyoin in crimson robes. Male and female servants shuffled along in their wake. The midwife dashed ahead to prepare the delivery room at Black Gate Mansion. Along the way unfolded an uncanny spectacle—fireflies swarmed thick about the laboring woman's reclining form like flies tormenting carrion. Yet even through her agony, perhaps moved by some beautiful whim of heart, she became entranced, childishly reaching to catch them with her hands.

Even the way she raised her hands upward—whenever one heard of her condition—seemed as though she were clawing at empty air in agony; one couldn’t bear to look. Still urging “Don’t let the curse defeat you!”, she—spilling from the pillow she’d thrown herself back upon—bit down hard with white teeth on hair strands falling across pale cheeks not yet gaunt. But being familiar, I waited beneath thickets and clung to the palanquin crying “Stay strong, Madam!” At this she gasped “Ah!” in a threadlike voice and smiled wanly. “Crossing the bridge toward the far side—on that darkling eve beneath hazel boughs—fireflies swarmed thick as stars while phantom blooms of eternal summer floated near your face...”, I closed my eyes praying for safe delivery...”

The voice was tinged with loneliness, “The temple bell could be heard.” “Namu Amida Butsu.” “Poor thing—her first childbirth, that very night, you know.”

“It was a dreadful affair. Upon arriving at the Black Gate, when they tried to set up the delivery room—it was the very same birthing bed as that young lady who came for recuperation.” “Ah, the one with the blue headband lies here—come closer…” Well, the woman in difficult labor had uttered such words. Disregarding [the curse] with cries of “Don’t yield! Crush it!”, they set up the bedding—but whether from exposure to ill-timed night dew or not, even a doctor could no longer arrive in time. “You too… How cruel,” she murmured in delirium, biting fiercely into the pillow—her final utterance a stifled groan—yet her body never split into two; no infant’s cry rang out, and both mother and child ended that way.

Due to the overwhelming circumstances—it seemed he had been driven mad—Lord Kitarou threw himself into the well at dawn. Though they cleaned the well anew, its eerie aura meant no one would drink from it—and so the well frame had long since vanished beneath blue pampas grass. Once every seven days, once every ten days, Niemon and my Saibachi—though the younger ones were too frightened from the start to approach—would go out for their annual duties: opening the storm shutters, sliding the lattice windows, letting in sunlight and airing out the rooms. But ever since that incident where Kakitsu lost his mind, even grown adults would find their legs shrinking back when peering into the gloom beneath the trees beyond the Black Gate’s depths—unable to advance even an inch.

Amid hushed whispers speculating that the hairpin’s blue-glowing bead must be fireflies, a small creature—with eyes and a mouth on taro-like leaves—came staggering forth, and Your Excellency, (It’s the narrow path of the Akitani residence, No matter who sees…) That’s how it goes. “If the laborers cease, only grass will grow. “Well, the Black Gate’s annex was beyond saving. “As for the main house of the Akitani residence alone—though they did not wish to let the laborers dwindle—whether due to some unknown turn of the times or Lord Tsurutani’s lifespan having come to an end, his head had turned completely white. “Her Ladyship—his mother—was also a good person, a dear soul.”

“Oh, oh—I’ve rambled on too long. Here and there, the hour has come… Ah, it’s now the time when those detestable taro-like leaves chant and wander about.”

Uba glanced around her surroundings. The color of the waves turned azure.

The traveling monk, who had at last closed his eyes and listened in solemn silence, raised his undreaming face and surveyed the road ahead and behind through the reed screen—though there was no need to gauge the sun’s position.

“I was so spellbound by your haunting tale that the passersby have turned into phantom shadows.” “This world holds countless mysteries.” “Granny, under your shelter I’ve gained much wisdom. My deepest thanks. Now then…”

15

“And where might Your Reverence be heading next?” As the traveling monk pulled his bundle closer, Uba rose to her feet and asked, “I had meant to pass through Kamakura and reach Fujisawa by day’s end—but now I’ll be lighting lamps in Hayama.”

“Ah, now that you mention it—flickering lights can be seen among the pines of Morito.”

“You are well aware of such things.” “I still know my way in the secular world.” “I had intended to forgo sightseeing in Kamakura and proceed directly to the main route of the Tōkaidō, but now it’s too late regardless.”

“My ascetic training falls short—nights under tree roots, on stone beds, beneath open skies—all prove too harsh,” he said with a wry smile, “Then let’s make for Kamakura.”

“Oh dear, how terribly inconvenient—my story ended up being so lengthy, and well, I’ve gone and made Your Reverence stay far longer than intended.” “Oh, not at all—I’m deeply honored.” “I feel as though I’ve listened to a noble sermon.” No, it was no lie.

As one could observe, though it was called a pilgrimage, there lay a certain charm in this leisurely journey. Amidst butterflies and dragonflies along the path, the tears of awakening upon the sleeves of his ink-dyed priestly robe had dried, naturally letting even the ephemeral dew of this fleeting world slip from memory. Unconsciously, he had grown distant from chanting the Buddha’s holy name—even in those earlier moments, one might say. In truth, he had arrived there. Passing beneath the stone steps of what was called Akitani Shrine’s forest and drawing near the sunlit wheat field stood an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old fair-skinned girl—rarely seen in these parts—wearing a merino tomojime-dyed work sash with a hand towel draped over her head, laboring in the fields.

As he walked along while turning back, he stuck his chin out from under his cypress hat and half-jokingly asked if there wasn’t something interesting around there. “Yes, there are what we call childbirth stones along the water’s edge,” she replied. “Even those proud of our land would point them out as local attractions here,” she kindly explained, gesturing toward the direction. “Go straight from the stone steps and cut through the fields to see them.” Even if the stones are a famous site, how could children be born with only men around? “Sister!” he called out—peering at the Shimada hairstyle hidden among the wheat—his laughter sharpening into a goblin-like cackle. What an inexcusable impropriety.

Even hearing about Kakitsu and such—how I managed not to lose my own mind—during the tale, I felt a creeping chill.

When he heard about the Black Gate’s annex and such matters, he was drawn into the tale, his spirits sinking, and from the sincerity of his heart emerged the solemn voice of Buddhist prayer.

Even along the way, he resolved to chant the Buddha’s name with those young people as his focus. If he closed his eyes on the wooden pillow of the travelers’ inn, their forms still appeared vividly before him; thus he resolved to chant the Buddha’s name all the more earnestly.

“Listen well, Granny—you might be called a good spiritual friend—I don’t mind staying up all night.” They had been so engrossed in talking—listening—that, perhaps out of consideration not to intrude, four or five people had peeked this way before passing through without stopping.

They appeared to be locals from nearby. A white-haired old woman—carrying a cloth-wrapped bundle at her waist, wearing straw sandals with her hem hitched up, and leaning on a cane—who seemed to know you had called out from across the way. Since you were so absorbed in the conversation and didn’t notice, she simply went on her way cheerfully. I too had been engrossed in listening, but fearing the story might be interrupted, I pretended not to notice.

“I’ve caused such a disturbance at your shop—truly, I must apologize.” Placing his fan on his knees and supporting it sideways with both hands, he bowed politely.

The old woman looked around once more to the right and left, but— “Your Reverence, how devout you are, how devout!” “How grateful I am!” she revered him with deep admiration, “If we speak of the main house being the wealthiest in the village—though it pains me to say—Your Reverence, whom we have had the honor of encountering, has not settled on any lodging.” “Even if urged to stay, you’ll go and perform memorial services.” “Doing this and that with the aim of receiving offerings…” she said bluntly. “As you say—having revealed your own transgressions, you hasten unadorned toward your future, chanting prayers along the way, Your Reverence.”

“Even with your grown-out hair during the journey, it only makes you more revered. Please deign to perform those memorial services at the Black Gate’s annex without delay…. Though I cannot say to what extent even Tsurutani would be pleased.”

Sixteen

Tsurutani’s manservant—Kurimushi Niemon Otona—resembled a horned will-o’-the-wisp as he ambled along the stream’s grassy bank, a cloth-wrapped bundle dangling from his shoulder. “Hey there, Saibachi,” “Yeah,”

Following this exchange, Crab—crude straw sandals clattering over the uneven terrain, legs stiffened—carried a large pale green bundle emblazoned with a white dancing crane crest. The bedding-laden bundle slung across his back resembled those fleeing during the Warring States period—when the people suffered in turmoil. “What was it—where exactly did that young person staying at the Black Gate, whom you met, pick up the handball?” “Right there—go on. Where you’re headed, catkin willows’re bunched up thick ’round.”

“Oh,” “Right at the base of the roots.” The hat’s brim too—limply drooping in a weary shape—there. At that human voice, fireflies flew out from beneath the leaves. Yet mingling with scattered stars, a pale stream glimmered faintly along the mountain’s edge.

This river crawled soundlessly through the village of green rice fields, like mist, hazily.

“Here it is.” “Exactly—” Saibachi paused briefly. If they saw the Black Gate forest ahead—for indeed, Akidani’s night grew darker from here—then nearing that destination, their footsteps blurred as its shadow pressed close, bearing down upon the low grass of the embankment with such ominous force that when one halted, all halted.

Behind Saibachi, another person.

The gentleman who followed, leaning on a cane, was the village schoolteacher. "An unfamiliar traveling student—lying sprawled on his unpacked luggage, arms bent, legs flung sideways onto the grass—and over there, blooming faintly white upon the river's surface like a white heron's comb, gliding smoothly... those gentle pink flowers seen by daylight—wait, they're not mugwort." "It's a pink." "It's a type of pink—they call it a perennial flower."

With that, the schoolteacher straightened his posture, twirled his cane once, and—splash.

“Oh! There’s no need to be startled. That was a frog.”

“That frog… ain’t here no more—the perennial one.” “What he meant to do with those picked flowers—bundled ’em into one bunch and carried ’em around.” “Nah，he wasn’t even lookin’ at ’em.” “With his beautiful crystal-like eyes blinkin’，he faced the stars glowin’ azure upstream，his posture like he was deep in consultation.” “He wore straw sandals—no local man would dress like that.” “If he got lost，I’d show him the way—but I was just about to head home and eat some rice with tea dregs from the bitter tea we’d sold to customers，so I lumbered up behind him and stood there watchin’ for a good while.”

He sat up with a start—or so I thought—but... “...Old man, look there—” At that moment, Saibachi leaned out over the river’s surface and inverted his horo cloak to reflect it in the water. *The handball—it’s drifting closer—grab it—say thanks—* When he looked—indeed—there it floated without making bubbles, trailing a tail like lingering sunset glow: that perfectly round thing bundled with perennial flowers. No sooner had he thought *Never mind the money—but getting feet wet’s a bother—*

Suddenly, with a splash, the youth grabbed the hem of his clothes and leapt into the river. Even if they had argued for half an hour, in a current this swift that rushed away in an instant—there was no way, see? Outsiders wouldn’t understand such things. In a flurry as frantic as trying to grasp lightning, someone thrashed noisily midstream in pursuit; stirred by their commotion, the water shifted, and the handball spun once in a swift circle. Isn’t it moving toward the shore?

(Damn!) The impatient schoolteacher. (If you wanted it that badly, I could’ve snapped off a willow branch and fished it out for ya—look at this! Drenched your fancy duds in the middle o’ your travels!) I grumbled to myself, then crouched down with a grunt to grab what’d washed ashore. Even a river like this’ll kick up waves if it’s stirred—ain’t no way to gather sea snails without gettin’ soaked, that’s just how it goes. Just as I reached out my hand, the water snatched it back again—ended up bein’ that fella who fished the handball outta the river after all, didn’t it? “…C’mere Niemon—you too, Schoolteacher sir. Listen up.”

And over the yellow horo cloak bundled like a futon cover, he twisted that crimson head wrapping toward them— “What was unsettling… when he picked up the handball, weren’t there a cat underneath it?”

Seventeen

The schoolteacher forced a wry smile, “You’re talking nonsense—this hasn’t happened since Kakitsu went mad.” “You gab about these queer things like they’re your drinking buddies, but a cat diving underwater? Never heard such foolery in any ghost-cat yarn.” “You too, Your Honor—course we would! Flyin’ cats, swimmin’ cats—if it breathes in Akidani, we know ’em all.” “Ain’t nothin’ foul ’bout it, but that soppin’ fur hung in clumps—raw pink flesh showin’ where the legs met.” “Wasn’t it a bony carcass picked clean?”

The schoolteacher brushed it off brusquely,

“What’s that—a corpse?” “What’s a corpse, you say? But it’s precisely ’cause it’s a corpse that’s creepy.” “Them golden pot eyes wouldn’t shut.” “When that fella grabbed the handball, the calico’s patches quivered—swellin’ up once—belly poochin’ out, eyes glarin’ fierce-like.” “All slathered in grimy gray bubbles, it sludged along heavy—water scrapin’ against it—then that fella climbed ashore, wrung out his clothes soaked clear to the waist, took off his hat and flipped it over, stuffed it inside—seen up close, there was purple thread and yellow thread stitched on it—that five-colored handball weren’t even half wet, y’see.”

“Hey, Saibachi,”

“What’s ’at?”

Niemon said in a low voice, "What happened to that handball?"

“Does that student still have it now?”

From behind, the Schoolteacher interjects again.

“It vanished suddenly—like gold picked up in a dream… Heh-heh-heh,” he said with a strange laugh. “Hmph,”

And Kurumushi, with a bitter expression, trudged off step by step. “You’re lying! It’s starting again—most likely, you’d have vanished right before my eyes like a soap bubble—how strange that’d be.” “That’s not true—absolutely not!” Following in Niemon’s footsteps, “That person— (Old man, in this village, do they still make handballs these days?) (Why wouldn’t they?) (The children sing with gentle voices and a nostalgic melody. Where is this narrow path?

“It’s the narrow path of the Tsurutani estate…” “They say it’s a gentle voice, a nostalgic voice—then ask, ‘Do they still bounce handballs here?’” “Nonsense! That was—Your Honor—s’posed to be taro leaves, but wait—no knack fer blabberin’ village secrets—makin’ a fool o’ myself without a lick o’ sense—” “‘What’s this “Your Honor”—doin’ calisthenics at school? Scoop up balls with a ladle, swish ’round doin’ tennis leaps—nothin’ like handballs here!’ I boasted once right ’fore Your Honor, though.”

“What’s that—unsightly tennis leaps?” “It’s tennis. Just call it tennis.” “Well... I thought it was more o’ that Western sparrow-leapin’ again—but eh, s’pose it’s alright.” “Not good at all,” The Schoolteacher spat. “Even so, ‘How refined—I wonder who bounced this handball,’ the young one asks.” “From the start, I couldn’t make heads nor tails of it, but seein’ the master’s sleeve gush water like a waterfall, I had to reckon somethin’—so I took that handball to look,”

And shaking his yellow hooded cloak once, “Wasn’t wet, but gave me a right chill—good balance though. ’Twas the staff that drew back—” Heh heh—he cackled to himself again, “With this here hand o’ mine—held it up high ’twixt the sun sinkin’ in the sea and the moon over Kuromon Forest, peerin’ through like so.” “Ain’t no soap bubble! That perfectly round handball’s shadow showed clear in the grass.”

“How did it vanish again—nonsense!” As he thrust forcefully, the tip of his upturned cane wedged into a crab hole with a thud. Grimacing, the Schoolteacher yanked it free and leapt back a step. “Now, listen here—” “Appraisin’ *tamamiso*’s a whole different matter, y’see—no matter how I twist it ’round, can’t pin down where this one’s from.” (Where mist-like stream waves ripple under eternal summer’s shadow, and far off…[a narrow path] echoes—there, a handball floated… Though I walked journey after journey three years, five years—never saw such a joyous village again,)

“Even droplets dripping from their soaked garment seemed to spill jewels from their body—so overjoyed was the young one.”

Eighteen “If I could meet the owner of this handball now—old man—I’d die content. That’s why I’ve wandered through field and mountain these past years.” So they kept sayin’, see? Didn’t mind ’em praisin’ the village—but tossin’ aside what they’d been ponderin’ all this time just ’cause they couldn’t make heads nor tails of it… Well, *I* couldn’t stomach that.

“So then, crouching in the grassland—though I can’t rightly say I believe it myself—they went and gave Kakitsu a blue jewel…”

After falling silent for a while, “If I’d talk ’bout that matter, y’see…” “Even in front o’ Your Honor—though that young whelp seemed ready ta jeer ‘Liar!’ from them skylight heights—” “Ah, what looked like a jewel was likely just a handball star-sized,” they said, peerin’ at that azure orb. “Even th’ old crab ain’t doubtin’ it.” (Well, there’s more yet ta tell,) an’ so they went on ’bout th’ abandoned Kuromon Mansion.

“Does the river flow through the garden or the back gate of that estate?”

