Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Sliding open the door, the inn’s maid,

“Master,”

she said in a rising, high-pitched tone and, without even sitting down, smiled gently.

“What is it?”

The one who responded in this eight-mat room was a refined man in his early thirties. Over an indigo-dominant thread-woven daimyo-striped lined kimono, he had thrown a yukata—having just emerged from the bath and finding himself slightly chilled as he was, yet too bothered to change properly. As evidence of having carelessly dragged out clothes from a disarrayed box and stripped off only the outer garment to put on, both his undergarment and haori had slid across the alcove and lay scattered all the way to the zabuton cushion in utter disarray.

With his obi wrapped haphazardly around him, sitting cross-legged and leaning his cheek against his hand by the brazier, he was reading that day’s *Shinonome Goran*—a local newspaper with its slightly peculiar title.

The "Lecture by Mr. Kenzō Kiyokawa" that appeared from the second to third columns on the second page referred to this man.

Even in provincial areas or elsewhere, newspapers were published in the early morning.
As for that *Shinonome Goran*, it was now two in the afternoon.
Nevertheless, how late he had slept—and the hour of his return from yesterday’s lecture—could both be inferred.

“A guest has arrived for you, sir.”

The maid—frustrated that her carefully delivered message had gone entirely unnoticed by the recipient, who had merely given a perfunctory reply—raised her voice shrilly to assert her authority.

Startled, he jerked his face upward, only for sunlight streaming through the side window to strike one cheek directly, making him blink rapidly.

“There’s no need to be so startled, sir.”

She found it even more amusing.

Kenzō remained entirely serious,

“Who is this person?
Do they have a name tag?”

“No need for name tags here.
It’s someone everyone knows.
Ohoho,”

“That may be someone everyone knows here, but I’m an outsider—I must hear the name to understand. Who is it?”

He frowned.

“Making such a face won’t help matters.
There’s nothing fearsome about it.
You’ll be smirking soon enough—
After staying out so late last night—”

“No—”

Kenzō stroked one cheek and,

“Oh, never mind. Whoever it is, you’re the one taking messages—it’s rude to keep them waiting like this.”

When he spoke to admonish her slightly, the color of her cheeks deepened all the more, and her demeanor grew increasingly spirited,

“Well now—it is actually better to let them wait a little longer.”
“What are you doing, having someone come in broad daylight?”

With a disagreeable look, she grinned slyly again,

"It would actually be better if they came at night, but..."
“Hmph, hmph, hmph,”

Suddenly flaring her senryu-certified nose—(ari)—with a sniff,

“Master! Oh my—my, my—what a lovely fragrance! What sort of perfume have you put on?”
“Hmph,”

Though her manner of speaking was theatrical, he found himself getting drawn in—

“There’s no perfume anywhere!”

“Then perhaps it’s those flowers in the alcove...”

Leaning her head in further,

“If we’re speaking of flowers—you must be expecting someone special? Shall I show them in?”

“This isn’t some game! Just tell me who it is,” he pressed.

“Oh, does the name truly matter?”
“You’ll know once you meet them.”

“What sort of person is this? You’re being infuriating.”

“They’re likely growing just as impatient themselves.”

“A woman?”

he abruptly asked.

“There, there,”

she flapped her sleeves insistently and pressed in,
“You know perfectly well—”
“What kind of woman is she?”

When he asked, Kenzō’s face abruptly darkened.
He held up the newspaper to the window.

“How pitiful.”

II

“What? Has she already left?”
“Yeah,”
“But you’re the one who said ‘How pitiful.’”

“You’re truly being hasty.”
“I never said she left or anything of the sort.”
“No, that’s not it at all.”
“When I said ‘How pitiful,’ it’s because you must have been imagining some beautiful young lady.”
“Right? Right?”

“But wait—what do you know—she’s lame, squint-eyed, has a big behind, and on top of that—”

She started to say—then snorted again—

“How on earth does such a lovely fragrance—”

No sooner had she abruptly turned her face toward the corridor than she flung open the doorway in surprise—askew—
“Oh my!”

“Might I come in?”

A clear voice—modest yet distinct—resounded along the wall in the corridor.

The maid wore a dazed expression.

“Oh my!”

“I had been waiting at the front desk, but since the proprietress said I might come up to the second floor...”

she said with gracious bearing.
The floral fragrance—from buds to half-opened blossoms—would have reached even the lame or squint-eyed, yet she refrained from forced laughter: such was her unassuming nature.

“Might I have the honor of meeting you?”

“Do as you please.”

As she spun around to face the entrance—her back now partitioning the doorway—the vertical stripes vanished as swiftly as a sliding door’s frame giving way. Down the corridor came the clatter-clatter-clatter-STOMP of hurried footsteps.

“Please come in,”

“Yes,”

He heard her faint response, placed his hands on the brazier, looked up intently at the entrance, his face gentle,

“Please don’t hesitate… I am Kiyokawa Kenzō.”

He stated his name once more for good measure.

“Pray forgive me.”

With a soft rustle of settling garments, she promptly placed both hands at the entrance. Her shoulders supple, the tips of her sleeves swaying as she laid them upon the tatami—this was the attire of wisteria clusters, their long stems trailing into softly fading hues. With a bun-style high chignon framing softly rounded bangs, a shu damask round obi depicting an autumn field upon an off-white ground, and a thinly cinched obi waist supplely draping, she knelt at the entrance and bowed. The crimson crepe of her obi flashed like lightning against the snow-white skin glimpsed through her kimono’s side opening; her charm dewy, her figure pitifully bowed—one hand poised as if to present a writing box—here arrived Asagao from Ikeda Inn, splendid in bearing.

