Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Look, look—did you see,

Did you see that?

Two dragonflies on blades of grass,

taking lodging on bedstraw,

Though they sought to escape notice,

Their wings—too thin to conceal them—

Sheer Akashi crimson crepe,

The whiteness of skin—how shameful,

A red dragonfly on white silk fabric.

Snow and maple leaves conspired to deceive,

Society’s lightning—eyes gleamed.

Look, look—did you see,

Did you see that?

“Uncle—that lantern…”

“Ah, the lantern…”

It was now around half past two in the afternoon.

“I’ll carry it—you’ll bump into the stone steps.”

A woman in her early thirties—her shoulder slightly raised, her traditional skirt swaying gently—reached out a pale hand.

Okome—to explain—was that uncle Tsujimachi Itoshichi’s cousin, the daughter of Okyo who had passed away the year before last, and the wife of a certain long-established lacquer shop owner in the area.

Her hair was smoothly combed back with a fresh sheen into a modest, understated round chignon, her neckline elegantly slender.
Though it was winter in snow country, the weather was fine—an Indian summer day—so she wore no padded kimono, and even her figured silk outer robe seemed too heavy for such clarity; in one pale hand she carried offerings for Okyo—her mother’s grave—yellow and white chrysanthemums, small and forlorn, brittlely lonely things, though from local custom she had added a bundle of what people now commonly called “monk’s flower”: thistle-like sprays of soft birch-purple small cockscomb. In her other hand she held two sticks of incense bound with colored paper and a one-sen candle. Extending her free hand, she said, “That lantern.”

Looking up at the temple gate—crumbling in places—they began ascending the high stone steps overgrown with clumps of grass and pampas grass: Senjō-ji, Okome’s family temple.
But Lantern Temple was the name more commonly known throughout this large castle town.

To pass on—or rather, no—year after year, when lanterns were offered at graves during Obon and small lights kindled as humble tributes, this custom remained unchanged throughout the area: kin and clans exchanged remembrances with newly departed acquaintances. From the thirteenth night—when welcoming fires were lit—not only temple pagodas but every marker in field and mountain, every burial site, even unattended graves and ancient mounds that seemed to resurrect forgotten eras, all became places where faint, damp moss-flowers bloomed like scattered lanterns. Through grass-hidden, leaf-concealed paths beneath the earth, a pale and lonely spectral road would manifest—starkly visible in moonless dark, faintly discernible under moonlight—emerging dimly yet undeniably from the void.
Above all, near the ridge of the back mountain, at the summit of this temple’s cemetery hill, a single hackberry tree towered—its high-hung lantern at the treetop visible from town squares, crossroads, alleyways.
Ponds, marshes' edges, the large river's bank.
Even from the rough seas a ri west away—if they gazed, if they looked up, if they stood still—it all appeared standing in the sky, in the visage, and thus it was known by name.

In contrast to this Lantern Temple, the daytime lantern protruding half a ken from Tsujimachi Itoshichi’s coat sleeve—lured by a sudden gust of pine wind, now caught amidst two or three scattering leaves—unlit even by the crimson foliage of the season, lay bleached pale in the drowsy warmth of a sunny patch on the stone steps’ sparse grass: stretching as if to yawn, shrinking as if to sneeze—a comical sight.

Tsujimachi, with a shout that seemed to twist together a yawn and a sneeze,

“Ah, the lantern...
“No—hold on.”

He took a step up.

“No—hold on.”

Okome smiled gently,

“Hohoho—if you keep making such shouts like that，Uncle.”

“What—I’m not worn out.
“Even if I were tired，it’s just one lantern.
“……Though if it feels heavy or gets in your way，you could just hang it here on these pampas grass plumes—wouldn’t cause any trouble.”

“Well, it’s a place with no one around and little foot traffic—and it’s a temple after all.”
“Even if you leave it there, people won’t do anything to it.”
“...Even though I offered to carry it, you won’t let me—Uncle, insisting on doing it with your own hands...”

“With my own hands.”

“Putting on such a distant face—you want to make the offering with your own hands, don’t you? If you leave it here, your intention won’t be conveyed, would it? That’s not right, you know.”

“I humbly beg your pardon for the scolding, but who exactly are you saying should make the offering themselves?”

“Who exactly that might be, hohoho.”

Again, she smiled gently.

"Such labored breathing... Here is fine—please rest a little, come now."

At a midway earthen-floored space on the stone steps—a spot called the opposite gallery—near the roots of a tree in full crimson foliage, she turned her waist in a graceful sway with head slightly bowed and one sleeve adjusted, poised to cling and take his hand.
Stepping onto her lacquered geta where snowflake patterns chilled against their surface, her pale pink underrobe fluttered down.

Though one might call it coquettishness, Okome appeared unconcerned beyond assisting her uncle—yet being a married woman, such behavior risked impropriety. There, after adjusting his grip on the daytime lantern, he extended its handle toward her. The hand that took the black-lacquered handle remained pale and gentle.

As if anyone would deem it improper! As for those stone steps—one might liken them to a bandit’s fortress watchtower ladder—they dominated the view across ten blocks in all directions, visible even when obscured by grid-like rooftops, crossroads willows, and near-distant forests. Should any passerby in the castle town glance upward, they would witness a sight akin to a cicada clinging to a coat hung over some mid-air railing where a colorful kimono sleeve dangled.

The cicada laughed a solitary jiji-chuckle and flipped abruptly into the crimson leaves' shadow.

No—this sudden deft darting? Such skillful movement seemed impossible.

“Thank you… For your help with the lantern’s handle—clinging with one hand while the other holds this Western cane. This thing’s like an amateur’s oar—I can’t quite get the hang of it. The way I’ve carelessly stuffed it into my sleeve is pitiful. I look like some two-cane cripple.”

“I won’t have it!”

“No backbone, I admit—but what can one do? Suppose I’ll follow your advice and rest awhile before we continue. Just the spot—moss-slick… though that sounds chilly. There’s a warm sunny patch here. Well then—shall I leave this troublesome lantern here? ‘Beneath trees and upon stones’ sounds grand, but this place is just like those novice monks clanging bells on mats during Jizō Bon festivals.”

“If you sit down in such a hurry, you’ll get mud on yourself.”

“It doesn’t matter.”
“It’s just torn hemp.”
“Merely monastic robes.”

“Whether monastic robes or Kisen finery—this isn’t some Kabuki stage! They’ll get soiled.”

“Well, this…”
“With that beautiful handkerchief of yours.”

“The falling maple leaves are more beautiful than this handkerchief that never stays clean no matter how you wipe it.”

“What color would you call this?”
“Through Okyo’s doing—even moonlight was cast upon these stones.”
“Ah—what fine scenery.”
“Though I always speak of this place thusly—today feels truly exceptional.”
“As ever—the sea remains visible—the castle remains visible.”

he said.

Above all, the ginkgo trees stood yellow; red trees and green woods—every forest stretching into view held brocade-like leaves. Amidst this tapestry where remnants of willow green were thinly woven like gauzy damask, the tiered castle keep towered, piercing the snowy peaks of distant mountains.
From there, stretching diagonally was a thick indigo line that joined the blue sky in a single sweep—needless to say, the sea encircling fields, city districts, and castle town.
Though a wild sea, under calm weather, the shore’s waves spread a carpet of white chrysanthemum blossoms… Dyed in yuzen-like patterns, the snow country town appeared pale blue through thin mist.
At what one might call its sleeve-like edge, the lake—reputed to be three ri in circumference—could be seen as if it were the daytime moon, a half-circle.

“Okome-bō.”

Uncle shifted his gaze,

“The scenery’s fine—and I’m keeping up well.”
“—Did you know even that old man at the lantern shop was staring?”

“(How much for one of those lanterns?)” when he asked,

“(Take it now… Payment can wait till your convenience.)” …What do you make of that?
“Yet they won’t even wrap their wares in newspaper or paper for this uncle from distant parts.”
“How can I not say he was entranced, eh? That old codger.”

“Oh, come now!” she said in a tone one might use to scold a forgotten sake flask, “A traveler or whatnot—without even wearing straw sandals—can you really tell such things just by looking these days? Besides, in this area we still keep semi-annual accounts. Even without that, people pass through here when visiting the temple. That lantern seller’s been familiar since Mother held my hand... Oh, enough with your empty flattery already. You’re just trying to sweet-talk your way out of feeling awkward about the grave visit, Uncle.”

