Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

On one side, where even the sky hung heavy with clouds threatening an imminent shower, along a dimly lit forest stretching endlessly through the day, behind a gunpowder storehouse with its undulating black fences sprawling far into the distance—through this desolate place trudged a solitary figure.

“Ah, this must be why—though fearsome in reputation—the gunpowder storehouse stands bone-dry and parched. Exposed to sunlight, it’s perilous indeed.”

...a muttered soliloquy, seemingly out of touch with the world.

With a deeply sunburned complexion, he wore no hat, had a folded hand towel atop his head, and held a half-open white fan against his forehead... while on the other side lay an expansive field dotted with mixed trees, resembling a tidal flat.
No melons were grown here, so no guard huts stood nearby; with no rice, there were no monks to tend the mountain paddies.

In an open field that seemed flung from the clouds, under the crimson blaze of a sun veering westward, he noticed daikon leaves stretching lush and green here and there.

“Well, the world is auspicious—a prosperous autumn harvest indeed. Even the pickling greens have grown into daikon.”

With a stretch of his back, he propped himself using his satin-lined bat umbrella as a cane—its handle now dangling five crimson crow melons, indigo and yellow-green still on their vines as protective talismans of uncertain purpose. A clack sounded as he steadied himself—this elongated-faced figure with refined bearing and slender chin—then stretched his philtrum taut once more before holding his fan aloft toward the summit’s edge for a final breath.

“No—mustn’t lose sight of it! That verdigris kite marks the way.”

With white tabi socks tucked into fair-weather clogs, he set off with a clack-clack.

An old man over sixty years old—wearing a mouse-gray and black striped lined kimono under a black haori bearing three crests, its creases impeccably straight though slightly faded in color; a russet woven obi swelled around his torso, its folds secured loosely at his hips; gaunt-faced yet retaining a piercing gaze, his nose aquiline and unbroken.

Are there no glasses?
What they called a verdigris kite was in fact the arrowhead of the lightning rod erected on the roof of the girls’ school known as Saint Heart Institute.

Though he had passed through numerous torii gates, he did not seem particularly versed in worldly wisdom.

While making his way there—having ascended Sanko Slope—he spoke thus and asked for directions...

“Pardon my abruptness, but might I trouble you for a moment—just a moment?”

The one being questioned was a bearded man in brown flannel yet wearing a white crepe silk heko sash—a combination that rendered the interaction far from straightforward.
However, given that he pulled a baby carriage bearing a boy of about two years old—the child’s oversized naval cap worn backward—while pushing it sideways up that slope with a broad grin, one might credit him with understanding parental affection; but he was no Edoite who’d gladly give directions when asked by a stranger.

He remained silent, tensing his brows, mustache, and the dignified authority etched across his face.

The old man bent his waist even further,

“Ah, there should be a school called ‘Saint’ in this vicinity.”

“I don’t know,” he said curtly, his face sour.

“Ah! How utterly discourteous of me—I have indeed detained your esteemed steps.”

He deftly sidestepped the rattling cart descending the slope, then trudged off without replacing the hand towel he’d removed for his earlier greeting.
Had he perhaps come to pity even the coldness shown toward his own shaven head?

“Ah! So it’s not ‘Saint’ but ‘Saint Heart Girls’ School’? Then it does exist!”

“Oh, a girls’ school?”

“Yes, exactly!”
“And it’s not ‘Saint’—it’s ‘Saint Heart,’ with the ‘Heart.’”

“Indeed, that must be the case.”
“Actually, I saw it just the other day while passing by.”
“Since there was a ‘Saint’ something-or-other, I assumed it was ‘Saint.’”
“No—this old man’s been utterly careless.”

—was precisely the sort of old man who would slap a hand to his head in embarrassment...

II

Beyond the gate of that girls’ school, there had likely once hung straw sandals for sale.
A reed-screened tea stall spanned an enclosure of about two tsubo—roughly six and a half square meters—standing solitary.
With a grove of standing trees in a vacant lot on one side lending rustic charm, the Tea Shop Owner sold simmered offerings.
This was indispensable.
That red road stretching toward Meguro past the Gunpowder Storehouse lay visibly sweltering even on such an autumn day, the row of pines seeming to yearn for something.

When the old man saw this in passing, wiping the sweat from his brow with a neatly folded hand towel, he took a seat on a bench at the edge.

“Pardon me.”

“Yes yes, a most splendid day indeed.”

“However… though I must say, it’s a tad too fine for walking.”

And now, with manners refined to a degree rare in this day and age, she produced a fan.

“No, Honorable Retiree—even sitting here in the shade, sweat comes forth.”
“Would you care for some citron or cider?” she offered, her salesmanship well-practiced.

“Oh no—what you call an old man’s cold water is a familiar taste to me.”
“Pray serve me tea.”

“Yes yes.”

A slightly broad-shouldered, vigorous-looking old woman—with a faded hand towel and single work sash tied over her shoulder—thrust a well-used wiping cloth toward the worn lacquer tray.

“Oh my, Young Master, Young Lady.”

An eleven- or twelve-year-old with braided hair and long sleeves led the way, followed by seven- or eight-year-olds who flitted into the woods below like rabbits and colorful birds. Through the reed screen, the old man peered past it.

“Ah—can one pass through that forest?”

“This land belongs to another estate’s noble family—well—no—the children enter to gather nuts, you understand.”

“I wonder if they won’t lose their way at the exit—from what I observed, the interior seems quite extensive.”

“It’s only near the entrance now. So you see, they gather enoki nuts and acorns hereabouts. If you venture deeper in, there’s chestnuts and chinquapins too—but bless them, the little ones can’t manage that far for fear.”

“Hah! Just as I thought!”

And together with the tea he had drunk, he was profoundly impressed—

“This is nature’s fortress—tangled roots like disorderly driven stakes, branches forming defensive thickets… a vast vacant plain indeed.”

“Honorable Retiree, won’t you buy one?”

he blurted out abruptly.

A laborer in a short coat—though benches remained vacant further inside—crouched using the Tea Shop Owner’s stool as a makeshift shield while peeling a pear in one smooth motion, then called out with a strip of white pear peel clenched sideways in his mouth.

With a solemn expression he narrowed his shoulders intently and placed his hands on his knees,

"What utter nonsense!
"This old man has memories from his youth.
"As things are now, were my legs still strong enough I would attempt passing through like a courier.
"Ah... even that lies beyond this old man’s reach..."

He let out a sigh as if lost in thought—indeed, even his attire bore no resemblance to leisurely autumn diversions.
Perceiving from the old man’s purposeful dress that he had pressing business, the short-coated man straightened his posture, assumed a dejected expression, twirled the discarded pear peel around his finger, and laughed emptily.

“Ha ha ha! Talking about fields and mountain paths like that, ha ha ha!”

“No, no—it’s as if I’ve wandered into some uncharted mountain depths.”
“I feel compelled to light a lantern or torch even at midday.”

He slumped forward, bowing his head,

“Though my head alone glimmers…”

A smoothly stroked hand, the hollow of the neck.

“The path beneath one’s feet grows dim, you see,” he murmured, shoulders slumped dejectedly, knees drawn close as he held his folded fan upright like a ritual scepter.

As if involuntarily drawn in, the two of them peered restlessly about the dirt-floored area, as though they had fallen into something there.
On the reed-thatched roof, two or three leaves.
The forest shadows encroached upon the benches, and from the white-clouded blue sky, tree nuts seemed to rain down.

III

The laborer-type man in a short coat raised his eyes from where the ground had suddenly darkened as if shaded, comparing the old man’s bald head to the white pear held in his hand.

The old woman interjected,

"Honorable Retiree, do you hail from far away?"

“Shitaya.”

“That’s a long way off—even by train, it’s no small journey.”
“Well then, and where might you be heading?”

“I have some business in this area.”
“In my youth, I only visited once during an extreme summer heat, yet I remain entirely uncertain.”
“Back then, as I passed by, I saw it—the place where they had established that large school. But when I stopped by just now, the gate was different.”