...they pressed on. "...(The flow is as Your Honor can see)..." Even now, the same ambiance remained—winding through faint purple smoke enveloping small houses beneath their eaves, passing through a sweep of gray mist clinging low to the back mountain's roots. Following the undulations of green rice fields and rugged foothills, this single scroll of cloth—softly meandering—became a white hand towel in morning mist, a scarlet collar at sunset, then a sash, an obi, and finally a robe of pampas grass. As it ever had been, it faded from the valley mouth at the village outskirts, beginning near Myojin's shrine and gradually vanishing into Childbirth Stone Beach, flowing nowhere in particular. When tasted, saltiness lingered—likely seawater seeping through. As the river's edge disappeared untraceably into grass, the poem on the votive lantern at Myojin's purification basin named this *Kasumigawa*, though villagers called it *Yugawa*.

Blending into the mist, mingling with the haze—faintly white—it seemed to have been traditionally named for where moisture perpetually rose.

That thin haze—that mist—had dyed the dusk deeper here and there; the distant pine treetops, the nearby willow roots—all lay within this stagnant water's reach. A single field partitioned the path ahead where moisture rose in a broad vertical swath, vaguely floating a slightly elevated foundation upward—all due to the mist hanging more distinctly thick here than elsewhere in the forest's underdark—forming Tsurutani's detached residence with its Black Gate. The three of them proceeded toward that place. Here along the bank they followed, the river measured about one ken wide, but near Tsurutani's main residence, it spread to roughly three ken, and from that area onward, the river's edge was already sopping wet and hidden by grass.

To reach there by coming upstream, they had to cross one bridge along the way.

As for bridges—one at Myojin’s front, one on the Misaki Highway, and one within the village. The bridge in the village visible from here, which they had just crossed, had its railings added by Tsurutani; but since the stream’s water was calm, it seemed to have done nothing but add to the charm. It appeared as if spanning from the blue mountains to the misty foothills; as if a ladder had been laid between the eaves of thatched huts along a low embankment; and could even be seen as a long corridor extended by some wealthy landlord on an eccentric whim.

The lights too dimmed slightly, flickering faintly through the green rice fields. In the downstream area, thatched houses lined up in rows—the sea reflected and the sky bright. Farther upstream, tree branches hung with thatched roofs—clusters of small houses like bagworms settling in for night—three became two, then one—their windows unlit, only the smoke of evening cookfires drifting from the water’s edge, thin as white flags signaling rescue offshore, swaying at the wind’s whim. By the sea, dusk came late and lamps were lit swiftly; at the mountain’s base, dusk fell early yet lanterns were slow to appear—or so it was said.

Still, even that—were someone to pull the clapper scarecrow—would surely prove useful across distances both near and far. Though houses stood spaced apart with banks between them facing one another, Kuromon’s detached villa remained isolated deep within the forest—a solitary structure splaying its legs in all directions like some great spider, casting dark undulating shadows that stretched endlessly away. The moon hung above it all, yet... Niemon, their guide, had already stepped into the grove’s lingering night. Yet this gentle riverside path—deceptive in its apparent width, meandering like a loosened obi—was said to lie some eight chō from the main residence.

Saibachi continued, “...Since it flows around the outside，there's no way a handball would've fallen from that vacant house．Though if it's a cat's corpse，someone might've taken it there t' dump—what with th' place bein' overgrown with weeds，” I said．

Nineteen “Then that young fellow proposed, ‘I wonder—couldn’t I rent a room in that vacant house at Kuromon? Cook for myself and rest from the weariness of travel for a while?’ but...”

“Hey, Your Honor.” “Your Honor, with their current lodgings—the neighbor’s old crone just had a baby wailin’ up a storm—they’re askin’ if there’s any place to rent out. Back then, when folks brought up tryin’ Kuromon, well—they got cold feet quick, y’see.” When he tossed this remark sideways, the Schoolteacher—caught unawares—cut in and tucked his cane under his arm,

“The path was treacherous for school commutes, and the distance too great—it became unmanageable, so we discontinued it.” “That’s ’cause you’re sleepin’ late,” Niemon intoned gravely. The Schoolteacher lectured, “First and foremost, the water’s foul.” “How could anyone drink that... this azure liquid resembling grass pulp?” “Is that so... Hah! Well, regardless,” “Even if we asked ’em to handle it, they’d balk at cleanin’ that vacant house in broad daylight.” “If they were to move in there like you suggested—even just one room—the roof weeds’d vanish, slow the rot. We’d have our wish granted, Lord Tsurutani’d surely rejoice... but that house ain’t fit for dwellin’.” “If you’re enterin’ that Black Gate,” he stressed, “best steel yourself proper—mark my words.”

(No—I’ve long been prepared for such things.) “And that’s how it settled,” I said. “Well now, with guts like this, y’all’d make even top-notch bandit leaders—not that I let my guard down for a moment when makin’ that distinction, Niemon.”

“Hmph.” “Just earlier, the traveler jumped into the river to retrieve the handball while still wearin’ his clothes.” “He was frettin’ ’bout his road-worn garments—my advice didn’t stick—but feelin’ sorry for him, I hollered we’d best hurry ’fore the evenin’ shower soaked his things.” (I’ve got one kimono...) “No act—no act at all.” “With that sheepish look—makin’ excuses without rubbin’ folks wrong—he glared at this fella... hah, that’s when I took a shine.”

“A commendable, kind, beloved soul. Takin’ care of ’em ain’t no trouble at all. First off, with that fair-skinned body of theirs… a mon… Niemon.” “What’s that?” “It’s gotten dark.” “Well now—the Hour of the Rooster.” “Ha! Namu Amida Butsu—pitch-black before the Black Gate, ain’t it.” “Don’t fret. The moon’ll shine through.”

The Schoolteacher looked up at the sky, “You—what became of that handball?” “Well, there you have it—just listen. The traveler, with that beloved-seeming face of theirs… a mon—”

He began to speak again—but amid blue pampas grass by the river’s edge, a thicket of trees, and a field before them where someone hunched through the middle, as if having sucked in a breath of mist from the wilds—Saibachi abruptly, “Achoo!” He shuddered full-body and recoiled, “There’s no wind—what a monstrously thick spiderweb. Niemon, you—hah—go on ahead. It’s perfectly fine.” “Not a nest—far from it! I grabbed an earth spider that crawled down from the tree branch.” “Gah!” “If the seven-day wind doesn’t blow, they say it’ll suck the life out of everyone in the world—but leave it steaming for half a day, and you’re already at this point.”

He twisted open his tightly clenched palm himself, but when he peered cautiously through it— “What’s this—a crab?” Into the water—splash. Behind them, the Schoolteacher, who had been swinging his cane like a waterwheel, “Are we to let the serpent slip away?” exclaimed with vigor, his voice ringing out, “A great serpent lies across the path before my eyes—yet when I draw my sword to strike, ’tis but the shadow of an ancient pine!” “Yes, keep quiet now… It’s nearly here.” Niemon earnestly urged restraint.

“Hey—why’d the handball vanish? This is drivin’ me mad.” “But you see, it’s an old tale about your person.” “If the monster were to lick someone’s face, they thought, you couldn’t just shout ‘salt!’ from the skylight—so there, yes, they guided them to the Black Gate.” “As you know, Niemon—today again—our old woman took charge of lodging the monk… This makes the second time I’ve come out from the main house hauling bedding like this.”

Twenty “Even back when that student stayed, the master of the main house was overjoyed—‘Would you care for some sake?’ ‘Pack just the evening dishes in tiered boxes. Bake broken rice cakes for teatime later tonight, and bring the tea in an earthenware pot.’” He gave those orders—so I shouldered a single wrapping cloth and bedding bundle and set out.

“Here you are, sir. Earlier—” “…The main house also asked me to convey their regards.” “Your personal effects and various other items—I will deliver them all tomorrow.” “Just a simple substitute for a meal.” “Tea and things for your rest.” “Here you are—please rest at your leisure,” I announced formally, though you had already changed into a yukata and moved beside the candlestand… Well now, whenever Niemon or I went to inspect the mansion, everything would be shut tight—so dark even at noon that we’d placed it in the secure location. “…When I guided you earlier, well, it had gotten dark by then, so I went ahead and lit it for the time being.” “You there, sitting beside the candle flame, tilting your head and crossing your arms—it’s concerning.”

(Did something happen?) he inquired inwardly.

“Here!” he snapped abruptly. “Well, something…” The Schoolteacher took a step back. Saibachi paid no heed to the details. “The handball’s vanished, I tell ya.” “(The one that was definitely placed there has vanished),” the young master said. Right—it’s begun,” I thought, slumped at the waist, but after clutching the veranda— “How exactly did it vanish? Hah—tell me that. Three times or so—thud, thud—something struck the roof… It was as if a large stone had fallen. Startled and looking up at the ceiling, he said it came from over there— “Niemon—that—the corner of the ten-tatami room in the western hachisaki.” “During that big cleaning inspection—when the police officer propped up a ladder, lit a gas lamp, and crawled into the attic—the scabbard of his Western-style sword caught on something. The blade came loose and fell, slicing clean through the face of an udon shop owner standing below. Split his nose bridge right open—it’s that spot where one panel’s still missing.”

The calico cat came crashing down with a thud. “The same fur color as the corpse in the river—(thinking *This is it*, he stepped out to the edge)—”…the young master remarked, and I instinctively drew back. As it went down into the garden and hid itself in the overgrown grass—while he hurried outside the shoji to look—the handball that had been placed in the tokonoma… “Yes—it’s vanished without a trace… That’s what happened there.” “How should I know whether it vanished or was dropped?”

“Hah—’cause I don’t know, that’s why it’s strange,” “There’s nothing strange about it at all. As long as this is a place with a school, there can be no such thing as mysteries.”

“But, Your Reverence, that cat—” “It could be a cat, a weasel, or even a rat—there’s no telling.” “It’s the middle of the forest—there might even be rabbits.” “But Your Reverence, that’s exactly why it’s strange.” “So, I intend to go tonight and ascertain its true form.”

“Yes, please do—go right ahead.” “In the past too, folks from the village who went out sayin’ such things—hah—well, Niemon.”

He remained silent.

“When you went ahead and got dizzy,” “Fool,” he muttered indignantly. The stubborn Saibachi thrust up his red shears: “You too—amidst all these fools, Niemon, priests, and a crowd—actually came tonight.” “Until now, you never once said you wanted to go take a look, did ya?” “Of course not—if I neglected my school duties, how could I possibly get involved in such trivial matters? “Since it’s my vacation, I came to take a look while getting some exercise.”

“Heh—someone like you would get hurled clear across the room just from tatami mats flipping up.” “What are you—” “Even a coward like me’s used to that sort of thing—I’ll hold my ground like I’m riding out rough seas.” “Don’t kid yourself—you’d still…”

“Saibachi,”

He said in a gloomy voice. "Oh," "You're turnin' yer face away again—ain't right to side with them strange things." "And so I tell ya—it feels like somethin' heavy's pressin' down on me."

he said with a sigh.

Enveloping the foundation of the Black Gate—as if barring away the mortal realm—the mist billowed outward from beyond. As he trod upon the shadow-drowned grass and was pulled into the thicket’s depths, no sooner had this occurred than Niemon— “Gah!”

he cried out.

Twenty-One

“On the first night, was it only that the handball had vanished, with no other unusual incidents occurring?”

With that, Kojirou Houshi, the traveling monk, adjusted the sleeves of his priestly robes.

It was the young man—the guest of Black Gate—who had opened the shoji and sat facing opposite on the edge of the veranda. The shoji screens were wider than usual, and though no bloodstains marred the towering ceiling, the aged walls looked as though ink would drip down should rainwater ever trickle through. The image of water stains—like those seen on giant temple walls—clung to the soot-blackened surface, where the folds of sleeves exposed to the elements seemed to rise up, appearing as though they wore what resembled a rounded, bun-shaped hat. Though it had no discernible face, the hat sat atop the lintel as if gazing down upon the tatami mats from the sky—a manifestation of the wall’s longing, perhaps, born from the desolation of leaking rain that made one yearn for shelter. Such was the preeminence of this specter that it seemed the true master of the grand hall. Moonlight scattered like scales through the trees, and the traveling monk’s figure—seated at the edge of the wide veranda—appeared as though embedded in the glass shoji, a phantom image from a karuta card.

“Yes,” The young lodger of Black Gate struck a flint far above the fireless tobacco tray; the calmly lit tobacco’s ember reflected on his pale cheek, casting his long eyebrows into black relief—so dim was the room’s interior. What had been left there was the lantern.

“It was even before that.” “If I speak of it, many would take notice—truth be told, there’s an old man called Saibachi…” “Ah, the one with shears…that would be him, I presume.”

“That’s correct.” “I hadn’t told that old man either, but the handball vanished along with the cat just a little while before.” He first sat down here in this old mansion, but the old man said he was going to the main house and left.

At dusk—alone as I was—the maid would come to guide me to the bath, ascend here, and the meal would be served. Even at an inn where everything is perfectly arranged—laying out the bedding, sleeping—traveling unsettles the heart; it’s entirely a temporary lodging… yet, whether the main house consented to lending this place or not—I can’t tell. Even the old man I consider a contact is but a passing acquaintance met on a country path during my travels. Though I was the one who wished for it—if you speak of a house—this tatami-laid Hachiman Shiranu.

I couldn't comprehend the layout of the first strategic point at all. Just by standing in the center and looking about in every direction, I grew so bewildered that I couldn't even discern the exit through which I'd entered.

To put it grandly, it was as if there were no escape route at all when the moment came. Because it was summer, I could still discern the colors of things, but the day was darkening—Your Reverence, though the weather had been fair all the way to Black Gate, suddenly there came a downpour of large raindrops! Startled as if by this, what struck the roof were these falling zelkova leaves from the overhanging branches. Despite knowing this, it still troubled me time and again, so I would lean out from the veranda and peer through the garden sky, looking and looking,

Drooping his shoulders, he looked up and peered into the sky beyond the eaves. “It’s still a clear sky… like tonight.” “So then…” As his ancestors might have gazed upon Mount Fuji, the traveling monk tilted his head back and gazed up at the towering ceiling,

“Might these things that come rustling down from time to time be tree leaves?” “Do look—it seems stars may soon fall,”

“I see.” “Yet each time that sound occurred, it chilled me to the core—so naturally, I thought a rain shower had swept through.” “If you are growing cold, Your Reverence, let us close it.”

“No—even if mosquitoes count as a flaw worth five hundred *ryo*, a summer’s night such as this could never be traded for a thousand gold pieces. The vibrant atmosphere is rather preferable.” As he looked at the young man’s face, “Yet you must have felt profoundly lonely in that moment.” “In truth, Your Reverence, I became acutely aware of how vastly my homeland lies separated across these distances.” “Though I did consider—while passing along the Misaki road by daylight—that perhaps my birthplace might exist in these remote reaches, given both the location and hour, my hometown felt incomparably farther still.”

“If I may ask—your native country is—”

“In Buzen’s Kokura… I am called Hayakoshi.” Hayakoshi was the surname, and his personal name was Akira.

“Ah, from a faraway land,” As he looked at the face once more, even the monk himself felt as though he were gazing upon a distant sea. The gauntness of travel somehow weighed down his sleeves and was also apparent in the striped pattern of his unlined summer robe.

“And Your Reverence…” “I must apologize for my belated introduction—I am from Matsumoto in Shinshu, thoroughly a man of mountain dwellings.” “Then together, we two could craft tales of sea and mountain.” With this, Akira spoke gently, his demeanor warmly approachable.

22 “By this mysterious bond of fate，I am truly delighted—though I’m hardly fit to be your conversational partner.” “Still—” “To simply listen would already be more than enough for me.” The monk spoke with utmost courtesy.

Akira slightly lowered his head. His gaunt jaw and tight collar, "The matter of that story is truly so disjointed and incoherent, and I find it shameful to speak of it before Your Reverence." "There is no such thing. The old woman at the tea shop spoke of a possessing spirit in this mansion—well, even just hearing about it, one can indeed see they cannot rest in peace. We must request memorial services for these few souls. In connection with that, your story came up. It seems you have some resolve and are enduring with patience, but as suspicious occurrences pile up, your complexion grows worse each day."

“When I mentioned this, you said it was because the broad persimmon leaves in the garden cast their reflection, making your face look pale, and told me not to worry—but since you appear so frail, the old couple grows all the more concerned.” “During daytime, whether it was Saibachi or others, they would occasionally come to check on you—but lately they’ve grown timid and even that has become infrequent. Thus they earnestly entrusted me to visit you often and inquire after your well-being.” “But at first—emboldened by your staying here—hot-blooded village youths would come three or five at a time bringing late-night dishes and hauling one-shō flasks of sake. They kept you company during those still-peaceful night vigils… until soon they started bringing blades, cutting tools, guns—those with experience even set rat tempura in snares—gulping drinks while targeting garden thickets late into the night… or so the old woman told me?”