“Wait, wait.—Okyo-san—Okome-bō, that’s your mother’s name.”

“How do you do? I’ve come to pay my respects—hohoho.”

“Your courtesy overwhelms me.
"But at Such-and-such Temple—not under the Shinnyo title—I must crave pardon.
“Yet why ever should I feel ill-at-ease about visiting your mother’s grave?
“Wasn’t that our very purpose in coming?”

“...I’ll not gainsay that, you know.”
“I well understand you’ve come to pay respects at Mother’s grave—but before that—a certain someone—”

“A certain someone, a certain someone... I don’t follow.”
“Okome-bō, who precisely is this ‘certain someone’?”

“Mother always used to say that, you know.”
“Uncle belongs to the ‘Awkward Clan’ from ‘Longhouse Manor,’ you see.”

“It’s just a tenement residence anyway.”

“I’m sorry—that’s not what I meant.”
“Even so, why turn this on me? If you don’t remember—if you’ve forgotten—that’s cruel. That’s too much.”
“You’re being awful—unforgivable—heartless.”

“Wait—wait—just wait a moment.”
“This defies all expectation.”
“I must acknowledge this abrupt ceremony.”
“Troublesome indeed—what was it again? Though saying so might be improper—who could it be?”

“Have you truly forgotten?”
“Is that acceptable?”
“You’re lying.”
“Isn’t that going too far?”
“I’ll just say it plainly myself.”
“Even if I say that, I may be the one falling for your bait and feeling awkward, though.”
“Uncle… the lady you once tried to commit a love suicide with.”

“…………”

Out of the blue, Tsujimachi pretended to press the black chest of his swollen coat and opened his eyes wide,

“I’ll let it go.”
“You were pretending not to know so much that I decided to give you a little scare—but even so, you’ve figured it out now, haven’t you?”
“—A certain time—that night—at midnight when the flowers were in full bloom.”
“—Around that castle gate—pacing back and forth over the dark moat…”

As Okome’s fingers moved back and forth, flickering delicately, their motion—as though casting a spell—revealed faintly beneath the distant castle forest’s canopy a small man emerging abruptly, his shabby form without a haori now visible, hands clasped and head bowed as he trudged along.
That one, starving for sustenance, attempted to die.
That was Tsujimachi on that night.

At the same time, there was another.
A lonely, beautiful woman, as if descending from a cloud of blossoms, suddenly shaded the same moat in her downward path—along the long slope leading to town, her chest gently pressing sleeves together, shoulders slender and skirt billowing as though floating midair.
With her neck faintly white in that slightly bowed figure seen from behind, the hem of her garment swaying imperceptibly, an air of quiet elegance about her—under a night merely black yet brightened by flowers—her form descending the slope blanketed with full-blooming cherry blossoms came into view, drifting like earth upon a raft of flowing light.

Envelop the fingers, tug the sleeve—Okome-bō.
The whiteness of her neck, the suppleness of her shoulders—they bore no resemblance to that figure.—

The woman now walking down the slope before their eyes—she had been around twenty years old when she took her own life that night at Senbagafuchi (meaning “crow”) Abyss.
Her leap to death was resolute.

The shadow of a cowardly, lingering man who had loitered in the same place now sat shamelessly alive here, midway up Senkōji Temple’s stone steps.

II

“Ah—it’s as though I’ve been put under a spell.”

Tsujimachi felt the coldness of the palm he had pressed against his cheek and tilted.
The briefly inhaled cigarette ember sizzled past his ear and fell onto the pebble at his feet.

“It’s as though I’ve woken completely from the dream again.—At that time, I wandered over the moat until dawn—I don’t know when I returned home, whether I burrowed into the grass or crawled under the futon.”
To my ear that had lain dormant as though knocked down,

Brother… Brother—

What reached his ears was… Ms. Okyo.

“Shall I respond?”

“Shall I make a wish?”

“Yes, ohoho.”

“It goes without saying—a spirited young voice.”
“That’s right—we were both twenty then.—The deceased was certainly a year older, I later heard and remembered.”
The previous night had been heavy with dampness; even the flowery glow hung blurred through the mist like cotton spread over haze.
At the vigorous voice beyond the lattice door, someone jerked upright—stumbling forward with sunken eyes... When they thrust their forehead toward the entranceway, a crisp spring-blaze morning scene lay before them, so radiant it seemed ready to scorch away that ashen complexion.
Ms. Okyo stood resolute, her freshly tied gingko-leaf hairstyle, the pale yellow crispness of her detachable collar, and the sheen of her black satin obi all cutting through the haze—(“Brother’s drowning himself in the castle moat.”) (“That’s a lie—I’m alive right here.”)—and since I’d been the one to blurt that out, you can well imagine.
In the earthen-floored area just behind, the grandmother past seventy was simmering a sleet-like porridge with grains scraped from the rice tub’s bottom—it couldn’t rightly be called tea gruel.
Two years before, the house had burned down; the next year their father died—it was practically a shack.
To live, to eat—last night at the castle grounds, early frogs had already croaked, insects singing their songs—how enviable it all was, I’d said... Grandmother’s deafness spared her notice, but (“I’m alive right here”)—what nonsense was that?
(What are you lazing about for?
Pull yourself together.) Because she knew how things stood back then—Ms. Okyo—with that half-formed consideration born of her impatient temper, as you know, knitting her brows while (...It’s right here in town.
I passed by earlier—the foil shop on the corner. Not our family—a girl taken in and working at the Hankechi factory, they say.
(Open your eyes properly... Wait, why’s such a crowd gathered?) Though it was a radiant morning, the road stretched white as if daubed with gofun pigment, desolately pale with houses lining three blocks on our same side—yet somehow it seemed to tunnel straight to some distant shore where the clustered crowd—though she’d jumped into an abyss—shifted restlessly as if dodging waves, the ground there alone appearing drenched in seawater.

Flowers fluttered down before his eyes.

The rich person’s house across from my hut didn’t burn down… The second wife of that failed shop—the one the whole town spitefully gossiped about, though now she’s long gone—had come out to stand on the gate’s stone step at that time, her hair styled in a small bridge-shaped topknot trimmed like a swallow’s wings. She stood there scrutinizing the foil shop with the same intensity.
The stepdaughter was a gentle, beautiful, refined person, but before even reaching twenty, she scattered like melting snow, together with white plum blossoms in water.
She had been bullied to death—the town adjudicated that it was that stepmother.
At that moment, my eyes saw the dusky-complexioned stepmother’s brows and nose—in profile as she peered toward the foil shop—pressed against Okome-san’s forelock.
(“Darling,”) said the stepmother, (“now, our relative—the young lady—”)—not in full detail, but being face-to-face, she knew the situation; having seen her come and go, being acquainted, she called out, (“As lovely as ever, I see—hahaha,”) with a hollow laugh—you can imagine it—then glared at the two and said, (“They call it a tragic death, but the root lies in her own conduct,”)—Ms. Okyo, her mother—you see?
“Don’t go putting on airs about injuries you don’t have!”
Immediately, she jerked her comely chin as if striking it and said, “Yes, indeed it is, hmm,” no sooner than—the child on her back.

Tsujimachi exchanged glances with long-lashed Okome.

"That day—since I'd come to visit this temple—Ms. Okyo... The stone steps being steep, instead of carrying her on my back with a happi coat, I used a pale yellow fawn-patterned sash to secure her."

"When she patted my back going 'Baa!', I went clattering into the house with my thin teeth chattering."

"I turned red before the stepmother."

"The one I carried—to tell the truth—stands here in full beauty. Well, it’s been ages since we last met."
"It was you, Okome-bō—two—no, three years old at the time."
"By the old reckoning."

"By the old reckoning…"

"Ah, I see."

"The year Uncle’s house burned down, Mother—well, she rushed into the fire when she was about to give birth… That’s why I have this birthmark."

Her eyelashes trembled.
Tsujimachi, as if startled, suddenly shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh my—how careless of me. I thought it was you, Uncle, and just let it slip…”
“…It was crimson when I was young, but now that I’m grown, it’s only faintly blue.”

