Pathway to Japanese Literature

Night Crow

Author: Hiraide Shu

The fields of Sarugababa Arable Land, which had been flooded in summer, now that autumn had come, were truly a wretched sight.
From spindly stems like suckers grew ears of grain resembling an old woman’s tangled hair.
When taken in hand and examined, many proved blighted.
Withered ears were not few.
Even if harvested, they might only have straw’s worth.
Even processed as rice, people thought it could only be milled into something barely better than bird feed.
What benefit could land tax exemptions bring tenant farmers in this destitute village?
The sturdy-boned men had gone off to distant Kozuke Province’s silkworm farms.
Some even labored as far as Hokkaido.
Soon snow would fall.
How did they endure cold so bitter that even straw for winter sandal-making grew scarce?
Those remaining tilled meager plots, moving feeble hoes and spades without recourse.

The wheat sprouts had grown to needle length, and in the cotton fields, it was a quiet morning where dried leaves and cracked peach shells rustled in the wind.
An event occurred in this lonely, death-like village.
It was an incident where a thief was caught by a police officer.

“Gihei’s wife got arrested.”

The news spread instantly through the village of merely thirty households.

“Oyakata-sama (they called the old village headman Oyakata-sama) had his storehouse burgled, they say.”

“Really?”

“Oh!
“That’s terrifying.”

A sharp, irritated, piercing mood pierced through the thick, stagnant air that hung over the entire village.
After a brief silence, whispers from pricked ears and sudden clamorous voices intermingled and arose.
Some villagers rushed out doorways in straw sandals worn on one foot.
There were also young men who kept adjusting their rope belts as they walked briskly about with no particular destination.

“Hey! Yoshitsugu!”
“Yoshitsugu! Get back inside this instant!”

There was also a woman at her house’s entrance calling out to keep her children from going outside.

Having tied a waist rope around the thief, the Police Officer walked several paces behind with soft, measured steps. The thief remained in his traveling attire—leggings with straw sandals and a cotton vertically striped raincoat, properly dressed for journeying. The Police Officer wanted the villagers to first witness the success he had achieved through his many nights of stakeouts. He felt considerable tension akin to straddling a well-fed horse while gripping a leather whip and surveying imperiously from the saddle. Children, babysitters, mothers, household heads—people of all sorts with expressions of all sorts—trailed along behind in a straggling line.

The landlady too was among the crowd—a woman of brisk temperament yet deep compassion, well-liked by all. In her twenties, she had suffered from severe gout that left her left leg slightly lame. At that time, the villagers would lament among themselves, wondering why such a terrible illness had befallen such a virtuous person. Respect for family lineage and admiration for personal character converged upon this woman, making her the de facto queen of this small village. Today as well, the villagers protected this queen at their center, bustling about as if in a procession, yet none dared commit the rudeness of standing in her path.

Even if measured from end to end, the entire village wouldn't span ten chō - barely a kilometer.
Moreover, Oyakata-sama's house and the thief's house stood not too far apart.
In less than five minutes, the entire group arrived at the thief's house.
The house faced west.
The entrance was an earthen-floored workspace; continuing east lay the living area where tea was taken, beyond which formal tatami rooms and sleeping quarters divided the space into three sections.
Gihei, the Police Officer, and the Landlady sat on what passed for a veranda at the living area's edge.
Though called a veranda, it was merely a boarded strip about forty-five centimeters wide, blackened by years of dust and grime.
In the front garden stood a small cultivated plot where two or three celosia stalks hung their red-and-yellow blooms like dim lanterns.
The balsam flowers had already gone to seed while twisted wild chrysanthemums remained clenched in rock-hard buds.

In the center of the tea room sat a square sunken hearth. From the tip of a soot-blackened bamboo hook hung a kettle scorched black, while chunks of wood sputtered and smoldered beneath it.
The wife sat by the lower hearth and did not even offer a greeting.

The Police Officer first addressed the husband.
He declared that any stolen goods still hidden must be brought out there immediately.
Not a single item from this theft had yet been turned over to the police.