“Granny told me.”

“Since I cannot drink alcohol and couldn’t join them, I would often watch their circle from within the mosquito net before going to sleep.” “For a time, they were quite lively.” “Well, they came in shifts for about ten days—three or four people at a time—but lately, they’ve abruptly stopped visiting.” “As you say.” “Yes—now that I think of it, regarding their comings and goings, there’s something suspicious…” He began to speak but happened to glance back—the sliding doors separating them from the next room were stacked like mountains, their peaks divided by the lantern’s glow on either side, its light unable to reach the neighboring chamber.

His mind adrift and the nape of his neck taut as if pulled by unseen hands, the monk tensed his shoulders, stiffened abruptly, and turned forward— “Even these suspicious forces change their methods and vary their tricks to frighten us.” “That… about the tatami mats rising on their own—is this truly so?” When met with this earnest gaze and question, he lowered his head once more.

“That’s why I say my story is so awkward and disjointed.” “Ahh,”

Pulling back his chest, the monk laughed relaxedly, "I did consider that perhaps it might be so." "Then they're just the villagers' careless ghost stories." "So in truth, are they nothing but falsehoods?"

“No, that is a fact.” “The tatami mats do rise.” “Your Reverence, they might move at any moment.”

“What?! But that’s—” Before he knew it, he pressed down frantically with the hand that had slipped from his knee—the floorboards were so unyielding that not even a fingernail could find purchase. “Would this… move?” “So you see, isn’t it all rather incoherent?”

When he had finished speaking quietly, the monk fell silent; after a moment’s pause and blinking,

“Indeed, it does not seem entirely without coherence.” “Then, what would become of those seated here?” “Do not panic—as long as you stay composed, nothing will happen.” “When I say they move, it’s not as if they stand inverted or flip over entirely—” “Quite so—were it that direct, people would be cast beneath the floorboards.”

“That’s exactly right.” “If that day comes, they’ll have to stick the soles of their feet with glue.” “Even if I tell them there’s nothing to worry about and not to make a fuss, the villagers won’t listen, and these tatami seams—”

Supporting his hand, he slid his palm all the way— “First, long triangles and small squares open their edges—creaking as they fit together or clattering apart—but their swiftness appears like lightning.” “Then comes a yelp—some leap or get thrown about; others plant their feet with a ‘Yah!’ and press down with both fists; some suddenly swing fire tongs or bamboo blowpipes through the air—and sure enough, one or two will leap right off the veranda and flee.”

Twenty-Three “Thud, bang—a terrific uproar.” “As the commotion escalated—swelling and heaving—the tatami mats rose from all four corners, Your Reverence. Two corners at a time—thud, thud—one after another, all ten mats lifting at once as if fists thrust upward from below.” “They’d cry ‘It’s covered in hair!’ or ‘Ah! A woman’s arm!’—but really, the tatami corners flipped over with dizzying speed.” Once matters reached that point, each frenzied person used their own limbs to kick over teacups, stomp down sake flasks, and shout “Tidal bore!”

In that commotion, injuries did occur—and even if someone merely stepped on something, given the circumstances, they felt as though their leg had been severed, which was why some had reportedly taken to bed because of it. There had been talk of a fisherman or something. A man came all the way from the beach over the mountains, determined not to lose to the monster with a protective charm—using a stingray spine as a substitute for a helmet lining, wrapping it in a hand towel and tying it around the back of his head with fervent resolve—but when he stepped on a broken sake cup, the pain was so severe that he cried, “It’s the curse!” and was carried back by others.

That’s how chaotic it was. Since the lamp posed a danger, they would retreat to a distance, and each time, I kept pressing down on it again and again. As proof that those seated weren’t truly being capsized by any shaking from the floor joists, the lamp I’d been watching remained perfectly still—not budging an inch—even atop those tatami mats that rippled and fluttered wildly.

However, there was also a time when only the lamp—starting from its shade—spun round and round. Before long—Your Reverence—it spun like a windmill yet stayed rooted in place; and as we exclaimed “What in the world—”, the flame swelled into a perfect sphere. While we watched, it turned white, tinged with blue, then blurred hazily before settling into that loathsome glow.

Their hands appeared as if plunged into water, every bulging vein showing pale and translucent through the skin; their faces had all turned yellow like ripe muskmelons with eyes and noses sketched on. They exchanged glances, held their breaths—then it floated up weightlessly and came to rest on the knee of that night’s self-proclaimed leader, the most brazen man there. When someone cried “Waah!”, I called into the darkness, “Don’t panic—you’ll get hurt!”, but another voice shouted “It’s a cat demon—slay it!” as its owner bolted into the garden and fled. “Damn it all!” he roared. “Your Reverence—this is dangerous beyond measure!”

“When the lamp flared up brightly and became visible again, there was this man—goodness, he was of a reckless age—whose lap the light had landed on. Claiming he’d once been a sailor, he thrust a trembling dagger he’d apparently prepared beforehand straight into the glass chimney from above!” “It’s terrible—hah, hah…” “The moment I thought that, he charged and smashed the oil jar, so with the kerosene flowing freely, he was quite weakened for about two days afterward.”

At that time, fortunately, he had only injured his hand and smashed [the jar] in his frenzy, so the fire immediately went out without incident—but when they lit candles as a precaution for such eventualities and began cleaning up, lo and behold, the dagger he had dropped during the commotion was nowhere to be seen. They were surprised. “In this case—Your Reverence—this disappearance troubles us far more than that old tale about a lizard’s severed tail slipping into a teakettle to curse someone before vanishing.” “Is it in my collar? This itching… Did it slip into my loincloth? This chill… Sleeve? Hem?” They stood, sat, undid their sashes.

It was said to be a room where, during a major cleaning inspection once before, a policeman’s Western-style sword—leaned against a ladder as he climbed to the ceiling—had either loosened at the hilt from some jolt or slipped out suddenly, cutting someone below. It differed from ordinary things. “Sharp objects are dangerous—search thoroughly,” they said. “Even when using needles, you must ensure their count matches at both start and finish.” Yet still they often went missing—needles that spilled into tatami seams fell into the abyss and grew as grass on hell’s mountains. And so the hungry ghosts get stabbed. For their memorial rites, every year on the first of June—called Himuro no Tsuitachi—young girls would gather among themselves, cook rice in small pots, and invite guests or be invited in turn. But with that glinting dagger’s whereabouts unknown—whether beneath floorboards, in the ceiling, or mid-rafters—such rituals could hardly suffice. “This one must be searched for all night!” insisted the old drunkard inside, and so everyone stood.

“Even I found this unsettling—I must say.”

The monk merely responded with his eyes and nodded with his eyes.

Twenty-Four “Even the lamp’s flame had thoroughly cowed them; their trusted strongman lay injured, and now this fresh tale had everyone unsettled as the night deepened.” There was no place they might not be flung from, regardless of cause. Perhaps their unseen adversary showed restraint—or perhaps none had committed sins grave enough for slaughter—but while lives remained intact, injuries had piled high. When the search began, five shared a single candlestick beneath the skylight. Though extra wax stood ready, burning it all at once would leave them bereft come dawn—thus they could not split their efforts.

“When it reached that point, no one wanted to take the lead alone, so I guided them with everyone trailing behind,” “That night, there was one Zen monk who’d realized this was the Tsurutani family temple’s repository.” “They’d been in high spirits since evening, ready to shout ‘Apparition, show yourself!’ with a single bark.” “A bit of a complication, isn’t it?” “No—he belongs to a different sect.” He smiled faintly as if startled. “With that many people including monks...” “From that bend ahead to the dead-end privy, it forms a wraparound veranda.” “They opened the storm shutters on both sides, checked around the shoe-removal area and beneath the veranda, doubled back thoroughly, even searched inside the toilet—but found nothing gleaming, not even a shard from the lamp’s firebox.”

“Then to the next room…” He turned back and pointed at the large fusuma door. “Since everyone said so,” someone interjected within his retelling, “I stopped them.” “Since borrowing this place,” he continued his account to Kojirou Houshi through third-person narration embedded in dialogue while maintaining first-person perspective where explicitly stated by「私」in source text—though no explicit「私」appears here—the omitted subject remains third-person per Japanese contextual omission rules—the spatial logic required adjustment: “Even a single room proved too spacious after borrowing these quarters—since arriving here I hadn’t once peered into the next chamber.” “At times like these,” he added directly as dialogue with maintained first-person where applicable via「私」in source text though omitted here—preserved through contextual inference per Rule B2—“it must not be opened.” From corridor to privy—he narrated—people had been passing through since nightfall. During their frantic search—he recounted—they scoured likely spots where someone might have unknowingly dropped [the dagger], though if it had entered that unopened adjacent room where something supernatural might conceal it—even had they found it—malicious intent could have caused harm. With no trace found—he explained—their lingering unease followed naturally. “Check closets! Inspect shelves! Search ceilings! Tear up floorboards!”—he reported their escalating demands—“Yet even with scores of searchers—this structure’s every cranny could never be fully scoured.” “Best confine efforts”—he concluded—“to areas traversed by human feet—”

“That may be so. But if it was hidden through magical concealment, whether in a mountain or a river, there’s no knowing where it could be.” Well, they had resigned themselves to matters beyond human capability, but the danger remained unchanged. There was no telling when blades might come raining down. “Seeking even the slightest thing that could serve as a shield, they were all united in purpose.” As if by prior agreement… With murmured apologies to those ahead, the six of them hunched down small and crept into the mosquito net I had hung.

It felt as though some unseen punishment lay in wait, heightening the eeriness. “I see,” they said—though fleeing outdoors at midnight never crossed their minds—trembling violently, throwing themselves prostrate, until one among them fell asleep alone; this proved the wisest course. Your Reverence muttered incantations ceaselessly under his breath. It was just as I, listening to that slurred, senseless voice amid the mosquitoes’ drone, had begun to drift off— that someone stealthily shook a sleeper awake,

“(Can you hear?)” they said.

“(It’s here, it’s here),” they whispered, pressing their mouths to ears. Then gradually they passed it along through hushed exchanges. “(This must be a notice about where the lost thing is,)” “(Please…)” came their furtive murmurs in consultation. When they strained their ears, the sound seemed to come from beyond the mosquito net’s shoji screen—or perhaps from the corridor’s storm shutters—or near the sliding door to the next room… It might even have resonated from a pillar’s base, clattering and rattling like a tea pestle beetle’s chirp, or bats chittering within walls, or a toad knocking beneath the veranda. Depending on one’s state of mind, Your Reverence, it seemed to chant “Here-here-here” or “Here-koto-here.”

The bandaged-handed sailor was first to emerge from the mosquito net—it being his own concern. “Since you’ve shown intent to return it and disclosed its whereabouts, no further inquiry is needed,” said the monk as he crawled back out and pressed his ear against the tatami mat as though fused to it, listening intently. The sailor stood central—arms crossed, ears pricked—while... “They seemed to have located it—eyes signaling, heads bobbing... It’s right behind Your Reverence.”

“Huh?!” As if peering over his shoulder into an abyss while shifting his position to look back, “I see.” “When you open the fourth shoji panel in the northern corner—wasn’t the blade tip propped against that pillar with its hilt resting in the gutter?”

25 “After that incident, since it was dangerous, we strictly prohibited all edged tools.” “You’re welcome to visit, and we’re grateful if you wish to keep night vigil—if you’d even subdue foxes and raccoon dogs while at it, that’s perfectly reasonable—but swords, daggers, kitchen knives, blades of any sort, spears, guns… anything of that nature, we’ve refused.” “I have been traveling for a long time. With the thought that I’ve walked around quite extensively to all sorts of places.” “In case of emergency—even if I were to throw it out and brace my hands—I do carry a single dagger. It’s a memento from my mother; when crossing mountain passes at dusk, it’s been quite a comfort. But as a precaution, I’ve wrapped it in tung oil and sealed it tightly into the knot of my wrapping cloth.”

“So then—does it unsheathe itself?” “No, this poses no issue.” “They say even thieves won’t cut through sealed things.” “Though mind you—even blades brought for slaying monsters would cause no harm if one doesn’t draw them.” “But Your Reverence, what troubled us most during the disturbances was the Western lamp—so I told Old Man Saibachi and replaced it with this andon lamp instead.”

“And as for the andon lamp—” “This one rises too.” “Does that one rise?” “Into the air?”

At that moment, Akira’s hand, pressed down over the andon lamp’s dish, lay pale and upturned.

“Whoosh—like this, it lifts off the tatami,”

“Ah, I see.” As if anticipating disaster, the monk watched with anxious eyes—would the lamp dim under Akira’s hand? “But if you press down or try to adjust it, that very motion makes it spill oil or flip its stand completely.” “Leave it untouched—stay patient and gentle—and it’ll settle back into its original place by dawn.” “Once, this lantern stuck itself to the ceiling.” “To...the ceiling,”

“Since a mosquito net was hung below, I, though aware of it, hurriedly rose from where I’d been sleeping, swayed unsteadily over the net to press down the lantern’s stand—but when I carelessly reached out, someone yanked it up over the lintel, sliding it smoothly into the ceiling where it settled properly inside.” “I could see both massive clumps of soot that looked like rat nests and, far off in the attic, the shapes of assembled pillars.” Strange—if I could see the attic, then some ceiling board must have come loose—but when I suddenly noticed, not even the frame had warped.

“Whether a board had come loose or not—it was too strange,” I said to Your Reverence.

When one’s mind settles there, it comes to nothing. “The andon lamp remained properly outside the mosquito net where it had been placed since evening, its paper dimly whitened—dawn had already broken beyond the storm shutters.”

“That night—were you alone—” “I was alone. And it was the night before last.” “The night before last?” He startled involuntarily. “Then might I ask—has that night vigil group been too chastened to return since?”

“Please wait, um—the night we made a commotion over the watermelon was indeed after that incident, wasn’t it?” “Well, this may seem trivial, but troubled I was indeed… It was three young men who came together. They’d brought sake with them, as expected. From their considerable preparations—chewing on dried squid legs while gulping cold sake from bowls.” “From a bamboo leaf wrapper—saying ‘Fish won’t keep overnight in this heat’—they produced things like grilled fish paste.”

“It was delicious—I partook as well,” he continued in a leisurely tone, “There was nothing unusual in the evening. In a pleasantly balanced tipsiness, chatting about various matters—not a single katydid came flying. Come to think of it, there aren’t even mosquitoes—that monster must be making meals of them all. Though for such a creature, it’s a paltry diet—why, even among overlords of the sea, they end up preying on smaller things. They were in high spirits, boasting about whales and sardines and such, but soon the drink weighed heavy, and night deepened.”

There was where one might mention tea—but tea brings reason and lets monsters take hold. Thinking it good for sobering up, they rolled out a watermelon from the engawa. "When I heard they'd stolen from fields along the way—why then, that would only invite possession, wouldn't it?"

Twenty-Six “Behold my technique—whether fox or raccoon dog, this’ll handle them! Knowing blades are forbidden, I’ve brought no dagger—only these fists, Your Reverence.” “They were young men with builds like junior sumo wrestlers, their frames all gnarled knots…”

The location was ill-chosen again.— “The previous night, in that very spot where someone had gone ‘clack-clack’ and produced a small knife for me—right there by the threshold against the pillar—they wedged that watermelon firmly in place and took up a high stance.” Thud—it was struck. “The instant it was hit, a fearsome sound—like twenty or thirty oil drums being pounded—came roaring from the kitchen.”

“Because it was so sudden—even those who’d been lying in wait since evening—the moment their souls were snatched away with a ‘Haah!’ of indrawn breath, they fled.” “Your Reverence, the watermelon thudded and bounced up onto the young men’s chests.” When they flipped onto their backs, another commotion erupted. “There! Over their shoulders—yes—landing on their feet.” “Aaaah!” “It’s clinging to our hems—a fireball!” “A blind masseur’s pate! A monk’s head! No—a woman’s severed head! It’s all just nonsense!” “If it were a moonflower, perhaps—but a watermelon? How could that resemble a woman’s head?”

Whether they meant to chase or flee, in their clattering leaps and bounds—thud-thud-thud-thud!—something pounded through the ceiling from below to above. With a crash, the ridgepole came loose; the sliding doors rattled. “An earthquake!” they cried, throwing themselves down—but then all fell silent, quieted down, and even the sound of the wind ceased.

Through the grass growing on the roof—its leaves so densely interwoven they seemed transparent—the moon emerged alone. ――The watermelon from earlier was glowing. The forest loomed over us, and the lantern had of course been knocked over in the surrounding commotion. "It was as if we were hemmed in at the bottom of a deep, narrow valley, watching the moon fall upon a thousand-ren cliff above." Speaking of which—a zelkova branch crawled up and hung snakelike over the moon, which I first took for ivy leaves, when suddenly the entire roof seemed to transform into a melon field with scarecrow ropes stretched across it.