Uncle said while lowering his gaze, feigning scrutiny:
“Can’t see a thing—there’s nothing there at all. Where exactly do you mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh now, really.”

“Near the breast—just slightly to the side.”

“How beautiful—like a scar from a single shaved eyebrow, or young herbs peeking through snow… But if I don’t say that—when Father passed away and I returned home, I was away in Tokyo at the time.”
“I feel terrible for making Ms. Okyo rush into the fire for my family’s sake.—But seeing as that infant has now taken the form before you, it’s been some thirty years.”
“So… within the haze of memories, a dim light seems to fall upon the figure of that sad, beautiful person.”
“She would grow distant, draw near, vanish midway, then appear right before my eyes—and since I too was trudging along searching for a place to die, people’s gazes became nothing but a nuisance.”
“They must have been a hindrance even earlier.”
“Eventually past three in the morning—since the slope below the castle keep was long—I lost sight of her midway up, but I remember that retreating figure most clearly.”
“So if that person died in the abyss, it would mean they first went down to town then turned back up the slope again, wouldn’t it?”

However—under such circumstances—whether the girl taken in by the town’s foil shop come morning was truly the same person I had seen that night remained unknown… Even now I did not know.
At the moat’s edge—no one had ever glimpsed even once before or after, not so much as the bridge of a nose in profile—nor could they fathom it either.
Yet having just heard from Ms. Okyo that morning, I immediately thought *Ah, that’s it*—I must have sensed it through that same death-driven compulsion…

And Ms. Okyo, averting her gaze from the stepmother opposite, entered through the lattice.
“The you I was carrying on my back—with that patting just now—was making such a peculiar face…”

“Yes, oh ho ho.”

Okome smiled faintly and pressed one sleeve to her chest.

“Ms. Okyo—the moment someone suddenly knocked on Grandmother’s back with a thud—she took off the iron pot’s lid and peered inside; listless steam rose.”

Okome lightly stroked her temple.

“The hearth fire flickering there—somehow it felt like it was scorching and warming the woman who’d thrown herself into the abyss. As it nearly died out, I saw drenched hair tangled in sleeve hems and a pallid face collapsed there—it seemed just like that gentle elder sister who, driven by a fleeting love for the stepmother standing at the far gate, had thrown herself into the same chasm five years prior.”
“She must have been quite unhinged.”

A half-ruined well with a pulley stood nearby; from its depths came the lonely *plop* of a water droplet.

As the water rasped,

――A suicide――

――A beauty――

“A suicide—”

People shouted outside and dashed off.

This commotion—well, over many days, it must have sent great ripples in all directions: to the four quarters, neighboring provinces, the eight compass points—though,

“Three years of strict reserve—”

“Well, you see—if Ms. Okyo hadn’t kept people from even whispering about that woman for a time, she wouldn’t have let me speak of it either.”

The same wind that scatters the cherry blossoms—it would be wrong for me to come inviting you, Brother—

That night—though he had plunged into the same Senbagafuchi abyss among a crowd of fellow doomed souls—having narrowly failed to die, he now grew uneasy. Even when wandering the town, he detoured through the foothills’ crossroads and avoided passing before the foil shop altogether……

He could neither buy nor read even one local newspaper in his circumstances; even standing before the newspaper company’s bulletin board felt perilous—the town was small, eyes were everywhere, and having once wandered what might be called the Shide Sanzu realm himself, he grew timid from his own conscience. Avoiding, ever avoiding, he distanced himself from society’s whispers. Thus, whether the flowers scattered from rain, storm, stones hurled by hands, or branches cruelly snapped—he did not know.
To this day, he hasn’t been able to ascertain all the details—and that too has been thirty years now.

“……Ms. Okome—I left for Tokyo that same August—they still follow the old calendar here, you know—after Obon had ended, during my favorite season when red dragonflies fly and the roads clear……”

“Ah… I see.”

Tsujimachi drew breath, shifted his hips on the stone, and lightly slapped his knees.

III

At that moment, the lantern’s surface on the stone clunked against his coat sleeve—strange. No—not strange; pale enough to faintly reveal the clouds in the vast sky.

“Well now, this… whether to dedicate it or make an offering, as Okome-bō says—or a certain someone—”

“Yes, that’s right.”

With that, after arranging a few chrysanthemums and monk’s flowers around the grave, Okome nodded quietly.

“That infant—even in cruel jest—they call it a failed suicide pact. But eventually, I was told about the circumstances before and after by that unkind mother of yours, and that’s how I came to know.”

“A mysterious, uncanny connection indeed.”
“In the flower-lit glow, the grave of that poor soul who vanished away indeed lies here at Lantern Temple.”

“The folly of youth.…”

Tsujimachi pressed his forehead against the lantern and leaned forward.

“What was I thinking… heading to Tokyo—just before departure, sneaking around… To put it that way makes it sound suspiciously alluring.”
“Sneaking about like a mouse, pulling a small paper lantern shaped like an andon—cheap thing—by its slender handle with one arm, climbing these stone steps from the edge while hiding in the dimness of the ladder-like stairs.”
“My chest and breath both pounding all the while.”

Whether yamabuki, gauze fabrics, maidenflowers, bellflowers, bush clover, or perhaps pampas grass—more beautifully and lonesomely than a pale-colored lantern—it was intended as an offering to her figure, poised as if white dew might drip from her.

“Midway up—right where I am now.”

“And yet—what do you make of that? You may call me heartless in jest, but thirty years’ time holds less mercy than any human’s cruelty. Not to speak of this lantern, but it’s darkest under the lantern stand—I dimly failed to notice. More than an excuse—it borders on shameful.”

——I wonder if it’s acceptable to speak so composedly and at length—at that time, having come beneath these maple trees whose fresh leaves were so verdant they appeared black, when I looked up toward the cemetery, the distant peak had blurred into haze. Those famed hackberries of Kiso—here, they were nowhere to be seen.

But the renowned tall lantern blazed at the hackberry’s crown… Its light slipped through leaf after leaf, luring dew as it flickered down the trunk—a prolonged descent until I perceived it as phantom wisteria clusters swaying gently upward.

Though I couldn’t discern the lantern’s painted patterns, I stood transfixed, imagining as if those sleeves suspended in mid-air from the tall lantern were her very form.

――Ah, what a farce――

Before my eyes—I had thought it was something white—a woman in an indigo-tinged yukata and day-night obi descended straight from the temple gate,

“You’ve come to meet the suicide victim, haven’t you—”

“What a thing to say—can you imagine who it was?”
“Your mother.”
“That does sound like something she’d say.”
“When someone suddenly thwacked me with a thud, this uncle here as a young man went wide-eyed and nearly lost his guts.”
“That’s right—for someone supposedly heading to the family graves, a guy who’d never made obligatory Obon visits or gone through the motions—”

Tsujimachi pressed down on the lantern while,

“Like a sake-buying raccoon dog caught in confusion, I stood there dangling the lantern.”

“You cut right to the chase, Ms. Okyo—being ambushed like that from the start. Even if I tried passing it off as visiting relatives’ graves, that wouldn’t hold water.”

“Ms. Hatsuro’s grave was—”

Indeed—young, kind, yet somehow frail—he had at some point heard only the name of the woman who had thrown herself [into the water].

――Do you know where the grave is――

“How would I know?”
“Ms. Okyo was at the cliff where night dew made things slippery—‘Since this rocky path’s cut so steep,’ she warned me, ‘if you keep stumbling around like that, you’ll get yourself hurt.’”
“Leave it at the temple and come back to pay proper respects during daylight—that’s what she told me to do.”
“As for me, well…”
“Can you show yourself in broad daylight?”
“Well then—since your ‘noble intent’ ends here, go ahead and leave it on this stone! If you surrender like this, even stray dogs trampling it would make that refined spirit shudder.”—With that, Ms. Okyo crisply tucked up one corner of her kimono this time and said, “To the temple.”