Extending his arm to point back the way he had come while simultaneously propping his closed fan against his knee to turn his entire body... even this motion required a labored breath,

“That was the front gate... The slope was wide.”
“What I remember is a somewhat narrow path—steep halfway up the slope—where the brick wall appeared red as fire.”
“One side was a field of wild grass—a terribly stifling place indeed.”

“That would be the back gate, you see.”
“It stands to reason you inquired whether one might pass through this forest—your destination is not mistaken.”
“If one could pass through the forest to reach the back fields beyond, the path would be shorter—but since even crossing through the vacant lot proves impossible, you must now follow the Gunpowder Storehouse’s black wall up and down, making a wide detour.”
“Is there something—might you have business at the girls’ school?”
“In that case, even the front gate would suffice for your business, I should think.” The Tea Shop Owner once more rose from the stool she’d just settled on, peering into the woods and scrutinizing the path.

“No, no—using that as my landmark, I have another place to seek out.”

“Do you properly grasp where you’re bound for? It’s desolate and sparse here—houses don’t show themselves easy,” she said, squinting upward as she struck a match against the tobacco tray at hand and relit her half-extinguished cigarette.

“I’m not entirely certain, you understand. Even should I find the house…”

The fan’s collapse against his knee, the feeble tap of his hand, and his body’s forward tilt happened nearly as one movement,

“Whether my humble wish might simply reach its destination—well...”

he murmured... His words—about heading off impulsively to some recently discovered relatives for alms—sounded uncertain,

“After all, merely hearing ‘Gunpowder Storehouse’ doesn’t make a pure spring well up.”
“Though I set out after some delay, I must beg your pardon as I cross yet another hill.”
“I shall remove my haori coat once and for all.”
“Ah, no—Granny, there’s no need for that.”

Having removed his crested haori coat, he folded it properly, smoothed the collar with care, deftly untied the dark brown cord, and paused, his hands tangled as if in hesitation.

“My disguise may be splendid, but the path beneath my feet remains dark as night,” he muttered gloomily, his hem appearing equally dark.

The laborer-type man in a short coat crossed his arms,

“I tell ya, the path’s treacherous underfoot—can’t even haul you along… Honorable Retiree, we oughta at least light a lantern.”

“If it were night, I would truly offer to lend you one.”

“How ’bout this—those crow melons glowin’ on the dark branches in the forest there.”
“The crimson ones look just like lanterns.”
“Hey, why don’t you bring some along? They might serve as some kind of talisman, you know.”

“Hmm... Crow melon lanterns, you say?”

He closed his eyes.

“That does hold a refined charm, but I’ve yet to hear of any proven efficacy from carrying them out.” He rubbed his emaciated upper arms with the fan, having removed his haori coat.

IV

“You ain’t peddling frostbite remedy as you wander about, are you?”

The Tea Shop Owner, seemingly pitying the elderly guest’s earnestness, pressed down on the laborer-type man’s back while straightening her posture,

“Enough of this nonsense—talking about crow melon lanterns for precedents and talismans. You’ll have foxes lighting them next.”

“Foxes lighting them… What?”

Brushing away the wrinkles that had veiled his face, he opened eyes now clear as skies after clouds part—and a blade-sharp light joined the scene.

“What? Foxes lighting them? How intriguing!”
“How intriguing!”

Snapped open his fan before his chest with a flourish, adjusted his kimono to sit more expansively, and straightened his posture.

“Now, where... Ah! There they glow crimson, hidden among the leaves.”
“Artisan, that was a fine suggestion.”
“Well then, I shall go hang one of those and bring it along.”

“Ah, Honorable Retiree! If you fancy one, I’ll go tear it off and bring it here. …Even if folks call it foolishness, I’m workin’ for an elder’s sake.”
“‘For generations, my ancestors ain’t gonna scold me for this—no sirree!’ he declared, rising.”

The old man rubbed his shoulders and bowed his head,

“I must say, this is most gracious of you.”

“Oh, it’s nothing, Honorable Retiree. Y’see, Granny—today’s my father’s death anniversary.”

As he exited the reed screen and crossed the slack wire of the boundary fence, he flung the tobacco aside with a flick—his torn tabi-clad feet stomping down on the grass with a *zush*.

The red fruit hung high above.

A rustling sound echoed toward them, and the short-coated man who had embraced the tree parted the leaves with his headband like a beast that had devoured a pear.

“Watch yourself!”
“Careful now… Wouldn’t want you falling…” he called up.

“I’m quite alright.”
“For I am one who perches upon telegraph pole tips.”

“Hmm, a noble effort… Think of it as staff or pillar, old man—lighting your way with that fox lantern…”

“Isn’t this rather ill-omened, in broad daylight?”

“That’s precisely why it’s auspicious—what we call a talisman! You’ve heard of the Golden Crow and Jade Rabbit? They say a three-legged crow dwells in this blazing sun, lighting the midday path. For an old man’s darkened heart, these crow melon lanterns are heaven-sent aids.”
“My gratitude,” he said, shading his forehead with a palm.

The Tea Shop Owner made a rare expression,

"But they look like fox-fire or something of the sort—it seems rather eerie."

"I see... Fox-fire... That's useful to know."
"Hmph... In a forest this size, there might be foxes."

"Yes, well... you see... they do exist."

"Did you see?"

"Why, I've seen them before myself."

The old man, hearing this, braced himself,

"Ah, reassuring."

“Yes…”

She stepped back, overwhelmed by the force of that... that reassuring old man’s voice.

“Well then, shall I call out?”

“Huh?…”

“As expected—that…”

Holding his breath with arms spread wide against his chest, he settled his lower abdomen firmly—

“Kaan!”
“What was that?!”

The heavy thud of someone dropping down from the tree.
The crow melons dangled crimson in midair, swaying as their rattling echoed through the forest.
Look at Granny’s face.
The man in the short coat came flying back and met her bewildered gaze.

“What in the… The crows all took flight at once.”
“What the… What was that voice just now?”
“I shoulda just picked the crow melons and come down, but y’see… ended up findin’ mushrooms on the branch here.”

V

“Here, look—no, wait, here.”

“Ah, were you calling for me?”

The one who answered while tying the cords of the haori with both hands was the old man from earlier.

The blue-bricked structure—that was the girls’ school.
Leaning against the corrugated zinc fence—on which he had hung crow melons like a Bohemian’s rosary, using the satin-lined bat umbrella as support—he now drew out the haori he had folded and tucked into his pocket, adjusting it properly upon himself.

Again attiring himself in such an odd place.

Having climbed the steep slope of Raijinzan and reached a small plot at the corner of an alley in the town’s backstreets—where an area roughly the size of Isarigawa’s arsenal lay vacant—the surroundings must still have been spacious.
In a fragment of azure sky where town and world alike seemed distant, at a time corresponding to some millennia after the Western calendar’s inception—when Yogorou stood beneath the Saint Heart Girls’ School with its greenish-blue lightning rod swaying overhead—the portion of that newly developed quarter opened upon Musashino Hill might have touched this place alone.

The brick outer wall and zinc fence of the corner estate faced each other—the road’s width creaked with narrowness.

Now with that azure kite also having alighted upon a tree—the sunlight glinted off each fourth-story windowpane in succession—and when he looked up—the lightning rod stood directly overhead.

This dead-end corner was the school’s service gate, and then—for about half a chō beyond—houses lined both sides. Each embraced thickets of mixed trees and fields. Opposite the sparse fence of this wasteland stood the Gunpowder Storehouse’s elongated wall.—Not a single soul passed through. It was a path as if hastily sketched onto the map with a pencil.

There—having exited the reed-screen stall atop Sanko Slope—this old man carried a basket of withered herbs all alone in hand, as if traversing a wilderness path. With red crow melons dotting his bat umbrella—tangled and propped up—aiming for the blue kite, shielding himself from the sun with a fan, treading in fair-weather clogs, he made a wide detour and at last entered that desolate town.

No—once he left the Gunpowder Storehouse’s dark forest at his back, even this desolate town of estate-lined streets had sunlight burning upon fallen cherry leaves, plum branches exhaling a haze of wispy mist… The crape myrtle, though withered, still clung to two or three lingering blooms—showing faint memories of summer heat—and the world seemed hearteningly far from autumn’s end.