The husband merely bowed his head and stared fixedly at his feet,
“There’s nothing here,” he stated flatly, and beyond that, he did not utter another word.

The Police Officer called out to the wife and said the same thing.
The wife remained silent.

"I'm searching the house. Any objections?"

The Police Officer finally reached for his shoes.
There was a somewhat threatening air about him.
The short boots that should have come off easily with normal effort appeared somewhat difficult to remove.
To the villagers who had been pressing close to the garden's edge and watching from a distance earlier, the Police Officer’s agitated demeanor became discernible.
Some among them quietly swallowed their saliva.

The Police Officer finally took off his shoes.
Twisting his body, he turned toward the tea room and stood up.
With a clang, the sound of a sword rang out.

The clang of the sword resounded in the wife’s ears.
The pale face tightened further.
The mouth remained tightly closed.

The Police Officer stomped into the room.
Without waiting to be shown around, he peered into the sitting room.
Even though it was called a sitting room, it was merely a space about six tatami mats in size—spread with straw mats, devoid of any decorations, and caked in grime.
Next, he peered into the bedroom.
On one side was the sitting room wall; deeper in, it was partitioned by a windowless wall, with only a faint amount of daylight entering through a high window on the left—it might as well have been night.
There were small, dirty bedding and two or three tattered garments piled in a corner, and besides that, there was nothing else.
Not even something resembling a box, let alone a proper chest of drawers, could be seen.
When he thrust his face inside, a urine-like stench struck his nose to the point of choking.

The Police Officer scowled and retraced his steps.
The suspicion that there couldn’t possibly be nothing had not entirely vanished, but he found himself at a loss for what to do next.
And so, concluding he had no choice but to press the wife further, he sat down heavily in the upper seat beside the sunken hearth.

“Hey!”
The Police Officer stared fixedly at the wife.

“What’s wrong? Where did you put the goods?”

“As for how they did it at my place, I don’t know a thing about it.”

The wife was by no means unafraid.
Her entire body had been trembling since earlier, as if seized by a demon.
She had desperately pressed her hands on the stove edge, thrust them into her belly, and frantically urged herself inwardly to stay calm—somehow managing to hold out until now—but when the Police Officer drew near before her eyes and sternly demanded where she had hidden the goods, for some reason a sliver of composure took root in her mind.
Her responses began flowing smoothly.
She secretly felt as if she let out a sigh of relief.
“This way I can stay calm.”
She steeled herself anew with this thought—not to move an inch.

“How could you not know?!”
The Police Officer sharpened his tone upon seeing the wife’s composed posture.
Depending on how this woman carried herself, he now looked ready to strike her.

The Madam Landlady could no longer bear to watch and decided to step in to mediate.
She too went over to the sunken hearth and tried to speak to the wife.

“Now dear, that was a wrong thing to do.”

When she said this, she had attained a Buddha-like state of mind. Having had no occasion to open the storehouse, she had remained unaware for four or five days—the shock when she first realized it had been robbed. Upon closer inspection, drops of candle wax littered the floor here and there, and both drawers of the chest where they kept their finest items stood empty—she had alternated between astonishment and rage.

When they summoned the master for closer inspection, they found the tobacco pouch intact but its coral clasp undone; even the family-heirloom inro had been taken from its small chest—what manner of bold thief would dare such legendary storehouse burglary? The dread left them exchanging wordless glances.

Each evening brought renewed eeriness—something seemed to creep about the storehouse’s perimeter; phantom presences lingered within its walls until entering felt like braving a demon’s glare.

Learning this had been Gihei’s doing—that same man who came and went at all hours—fused her shock and suspicion into flames of wrath burning through her core.

Earlier she had mercilessly denounced him before Mr. Police Officer.

Though she’d initially resolved to leave no corner unsearched when asked to witness this inspection—her natural compassion now dissolved all anger upon seeing this squalid hovel where mere survival defied comprehension.

She resolved to coax proper contrition from the wife—to secure mercy before official reprimands grew harsher.

