Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

“Hey there, viper’s here! Feisty one, mind yerself!”

“Right.”

What froze in place—as if a viper’s head had emerged from the grass at his feet—was a traveler from the city: clad in a Satsuma kasuri summer kimono and solid indigo-gray gauze haori, having set out lightly dressed.
Lately—whether in Tokyo or the provinces, though the season remained early—whether through hasty souls or bargain prices—there was this travel-ready straw hat.
Being brand new, it made him appear somewhat younger than his years—yet conversely lent him an inexplicable lack of bodily substance—leaving him breathless with shock as he continued speaking,

“That startled me… What a nuisance, that viper.”

Tilting his hat’s brim—the sky overcast yet not glaring, a uniformly gloomy expanse—upward to gaze at the cliff above, he looked upon the old man in his seventies who had just bellowed out, looming tall at the precipice’s edge, and thought again: What a nuisance that viper was—what a nuisance.
But in truth, it wasn’t just snakes—even lizards or centipedes would have startled him, his posture growing increasingly unsteady as—

“This is bad—are there slithery things here?”

“Well now, ain’t nothin’ like that ’round here—they do stick their heads out now an’ then, so best keep yer wits ’bout ya, hear?”

“Old man—hey, old man.”

“Ain’t nothin’ here.”

And with that, he blew smoke from his nostrils while firing off a retort into the valley.

“I’ll cover the tobacco money—the tobacco money.”
“So could you come all the way down here and take me back through the grassy area?”
“And this desolate graveyard…”

He started to say,

“Well... It might be rude toward the people of the upper temple, but truly—this place has fallen to ruin.”
“It’s fortunate I didn’t go deeper into the cemetery grounds—but after hearing that just now—my legs have locked up completely.”

“Ha ha ha ha ha.”

The smoke drifting at the tip of his nose crawled over the broken eaves of the old temple near his nape like a slug.

“What a weakling you are.”

“I’m begging you—I’m no renowned priest or anything, but old man… I consider you the mountain deity guiding me.”

“Well now, ain’t that grand—you sayin’ such outlandish things!”

With both hands—though these days, the old man of the mountain smoking tobacco posed no issue—truth be told, he swung the base of his pipe like a ritual scepter, fiddling with his kiseru as he casually descended. His workman’s leggings readied for walking, he stomped heavily—sturdy-hipped—and was already drawing near.

“Well now, much obliged.”

They stood before a single stone pagoda, both knee-deep in overgrown grass.

Indeed, this cemetery was desolate.
In a sunken area where three sides had crumbled away—not a single stake remained to mark any boundary—the ancient broken grave markers lay mown down like millet husks, their forms blending with bleached bones in the dim light.
Stone monuments and pagodas alike were either toppled or leaning; scarcely any remained properly set on their bases.
Even those—eighty or ninety percent—were nearly hidden by grass and buried under heaps of fallen leaves.
Where lush green pampas grew thick, one side of the valley floor visible through the leaves opened into rice fields, while distant mountains—shaped like clouds far from the capital—drifted across the azure sky as solitary islands.

It was precisely because the soil was relatively dry—yesterday had been rainy—that he could enter at all; had it been a wetland, even without the old man’s viper warnings, he likely wouldn’t have ventured a single step carelessly.

Even having pushed through this far, the dew on moss lay thick upon both tree branches and Buddhist grave markers.
...the traveler’s fingertips were stained blue with grass juice.
Perhaps shadows from the mixed trees were seeping through.

Smoke lingered in nostrils that seemed fit for bats as the old man blew the whitened ash from his pipe’s bowl—puffing it onto his palm’s wrinkles—then furrowed his brows and checked for any remaining embers as precaution. When he blew it off, the ash caught on leaf tips and fizzled out with a *posu posu* sound, which he stamped out with another thrust of his tattered straw sandal,

“Well now, ye’ve come all this way—ain’t this some kinda pilgrimage?”

“Well…”

With that, he gave an evasive reply.

“Namu, namu... Tell me now—might you be tied to this here grave somehow?”

Tucking the walnut root ornament into the frayed indigo kogura fabric of his obi, he squatted and pressed his palms together in prayer. As if compelled by the gesture, the traveler removed his summer hat and straightened up.

“Whether connected or not, old man—ain’t this the only grave left lookin’ proper in these parts? And whoever glimpsed these loosened incense wrappers in the grass—left by visitors recent-like—they’d naturally follow ’em here like a porch light in the dark.”
“It’s just like losin’ your way on them mountain trails, eh?”

The posthumous name on the gravestone’s surface—whether denoting a lay brother or lay sister—remained buried beneath moss and invisible, but the triple vine family crest emerged as desolately as fallen leaves, while upon the pedestal where spent incense lingered, the characters “Tazawa Clan” could faintly be discerned.

“Heh heh—talkin’ like some pilgrim ascetic, ain’tcha? From some grand far-off place, eh? Tokyo-way maybe?”

“No—this morning from Matsushima.”

He folded his arms and said forlornly.

“A cultured one, ’tis—a pleasure trip, eh?”

“Oh, not at all... The waves were rough, and—”

“Oh.”

“The rain was pouring, and—”

“Hoh.”

“The weather finally cleared up from Sendai onward—no, rather foolishly—I’m on my way back now.”

Indeed, how ridiculous... The traveler was Kogata Hanhai—a self-proclaimed haiku poet.

The author of this piece, being on intimate terms with the subject, shall speak without reserve. The livelihood was sustained, albeit meagerly. He had apparently graduated from a respectable school and worked in a lowly position at some company; his fondness for haiku amounted to mere amusement—a pastime. Initially, he had called himself Hanhai, but treating haiku as frivolous play meant no one would associate with him these days. For starters, he might get thrashed. Do you not see? With their keen daggers—carving bone, rending flesh, excising humanity’s subtleties—they sought to pierce nature’s profundity through seventeen syllables. To such seniors and comrades, he stood as an affront. Out of trepidation, he altered his pseudonym from “俳” (haiku) to “杯” (cup). Yet lacking means to offer even a single libation, he resorted to self-poured drafts—thus *Hampai*.

Even so, in this day and age, retracing the Narrow Road to the Deep North for Matsushima sightseeing was simply too "Hampai."
Nowadays, Germany and France might as well be next door—places like Marseille, Hamburg, and Abyssinia seemed poised to be counted among every port and inlet.
As for slightly unusual places to speak of—lion hunts, tiger hunts, disputes over anthropoid apes' coloration—such matters appeared in nearly every monthly magazine... Yet none of them seemed to involve pilgrimages around Ashi Island or hellish tales of Osore Mountain.

Just recently, a young man fresh out of school who had come to visit me—the author—apologized for his month-long neglect and then casually journeyed across the South Seas islands.
...There were charming tales of blue birds chirping "tweet," yellow birds trilling "chirp"—but what struck me mid-conversation was this: when crossing by canoe from a main island to its satellite isle under blazing sunlight, a patch of waves—translucent indigo in that clear stillness—suddenly shifted to deep chartreuse.
Despite there being neither a breeze nor a single wisp of cloud, as the tide swayed gently, near the water’s surface, it suddenly struck like yellow rose petals.
Its vastness—immeasurable in the open ocean—was that of a colossal ray surfacing. With mocking yellow eyes glaring close and a blue maw stretching over six meters, it grinned broadly before sinking once more.
It must have been a handmaiden from the sea’s demon palace.
Even after its disappearance, the ship's sails momentarily coated people's visionary eyes with that chartreuse oil.... "To put it in tatami terms—" The young speaker glanced around, but unfortunately the author's residence contained no parlor larger than eight tatami mats.
"Hmm, about thirty tatami mats—no, rather fifty, or perhaps even more than that," he said.

A journey so effortless it might be called a half-day’s diversion—this trifling account of rain-soaked Matsushima sightseeing that Hanhai now recounts to the mountain old man—O esteemed readers—do lend your ears to this tale awhile.

II

Kogata Hanhai, on his first journey to Matsushima, found himself confined by rain from the evening of his arrival through the following day.
The scenery was buried in rain, giving a sensation as if green wood smoldered in a hearth.
The sightseeing under the roof amounted to little more than the main attraction of Zuigan-ji being scrutinized through narrowed eyes, leaving him wondering why he had even ventured to Oshu.