Even though I’d deliberately gone out at night for that very precaution, what could I have been doing all this time until now?
(I was idling around.
The temple was cool, free from the world’s clamor.
At the mountain spring drawn along the rear eaves... Watermelons would’ve been too decadent—they’d discreetly cooled blue agar jelly for the temple boy instead, its smooth surface glistening through hydrangea shadows, shedding icy tears tinged with mustard. What I saw were some three hundred grave lanterns and ninety-odd spirit apparitions cooling themselves in grassy shade—Ms. Hatsuro’s figure among them.) With that quip about Ms. Okyo being quite the charming hoyden when she entered the temple gate... Well, riding that momentum... Before the side altar of the main hall up high, where the offering repository had stacked red-and-white hemp threads on a ceremonial tray—Obon gifts and reciprocal tokens—in front of a modest desk awaiting late-night worshippers.
How about this—since I was retreating, Ms. Okyo briskly handed over the paper lantern she’d taken,

“To the young lady who threw herself [into the water] this spring.
...the failed suicide pact—this person’s resolve——”

“I fled all the way to the gate, you know.”
she came clattering after me to return it,

“—She brought red thread.”
“For tying bonds—I wonder if she preferred white… …the other party is but a phantom…”

As she grazed my cheek, I tumbled down to this middle section.
"It might be a bit of an exaggeration, but there was lightning over the distant dark sea.
That night, the rain started pouring halfway through……”

……………………

……………………

Tsujimachi, like one recalling a sudden evening shower, let his breath settle for a while before eventually resuming, slightly altering his tone.

“Okome-bō, had you heard such… things… from your mother?”

“Yes—after Mother got married… later…”

“That figures—even amid those circumstances, matters were resolved with proper order.”
“Such things aren’t fit for a young woman’s ears before her wedding.”

Now then—the lantern in question.
Indeed, it was only natural that I had thought to offer a paper lantern to that person instead.
But in truth, it wasn’t out of any supposed modesty or heartfelt devotion—nothing so admirable as all that.
I must confess—truth be told, even I myself am so absent-minded it’s almost laughable on my own.
If carrying a lantern under a moonlit night is extravagant, then what does that make me—utterly absurd, I suppose—for having carried one in broad daylight?

You see, earlier you had silently followed along with those bumbling tourists who’d strayed from their group—gawking foolishly at the sights—but on our way here, when I stood absentmindedly before that lantern shop in the alley at the foot of the slope…

Though both the location and direction were entirely different now, back in my elementary school days—near the school... that area was a depression near Ōkawa River—there stood a temple with a dimly lit lantern shop in front of its gate.
The bearded old man wore indigo work sleeves speckled all over with white lead pigment.
The apron—wide as a ceremonial waistcloth—was smeared with earthen pigments in blues and reds; had it been left to tumble freely, it might have transformed into a lion from festival banners, while peonies were lavishly painted on with a broad brush.
Crimson flowed swiftly into pink, his blending technique creating vivid hues.
Then came carp leaping up waterfalls.
The irises blanketing Yatsuhashi must have been celebratory offerings for bathhouse patrons.
The way he leaned into painting those ornate designs filled me with such joy and fascination—as if the pigments dissolved in the large mixing bowl—not like Mariko’s famed yam soup inn, mind you—were blending into a starchy broth… I remembered how I would stand beneath those eaves on my way home from school, watching endlessly.
The late autumn rains knew it, the sleet knew it.
In summer, school was closed.
In spring with cherry blossoms, or during snowy times—how those crimson peonies blazed and gleamed! On leaves and moss alike, gold and silver foils were dabbed without hesitation, shining like sunlight streaming through a palace corridor.
In such times, beautiful peonies would bloom on Ōkawa Bridge along the way home.

That lantern shop from earlier didn’t have any ornate designs or anything painted on them. They had white oil-paper umbrellas laid out in the sun, but I ended up peering into the shop too intently while lost in memories of the past—so to avoid leaving empty-handed, I had the tourist group buy one.

——The family crest——

——Peony——

Well, having them paint it would’ve been too much trouble… and first off, I had no intention of making it suitable for practical use anyway.
This could have been an umbrella.
I could have snapped it open and climbed while holding it over Ms. Okome—chrysanthemums in hand—from behind.

“Here you go. …For the ‘Long Live Women’ advertisement.”

“As you say.—No, let’s not jest.”
“Into the narrow gaps between those umbrellas you just arranged—where sunlight filters through willows like unfurled silver paper—two butterflies that must have been clinging to your flowers flew into that shop and fluttered over the parasols… their foil glistening like snowflakes upon peonies……”

Even when I thought it appeared exactly as it was—the foil—I failed to notice the foil artisan in the same town where this temple’s graves lie—the one who had taken in that drenched figure so fleetingly.
Though I may not be called heartless—even if I chiseled the hardships of household life thinly into mornings and evenings—the days remained distant.
When too many years pass, even the chrysanthemum-adorned days before one’s eyes become a distant haze of flowers, and the blur of dreams fades away.

But even now, my mind remains clouded.
After paying respects at her mother’s grave.
……How I wish I could remain distant forever.
Being near—even at my age—leaves me acutely self-conscious.

“They’ll surely mock me—first comes that chuckling, cackling laughter from beneath the stone monument.”

“That’s frightening, Uncle.”
“Though Mother might be tolerant of it… Since I’m here with you, I won’t tease you—so please do offer your prayers properly now.”

“—Ms. Itotsuka.”

“Itotsuka… You mean Ms. Hatsuro?”
“Is Itotsuka her family name?”

“No, my goodness… You truly weren’t aware, Uncle?”

“—Ms. Itotsuka—it’s also called Itomakizuka, they say.”

“Across one valley over there—midway up the mountain on the other side—you’ll find Lady Kishimojin’s temple.”

“Ah, Pomegranate Temple—Shinsei Temple.”

“Excuse me for a moment.”
“I’ll just rest a bit over on the edge.”
“……No need for concern.”
“Though they’re fallen leaves, they’re like brocade—almost too splendid to tread upon.”
“It feels like only yesterday—declaring them Lady Kishimojin’s clouds, I slipped off my zori sandals and sat amidst those scattered pomegranate blossoms.”
“Mother led me there.”
“White clouds, blue clouds, purple clouds—what divine forms might they represent?”
“Lady Kishimojin herself must be that crimson cloud, wouldn’t you agree?”

Although the gravesite stood nearby, Okome—perhaps envisioning distant features while thinking of her mother—spoke as if entranced.

Hearing this, Tsujimachi remembered those three or four years of his prime spent in Zushi, Sagami Province, when medical treatment too had proven powerless against the illness threatening to extinguish his newlywed wife’s life.
He had not forgotten living through Kannon’s compassionate mercy.
At Iwadono Temple on Nankai’s sacred mountain—behind the inner hall where violets bloomed thickly under spring’s white zenith light, their purple petals swelling with strange fragrance—he had prayed fervently for the ailing woman while watching a white hare leap. Now envisioning this clearly in the clouds before him, he bowed his head low in silent reverence toward the luminous sacred rock platform.

Even Okome’s profile had aged,

“Pomegranate Temple, Uncle—there’s a grave for the founder of Yūzen dyeing within its grounds, isn’t there? At one time, not only were there no visitors, but even the soil beneath the moss had dried up and the water sources withered. But in recent years, people from other provinces have come seeking it from all over, and since its reputation grew so high, they erected a new memorial—it’s become something of a landmark now. So you see, even this temple has decided to newly erect a memorial for Ms. Hatsuro too.”

“Ah, Reverend—how worldly of you. A black-bordered crowd-puller… For someone who threw themselves [into death], a thinly colored water-painted signboard.”

“Hush.”
“…No, rather than the Reverend, it’s an official project by the parishioners’ group and the prefectural tourism association.”
“The temple is lending the land.”

“It’s different from the soil she was buried in, then.”

“Yes, and so they’re discussing whether to call it Itotsuka or Itomakizuka.”

“Either way, it must be the ‘thread’ counterpart to Yūzen’s ‘dyeing.’”

“That’s not merely some passing whim or stylistic affectation—it’s nothing so trivial!”
“That lady—Ms. Hatsuro—kept commuting to that hackwork factory to embroider, you see, and that’s precisely what led to everything.”
“The threads themselves began with crimson.”

“The thread being crimson… commuting to that sweatshop factory, doing embroidery—that was the cause?…”

“Good heavens—you truly know nothing at all.”

“To call it a lovers’ suicide over some injuries—though phrasing it that way would be irresponsible—I really don’t know anything.”
“Even if you take the same photo side by side, in a crowd, there are times when—before you know it—partings in life and death happen. And as years pass, that’s all there remains.”

Tsujimachi turned around.