Yet on the wife’s face, not a trace of such softness appeared.
Her hair, tightly coiled and devoid of oil, left stray strands to tangle mercilessly around her gaunt cheeks.
Her nose alone was somewhat well-shaped, but her eyes held a sharpness, and her mouth was tightly closed in a masculine manner.
A venomous temperament that would fear nothing when driven to desperation manifested itself upon her sullen and tight-lipped countenance.
Even when facing Madam, she could not bring herself to purse her lips in defiance; yet neither did she harbor any intention of offering a sincere apology. The wife remained utterly brazen, striving to maintain an air of feigned ignorance.

The Police Officer had not ceased his pondering this whole time either.
Whether it was his imagination or not, he couldn't help finding the wife's behavior suspicious.
First of all, since we arrived here, that woman hadn't moved from her seat at all.
Even if one attributed it to composure, her calmness when responding was too perfect... Then something flashed through his mind.
Almost unconsciously, the Police Officer slipped his hand beneath the straw mat to check what he sat upon.
Barley straw had been spread out with a mat laid immediately atop it; there were no floorboards whatsoever.
He abruptly stood up, approached the wife, and seized her shoulder.

“Move aside.”
“Move. Let’s see you try to move.”
The Police Officer glared down at her with calculated intensity, resolved not to let her escape again.

The wife’s demeanor at this moment was truly strange.
This was where everything ended.
She appeared as if she had steeled her resolve.
No matter what happened, she wouldn’t move.
She appeared as if she had made this resolve.
She too was equally guilty as her husband.
She appeared as if she trembled at the thought of becoming a terrible criminal.
When every possible emotion overflowed all at once, tears came without even a trace of resentment.
With such emotions, her chest became utterly choked.
And the one thought that remained clearest in this woman’s mind was this: if these goods were taken from them, they could not eat immediately; the treasury sustaining her own life and those of her three children lay beneath the straw mat where she now sat; it was through this single-minded will to live that her husband had committed that terrible storehouse burglary; and by that same will, she sat motionless, forgetting fear and shame.
Motionless…… Resolved not to move no matter what happened, motionless…… motionless she remained seated.
……How could she possibly move from here.
Agitated, she felt her head spinning dizzily.
Then, with a violent force like an earthquake, she felt herself being lifted from the depths of the earth and flung out.
By that time, she had already been flung about seven or eight feet away from the hearthside, and the Police Officer was peeling back the straw mat and attempting to remove the cover of the pit storage.

“Ah! Please—have mercy! Please… please… not that alone!”

With unsteady steps, she tried to cling to the police officer’s legs.

“What do you think you’re doing?”
The Police Officer thrust out his powerful arm and shoved her once.
The woman collapsed without a moment’s resistance.
And then, wringing out the welling tears, she broke down sobbing.

Her husband was finally taken away.

Ten or fifteen days passed like a dream, but the wife did not even think of inquiring after her husband’s whereabouts.
Through what procedures and in what order would her husband be punished?
He could not possibly imagine it, of course.
She could only think that thieves were made to wear red garments.

The jail was located in a pine grove on a sand hill at the edge of town.

Once, when she had gone to town with neighboring wives to sell baskets of eggplants and cucumbers, they had made a point of visiting what was called a prison.
Along the red brick wall, they walked around with tired feet.

“What a massive structure this is!”

“It’s what they call hell on earth.”

They could only tremble helplessly.
No matter how much they stood on tiptoe and stretched up to look, they couldn’t even see the building’s roof ridge, let alone the interior details.
As they gazed fixedly, this massive, heavy, sturdy red structure seemed to stretch ever higher—one might even think it would extend infinitely to reach the very heavens.
The souls of those ignorant, timid country women were made to quiver even at such things.
Before long, they came before the gate.
The gate’s pitch-black iron door loomed massively, its oppressive weight bearing down on their gaze as it stood firmly locked.
The iron bar inserted at its center—this too of iron—firmly sealed away the never-ceasing “evil” of the earth.
They could no longer speak.
As if by prior agreement, they stopped in unison.
Just at that moment, a small door opened.
Through the opening’s exact dimensions, a perfectly square patch of earth inside the gate became visible.
The ground was covered with small gravel, appearing hard-packed.
Then, with a stomping of footsteps, a black-uniformed guard stood at the forefront as two groups of prisoners emerged from the gate.