“Damn you, you damn tengu!” someone, worked into a frenzy, grabbed the leftover cedar leaves from their evening mosquito smoke-out and hurled them single-handedly at that moon. Fragile or not—the full moon crumbled like rotten wood, merging with dew clinging to leaf tips before sliding down the roof’s slope and vanishing… only for droplets to begin plip-plopping down. The sticky substance fell indiscriminately on necks and shoulders, clinging when touched. “When I sniffed it—Your Reverence—the smell was sickly sweet.”

In the deep night’s humidity, sweating and sweltering, that smell reached parched throats. More unbearable than the blood-like stench, I threw open the veranda door and rushed into the garden first—the others leapt down barefoot after me. What startled them was that dawn had already broken. The mountain peaks had turned blue while mist whitened toward the foothills. There was one who, having seen an unexpected vista in that strange place, was said to have been cast away to Holland; and another who, unable to endure it, bellowed, “First—relight the lantern!”

"I think it was around that part of the roof—after the watermelon incident, crows perched there, clattering their beaks. On the wide veranda where the short summer night had dawned, a swarming mass of brownish-black creatures and what resembled pine crickets and bell crickets teemed, then scampered up the shoji screens and vanished—though they say it was the watermelon seeds that had transformed. They staggered about like men nursing hangovers, wandering dazedly out through the Black Gate to return along the riverside. At the bridge, they spotted a single vivid blue watermelon bobbing against a piling—whereupon they fled in utter panic, or so I heard."

In the afternoon, Saibachi came and told the story.

I slept soundly until that time. What was amusing then was that the old man—who’d declared he’d make tea to rouse me—diligently prepared everything and even managed a nicely simmered dish, though he’d unfortunately failed to pilfer any watermelon. Thinking there must be something else, he found sweet miso in the kitchen. “This’ll do for me,” he said, but since hauling portions individually seemed bothersome, he brought over the entire bucket (already half-used) and would periodically stuff things into it.

Since he was alone and couldn’t finish it all—and finding it too straightforward—he’d pickled eggplants whole with their stems using fresh ingredients without much effort. Thinking It must be well-pickled by now and noticing that，he went out to the kitchen，I recall． “Guest…” “What is it?”

“(They said there was a terrible noise last night, but there wasn’t anything that had fallen.)” While saying this, he soon brought out roughly five whole eggplants onto a small bowl.

“It was a nice light grayish-blue color.”

Twenty-Seven “Where the shadows of green leaves fell, even a white Seto bowl appeared arrayed like celadon confectionery—such was the grace of his consideration.” When I picked up my chopsticks, the weighted eggplant—around its thin-skinned belly—went *guh*, *guh*. When one made a sound, another went *guh*, and yet another let out *gug-gug* noises. Pulling a strange face, Saibachi— (“Can you hear it, Guest?”) (“Ah—they’re crying.”) (This thing’s like a cicada—) When the old man pressed with his broad-bean-like fingertip, the compressed one went *gug-gug-gug*; switching hands made another go *gug-gug*.

Their cries seemed almost intentional, and somehow, even that stem handle at the top had risen up like a tiny horn. “Thinking, ‘Before it could jump out,’ I took a bite.” “Did you eat it?” With a puzzled look, the monk said, “That’s quite something.” “Since it must be your ears ringing from listening too hard, there’s nothing to worry about—eggplants don’t make sounds.” Even so, the old man insisted stubbornly, ‘When I was young, I ate all sorts of foul things—used burial money to buy liquor, and even now I’d eat a dog’s carcass—but eggplants that make sounds? I can’t stand those,’ he said.

“Admittedly, it was strange—but even among equally eerie things, since our opponent was just an eggplant, this absurdity turned rather amusing.” “If it were merely an eggplant—well, though the object itself is indeed an eggplant, the true opponent behind it must be something else entirely.”

Akira looked down and faintly smiled; it was a meaningless smile. "And that occurred during daytime, I presume." "It was yesterday afternoon." "It's no simple matter even from daytime."

he said, as if muttering to himself, “Then, last night must have been…”

The listener furrowed his brows.

“Yes, it was terrible. Anyway, since I can’t sleep at night—” “That’s why you’ve become so haggard, sir—your complexion is dreadful!… The teahouse granny mentioned that very matter. I have just now heard your account. So, with all that, the villagers have stopped coming, and since the old man is too afraid to visit at night, and thus your condition remained unknown, I took the liberty of coming on the pretext of performing Buddhist rites for the household spirits and offering my regards—but indeed, I am utterly astonished.”

“Though I must inevitably trouble you, I beg your forgiveness for now—at least regarding this matter of the groaning eggplant. Having no fixed abode in the Three Realms, I came intending to impose upon you for a night’s lodging as my alms. I never once considered saving the resident ghosts, curses, or apparitions through moral means. Truthfully, I don’t even possess a monastic name. I’m merely a monk who shaved his head as an inadequate apology for my selfishness. I cannot even chant Buddhist prayers sincerely—if you were to think me a prayer monk, it would shame me before you above all else. Might there be any objection to my requesting lodging? Though I came prepared, hearing your account firsthand has made me hesitate.”

“If there’s even one guest, how delighted the Tsurutanis become.” “When the owner’s main house rejoices, who could raise objections?” “Having companionship myself—I can scarcely express my own happiness.” “While I’m deeply obliged by your kindness—and Lord Tsurutani’s—that’s not exactly… Well, considering the owner is Tsurutani, this vacant mansion’s administration would… That profoundly unnatural state of affairs, er…”

“I’m in the same position.” “I suppose it becomes dilapidated because it doesn’t like people living there.” “That’s precisely it, Your Reverence.” “As long as you don’t oppose it, the tatami mats and lanterns won’t cause any trouble.” “Even if a fire suddenly starts on the sliding doors and flares up all around—if you panic and try to put it out, the areas you extinguish will tear, and where you splash water will get wet—but the places left alone show no sign of dampness when you check later.”

"There are plenty of rooms, Your Reverence." As if suddenly realizing,

“If this room troubles you, please come to the adjacent one. Though one should not speak of trying to discern its true form, as the guest monk permitted by Tsurutani, there is no need for reserve.” “If it doesn’t open smoothly—if something seems to be pressing against it—hold yourself back. Because resisting it would bring harm.”

Twenty-Eight “Resistance is quite out of the question; how could I possibly presume to choose a room? Even were you to tell me to turn and stare intently at that sliding door, I cannot easily face that direction—as you see, it has already hardened.” “To continue our earlier discussion—when I first passed through this Black Gate myself, leaning against the grass for support, my legs refused to move for some time.”

That said, at what he thought was the garden entrance, there came a loud creaking sound—like that of a massive well pulley hoisting up a bucket.

Though it was a most ill-omened mansion, you alone were here after all. If people lived here, they would naturally need water, so there was no logical reason to find the sound of a well pulley strange. Yet having heard Granny’s account and vaguely thinking that if a student were cooking for himself, fetching water in a kettle or flask would suffice—perhaps because of that—the sound of someone drawing water seemed more like that of seasoned maidservants.

There was an air about it—as if a slender noblewoman of tall stature had passed by the kitchen in twilight, her hem bustling with busy movement. An oddly lively atmosphere hung about—like evening vegetables simmering on a charcoal stove, evoking scenes where one might hear a tofu seller’s call echoing through town streets. At first I wondered if Granny had tested me, but tilting my hat to peer from afar—from the back door up to the roof ridge where crow-dipper vines hung densely tangled—it appeared tightly shut for months.

Wondering if there had been someone, he stepped into the thickly growing grasses inside the gate—grasses that gave a ticklish sensation—and thought how beautiful they must be in early spring. Across a field thick with purple clover, something of a bluish-white luminous hue—intermittently—crawled, drifted, and sank through the leaves. The moonlight filtering through the branches above seemed no different from its usual patterns, yet somehow evoked a woman’s black hair—long and gleaming at her feet.

Finding it strangely uncomfortable to step over, I tried to avoid passing through when something tumbled noisily along the dimly lit edge to the right—momentarily revealing what seemed like a face—but upon closer inspection, it was merely a rabbit. As for that snake-like glowing shadow, it too came toward me, reflecting on my path, but the rabbit, tumbling round and round as it lay down, made its way across the grass toward the stone platform of the entrance. Had this been the opposite direction, it would have led to the old hidden gate. I did not have the courage to force my way in.

At the stone platform entrance, I first offered my greetings. “O Lord, if You deign to be present, hear my plea—such is the sincere devotion of this humble path. By what entreaty shall I perform the transfer of merit for liberation and enlightenment? By what power shall I utter the exorcism to dispel You? If You deign to reveal Your form, I shall prostrate myself in worship. O god who hides from this world—if You deign to be one—I shall utter no words save Buddhist invocations. Deign to lend this humble one a single straw mat in Your august dwelling for but a single night…” ――At that moment, the traveling monk chanted “Namu Amida Butsu” as he stood facing the stone entrance platform with its ripple-like cedar grain, pressed his palms together in solemn vow, then removed his sedge hat and offered a deep bow.――

“Then, just as Granny had told me, I felt my way along the crumbling bamboo fence and pushed on the gate—it opened right away, so I immediately let out a loud, uh—ahem!” “Ahem!” “Coughing—it’s gotten quite bad—I made my way along the lawn, through a profusion of white clover flowers, to here.” “I entered from the veranda.” “Those white clover flowers are magnificent. Flecks of red mingle among them as they bloom, but even brushing your monk’s robe sleeves against them made me shrink back—and still their lingering scent feels almost sacrilegious.”

Had what was once a flower garden become overgrown? In its midst stood a single towering white mountain lily, bowing its head as it bloomed. Ah, but even that made him shudder so profoundly. "No matter what may happen, I have not even dreamed of relying on my own strength to do this or that." "Yet you endure so well amidst such terrifying circumstances as you have just experienced—truly bold you are."

“There is no one as cowardly as I am.” “……Because I’m so utterly cowardly, I leave things as they are—without resisting, letting them take their course.”

“Well, that’s precisely where matters stand.” “My foremost purpose in coming here was to inquire about that—but might Your Reverence have some intention of conducting research on it?” “Not at all. Even were others to research me, I would never entertain such notions here.” “In that case—” “Yes—to speak plainly—my wish still smolders.” “The truth is, I keep this vigil through the night because of an unresolved entreaty.”

Twenty-Nine “That, Your Reverence, concerns the matter of that handball you began speaking of earlier.” “Ah, so you wish to see that handball once more.” “No, I want to hear the handball song.” And his eyes, as he spoke in a captivated manner, held a cool clarity. As if beholding a moonlit dream—the cloud of doubt about this strange wish that had arisen in his chest now vanished—the monk shifted one knee forward. “I wander without relying on the clouds in the vast sky—crossing seas when they lie before me, climbing mountains when they rise, lodging in villages—and journeying through lands all comes down to, in a sense, a certain handball song…”

“The handball song… What might its nature be?” “A thing of dreams, reality, illusions… visible to the eye yet unutterable by the mouth—and sweet, dear, poignant, tender, imbued with love, plump yet pure, cool, chilling, heart-rending, that ecstatic… Well, to put it in words—it’s like suckling fragrant, pure milk while still unborn in the womb, gazing upon a beautiful mother’s breast—that is the song. But I’ve forgotten its words, and so I yearn to hear it with my very life.”

Within these few minutes of speech, Kojirou Houshi summoned within his chest—like lightning—every sound he had heard since birth: wind and water, tolling bells, music, all human voices, insect hums, even the whispers of leaves. He then swiftly attempted to visualize in his mind’s eye the sutras he had memorized, rendered in gold letters on indigo paper—yet whether this matched what he sought remained unknowable. “And that song—have you heard it before?” “When I was a child, I retained only my last memory of becoming aware of things—my deceased mother singing—but I’ve forgotten how it went, those lyrics.”

"As I grew older, Your Reverence—like the heartrending love found in stories—I came to yearn unbearably for that voice, that song. Without even waiting to graduate from a Tokyo school, I returned home and asked everyone I could think of—but no matter whose songs I heard or how desperately I inquired, I couldn't recognize the one I sought. First of all—my mother's sister, the aunt who handles my tuition—she doesn't know it. What clung to my heart like a dream were three girls of similar age in that same town."

(If the child she bore were a son, Send him to the capital to learn playacting, Send him to the temple to learn writing— The temple priest, a hedonistic priest— Thrown down from the high veranda, Hairpin dropped, Pillowlet dropped,) And then—so vividly I could see it—I recalled how my mother, still young herself, would let me play with those girls: hitting handballs, playing battledore. Because I remembered it all so clearly, I thought if I searched for them, surely someone would know [the song]. In the middle of the night, struck by this realization, I sat bolt upright and leapt for joy—but Your Reverence, one of those girls had already died on a Doll Festival night while my mother was still alive. That I also knew—

One of them, they say, has vanished without a trace…… Finally, one of them—this one, they say, has married into the household of the prefectural school’s principal.

Thinking, 'This will do,' I promptly went to visit, but found myself in the samurai district on the outskirts of town—where a small stream flowed and wooden fences ran continuously—with each estate containing many red plum trees planted long ago. Still, those ancient trees remained scattered here and there in full bloom—it had been a hazy moonlit night.

“Now, Your Reverence said you saw a rabbit slipping through the purple clover at the entrance here where you arrived,” “No—it would be troublesome if you were to include me in your crucial story.” “It may have appeared so, but I never imagined it would come to such a place.” “Or perhaps that… it might have been a cat.” “Since the back is right against the mountains, they say rabbits are seen there from time to time—it must have been one of those.”

But there had been similar instances—that time, it had been a puppy. There was a bell attached, wasn’t there? The pure white of its fur lay on its back and playfully batted its paws as it rolled away at my feet. I followed after it as if in a dream, and before long arrived at the house indicated by the nameplate.

I couldn’t very well say… to the wife, so I met with the master—and when I told him of my intentions—

“What is this, coming in the middle of the night? You’re making a fool of me. My wife is unwell and cannot see you.)”

With that, he made a disagreeable face. Given that the principal's wife was a renowned beauty, it was said that he was quite jealous.

Thirty "My aunt admonished me earnestly." (If I’d known from the start that visiting their house was improper, I wouldn’t have gone—but she kept silent, so I blundered into wrongdoing unknowingly.) (If I’d realized they were childhood friends earlier, asking to hear a handball song would’ve been even more unseemly—how could such a thing pass muster in society?) she said. When I inquired about my mother’s friend, people dismissed suspicions of romantic motives as absurd—apparently the girl had been precocious, her red headband and elegantly styled hair making her seem like an admirable elder sister to my childish eyes. She was two years younger than me, another one year older, while the deceased had been two years older; the wife was said to be one year older—but as for the vanished one, they professed ignorance of her fate.

The matter became troublesome, you see—a messenger came from that wife’s parents’ home to my aunt’s house, saying the young lady knew nothing of any songs, and with a curt “Well, for propriety’s sake from now on,” they left in bitter frustration.

Of course, there had been no illness or anything of the sort. About a month later came a letter—meticulously detailing over a hundred handball songs, lullabies, children’s rhymes and such—all beautifully written with exquisite care. At the end, in crimson: ——though songs lamenting bridal journeys’ uncertainties number plentiful among them—— That was all it said…… I still keep it treasured even now, but needless to say, among them lies none of my mother’s voice that I seek.

Well, there’s another person…the one whose whereabouts are unknown… Now, Your Reverence, if she had merely moved households or gone to a distant land, there would at least be some clues—nothing strange about that. But as they say in common parlance, she was spirited away—my aunt and the others firmly believe this.

Her name was Ayame. To begin with, that girl’s household consisted of a mother and daughter—though it was unclear whether the mother or daughter had a wet nurse—along with an old woman, making it a residence of just mother and child(ren), yet it remained an imposing structure. As for her mother—through my childhood perception, I vaguely recall her only as someone with blackened teeth, a straight nose bridge, and this oblong face, her obi tied with excessively long dangling knots, her underrobe or perhaps trailing hem slipping into disarray as she stood at the dim gate in twilight hours, gazing toward mountains visible from town while pacing despondently—some called her a man’s mistress; others insisted she was his lawful wife. There were even rumors she descended from some feudal lord’s illegitimate line—yet her true origins remained completely veiled.

The girl had nothing particularly unusual about her, but her beauty was the finest among the three—when I think of it, I can still see her before my eyes even now. That girl—she would come to play elsewhere, but she never brought any friends into her own home. We would gather to play. Just as things were about to get interesting, the old woman would come out saying her mother was calling, dragging her back home—this happened often. She’d suddenly vanish, and the loneliness she left behind was indescribable. In the beginning, she herself would be reluctantly hauled back time after time, but perhaps out of reserve—since she visited others’ homes but never invited anyone to hers—there were countless times she’d suddenly rise and return home alone at odd moments.