Kenzō knew at once, unmistakably, what it was.

This geisha was the beauty who had played the role of Asagao in the Kumano dance performed as entertainment at last night’s banquet.

The woman who had played the protagonist Kumano was far inferior in grace and form compared to this attendant, so why did that gourd-like figure take on the shite role? When he inquired suspiciously about why this plain-looking one had been outshone by Nejime flowers, he learned that though Asagao—whose real name was Okimi—excelled in both artistry and beauty, people said this geisha would inevitably face misfortune if she performed the Kumano dance. When he inquired in detail, they said it was probably because, due to the circumstances that compelled her, she couldn’t be with her parents at their death.

Though no abyss proclaims itself sunken in misfortune, hearing of her filial devotion conjured the image of nostalgic flowers adrift—travel-worn robes materializing at the room’s threshold, entangled in worldly cares.

Kenzō eagerly,

“Oh come now.”
“Come over here.”

With poor manners, he pushed the brazier askew while—

“Please come right in. I don’t mind at all.”

“Yes.”

“Oh my, you really startled me!” he blurted out. As he collected himself, Okimi seemed to grow gaunt once more, her figure shrinking awkwardly into itself.

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“No, no—it’s not that I was surprised, or rather—it’s not that kind of surprise.”
“Ha ha ha, I wasn’t surprised.”
“Well, you made it, didn’t you.”

III

“Regarding that matter.”
“Ah, indeed, I did say that.”

Leaning his elbow lightly on the brazier’s rim, Kenzō smiled and,

“Under normal circumstances, this is something you people ought to be saying as flattery to guests.”
“Making someone think they resembled another person... It turned out rather the opposite.”
he said.
“Ah, you resemble her—you truly do!”

“Yes, I distinctly remember saying precisely that.”

Okimi kept one hand resting beside the zabuton cushion that had been offered with the instruction to sit, her knees barely grazing its surface.
Yet raising her face—lightly powdered, lips richly rouged, eyes wide and lucid—

“Since another person inquired whether I resembled someone, I wondered how you would respond—though I felt terribly awkward, I discreetly paid attention—but this is not the place to discuss such matters.”
“Now, now,” you said dismissively, and that was the end of it.”

Kenzō amiably nodded,

“That’s exactly what I said.
“So that caught your ear and bothered you, is that it?”

“No,” she said, bowing her head once more as she delicately adjusted the pristine handkerchief within her sleeve.
“It’s not that I’m concerned—that’s not what I meant at all.
Um… After having inquired about that matter, I was hoping to ask you a few questions regarding it.” She looked down, her eyelashes thick.
“Let’s hear it, by all means.
I’ll explain the circumstances of that resemblance—but come now, do move a bit closer.
She looked rather dazzled.
It must be because the sunlight is shining directly.
Now, don’t hold back—have a seat.
When you’ve come all this way to inquire like this, aren’t you an honored guest?
Go on, go on!”

“No, not at all. In that case…”

However dazzling it must have been—she pulled her undergarment and shifted her seat where a pillar at the wall’s center allowed space—avoiding the sunlight that had bathed her shoulder—Asagao fluttered into bloom anew.

“Actually, if there were a bit more time and you desired it, I would go over to last night’s house again this evening and have a cheerful chat with you—but since I’m due to depart for Tokyo soon, I can’t afford to do that.”

“Yes, um—as I was also informed of that matter—I thought it best to come boldly intruding upon your inn before you depart.”

“I don’t mind you coming to the inn, but talking in a place like this might make things too solemn—I fear it could complicate matters.”

“That said, a scene of drunken disarray like last night’s would also pose difficulties.”

“The truth is, since this involves a grave visit—”

He began to say—but becoming aware that he had gradually pulled the brazier toward himself—he knelt down and pressed forward.

“You—care for tobacco?”

She smiled quietly without speaking.

“You’ll smoke some, won’t you?”

“How presumptuous of you.”

“No need to stand on ceremony—go on, have a smoke.”
“Shall I give you one? These are hand-rolled.”

“No, I have my own.”

She placed a hand on her obi.

“Well then—the water’s already boiling, so have some tea if you’d like… There’s yōkan too. About five sen a piece—help yourself if you care for it… Though I ought to treat you properly later—let’s settle your inquiry first. That would be best.”

He said to himself and settled it himself,

“Now, regarding that matter,”

“Yes,”

She placed a hand once more. Perhaps breath caught in the chest—the area around breasts swelled softly.

“If you take it too seriously, it’ll just seem trivial.”
“Once things start going off track even slightly, there’ll be no settling them.”
“Now listen,”

he continued with gentle care,

“I was just a child back then, so when I’d wet my fingers to turn the pages like this, she’d scold me for ruining them with smudges. There was this Ogura Hyakunin Isshu anthology that my late Mother cherished—filled with vivid color frontispieces, about eight or nine of them. It had everything: illustrations, poetic verses, even separate paired karuta cards.”

"In that volume, you see... if you open to the section on women's writings—" On the tatami mat, Kenzō flipped through empty air.

IV

"And there stood an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old beauty in long-sleeved kimono with her hair arranged in a high chignon—her melon-seed shaped face exuding refinement, her tender mouth corners beyond description, clear eyes and exquisite brows—trailing her hem as she gracefully knelt in partial posture. With left hand resting at her knee and right hand guiding the brush-holding fingers of a child, she peered down through lowered lashes with a gentle smile while the child sat properly before the desk practicing characters on manuscript paper."