"A crab digs a hole to match its shell... How suspicious that seems."
"Badgers from the same den... What absurdity!"
"A one-shō gourd holds exactly one shō—after all, my guesses were all backwards."
"Everyone thought it stemmed from the agony of utter destitution."

And indeed, that had been true.

"Oh my—how cruel to say such things."
"That lady—she took up piecework to sustain herself, you understand."
"But originally, she served as a lady-in-waiting in a fifteen-hundred-koku household."

“Oh, so she was nobility’s daughter!”
“Ah, what regret I brought upon myself.”
“Had I died with her that night, I’d have been reborn by now—a blessed man with even a scrap of land to his name... But threads—crimson threads—pierce the heart when mentioned.”

“That’s not even the issue.”
“It’s what arose from that thread.”
“She was a 1,500-koku lady-in-waiting, but Ms. Hatsuro was born out of wedlock, they say.”
“Even so—an only child raised in better days—after the domains were abolished, the estate soon fell to ruin, and her parents passed on.”
“The one who took her in were distant relatives from the chamberlain’s household—the foil maker we mentioned earlier.”
“With times being hard, even the foil maker couldn’t make ends meet, so she began commuting to the factory.”
“Having been raised in a mansion, she’d honed her skills in crepe silk crafts as a pastime and was deft with a needle.”
“She quickly became a top-tier worker handling only premium materials—what they called ‘hackwork’—where though pale hues existed, she mainly embroidered butterfly flowers on white silk. The finest pieces became celebrated domestic products, exported as luxury goods from the mainland to foreign lands, they say.”

“I see.”

IV

Did you see that? Did you see that?

“Did you see that?”

…………………

“Did you see that? Did you see that? Two dragonflies alighting on grass blades, on kayatsuri grass… They sang that song at the factory, they say.”
“It was the song that killed Ms. Hatsuro.”

Taking slender kayatsuri grass, dyed blue along the edges—at one end, placing two red dragonflies upon the hackwork’s snow-white ground.

Okome’s folded fingers bent and pressed the inner edge of her collar.

“If each dragonfly had been separate, it might have been fine—and if it had been someone else’s design—they say it would have been nothing but embroidery if Ms. Hatsuro had only done the stitching.”
“Ultimately, despite her beauty and skill at her work, it arose from jealousy and suspicion.”
“No matter the occasion or circumstance, they would twist and distort things to find fault.”
“Even the design of the patterns was done by Ms. Hatsuro herself.”
“What on earth inspired her to come up with that?”
“That red dragonfly embroidery gained tremendous acclaim—orders poured in relentlessly from export markets in the West where it was exceptionally well-received—but then they said she was shaming us even abroad! They made a huge fuss, likening those crimson wings to limbs and chanting about them as if they were crepe silk exposing bare skin.”

(The folk song recorded at the beginning of this volume to offer a smile appears to have two or three lines missing—this is because Okome hesitated to recite it aloud.)

…………………

………………

There appeared to be an omission—this was because Okome had hesitated to recite it aloud.

"How dreadful, Uncle—do you suppose butterflies and dragonflies wear clothes?"

“Though I sought to hide from prying eyes—
Wings cannot be cloaked by thinnest silk—
Had it been but one, perhaps overlooked… Yet one follows another on a single tail—those eight wings stitched with silver thread in silence—they do not rest inert; they soar aloft, you see.”
“Yes, precisely—”

——Society’s lightning eyes flashed——

——“Have you no shame? Do you feel no disgrace?”—they clamored, as though Ms. Hatsuro had flaunted such illustrations before red-haired, blue-eyed audiences to hoard treasure—and on that day when even the touch of fabric over her skin pierced like venomous fangs… her timid, gentle, refined nature—a white jade camellia blooming in snow—her blushing earlobes… all of it shattered, scattered.

“It was even in her suicide note, they say.—‘Ah, simply because I felt ashamed—’”

“One can imagine.”
“One’s heart aches.”
“Have you heard this too?”
“In days of old, women of samurai virtue—even when facing torture’s whip or torments of fire and water—would never yield a word. Yet the mere act of stripping their robes, removing their undergarments, laying bare their flesh… this alone rendered them instantly guilty. Now consider that—”

Tsujimachi envied the tomboy of the tobacco factory in Seville, Spain—for the sake of one so fragile-hearted.

At the same time, he thought of Okome’s mother.
Had Okyo been there to handle the situation, instead of carving chessboard lines across that factory girl’s face, she would have pummeled her with vinegar-soaked agar jelly.

“In that case—a commoner’s child, you see.”

Tsujimachi carelessly said.

"But even commoners—in front of others—"

“No.”

“Yes, after all, I am a commoner’s child.”

Tsujimachi, suddenly recalling the young green shoots near the underarm, involuntarily hunched his shoulders.

“I was mistaken.”
“No—but a 1,500-koku lady-in-waiting—more pitifully fleeting than old tales.”
“And so pure.”

“They said she resembled Princess Chūjō—when she slid the white silk fabric, her pale fingers seemed to vanish.”
“Like dewdrops glistening along the needle’s tip, crimson threads swayed and stained from her thin chest, then twined—silver threads glittering—as several dragonflies glided into view.”
“‘—I saw it with my own eyes,’ says that flat-nosed factory girl from back then, opening her mouth like an old pickled eggplant and speaking in her dotage.”
“When I think that woman too chanted loudly with that foul mouth, listening to it makes me indignant—I feel like glaring at her.”
“But she took her own life. About a year prior—for a time, they sang it everywhere here: bathhouses, roadsides—even those with weak hearts joined in, calling Ms. Hatsuro’s embroidery shameful, they say.”

“Did you see that? Did you see that?—silver wings becoming limbs as they are—two dragonflies doing something like that.”

“Why on earth would two dragonflies be considered strange? Their perspectives are narrow; they simply don’t know. The locals—and even I, until recently—hadn’t noticed it at all.”

“You’ve likely heard through letters, but the distance from where I live to Kyōbashi’s Tsukiji—well, from here, if you look straight across, it would reach all the way to the sea beyond. On my way here this time, when my tooth ached, you thought I went to my regular dentist. As for that Tsukiji—it was just a stopover; the dentist is way out in Akasaka.”

Along the way—from Kōjimachi’s main avenue cutting through Yotsuya-Shinjuku to Miyakezaka, Hibiya… emerging at Ginza… straight past the Kabukiza Theater toward Akashichō—during this rambling stretch where the entire town brimmed, roofs covered, above and below, left and right, vertically and horizontally, in a faintly crimson glowing rain as if floating a blizzard of petals—their wings translucent, bodies dyed—countless red dragonflies surged in a massive swarm. They did not merely pass each other or swirl chaotically in swastika patterns; instead, veering diagonally upward, downward, rightward, leftward—all headed in the same direction toward true north. Their bearing pointed toward Asakusa, Senju—and beyond that lay realms I could scarcely imagine.

Akashichō was the daytime shiranui—the Sumida River’s watery reflection shimmered.

Then, hurrying back from Akashicho and heading toward Akasaka, they were flying in the same manner.
They swarmed onward.
At the dentist, he sat in the chair.
Outside the window, at this time, their numbers appeared somewhat sparse, but even so—it wasn’t merely a thousand or two thousand—they flew at the height of the eaves of houses skimming past second-floor windows, right where the telegraph and telephone lines ran.
No higher than that.
Nor were they flying much lower.
They all passed through the same level of sky, but that immeasurable swarm did not form a thick layer or dense mass—it remained thinly translucent.
Like each of their thin wings.

It was nothing out of the ordinary—from what one could see, Tokyo’s low sky stretched a pale crimson veil, wrapped in silver haze.
The soaring Western-style buildings, tall groves, and forests—all resembled nothing so much as rocky islands amidst white waves tinged with crimson from the setting sun.

The words slipped out.
“The dragonflies are flying in great numbers.”
“Ah, they’ve been at it since early morning,” the dentist said.
At that time, it was past four o'clock.

On his way back at Akasaka Mitsuke—when he mentioned this same observation to his cabdriver—“They’ve thinned out now.”
“This wasn’t how it was earlier.”
“This morning around six，when guests passed through this Mitsuke—brushing against them above and below，left and right—there was a rustling sound.”