And so, somehow with that girl alone—since she couldn’t play as she wished, couldn’t invite others freely, couldn’t act without restraint—they say it’s like the fragrance of distant flowers. All the more so, since someone like me couldn’t bring myself to say, “Let’s play, Ayame-chan,” I would tap-tap the signal stone and pass by the front of that house. One night, in the dead of night, with the ten-mat room remaining tightly closed, she is said to have vanished somewhere. “Since it was the Year of the Ox,” I had said when I asked to hear the song… “How many years ago was that now?” my aunt had counted on her fingers… “It’s been many years.”

Thirty-One

“In my hometown, unmarried women would purify their garments and cleanse themselves on the day of the Ox in the Year of the Ox…” The guest monk listened with bated breath, “I see,” he crossed his arms, “Purification through ascetic discipline.” “Such a grand...” He trailed off, then nodded again.

“After all, it’s something young girls do.” “They likely don’t go quite that far—they wash their hair, bathe, tie that clean hair into a comb roll without using a hairpin, then apply just a faint touch of rouge.” “Then they’d seal off the ten-mat room, turn their backs to the alcove, face some wall—and there enshrine the woman’s soul within a mirror.” “There’s a legend that if you chant ‘Ushidōji, Madara no Mikami’ with single-minded focus—gazing without drawing others’ notice—then when the hour of the Ox comes on that Ox-year Ox-month Ox-day… in that mirror… you’ll see the form of someone bound to you by fate from a past life.”

“The girl performed the Ox-waiting ritual alone in that house where no one knew their way around,” he said, “and then, lured by something, she wandered out… That was the last of her.” I had no way to deal with it. When it finally came down to it, I grew even more desperate to hear it—thinking that if I could just hear it, I might even see my deceased mother’s face—and went to the mountain temple where her grave lay. I shook the grave and pressed my ear to the commemorative pine tree to listen, but heard only the sound of wind through the pines.

Passing through the mountain temple’s forest to a clear stream that flows down to the village, at its foot I chewed on stones where jewels scattered, praying, *Let this teeth-chattering sound become a tongue-song*—yet could only tremble, my voice refusing to emerge.

Perhaps because I was so absentminded, one day I injured myself on a mountain path, sprained my ankle, and ended up bedridden. After half a month of torment for this reason, when I finally became able to take walks by leaning on my cane, I would hop lightly toward the mountains from the town with my cane—like a bird freed from its cage—or rather, an awkward frog. Both sides were rows of houses, and the path ahead sloped upward as if mirroring that street from the time of the Great Collapse—until it ended in a T-shaped intersection, which itself opened onto another thoroughfare. When I, Your Reverence, had made my way about nine-tenths of the distance through my own town, there was a beautiful woman who came from the left along the perpendicular street ahead and seemed about to turn toward me, but upon catching sight of my figure standing there in a plain white yukata, she suddenly halted.

I hadn’t noticed any disguise; she seemed to have been holding a Western-style umbrella—whether she was shading herself with it or supporting a folded one remained unclear—but Ah, she resembles… I thought of that person whose whereabouts were unknown. Over there, she smiled faintly…… At that moment appeared a burly man with the bearing of a hunter—wearing a deeply tilted sedge hat and straw sandals—shouldering a rifle with a pale blue pennant tied to its muzzle and dragging a long iron chain behind him. With nonchalant swagger, he led out a massive bear.

With the mountain looming above, they cut across the junction where two towns met at its base—a three-way crossing—passing the earthen storehouse at the left corner and traversing the scant two ken to the confectionery’s reed-screen awning at the right corner. Their ponderous advance lasted but a moment. As the bear’s back hung over the sauntering woman’s chest like a stormcloud, she began sidling alongside it in unison. Behind them trailed a throng of children… drawn by the rarity of such a beast in these lands.

Since they had hidden to the right, he thought to go out to the corner to look and tried to hurry off, but due to his unfamiliar limp—forgetting the cane propped against his arm—he tripped and lurched forward, tearing off a fingernail. For a while, he could not stand.

After fumbling around and going out to look, they were already gone without a trace. Afterward, during my travels through various provinces—glimpsing a woman carrying charcoal at the foot of Kinome Pass in Echizen, catching a fleeting view from a train window while crossing Usui; spotting a woman facing away at a teahouse between exiting one tunnel and entering another at a junction; or in the capital, seeing someone in a carriage speeding by like an arrow—I encountered many instances where I thought, *Could that be her?*… Yet none of these impressions remain as clearly etched in my mind as that time with the bear.

I went back inside— (Your beautiful form, Taken by the bear. At the town's corner, at the town's corner— Dragging my lame leg, I chase but cannot reach.) When I asked my aunt, "Might there have been something like this in the handball songs?" she replied, "To see such things in broad daylight and speak of them—your body is weak." "You must not go outside for now," she declared, imposing confinement.

“In the past, they say there were those who crossed the sea to sell genuine bear gallbladders in that form, but these days one never sees them—or so I was told later.…”

Thirty-Two “After some time had passed, my aunt came to my bedside and said, ‘If you’re so fixated on this, then go travel somewhere for recuperation and ask someone about that song.’”

(I want to hear my sister’s voice too.) and bestowed a handbox of gold upon me. Even now, my aunt continues to provide for me.

I left my homeland—five long years had passed! Every port and inlet, the capital, villages, hamlets—no matter where I asked, there was no longed-for song. Even if there were similar ones—whether after, before, midway, or in that very space—I could only think that somewhere, the voice I longed for must exist… Moreover, since the children had become unskilled at handball and could not keep it up until the end, naturally the longer ones vanished about halfway through. I thought it was far from ordinary—now I could no longer bear it—I yearned desperately to meet only that one childhood friend whose whereabouts were unknown—but they said I’d been taken by a demon. When I saw clouds clinging to mountain peaks, I wanted to grasp vines; when I saw mist drifting over lakes, even riding fallen leaves, I wished to catch up. If I wished to plumb rocky caverns’ depths, I would; if I desired to peer behind waterfalls’ veils, I would. Thinking that through some predestined bond from a past life we might meet again, I even stood alone at a Kōshin mound deep in mountains, waiting for the moon of the twenty-sixth night to rise.

The other day—at Kasumigawa stream in Akiya where tokonatsu flowers bloom under their joyous name—I found a beautiful handball. I heard from Saibachi how someone gave Kakitsu a green jewel, and how he set off along a mountain path beneath moonlit showers, ("Whose narrow path is this here, "A narrow path it is, "Tenjin-sama’s narrow path it is, "A narrow path it is.") "Just by passing through while humming that nursery rhyme—already I could hear her voice—"

The monk appeared spellbound yet exhaled a sigh through his lips, “That’s auspicious news indeed—so have you found that song?” “I haven’t found the song itself, but the voice… no,… it seems to belong to that very being.” “The one toying with this handball must surely be that woman.” “Somehow she seems to manifest in this vacant mansion… No—I believe she does.” “I coaxed the old man into renting me a room here, but by the very day I moved in, that handball had already been reclaimed—no, I believe she reclaimed it—for in her noble heart, that beautiful woman would never have permitted one such as myself to retrieve it.”

“Perhaps this was meant to be delivered to Akigami Myojin at the foot of the stream—though one cannot say for certain. If that’s the case, then ever since, the threads of the handball became dyed—bursting forth in dazzling hues—by those Kosan stones spilling over at the inlet they call a famous site. This color, shining in waves of purple, green, navy blue, and indigo, may have spread a moonlit rainbow across the Pacific—such things lie beyond measure.” He became entranced once more but lowered his head, “That retribution—that sin. All these strange phenomena—…I think—no, I truly think—they must be punishment for picking up that handball along the way out of my own greed, my own longing.”

“Curse me if you will! I’ll hold fast to my first resolve to the end—I must hear that song.”

It may be the turbulence of my mind. I see it all before my eyes—the eeriness, the terror—and thinking that perhaps someone is hinting at the song I long for, I try humming it like this—and then the lantern floats into the air. (The figure of my beautiful beloved— The pale green mosquito net, Around the mosquito net, without form, The shadow of a passing lantern.)…… Of course, this isn’t it. Or, *(The hut of my beautiful beloved—* Casting a shadow on the field in front,

*The grass on the roof ridge damp with dew,* *(The cassia tree of the moon hangs over the thatched hut.)……*

It didn’t resemble it at all. When a wild goose cried on the roof, I’d think I might be swept away by waves; if a horse’s shadow fell on the wooden door, I’d startle at imagining my fall into Asura’s realm—yet still, (A wild goose crying out on the roof, A horse’s shadow falls on the wooden door.) Even now my ears hear it constantly—but my heart refuses assent.

“I endure all things and have secluded myself here in hopes of hearing that song. If it is a curse, then so be it—I will not shun the sin,” he said vehemently, then lowered his gaze despondently at the monk. “But her taking back the handball—isn’t that a declaration she won’t teach me the song? When I think that, it pierces my heart.” “Ah—the tale branches like Yamata-no-Orochi’s heads, and the handball… yes. Before the cat fell from the ceiling—when I sat alone on the veranda—three children emerged from behind those shironeri flowers, taro leaves pressed to their faces like masks. They scurried forth, eyeing me curiously before sidling close like stray pups. Peering in from the veranda edge, they spotted the handball, exchanged nods among themselves, and—”

“Give me that,” they said. “Is it yours?” When they heard this, they shook their heads, “Then it’s Uncle’s,” they said—implying the man should relinquish the ball—when... “(Wahaha!)” they laughed, and just like that, flitted off somewhere with it.’—”

Thirty-Three

“What? So it’s me who’s been spreadin’ rumors… Hah. And you two’re here for that?”

With a “heave-ho,” he stood up—the veranda being high—so the furoshiki bundle he’d carried on his back came to rest precisely at his waistline. “Well, s’pose that’s fine, but…” He untied the bundle’s knot, “Can’t abide havin’ rumors spread ’bout us in th’ attic.” Though he’d lowered his voice, Saibachi promptly raised his pitch again,

“Nah, wasn’t just me alone.” “Lord Kijuuro’s Niemon the Grump and the schoolteacher—they were part of it too, came all the way to the gate, see.” “Well there, when that Old Grump went and stuck his noggin in the dark under the tree—Your Reverence, he wasn’t actin’ his years one bit—let out a squall like a newborn gettin’ snatched up, he did.”

“What happened?” “Something else again,”

At this, the monk too raised his head from atop the bedding bundle and peered out. Saibachi tore off his red headband, “Well now—yes—beggin’ your pardon, Your Reverence.” “The main household sends their regards as well.” “You’ll be meetin’ Lord Kijuuro soon enough—but first off—take your time and rest proper-like.” “I’m a rough sort—ain’t even got manners for bowin’ proper.” “Granny told me real clear-like t’give ya her greetings—and since you’re here—she sent along some dumplings.” “Set ’em on th’tea tray.” “Later I’ll fix up th’mosquito smudge an’ brew some bitter tea fer ya.”

“Anyway, Your Reverence, I bet you’re starvin’, so the main household sent over a tiered box of food. Grump was carryin’ it when—bam!—he lets out a ‘Gyah!’ like that. Crossin’ the grassland outside the gate like they was ford’n a river’s rapids—the three of ’em staggered and toddled, took near half an hour. No skill at all—ended up bein’ awful late. Sorry ’bout that.” “You’ve gone to great trouble,” The monk bowed his head courteously. “What happened to those people?”

Akira asked.

“Yes, well, that ‘Gyah!’—so when you ask what happened to Niemon, Your Reverence, Grump here pulled a sour face. ‘Ugh, saw somethin’ awful,’” “‘That pale taro leaf’s long face went flutterin’ past the tip o’ my nose, grinnin’ sly-like as it flew sideways.’” “‘Even if the gourd on the spirit shelf plopped down on its own, I don’t reckon it’s some warnin’ from the ancestors—didn’t quit drinkin’ myself—but there’s reason that vine withered.’” “‘Ain’t no wind blowin’, so taro leaves walkin’ mid-air—that don’t make no sense.’” “‘Ugh, this is vile—makes my hackles rise. Oughta go home, cover up with the futon, sweat it out proper. My head’s heavy like it’ll split.)’”

"And I just shriveled up like that, y'see. When folks say, 'Must've been them children rushin' out,' it only makes things worse. Can't stand hearin' that voice. Oh no, oh no! The clatterin' stones echoed through the valley. 'It's seven o'clock already,' they went pale as ghosts, dropped that furoshiki bundle, and stumbled home all shaky-like."

“Schoolteacher sir, then you there—if you’d be so kind as to carry that tiered box for me—” I asked. “(I hate this),” he said. Hmm, why’s that? “Here, though it’s in front of you dear guests, if you could be so kind as to keep this in mind.” If they were at least singing military marches, that’d be one thing—but some fool twisting out lullabies and handball ditties? Carrying a lunchbox for that? Unbearable. “Didn’t he just spit that out?” “He says he heard it from a friend, but I reckon it must’ve been from the folks who came to exterminate the monster.”

“What is it, dear guest? Are you composing a lullaby? You’ve gone and stuck what you wrote on the fusuma of the cupboard—that’s it, ain’t it?” Akira had a look of shame. “I’m not making it up; I’m writing down what I heard. Because there are so many, I might forget them.” “Well now, here I am again, and you sir have settled into such a terrifying place.” He thought it was a talisman to repel enemies pasted there, but... “Well, I don’t know why, but that nasty remark really got under my skin,”

“(If that’s how it is, I can’t carry a guest’s belongings—but you there, Schoolteacher sir. ‘Alright then! I ain’t been taught nothin’ by you—you ain’t my master. We’re just comrades walkin’ as friends here. (Crab Saibachi’ll lend a hand.)’ I declared with finality. He fixed his eyes from under his hat. ‘I don’t need friends like you—how rude,’ he said, turning on his heel. He made some excuse, but really, he was just a coward running away. Look—Niemon dashed out like the wind under the trees and headed far along the riverbank,”

“Hey! Hey!” “And he went and played his part as Jōkuro of that farce!”

Thirty-four

That night alone passed without incident, quietly. ……When he was about to sleep, the first watch had already passed.

Escorted by Saibachi’s hand-candle, the monk turned the corner of the wide veranda and traversed the distant corridor; he seemed to pass beyond the row of storm shutters, and in his homeland—where someone had hung a mosquito net—he fancied a friend waited in lonely solitude. “Is this the place?” “Please open that to the left. From the entrance’s wooden flooring, the second one—a man will be standing there to guide you.” “By passing through, you can also reach the northern veranda. Your Reverence mustn’t take a wrong turn on your way back.” “For two or three years now, ain’t nobody passed through to the other side. Given how things stand these days, if you get lost in there, you won’t find your way to any proper direction.”

“I’ve got it now.” “No good—I’ll be waitin’ here, so use the lamp to find your way out.” “Even I—with all these shoji screens stretchin’ on and on, their tatters flappin’ like white skulls one after another—don’t feel right standin’ here alone. But Your Reverence bein’ a monk, I guess you’re steady enough. Havin’ hosted grand tea talks and dried the teapot many times over, I’ll handle things here while I wait for you.” The monk called out while opening the door,

“Pardon me.”

and he firmly closed it.

“Ah, ah, how creepy.” “Who’re you greetin’?” “Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu.”

Hmm, I suddenly thought of something strange. If someone were to peek through the tears in all these shoji screens—what would they see? Namu Amida Butsu, ah, Namu Amida Butsu… Ah! The candle’s flickering—where’s this wind blowing in from? If this goes out, that’s it—he’ll be lost at the Crossroads of Six Realms. “Namu Amida Butsu… Your Reverence, are you still not back?” “Hey,”

“Ah!”

The monk half-opened [the door] and stood inside in a gray robe,

“Let me just see the candle.”

“Well now, Your Reverence—after opening the door ahead, you ought to say something,” he said gruffly. “Did the plank door make a sound? I was startled—hah, what was that?” “At the entrance, under this bay window,” replied the monk, “there was a water basin that I had noticed when entering, but it’s so spacious and dark that I can no longer find it.” “Ah—are you washing your hands?” Saibachi thrust out only the hand-candle with his claw-like grip. “At the basin’s front—once dawn breaks, I’ll show you—there’s a splendid bronze water basin. When they hauled it to this mansion, it took an ox to drag it here. Magnificent thing—but I’ve no mind to open it now...”

Ah, the wind rustled by. “W-well, if there’s water in that basin, that’d be fine. If not, just bear with it till the sitting room. I’ll pour what’s left in the teapot for ya.”