Even now, that illustration remains vivid before my eyes.
The supple stripes of her garments harmonized perfectly with her skin’s texture.
Had there been no barrier from her knee-resting hand against the child’s back, one might have imagined fragrance transferring to his skin—so plushly rounded was the hem’s drape, that swept-around skirt sheltering the child as though steeped in tender affection.

“It may sound exaggerated, but—”

I loved that illustration so much—I’d keep opening it to look and look—that whenever I took out the Hyakunin Isshu and flipped through its pages, that same image would always appear.

When I asked, “Who’s this older sister?” Mother would tell me, “That’s the young lady from across the way.”

“And that young lady from across the way… well, you resemble her—but listen.”

“Yes,”

Her widened eyes shone beautifully, her mother’s likeness poised to reflect within them.

“By ‘across the way,’ I mean there were two storehouses in front.
“It was the main house with lattice doors lined up, you see.
“Compared to my house, theirs was completely different in orientation, and they were supposedly moneylenders.
“They somehow kept a certain distance from the neighborhood and didn’t socialize much—that was the impression they gave.
“There were no unnecessary comings and goings, making the depth feel even more profound—to my child’s mind, the rear seemed to stretch endlessly into some unknown realm—so I never once went there to play, and even when, on occasion, the mother of that ‘older sister’ would speak to me at the gate, I remember shrinking back bashfully and fleeing.”

"So, that young lady—our ages were different, and of course we never played together; moreover, she seemed to be a shy person who rarely ventured outdoors—strictly speaking, kept in what you might call seclusion. A treasured daughter, you see.

And so, precisely because her face couldn’t be seen casually, those two or three times I did see it left an even deeper impression on my heart.
'I couldn’t tell whether the illustration in that women’s writings section was a real entity or if the real entity had become a painting.'"

“However whichever it was—I still clearly remember her facial features.”
“One day—from her mother’s hand—‘From my daughter to you,’ she said—they gave me a single waist pouch for a name tag fashioned from pieced-together chirimen crepe.”
“At that moment—beside the lattice door—within the bay window’s bamboo blind—a faintly white shape came into view.”
“The color of rouge too.”

Throwing aside the pole he’d been using to shoo away bats, he rushed inside—the sheer joy of it was beyond words. He would sleep holding it at night, then place that illustrated Hyakunin Isshu on the desk come morning, or set it upon the standing girl’s chest—when placed there, the hem would hide it completely.

What a terrible loss.
"That pouch—along with the Hyakunin Isshu—burned when my family home caught fire back in my hometown while I was away in Tokyo."

“Oh…”

With a fragile air, Okimi’s complexion looked desolate.

“The name tag survived being metal, but in that fire, the house across the way burned down too.”
“When I passed through this time, the town held no trace of its former self.”
“Though brick buildings have gone up making it seem more open, with the big trees gone and mountains abruptly exposed, it feels even more countrified—like smokestacks at Mount Fuji’s foothills.”
“As for that house across the way—who knows where they went—”

his tone sank and grew somewhat subdued,

“Of course, that young lady passed away before I’d even turned ten.—”

“She died postpartum…”

“She went through childbirth?”

She—who had been looking down—opened her eyes, though they now glistened with moisture.

Kenzō stared intently, leaning forward as he spoke.

“Their only daughter had been given in adoption—or rather, it was quite the lively affair back then.”

a cheerful voice.

V

“A house so solidly built with storehouses that it always seemed devoid of fire’s warmth—quiet, where even washing pots wouldn’t make loud noises—yet come nightfall, lamps would somehow be lit, and the sounds of shamisen and drums could be heard.”
“At times, swept up by roaring mountain winds, there would arise this monstrous laughter from a multitude of voices.”

“When I listened while nestled in my mother’s embrace, it was all laughter—nothing more.”
“Because my father called out from the shop, saying that monsters were making a ruckus and it was scary, I pressed my face into her breast and held my breath as I slept.”

"It lasted about three nights."
"An adopted son came bringing rice fields and dry farmland."

That adopted son was a compact man with a sunburned reddish-black complexion and a rock-climber’s build, I tell you. He was a rather impatient man with gleaming eyes and a somewhat restless demeanor.

"The reason I remember his impatience so well is because he said, 'I'll give you peaches, so come with me.' The older sister had said that—since she told him to bring the boy along—he invited me."

I was wearing that familiar pouch and eagerly led by the hand, my hair neatly parted and hatless—a style I believe was in fashion at the time. He wore chartreuse gloves knitted from wool that only covered his forearms like hand guards, a red undershirt, and had those gleaming eyes of his. I kept glancing back again and again, thinking the young lady would come after us—would surely come—as I was led by the hand, but the road proved unexpectedly long.

At some point he carried me on his back; we emerged at the town's edge, passed through a desolate stretch, and after some time came upon a large enoki tree where a spring bubbled up—I remember drinking cold water there.
At the spring stood a fastened fence—since it was daytime, the lantern remained unlit—but I recall one placed on a stool bearing some written characters.

There came a stretch bustling with passersby; proceeding further brought renewed stillness until we entered an expansive mulberry field. As we traversed it—plucking ripe berries to eat along the way—two or three country women picking leaves hurriedly removed their work sashes and bowed upon seeing the adopted son, for this marked his family home.