“Blue sky，green mountains—they say Mount Fuji’s foothills were covered all the way to its cloudy peak like fields of Chinese milk vetch，completely packed with them．Carried by red dragonflies，the car floated—leaving me terribly distressed．This is my first time having such an experience，” he repeated，as if newly astonished．“For me too，that day was my first time seeing such numbers—but red dragonflies swarming through the city for a day around this autumn time happens nearly every year．I’ve loved them since childhood，but only noticed this pattern—carelessly perhaps—these past eight or nine years．Yet the moon remains unchanged．I’ve definitely marked it in my notebook—October tenth to twentieth，with three straight years falling on the seventeenth．Seasons and weather don’t much change their tune：every year after autumn’s long rains drag on and great storms pass，the next morning dawns clear as a lie—then they come waiting，settling and floating，slipping smoothly through wind that unravels thin crimson mist．”

“—I wonder how it is around here.”
“Huh?”

It was not because she had been listening to the story—Okome’s face was faintly aglow in the shade of crimson leaves.

“…It’s already late, isn’t it? Not a single one is visible today.”
“When I visited on last month’s death anniversary and exited the temple gate… oh, I thought it was a sudden shower on such a fine day.”
“The red dragonflies’ wings looked exactly like silver rain falling.”

“Hmm. One by one?”

“One by one?”

“Wasn’t it two by two?”

“Well, I’m not sure—I didn’t really notice.”

“You wouldn’t notice, would you? That’s precisely what I meant about the dragonfly swarm earlier. You see—every last one flies in pairs. Joined-wing pairs. When locals see this—identical to those embroidered forms—what verses will they chant, as if they’d murdered Ms. Hatsuro anew?”

“Lewdness! Moral corruption! Public shaming! What do they hope to accomplish? Can waves cleanse it? Flames consume it? Not even earthquakes could destroy it. They might blanket heaven and flood earth—yet one typhoon would scatter them all. Fleeting things... ah, but Ms. Hatsuro alone bore that fleetingness in her flesh.”

“Yes, so—so, Uncle, in your consolation… The times have changed now.”
“For her memorial rites—to honor and celebrate Ms. Hatsuro’s craftsmanship—that’s why we’re creating the ‘Thread Monument’ commemorative stele—”

“…………”

“It’s almost completed.”
“The design was also featured in the newspaper.”
“On the pedestal, they’ll install a large thread frame made of magnificent white stone.”
“They’ll wind the carved threads and dye them with vermilion.”

“So will it face off against the ‘Yuzen Monument’?”
“But no—in any case, it’s not a bad thing.”
“The place? The location?”

“Well, let’s go see.”
“It seems more than half of it has been completed.”
“Once you enter the gate, it’s right there.”

Tsujimachi conveyed the temple’s response regarding the Obon festival’s ritual lanterns, recalled the crimson thread Okyo had playfully entwined around him, and then—as if pulled by some unseen force—swayed to his feet alongside the lantern.

V

“Ghostly... dragonfly?... Uncle.”

“What? There’s no such thing.”

And he lowered his voice as though perfectly composed.
And yet—who was it that had just now let out an involuntary "Ah!"?

Now Tsujimachi was cradling a single moss-covered stone monument—pale and weathered—in one hand—no, to say he was *embracing* it would be presumptuous—and resting his hand upon what might be called the stone body of a fifteen-hundred-koku lady-in-waiting, colder than frost itself.
However, over it lay Okome’s dusky wisteria-colored haori jacket, its sleeves sleekly draped across the grave’s form—whether in its weave or ground pattern, thin willow leaves like shadow puppets and chrysanthemum-like shapes dyed in pale hues mingled with a cluster of yomena flowers lingering in bloom amid dead grass scattered over white mountain soil. Bathed in sunlight filtering through trees that veiled the sky, the grave—filled with phantom shadows—bore the melancholically beautiful air of a brocade lantern that had fallen from the treetops, its face bowed low.

There—not quite a precipice—the rock-laid path rose steeply, resembling the scar of a dried-up waterfall where one ascended the shattered base of a medicine mortar. Atop a grassy embankment slightly elevated, graves clustered densely: some tilting, others collapsed entirely.

At the highest section of the climbed stone stupas, where the great hackberry tree of the tall lantern thrived above the back mountain’s peak, its roots coiling through fissures in the bedrock, Okome’s mother lay as if about to open her eyes with a start, resting there alongside generations of ancestors.
There too was shaded and dim.

The lantern they had brought—though surely derided from beneath the earth as half a ken tall—stood pale; billowing incense smoke enveloped it, and the bare candle’s flame flickered in the still wind.

Beyond the hackberry tree they had passed under, the cliff soon became a steeply sloped depression that encircled the temple’s backyard up to the skirt of the mountain and transformed the entire valley into a field of grave markers.

Hatsuro’s grave was situated facing Okyo’s, slightly downhill to the left on the grassy embankment.

Behold—Okome had folded her coat and taken hold of its sleeve, standing close behind him; crouching forward, Tsujimachi slipped his hand into the alluring interior of the haori’s lining that lay draped over the stone monument.
His wrist gleamed with a vivid pale blue.
In his other hand, he held a sturdy, rusted wooden shears at the ready.

Had this large pair of shears been caught on a tree branch in the sky, he would never have carelessly taken them into his hands.
Like when lanterns go out on an Obon night, Hatsuro’s grave—wrapped in a haori—was poignantly beautiful, enveloping its surroundings in shadowy gloom and pervaded by an eerie aura.

The scissors had fallen.
This was what the elderly temple caretaker and three day laborers, startled by something, had thrown down in their panic as they fled.

The circumstances unfolded as follows.

At first, when the two entered through the temple gate from the stone steps, the precincts were spacious, lacking a bell tower.
Near the unlatched gate at the cemetery entrance, where pines stood reserved, they saw a stone mound said to be eighty percent complete.
The pedestal bore no particular design; upon a rock arrangement over three meters tall along the path, they had placed a custom-made frame.
However—that rod which spins thread round and round was nowhere to be seen.
Since there were hollowed-out marks, it appeared this had some manner of design planned.
Okome too did not yet know of this.
The four handles of the frame, even on their reverse sides, fortunately bore no resemblance to a tripod.
Had it resembled a tripod—with all its connotations of boiling cauldrons and branding irons too cruel for delicate sensibilities—it instead evoked smooth white coral branches cradling jewels aloft.

“We’ll look properly on our way back.”

This was her mother’s grave visit.
The guide—having hesitated to hurry him herself—

“The path is uneven, so do take care.”

Whoa! Wha—wha—wha—! Oof! Hah! They lined up their faces blowing through nostrils, raised hands, pounded chests, swung fists—an avalanche of four men scrambling over each other’s feet as they surged brown-faced through the gateway.

Their voices and footsteps echoed together, their commotion only just beginning to fade.

Just as the leading old man—who had nearly collided with Okome before she nimbly slipped aside to avoid him—thrust his nose directly into her face, his entire visage and shins contracted into wrinkles as he grinned eerily from within their folds.

“They’re here! Ghosts!”

Ghosts.

“Old man—snake? Viper?”

Okome—though she had heard “ghost”—frowned slightly and worried about snakes and vipers.

“Ain’t nothin’ like that.”

Indeed—as if such things held no terror—their fierce faces and patterned work coats mingled with padded kimono hems, short work trousers, and bare shins tangled together while the stooped day laborers hastily scraped past the Thread Monument. From their jumbled cluster beneath the pine trees, the temple caretaker’s white eyebrows could be seen twitching nervously.

“Dragonfly!”

“It’s a ghost dragonfly, I tell ya!”

And the young man wearing a winter straw hat called out.

“If it’s a dragonfly, then it’s a ghost.”

Okome smiled faintly as she ascended the slope, her slightly disheveled collar revealing a pale blue underrobe that showed through like snow; without adjusting her attire or looking back, she passed through the gate.

The rocks were sharp.
The path ascending the slope was steep.
But Okome’s twin fingertips, like white butterflies, carried Uncle upward, guiding him high.

“What the—that just now, what was that?”

“Hisasuke is the temple caretaker.”
“They were working at the graveyard and, during their tea break, must have teased me.”
“They must think I’m a child.”
“Even though Uncle is here, they have no discretion.”
“They’re idiots.”