There he went—peering here and there, looking about, stopping to ponder—through front gardens, past fences, within latticework.

“Well now.”

Gazing up at roof ridges; stepping back once more.

“Indeed…”

He set off walking,

“No—wait…”

Scolding himself, he furtively retreated from the well-lit bay window.
“Is this wrong?” he muttered to himself.
Oddly muffling his footsteps as he passed through, he came to face the girls’ school’s service gate directly.

“This area… Ah! The greenish-blue kite! Wait, wait—best to be certain.”

That—could that glimmer be eyes? If so, I might be snatched away in one swift motion.
Resembling goldfish on a Kinuginu tree—fox lanterns, crow melons—he rearranged them once more and thrust the bat umbrella’s entire handle forward, just at arm’s length,

“Don’t lose your way now. Don’t you falter.”

Muttering to himself… (Here, here—no, wait, here…) The spot now being questioned was one he had passed through just moments before.

Passing through there, he meandered in a dull zigzag between both walls, then from the narrow square up the slope—smoothly emerged his wrinkled face…
The residents of the lower world at the foot of the slope must have been startled.
The mountain ogre peered from the clouds.
His field of vision broadened expansively—opening toward Meguro, stretching to Osaki, and sweeping across Isarai to overlook Azabu in one panoramic gaze.
The crows floated like seagulls; forests near and far resembled sunlit islands; the towering hemlock at Raijin’s foothills—its trunk rising like a banner, like a sword—mirrored the mast of a celestial ship grazing the heavens; upon windless waves of rooftops, foam-like specks or white daisies glittered in the sunlight.
Though the grasses of Shirogane run deep, if you deem this your dwelling, then Tamanodai is Fuji.

VI

“No mistake—this is it.”

The hollow of his gaunt cheek unnerved as he thrust those uncanny crow melons forward—lanterns snatched from the slope’s thicket—into sunlight so scalding it might induce vertigo.

Just when one might assume he’d descend—he did not… The old man whirled his entire body in a clogs-pivot against the wall’s face, retracing steps… He must have been verifying some trace here, on this very slope scaled during summer’s cruelest heatwave.
If so, then that bay window downtown—the one stealthily targeted while withdrawing—might be the old man’s true objective.

In the back, there might be a fair-skinned beauty with elegantly arched eyebrows.

Rustling back once more… He bent low, slipped quietly past the Gunpowder Storehouse, and clung to the shadow of a plum branch peering over the neighboring estate’s wooden gate. There he stood before the bay window, stretching his neck forward—only to scrunch his brows, shut his eyes, shake his head, and trudge back the way he came, vanishing beyond an unremarkable fence.
Gazing directly up at the lingering embers of the crape myrtle, he drew in the shade’s coolness, sucked back a stifled sneeze with a ‘uh,’ and pressed the sleeve tightly against the fan without a gap.

Just like that, he straightened up, gradually returned once more, and passed by a slightly elevated latticed door fronted by about five stone steps.
Without a ditch, a small fence spanned about six feet; here crimson nanten berries glowed, and alongside sasanqua flowers whose roots wafted a rich fragrance stood the bay window—its panes topped by iron bars painted stark white, while uncolored ivy leaves clung to the mullions and crept along the eaves.

Involuntarily, there—with a sun-flushed red face of wrinkles and straight nose—he stretched forward abruptly to press against it properly, and what flashed into view was a crimson elbow patch.
The peonies startled and flipped over in an instant; from their petals abruptly parted and flew away a face as white as a butterfly—the light blue of a collar peeking through, reflecting the sky in its beauty.

Was the old man about to collapse?
Ah! Let this greenish-blue expanse feel shame—having glimpsed Lady Dyer herself—like a tengu stripped of mystic power becoming a kite with broken wings flapping clumsily through capital streets... In panicked flight he wheeled from the service gate with a thud, finally there catching his breath between pressed lips.

At that exact moment, two men stood pressed tightly against the service gate, their backs turned.
One wore a Kokura-weave hakama and kasuri-patterned clothes without a haori.
The other—dressed in a speckled frock coat—turned around and fixed an equally piercing gaze in this direction.
As if deliberately indifferent to roadside matters while tapping their fingernails in unison—when, as though the kite aloft had relayed some coded signal—a single-paneled horseshoe-shaped door thudded resonantly through the tranquil early winter air. With a clank and creak of chains, it opened, swallowed both men within, then slammed shut with a heavy *zun*.

Insurance solicitors or some such—who seemed to have come with an introducer—wore expressions tinged with an old man’s air, as though they were on a lovers’ rendezvous,

“Ahhh, they slipped right in—and this is supposed to be a girls’ school.”
“No—this structure rivals the Ni-no-maru’s Goshuden itself, yet I cannot help but envy it.”
“But does formal attire bring advantage when meeting women?”
“Hakama and Western clothes!”

He seemed to have noticed… something… Then, while gauging his pocket’s position with his chin, he first tried pressing that antiquated Western umbrella against the zinc fence ahead—and read the thickly scrawled graffiti.

“What’s this?—(Yaohan’s food is terrible, terrible,) Hah! What disagreeable nonsense… As if this were a personal affront to me.”

He abruptly furrowed his brows, his mouth tensing sharply as he read the next one.

“—(Komoriya’s sake is top-notch.) Hmm… Ah, how reassuring.”
“What’s this? (But half is water.) …Hmm…?”

“Kansuke’s mock goose is fairly tasty—hmm… ‘fairly tasty,’ eh? This must be Onuma Kanroku’s doing,” he said.

Here, the old man muttered: “Onuma Kanroku—heed that name.” He was a Natori Kyogen actor, the current head of the Heron School.

VII

"The food was bad, but the mock goose was good... or rather,"
"People differ - one should excel in artistry - but I suppose it truly was bad. Hah!"

Heaving a deep sigh,

"Hmm... Another preposterous one... Ah! So this lengthy thing here must be what they call a 'nonsense scrawl.'"

Just as he stood bewildered, gazing vacantly at the charcoal-drawn line connected to the handle of his propped-up bat umbrella, a youth came whirling down from before a small thicket atop the slope—blue-faced and squint-eyed with simian features—who, upon seeing the old man, thudded to a halt mid-descent and began dragging over a large bicycle wrapped in tattered boots.

“Hey!” he barked abruptly.

As the lanky old man swayed unsteadily, a mud-clenched fist thrust out abruptly toward the tip of his nose—

“Old man! You’re the one scribbling that graffiti—what’s this crap about Yaohan’s food being terrible? Huh?”

“This is something I never could have imagined.”
“But—by any chance—is this Yaohan establishment connected to *you*?”

“That’s right—I’m the bad-tasting Yaohan’s manager, old man.”

The ill-reputed lout bared his teeth with a flick and spat—a glob that splattered thickly onto the sleeve.
This visage—which might have suited a formal kimono pattern—bore a gentle, composed demeanor,

“Though I do not engage in graffiti, you mustn’t take offense at being called unpalatable. You see—if it’s indeed bad, we might be relatives.”

“What? You’re saying bad taste makes us kin—ugh, damn you!” he spat. But his ire wasn’t directed at the old man. The enemy from a past life had become a dog—a long-faced, white-spotted creature that now pursued him relentlessly, suddenly dragging its belly along the ground as it curled its tail and lunged to bark.

“Damn you… Damn you!” he snarled, wielding his fist like a discarded whip while clinging to the handlebars. Even this ruffian was forced into a full forward bend as he fled toward Residence Town—the spotted dog surging like a wave in swift pursuit.

The old man wiped his sleeve with a hand towel, dragging it across the fabric, and watched [the youth] depart.

“……Where green tree shadows sink and fish climb trees—such a scene exists; where the moon floats upon the sea and rabbits race across waves—… No—no, there is nothing interesting.”

And so, he had taken out his haori and put it on.

Salt-and-pepper mottling marked the nape; his reddened baldness receded from a forehead above a face glossy with oil—corpulent, with deep sagging wrinkles around the nostrils.
A large man in his fifties with a twisted mouth exposed his sun-reddened chest beneath a loosely wrapped heko obi.
He wore a Ryukyu-style haori—rushed out mid-fastening—its collar remaining unfolded as both shoulders sloppily disappeared into sleeves. Jutting sharply from around the corner, he glared—(This—no—*this*)—such was the scene.