“Here, take as many as you want! Now that it’s all Big Sister’s, you can come anytime you like.”
“There’s still melons,” he said excitedly, “and watermelons coming too. How about that?”
“Why not become part of the household? Big Sister’ll raise you right.”

“You don’t like it? Because there’s old folks around… Right?”
“I’ll beat that bastard to death soon,” he declared with terrifying fervor, leaping up to pluck a peach from a high branch and hand me one.

On the return journey near that spring, the sun had already set.
When he said, “Let’s hurry before the old woman nags us,” he shook his hair loose, grabbed my hand, and dashed off—my arm throbbed as if being torn from its socket, my feet left the ground, and I couldn’t catch my breath.
When I looked at the adopted son, his eyes were bloodshot.

“Because I started crying, he scooped me up in his arms and rushed back home. My face flushed red-hot, and I felt as though I were being spirited away by a tengu. The peaches I’d tucked into my sleeve were all shaken off along the way, leaving none behind.”

That was all well and good, but within half a year, that man was divorced.

"He gradually grew more violent—they said he grabbed the older sister’s hair tuft and struck her—and the rice fields were confiscated; through later rumors, we heard that adopted son had gone mad."

Afterwards, it was evening.
I once again took out that familiar Hyakunin Isshu, opened it to the same page, and lay on my stomach looking at it.
“Whenever I looked at those pictures, I would inevitably ask, ‘Who is this older sister?’”
Asking that question had become my usual routine.
I thought to ask again, but when I looked up at Mother—it was an autumn evening.
She had been bedridden with illness for so long, but perhaps feeling slightly better now, she left her futon and went to lean her sleeve against the second-floor bay window, gazing enraptured at the world outside. Out of deference, I kept silent and watched—when suddenly her shoulders slumped, and tears streamed down.

“What’s wrong?”
When I rushed over and pressed my cheek against the disheveled hair at her temple, I looked up to see that person standing dejectedly under the opposite eaves—her pale blue sleeves layered as she gazed toward the darkened mountains.

Kenzō turned his face away toward the glass window.
The same mountain could be seen through it.
The sun had sunk.

VI

“At that time, she wore her hair in a glossy round chignon with a light blue shibori hand towel draped over it,”
“When I peeked in, she whirled around to face away from me—pressed her face against the lattice door and wrapped that pale face in both sleeves—standing there trembling in a vanishing silhouette as she wept.”

Mother had said, ‘I’ll take Big Sister to Aunt Mulberry’s place—you know the one, don’t you?’ and cradled me tightly against her chest in her arms,

“In this state… how pitiful…” she murmured, hot tears scattering down onto my neck.”

When he looked, she was clenching the tip of her handkerchief between her teeth, and Okimi’s shoulders trembled violently.
The white of her teeth and the dew of her tears quivered so intensely it was as though they might produce a sound.

Having been interrupted mid-sentence, Kenzō let out a sigh.

“You… if…”

In a tearful voice, she abruptly rose from her seat and drew near, the tips of her fingers resting on the brazier trembling pure white,

“Was your Hyakunin Isshu anthology also burned away?”
“I... I do not even know where her grave is.”

The flaming hue of the underkimono sleeve she pulled out and pressed to her eyes resembled crimson-cold blood.

Kenzō sighed deeply,

“Ah, I see. So she was the daughter sent back to her hometown.”
“There was a rumor all contact had been lost… I see. No—”

He corrected himself,

“Twenty years ago appears before my eyes as vividly as if it were happening now.”
“I can only imagine.”

“I too parted from Mother around that time.”
“Now my father is gone too, but well—at least knowing where her grave lies—that might be more than you have.”
“I see.”

He sighed deeply again,

“You don’t know the grave site either.”

“Yes, I know nothing at all.”
“You know so much about my parents... If only I could at least see that... that *Hyakunin Isshu*...”

Her words broke into disarray,

“Do you not know where the grave is?”

“...What a predicament.”
“With Jōdo Shinshū she had observed such rites... yet now there’s nothing left but the memorial markers...”

When his words trailed off, as if overwhelmed, she suddenly collapsed forward onto the futon and wept.

Kenzō closed his eyes and folded his arms, then—ah—lightly struck his knee.

"How pitiful this all is.
"I forgot the crucial matter."
“You—you—”

At his repeated calls, her tear-stained face lifted.

“Come over here and take a look.”

Kenzō yielded his seat,
“Come over here, here,”
Toward the window he had pointed to, Okimi, as if in a trance, stomped over and clung to the sill of the glass window.

Kenzō pressed close behind her,

“You should see it beyond the pine needles.”
“That mountain—they go mushroom hunting there, visit during equinoxes, hold Twenty-Sixth Night vigils, view the moon—that’s where locals take their excursions.”
“You must glimpse it every dawn and dusk yourself.”
“Over there now—my parents’ graves lie there, and in the memorial hall around them rests a remembrance of your mother.”

“Yes.”

“It certainly exists—I went to see it just the day before yesterday. I’ll accompany you there now—I’ll take you there right away.”

he declared with forced courage,

“What about your physical condition—”

He suddenly noticed her flamboyant yet lonely figure.

“But that can be arranged.”

“Oh my, is that truly the case?”

Bustling about her skirt yet still gazing into that window without releasing her grip on the sill—it was precisely when Kenzō quickly grabbed the discarded garments.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, then collapsed onto the tatami, her knees giving way as she turned deathly pale.

On the pine branch that cut across the window, directly facing Okimi’s face—bearing the mountain on its back—there was a large bird’s wing firmly gripping the bough. Eyes gleaming like a raccoon dog’s; even each bristling grey chest feather could be counted.