Because both his days and funds were running short, on the third morning when he departed the inn, the weather turned splendidly clear partway through.

On his way back to Matsushima via the Ōu Line, he heard there were strangely many tofu shops along that stretch……
The fried tofu shops cast heat hazes along their eaves, and tofu-like white clouds danced across the azure sky.

Those odd memories being about all there were to recall—as they neared Shirakawa—night deepened at that same spot where they had departed Tokyo, and sure enough there was a pouring rain; at the edge of the rain-drenched station stood a dimly glowing udon shop’s paper lantern.
The rain fell in white sheets, deutzia flowers at their peak rippled like waves, nearby rice paddies spread out like a lake, and frog voices drifted through the air.
Perhaps because of this—or so he thought—the rainy Shirakawa felt dear to him.
"Departing the capital with spring haze..." While recalling this poem, he remembered that dandy monk who had supposedly exposed his head to sunlight... What an impressive fellow. Absentmindedly tapping his bare head beneath the summer hat left on the luggage rack, Kogata smirked to himself.
Apparently he suddenly felt the urge to get off at the station.

To claim one only noticed it there for the first time would be truly discourteous.
But having suddenly left this castle town, Katahara was the land of his ancestors’ graves.

Both sea and mountains lay equally distant.
Kogata Hanhai—born in the northern country, where both his father and mother had become earth.
But he had heard it told as if a folktale—that his great-grandfather, grandfather, grandmother, and indeed all his clan lay sleeping beneath those clouds, beneath that soil—whether truly or otherwise.

—The family had once served as retainers to the Kawagoe domain.
You are already aware... there is little need to elaborate.
The Ishū Hamada domain of 64,000 koku... A certain Lord Matsudaira, who had prospered with his bustling port, found himself—due to certain circumstances—transferred to this remote wasteland of Katahara at 54,000 koku.
Later transferred back to Kawagoe only to meet the Bakumatsu period head-on, the bones and remnants of those from a single domain—people who had fallen through the cracks during these turbulent transfers—now lay toppled among the grasses.

I’ll make a token offering.

Even the carefree Hanhai found his mind strangely growing solemn when taking on his birth name Senkichi.
He washed his sooty face and inquired about the local situation... then headed for the station-front inn.

“Miss, I don’t need a bath, but I’d like to wash my face.
“The washbasin… Well, just show me to the washroom.”
“And then, I’ll order lunch.”
“Just something quick will do.”

In the second-floor parlor, while partaking of a late lunch, when he inquired about local arrangements, his destination—Katahara—lay five and a half ri distant, perhaps even six ri away.—

There was a railway, but being a local line, it apparently required considerable time.

Automobile services were readily available, and moreover, since he heard the inn’s neighbor ran a car service, when he inquired about the fare, it proved unexpectedly inexpensive.

“Please arrange a car at once... I’ll leave this small luggage here... Ideally I’d return before nightfall and depart straight for Tokyo, but if delays push us into evening—we’ll settle payment then—the automobile shop is, ah, indeed next door.”
“Well then, no need for assistance—no, rather, my thanks for your trouble.”

He was halfway down the front stairs,

“Miss.”

“Right away.”

“In Katahara I’ve landed… Would you call this manna from heaven?
I wonder if I’d be asked to pass along messages if I had a sweetheart there.”

“Oh please—I wouldn’t know anything about such things.”

“Ah driver, thank you for your trouble.
By the way—about the fare—there’s no mistake I trust?”

“Yes.”

The driver respectfully doffed his hat—country folk switched to summer hats early these days.
He wore celluloid-framed spectacles.

“Well, we’re striving to offer substantial discounts.”
“And, well, we would like to obtain your prior understanding—in cases where you have few passengers and the vehicle is underoccupied, if fellow passengers from country roads or farmhouses request to ride along for convenience, we must ask for your forbearance in this matter.”

“Ah, I thought it must be something like that.”
“It’s just that the pricing balance seems a bit…”

The maids and everyone at the front desk all laughed.

With his Lloyd glasses perfectly round, the driver was earnest,

“Even after paying a considerable fare—should you, esteemed guest, choose to charter the vehicle exclusively for yourself—if you were to firmly refuse those requesting shared passage along the way, it would stimulate class consciousness as though demonstrating the tyranny of monopolistic bourgeoisie... Given how tight-knit this community is... both we service providers and yourself as our patron would incur hostility from others, resulting in various inconveniences and disadvantages at every turn...”

“Understood—that’s perfectly reasonable.”

“However, there are so few travelers along these roads that even shared rides are exceedingly rare.”
“Thus it becomes an actual benefit for patrons like yourself, you see.”

“No—I don’t mind taking the loss.”
“If anything, I’d be hoping for some charming company—a young miss or comely matron would suit me nicely.”

“Driver-san—it seems our guest here has come to Katahara courting his sweetheart.”

In retaliation, he received a thump on his back from the maid, and with that momentum, he nimbly boarded the car.
He was not a physically imposing passenger by nature.

“Good day… Please return soon.”

Ignoring the inn clerk’s polite farewells, he boarded and departed.

Alas, they did not take the course along the Abukuma River.
However, once they entered the prefectural road, before long both sides of the path became uniformly verdant, with treetops deepening and branches thickening.
One *ri* passed, two *ri* passed, three *ri* passed—contrary to expectations, no fields or paddies came into view as they raced through terrain that was nearly all forested...

The blue seats harmonized with the dense greenery, while sunlight flickered into silver butterfly shapes, shadows and wings all tinged pale azure.

People and horses—along with occasional flitting creatures—were so few they could be counted on one’s fingers. Though the automobile’s clamor rose stridently above all else, more than even its own roaring engine came intermittent wingbeats from birds startled into flight.

One or two houses passed by—then two or three more.
When kerria and satsuki azaleas blooming in pale crimson and faint gold along backdoors and fences struck his vision like daybreak piercing a forest’s nocturnal veil—at that precise instant—human figures materialized as if summoned by prior arrangement, standing at gates and hedgerows.

O villagers! O dwellers of these lands!
So poignantly did their forms withdraw into wheel rut shadows that the road’s loneliness deepened with each regretful retreat.

Having left his coat at the inn—a decision he now deemed imprudent—Kogata repeatedly pulled his collar together again and again, or so it was said.

The path winding through this forest had few undulations and lay level.
Yet, the natural vibrations of the automobile felt as precarious as being rocked by waves.
No dust rose; beneath the rain-soaked trees, damp hues stretched far into the distance.
Thus, even those people occasionally met along the way and the village houses themselves seemed merely adrift—swayed by some gloomy current as they floated backwards, ever backwards, fading into oblivion—so that on those mountain passes’ crests and slopes, beneath the roadside trees where travelers might greet one another or pause to glance back, there settled a desolation far removed from ordinary wayfarer exchanges: the keen awareness that even were worlds remade, no path would ever cross again.

Caw, caw, caw, caw.

Dull, muffled, forlorn—seemingly bright yet eerily gloomy.

“The crows are crying…”

“They’re gathering in a flock.”

The driver, for some reason, whistled loudly and—

“As long as it’s not a hanging… but those roadside branches… No, I don’t like this.”

It was when he carelessly loosened the handle and applied a jolt of motion.
The mere two or three *chō* vanished in an instant.
At that very moment, on the right side of the road ahead within that distance, a crimson human form swayed unsteadily as it rose.
When considering celestial phenomena, terrestrial energies, and flora at this moment—pertaining to human affairs—if one were to speak of red things, the reader would immediately envision country girls visiting ailing aunts or geishas on their promenades.
No—no, that’s not it.

There, particularly around the massive cedar roots, they had been crouching in unison and now rose up all at once; but when glimpsed fleetingly, they seemed like azaleas blazing through the undergrowth—or perhaps a house stood there, which felt reassuring.