“Do you have some business here… old man?”

He bowed with courteous politeness.

His ruddy face puffed out his plump cheeks,

"No—rather, it's I who should be inquiring about *your* business here... Honorable Elder," he intoned heavily.

“And you?”

“No—if *you* want names exchanged, proper protocol would have *you* start first—but this is tiresome.”
“I am Komuro… yes, Komuro—the landlord of these parts, their overseer.”
“What’s *that* meant to imply?”

“Hey, old man.”

“No—rather, you—you’ve been shuffling back and forth from north to south through this neighborhood for some time now, dawdling about, peering around—what business do you have here? Well, that’s precisely why I’m asking.”

The cheeks wobbled as he spoke.

“Therefore…”

“No—rather, this isn’t a ‘therefore’ situation.”
“If you go around back, there are small rental houses—yes, there are.”
“But on this main street in the neighborhood, there’s my residence and two or three others—no, grand estates.”
“Even a single glance at the nameplates would make it clear.”
“No—rather, even a cat or dog could tell.”

“What house could you possibly be searching for?”
“No—rather, even if you aren’t searching for one—let’s say hypothetically.”
“No—rather, there’s no need for this ‘Shichiku’ business—why would I be peering at gates?”
“I just happened to peek through the window.”

He emerged swiftly,

“Ah, so…”

“What’s this ‘Ah, so…’ nonsense?”

He turned his face aside and spat out the small toothpick he’d been chewing with a sharp *puh*.

VIII

The old man placed a fan on his knee and bowed respectfully,

“Respected Sir, I humbly seek your esteemed permission for this first encounter… Truly, truly, I must apologize anew for my discourtesy.”

“Well then, I humbly inquire about a certain matter—well then, might there not be an esteemed daughter in your household?”

he said in a resolute manner.

“A daughter… Ah—you mean a woman?”

Abruptly inquiring about another household’s treasured possession—this wretch’s tone, half-mocking, evaded.

Now with a grave expression,

“In that case, it must be the Young Lady.”

“Whether she’s an older sister or younger sister, I have one.”
“My only daughter, you know.”
“No—rather, my precious daughter.”

“Hah, most reasonable indeed.”

“And what of it?” he pressed a hand to his puffed cheeks, vexed by the old man’s excessive courtesy.

“I am sixty-seven years—yes, at this age, being of these years, I must crave your indulgence.”
“Yet even so, sweat comes.”

He wiped his forehead and coughed...

“Might I most humbly beseech you, Respected Sir—by your esteemed will regarding your daughter, the Young Lady—to grant me but a moment’s audience?”

“Hmph—about my daughter?”

“Nothing in particular.”

“It’s strange, I’d say—if you’ve got business with my daughter, you should come to me—but that’s another matter.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to call you a suspicious gentleman—given this fine weather, you’d do well to calm yourself.”
“What in the world is your business here?”

“Indeed, it is regarding that matter that I have come forth… Shamefully peering at your residence and incurring your reprimand—as I humbly reflect on this disgrace—I must beg your pardon for my belated explanation, but this old man resides in Shitaya Okachimachi and calls himself Hagiwara Yogorou, an unskilled Kyogen actor,” he declared.

“Ah, so it’s a farce, is it?” said [Komuro].

Exactly so—it was a farce.
But there, his act of naming himself proved regrettable.
The old man Yogorou, who went by the artistic name Yosetsu, had been an honored elder of the Heron School.

“Oh! Father—here of all places!”

“O-machi? What’s this.”

said the ruddy-faced landlord.

Let even that azure kite among late autumn clouds alter its course for her sake.
Figure and bearing resembled a crane, combining neatness with dignified elegance.
Collar’s light teal and pale plum-blossom pink.
Eyelids too bore faintest trace of southern sunlight.

Holding the Nakayamadaka hat she had taken up, she drew near to the landlord’s sleeve,

“Mother said you should put on your hat. …I thought you had gone to inspect the back.”

As he greeted them and stepped back—pressed against the zinc fence until his spine nearly fused with it—Yogorou, who had stiffened almost to stone, suddenly wore an indescribably joyful, radiant, and wistful expression.

“Ah! Ah! Ah! You—it was you! You!” he cried, spreading his sleeves wide and clutching at his chest—a gesture caught between desperate clinging and restrained reverence.

In doubt and surprise, she peered into her father the landlord’s sleeve—her wide eyes clear and limpid like quivering pale teal.

The landlord proudly snapped the stiff hat onto his head and crossed his arms decisively,

“Well… O-machi—do you know this old man?”

“Yes.”

Her reply came in a hushed voice that sounded gentle and clear, yet carried a faintly uncertain resonance.

“Ah! For a brief moment—an honored meeting—I am but the old man by the roadside.”
“It’s only natural you wouldn’t remember me, Young Lady.”
“Well, you see—this summer, in late August, around four in the afternoon by the old clock, if I recall correctly.”
“In this residential quarter, near your esteemed residence—I became utterly lost. When I asked for directions, it was you who kindly guided this senile old man with such graciousness.”

As if he had forgotten the landlord’s presence entirely, he smiled disconcertingly—repeated faint smiles that bordered on eerie.

“Ah, Young Lady.”

“Ah, I am aware of him.”

The crane’s hem trailed to the ground—the white of bare feet, blue beginnings like water.

Nine

“You were there at the time—whether at the neighboring house or beyond it—standing by the fence before an estate with a plum tree gate, alongside what appeared to be that household’s wet nurse: a woman with her hair in a marumage chignon holding an infant…”

...the old man gestured with his hands,

“Choo-choo-choo-wa-wa,” she’d coo to soothe the child—the fair-skinned one clapping her hands. “Just then, having had the empty rickshaw pulled by that grumbling rickshaw man, I found myself wandering here.”

The house I sought was scarcely known, and already the rickshaw man had abandoned me. Dragging my feet, I panted up that slope called Raijin-zaka.

Once I searched this area too, but to no avail—soon my eyes grew dim and my heart faltered. Then above what I took to be the gunpowder storehouse, clouds threatening an evening shower gathered. In this sky that seemed a wilderness where even east and west blurred together lurked that ominous black kite’s uncanniness. Just as I teetered on despair’s brink—there I glimpsed the Young Lady’s form.

Now, while likening her to a heavenly maiden in hell, it was difficult for this elderly stranger to speak freely to the esteemed lady. However, she had been tenderly soothing a child. Moved by that kindness, I boldly approached and—though impertinent—made my inquiry.

But you did not know. Ah, but of course—how could a sheltered young lady of noble bearing, reared in seclusion, be expected to discern addresses in unfamiliar districts?

Like a sulfur island’s lone bishop whose mooring rope had snapped—my heart near bursting with anguish—you, in that moment, conceived a sudden notion. Ah, but indeed—a matter of utmost gravity, I tell you!

“Her youthful grace held no pretense. To avert the household’s collapse—fluttering in anxious haste—you slipped through the lattice of your esteemed residence, and it was then—ah, then I recalled—that bay window there— And there, beneath that bay window… Young Lady, you had a desk—and from the nearby bookcase, from within your hand case, you retrieved it, I do believe. ‘Temples and shrines painted vermilion,’ you declared, spreading the map of Shirogane before this old man, ‘addresses marked with numbered characters.’ You asked whether the house he sought was this one or that one—no, considering his dimming sight—and with your own spirit poured into tracing characters as small as mustard seeds upon Mount Sumeru’s bedrock, plucking them out with your crimson-tipped fingertip… Then with those clear eyes of yours reading them aloud… that… that joy when he finally understood.”

The kindness of her heart, the preciousness of her guidance, the brilliance of her wisdom, the majesty of her bearing.

“The second time at Raijin-zaka—sha!—as if soaring cloud-borne from the rickshaw’s perch, surveying vistas while humming a ditty beneath my breath—down I came at Takasago! Hah!”

As he crouched, he thrust the front half of his folding fan into his obi, placed both hands on his knees, and bent at the waist as if to perform a dogeza prostration—

“Now, your kindness from that time has penetrated this old man’s very soul—I have not forgotten it even in sleep or meals. I am eternally grateful, I assure you.”