“It’s an owl.”

He laughed dryly while hastily winding his obi around himself.

“You mustn’t let such things startle you when going into the mountains.”
“Now that it’s settled, we must hurry before another guest comes.”
“Get yourself ready.”
“We’ll take a carriage to the mountain’s foot,” he said, clapping his hands—Kenzō’s whirlwind of activity. A bird must have alighted at their very feet.

Seven

“The one from before—the one—”

Smiling, Kenzō opened his eyes wide to survey their surroundings.

“That earlier one… was its voice.”
“You mustn’t be so frightened.”
“It’s just doing its best, isn’t it?”

“So… was that owl crying out?”
“I was so startled wondering what on earth that was, I must say.”

As she drew near, Okimi too smiled gently.

The two ascended one slope from the foothills, turned at another, then gradually climbed three stone steps beneath the treetops of this Tennjin Shrine here, passed through the Gakudō Hall—dim as a tunnel within the mountain gap’s forest—emerged onto a viewpoint, crossed yet another slope, and upon passing through the grassland reached the summit’s plaza.
Having set their sights on that memorial hall ahead, when they reached this point—where just moments before the sunlight had been so intense that carriage drivers would lower their hoods—the rainy season showed its true nature: no sooner had the irises in the dried pond beneath the stone steps, beneath the arched drum bridge, rustled their leaves than clouds shrouded the forest above, unleashing a sudden downpour that drenched them thoroughly in one swift dousing.
They raced up the stone steps. Okimi slipped through the scattered green plum trees in the temple grounds, her skirt fluttering.

Now, having entered this Gakudō Hall, they caught their breath.

"There should still be time before nightfall, but since it’s grown dark here, they’re staking their claim on this place."
“Troublesome owls, I tell you.”
“There’ve always been plenty in this forest here.”
“Come a proper moonlit night, you’ll see ’em clustered thick among the trees—their bodies all hazy-like, bathed in a pale halo.”

“What’s more, those rascally bravados who’d gamble away their shirts would make a point of coming all this way.”
“The owls matter little—what plagues you here in this Gakudō Hall is its age-old reputation for demons—”

“Yes,”

She drew closer once more.
Kenzō, out of nostalgia for the past and a storytelling mood, spoke carelessly, but upon realizing “Ah, this is…”, he hurriedly continued:

“It’s a demon’s plaque. The plaque’s been hung up here.”

“Where is it located?”

As if compelled by something, she turned her face.

“No, it’s nothing—just a painting. But when I was a child, it frightened me. You’d better not look.”
“Ha ha ha, I see! If you don’t look, it grows even scarier—you won’t feel satisfied. Will you stay behind then? That’s the plaque itself.”

What he pointed at was an old plaque hanging amid cobwebs, its surface aged like lacquer. Within the bluish hollows of its eye sockets—where gofun pigment remained starkly white—blazed a pair of tiger-like eyes, their convex surfaces glaring. The entire Hannya figure lunged outward beyond its headdress, thrusting its bell hammer-like form into empty space as if rowing through whirling winds, its scarlet hakama wildly billowing like flames—all this he barely registered.

“Ah,” she said, pressing tightly against Kenzō’s chest. Her restrained brows paused momentarily, her bangs clinging to her collar as the snow-white nape emitted a faint fragrance—only her hands gripping his sleeve were filled with an ineffable strength.

Kenzō, at that time still not thinking it so significant,
“Aren’t we going to see your mother’s memorial? If you’re this timid, it won’t do,”
he said, half in encouragement.
“No—if Mother were still alive, I would lean on you all the more at such a time.”
Because she clung to him so desperately, he spoke resolutely yet gently.

Somehow, it permeated their very beings,

“There’s nothing to fear while I’m here.”

“That’s why—like this, staying like this—there’s nothing to fear.”

While involuntarily placing a hand on her back, Kenzō looked up at the plaque.

Raindrops pattered softly on the roof as the forest’s darkness seeped through the eaves, staining emerald hues black within the painting—where a demoness bore a cast-off headdress upon her shoulders, while a warrior with eboshi cap slightly askew gripped his longsword, his body clad in angled armor wrap glaring forth with sudden ferocity.

When they faced each other—and he abruptly released her arm—

Amid the rasping clamor of rain lashing young pines, someone lumbered heavily through the upper entrance of Gakudō Hall—lowering an oil-paper umbrella, crunching through wet earth in tall wooden clogs, two spindly legs visible beneath tucked-up kimono hems as they strode wide across the grounds.

VIII

“Oh, you’re heading out again now, are you?”

With a voice that seemed to rise from the depths of his belly—hollow yet resonant—he opened the oil-paper umbrella sideways, revealing a vaguely familiar face. He was the caretaker of Mine’s Ekōdō Hall whom they had briefly met the day before yesterday, prayer beads dangling from his ears. They called him Niemon, an old man who perpetually appeared ageless.

That Ekōdō Hall was also known as Kōshindō Temple, though it enshrined no Kōshin deity. During the Tenpō Kōshin year of lore, when they had cleared this mountain to establish a communal cemetery and found no temples nearby, they constructed this hall to house households’ mortuary tablets—hence its alternate name as Ekōdō Hall. Here existed only this caretaker; no resident priest’s quarters stood separate, nor did any mountain monks abide.

“Since I’ll be returning to Tokyo again, I thought I’d come one last time.”

Though he had quickly stepped away, Kenzō spoke with a guarded air toward the flower-like figure beside him—no votive offering—that seemed to give him pause.