“I’m glad to be teased alongside you in your youth—but really, using ghosts to scare people at a temple? And ghost dragonflies at that.”

“If it’s not snakes or vipers, even if a lizard changed into one, would that truly be so frightening?”

“Are they here?”

“Sometimes.”

“They must be here.”

“But at this time of year...”

“Alright, even I won’t be startled. But what could it be… Ah, right. Ebony jewelwings—black dragonflies. Also, what was it called again? With jet-black wings fluttering like lacquer, delicately blue… I believe it was indeed called the Kawahara dragonfly—isn’t that the one?”

“The black ones are also called spirit dragonflies. Calling it a ghost—that old man.”

At that very moment.

“Ah!”

As Okome cried out,

“How terrible—the grave.”

she said.
With her voice, she swiftly took off the haori jacket she was wearing—but how she untied the cords, how she slipped the sleeves through her chrysanthemum-like hands, that I do not know.
A gust of wind swept through the flower field; like a single streak tinged with wisteria purple, it swiftly enveloped the grave.

Knocked face-down into the grass—bound not merely coiled but in crisscrossed fashion with coarse straw rope—mercilessly.

“Ms. Hatsuro—Ms. Hatsuro.”

This was the lady-in-waiting’s monument.

“Not even a rush mat or straw wrapping—left completely exposed!”

She bristled with indignation while blushing as if ashamed, her earlobes turning crimson.

It might have been unspeakable, but the same vivid impression etched itself into Tsujimachi’s eyes too.
Torn from its base and overturned—likely from rough handling that had scraped away the lush moss clinging to it—the stone now lay stripped in patches, its surface shadows swelling under the dim sunlight here, hollowed there, bound in cruel entanglement no different from a gaunt, pale-skinned woman trussed with her arms twisted behind her back.

It was not hard to surmise.
For some reason, they seemed to have tried moving it from its current location to relocate it for the new Thread Monument.

But such a heartless act—how could they?
With Okome’s haori—yes, hiding the grave’s appearance this way was for the best.
Though one might call it florid—this abruptness of agitated movement so unlike the composed demeanor of this gentle wife—Tsujimachi did not question it. That he found it natural was because she was Okyo’s daughter.
Were she to encounter such a scene, there could be no doubt she would do the same.
But unlike her daughter, being more composed and dignified, she would have calmly removed her haori, cast off her obi, leisurely untied her sash upon the rock, stripped down to her under-robe, and surely draped even her kosode over the grave.

"What—if it were summer, if it were scorching weather—what then?..." he mused.
One was defenseless against such sardonic readers—yet silence would reek of cowardice: either strip oneself bare or let them strip Tsujimachi bare.

—First, they visited that grave—

they turned back.

Tsujimachi’s foremost intention there was to cut and discard the rope on the spot.
Even for an instant, he could not bear to leave it exposed to others’ eyes.
If we are to go, I will help—but even with Okome’s assistance in untying and such, the two of us can scarcely bear to look.

For now, it was a considerate gesture to nullify others’ labor without prior notice; as both apology and means to convince them, sake and rice cakes would suffice—hardly a troublesome affair.
Even if beckoned by hand, the wrinkles of the sullen face would not smooth out.
Moreover, the chief daughter of the temple patron’s wife—who had secured her domineering presence in the kitchen by jabbing about as if pressing gelatinous jelly—was here.

Peeling chestnuts and persimmons—kitchen knives, small knives—borrowing such things didn’t take much time or effort.

The large scissors flew as if they were bat bones.

Taking them up and positioning them felt a bit awkward.
But the rope marks were unbearable to look at, so leaving the garment draped over it as it was—fumigating Runan-ki incense while envisioning the fumigation cage seen in illustrations—he thrust both hands deep into his sleeves.
A jolt—softly, warm.
A fragrant scent wafted, the softness of the stone’s surface.

Before he knew it,

“Ah,”
he cried out.

“—A ghost dragonfly, Uncle.”

“There’s no way such a thing could be here.”

Because the scissors seemed to resonate toward the small birthmark by her chest—this bluish moss-like mark—near Okome’s breast.
Tsujimachi bowed, faced the grave, and said tersely,
“Miss, if I’ve handled this poorly, let the injury be to my hands.”
The scissors made a crisp sound; Chichiro too, without uttering a word, cut through the pine wind.

“Oh, Master Lacquerer—young lady.”

From the gate, the temple worker’s wrinkled face opened its mouth beneath the graves and began shouting; accustomed to chilled straw sandals, he did not tread upon this rugged path. He stepped on the grassy embankment and came alongside from the side.

Next, the day laborers emerged low through the same gate, their shoulders hunched together.

“Beggin’ your pardon, good folks.”
“Seein’ you good folks in such fine spirits here, guess there ain’t been no mishaps—nothin’ amiss at all, eh?”

“However, old man, there’s a bit of a problem here.”
“I ended up wastin’ your efforts a bit.”
“I’ll buy you a drink—here, I’ve cut the rope into bits.”

“Yes, well now—ah—you’ve let us do a proper good deed here.”

“Somehow that sounds like a topsy-turvy sort of thanks.”

“Nah’m, you truly had us do right by this.”

“You did well, didn’t you? How pitiful—Ms. Hatsuro, I mean.”

“Young lady, that’s—no—this binding rope—damn it.”

The temple worker crouched there, pulling the severed knotted rope—its frayed ends resembling crushed caterpillar tips—close to his fingertips, and tossed it carelessly behind him while restlessly scanning the treetops.

Curiously, the day laborers at Shimokido also squatted in unison as if by prior agreement, their eyes all moving to look skyward.

“The ghost dragonflies have vanished just as they should, wouldn’t you agree?”

“What on earth is that?”

“Well now, you see—regardin’ this stone tower’s movin’, good folks.”

“I suppose this concerns that so-called Thread Monument, but what exactly? Are you digging up bones or something?”

“No, that ain’t how it’s done.”
“The folks all fired up about erectin’ that memorial—them fancy hats, boots, suits, hakama trousers, bearded gents—they meant to go through with it, but the temple’s head priest ain’t given his approval.”
“Even though thirty years have passed, a young lady’s buried here, y’know.”
“Plus, it’s been an unclaimed grave for ages—no parishioners to object, no one around to witness—so after some back-and-forth, they decided not to disturb the earth at all, y’see.”

“That’s how it should be.”

“Now then—y’see—we’re fixin’ to set up a right sturdy hall atop that big stone-carved embroidery frame there, swingin’ the doors open and shut proper-like, and inside there we’ll…”

Okome stood with utmost grace in her formal kimono, the obi tied in a drum bow.

“Oh, how devoutly you attain Buddhahood—so meek in your wildflower-patterned haori, with mist like purple clouds, supple as you are.”

He stroked it with a moss-grown hand.

“Ah, that tickles!”

“What’s amiss now?”

And, unaware of anything, Hisasuke gave the haori on the grave another stroke.

“The plan’s to enshrine this stone tower proper-like. That hall’s already built with the framework all set—now we’re at the stage of hauling it in for exact measurements. But seein’ as how the footin’ here’s rotten bad, gettin’ it through the temple gate today’s turned into a right chore.”

“We’ll carry it out methodical-like with log relays.”

“Them log bearers—proppin’ up timber—they’re coiled up over yonder.”

“Slap some arrow feathers on them front ends, and a ritual offering’ll pop right outta that scaffold setup.”

“Graveyard’s entrance, hell’s own gatekeeper… Ah, but no sense in that—not with family-tied young ladies present.”

And, seemingly covered in mud, he pressed a fist to the corner of his mouth.

“So y’see—when carryin’ it out, you wrap rope ’round the stone’s bare skin, use straw or mats like winter protection for fancy plants—that’s the proper way, can’t do without that method—even though I told ’em as much right in front of you good folks, them log bearers…”
“Why, no—wrappin’ graves ain’t worth the hassle.”
“Ain’t nobody watchin’, and there ain’t no bother,” they spat out.

The head priest was absent today—the temple steward and young acolyte had all been sent out for the total abstinence ritual.
“Ain’t no big deal, see.”
“Well, with this here tight coil-bindin’ and such, they rolled it out.”
“That’s just how it ended up, see.”
“I crouched down, bared my knees, and thrust my face forward.”
“Them louts pounced from three sides, makin’ me think they were gonna thrust a pole.”
And then—would you believe it—right before their eyes, on the rope marks near his nose tip, two red dragonflies emerged, fluttering their wings.