When the car came to an abrupt stop—even as a swelling crowd stood blocking the way until they blotted the windows crimson—they all seemed to have sprung uniformly from the azalea roots. Five people—of whom four were boys. Their ages around eleven or twelve, thirteen at most. They all wore bright red tank tops and red athletic caps. The one who appeared to be their leader stood alone, likely over fifty years of age—a gaunt, tall man wearing the same red woolen shirt, over which he’d draped a scarlet Buddhist robe with monk-style sleeves, its billowing fabric enveloping his upper body while red wrapped puttees bound his shins. He wore red leather boots; moreover, a red cotton drape resembling ribbons hung about him, and he’d pulled a helmet cap—snugly wrapped in red cloth—down over his eyes.

His jawbones were sharp, cheeks sunken, with a scrubby beard sparsely tinged yellow; against that sallow complexion, a hooked nose rose prominently—only his nostrils retained a glossy, waxen whiteness. The corners of his eyes upturned, his gaze sharp with bloodshot veins—beneath the deeply pulled-down helmet cap, beyond all description, he looked eerily as though horns might sprout from his head.

This leader—the red-clad commander—attempted to board the automobile without ceremony, glared piercingly at my Senkichi, then pressed his bony fingers together in prayer at his chest... Strange. But this appeared to be his greeting. Furthermore, it must have been an exceedingly courteous bow. Yet the one subjected to this deep bow—though of course there was no reason for him to receive it—felt as if being delivered a funeral rite while scratching at his chest and twisting his guts, a wind piercing through his abdomen until he shuddered.

That is to say，he neither raised a hand nor called out，but turned toward the driver and pressed his palms together in prayer once more.
There，the driver brought the car to a halt—though of course，despite his praying mannerisms，the red-clad commander’s demeanor remained haughty，it was said.
Since that too was something he learned only later，the uncanny discomfort Kogata felt—lasting until he shuddered—had all occurred after the red intruder pressed his palms together once more，took his seat，and brought his face disconcertingly close.
Whether they had emerged from trees or descended from leaves，he thought—this contrived ensemble with its four red-clad boys，this spectacle one might dub（though he knew not if even backcountry folk used the term）a sort of advertising troupe—had likely pierced through the forest path as scattered crimson：red clusters，red streaks，red masses dotting the landscape.

But he immediately realized his mistake.
One—a pale-skinned beautiful boy with a lanky spine, likely suffering from fretfulness—entered and sat between the passenger and Senkichi. His gentle brows and narrow eyes twitched incessantly like insect antennae, their ceaseless motion unclassifiable. Slung diagonally across his shoulder was a folded hunting rifle encased in a crimson leather bag.
Moreover, this had been received from another boy outside the car they were about to board and taken over.
And then, like a squirrel—(Note: The narrator of this piece, Kogata Hanhai, had said “like a rabbit,” but since rabbits are my personal favorite, I’ve changed it to a squirrel.)—the boy bounded joyfully, leaping with his hind legs. Even after sitting down, that springy motion wouldn’t settle but kept bouncing about.

When later the four children and one old man disembarked from the automobile, recalling how that stocky, bear-like child of jet-black complexion—having received the gun in turn—leapt down wriggling and squirming in unison, it seemed the firearm served as both the group’s honor and their collar ornament—a standard-bearer.

The hunting season was over.
Surely they weren’t using children to advertise Western swords and air rifles, were they?
There had to be some reason behind this.

The black frames of Lloyd glasses at the tips of his ears—?
As if—the driver turned around,

“Where to?”

“You’ll drop us off at a suitable spot.”

he answered in a threatening tone while raising both hands to restrain the children.
It wasn’t just the squirrel-like boy.
The remaining three had also crammed into the two auxiliary seats and—in unison—linked shoulders, pressed cheeks together, pulled ears, and noisily pressed their crimson fan-shaped hunting caps together.

Discipline manifested; their training was evident.
Now at a single snap of his fingers, the children fell utterly silent—only the engine’s roar resonated loudly.
The silence felt more desolate than when Kogata had been alone.

For some reason, it was suffocating.

Not one of the red-clad passengers so much as coughed.

Kogata opened the window and—remaining standing—continued puffing on rolled tobacco.

Yet the smoke flew out through the glass, caught by wind to billow backward into green woods; rather than scattering like my unlined robe’s mottled indigo pattern might suggest, it instead took on a crimson tinge and twisted into grotesque otherworldly shapes.

“You there—still keeping at it?”

“The roof’s visible now—white walls have come into view.”

“Halt.”

At what he took to be the town’s edge—where the forest road’s entrance met its right corner… Against the ruined house’s side panels, where no one seemed to dwell, dry grass and brushwood lay heaped. Upon these [ruins], one could see fallen cedar sake balls—pitifully toppled—and beside them, an immediate vacant lot where four red-clad children emerged onto the grassy ground. As they lined up neatly, the scarlet-robed figure’s towering frame—swaying like a withered cedar yet moving tall and straight—passed by. Following his lead, they formed a single file and threaded their way along the summer grass path toward the mountain’s rear. It was then—The last sturdy boy—likely delighted at bearing the gun—squirmed his bright red buttocks and bounced his shoulders,

“Whoo-hoo!”
he let out a foolishly loud bellow.

The lanky, beautiful boy,

“Hey!” he let out an extraordinarily strange cry.

At the same moment, the backward-facing red sleeve flipped up as the leader pressed his palm to his mouth—not to suppress his voice, but likely because he had put a whistle to his lips. As “Hwoo, hwoo” echoed, silence fell at once, and they continued solemnly onward.

Immediately, they reached the base of the mountain.
The line piercing vertically through deep grass and tangled roots resembled a great red snake—sturdy and thick-bodied like Dono’s Tail—while that helmet bore an uncanny likeness to a viper’s raised head.

In the blink of an eye, they slipped through a pitch-black clump of bamboo thicket on the mountainside and vanished.

“Yaaah!”

“Hey!”

Hwoo, hwoo—the sound echoed faintly.
Somehow enchanted by that flute, the boys seemed about to be swept away to another world—another capital, another town, some uncanny hidden hamlet—and like one intoxicated by foul liquor, Hanhai’s chest tightened.

What had become of an automobile’s proper speed?

In a dazed state, the driver stared intently at the torn finger of his soiled glove.
In his palm, five or six silver coins glittered brightly.

“Old man, what could it be?”

“……”

“Both I and the driver actually saw it.”

“So it is...”

And then, the old man scooped powdered tobacco into the large fire dish about three times.

...In the kitchen of the dilapidated temple where floor joists had rotted away, at the edge of the hearth...

III

Saimyōji Temple—originally transferred here by the Matsudaira clan from their former domain in Iwami Province—had no parishioner households in the local towns and villages.
Therefore, there were no Bon or year-end offerings; to put it plainly, not a single funeral was conducted.
In this land of pious destitution, both the main hall and kitchen quarters lay in utter disrepair.
They were all stone monuments from the old domain, but unless you scraped away the moss, the crests remained indistinguishable.
The blueprint of the cemetery and the death register were cherished by the priest, but unfortunately he was away…

It was upon hearing about the grave visit that the old man spoke.

"What with helping at other temples' Buddhist services and going on alms rounds and such, he's just like us—keeping a thin wisp of smoke going, so to speak."

Unfortunately he’s away, but being a wandering monk, depending on the wind’s whims, he might just drift back.

“Why don’tcha have a smoke then—I’m on kinfolk terms with the priest here—I’ll brew up some bitter tea for ya.”

Anyway, I met a good person.
When I asked the old man if he was perhaps a former retainer of the domain,

“Magohachi’s the name—oh my, been a yakuza since my youth.”
“Fate works in strange ways—ha ha ha!”
“Your Lordship, there must’ve been times when your great-grandfather and grandfather gathered fallen ears in their back fields.”
“I’ll rustle up some roasted barley tea from the rat shelf for ya.”