“Well now, you’ve come. Do rest here a spell.”

“We might take the liberty to rest here briefly.”
“Old man—”

“Who, me?”
“There’s some trouble with the prayer group—I’m off to a wake now. Namu Myō—”

He mumbled thickly,

“Hahaha! For an old crone my age, it’s a blessed occasion indeed.
“She comes to wed in her mortuary tablet form—Namu Myō.”
“I’d closed the door, but you may open it—no latch nor nothing. Namu Myō.”

He eyed them both,

“Ah! No umbrella? Nasty rain this—take mine here.”
“Go on, carry it.”

He snapped it shut.

“It’s fine.”

“Nah, you might not mind gettin’ wet, hahaha—but that young lady there’ll be soaked! C’mon now, c’mon under here!”

“My apologies,”

he said with reddening face,

“But Grandfather, you’ll get wet yourself.”

“If I get wet, I’ll just dry off in the sun. Or rather—if it truly comes to that, bein’ on good terms with Tenjin-sama’s priests, I’ll borrow from the lodgin’ hall… Namu Myō,”

He pressed it upon them as he offered it.

He reverently took it with both hands,

“This is a great help—waiting here for the rain to stop would be fine, but this person...”

He looked back and smiled faintly,
“Well, she’s been acting like a frightened infant, carrying on as if she’ll be snatched up and devoured.”
as if their current state had been observed—he offered this excuse with guilty discomfort.

Okimi looked down and lightly touched the embroidered plum blossom on the violet-detachable collar with her finger.

Niemon let out a booming laugh,

“Ah, the famous owl, eh?”

“No, rather—it’s the demon in that maple-viewing painting—”

“Hmm,”

Looking up,

“This one, you mean? Namu Myō.”
“This is a similar painting, but it’s not General Yorō Tsumemoto.”
“Have a look.”
“He’s wearing an eboshi court cap, white sokutai underrobe, and formal kamishimo with large crests.”
“He’s got kote arm guards on his hands and suneate shin guards on his legs… It’s Ōmori Hikoshichi.”
“Namu Myō,”

He closed his eyes luxuriantly and drew out his philtrum,

“Along the narrow mountain path skirting the ridge, there passed a young noblewoman of seventeen or eighteen years—clad in crimson hakama and willow-lined five-layer robes, her sidelocks meticulously styled—Namu Myō.”

Illumined by the moon at the mountain's edge, she wandered alone.
……Now the tale begins… Namu Myō.

The woman chuckled lightly, so delighted was she. “Then, saying ‘I shall proceed to the honorable seating area,’ he followed after her.” Her figure, too delicate even for silken robes, was truly heartrending to behold—she seemed a being who had never once trodden upon the earth—Namu Myō.

Hikoshichi could no longer endure—the dew having grown so heavy upon him—and knelt before her, intending to press onward. The noblewoman showed not the slightest refusal. “How convenient,” she said, and soon leaned against his back—Namu Myō.

Though he had asked if she were white jade or some such thing in ancient times—and now realizing ‘Ah, so this is how it is’—they walked some fifty paces through the storm-scattered blossoms lighter than sleeves catching petals, the nostalgic fragrance of plum blossoms about them, footfalls halting yet hearts floating weightless through the air… Namu Myō.

“In a place where the moon had grown dim—Namu Myō—this noblewoman who had been so stern—Namu Myō.”

As they exited Framed Hall—perhaps he intended not to get drenched by rain—he took a string of prayer beads.
He received them and tucked them into his pocket; his body remained unfazed as he descended the stone steps—step by step.

Nine

The second eye was suffused with crimson,
as if splashed across the mirror’s surface.
Upper and lower teeth clashed jaggedly misaligned.
The mouth split wide from corner to ear.
The eyebrows had been lacquered a hundredfold as if with black lacquer,
concealing the forehead.
From within the parted hair
protruded calf’s horns roughly six inches long.
As they listened—sweat pouring down their faces—to whether an eight-foot demon with scales meticulously arrayed might emerge, just as the moonlight dimmed slightly, Niemon stepped outside.
“Alright then.”
Okimi managed not to show fear but listened intently to the owl’s cries with a desolately lonely expression.

“Alright, let’s go.”

And Kenzō had already snapped open his umbrella from here.

“Yes, but this must be a dreadful inconvenience for you.”

“I’m not inconvenienced in the slightest, but you—that won’t do. The path isn’t so bad yet that you’d need to go barefoot—just yank up your hem properly and don’t fuss.”

“Even so—”

“Hmph, never mind that. These stone steps here look all scattered and tangled—difficult to walk on.”

“There’s nothing to worry about at all. No one’s watching—from here on out there won’t be a soul around, I tell you.”

“But that’s too…”

Adjusting one corner of her hem where the crimson edge had spilled over, she seemed embarrassed by the delay.

“Because you’re being slovenly, I tell you.”

he said in a scolding tone,

“We’re going to meet your mother.”
“After all, I’m about to carry you on my back, cover your eyes, and make the leap.”
“What does it matter?”
“Come on, take my hand—it’s slippery here.”

he said.

The dusking mountain hues reflected Okimi's white shins and scarlet skirt upon the smooth earth.
The two exited Framed Hall.

“Look—beneath your eyes you can see the distant grove. Within it, the tiled roof marks the inn where I’m staying.”

At the cliff’s edge, stretching up precariously,

“Oh, it’s right there.”

“Just one leap away—the owl must have come to guide us.”