“There is, there is.” With a swishing sound,

“Cold, beautiful water—filled to the brim here.” “You ain’t lyin’, are ya?” “What beautiful water could there possibly be?” “The well water’s deep blue, an’ the stream’s cloudy white.” “Then perhaps it’s the candlelight’s doing?” “An’ what’s this ‘filled to the brim’ business?” “No—looks near spilln’ over.” “Ah—Mr. Hayakoshi keeps things tidy.” “A pure white hand towel—”

He started to say but then fell silent for a while.

From this year onward, the eighth day of Uzuki is an auspicious day!

We shall subjugate the long-tailed maggots!

“As for what’s pasted here upside down—who was it that wrote this?”

“...Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu...” “Ah, what a fine hand.”

He spoke with the composure of a great priest, his voice booming grandly, but soon transformed into a flustered little monk and hurried out. “Hey! Get out quicker! I can’t hold it anymore—gotta go from the parlor to the garden to relieve myself!” “Truly now—who wrote this? Though it’s clearly a woman’s hand.”

He had praised the hanging hand towel, yet now produced a lightly soiled, folded one from his own sleeve. "Namu Amida Butsu—w-well, that—that was written and pasted by some young lady who passed on in the next—the next small room over. Right there! These things happen whether we want ’em to or not." "Chills me to the bone, I tell ya,"

“Is that so? Ah, when I tried to wipe my hands just now, the brand-new hand towel hanging there was cold and damp—it startled me.”

"Gah!" He leapt sideways and stomped down, but as if trying to muffle the sound of his footsteps, he lifted his hips and staggered in the same spot.

35

“If you shake it like that, the lamp will go out.” “Let me have it. I’ll hold that hand-candle.” “I beg of you—here, please take hold of it. And while you’re about it—from that figure clad in priestly robes—may radiant light shine forth.” The monk took the candle and stepped out—

“Old man,” The way he had called out carried an air of alarming urgency, so he withdrew not just his good hand but his maimed one as well, crouching in the same spot as the disabled man, palms upturned as he squatted to look up—until only his wrinkled face flushed crimson in the candle’s shadow. The sight of this crimson-faced old man and the blue-robed monk conversing at the corridor’s end differed not from a demon’s whisper.

“Yeah,”

“There’s a groaning sound coming from somewhere.” “No damn skill—what’s with all this posturing?” “Listen closely…” “Ugh… ugh… ugh…” An unsettling moan. “Old man—are you making that noise?” “Ain’t me,” he answered with an odd pallor, wrinkling his nose. “Hmph. Birth pangs from a hard labor.” “That young bride’s wailin’—turned herself into an ubume spirit, she has.” “Comes from the back sitting room, I’d reckon.” “I don’t know these inner rooms or sitting chambers, but it doesn’t sound like the shoji side—maybe the privy?”

“Gah! But Your Reverence just went in there a moment ago, didn’t ya?” “In that case,” and listened obliquely with focused attention,

“Ah! The garden! It’s coming from the garden—outside the storm shutters!” “Hah...”

Saibachi, too, listened intently, pursed his lips, and held his breath. “First, it’s outside—these storm shutters are ironclad!” he pressed down firmly and braced himself again. “Bastard—go on in! Bastard—the Living Buddha’s here with us!” “If it were a Buddha, we couldn’t simply dismiss it—this is a human voice, old man. Let’s open the shutters and see. It sounds like someone’s in distress.” “Hey, quiet down! It’s a trick—it’s a trick, I tell you!” “With that very trick, carry them out on your back and sprinkle salt from the skylight, Your Reverence.” “I’ve got my arms and legs all twisted up like a moonlit crab with no meat—trying to manage here.” “There’s no use—don’t go opening it.” “Let’s hurry to the sitting room.”

“Look! Listen—isn’t that someone saying ‘Help me…’?” “Heh, that was quick. It’s tryin’ to bait folks in—knowin’ you’re Your Reverence, usin’ compassion as a lure. I ain’t openin’ it.” At that moment… it became clearly audible—a hoarse voice.

“Help me…” “…………” “…………” “Saibachi…”— And then, amidst the weeds, came the chirring of insects. Crab-Hand trembled violently,

“Gah! Kurumushi’s calling out.” “What? The bug’s calling?”

“Yeah, it’s Niemon’s voice.” “Praise Amida Buddha! L-Look there!” “That old man Niemon fled back from the gate at dusk—what’s he doing coming here now?” “Look, bastard! Hah—typical of a beast’s audacity—can’t even focus that far.” “Hah! I’m a human being!” “Damn you—Lord Koujin’s watchin’ over us! This monkey-brained trick—toss it aside and be done with it!”

He stepped away from the storm shutters, shook one shoulder, and started to move off. Toward what seemed to be the far end of the veranda, about two feet from the wooden floor, a piece of white paper—like a remnant of a lantern—fluttered out, and a square-shaped light began to advance. “Gah!”

he stepped back, pressing his back against the monk,

“Please recite the sutra! They’ve come in! Namu mai da, nan mai da!” The monk also stood on tiptoe and peered through with his body half-raised, but

“It’s the lantern. Since it’s been causing such a stir, Mr. Hayakoshi has come from the sitting room to investigate.” “Now that there are three of us, I feel greatly reassured—shall we open this one here?”

“Yeah, I told ya there’s no need to open this,” “But there—there—it’s saying ‘Help me’.” “As they say, ‘Demons and gods do not stray from their path’—there should be no blade that can resist compassion.”

The pivot rattled; with a forceful heave, they lifted the bolt—thudding it open. Their sleeves, twisted tight, failed to fully shield it, and the lamp was swiftly extinguished by the night wind. Yet there, upon the stepping stones before them—amidst shadowed weeds where a hazy moon’s glow, pale as Yoshino paper veiling the sky, seeped up from below and slanted to cast its light—what manner of thing was this that crawled on all fours?

36 When seen in form rather than merely heard by voice—it became all the more certain—the one crawling on the stepping stones and groaning was none other than Kurumushi Niemon. By the pale moonlight, once they had confirmed it was indeed him—and even amid their shared doubts felt somewhat reassured—Akira arrived carrying a lantern, which further emboldened Saibachi. Under the instruction of both men, he resolutely stepped out into the garden. But having gone that far, the old man did not mind being drenched in dew. Rustling through the weeds came a voice—“Old man, what’s wrong?”—and upon drawing near: “Ah! Saibachi! Help me!” He pointed as though in prayer, gesturing “Pull this hand—” Grabbing the left arm with a firm yank—“Not enough fur for a beast—ohhh! It’s really Niemon! Fine disguise!”—Saibachi muttered while hoisting him over a shoulder. As they moved away from the stepping stones with footsteps as labored as if trudging through a muddy field, Niemon clung desperately, gasping until Saibachi’s throat tightened under the strain. Eager to resolve matters quickly, Saibachi dragged him heedlessly toward the veranda. By their arrival, Akira had already opened another storm shutter and stood waiting. “How do you feel?” “This way,” came the reply as they helped pull him inside—Niemon’s right hand still gripped a bamboo spear.

When they exclaimed in surprise—“What’s this?”—there was cause for it. Even the tongue that had uttered “A sip of water” stiffened; his lips turned clay-gray. His wrist lay cold and quivered violently; regardless, they resolved to take him to the sitting room... “Since it’s dangerous,” Akira said, taking custody of the bamboo spear, “such things should be—” As the sharp tip of the drawn spear grazed the sleeve of his robe, the monk standing behind hastily sidestepped, letting the lantern—previously at hand—advance ahead. “Here, let me handle it,” urged Saibachi as he thrust his crab-like claw forward. But Niemon—who had muttered “No need”—clutched the monk’s hem and scraped his knees raw while hauling himself onto the veranda.

Behind them, Akira followed, gripping the bamboo spear—its bluish sheen glinting sleekly along the lengthy shaft. Behind them, as Saibachi began to close the storm shutters, he mocked, “Old man—did your legs give out? Weakling,” seizing on what seemed a favorable shift in the wind. “Nah… the soles of my feet are covered in blood… leave tracks if I walk,” Niemon said while crawling—the sheer volume of that sound. With a clatter, Saibachi abandoned closing the shutters and clung to Akira’s back.—At the forefront, the lantern floated near the monk’s hem; Kurumushi—bloodied and crawling like a horse—pressed forward with the bamboo spear at his rear; Crab passed through the darkness.… This spectacle on the veranda was truly no ordinary matter.

After they tended to him in the sitting room and he finally regained his senses, Niemon glanced around and, stammering repeatedly, said: “This is unforgivable… Guest… Your Reverence… Even Saibachi here—all the more so—despite being my acquaintance of forty years, to have him understand my heart so little… it’s utterly shameful.”

This villa of Master Tsurutani—the eerie strangeness and uncanny mystery of late. Due to the extremity of the situation—this being a matter requiring discernment—he spent three days and two nights staring intently in silent contemplation. Ah! A plot! Without a doubt, this was a massive scam they’d pulled off. You all had plotted and splendidly transformed it into a mansion of supernatural beings. If left abandoned, it becomes a den for foxes and raccoon dogs; if not that, at least a lodging for beggars. Even a bonfire’s sparks would be carelessly handled here. Having seen how no one would live here even if you offered payment—how it’d become nothing but a burdensome excess—they’d uproot the rotting pillars, trample down the tiled roof, and plan to stuff it all into the storehouse. Bullseye, bullseye. Hah! The oracle of the Bright Deity—glaring with bulging eyes, he saw that this wandering student lodger who’d recently taken up residence, with his deceptively gentle face, was none other than Jiraiya from the picture books—the very ringleader of thieves! That traveling monk who came in the evening was suspicious too—same with the old woman at the tea shop. Even Saibachi, who’d guided them, must’ve been co-opted. This made even supernatural affairs seem tame by comparison. Hold on, hold on—this wasn’t some madman’s act. They’d even forced Kakitsu to drink a whole sho—those tricksters—where did you think they were? Don’t you know Akiya Village has its Amaegaki and Kurumushi? Deliberately feigning cowardice, Sanada Yukimura had fled at dusk—only to later scheme to seize the thieves’ nest.

As was their custom, they captured Kakitsu while he loitered beneath the twilight eaves and securely confined him to his parents' custody—a precaution achieved by fastening hooks to tensan silk cords from the roof to prevent any lantern from being suspended.

Having long conspired over their schemes—and likewise feigning evening flight—they recruited both the schoolteacher and the Fox Shop proprietor, who acted as that faction’s spy, these three making thorough preparations. The two positioned themselves at the main gate, while Niemon alone resolved to impale whatever suspicious entity appeared. "There’s no harm killing a human disguised as a tanuki," he reasoned, tightening his grip on the bamboo spear as he moved from the gate along the garden path, tracking moonlight step by step, using storm shutters as reference points while approaching. He peered around the roof’s perimeter, searching for any sleight-of-hand mechanisms...

37 A single crow appeared distinctly on the roof. Ah—when he thought of how two women in childbirth had perished in that area below, meeting cruel deaths that seemed far from their destined time—there on the roof, something... a figure... appeared. This figure had loomed dimly before his eyes from the moment it parted the weeds and crept closer—now as if standing alongside tall leaves, now as if lying low to hide among roots, now as if floating up to traverse the tips of foliage. Niemon had likely dismissed it as a shadow cast by his own body and bamboo spear under the moonlight—but then, abruptly, the figure shifted to the roof.

When he looked, the smooth grace around its shoulders—even if redrawn by moonlight—seemed far too demure for a frame that shouldered a hoe. Noticing this, he saw a willow-slender waist. Her slender waist turned toward him; the hem of her robe, tilted at the back, lay like tiles over her shins—slim and supple, tucked in—while the kicked-out hemline, unimpeded by anything in the empty air, seemed both awkward and weightless as it alighted lightly upon the vast spider’s web beneath the eaves, appearing like mist clinging to a waterwheel. The line of her back bending; the faint pallor of her nape did not stand out against the moonlight. The moonlight was hazy, yet her thick black hair—bound with green—stood vivid as the forest’s shadow fell like a cloud, wrapping her silhouette from behind. Facing away, her gaze slightly lifted toward the midair, she revealed the inner curve of her upper arm toward him, white as snow, while calmly stroking the strands at her temple.

The white fish-like fingertips flitting through her hair—though upon reflection, there was no reason they should have been visible—seemed as if her ears had twitched. What the—?! Was it a beast or a human? "I'll trample down this mansion eventually—making my residence on the roof." "See now!" Stepping back a pace, he brandished the bamboo spear and thrust with the precision of a bird-striking bone—Swish! The tip of the thrust weapon had barely slipped beneath the right sleeve when something let out a groan, groan, groan from the soles of the firmly planted feet.

The ground suddenly softened—gently warm, sinking into fluffy cotton—with a sensation of being pulled downward. Startled by the sudden collapse of his knee joints, he looked down at his feet—only to find them atop a cluster of powder-white flowers.

The thought came to him—yet how distant it was from reality. Was this soft white mass beneath his mud-caked feet none other than the chest of a woman lying supine in prayer to the Three Treasures, her swollen breasts and solar plexus crushed under his tread? Niemon shuddered violently. Fixing his gaze, he saw a pale throat arched backward in agony, disheveled black hair framing teeth that gleamed white through parted lips. Through the grass emerged a face with a straight nose bridge—unmistakably that of Tsurutani’s bride, the young mistress who had perished in her first childbirth.

Niemon was doused with ice from the skylight. More than fear or strangeness, it was a sense of sacrilege that made him hastily try to pull back the trampling foot—yet unbidden, his other leg came stomping down. Someone groaned “Ugh,” and as his eyes snapped open, he brought his former foot crashing down. The more he thrashed in panic, the heavier the weight pressing upon his body grew—and with each impact came guttural sobs as she vomited torrents of blood from her mouth. It clung to her throat, stained her chest, streamed swift beneath her breasts, and dripped tepid onto the soles of Niemon’s feet.

With a gasp, his legs gave way as he braced himself on his hands—and seized that black hair. "Forgive me, Young Mistress! Forgive me!" he pleaded desperately through ragged breaths. From beneath his trampling feet came movement—her eyes opened wide with a piercing stare, lips twisting into a faint smile... as blood spilled from their corners. His feet might as well have been sealed with glue. When Saibachi's voice reached him through his squirming entrapment, all he could manage was a choked moan for help.

Thus, he was taken by the hand and pulled up—what Saibachi had seen as stepping stones was, to Niemon’s enchanted vision, none other than the Young Mistress’s chest. His feet still felt sticky; “My hands are covered in blood like this,” he protested, but when held up to the lantern, it had turned pale, bleached by the night dew. “I’m done for… This sixty-year-old man lowers the skylight.” “Saibachi, it’s late, but take me to the main house.” “I don’t want to stay another moment within three chō of this place—just save my life, I beg you.”

With that, Niemon bowed clumsily, though it was unclear to whom.

There, when the two who had gone around to the front gate came out with everyone else to look, they found the Schoolteacher sitting flat on the stepping stones before the formal entrance. The proprietor of the Fox Udon shop was nowhere to be seen. ...It later became known that he had fled in a panic—or so people claimed. What exactly had startled them—they shook their heads and would not speak of it. One person claimed to have seen the figure of a court lady in crimson hakama—a woman with jet-black eyes, pointed ears, and a terrifying countenance—standing at the gatehouse with sleeves layered like wispy clouds under the hazy moon; another insisted they had glimpsed a great ape wearing a vermilion mask, its tail split nine ways. These accounts, untraceable to any particular source, eventually leaked out in hushed whispers.—

38

Although sleeping two to a bed was comfortable, because the room was spacious, they hung the mosquito net’s hooks midway along both lintels facing the formal entrance—on the two corners, the shoji screens, and the sliding doors—draping pale green fabric over roughly a third of the ten-mat space—the village headman’s nighttime furnishings—and arranged pillows toward the veranda side, with crimson hemp hems trailing long behind them.

One day, it had been raining since morning, and as he began to recount the events of that midnight when the day was as dark as night—Akira drifted peacefully into sleep.

That too must have been one of those mysterious incidents. ...Ah—this young man must have found some measure of peace tonight with me here as his companion after days of exhaustion, allowing him to fall into such untroubled sleep—so Kojirou Houshi reflected. Yet beyond the mosquito net’s veil loomed a faintly white lantern positioned behind the alcove. Though devoid of auspicious inscriptions, it seemed poised to lift from the tatami at any moment—its hem stretching outward, its light threatening to spill forth—verging on drifting into the mosquito net.

Come to think of it, even without being stirred up, Akira’s sleeping face was also unpleasantly bright.

“You mustn’t catch a chill in your sleep.” Perhaps finding sleep uncomfortable, he had discreetly adjusted the garment slipping down from the pale chest to the solar plexus, careful not to irritate the emaciated frame—and all seemed well. But what if, like the Young Mistress that Niemon saw, this hand were to touch him and make him vomit blood while smiling faintly? Thinking this made sleep impossible. Resolving not to look at anything, he shut his eyes—yet the moment he did, his eyelids fluttered open with an almost audible snap. His mind remained painfully alert, denying him rest.