Accompanied by him, he remained in the kitchen quarters—even Oshu Katahara’s storied name seemed less fitting for this derelict temple than “rat shelf.” On the worm-eaten shelf where mischief-makers might freely come and go, there had sat an old wooden fish since earlier. Though its sound and shape were familiar, being a Buddhist implement, Kogata—born to a secular household—had never held it even during his childhood mischief-making. One could generally imagine standard sizes, but with this specimen’s girth nearing two shaku—some sixty centimeters—what might its weight be? Normally in main halls amidst incense flowers and flickering candlelight, it would sit cross-legged like an octopus—or more ominously put—like a sea monk in meditation. A futon lay spread out—resembling bibs from a crossroads Jizo statue hastily stitched together. Yet there beneath the great wooden fish rested a pale handbag—visually startling in its coolness and unmistakably feminine at first glance. What he had mistaken for white bellflowers and pink dianthus revealed itself as two-toned clematis embroidery—a supremely fashionable Ginza-style accessory. Though the blossoms stood crisp, leaves and vines appeared frail, their contents formless and limp beneath the wooden fish’s overhang, resembling the tucked end of some gentlewoman’s obi.

When Kogata first peered into the temple’s kitchen quarters before descending the cliff to the cemetery, he found this obi-like object near a section of collapsed wall raised high beside the hearth—where neither human presence nor fire’s warmth remained—and imagined the beautiful woman’s waist, sleeves, and exposed white shoulders turned upside-down beyond the wall, pale and bound, entangled in spiderwebs.

It was a momentary vision.
He immediately recognized the handbag.
Yet this derelict temple proved unexpectedly to be a shadowy, desolate, uninhabited backwater—so much so that "Let us rely..." echoed in his own ears because...

The Matsu-san next to me, when visiting Kumano, would arrange her hair,
On the Kumano road as day darkened,
Look back and it’s terrifying; look ahead and it’s dreadful.

Should we take lodging at the riverbank ahead, or take lodging at the riverbank behind?

They took lodging at the riverbank ahead—a catfish appeared and they caught it,

Take it by hand and it’s gentle; take it by foot and it’s gentle,

Scooping with a ladle, bearing it on incense sticks, binding it with rush pith—

Behind the Buddha—one cut eaten, tasty, oh so tasty—two cuts eaten, tasty, oh so tasty...

In Kishu's maruta-uta folk ballad lies a subtle suggestion of cruelty.
Long ago, a young girl—who lost her way on the mountain path of the Kumano pilgrimage and sought lodging at an old temple—did not bind [it] with rush pith, carry [it] on incense sticks, and eat the catfish.
It was the catfish that devoured the young girl—the rest need not be said.
Kogata had long heard that evidence for this could be found in the distant Konjaku Monogatari, in the tale of the woman who visited Toribedera.

There was likely no need to investigate Kishu.

...When I went out for the first cherry-blossom viewing this year, I was grabbed by the temple priest,

I was shoved off the high veranda—losing my hairpin, my small pillow…

The sight of the old temple struck him with an uncanny impulse.

In ordinary cases—whether in chapbooks, didactic novels, or even modern-day fantasy tales—in such situations, a knight should happen to come and save the woman.
But compared to contrived tales, maruta-uta ballads lay reality bare—women are swiftly oppressed.

Simultaneously, he was overcome by a surge of tender sorrow.
A pitiful woman—devoured whole, devoured whole, crushed beneath the wooden fish—...he had been staring at that handbag, but was it proper to thrust his head into the kitchen quarters like a famished wolf?
With vague fastidiousness, he shoved the folding bag he’d been holding toward the hearth along the veranda’s edge.
Then he parted the cemetery grass.
One reason was that visiting graves while carrying a bag felt like conducting business—an impression that grated on him.

It was still there.
...while comparing the cool summer grass and the worn-out handbag beneath the wooden fish,

“Well, that’s just how it is… Having someone wait around would make me feel rushed, so I figured I’d handle the return trip separately—naturally, if no other customers come by then, I’ll take you up on your offer. Since there’s time to kill anyway—that’s what I told him—and parted ways with the driver for now… At the edge of this town, there’s a teahouse… or maybe a bar? Well, roughly speaking, an udon shop.”
“After that, even visually the road was too narrow—forcing the car through would’ve been more trouble than walking—so I got out… There were waitresses at the udon bar, women who seemed to be wives… As for that red-clad group—well, I can’t quite make sense of them.”
“However, if they have their attendants carry guns like swords, then he must be the commander.”
“I said they’re probably going to pay their respects to demons or shape-shifters.”

"I thought it odd to be paying respects to demons and shape-shifters," I said, "but later realized the women there were so frightened by these rumored eerie matters that even in private, they seemed to avoid uttering phrases like 'exorcise' or 'capture alive.'"

"Well now—do such beings truly dwell around here?... The driver laughed it off, but I meant it earnestly."

"Tell me—is there a great swamp called Ōnuma deep in these mountains?"

"...Does it exist, old man?"

"There is."

At that moment, this seemingly carefree old man nodded heavily.

“Well, since it’s near the Abukuma River, they put on airs callin’ it Abunuma—though it ain’t near as grand as them famous lakes an’ lagoons you hear of in other provinces. But since olden times, folks’ve called it Ōnuma—the Demon Swamp—on account o’ how the trees grow so thick an’ eerie-like. Hardly anyone goes there—deep in the mountains, y’see.”

He darkly lowered his brow.
But dropping his pipe, he pointed toward the gate—no, there was no gate—toward the grassy path along what had once been the front approach, as though peering through the field beyond.

“It’s just over that mountain there—’tisn’t all that far.”

He said.

At the summit of that mountain beyond lay a certain place—enveloped in a forest of Japanese cedar and cypress—that appeared to be a hall or shrine.

“...Even on the way here, I noticed something though.”

As if mirroring water’s shadow, the spaces between the skyward trees were clear in aqua and crystalline blue.

“Is the swamp located back there?”

“Heh, well, ’round that area, I reckon.”

As he waved his palm wildly, dead leaves scattered, making the forest at the summit appear disturbed,

“What about those red apparitions...”

“The red ones aren’t apparitions—old man.”

“Huh… Is that so.”

he gave an oddly lifeless reply.

“So then... I—well, that Abunuma—the Demon Swamp? Did that group head there? Has something changed about the swamp... Could there be something terrifying, something uncanny happening there? The wife at the udon bar said—well, no—recently there haven’t been any rumors of cow demons dwelling in the swamp or giant serpents appearing, but the unpleasant thing is said to have been in the road up ahead—in the rice paddies. The road passing before the temple is apparently the old Mito Kaidō.”

“Aye, that it be.”

“With this mud before us... Well then, let’s head out.”
“And this is the road I came here on.”
“Whatever may appear in this broad daylight, I don’t mind—but when I curiously ask what terrifying things have happened, the waitress and I exchange glances—‘Master, it’s nothing for gentlemen like you.’”
“Ha ha ha!’ they laugh, teasing in high spirits... Then, when women pass through that area, they end up pregnant all on their own...”

“Damn fools—those bastards.”

With his forehead quivering and etching wrinkles, his thin arms thrust out, the Old Man stiffened like a sculpture—but
“Ah-ha-ha!”

He burst into laughter abruptly.

“Ah ha ha!”

Abruptly covering his mouth,

“This isn’t some gushing spring.
“The roasted barley’s ’bout to fly off—you go on an’ have some too. The priest’s got the salt just right.”

He had been insistently offering the roasted barley heaped in a chipped bowl since earlier.
But the spoon was a burning kindling stick.

“The seasoning’s just right.”
“Well then, go on an’ have some now.”

he said, urging him to partake.
Thinking of this, the unsalted flat mushrooms that Lord Kiso had him eat must have been like emerald stream broth.
But the old man’s stove-bald, needle-like white hair bore the semblance of Abe’s retainers.

“In your presence, sir—when women pass through, they end up pregnant all on their own… Even if you were in their shoes as a woman, how’d you like hearin’ such lies? Best keep quiet ’bout what you don’t need to hear.”
“Gentle-seeming, deeply compassionate Master—you are.”

“Oh, how embarrassing—to speak of having such sentiments or whatnot.”
“Visiting graves is something anyone does.”

“No—it’s not just that. I know full well.”
“You treated ’em as humans—made beasts talk, didn’t you?”

“To beasts?”

“Oh—to the heron, you spoke.”

“To the heron?”

“To the white heron.
On th’ way t’ th’ rice paddies.”

“Ah—you know ’bout that? Huh.”

IV

You there, you—

He called out to the white heron.