“Oh my…”

The daughter, her eyes unblinking, looked down intently through her deep lashes.

The madman—neither shoved nor struck—wore a look of unmanageable distress, while the landlord, with evident reluctance, tapped the eaves of Nakayama High. Hard as they were, they answered with a sharp *tock tock tock*.

“I get it. What, such a trifling matter.”
“Well—but to get to the point—you, ah… what was it… Yogorou-san, was it?”
“So you’re claiming that this Kyogen actor here had my daughter show you the way using a Sanko Town map, are you?”

“And… regarding having been shown the way by your daughter…”

“Well… no—I get it.”
“To put it bluntly—you came to say thanks. Thanks.”
“What… You needn’t have gone that far. Shitaya Okachimachi’s quite distant—must’ve been quite the effort.”
“To put it plainly—you’ve gone to the trouble of coming all this way, so I’d offer you tea, tea I would—but to put it plainly, my wife’s tied up—the woman’s taken ill.”

“Oh, but truly… that is…”

“Now now, you needn’t prattle on so.”
“Well, given that, we cannot offer you hospitality.”
“Now please take your leave—we’ll bid you farewell here.”

“Oh—wait—”
“Now, again—”

“What now—again? (Now.) Now—(again?) Huh?”

Ten

Yogorou pointed his hand as if clinging toward the landlord, who was already briskly shaking off his tucked hands to depart.

“Well now… Ah, this may grate upon your ears.”
“No—rather, regarding this matter… I have an earnest request to make of the Young Lady. Though I have expressed my reservations profusely, I could no longer endure and have come forth.”

The matter I speak of concerns my own affairs—nothing out of the ordinary.

The old man, at that time… Therefore, the following month—early September.
At a certain venue in the Ueno area, the first program featured an interlude Kyogen play—the Tale of Nasu.
In the main role of Tsurigitsune, the shite was to perform Hakuzosu.
...Now, even within our school, this is a weighty art not lightly permitted—a role we fellow practitioners scarcely have occasion to perform even once in a lifetime.

“Lately, Noh theater basks in the morning sun’s light, glowing with radiant vigor.”
“This pitiful, regrettable Kyogen—a star visible in daylight—finds even its officials vanishing with the sun’s descent, plunging us into endless night.”
“Yet there exists one of profound discernment—a patron who secured us a stage, specifically intending for this old man to perform Tsurigitsune.”
“Though I play a fox’s guise, I shall unshackle my pent-up soul and take the stage as I please—with the vigor of a bear bursting from its den, and momentum fit to seize rainbows if not larks…”

Contrary to his words, he made a dejected face and directed his gaze toward the daughter.

“The day I asked you for directions—in truth, I had come out intending to discuss certain matters at the residence of your esteemed patron.”

Now, the stage for the following month had been finalized in clean copy and submitted for inspection by various esteemed parties; thus, his publicly recognized duties were scheduled to commence anew in the early part of the coming Frost Month (November), upon a certain Japanese stage.
“But swords and jewels—their foundational polishing is what truly matters; in the end, they’ll merely receive a final wipe.
“Last month’s duties brought no small hardship—even walking outdoors, I stumble over my own shins… I must say, nearly thirty years have passed since this old man, in his forties, performed this role in *Tsurigitsune* just once on a proper stage. At that time, the headmaster—the previous master—assigned himself the supporting role of the hunter.”
“Since then, it has been discontinued, so without practice, one cannot be reliable… As for this Yogorou being unreliable—they are all young people, mere children.”

What he never forgot, especially at such times, was his late master and the yearning for stages where he had once performed. That day, having concluded his business at the residence, he went to Shiba Park and wandered about Maple Hill, utterly overcome with tears.
On his way back, he stopped at a soba shop in front of the main gate for a drink and, somewhat unexpectedly becoming tipsy, suddenly remembered that he had a niece.
She was married to a naval officer and now resided in Zushi, Sōshū.
She was an exceedingly kind-hearted woman who, every time she sent word, offered fresh sashimi and invited him to come see the moon over the sea.
Seizing this moment and resolving firmly, he boarded from Shinbashi Station, which was not far at all.
But summer nights were brief, and already it was ten o’clock.
This train had Ōfuna as its transfer point—a route he had experienced a few times at most.
Kamakura and Yokosuka—he had visited those places for work—

The car he had boarded was a second-class compartment with murky blue velvet upholstery—a long, cavernous space that felt unnervingly gloomy. Few passengers were visible. At the moment of his boarding, there already sat a man fast asleep, a newspaper draped over his face like a shroud.

In a corner of the entrance, within the dim shadow cast by a sudden lamp, there sat a hunched monk!
He saw the figure sitting desolately—a mouse-gray hood extending about two feet from its wearer’s head, its folds cascading smoothly over shoulders, sleeves of ink-black monastic robes rolled up at the chest…
He harbored no ulterior motives.

The old man passed before him and settled into the far corner on the same side as the monk. As he turned to look at the aged monk—who seemed devoid of hidden intent—he mused: *Should death come, on the pine-lined path of the netherworld, we would pass so distantly that neither shadow nor face might meet…*

The daughter adjusted the pale blue collar of her immaculate garment.

The elderly landlord ground his teeth faintly while searching for the discarded toothpick he seemed reluctant to part with, occasionally spitting.

Eleven

“When that monk on the right appeared as a hazy form in the distant beyond—like ash gathered into a bundle—the train began lurching and swaying, scattering him like blown dust until he vanished. I tell you this, yet there was nothing suspicious whatsoever.”
“It stemmed from both the deep gloom of that detached compartment and the desolate nature of the train itself.”

Now, Shinagawa and Omori, the sea and fields—all lay bathed in a fine moonlit night. A metallic clang reverberated through the air. A courtesan as slender as reed leaves hummed faintly between breaths while the wind rustled gently... The old man, panting from daytime exertion and utterly spent, felt a tipsy drowsiness begin to steal over him. No sooner had he begun to doze off unintentionally than he was already sound asleep.

Ōfuna—as they call the station—"...Transfer here for Suruga Pass crossing! Kyoto-bound!" With hurried hands adjusting his obi, clutching the shelf’s parcel and grasping his Bat Umbrella to steady his gaze, he peered about before stepping through the door. The moon shone brightly, dew glistening on the station’s pavement as he walked—lagging behind others—I alone...

“As my solitary shadow cast itself—ah!—with a heart yearning *to become the fox itself*, I climbed that roofed staircase and began crossing the high skybridge suspended midair… Well now, Young Lady—here we are.”

At the bridge approach stood the monk from before, several yards ahead, moving with a clattering gait.
An emaciated gourd of a figure—lanky and towering—dragged the ink-black hem of his monastic robe in a shuffling trail behind him. Hunched forward with slumped shoulders beneath a weighted long hood, he appeared like a shadow puppet floating lightly, ever so lightly.

As he spoke these words, suddenly there—spat from the narrator’s mouth—a Tieguai-like specter was cast upon the earthen wall… It was the old man’s shadow.

“Ah! I thought this must be the form of this old man’s soul extracted—on the bridge of liminality where no one else was present.”

However, up ahead on the steps, a station worker came clomping up in his boots.
“As he came toward me, brushing past that monk—”

Yogorou exhaled a breath,

"The monk raised his long-hooded head with an owl-like motion, hoisted one leg up to his knee, propped a shin like a support rod, sharply swung his black-clad hips, spun askew with a thud, and braced both fists against his staff—"

(Is the Yokosuka-bound train this way, I wonder.)

In pursuit, he once more hoisted one leg up to his knee, propped a shin like a support rod, suddenly swung his black-clad hips, and spun askew with a thud,

(Is the Yokosuka-bound train this way, I wonder.)

And then, as the station worker who had already come this way approached, he whirled around with a full turn of his shoulders. He looked twice. The emaciated monk’s bluish-yellow elongated face...its surface gleaming with an eerie luster... Though his form was withered, he appeared as a monk of serene bearing—so venerable even stones might bow. His childlike face spoke of crane-like longevity, having surpassed seventy years, yet his voice seemed that of a seven- or eight-year-old—a light, giggling child’s tone.