The events of that time were firmly engraved in the thief’s wife’s mind.
When she would think about how her husband was faring and sink into deep contemplation, images would always appear before her eyes—the high red brick walls, the black iron gate, and the figures of prisoners clad in persimmon-colored garments, chained together.
The prisoners’ faces from that time—their sun-deprived eyes grown dull and cloudy, their cheeks pallid, their beards overgrown and filthy—merged with that of her husband, appearing vividly even in the darkness.

Even when her husband had been at home, they had barely managed to scrape by, yet now the entire village treated them as outcasts, and even if she tried to seek daily labor, there was no one left to turn to.
Their sixteen-year-old son had been sent into service at the home of an acquaintance two or three villages away, but a twelve-year-old girl and a nine-year-old boy still remained.
Even though water filled the tenant-farmed rice paddies, there was no drive to begin harvesting with sickles.
The farmers had to sell a little of the cotton harvested from the fields to buy barley.
Even a meal mixed with daikon radish, powdered rice, and barley could not fill their stomachs.
Autumn gradually deepened.
In the wind that scoured away human grease, the cracks on their hands and feet ached, and come evening, the children would start whimpering and squirming.
Even boiling that cedar bathwater made the fuel too precious to use.

Using a bamboo wheel—its rims amber-lustrous only where the thread ran—she spun thread, stirring the dim lantern’s flame to life again and again as she forced her weary eyes open through night labor.
The stench of fish oil crept through the gloomy, desolate room.
At such times, she felt her husband’s face inevitably flickering before her eyes.
There were times when she felt nostalgic or imagined him suffering terribly, but she would immediately grow agitated, and recalling how her husband’s carelessness had led to everything being exposed, she would often end up irritated all by herself.
If only he had stayed quietly in the village after doing such shoddy work, none of this would have happened—but then he had to get caught by that town hell-woman, deceiving even himself by claiming he needed to unwind, drinking sake at teahouses and carrying on like that—it all made her blood boil.
Then she felt hatred toward the police officer who had bound her husband and wore a self-important expression, and revulsion toward the villagers who had crowded around her husband that day as if watching a five-legged dog at a sideshow.
When she thought more carefully, she began to feel that the white walls of the landlord’s storehouse—the one who had been robbed—were actually the most to blame.
Even without this—from the time she first understood the world until today at forty-two years of age, having yearned for nothing but to covet others’ possessions—to her eyes that craved food, clothing, a thick quilt, what harmonious and beautiful things might lie within those white walls? Rare rolls of fabric and jewels that would make one’s heart race just to behold—she could almost feel them there, tangible enough to reach out and grasp one by one.
Therefore, though she could not think her husband’s act of stealing another’s possessions was in any way good, she wanted to say that even without such hateful words, there might at least have been some sympathy calling it pitiable.

“Good heavens, you wretched beast!”

On the day of the house search, when they shoved me aside and from the cellar emerged one bolt of red-striped twin-layered leather along with a single length of black satin obi—its unraveled end—the landlord’s Madam glared at me with terrifying eyes.

“This is it, this is it!
“Madam’s obi leather.”
Having said this, she unfurled the long-coiled obi leather and dragged it across the entire room like a black snake thrashing about.
Even that Madam, normally so kind and approachable, could let such harsh words spill forth when it came to her own belongings.
The thief and the beast became one.
If I were to speak of hate—this person too was hateful.

It was on one such evening when her mind had become steeped in these venomous thoughts.
She could not endure the desolate stillness of the night—where nothing spoke, nothing moved—the children had long since fallen asleep.

She slipped into her worn-out straw sandals and stepped out into the thoroughfare from the back door.
As dusk had only just fallen, light spilled from every house, and though indistinguishable, the muffled murmur of voices crept into her ears.
From somewhere unseen yet not far off came the drawn-out strains of an *Oiwake ballad* that abruptly broke off midway.
The quiet remained quiet.