“It would be awkward if someone heard…”

On the way to Saimyōji Temple, at one spot along the road, on a low ridge, he saw a cluster of scarlet peonies blooming in two radiant blooms as if burning under the faintly clouded sky, their branches’ buds bending.
——Perhaps due to the scent of flowers from that renowned Sukagawa Peony Garden—famous in remote regions—being carried on the wind; visible from the train were gates, back doors, and fences near at hand below one’s gaze.
Even at distant thatched huts hidden at the base of mountains, he saw peonies towering high above blooming hollyhocks.
But he had never encountered them blooming in such an intimate place.
Nor would they exist anywhere else.
Without even a single section of thin bamboo for enclosure—a drunken beauty’s naked form.

He spread his traveler’s sleeves into butterfly wings—if only no one saw him as fox-possessed—though truth be told, there were no people around—floating lightly to fly, he felt free to sip from the flowers or embrace the buds as he pleased.

And yet, having come ten paces—no, rather about ten ken away—Senkichi came to a stop because there, in the water’s shadow beneath the leaves’ undersides, a white heron had alighted gracefully and neatly, its flower buds covered in mane-like hairs and held aloft like a dancer’s eboshi hat.

A narrow stream flowed there.
About three shaku wide—narrow, yet its waters were clear and pure; though currents ran through, they flowed with such calm that not even a whisper of a sound could be heard.
The mountain recess's water source must have been a deeply sunken marsh.
Whether called a lake or deemed a waterfall, no downstream flow could possibly remain so tranquil.
Even if geographically it were otherwise.

On the path to Matsushima—even when detouring to pick drumming grass—he must have stepped over the ditches.
The water here flowed behind a cluster of peonies, ran along the mountain’s base past an overgrown wheat field, while on one side lay a rice paddy with sturdy reeds and drifting miscanthus sprouts.

Across the road, where it faced the peonies, lay collapsed amidst mugwort the remnants of what was once likely a roadside teahouse or simple eatery—its zinc and persimmon patchwork rotted through, roof fallen in, pillars toppled over. Perhaps, as a courtesy to travelers taking rest, they had made the opposite side of the road into a flower field. The vestiges of transience and dreams of splendor—the eaves crumbled like bleached bones, while the peonies’ petals blazed crimson.

If an old straw raincoat were to become a scarecrow, then the teahouse’s skeletal remains might also stand guard over the flowers. No smoke rose, but the dew on summer grasses that had buried the floor joists remained undried. Through those grasses, as if fluttering like an apparition, a newly emerged dragonfly—with eyes like pale teal beads on ultramarine silk threads, its wings sewn with silvery gauze brocade—drifted low over leaf-shadows toward the stream, following the path as though lured by the peonies.

And all too fleeting.
There was no shadow cast upon the earth.
Yet even that shadow—had one touched it—would have instantly collapsed from the poison.—At the very center of the raised path through the rice fields crouched another fearsome insect.

What’s more, it turned this way—toward Senkichi—twitching its beard-like appendages briskly.
Measuring seven or eight tenths of a sun in length, its body fell short of a full sun.
But with wings of deep emerald-green luster adorned in red and yellow spots and an abdomen that glowed, the soil where it perched became a whetstone, polishing it to a sparkling sheen.
A threefold amalgam of striped blister beetle, Spanish fly, and oil beetle—this most common variety of venomous blister beetle that raises welts on skin—blazed forth like a demon-possessed jewel, dazzling and beckoning with its cursed instruction.

"It’s not coming to attack us."
"That is nature’s arrangement."
"If someone advances, it nimbly retreats five or six feet—then resumes its beckoning there."
"I wonder if those emerald green and red-yellow hues are meant to lure."

This was no dragonfly.
The heron appeared to be targeting it.
The White Heron didn’t even need to spread its wings.
Emerging smoothly from the peony shadows’ clear water toward the blister beetle—it retreated ahead as if keeping some pact.
With humans too its behavior seemed identical…… The White Heron advanced smoothly once more.

That stride—with its precise short steps—looked gallant.
The blister beetle fled once more.
The white heron stood in the middle of the road……

You—you—

"I carelessly called out without thinking.
……It’s a poisonous insect—a deadly poison.
You mustn’t eat it.
They say that poison’s so potent—if you eat vegetables with its eggs stuck to them, you’ll vomit blood and drop dead instantly.

In fact, I myself just got touched and broke out in a rash."

The autumn festival of the northern country—it was October.
Around the middle of the month, I had been invited to that festival and went to my relatives’ place.

In the precincts of Hakusan Shrine, beside a large water basin—amidst the crowd—a bug came swiftly from the mountain direction and landed on my cheek.
Where I’d flicked it off with my fingertip now tingled and itchy.

The purification water was clear and cold—even though I washed immediately, it must have been divine aid.
I cleansed my hands and rinsed my mouth.
...If I had thrust that hand in suddenly, how much harm would it have caused someone?——Even if it didn’t kill them—the mere thought still makes my hair stand on end.
My face flushed and swelled so much it felt like two faces—heavy and thick.
Oh, 'A lion-like mask! An ogre mask!' the children jeered, and I cried and raged.
Yet even as I remained engrossed in play, a pale-complexioned young lady in crimson hakama—clear and elegant as a shrine maiden—who was selling goods at a festival stall [...] handed down clusters of mountain grapes, their purple so deep it verged on black. “You must go home,” [she said]. “Cool them in water.”

When I rushed back, my relatives were startled—they cooled my head and put me to bed. When all the guests had gathered and my father... that is, my own father arrived, I went to sit beside the feast-laden trays. After looking around for a while, he asked, “Where’s our apprentice?...” My face had become an ogre’s mask—so swollen you couldn’t make out the child hidden in my sleeve. When my father’s complexion changed, I too began to cry. “I don’t remember well what happened after that—but after crushing those mountain grapes into drops and applying them and sucking on them, I recovered safely... Needless to say, the insect was a blister beetle.”

“My, hah—what a terrifyin’ thing, I tell ya.”
“Ain’t no mystery bug, mind ya…… though sure ’nough, folks made it a rule not to lay hands on them blister beetles.”
“That’s why I went and called out to it.”

“What happened t’ the white heron?”

“Old man, didn’t you see that?”

“Lazy thing—what with this fine weather, it’s gone all drowsy now. It was lyin’ in the shade o’ that crumblin’ shack, I tell ya.”

The White Heron presently spread its wings.
When it flew, with such force did it soar through the air that the fleeing insect vanished into its beak.
With its snowy plumage crisp, it returned to the stream above—perhaps having taken water into its mouth afterward.
When it beat its wings and fluttered up, the crimson peony’s shadow seeped faintly into its snowy neck, tinging it with pale red.
Just like that, it disappeared beyond the mountain’s edge, concealed high among the forest treetops.

“From how it looked, it definitely swallowed ’er down—reckon she got killed, I tell ya.”

The old man adjusted the knees of his work trousers and said with apparent confidence.

“Aye, birds’re clever things, I tell ya.”

“Even clever birds would fall to the Killing Stone, wouldn’t they?”

“Aye, ’tis safe enough, I tell ya.”

“But watching that white throat turn red is terrifying.”

“Rich and savory—’twill make you drunk, I tell ya.”

Grinning slyly,

“Roasted wheat won’t do, I tell ya.”

“But...”

“You there—and that heron, well—’tis Lord Myojin’s messenger, I tell ya. Shirasagi Myojin they call ’im, they do.”

“Ah, I see. That hall on yonder mountain, then.”

“It ain’t a place folks go much, I tell ya. The path’s too rough.”
“The path’s too rough, I tell ya.”

And then—as if deliberately creating a barrier between them—he shook his head directly before Kogata’s peering eyes.

Speaking of Myojin Forest—where that white heron had flown to its treetops—though Kogata didn’t quite feel resentment toward the old man’s inexplicable eagerness to block what no one had yet proposed visiting, he found himself wanting to set out immediately.
In the storeroom of the hag of Kurozuka—it couldn’t be helped.

“By the way, the priest still doesn’t look like he’ll be returning anytime soon. If that’s the case, we won’t be able to locate the mortuary tablets or death register...”