“Just now—up till then, them four louts with their eight acorn-like eyes hadn’t let a single bran insect crawl through—but what’s this? They slipped under the rope we’d tied and came swarmin’ outta the stone! How’d that happen, eh?”
“Shoo! Shoo!” he blew at ’em, swatted at ’em—but when them red dragonflies stayed still as statues, well now, even these young’uns out-of-step with the times, who’d paid no mind to such things—once they set to work on this here Thread Monument, turns out they knew all about its karmic history from what they’d heard.”

“Look, they’re lumberin’ over here slow-like.
That sturdy man at the front—planted his log, hand towel slung loose around his neck—y’see.
‘That fella there—ain’t he Ms. Hatsuro’s ghost?’
As soon as they appeared—the bearded one shouted again—the dragonflies fluttered lightly—and two moxa-like flames flared up.
When they bathed their sweat in cold fire, the wind sweeping down from the back mountain came pitch black in a rush, and through the smoke, their dazzled eyes fled—so it was.........”

“And that’s how it was, y’see, young lady, honored guests.”

“So then, our having brought this matter forward will be settled without reprimand, I take it?”

“We ain’t disturbed nothin’, and you’ve done us a proper service here, y’see.”
“Now then—y’see—when the head priest comes back, even if we do cross paths with ’im, I’m beggin’ ya to let it all blow over without no fuss, y’hear?”

There, the log bearers came lumbering over.

“Gramps, is it all right now? You good?”

“Well now, see here—that yomina crepe’s got more virtue than some great scholar’s fifty-year incense-dyed kasaya—inside its folds, the ghost’s already vanished.”

“Ghosts might be stretchin’ it, but hey—if they get cursed by dragonflies, they say you’ll come down with ague. That’s bone-chillin’ scary.”
“If we tie ropes round it, you don’t reckon that curse’ll come slitherin’ out again?”

The scruffy-bearded man in the padded kimono muttered.

“With that mouth of yours, why didn’t you bring any wrappin’ materials? The Thread Monument—Ms. Hatsuro’s curse for bindin’ it bare! Think of it like wrappin’ peonies in an artfully arranged garden with pine needles—you’d build snow protection ’round ’em, y’see.”

“Alright, I’ll go.”

And the man in the winter wheat straw hat made to leave.

“Ah, wait a moment.”

He opened his sleeve; Okome fastened it,

“Just tie it over as it is, please.”

The man with the scruffy beard—somehow reminiscent of a lantern maker from long ago—

“Leaving it like this—ain’t no great loss.”
“That’s quite all right.”
“Even if you say it don’t matter—when it comes to tyin’ this here.”

“How cruel to do this before such a beautiful lady watching.”

Straw Hat and Scruffy Beard exchanged glances, speaking in half-muttered tones.

“It’s quite all right—please don’t concern yourself.”

At this moment, the log looked like iron.
With arms that trembled yet brimmed with strength, a sturdy man,

“Alright, the stone’s nice and soft now.”
“Imagine embracing a beautiful young mistress.”

As soon as he spoke, the hand towel around his neck snapped taut against his forehead; he threw the pole with a thud and planted both hands firmly on the grave.
He took the billowing sleeve to his chest, abruptly stood in a forward-leaning stance, planted his hips, and descended the embankment.
He seemed to find this method easier to handle.
He spread his legs as if barring the rocky path, added a thudding shake to his entire body, and slid downward—like a great crab clutching the Dragon Palace’s wife to its chest while riding a cascading waterfall.

“Great job, Gonta. Don’t get hurt.”

And the bearded man trotted hurriedly down from the embankment toward the rear.

“Even I had things I couldn’t do—held back, hey—from who?”

With that, he looked back at Okome, grinned, and Straw Hat followed after.

“Improvised memorial rites… Should we float ’em down the stream or burn ’em?”

By the time Kyūsuke—having said this—raked together the rope scraps, gripped them into a bundle, and got to his feet, the three had already passed through the gate and vanished.

“Kyū… old man—Mr. Old Man—the haori—”
“You can just toss it onto the reception platform and leave it there.”

This haori hung on the black-lacquered karahafu window, and facing the desk by that window, Okome sat slenderly. The winter sun—rather than sinking like a well bucket—had been knocked from the treetops like a ripe persimmon struck by a stone, and having already set, left the broad tatami mats of the guest hall entirely dark. While peering at Okome’s nape—so pure it made him wonder—he served bitter tea on the tray, but through the unlit brazier gazed at the lantern atop that desk.

(—If this lantern isn't presented, even if it's troublesome, things won't be settled—)

Beside her lay a three-tiered offering stand bearing amulets of this temple's principal deity—meant for distribution to worshippers—with an inkstone box at hand; dipping her brush into the vermilion ink while focusing on the lantern, Okome was dyeing it as though tracing eyebrows.

“I’ve just thought of it—let’s make an offering at Ms. Hatsuro’s Thread Monument before we return. Red Dragonfly—I absolutely need you to handle one with its tail in its mouth. Even as the wife of a lacquer shop owner, aren’t you a graduate of a girls’ school? Since calling it a ‘painting’ sounds too formal, we’ll go with ‘drawing.’ Apply crimson and line up two—shuttlecock feathers would work. Even if you stick pine needles into carrot fibers, the shape would resemble it. Even a chili pepper held between fingers would do.—”

As twilight thickened and Okome’s white tabi socks glided across the floorboards—now lacquer-like in the dimming light—he continued his coaxing persuasion. Having paid respects to Myōken Bodhisattva of the North Star, they were withdrawing to the guest hall—

After pouring in ample water, she briefly sucked with her mouth to make the bud’s lips a small black dot, then meticulously arranged eight wings with pale ink.
The Seto water container—a carp adorned with somber patina—appeared to have been specially ordered.

“Done—magnificent, absolutely magnificent.”
“Okome-bō, the part you did there on the desk—it’s the red-glazed Murasaki Shikibu, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know—I’ll tell Mother to scold you properly.”

“Excuse me.”

The tea bowl being red-glazed once more, he inadvertently apologized for his slip of the tongue while assisting Ms. Jun-Fujiwara to her seat… Having retrieved the haori, in the window’s light—

“This has quite a lot of moss on its back.
“My apologies.
“Shall I fold it to carry?”

As he held it, Okome placed her hand on it,

“I’ll wear it.”

“Can you wear it? The one from the grave, just as it is.”

“It’s hers—the pitiable one’s—you know. This is nenshiki fabric.”

At that kindness, his heart fluttered unbidden.

“Shoulders this way.”

“Oh, Uncle.”

“I’m Mother’s proxy—there’s no issue with having her daughter wear it.”

“Here… please.”

As she turned around sharply, her hair brushed Tsujimachi’s chest with an unexpected chill.

“I miss you, Mother.”

From earlier—Tsujimachi had connections to the backstages of entertainments and movies—though slight, he saw potential to spin this into a profitable narrative thread, and a budding malicious intent had sprouted within him. But now, in this moment, devoid of any ulterior motives or desires, he felt deeply moved, tenderly tearful.

“Here you are. My apologies for the long wait.”

With a candle flickering in one hand and a fire pan holding faint embers in the other, the old woman emerged from the temple kitchen.

“I’ll leave this at the Thread Monument. Please take care later—they say crows carry fire in their beaks.”

Okome also stepped up to the reception platform.

“By the hour, there ain’t no danger left—thick-billed crows and thin-billed crows alike have all gone off to sleep in Senbagafuchi Forest.”

The great castle town lay below their eyes—the town’s lanterns were lit among willows, flowing into the river.
They descended the stone steps as if slipping into the valley’s darkness.
The Five Lanterns from the Outskirts had not yet arrived.

When the Tōfuya shopkeeper returning from evening business came to an abrupt halt as if colliding,

“Oh, a dragonfly.”

Okome knelt down and clasped her hands.

The lantern that had been placed against that tombstone and descended with its frame designed after the Thread Monument emerged from the temple gate, gradually rising higher; as a wind swept through from the back mountain, red dragonflies stirred quietly, and two women’s shadowy figures...appeared.

Shōwa 14 (1939), July