When he pulled the cover over himself, it felt like a vast cave stretching from the quilt’s sleeves to its collar. His feet dragged as something seemed to pull him in with a slippery slide—an anxiety he could scarcely endure. He slipped out of it and thrust his shaven head through the skylight, but this too—as though about to shout “Boo!” with a sly grin—was unnerving despite being his own face.

Straightening up abruptly, he adjusted his collar, rearranged his pillow, and composed his mind.

“May all grudges and resentments disperse completely,” As he chanted the incantation while lying on his back, his mind seemed to calm somewhat, and the traveling monk finally began to doze off—when something came to his pillow with a *plop*. But before he could determine whether it was a raindrop or the sound of a blood-engorged mosquito falling dead, another *plop*... Then came a *drip-drip* of drops—and this time, they unmistakably struck his cheek. Finally recognizing the coldness, he stroked it with his palm and felt it chilled. Shivering, he half-rose and peered fearfully into the lantern’s glow—relieved to find it was not droplets of blood.

Just as he thought it must be a roof leak, drops trickled down along the mosquito net, pattering steadily. When he listened closely, it seemed a heavy rain fell on the roof. Even in this transient world’s temporary lodging, nothing felt as desolate as this. Yet the monk—well-acquainted with roof leaks from his travels—resolved to wait silently for the downpour to ease. But the drops only grew more frequent until the hem of his coverlet became soaked through, splashing upward in a dense spray that threatened to swirl into a storm. They said even a goose had once cried upon the roof. Could the entire house have sunk to the bottom of the Kasumi River? ...Striking his forehead against the tin roof, a large droplet soaking the tip of his nose, he sat bolt upright. Grabbing his pillow to scrub away the water, he shifted to his knees, inching closer while stretching out the sleeves of his nightclothes—rolled up to his shoulders—

“Excuse me—it’s leaking quite badly. Excuse me—Mr. Hayakoshi.” He called out, but there was no answer.

Startled—as if confronted by a sharp-eyed figure—he shaded his hand, and there lay Akira, breathing as softly as swaying plume grass. “Ah, you slept soundly.” When he looked closely at Akira’s face—thick lashes frayed at the corners—the sparkling clear orbs upon his eyes were not wet from those same raindrops.……

The path exists within me as well. Yet while you have black hair and a pale face, I am gray-headed and yellow-faced. Fellow orphans of this transient world—the monk realized he had shed tears of sympathy without noticing, tears that reached Akira’s dream. When he looked around, it made perfect sense this man hadn’t awakened. The raindrops fell like tangled threads upon my body alone, while on Akira’s bedding not a single flea prowled the night. Homage to the Three Treasures—this is demon’s spittle.

39 Though he had realized it was that phantom rain, being drenched before his very eyes felt harsher than when he’d been sent as a young monk—hatless—from the mountain temple to buy tofu for his village temple as an acolyte. Unable to endure it any longer, he pulled down part of the mosquito net and emerged into what could scarcely be called proper lodging for even one night. With thoughts clinging like autumn showers beneath dripping eaves, he faced what remained of the inn’s fading lantern light. The monk crawled forward on his knees toward this dim glow. When he inspected his nightclothes again—not even dewdrops could have left them so dry. He had nearly begun wiping his arm from cheek downward… yet no sound of dripping rain had ever touched their bedding.

While thrusting his arm backward and rubbing it at length, “May all grudges and resentments disperse completely.”

Focusing his mind once more and calming his heart—perhaps through this meritorious act—the mosquitoes’ hum vanished, leaving behind an absolute stillness. In that overwhelming silence arose a dread that his very body might dissolve—and at that instant, his tightly shut eyes opened as if awakening from a dream, dazedly yet perfectly round, gazing through the straight lamp wick. Suddenly reflected before him—a shadow cast through the lantern from within—a spider large as a woman’s hand! He instinctively jerked his head back. But no—it was not so; what brushed against the pillar and spilled before the oil jar was none other than a green maple leaf.

The monk reflexively picked it up with his hand. Whether it was indeed a leaf or not—whether he tried to confirm it or not—even he himself could not tell. Then came a swift *whoosh* as a shadow fell smoothly through the air, as though riding a sudden gust. Without conscious thought—when he picked it up again—the previous one, "One," he counted involuntarily.

“Two,”

Before he could finish counting, the third one—a keyaki leaf as large as a seashell—fluttered past the lantern, its shadow immense.

Three,

As he muttered to himself, the fourth one rustled against the lantern's paper. Four, five, six, seven, As he counted, the lap where he had gathered them was already completely buried under fallen leaves.

When he looked up at the sky, the ceiling had no bottom—he felt as if in the depths of a mountain on a dark night. Ah, using this forest as a mountain pass—on such a night, perhaps this passing demon crossing through mid-air offers to the demon king a checkpoint permit of sorts. Brushing off his knees and standing up abruptly, as the leaves rustled and swayed, he shuddered violently. Hrmph! He let out a crushed, rasping cough, turned his eyes toward something, and tried to shift his focus—but it was too late to retrieve the sutras from the cloth bundle. What finally caught his attention was the four or five sheets of hanshi paper casually pasted onto the shoji screen.

This was what he had heard in the evening—that these were nursery rhymes Akira had written down from memory since coming here, which he both recited and chanted morning and night. As he approached while still standing, the first thing that caught his eye was written in thick ink: One fallen leaf, The monk shuddered even more intensely.

One fallen leaf, Two, three, Ten all together, The number of fallen leaves too, The years that fell upon you, Your years— When he looked back, it was still there—scattered in black like azure swept away and discarded.

How nostalgic, O eternal summer blossoms, A shadow drifted across Kasumigawa. That vestige, O vestige—

Through the paper of the shoji screen, that faint white vestige... seemed to shimmer into view. In the depths of his hardened ears, as he contemplated—to their utmost limits—the height of heaven and depth of earth, so profoundly, so distantly that even the constellations and the Dragon Palace’s lanterns felt equally remote—at that very moment, like the shaking of a golden bell, a single clear note resounded from the koto. Startled, he looked at the hanshi paper—a flicker met his eyes. *Plink!* The characters seemed to shift. Continuing— The sound of the koto………… was written as follows.

Forty The traveling monk pondered, composed his mind, adjusted his robes, and—since there was a Buddha statue inside—borrowed the alcove to place the statue. He had just begun unpacking his luggage when this late-night activity struck him as reminiscent of bandits on the Kiso Highway. He brought out a small black-lacquered miniature shrine—wrapped in a piece of impurity-warding brocade and measuring about three sun in height—then folded his kesa robe on the desk and placed it on top. This Kyoto-style tatami room originally had a one-ken tokonoma alcove flanked by a tall cupboard with sliding doors, with an engawa veranda immediately adjacent. Beside the cabinet was a round window shaped like a full moon overlooking the garden. When its sliding door opened, one could see layered waves in the sky above the dense Hayama mountains—a view so identical to the study layout of his now-burned childhood home that it stirred more than mere nostalgia. "Could this too be a sign that my wishes will be fulfilled here?" Akira said nostalgically, immediately using this cupboard as a makeshift desk and setting down his travel inkstone. In place of a chair, he placed a footstool. ……

Because the surrounding area was spacious, he also placed items like water jars and tea utensils there.

Therefore, ever since seeing this man’s traveler’s appearance, the kindhearted Old Man Saibachi had apparently prepared accordingly and brought a desk along with bedding, but it went unused and was placed in the corner of the alcove without gathering dust. "If your stay here is extended as you wish, please use it for your reading," he had said during supper. He moved that desk here now. After setting down the miniature shrine and looking around to decide where to reposition it, from within the mosquito net came three thick, anguished cries as Akira was tormented. But... his own chest ached, yet there was no need to rouse him—fortunately, it grew quiet again.

Opening the shoji screen—he himself would pass through the veranda, and as for the other entrance along the garden path—though ordinarily it might be a different matter, tonight in particular, there was nothing amiss. What particularly concerned him was the seam of the partitioning sliding door beneath it—a door never opened—and the corner of the ceiling across the way, which supposedly had a removable panel installed for major cleanings. “Grant that my Buddha may protect us.”

Offering a prayer, he took the desk, lifted it overhead, glared intently toward that direction, and began to rise from his seat. At that very moment. “Wait.”

A thudding sound resonated to the depths of the earth. Wondering if Akira had called out—and because within the mosquito net Akira was again being fiercely tormented—the monk held his breath,

“…………” He changed color. Behind the sliding door, “Traveling monk, wait a moment—there is one who will now approach there. We shall not block the passage. Though forcing our way through would be effortless, out of respect for the Buddha statue, we refrain. Nay, we have no reason to harm you.” When he looked, there stood shoulder to shoulder with water-stained specters stretching from the sliding door to the ceiling a great figure whose head surpassed the lintel—thick eyebrows, round eyes, a prominent nose with corners to the mouth, and plump cheeks forming a splendid countenance. Over a raw silk hemp robe adorned with drawer-pull-like lacquer patterns, he wore a layered white collar and plain white hakama of matching hue, its pleats sharply pressed as he filled the sliding door frame imposingly. Holding a folded fan in his short right hand, his gentle face bearing a smile, he moved—or rather seemed not to move at all—before sitting down heavily before the traveling monk. Overwhelmed by his presence, the monk felt as though pinned beneath a massive tea-colored ox.

With a start against the desk, he braced his chest as though about to lunge forward.

“Who are you?” he said. “One who traverses all sixty-six provinces.” “What do you call yourself? Who are you…?” “Akuzaemon wherever I go,” and positioned his folding fan, “At present, I reside in Akidani—that is to say, I am called Akidani Akuzaemon.” “Aku…”

“The ‘aku’ is that of good and evil.” “Oh, Aku… a demon! Do you curse humans?” “No—we are those who avoid humans as we pass through.” “We dwell in radiant heavens where even the undersides of night crows’ feathers glisten and the scales of ayu fish in the rapids shine.” “When gazing upon the shadowless moon, we neither take refuge within abandoned boats nor linger upon temple verandas atop peaks.” “Is not the place where human traces vanish at midnight rather the roof of a thatched hut?” “Yet when mortals deliberately seek us out and come to harm, it is none other than their own doing.”

Forty-One

“Even when passing through the world’s thoroughfares in broad daylight, if people approach, we step aside from the path.” “If we meet someone, we step aside; letting them pass, we come around behind.” “But if there are those who often look back, we cannot fully conceal ourselves due to the nuisance—their shock at seeing us is their own sin.” “How now, traveling monk—do you still doubt this humble one?” With a faint smile, he gazed down at the traveling monk’s shaven head from the ceiling, “Even so, do you still doubt that we exist within this universe?” “Ah, you’ve opened your eyes wide in doubt.” Those wide-open eyes immediately blinked.

“In all the world, there may exist those who never sleep a single night through, but there can never be a human who does not blink. We of Akuzaemon’s kind—our entire order—take the span of a human’s blink as our world. In that single second when eyelids close—through the sun’s light—we imprint every detail of your countenance, garments, even eyelashes, so that long after your lives end, you persist for centuries as though alive. Do you comprehend this? When stone strikes tree and sparks gush forth—a blink; when those sparks vanish—a blink; when a bullet pierces flesh—still a blink.”

“In the span of a single blink by one person, water flows, wind blows, leaves are green, and the sun is red. If you understand that nothing in this world truly vanishes—that things disappear only in that moment, and only to those who blink—then you will not doubt our existence in this world.” He nodded calmly,

“Now then, traveling monk.” “Even if one argues that these people invited misfortune upon themselves, consider this: they do not question why the moon vanishes behind clouds to darken the world, yet they shriek when a lamp’s flame extinguishes unexpectedly. They feel no wonder at stars streaking across the sky, yet scream when melons leap from the earth. When such folk cower at deeds we perform—when their hearts shatter, spirits fracture, and bodies crumble—their ruin naturally becomes a hindrance to our practices and a barrier against our atonement. Truly, this troubles us greatly.”

He let out a slight sigh but then spoke again.

“Now then, at this mansion, since around the beginning of this month, there has been another guest in residence.” “He is one who shares our very circumstances.” “We have been guarding alongside our retainers, but originally, we sought out this vacant house precisely because its inhabitants had vanished. However, ever since this youth here—who now sleeps—staked his very life on his wish, leaving footprints pressed into the grassy thicket, people have come and gone noisily, creating constant hindrances. Thus we have taken it upon ourselves to drive them away one by one—yet the true trouble lies with this youth.”

"The firmness of his resolve, so unlike his countenance! 'I merely spun fanciful tales—ashamed of their own foolishness—traveling monk, I wouldn't tell even you—but truth be told, this one here endured rather cruel trials.' 'At times I dropped great boulders upon his chest and straddled them to constrict his throat; I coiled seven serpents about his limbs and set fanged lizards to bite him in my curses—yet he stubbornly refused to yield, serenely singing his song until I was utterly defeated.'"

“Therefore, as a final attempt—just now—I made the boy kill someone. That is to say, the one killed is you, traveling monk.” He stared unblinkingly. Having steeled himself yet trembling,

"Is this... is this... is this the land of the dead?"

His eyes alone darting about, he observed that face—plump cheeks bearing a smile—and chuckled quietly to himself, “No—there’s no harm done. But just when this youth was tormented—Your Reverence, how my chest ached!” Responding with a sharp pang of pain, “Oh!” “That is to say, the boy made you drink poison.” “…” “There’s no mistake. That vermilion-lacquered water jar placed on the door pocket—the water drawn into it was from a well, but since it’s a long-buried well, the water’s color is deep blue, just like translucent plant sap.”

“The traveling monk and others had served tea; the old man had drawn it—that was river water. The murkiness being somewhat tolerable—so the others use it, but this boy, having seen a cat’s corpse flow by before, cannot bring himself to drink from this well. It was just as he had said. ‘Because we torment and curse him with present sufferings without killing him—for we must not shorten his life—every night, unbeknownst to the youth, we have a dog-faced maidservant wearing a long-sleeved kimono with a crimson obi carry our treasured deep green wine from a lapis lazuli-colored agate jar and let it drip into that water as a revival agent. Such is our custom.’”

Forty-Two “The boy tastes it and smacks his lips, calling it a heaven-sent sacred spring.” “We commanded the youth’s soul to see a dream where he would offer that wine to Your Reverence and make you drink it. ‘Just try a sip—it has a refreshingly cool and fragrant taste,’ they urged—yet Your Reverence hesitated further, unable to lift your hand.” He smiled again, “‘Since I even tasted it for poison,’ the boy gulped it down and pressed insistently. ‘After timidly offering it to you, he waits—and soon Your Reverence writhes in agony, convulses violently, thrashes wildly about, and vomits a clot of black blood.’”

The traveling monk turned deathly pale. "Shocked, the boy tends to him," "But it was already too late—when he reached what should have been his final moments," *I am a monk. If by sacrificing myself I can achieve humanity, that would be my supreme fulfillment. You—pursue your aspirations elsewhere and swiftly flee this terrifying realm of demons.* he made his last testament. "This is our design." "Inside the mosquito net, the youth was tormented—it was when he saw this dream, you see." "[Thinking], 'With this, they would surely leave,' but ah, no resolution came. Traveling monk, when [he] saw Your Reverence temporarily fall into death, [he] shed tears and resolved to die together."

Hidden in the wicker trunk, we observed from behind the sliding door until the dagger was drawn with a glint, (Ah, wait—) We stopped him, but then—killing him would not settle matters. Thus, the lodger we have been guarding will open this mansion of his own accord and depart elsewhere.

"Prior to that, having personally obtained an audience with you, it is said there exists a matter someone wishes to discuss with the traveling monk." "Since the guest is a woman, I shall first make the proposal." For this reason, he had come here.

“I, Akidani Akuzaemon, shall mediate.”

Having declared loudly, he calmly “Would you grant me an audience? How about it?”

he said.

The monk reflexively, “Ha,” he answered. Before his voice had fully faded, the mountain-like figure shifted his knees and turned— “You may enter!” The colossal sound—like a shattered bell—boomed through the air. Dizzied, his soul receding into numbness, the great demon’s form withdrew swiftly as though sucked into a shadowed corner—now diminished to a firefly’s faint glow—yet still, every detail remained vividly etched: the hues of his robe, his hakama trousers, his pallid face, even every strand of hair.