“Well, this here’s a ramshackle temple, see—priest’s always comin’ an’ goin’. So they’ve gone an’ stored all the important stuff in a reliable townsfolk’s storehouse, I tell ya.”

“I’ll stop by again on my way back.”

He suddenly stood up.
But even to his cursory glance, he found himself drawn to the drawstring pouch that seemed to belong to a young, beautiful person.
Moreover, just as he felt that itch to ask so bluntly, Senkichi abruptly dropped the whip.

“Old man—at the temple—is there a proprietress? No—rather, a wife?”

In a small voice,

“Is Lord Daikoku present here?”

“Ha! Not a chance—’stead o’ that, there ain’t no parishioners here, nor departed souls neither.”
“But y’see, this priest was too much of a world-quitter—got himself too enlightened.”
“The lady pilgrims—whether they forgot stuff or left it here on purpose—ah! That’s it now!”

And, hurrying his words,

“When doin’ his rounds… he lacked proper caution, I tell ya.”
“What kind o’ nonsense is this—leavin’ the wooden fish pressed under there?”

And then—with his sharply protrudin’ knees—he thrust the bowl o’ roasted wheat into the hearth. The puff o’ white powder that rose up made him hack violently, which would’ve been comical were it not for how parched the libation water appeared, renderin’ the whole scene a pitiful sight to behold.

With a resolute motion, he swept the large wooden fish onto his knees as if brushing it down,

“Bloated and stuffed—and such a huge one at that—why, being made to see that wooden fish ritual drum, oh how the women must’ve been mortified, I tell ya.”

At that moment, the color of the drawstring pouch—pale aquamarine like hydrangeas—against the wall’s gloom; the disheveled black hair; all appeared like the haggard face of a postpartum woman.

In the valley cemetery, the sole Tazawa Clan grave cleared of moss—think of it.

“Old man—then—is that woman’s belongings some sort of memorial offering for one who died in childbirth?”

Furrowing his brows as if on the verge of tears,

“Rather than becoming white herons standing on peonies, humans—still clinging to this mortal world—die in childbirth and turn into ubume, I tell ya.”
“In the drenching rain’s darkness, a young woman turns pale, her lower body drenched in blood, climbing onto the eaves of that ruined house.”
“……Ahh, how wretched...”
“...Grant us salvation, Namu Fumonbon, Chapter Twenty-Five.”

After readjusting the hearth edge—for instance, presenting his loincloth-clad rear to Kogata and squatting in a rounded posture facing away (though this was no occasion to debate temple raccoon-dogs)—he clung to the wooden fish nearly as large as his back, striking it repeatedly: thok, thok, thok, thok.

“Namu Fumonbon, Chapter Twenty-Five.”

“Fumonbon, Chapter Twenty-Five.”

Kogata too mouthed the words silently.

“In this temple—Kannon.”

“Ah—You are indeed present… How wondrous… How grateful…”

“In that main hall there.”
“No—that building over there. Ah, are you heading there?”

“We’ll head there, I tell ya.”

“Oh, splendid! Come now, let’s go, let’s go.”

While knocking the wooden fish he held close (thok, thok), the sturdy build of his legs and hips bustled him forward.

This old man was out of his mind.

But once led forward before the altar—it was this very Kogata who now found himself unable to remain composed.

This kitchen and main hall—just two structures without even a partition door—had only just had a sacred name plaque hung at the center of their shelf, while along their outer edges staircases lingered as mere vestigial forms.
They had apparently once been connected by a bridge corridor, but the shattered and warped floorboards had been mended haphazardly and laid upon bare earth.

To the right rose Myojin’s forest-clad peak; to the left lay the valley cemetery—how could he have walked here alone?—the Tazawa Clan’s grave he had visited earlier lay hidden among the valley grasses.

The wooden fish climbed to the opposite floor.
When he followed behind, there was neither altar nor Buddhist implements—nothing at all.
On a stand shrouded in white cloth sat a sutra desk, and atop it stood a black-lacquered sacred shrine.

The area around the kitchen hearth was straw matting. Here alone lay about three tatami mats’ worth of space; a small offering box had been placed there, while a cluster of deutzia flowers—adorned snow-like in their vase, dew-laden and refreshing—stood nearby. Without being firmly rooted, even the three tulips had an elegance reminiscent of lotuses drawing water. Though it felt sacrilegious, those clustered deutzia flowers had naturally become compressed, barely supporting one panel of the sacred shrine’s doors—the other panel hung askew like a severed samurai armor sleeve.

“Ha,”

When he simply prostrated in worship, Her Sacred Eight-Sun Stature—tilted slightly to allow a glimpse—had the folds of its sleeves fluttering amidst snow-like deutzia flowers. Carved from plain wood with lapis lazuli sacred hair and a single vermilion dot for lips, She smiled faintly as She deigned to gaze upon the old man and Senkichi.

“Namu Fumonbon, Chapter Twenty-Five.”

“Pardon my asking, but this is Cundi Kannon, isn’t it?”

“Why yes, ’tis exactly so.”
“The reverend priest here recites those hard-to-remember names.”
“Namu Fumonbon, Chapter Twenty-Five.”

Very well—simply chant “Namu,” for enshrined here was the Bodhisattva whose vows granted disaster prevention, longevity, children’s blessings, protection, and compassionate love.

“Old man, ah—and though I may sound presumptuous saying this—this was a magnificent masterpiece.”
“I don’t know myself, but having a rather accomplished sculptor friend makes me something of a temple apprentice before the gate.”
“I can tell a little... And it’s from quite an ancient period.”

“You gotta tell the priest—he’ll be right pleased for sure. Though mind you, I did hear tell the former lord brought it here all the way from Sekishu for safekeepin’.”

The old man peered in at waist height.

When candles were mentioned, the old man hurried to the kitchen to procure them—the caution against allowing reckless fire handling there was entirely reasonable—

Certainly a treasure.

Though it felt presumptuous, as he brought his gaze closer to examine the sacred shrine’s craftsmanship this time, his eyes suddenly caught sight of a folded kaishi paper placed as an offering—nestled deep within the white deutzia blossoms as if hiding something. What lay prepared was a biscuit. This carried a touch of childishness. Yet by the Nirenzen River’s banks beneath the bodhi tree—what had first been offered to Shakyamuni? A biscuit upon the bodhisattva’s altar might well surpass even Laba congee. Still, the pale wrist that had presented this seemed to emerge from crude lace trim. Of course. A woman wasn’t defined by spiritedness alone. Simultaneously came a fragrance—the alluring scent of face powder wafting through the air.

Had the old man’s presence kept him from noticing? Beside where the wooden fish had been placed stood a sanbō ritual stand, upon which lay coiled red-and-white silk so vivid and smooth that, had this been Enma Hall, it might have been mistaken for a disrobed woman’s raw blood and glistening flesh.

“Ah—as Kannon of vows, first among them being child-seeking: child-rearing, child safety—here women make their pilgrimages.”

In this world exists Kannon’s sacred obi—believed to grant children according to pilgrimage order: white for boys and red for girls.

At the edge of the sanbō ritual stand lay a pale-colored, finely pleated woman’s fan, resting as if forgotten.

The front lattice was closed, and no one was present… When he gingerly took it, the fan’s ribs chilled his hand like crystal.
The shadow of deutzia flowers flickered, scattering gold dust before eyes could fix on any pattern or design—there, in feminine handwriting, written: *Sei… Sei*.
This time, his eyelids involuntarily reddened.

For Senkichi, no matter what he tried to conceal, there existed a lover bearing that very name.

V

The author had been swept along by Kogata Senkichi’s account and accepted [the term] “lover”—but this was a crucial point.
For clarity’s sake—it must be stated—Senkichi already had a wife.
Indeed he had a wife but no assets.
That a penniless married man cannot pursue romance in this world—truth be told—differs little from how things were in times past.

To put it bluntly, he was merely infatuated out of sheer self-indulgence.

Moreover，these modern romantic entanglements—whether in Ginza，Asakusa，or the Yamanote-Shinjuku area—grew shallow in restraint and thin in decorum；gradually their practitioners’ skins thickened and shame diminished，so that even when claiming to be smitten，they seemed to harbor not the slightest hesitation.