She entered the precincts of Kannon Hall.
From the thoroughfare stretched an unpartitioned open front area, at whose far end stood the main hall.
After climbing four steps came a surrounding veranda; within lay a wooden floor measuring four ken in depth and two ken across.
This served as the village children’s playground—open on three sides and lacking any doors.
Then ascending another step revealed an altar at the rear of a narrow wooden space one ken wide that might be called the inner sanctuary.
There enshrined was Senju Kannon.
She climbed unsteadily onto the veranda without conscious thought.
Quietly slipping off her straw sandals, she stepped barefoot onto the floorboards.
The darkness made her footing uncertain.
Then something pricked her sole with slight pain.
She had stepped on an oak acorn shell now crushed flat.
No wound resulted.
She clicked her tongue irritably and flung away the offending husk.

She soon approached the altar.
Thick lattice doors had been pulled from both sides, a drum lock hanging at the center of the pivot.
She gropingly felt around the area before the door.
The cold iron lock chilled her fingertips.
It wasn’t that any particular malice had arisen, nor had she groped about wanting to open this door—but the fact that this lock stood firmly between her and the altar intensified an indescribable sense of loathing.

The red cotton damask curtain was already faded. Even if they were items donated by believers, they would be nothing more than embossed picture frames, dolls with missing noses or limbs, or hand-woven rugs embroidered with colored silk threads that held no real value—beyond such things, there was not a single item of any worth hidden away here, as she well knew from her daily life. Having crawled into such a place—what could she possibly be trying to steal? She was not, of course, conscious of such a thing. Rarely had anyone else peered inside this door. Standing still here like this, peering intently into this door, it seemed that mysterious treasures only she could see were stored within, where wealth and happiness lay scattered like quicksilver. She wondered if perhaps she alone could secretly snatch it away.

She tried turning the lock over and upright several times.
Since there was no key, it showed no sign of opening.

"If I strike it, this lock will give way."
Thinking this, she wanted a hard piece of wood or a stone.
Once she stepped down from the veranda, she began retracing her steps toward the wooden floor area to search.
Her legs trembled.
She felt all strength leave her thighs, her ears burning hot, her head growing foggy.
As she neared the threshold, her eyes caught sight of two or three women who seemed like village wives passing through the street while conversing loudly.
This marked the first human presence that had entered her awareness since climbing up to the hall earlier.
The time elapsed since her ascent to the hall hadn't truly been so lengthy, yet to her it felt like an eternity.
Throughout that endless span, she had felt herself to be the sole moving entity in all existence.
Now that human voices pierced her consciousness, she returned fully to her earthly self.

“I’d forgotten about Buddha’s punishment.”

She suddenly became frightened and sat down heavily on the veranda.

The night sky was clear.
There was no moon, but the stars had changed from their evening yellow to a gradually whitening light.
A rustling wind blew through the bamboo grove to the side and swept over the sand of the front area.

The woman finally managed to rise and descended the stairs.
Step by step, planting each foot firmly, she stole her steps so that not even the temple mice might hear.
Once she had descended, she found herself with no destination in mind—no purpose whatsoever.

Unaware of where her body was headed, she began to walk.
She moved forward little by little, to such an extent that it looked as though she were stepping back.
The night was dark.

And then, right before her nose, a huge pitch-black mass loomed oppressively, blocking her path.
She startled.
A chill ran through every pore of her body at once.
Cold sweat oozed out on her back.

It was the fir tree.
It was the sole fir tree standing in these temple grounds.
According to local lore, it was an ancient tree over a hundred and fifty years old.
At the base of its hollow trunk, giant hornets built their nest every year.
Claiming it was hornet extermination, a crowd of mischievous children would poke sticks into the nest, throw sand at it, or try to set it on fire.
The hornets staunchly defended their living stronghold and repeatedly stung the invaders.
Such battles had been repeated for who knew how many decades now.
The tree towered majestically, filled with evergreen verdure through all four seasons.

Though she had intended to go straight out to the street, she had somehow veered left and come to stand beneath the fir tree.
Once she clearly understood that, her momentary fear vanished.