As the figure shuffled along clinging to his staff and disappeared down the staircase on the opposite slope, the old man—upon scrutinizing this—unconsciously collapsed into a seated position.

There it was—the ancient fox, Hakuzosu transformed into a monk.
Ah! Such mastery.
Loneliness.
Even if I intend to transform, how will people perceive me?
The retreating figure anxious about its tail, the turn of the head, the glance backward—the artifice, the essence.
Hachiman—this is perfection!—the conviction imparted by demigods.
Moreover, the old man’s ingenuity, hardships, and daily contemplations had manifested as a shadow—*This is it*, he thought—ah.

Yogorou slumped and hunched his shoulders,

“Ah! One’s artistry is not something to take pride in.”

On the day of the performance—the grand culmination of our school’s tradition, a lifetime’s reputation—this Yogorou Noyuki stood as the sole remaining practitioner in a lineage recently fallen to decline. Called “Star of the Old Marsh,” spoken of as one whose head gleamed even in broad daylight, he himself had come to accept such praise.
Adjusting robes and rising from the stool; cutting through the entrance curtain—
...Out he came!
In the vast and desolate moonlit wilderness—a single fox-monk Hakuzosu swept through, stirring the wind; he envisioned.
The earthen floor, the galleries, the main seating—all clamored and roared… no different than a festival day.

Twelve

“People stand and walk about; conversations spring up. Some call out ‘Tea here!’ while others shout ‘This isn’t the eel rice I ordered!’”
“They click-clack their shoe tags.”
“Among them, some even bellow out the rongi chanting from the previous Noh performance.”

But behold!
Yogorou—witness the demigod-imparted secret technique—or so thought the monk from the train.
Placing this resolve upon the spectators’ weighted gaze, he refined his breath, tempered his spirit, and at last became Hakuzosu himself.

Perched on an ancient stump in Nasu Moor, releasing the demon fox passed down through three provinces, dousing himself in Sesshoseki’s poison, subduing the waki hunter Onuma Zenpachi—and there, *there* at last—he conjured the visage of the Yokosuka-bound monk upon the stage… Yet when his craft—technique! artistry! mastery!—lunged wildly like a mousetrap fried in sesame oil, the burst of absurdity amplified until children roared with laughter in unison.
The lapdog held by the noble family’s widow nearly barked itself hoarse.

Now, those kyogen plays may have been crafted to amuse, but when it comes to this *Tsurigitsune*, it is not something meant for people to laugh at.

Terrifying and lonely—even if not overtly fearsome—it must at least be uncanny.
“Unthinkable!”

No sooner had he choked out these words than Old Man Noyuki slumped against his clogs propped at his waist and collapsed onto the roadside with one knee raised.

“Thus, when the departed—beginning with my Master—performed this kyogen in days of yore, the earthen floor transformed into wilderness, one or two pines into distant forests, the bridge approach into a slender stream, and the audience into grass, leaves, and stones—until the stage brimmed solely with ancient foxes. That uncanny mastery… ah! The fox-scent hung thicker than rat-oil vapors!... and voices clanged as sharply as drums mastered by virtuosos.”

“What manner of travesty is this? Even when confronted with this inept, benighted fool—this half-wit spawned from ignorance called the Twenty-Five Seat Fox—the children do not laugh. Ah…—”

Though I knew my efforts might now be futile—like consuming fugu that even my late wife’s dying injunction could not prevent, yet still failing to perish—it was only this clinging attachment that drove me: for there remained one last stage at the month’s turn, and I thought, *This time…*

Having forgotten sleep and sustenance… dispirited, heart shriveled, body exhausted and failing—yet that obsessive resolve still nocked a poisoned arrow to the bow of curses, eyes clouded, target vanished, becoming the very darkness of the artistic way—the old man now lay spent utterly.

At that moment, the azure sky had cleared completely.

When his heart surged open, those large eyes gazed steadfastly upward,

"The autumn clouds—dense and brooding—that kite transforming into a peacock before me, its wings summoning a figure I now recall as vividly as one standing at my dream-pillow... It was you, Young Lady—you."

O-machi modestly drew together her sleeves.
The clouding of the gentle eyebrows upon her jade-warm face was the shadow of that black hair.

“To speak of this old man’s present state—it is as though I wander this endless wilderness under a blazing sky, head bared to scorching heavens, gazing upon ominous clouds that haunt one corner of the firmament, my foot seared and hand aflame.
When you showed me the way—ah! The reverence, the joy, the profound tenderness I feel… Even the figure of that monk from the night train, circling the compartment—since it occurred on the same day—now seems to have emerged not from your sleeve, no—rather… from that very map.”

“When I consider it thus—there, where you graciously unrolled the map and we stood together gazing upon it—it strikes me as nothing less than having been granted the secret scroll of the artistic path under heaven, an initiation into its most profound mysteries!

My lady... no, a goddess... Young Lady.

Having exhausted all discernment and ingenuity—bereft of guidance from the teacher who should have instructed him—this feeble old man.
He had nowhere else to turn.
Simply, single-mindedly fixated on the Young Lady, he trudged along as if moving through a dream.”

However, he did not believe there was any particular secret in that local map.
"I perceive that within your breast, your heart, the lining of your sleeves—somehow divine guidance resides.
"I beseech you—from your very person—teach me how to master Hakuzō-ō’s monastic robe and the true art of metamorphosis for an ancient fox’s tail, that I may not be jeered by others nor laughed at by children…"

“This, this—no, this.”

“Hold!”
“Even so, Young Lady—your age, and the state of your hair.”

The girl touched her hair but did not seem to adjust it; the faint red at her sleeve cuffs and her graceful arms were evident.

“Your mastery of dance, hand movements, gestures, and comportment is exceptional—but never could I have imagined that one versed in contemporary Western studies might possess insight into the kyogen performed between noh plays.”

“Or perhaps—through some karmic bond—you are the scattered seed of a master in this art, a miraculously bloomed flower. For us, you would be an udumbara blossom… yet that may be overreaching.”

"Or perhaps through this modern age's new learning might you deign to guide me?"

Yet even gaunt as he was—this Yogorou had mastered neither form nor gesture.
"The Master dwells in the heart.
In the eyes...in the breast..."

To see your form near at hand—to watch shadows flee—to kneel and devise!
"I implore you—if fortune allows—permit me seven days...fourteen days...in some kitchen corner or entryway nook..."

"You serious with this?" bellowed the landlord.

Striking his chest,

“It is a blood vow.”
“Should you refuse, Young Lady—even upon a gutter stone—this old man shall bring his own meal to the stool.”
“I earnestly implore you to grant this request.”

Alas! Had I been of superior spiritual roots, the mere sight of this crow melon here—nay, but a glimpse of Your Ladyship—would have unveiled enlightenment’s secrets. How bitter! These aged eyes clouded with tears, the fog within my heart refusing to lift.

“Ah! Young Lady—you’ve heard.”
“This is my plight.”

With that, he leaned upon his open fan.
The dust rustled as it scattered around the mandarin orange crest of nobility.

Involuntarily gasping, O-machi spread her haori sleeves in neat purity upon the earth—then her small wrist was seized and yanked upward.

“Fool! Madman!”

“This wretch!”
“Hey! If you keep harping on this—why, if some painter these days asked her, I’d have to strip my precious daughter bare—no—make her show herself stark naked, I tell you!”
“You lecherous old man!”

Thirteen

“Raw buckwheat noodles—mori-kake for two sen… A town on the outskirts indeed.”
Ah—boiled peas, old tools, secondhand clothes and such.
What’s this? Proclaimed in katakana as *KIMYONI NAORU MARU*—cures hernias, expels intestinal worms, severs parasitic roots… Hmm—hernias and worms I’ll suffer—but where’s the medicine to sever stupidity’s root?

Here was what appeared to be a newly opened cattle and pork shop.
It was not a sideshow.
This was a cattle shop.
But opening a shop—now that was auspicious!

Hmm... Abdominal acupuncture therapy... Gamo Tetsusai... Gamo Tetsusai... Here was a name that claimed mastery.
Ah, how enviable.