Even in the path of courtship，once labeled with “(Oka)，” they were looked down upon.
Senkichi’s case too—and what’s more，that very unrequited love—
Despite this，he was well-known in the brothel quarters.

The object of this unrequited love—said to be Edo-raised，likely from Kaizu or Tamago—was Miss Osei，who caused commotion along Tsukiji’s riverside：in truth，a waitress at the Baishui restaurant．…A new customer—single guest—sake served straight—Wait，wait.
Th-that’s definitely not the case.
First of all，there’s absolutely nothing like making customers order from a ledger with dishes like murasaki or nabe-shita.

Baishui was once a Tsukiji first-class establishment serving authentic honkaiseki, where Edo-style chefs honed their skills with blades never allowed to rust and kept watch over even the servers’ sleeve flourishes during broth service.
Even after the earthquake, deep behind its black walls where bamboo and trees stood hushed, Baishui continued receiving guests; yet in certain modern social currents, imported salted sardines gained prominence over torchlit fishing boats’ whitebait.
In ventures where they armored New Year decorations with a two-shaku-six-sun lobster—said to have had no more than three specimens at the fish market—crimson-laced like samurai armor within black pine barrels, such lone-cavalry charge businesses courted ruin.
The family business was difficult to sustain.
With a complete shift in approach—offering neck meat sukiyaki, batayaki grilled dishes, summoning customers per their whims—the sukiya-style building that faintly revealed Priest Hōitsu’s evening glory flowers through stone lantern light remained unchanged, as did the grand pine hall where the Seven Sages’ main alcove stood, all while heaping binchōtan charcoal fires simmered the gelatinous essence of fish fins.

This Baishui’s Miss Osei was considered an adopted daughter of the household.
She had come at thirteen and was fourteen when the earthquake struck.
It need not be repeated—through those flames she had remained at her master’s household and continued working.
After all, she was practically an orphan with no proper family in the capital.
Perhaps because of this, though not gloomy in disposition, her translucently pale complexion cast a lonesome shadow.
Her skin was delicately textured—from wrists to fingertips smooth and beautiful as if meticulously powdered.
She had an oval face with eyes that were bright and well-defined despite their modest size, framed by gentle eyebrows.
When she smiled faintly, her composed lips parted slightly—the left corner of her pristine mouth rising delicately to lend her smile an air of solemn dignity.
Everything about her was delicate; her abundant hair avoided bulkiness through its straight, fine texture that swayed supplely.
Though scarlet or crimson would have suited her, she always wore pale blues and white hair cords in a modest chignon—her age having just passed thirty.
Yet she appeared no older than twenty-four or twenty-five.
I hear that once during a May festival’s costume event, a geisha named Shimada with water-sleeked hair had been seen trailing a five-shaku iris-patterned robe woven from fresh blue straw… You sir must have been born under fortunate stars—one cannot help but think so.
It was also said she had once worked as a hostess in Shinbashi before transferring to Baishui due to circumstances—though this remained unverified.
What seemed strange was that despite such beauty reaching her age without rumors of affairs—or to speak plainly—of having any patron.
I cannot speak for others—that straight slender nose and guileless mouth told no lies.
——Miss Osei is a virgin… (After a pause) ——This was Kogata Senkichi’s assertion.

When she was sixteen or seventeen—just once—in Tsukiji, at a kaiseki restaurant bustling with patrons, a milk delivery boy who frequented the kitchen sent her love letters. This incident had long been known to Osei’s elderly regulars and a certain stylish man with a clean-shaven head who favored her.
The owner couple of Baishui also recounted it as an amusing anecdote.

Though not “The Song of Yurano To,” the course of this love remained unclear.
But given her suitor had been merely a milk delivery boy, he couldn’t help feeling he was hearing some angel-and-shepherd fairy tale.
Yet that treasured letter still seemed to lie hidden in Osei’s private sewing box…

“……It’s something I’d like to see—a lifelong wish.”

“Shall I show you?”

“It’d likely become an elixir of immortality—the efficacy of those fashionable sexual tonics these days would multiply ten-thousandfold, no doubt.”

“Is that so?”

Her cheeks were white and cool.

“Show me.”

In a low voice with crystalline clarity,

“Hohoho.”

she smiled faintly.

Observe how the left corner of the lips tightened ever so slightly.……That she didn’t bring it out to the sitting room went without saying.

The presence or absence of allure remained perplexing.
There exists a theory that certain beautiful things are those the gods begrudge giving to humans.
Indeed, now that you mention it, there exists what is called the “bodhisattva countenance” for women of perfect gentleness and harmony.
Following that, there must indeed be what one might call a nun’s countenance.
In contrast, Osei’s virginal essence—with its limpid clarity of blood—somehow conjured the visage of a noble shrine maiden’s beauty.

Unwittingly, within Senkichi’s hidden consciousness, there naturally must have been reflected the image of a beautiful shrine maiden saved from a venomous insect’s poison—

“O fair maiden!” they would exclaim, wrapping two hundred—nay, three hundred gold coins as offerings and presenting them from their sleeves.
Yet Miss Osei always carried them straight down to the accounts counter and displayed them before the proprietress like this.
Immediately, the proprietress would briskly emerge and explain that service charges had already been included in the honorable bill.
……In this way, it resembled warding off those confident souls who ventured forth—attempting to grasp jade hands or tug at crimson hakama—by striking their heads with sakaki branches adorned with ritual paper streamers to dispel their ill intent.

Let alone someone like Senkichi—a mere parishioner of monthly contributions.

A man who pitied that devotion felt inclined to mediate those feelings somewhat...

“Kogata’s way of being in love is something else.”

“…………”

“You must be happy.”

“Yes.”

With a sharp, clear gaze, her slightly parted lips tightening a bit, she offered a faint smile…

“I am happy.”

Moreover, Senkichi was present among them.

This may be superfluous to mention—but there existed a theory. Though Osei was born in Tokyo, her utterance of "I am happy" struck an odd note. This speech pattern was one that Ginza-strolling gentlemen, students, and particularly movie narrators would affectedly adopt with phrases like "I went to escape the heat." They used expressions such as "I shall ascend to the Alps," though this was originally a dialectal affectation. To be loved—an unpleasant turn of phrase—when exchanging greetings, to say "I am happy" meant expressing that one was not happy.

Gentlemen and students—not necessarily limited to movie narrators.
The owner of Baishui had diverse interests and a clientèle that spanned all corners, hence there was no shortage of renowned figures across various fields—artists, painters, sculptors, doctors, scholars of literature, law, science and engineering, actors—each path boasting its share of distinguished names.
The assortment even included gynecologists, pediatricians, and dentists.
I had neglected to mention—writers and playwrights were naturally included as well.
Therefore, these individuals—regardless of age—were not limited to Tokyo.
Not only that, but there were quite a few distinguished figures who particularly detested Edo-style affectations yet employed phrases like "Sō desu." and "Nomu desu."
The purer and more innocent the disposition, the more those dialectal affectations rubbed off on Osei.

The celestial being from Sensōji Temple’s ceiling painting, applying makeup with a lotus-shaped basin while baring her shoulders, proclaimed: “You there—good-for-nothing! If you’re descending to the mortal realm today, fetch me Sennyoko perfume from Kyōbashi! And you—young lady! What’s this foolishness? Why aren’t you performing your twirling dance?”
(Note: Kewai Slope—actually Yoshiwara—had peculiar phrases that transferred only to its vicinity,) as exemplified in a literary work paying respectful homage through wordplay.
Regrettably, “I am happy” was not written there.
Yet I believe its essence remains perceptible.
But beyond that—for those wishing to see skin where a pearl-necklace-like ornament had been shifted beneath the arm to conceal a nipple—let them consult *The Pilgrimage of the Bizarre Worship Jizō*: Ryūtei Tanehiko’s Bunsei Renjin New Edition with illustrations by Utagawa Kunisada.

These were not passing patrons but Baishui regulars—longstanding devotees forming a grand assembly of sixty or seventy souls that swelled past a hundred on busy occasions—gathered for sukiyaki in unreserved monthly gatherings without pretense... To call them such was apparently taboo among haiku poets, but Hanhai understood this well enough to remain utterly unconcerned.
"Senpai, I'm just a newcomer invited by friends again."
After all, it was only the autumn of the year before last—before my visits could accumulate familiarity—that I'd already fallen into hopeless infatuation from the very outset.