Is there anyone living in this village who doesn’t know Kannon-sama’s fir tree?
Is there a child born in this village who hasn’t played beneath this tree?
A crow caws atop this tree as night breaks into dawn.
A crow dances above this tree as the day draws to a close.
On fine days, kites circle in rings.
Not a soul in this village fails to look up at least once or twice a day to admire the splendid form of this tree’s branches.
She too was born and raised in this village.
This tree might well be called her first impression regarding knowledge of trees.

But the fir tree remained through and through a fir tree.
Trees and humans existed in entirely different modes of being.
There could be no communion between her living reality and the tree's living reality.
She knew it was simply an ancient fir tree.
Even with their long familiarity, she had only ever regarded it as a fir tree.
No—her uncomprehending senses had never stirred to perceive it even as a tree.

Now she naturally stood beneath this ancient tree.
And with curious interest, she gazed upward from its base to the trunk, and from the trunk to the treetop.
The treetop was high.
The sky was higher still.
Yet the towering treetop rose so tall it seemed it might reach the sky.
Before long, she pressed her body close to the base and tentatively touched the trunk with her hand.
Up to about human height, the tree's bark lay smooth and glossy as if polished.
And only tonight did she sense an unexpected warmth emanating from the trunk.
This warmth came from her own heated fingertips.
This time she pressed her ear against the tree trunk.
The sound of wind buffeting the treetops blended into a cacophony that vibrated through her eardrums.
It resembled the heavy exhalations of some great beast through its nostrils.
She pressed her body flush against it now, spreading her hands as if embracing it while pushing her chest into the bark.
Every emotion stored within her body surged to life at once.
This tree was no longer merely a fir tree to her.
She felt an exchange of sentience—as though it were a living creature possessing not just lifeblood and flesh but even humanity's instinctual desires.
He and she ceased being separate entities.
Two beings merged and dissolved into one consciousness.
This was no childhood familiarity with an aged tree but a nostalgic divine communion where her heart flowed into his.
Like one possessed, she pressed her chest against it again and again.

The fir tree did not move at all.
He simply stood there.
He was alive.
He had lived a life four times longer than hers.
How many times more life would he yet sustain into the future?
Even if you were to ask every human alive today, not a single one possesses a life that will last long enough to see what lies ahead.

As she remained still, her excitement subsided a little.
She slightly pulled her body away and looked up at the treetop with fresh curiosity.
The tree showed no change whatsoever, bore no appearance of suffering or unease, and maintained the majestic form it had possessed since her earliest memories thirty years prior, now reaching up into the dark night sky.

"This tree can live without eating anything at all."

She murmured to herself.

“Clang... clang... clang.”
The first three or four beats were slow, the middle quickened in tempo, and the end returned to drawn-out intervals as the wooden clapper's sound came ringing.
The vibrations of the sound waves pierced through the tired heads of all the villagers as they were falling asleep and, carried by the blowing west wind, drifted away into the distant eastern sky.
She too was one who had heard that sound.
She was one who had been etched with the deepest impressions and sentiments.
As if determined not to let even the lingering remnants of the fading reverberation escape her, she listened intently and motionlessly.

“That’s right.
There’s a sermon tonight.
The Reverend Envoy is present at the Honored Landlord’s residence.”

She had heard about this during the day and knew of it.
By now, the villagers would have gathered.
But not a single person had invited her.
Though the wooden clapper that had just sounded was indeed a signal that the sermon was beginning, to her ears its resonance carried no nostalgic invitation to attend.
It carried a resentful tone as if declaring, “You are an outcast—you there, plug your ears and stay alone in silence.”
Thus whenever something happened, she would be cast out by the villagers.
Day by day, the familiarity between her and the villagers was peeling away.
If three more months were to pass like this unchanged, she would come to be turned away by the villagers’ eyes as though she were some complete stranger.
Gradually, on their side hatred grew, while on hers resentment mounted.
Even if she persisted in her pride, the sad fact was that her family had to survive through others’ compassion and pity.
She would have to bend at the waist and receive even the starchy water from rinsing rice through the back entrance.
The one suffering hardship from this divide was her alone—her alone.
Only her family.
Becoming utterly alone was something she simply could not do.