“Ah, a koto instructor,” he mused. “To linger in this town—the melody of sudden showers and pine winds.”

“Well ain’t that refined. Heh-heh-heh-heh-cackle!”

The fish shop apprentice Akahachi—pale-faced, swinging his lunch box—darted out his tongue in a sideways lick as he loitered aimlessly.

In Sanko Town’s back alleys, amidst the clutter leading to Azabu Tajima Town’s outskirts, a housewife stood among two or three others at the communal tap. She listened while watching charcoal briquettes dry in a firewood shop’s rear yard, where the clatter of geta teeth being repaired echoed rhythmically.

“What’s that talk about? Some moving picture business, hey?”

“Nah.”
“Heh, nope—ain’t like that at all.”
“This here’s ’bout him bein’ all lovesick over the overseer’s daughter up at Fujimi Heights on Raijin Slope.”

“Ah, you mean that beautiful lady.”

“That’s right! And get this—he’s this tottering old geezer.”

“Oh my.”

“He’s a pervert, and what’s more, fox-possessed to boot.”
“Every day, he loiters around in front of the overseer’s house and clings to it.”
“Just yesterday, when he was sitting on the doorstep, the big landlord grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out.”
“The Young Lady clung to him trying to stop it, though.”
“Heh, what a joke! If she’s gonna shield that old man, she might as well poke my cheek with her finger—that’s what riled me up.”
“I got off my bicycle and was watching—then kicked sand at the old man’s back and ran off.”

“That—well, that was yesterday’s business, y’know.”
“It’s no damn farce!”
“He comes to watch the Young Lady but brings along a damn lunchbox—rice balls and all.”

“I see. How strange.”… said the geta repairman.

“Yeah! The landlord stomped on it and got mad, then that spotted dog chasing me gobbled it right up—hilarious, that was yesterday!”

“I get it—about yesterday.”

“Even before that—every damn day.”
“You can spot ’im somewhere ’round here.”
“Always comin’ down Raijin Slope, trudgin’ through this neighborhood like he owns it.”
“Actin’ all carefree too.”
“From the corner soba shop, peerin’ into every house—spoutin’ the same kinda monologue day after day.”

“That bastard—‘mori-kake for two sen,’ huh? Got some nerve! Madman’s got no right callin’ this place ‘outskirts,’” said the geta repairman, tossing hollow flattery as he glared at the housewives.

“Then there’s that *KIMYONI NAORU MARU* nonsense—him putting on airs all the way to the cattle shop opening! Some quack masseur callin’ himself Gamo Tetsusai, claimin’ mastery! Teapot my ass—kettle bastard! Makes me laugh.”
“I figured I’d pull some mischief on him, so I started tailin’ him from behind—ended up learnin’ most of his spiel by heart, see?”
“Even now—look! He’s come right there.”

“He’s coming!” said the geta repairman in unison.

“Didn’tcha see? I came up with the best plan to make ’im show his tail—dashed ahead to get here first. Lookee, lookee—here comes that geezer, huh.”

And then, upon seeing the koto instruction signboard—as was his wont, hatless, leaning on his Western-style umbrella with hips set firmly—old man Yogorou passed by unwittingly.

“Hey!”
“What are you doing?”

No sooner had he spoken than—
...they yanked down the alleyway’s clothesline hung with diapers and loincloths, then in that instant aimed for Yogorou’s hem as the pale-faced apprentice slipped his foot precisely between the stepping leg and bracing leg.
As momentum seized him, poor Yogorou tumbled into a somersault—

“Ya!” he shouted hoarsely even while falling—the cry reverberating—then arched mid-air, performed a dragonfly twist, and flipped lithely.
A consummate blend of ancient and modern skill, executed seamlessly—he tilted his head backward without grazing the ground—yet his unrepentantly aged form, its staggering spine about to give way, smacked against a telegraph pole across the path, slid helplessly down without support, and thudded onto the wooden bench fronting a shabby sweetshop where pots of sticky bean cakes bubbled.

It was women who came running up. Scattered in their arrival were children.

From before the Inari shrine in Heron Forest—having noticed—a beautiful young girl clutching a purple medicine bottle rushed over, the stripes of her sleeves thrown into disarray.

“Are you hurt?”

“Quickly—to the bone-setter in front of Kichijoin…”

“Are you hurt?”

Old Man Yogorou Nozuki composed his refined face with an air of nonchalance,

“Ah, children! Why don’t you laugh? Laugh! Hahaha—laugh!”
“Were this old man to bring *Tsurigitsune*’s stage here, how simple it would be—though I may think myself transformed, who can say how others perceive me.”

With half-closed eyes, he recited composedly,

“Ah—that spirit is what matters most.”

Lowering her head with a gasp, she embraced his hunched back without regard for onlookers’ eyes—not even reaching for a handkerchief—as tears streamed down her sleeves: it was O-machi, peerlessly beautiful in all the world.

“Take my hand—Grandfather—come; let us go together.”

Fourteen

A solemn horseback lantern dyed with a bellflower crest within a circle floated faintly in the dark night; the hands that held it were whiter than its light. Her glossy black hair reflected the glow—the faintly glowing face belonged to O-machi.

As if shading her brows, she tilted her head slightly and gazed tenderly at the snow-white neck.

Before the lanterns stood rows of vermilion-lacquered torii gates growing ever more numerous, their gentle forms welcoming like crimson-dyed brocade maples.

On one side lay a graveyard of egg-shaped stupas harsh as lye; on the other, a cliff black as lacquer.

At Fujimi Hill within the Dakiniten Shrine precincts, behind where O-machi now stood,

In this district, as it is the sacred ground of Fujimi Inari Shrine, the keeping of domestic dogs shall be strictly prohibited.
Landlord.

A prohibition notice bearing the inscription could be seen. From there stretched a continuous row of houses—exactly behind O-machi's house—but between them lay the temple's cemetery. Cutting through would be quicker, but taking the detour required going up Raijin Slope, circling the earthen wall, and passing before the thicket-covered tatami mat.

In one hand, O-machi cradled a tray draped with white fabric in the supple sleeve of her haori. In the darkness ahead, another vaguely white shape resolved into a bib-like cloth—from within it peered a face with upturned eyes, sharply pointed and ghostly pale: the sacred blue stone statue. This fox remained fearsome even by daylight.

As she gazed forward, the lantern dipped lower, her hem passing beneath the torii gates—revealing her identity as a Saint Heart Girls’ School student whose deep hakama hems by day now swayed with the grace of bush clover blossoms. Around the torii’s base, dewdrops glimmered faintly here and there as she arranged her indigo-dyed sleeves—a demure allure within her dignified composure.

As the fox's face darted close before her eyes, a pitch-black lattice emerged behind it, and there on the stone steps below crouched Yogorou with his Hōnen-like head.

The old man spread a prepared blanket, bundled and laid out on the stone dais, settled his hips with desolate composure, and sat formally with both hands on his knees.

“Grandfather.”

As she spoke, the lantern’s handle brushed against the offering box—and with her back arched against the blue fox statue, O-machi moved to the old man’s right.

“Ah,”

He called out in an unexpectedly vigorous voice, though with the pallor of one who had apparently kept his eyes closed until then—a countenance awakening from a dream—

“Yet again you visit me… Young Lady, truly, this pierces my conscience. Though you did not explicitly instruct this old man—since the map lies at the root of this matter—if one were to entreat this deity for a bond with the land… it was you who saw fit to suggest it.”
“A lantern in dark night—your words are those of profound wisdom.”

“Though I fabricate elaborate pretexts to come here by night, during daylight hours—morning, noon, evening—I fall under your gaze, Young Lady, and receive kindnesses most undeserved: these visitations.”
“Yet considering your noble station—particularly as you must act discreetly before your honored father—I believed no further complications should arise. Thus I deliberately chose to approach under night’s mantle… yet how could I anticipate such obscurity?”
“Under these circumstances, this old man finds himself at a loss for where to place himself.”
“Firstly, as I have just mentioned to your parents—”

“No—my mother has known everything from the very beginning.”
“She says she isn’t troubled—that she wanted to do something about it much earlier.”
“Truly, Grandfather, my mother weeps in secret, sympathizing with the hardships borne by your esteemed self.”