“Oh!”

“Whoa… Don’t flinch every time—just hold on tight…”

“You needn’t pull so roughly.”
“I nearly stepped on these beautiful grasses.”
“What lovely irises these are.”

“They’re violets—they blanket this mountain.”
“There, covering every inch.”

Countless as the stars, they bloomed in scattered profusion, but as the forest darkened and the mountains turned damp ash-gray, even amidst the incessant owl cries, those violet shapes appeared eerie like will-o’-the-wisps.

Their traces wove a path—hiding among pines, emerging through grass, sinking into slopes, floating atop peaks—along undulating ridges of lacquer-black, deep azure, and ochre-red, with snow-capped distant mountains veiled in multicolored clouds, all as if mirrored in Okimi’s pale complexion.

By the time the lone umbrella had swelled like a giant mushroom at the mountain's edge, the two reached their destination—the Kōshindō Temple toward which it pointed.

Strangely enough, when they faced the temple's front, Niemon had specifically noted there was no latch but they should open it to enter—yet the storm shutters already stood wide open on both sides.
Okimi later claimed her mother must have arranged this, though it was likely just the caretaker's misunderstanding.

The threshold met the veranda directly, and the attached structure was the mortuary tablet hall. In this hall, a large white curtain hung from the ceiling. Only its hue faintly brightened the space, while the wooden floor remained dark. To the left lay a resting area of about six tatami mats. The opposite side featured a torn sliding door, beyond which stretched several tatami mats—the domain where Niemon, the temple caretaker, resided. The kitchen entrance stood at the rear, complete with cooking facilities and a well.

But Kenzō’s business was not there at all.

He moved forward into the pitch-dark resting area and, using the faint light seeping through the plank door as a guide, clattered about busily before opening the storm shutters facing the town.

There was also a window on the side; opening it would have revealed the current view of the snow-capped mountain—its base appearing as if carved from ice—visible all the way to its roots enveloped by red, green, and purple mountains: a breathtaking panorama. However, since graves lay scattered immediately beneath the window—likely to invite unease—he left it closed.

十

Meanwhile, Okimi sat on the veranda, twisted her hem to wipe her feet with a handkerchief, wiped both her geta and Kenzō’s together, straightened her attire, went outside, washed her hands at a small water basin atop the expansive mountain, dried them with the handkerchief, lowered her hem, adjusted it with a shake, tucked the lower edge, faced the main hall, and bowed her head once.

“Come in here.”

Kenzō called out from the resting area.

As Okimi walked quietly in, she found him sitting in the center of the six-tatami room with his arms folded,

“Oh, do sit down.”

After seating her beside him—when Okimi properly settled on her knees—he suddenly stood and scanned the area. By the side window hung shelves in two tiers holding items like a brazier and candlesticks, along with about two new memorial tablets. Thrust downward, with white cloth protruding from mouse-gnawed holes—inside seeming to contain white bones—there lay an eerie old wicker trunk. His gaze fell upon the small desk—not a sutra desk—placed diagonally on one of those shelves: its legs carved out to form full moons that let light through, though mottled with insect-eaten traces like clouded skies, whether from paint or age having turned it jet-black, this drawerless desk...

“There it is, there it is!”

He approached eagerly, pulled it out with both hands in a rustling motion, straightened up to carry it out, then—with the veranda now behind him—crouched beside Okimi’s softly draped obi as she sat primly upright. After adjusting its placement and avoiding a frontal position, he sat down heavily beside her, shoulder-to-shoulder but at an angle.

“Here it is.”
“If this weren’t here, I’d have no excuse for dragging someone as delicate as you out here—with evening approaching, rain threatening, into these mountains.”

Since it was dim and he couldn’t find it earlier—he grew rather anxious wondering if this too might be some trick of the eyes.

“Okimi,”

Having said that, while silent, he looked at her nostalgic, beautiful, and entranced face,

“That’s the desk. Miss Okimi, the memento of your honored mother is…”

“That’s how it is.”
“Don’t be scared again, okay?”
“Because it’s about your mother.”

“Listen.

The day before yesterday—you see—my parents’ grave lies just over there in the pine shade on the right hill. When I went to pay respects, I found fragrant violets blooming in the grave’s soil. Thinking to bring some back to Tokyo, I picked about three stems and placed them in my paper case together with scattered pine needles.

Then, when my father was alive, whenever we went together to visit Mother’s grave, we would always stop by this Niemon’s temple on our way back—because he was such an entertaining old man with his worldly chatter, accounts of the founder’s life, sometimes even military tales and recitations from memory of passages from the Taiheiki—so much so that we’d end up sitting there until dark and borrowing a lantern for the return home. That’s why I came here.”

Because it was fine weather with the sun shining brightly—apparently they had been airing out the dampness from recent days—both the main hall and corridors stood wide open... with no one present.

In the tatami room, this desk had been placed there.

“Beyond the desk—faintly like this—there was a woman alone—”

Okimi suddenly turned pale.

“Listen with all your heart.”
“Because that was your honored mother.”

She had lowered her high chignon, revealing a snow-white neck.
“With her hands like this, she must have been writing something.
There was paper, but whether she held a brush—I didn’t notice that far—but right there, in the exact spot facing you—”

The front sliding door darkened; at its torn pull-handle, the ripped paper of the sliding door flapped harshly.

Okimi became rigid, turned straight to look at you, and did not blink.