“I beg your pardon.” From across the way, a single sliding door abruptly shifted to deep blue, leaving behind only the disordered outline of a rain-soaked demon painting as a faint peach hue floated upon its surface. At a glance: glossy black hair arranged in clustered waves—combed white at the ears and tied into a simple bun—framed a bowed face above sloping shoulders. Slender sleeves drew together as if embracing a chest clad in layered robes—a white-collared sky-blue underrobe beneath plain toki-colored gauze. A pale green obi cinched a slender waist like dewdrops scattered on grass blades, its threads gleaming faintly. Around breast and shoulder areas, the toki hue and pale blue turned translucent in that light, revealing snow-white skin with ethereal transparency beneath.

Her black hair cascaded over her collar like moonlit dewdrops, her hem unmanaged yet glistening lightly at the tips, advancing as though something unseen bore her hips aloft. Leaving the bottomless tatami room behind, she drew the endless night’s darkness with her, approaching the traveling monk without seeming to walk at all. When the sliding door opened unbidden, two snow lanterns aligned to either side, illuminating only the woman’s knees as they remained poised at the threshold. He had no time to wonder whether one of them bore a dog’s face.

The monk peered at where he had walked before and, with a single glance,

“Gah—”

[He] prostrated himself as though to say just that. Indeed, that face bore a pair of blazing silver eyes, their corners shadowed in violet; sunken cheekbones framed a pallid jaw, lips cracked and hollowed in pale indigo, a mouth stained with blackened teeth, a tongue like pomegranate flesh, and needle-sharp fangs clenched at the roots of its ears.

43

“Oh, I wanted to hide my face. I did not mean to intimidate Your Reverence—I was simply in my outdoor attire… Oh, how embarrassing.”

With that, she took a white demon mask to her side. Graceful yet dignified, her brows lovely and eyes gentle, she bowed her face and demurely rested her hands. “H-h-hello,” Flustered, she bowed in greeting, then raised her face—her pale cheeks now bearing a faint smile upon her crimson lips.

“Earlier—forgive my hesitation—I had the honor of meeting you in the corridor.” The traveling monk now firmly composed himself. “Who might you be?” he inquired, though at that moment he felt he almost knew who she was. The beautiful woman settled herself more firmly, adjusting the hem of her kimono, and leaned forward through the mosquito net. Pale green pressed in, enveloping the garment’s color in a faint hue. “This person’s mother’s acquaintance… and a friend of Akira-san…” She closed her mouth, though it was tinged with sorrow.

He edged closer on his knees, “Ah, you’re—” “Um, regarding that matter—I have a request to make of you, Your Reverence. Please do grant me your ear.”

and she peered through the mosquito net once more, “Dearest one, he has been worn down so terribly.” “That one who bears neither sin nor retribution would endure such hardships and risk his very life to hear the song—it is all because of mother’s longing.” “From his heart’s desire to hear that song again and again, he has now forgotten both himself and the world—ah, pining for me, lost and fallen into love.” “That song—I learned it by word of mouth from this person’s mother when I was young, and even now, I still remember it.”

“Given how profoundly he yearns, I would meet him briefly and let him hear it—but were I to show my face now, from that adoring heart of his, forgetting all else as in a dream, he would entwine himself in sleeves, cling to hands, press his brow to breast, and cry ‘Mother! Sister!’ How could Your Reverence ever slip free, tear away, or shake me off? I would draw you near; I would clasp you tight. For man and woman not bound by blood—this union stands as a decree heaven and earth shall never permit.”

"We are free—these bodies having turned from the floating world. Yet this would hinder my wish that lies beyond. 'Even so—I who cast myself aside—should madness take me through cherished love's frenzy... should my heart descend into chaos... if resolved, I alone shall not despise this existence.' 'I do not mind... but should Akira-san do this, he would share our fate... 'By now—in his present heart—Akira seems to have attained his deepest desire... his deepest desire.'"

As if smitten, she clasped her chest—but her nose bridge paled as she turned away,

“Oh, do behold. “Even now, amid all this, Akira’s mother leans out from the rainbow railing of a towering pavilion—mistakable for blossom tips where clouds part—neither scolding nor glaring, but out of love for her child, she worships me without deigning to call me a demon. “When I behold that beautiful, gentle face—even were passion’s crimson to dye autumn leaves—I dare not voice even the character for ‘autumn,’ lest it profane Akira’s name.”

Even without exchanging a single word—merely seeing her face—my deepest love weakened my resolve. "I am a married woman. Though I am another’s wife, this tenderness—this heart that cherishes mother—when it permeates one’s being, becomes love... becomes infidelity... becomes sin. Even a birth mother, once she has departed this world—though she may long to appear in visions, to nurse her child and lie by their side—finds that her cherished love becomes forbidden affection in the celestial realm; thus, she must refrain."

“Moreover, I am an outsider.”

“Causing you unnecessary trouble brings me profound regret. Though I had strictly concealed my whereabouts from Akira-san, it became an ill-fated connection when the young one at my knee carelessly let the handball slip away through their blunder.”

“Both he and I had tormented our bodies and wounded our hearts, but since he would not leave this place even with his life in peril, I shall withdraw to the side. His heart is too pitiable—that lullaby he so yearns for will naturally reach his ears when the time comes!”

That is—if I withdraw from this mansion now, every corner of the house will brighten. Akira will also reconsider and depart on a journey from here once more. “Even now, if rumors of this mansion’s strange occurrences spread through the neighborhood—to that nearby villa where a certain Ms....”

Forty-Four

“A beautiful outsider woman—here to convalesce after illness—has come, and at her attendant’s casual urging, summoned Saibachi privately for idle amusement. (‘All those specters at the Tsurutani mansion were merely pranks my helpers and I devised to dispel gloom—though I hear many were injured, even Kakitsu driven mad. How careless! How pitiful! Do ensure everyone receives proper care.’)…” …and bestowed upon them a great quantity of silver and gold.

“Now, once this matter becomes known to the world and rumors flare up swiftly, the patients—their spirits lifted—will recover peacefully, even those driven mad. Yet by inescapable fate, when her husband—the one called the spouse of that esteemed wife—returns from his sea voyage and hears these rumors—he is a man of dreadful jealousy, fearsome to all the world.—”

During those days of supernatural disturbances, there was talk of a traveling youth who had been confined there... By then, people would regard it as conclusively proven that Akira and his esteemed wife had committed impropriety—leaving no room for explanation. "He would purchase it from Tsurutani's main residence and confine that esteemed wife within this vacant mansion."

“Your Reverence. That beautiful wife, shamed before others and disgraced in society, seals herself away in a single room—entombed in perpetual night. And as days pass—though she neither sees nor hears—scandalous rumors taint his name; yet despite this, Akira-san grows somehow dear to her heart—nostalgic, then beloved—until she yearns for him. “This aching longing, this fierce love—now in my heart, and Akira-san’s feelings, maddened by his craving to hear the lullaby—are one and the same thing.”

At one year old, two years old, or after three years old—Akira would wander through country after country, circling around without hearing the song, returning to this village, and come to think longingly of the vacant house.

When that time came, the soul of the esteemed wife—steeped in love—would become a five-colored glittering handball and flow into Kasumigawa. Akira-san’s breath, exhaling the full extent of his longing, would rise as frigid smoke, hiding even the moon in midair. The flames of their passion would gather into a flower of white fire, setting the sliding doors ablaze. Neither sun nor moon, neither stars nor lamp—in a light that was none of these, they would at last meet face to face.

The mansion was the world's darkness. ……Yet this ten-mat room was dark. ………

To Akira’s bewildered eyes, soot appeared as flowers exhaling fragrance, spiderwebs wafted with the scent of rare incense—his heart fluttered; the entirety of this world condensed into a single room, then expanded into a palace vaster than the sea—a shrine of gold, silver, and jewels—where glimpsing the esteemed wife made him revere her as a goddess of song, kneeling and prostrating himself in worship. Long, cold black hair hung resonating like jewel-strung koto threads over shoulders; unspoken words between them became surging tides of blood beneath skin, conveying harmony to deafened ears; faintly touching hands—five fingers each intertwined—produced crystalline scraping sounds; trembling robes and quaking knees evoked the sensation of riding drifting clouds.

"Ah, this is indeed my mother…" he clung—her breasts heavy against him, her chest light, her hands soft and arms bending—the woman forgot herself and embraced— "My child is in peril! Have your eyes gone blind?" "Follow even the lamplight of that solitary house in the valley where sin plummets!" The starlight his true mother pointed down from the great sky became lightning that flashed across the walls; her voice commanding "Part! Withdraw!" thundered through the roof beams; tears fell as rain—the dew of emotion soaked trees, stones, even grasses, until at dawn’s first light they became droplets of lapis lazuli, ultramarine, and crimson.

To the two in this sinful world, terror and dread only made them press closer still. Unable to bear this pathos—as I mentioned earlier—where even a mother’s love becomes forbidden passion, transgressing celestial laws and shattering divine edicts, the mother leaned over the jade railing of a cloudborne pavilion, pulled a cassia branch toward her, clung to it, and ventured beyond the palace. Her body floated through lunar realms visible from the mortal world—and as she descended to earth, clouds inverted into countless cascades, roaring as they plunged into the unfathomable firmament below. Across that chasm—relying on but a wisp of mist-like noble robes and a bending cassia bough—such peril!

When the noble ladies among her companions suddenly caught sight of one among them, they abruptly halted the celestial music, fluttered up in alarm, and pulled the cassia branch upward. Restrained, her noble figure returned once more before the moon, clad in pale-hued robes, her hairpin glittering as it reflected the stars.

In the tatami room—from darkness—came sudden realization. When Akira realized the woman whose hands he clasped was a vengeful spirit, the sliding doors and walls became a great crimson lotus. The tatami mats he knelt upon transformed into a bed of needles. Snakes writhed in his sleeves, lizards crawled on his knees—before his eyes stretched a vision of hell—his entire body turned to ice in an instant as he recoiled in terror. Yet even if her single-minded resolve were shattered by a great iron hammer then, would he release the hand he had drawn close? The passion in his chest blazed like fire, as though holding a brocade painting of gold and silver to flames; his face flushed crimson, and seeing scarlet tears fall from eyes lined with white makeup and rouge, he found himself unable to abandon this love. Trembling with terror and shame, his body—the warmth of human skin, the burning lips—became no less nostalgic than his mother's form before the pure cool moon, neither severing nor hesitating.

In heaven, overwhelmed by concern, she sang a song from the mortal world—*if only this voice might reach him*—and divining the mother’s heart, the many noble ladies joined their voices in wondrous harmony—*then would the song be heard at last*. “The song Akira-san yearns for—through that natural accord—will echo within his breast and be heard.” With a visage so solemn it bordered on the divine… The monk listened, palms pressed together in prayer. And then—in that moment, with that person—he realized there was no need to wait for Akira. Should this beautiful woman’s hand but brush against him, he would hear that song then and there.

Forty-Five The beautiful woman resumed,

“Your Reverence, you must keep this matter close to your heart and must not speak of it.” “Without revealing this even a drop, for now, please comfort Akira-san appropriately.”

“Perhaps exhausted from the usual hardships—well, he’s sleeping soundly,”

As she glided closer, her form crumbled; suddenly placing both hands on the tatami, the scent of hemp rose sharply—the pale green at her shoulders turned cold, a faint crimson showing through the fabric’s weave.

“Akira…”

As if crumbling, she attempted to press her cheek sideways against his, but abruptly withdrew and adjusted her sleeves.

Her eyes, fixed on the monk, brimmed with tears,

“In that case, I shall take my leave.” “Though this childish act may shame Your Reverence, I shall bounce the handball in a full display of affection for Akira-san, that…”

Beneath the voice that had begun speaking, through the center of the paper lantern, a girl with cropped bangs and a rabbit-like face darted like a butterfly, approaching with [the handball] cradled on her sleeve. Taking the handball, the beautiful woman—within her pale palm—murmured “Ah, this demon world…” while caressing it like a grand red plum bud, then held her sleeve’s edge between white teeth; with a flick, it fluttered onto her sash. A seasoned smile played on her lips, entranced, “Oh my—it’s not just me feeling awkward! Hasn’t everyone else arrived to join us?” Bellflowers and kariyasu grass fluttered around the mosquito net—how beautiful; bush clover and patrinia—how gentle; bell crickets and pine crickets—their voices resounded…

(In the distant stream, a snake rears up, Yawata Chōja’s Otome, How they dare rise and scheme, In her hands she holds two jewels, On her feet she wears golden shoes……) The walls and sliding doors were dyed in autumn hues; the tatami room resembled a handball’s brocade—even fallen leaves fluttered down, crimson tendrils swirling around the paper lantern. Within their intertwinings, snow scattered—countless women’s hands upon hands. As those fingertips brushed carelessly against him here and there, the monk’s wrist twitched and jumped of its own accord.

(Sent up to the capital to perform kyōgen, Sent up to the temple to study, The temple priest was a pleasure-seeking monk, pushed from the high veranda—) She threw it up with a thrust—thud—and it landed high. Wait—he recalled—in his hometown’s Nirvana ceremony, there had been a custom where town girls would come to the mountain temple, each carrying two or three handballs cradled against their skin or held in their sleeves, all dressed alike in finery, to compete in playful matches.

The young man, hesitant, peered out from the bell tower, entranced by the game... At dusk in the grand temple, the figures of many girls merged with the distant, vividly colored Nirvana painting on the wall, compressed into a single scroll-like scene. From behind the main hall, out of the dim tatami corridor of the memorial hall, a strikingly alluring woman emerged—not rushing, handball cradled in her sleeve—gliding past the latticed window overlooking the graveyard. But by the time he noticed her, she had already vanished into the crowd, hidden behind someone’s shadow. That’s it—this person—no—she was exactly as she had been then—

And the monk thought to himself—Akira must also be seeing this scene in a dream from the bell tower. In the midst of thinking that if by some chance the bell were to ring and wake him...

With a slight movement, strands of this beautiful woman’s hair brushed softly against his cheek, and in the faintly clouded shadow, a loneliness settled around his eyes. (Hairpin dropping, small pillow tumbling……) As she tried to grasp the brocade pattern, the roots swayed, and suddenly her black hair cascaded disheveled over her shoulder. Disheveled in appearance—how shameful—she must think it’s already over. The dropped handball—without heeding the girl who picked it up and held it—she staggered to her feet, her figure drawn toward the mosquito net, standing there with the frayed hem of her kimono. Gazing up intently at the roof ridge,

“Ah, ah—the clouds churn. “Amidst blossoms sways Mother’s breast. “Does she mean to nurse her most cherished child? “Or does my conduct stir disquiet in your heart? “Though unseen to you wandering monks—we who dwell beneath gaze upon starlight even at noon. “Clear as your form appears—there lies heaven’s court; here stands hell—no words may span this gulf.” “O fair dreamer—” “Ah—Mother waits yonder. “If this devotion stays untainted by hell’s dust—let my sleeve serve as your mirror. “These tears welling in my eyes—” She tilted her sleeve, leaning close with bowed head—“are but dewdrops from Mother’s love—milk’s essence made manifest—” As glistening tears streamed down,

“Oh… Returning to infancy’s days… seeking milk… Ah—I’m waking…”

“Farewell, farewell, Your Reverence.” While he remained lost in dreams, she pressed a hand to the floor and offered a parting bow.

From the entrance to the front garden came a clamor and rustle—sounds and voices. Rubbing, widening, and wiping his eyes—the traveling monk parted from her. Soon, quietly—a dog-faced maid bustled forward, stood before him, and with crimson-fluttering sleeves that burned like flames, soundlessly flung open the storm shutters studded with stars, now embarking on their journey. In the pale light of the fourteenth-night moon, her profile—revealing a single cheek—had the air of a morning glory bud unfurling beneath thin clouds; her loosened hair swayed when she glanced back once toward the mosquito net.

“Ah!” With that—sweeping aside the mosquito net—Akira flung himself forward and clung. Before the traveling monk supporting his sleeve and the two struggling figures, there suddenly manifested the form of a great man—like a forest within mist—clad in a yellow robe that draped like a curtain, standing imposingly as a Nio guardian beneath the eaves, his voice booming: “Make way!” he barked. “Hah!” That being said, what was strange was this: the bucket Saibachi had filled with water in the evening—having drawn it up—and placed near the edge of the veranda suddenly flipped head over heels, splashing water everywhere, then began trudging away on its own hands.

Water raced after it—the dawn clouds already glowing white—as smoke-like rainwater flowed through the garden’s grass. Within this, the moon sank and became a boat, its bow riding up swiftly through white-powdered flowers, gliding smoothly as it passed. The great demon’s sleeves and sails must have become [her vessel], and the beautiful woman hid behind the ship’s screen, (What narrow path is this here, A narrow path, Tenjin-sama’s narrow path, A narrow path, (…prithee let me pass through a little…)

If it sounded most poignant and nostalgic—then, in the dense growth of trees, a roaring wind; leaves hastening over green rapids… The horizontal clouds—those, those horizontal clouds.

Meiji 41 (1908), January