“Oh, such excessive consideration is unwarranted.”
“I have taken that matter deeply to heart as well—this old man’s very soul is committed to it.”

“I weep alongside you too.”
“If there were truly anything my body could achieve, I would offer it up to you by any means.”
“Why, if it meant you might become ensnared in your Kyogen artifice, I would even scorch my flesh with oil to make the offering… But you must perceive this.”

“Outrageous!” Yogorou slid slickly down the stone steps.

Fifteen

“And there’s truly been no trouble at all.”
“For you to endure such… well, hardships.”

“No—this old man’s chest itches unbearably, and aside from this trembling body, since coming here I’ve regained a singular vigor. You need not fret over my health.”
“On the contrary, my heart is filled with nothing but joy as I strive to attain some enlightenment.”
“But as for your honored mother—”

“Mother, Grandfather—she’s been bedridden, and her appetite has dwindled so terribly.”

“Homage to the Three Treasures.”

“Tonight, after it grew rather late, I thought I’d try making buckwheat paste anyway—and since there happened to be fresh buckwheat flour delivered from Father’s estate, I prepared it at her bedside.”
“Father has gone to stay overnight at that estate and is away from home.”
“Mother and I spoke again of you, Grandfather—of your circumstances… We were certain you would be at the shrine and wished to invite you inside, but with Father being away as I mentioned, it becomes all the more impossible under such circumstances.”

“Ohhh, indeed!”

“Buckwheat paste is said to warm one up.”
“Mother and I thought we should offer it to you—well—I brought it here.”
“I’ve included a second portion.”
“If it isn’t disagreeable to you, please partake.”

“Ah! The buckwheat paste… Prepared thus, its aroma arises.”
“Even were I reborn a wild goose in the next life—new buckwheat and blowfish are things this old man would stake his very life upon.”
“That I shall never refuse!”
“Though I cannot warm sake amidst these woods, ’tis the refinement of court nobles.”

As if setting up a street stall, Yogorou circled around, spread out the blanket, and sat upright on the paving stone before the stone steps—then his resolute voice clouded over.

O-machi, as if enchanted, settled herself at its edge, and with housewife-like dexterity took up a white cloth.

Yogorou propped both hands before the tray,

“Ah! Tonight, at this very hour, Yogorou the artist has come to feel the divine blessing upon his humble self.”
“Therefore, in celebration of the new buckwheat, this old man shall tell you a tale, Young Lady.”
“...Among the Kyogen plays we of the Heron School have mastered, there exists one called *Onigawara*—a piece most fundamental, yet paradoxically demanding of rigorous discipline.”
“First comes a samurai who spends years in the capital before returning to his homeland. Upon beholding the demon roof tile crowning a grand avenue’s rooftop ridge, he recalls the visage of his wife—she who remained behind through passing seasons—and in yearning for what was lost long ago, proclaims that tile her very likeness before weeping aloud. Though others might deem this meaningless, a Young Lady of your learning and discernment requires no explanation.”
“Were it paintings or statues—celestial maidens, great beauties, even courtesans’ portraits—none would question tears shed before such fair semblances.”
“Any soul might weep then.”
“But before a mere demon roof tile? Not even false tears could flow—truly.”

“Cry!”
“Won’t you cry?!”
“When he commanded ‘Cry!’, my late master made this old man stand outside the storm shutters for seven moonlit nights—forced me to stare at that house’s ridge tiles—and would not even permit me to move.”

It was midnight on the sixteenth night.
“At my master’s wife’s suggestion—my master’s daughter stealthily brought buckwheat paste…”

His words trailed off as he pressed a fist firmly against his knee.

"She concealed it within her sleeve and brought it."
We ate it under the shadow of persimmon leaves broad as paulownia foliage.
Though it wasn't a demon roof tile, I shed tears then—when I stood and looked at the moon, at the roof ridge, at that demon tile—weeping softly.

Now, that girl became part of our household through marriage when this old man was thirty-two years old.
“That one passed away the year before last.
This aged body’s staff and pillar—eventually becoming the sole confidant in our family’s art—when my discernment failed me on stage, I would pour out my heart as if communing with my late master’s memory… Now considering this life unworthy of preservation—even after eating the blowfish my departed wife forbade in her final words—still I cannot die—such is my karmic fate.”

This time’s *Tsurigitsune* too—though I succeeded in perfecting the transformation, fixated as I was on upholding my master’s reputation and my wife’s posthumous merit—has brought upon me a ritual-like disgrace.

“Now—though it is improper to say—the other day I chanced to glimpse your figure, your countenance—and though doubly improper to speak of—it resembled… no—rather, Young Lady—no, I should not address you thus—your honored mother. No—this is too impertinent…”
“...This buckwheat paste closely resembled hers...”

“Ah! The wild geese are crying.”

“Oh… The wild geese cry.”

Yogorou pressed his shoulders, his chest quivering, tears streaming down.

“Grandfather, here—and please put in the hand warmer; I have warmed it in my bosom.”
“Mother wore it against her chest too.”

“Ah!” he cried involuntarily, seizing O-machi’s silk-floss hand—her wrinkled fingers soft as carded cocoons.

“Father’s been wearing himself thin with worry… To show such care even for a wretch of an old man—more than I ever dared hope. His face grows gaunt from grinding jewels.”
“Now… why do you weep?”

“This chest constricts—merely constricts—Young Lady… You’ve become unbearably precious.”
“I wish I could hold you properly,” murmured the crimson blossom that budded at midnight—now wilted, its dew-bruised petals shedding light like shattered garnets.

No one would know.
In all the world’s strangeness—the two of them pressed close together upon the blanket—that blue stone fox turned its face fully around and peered at them with its nose...

“This is…”

When the old man accepted the hand warmer, he saw something resembling a folded booklet that had caught and fallen when O-machi opened her collar.

“...Though O-machi attends a Christian school—since this shrine guided us and our bond began with this map—Mother says we should enshrine it as a token and make matching vows.
“…I too came bearing this intention tonight.”

Yogorou Nozuyuki, upon hearing this, clenched his fist, assumed a dance posture, and resolutely raised his knee upright,

“Hmm, no—rather, time and again… Even if they be Kirishitan padres, your chosen faith transcends mere convention.”
“This matter and that.”
“Though moonlight shuns new buckwheat fields, in darkness—ah—one might encounter a wife from the netherworld.”
“This lamplight becomes your guide.”
“Ah! Deign to unfold the map—this old man has steeled his resolve!”

His eyes blazed with a swordsman’s focus—that keen edge where warriors test their blades—as he stood arrow-straight clutching folded sleeves, body coiled like twisted hemp, inching inexorably toward the charted surface—when a grotesque countenance whirled round; black shadow pierced the air, and a foot tore free from inked pathways to hang suspended in emptiness.

“Clang!” came a sharp bark.
A shadow streaked through over a hundred vermilion torii gates in one swift leap—flew skyward—vanished along the treetops—was that an echo?—when a voice cleaved the darkness near Raijin Slope’s midpoint,

“Clang!” it echoed.

“What was that?”

“No—it’s nothing suspicious.”

“It’s the old man’s troupe.”

From behind the shrine emerged two handsome youths, their figures perfectly matched, emerging from the darkness.

“So… it was Kyogen after all?…”

“No—rather, it’s Noh theater. We’re live-in disciples under the Grandmaster.”

“Emulate the old man’s—that very struggle—we’ve come under the master’s orders.”

With that, they removed their deeply pulled-down hats in unison, bowed to O-machi, and in the candlelight, both their eyelids glistened with dew.

“Young Master.”

“Oh! Mr. Oonuma.”

“You too?”

Oonuma Zenpachi wore boots with hitched-up hems, carrying a Masamune four-go flask tied with a cord.

“With an opponent that fervent, we can’t stay idle.”
“Cold!”
(Teeth chattering) To soothe their resentment at always being mocked by the old man for attending his blowfish hotpot gatherings—secretly… Oh, cold!
“They’d meant to defeat their foe sip by sip, but fear gripped them and they couldn’t drink.”

“Young Lady, you are the guardian deity.”

Taishō 5 (1916), January