“Stay strong—listen—it’s not frightening, because I’m here,” said Kenzō, himself glancing back at the white curtain of the main hall that now appeared smoke-like,

“When I saw that and shuddered—‘Ah, how alike’—the one who quietly raised her face and smiled was that woman across from me, just like the illustration in the Hyakunin Isshu.”

When he came to his senses with a start, there was no trace or form left.

“Without thinking, I rushed in and threw open that sliding door.”

The hall stood empty, with Niemon nowhere to be found.
“Though she was someone dear, the thought of lingering there—after having encountered that apparition myself—my constitution isn’t suited for such raw encounters, and it felt too presumptuous to remain. So now, Miss Okimi, I sat right where you’re sitting—leaning against the desk—”

As he spoke, Okimi pressed her face firmly against the desk and lay prone.
Could no trace remain? The desk’s surface lay thick with soot.

“And somehow, seeing that figure—the one who had wept between the second floor and eaves back then—appear directly before me now, I wept in secret for a while, thinking of my own mother too, until at last I went outside, looked at the sun, and wiped my eyes.”
“The following evening, I saw you dance the Morning Glory.”
“Doesn’t she look just like you—the young lady who won’t leave my sight?”
“Since it’s that kind of story, I didn’t mention it at the drinking party—but when you arrived earlier and the maid announced ‘a woman is here,’ even that made me shudder, as I saw it all so vividly right there.”

However, that desk had been here since ancient times as a familiar fixture of Kōshindō Temple from its inception; it was not that they had enshrined in the temple an object your honored mother had used.

“And when I wonder why I saw that apparition here... this is why. My mother had died about two years before yours. During her first Obon, I came to visit the grave with Father carrying an offering basket—that white paper-decorated basket would then be brought here for Master Niemon to inscribe each item one by one: his imposing bearded invocation, then the posthumous names of our devoutly remembered Buddhas, from offerings’ patrons to ancestral spirits across generations—such was our custom.”

"It wasn’t just our household—even now during Obon, I suppose all the elderly gentlemen and ladies from other families who bring offering baskets do the same."

That year, it never came to pass—Niemon was groaning from some sudden illness.

Well, the offering basket was adrift; we wandered about with its white paper decorations.

Carrying the same lantern, dressed in a pale yellow underrobe visible through sheer gauze that gave a cool impression—the ones who arrived were your grandmother and her daughter: your mother.

“When I said ‘Ah! Got it!’ my father unceremoniously called out ‘O-Kinu’—do you know your honored mother’s name?”

Still face down, she shook her head petulantly.

“Please, I beg you.”
“Amidst the spirits’ great disarray—‘I, being a familiar presence—shall request Mother’s gate plaque,’ I declared, swinging the lantern about.”

Since Mother was renowned in the neighborhood for her skilled brushwork, and with many people present, Grandmother—perhaps also wanting to show her off a bit—had said, ‘Why don’t you write something for them?’ So she folded her fan and sat down—at that very desk.

“This one is Grandfather’s So-and-so-in, this one Grandmother’s So-and-so-shinnyo—and then, when Father brought out the lantern for Mother’s posthumous name here...”

“(As for Mother’s—)” she looked at me sitting respectfully beside her,

“(Ken-chan will write it,)”

“And after saying that, she had me sit before the desk—”

As he spoke, Kenzō’s voice clouded.

“She rose gracefully and from behind gently guided my hand to hold the brush...

“When she had me write ‘Mother’ in kana, onto her collar—”

and, firmly crossing his arms,

“Tears fell in scattered drops.”

While my father ground the ink, he leaned forward and read aloud the kana: …

“Mother,”

Kenzō was about to speak when he jolted, turned toward the memorial tablet hall, and shuddered.
Was it from his own chest, or Okimi’s voice? Faintly, "Mother" resounded.

With a stifled cry—unable to endure it—her sobbing voice turned upward into the dimness, and a white hand flopped down onto her lap.

Okimi, who lay face down, writhed in the anguish of her chest.

Taking her hand,

“How could I ever for-forget that? The apparition from that time remained here and appeared before my eyes.”

“You see, that’s why it’s a memento. Miss Okimi, you saw your mother’s face, didn’t you? You saw it, didn’t you? Focus your mind completely—I will guarantee it, you will surely see. How pitiful… You don’t even know… the name?”

As he said this, he firmly took her trembling hand. But finding it cold, he gasped in surprise, knelt down, and wrapped his arms around her back. When there came no response, he frantically lifted her and cradled her sideways on his lap.

While pouring strength into his frantic voice,

“Hold on, hold on,”

he pleaded through tears, steadfastly holding her close,

“Mother’s face, Sister’s form—they reside in my—in Kenzō’s heart!”

As he stared intently at Okimi’s entranced, snow-pale face—where around her beautifully gentle brows purple shadows fluttered like butterflies—the sudden fragrance of violets struck him sharply; then at last, strength surged into the hands that clung to her.

When Okimi smiled her lonely smile, a clatter echoed through the desolate memorial tablet hall.

Raising his eyes, he saw the mountains stretching endlessly before him, now colored like a heavy door curtain.
Yet their faint luster came from the pale moonlight filtering through rain-cleared skies.

An owl hooted in the distance.

At that cry, Kenzō recalled the votive plaque hall's painting—but shaking his head, he smiled with composure.

In that instant, the desk's orientation somehow shifted.

Though he thought the sliding door had glided open, turning revealed Niemon's quarters still shut tight. Only the dimly visible pattern of scattered pine needles now mirrored the cherished Hyakunin Isshu anthology's cover.

(January 1907)