“Miss Osei.”

“Osei dear.”

“Hey there, O-sei!”

Well, she certainly had no shortage of admirers.
The grand assemblies deployed one by one around jet-black circular tables in a ring formation—though this Snake-Eye Formation would have been mere child’s play to Lord Kiyomasa—devouring their meals through tactical gaps, not unlike how one might bombard enemy forces at Ulsan in Korea rather than contend with the legendary giant serpents of Yakiyama Pass; within billowing black oil smoke fit for cannon fire, their summoning of Osei harmonized with battle cries.
Even those who didn’t know her name made a fuss over the delicately beautiful white flower in bloom.

A master painter hailed as a superhuman—a certain Western-style painter—summoned Osei through the weight of his own name and positioned Senkichi beside him,

“Miss Osei, this gentleman insists—you must pour him a drink.”

“Yes.”

Yet even when fashioned into a junior member of sorts, she maintained a servant’s humility—her conduct differed entirely from that of an overfamiliar bar attendant—and even in similar service, she remained a step more reserved than geisha, all the more lovely for it.

“Yes, I’ll pour…”

“I am grateful—this fulfills my heart’s desire.”

To the extent that a haiku had been omitted—as if in a place devoid of scenery—it was fine as long as he remained pleased.

When he grew slightly at ease, he would cower before the Snake-Eye Formation and sink into the mountain mist’s edge—then bellow toward a graceful figure like some noblewoman,

“Miss Osei, Miss Osei.
Sis, Madam, Elder Sister.”

Feigning resistance, when he pulled her close, his drunken, flushed eyes were bleary,

“Please pour me a drink.
I insist on one more.”

This demanding monkey displayed a threatening pantomime toward the Enchantress of the Demon Realm—if she wouldn’t lend the Plantain Fan, he’d seize it.... Those of erudition and discernment may wish to seek parallels for this tableau in Greek mythology, Roman legends, or Indian parable scriptures.
Here, we shall settle matters with the readily available Picture-Book Journey to the West.
However, the ancient sage Sun Wukong transformed into a gnat, flew into the lady’s abdomen, and mercilessly gouged out her entrails.
The mediocre poet of the Latter Days—his words never reached even the throat; should they graze her lips, they melted away without hardening into winter cherry pits.

By the way, there is a strange story.
Six or seven people and Senkichi heartily ate and drank at the neighborhood’s renowned tempura restaurant, then trooped out to walk off their meal and eventually came upon Baishui’s long stretch of black wall.

Even in the entertainment district, the lights were dimmed, and within the walls, the planted areas were dark as a forest.
Now, it is said that they considered consulting someone—or perhaps there was no need to consult anyone at all.
...After tempura, sukiyaki with its large tenderloin cuts proved rather challenging—unless one were a figure notable enough to have their name appear in sumo rankings like makushita or maegashira, or in anecdotal lore, they could scarcely handle it.
They ended up passing by without stopping.

Alas, the interior was spacious, the rooms numerous, the distance too great...

“Miss Osei.”

Against the black wall—you can’t strike a woman you love with a Western cane—he thumped his arm against it at an angle. When he struck it, through the crook of his arm, Osei’s skin became translucent and appeared pure white—or so it is said. Rather than expressing Senkichi’s foolishness, this act likely evoked the essence of Miss Osei’s beauty.

Such, then, was the general state of affairs—not that “good deeds invite demons,” as they say—but this aforementioned lively monkey, restless and impatient, would always arrive early at gatherings to encircle the snake-eye formation; yet with repeated instances, the same faces naturally congregated. In this sector of the constellation, it was the nocturnal reveler who ventured forth first—though at any gathering, the customary hour fell around lamplighting time—always lingering beneath the great hall’s ceiling from early dusk as a single gleam… no—rather than glowing, a solitary blackness drifting there.

Of course, this was by no means the sort of reception where Miss Osei would appear in celestial maiden’s attire, descending upon clouds in white tabi.

Taking pity on that foolishness, the guest stars in this sector shone forth earlier than others.
They merely glimmered—and even as the other grand assemblies descended into wine-soaked decadence, there alone it seemed bracken might sprout from the tatami.
When he urged a passing maid, she answered only with a dismissive “Ha?” before keeping her distance.
The most vivacious presence had to be Miss Osei—without her, even that buzzing vitality scattered like startled flies.
Now Miss Osei herself would first carry steaming dishes and sake bottles to other rooms before slipping out through a different gate.
Protesting ignorance with a bashful pinch at her nose, she retreated inadvertently—but staying put would hinder the nocturnal reveler’s approach, so she hid herself away somewhere.
Before long, the sake service lagged until nothing remained but heaped cigarette ends.

Somehow feeling vaguely guilty—perhaps because the gathering fell at month’s end—they might have resorted to checking their wallets.
As time passed with intervals once or twice—since around late July last year—Baishui had… This too was now being done in various places… Nearby were Kamakura and Atami.
They also opened seasonal branches in places like Karuizawa during summer.
Well, with recession everywhere, they said it didn’t bring significant profits—but when all was tallied up, there was enough for the family to afford a summer’s retreat.
Baishui opened a branch in Mount Fuji’s foothills—Gotemba.

Upon hearing Miss Osei had gone there to assist, he was crestfallen—imagining peaks white with snow and foothills veiled in mist—and so the Nocturnal Reveler drifted away like a shooting star—let me say it again—around the end of July last year.

From that June until now—he severed all contact and heard no news of her.

If Baishui had opened branches in nearby areas—the Boso Peninsula, perhaps, or Karuizawa, Nikko—Shiobara would go without saying. Not relying on geographical advantage—even if it were the Kisoji—he must have thought it wasn’t entirely impossible to encounter the same person in such a place, by some chance or twist of fate.

More unexpected than had he glimpsed her face in a French port or met her in Swiss mountains—yet here before the ancient temple’s Kannon, the name on the fan adorned with red and white silk differed from that time separated by Tsukiji’s black wall. As if seeing her in the flesh—so vividly that even his unlined summer sleeve felt chilled—he stared intently, drinking in every detail.

Instantly, he felt a feverish heat blaze through him like a torch.

The flame of the lamp that the old man had brought from the priest’s quarters flickered unsteadily,

“Ain’t nothin’ to see here.”

When he snatched the folding fan,

“You there—leavin’ somethin’ like this behind.”

he said scoldingly, then used the still-open, pale-colored fan to cover the wooden fish.

Feeling awkward, the scolded brat sullenly offered an ostentatious congratulation.

“Rather than having it placed on top, covering the wooden fish with the fan makes it seem like the woman won—I’m glad for that.”

“Whether they win or lose, women are passive.”
“Try to hide it all you want—it ain’t stayin’ hidden.”

He plopped down on his rear, sniffled, and began sobbing quietly.

Amid thin wisps of blue smoke trailing through air permeated with candle wax, his compounding thoughts pressed upon him—had Osei, that solitary beautiful woman, become unexpectedly pregnant? Or perhaps suffered postpartum? Perished? Or lay tormented nearing death? As this suffocating uncertainty gripped his chest, tears welling in his eyes were suddenly pierced by blood-like lightning—the red yasha that had intruded through the forest in an automobile: five distinct yet undulatingly connected bodies forming one demonic whole.
It is they who pierce mountains and tunnel through valleys to hunt down beautiful sacrifices.
The celestial rifle seemed to take aim at that pure and beautiful white heron; meanwhile, the spirit bird bearing fierce poison—what defense might it muster against them? A mythic battle shall unfold even within this very day.
The shrine’s sunlit forest may well be instantly shrouded in black clouds.

Senkichi was driven by no small measure of morbid curiosity.

At the same moment, as though Osei—that beautiful bird—had been placed in the same predicament, a sudden shock struck his chest and he shuddered.
At that instant, a branch swayed, and the deutzia flowers—pure white like slender hands—clung to Senkichi’s knee.

Shōwa 8 (1933), January