The sound of the wooden clapper, which she had only thought of as hateful, now strangely drew her heart in.
I want to go and see.
No matter what people think, I can’t just let myself remain cast out of the village.
This could become a good opportunity—I might even regain access to the Honored Landlord’s residence.
From now on, I must ensure people no longer treat me as an outcast.
What’s there to be ashamed of?
What’s there to fear?
My husband has become a thief.
Compared to that, this is nothing.

She steeled herself with defiance, left the old tree’s shade, and began walking toward the Honored Landlord’s residence.

Throughout last autumn, she had worked as a day laborer at that house.
In tasks such as cotton picking, wheat sowing, and radish harvesting, she worked in the fields alongside many men and women.
Receiving scrap cotton enough to fill her apron was an everyday occurrence, and when unloading the basket, she also took home many broken radishes.
After taking part in the rice cake pounding for the harvest celebration, there had been times when she gave the children a large lucky rice cake, and they would widen their eyes in delight and cheer.
The tenant rice was carried to the storehouse, and they measured it into masu boxes before the door.
When she swept the site in the evening, about one gō of spilled rice mixed with sand became her earnings.
Even if they called me stingy, with this and that, I could get through one winter comfortably.
She reflected back and, in the darkness, felt her heart spontaneously emboldened.

Opening the kitchen door, she stealthily entered the Honored Landlord’s house—a large cooking area followed by a deeply sunken hearth.
A maid from last year was alone burning firewood and boiling water.
A lamp hung down from a beam in the middle, shining just within reach of one’s hand.
Even at a glance, she couldn’t clearly discern facial expressions.
The maid peered at her.
And

“Oh, my...”
She muttered in a suppressed voice.
And then, pretending to be absorbed in briskly breaking and adding firewood,

“Mr. Gihei’s wife...”
Having said this, she fidgeted awkwardly, not knowing what words to say next.

She deliberately feigned ignorance,

“Good evening,” she said and promptly proceeded to the tea room.

The head of the household, who detested priests, had withdrawn to the inner quarters, and the young master was away.
In the tea room, Madam and her elder sister in the lower seat were both facing toward the preacher, listening intently to the Reverend Envoy’s sermon.
As many as twenty-four or twenty-five villagers had gathered.
From the threshold where she had quietly approached, everyone had their backs turned.
When she sat down, the crowd remained unaware of anything.

When she abruptly glanced sideways and saw someone bowing at the threshold with hands pressed to the floor, Madam realized for the first time that a new person had arrived.
Even so, it never occurred to her that this could be Gihei’s wife.

“Well, you’ve come.”
In order that neither the preacher nor the listeners would be distracted, she said this in a low voice and tried to gesture instructions with her hand.
She remained facedown as before.

“Who is it?”
Madam raised her voice slightly.

The faces of the crowd all moved at once, turning toward the entrance.
The preacher also paused his words and, looking down from his elevated seat, called out to the person at the entrance.

“It’s your first time.
Please come all the way to the front.”

A large shadow fell between the candlelight and her figure, leaving the entrance dimly lit.
The old man who had been in that shadow twisted his body slightly.
The light cast its glow unobstructed upon the side of her face.

“Isn’t this Gihei’s woman?”

Madam was half-surprised and half-suspicious.

“Yes.”
She had managed to utter only a single word.

Even Madam no longer knew how to continue.
The villagers too were stunned by this unexpected turn of events and seemed unable to offer even a greeting.
When the sermon eventually resumed—seeming to take this as good timing—they all straightened their bodies to face forward again.
A large shadow once again fell between her and the lamp.

“I also came to listen to the sermon.”

From the dark shadow, he spoke in a deathly voice.

“Woman.
Come forward.”

The Elder Sister who was closest by could not fathom her mother-in-law’s intentions but, intending to mediate,

“That is indeed the entrance.
You should come further forward indeed.”

She thought the Elder Sister was kind.
Lingering on those words, she slid her knees forward about two shaku.
Even so, she remained so close to the edge that her bent feet still touched the threshold.
Through such gradual steps she became one among them in this room.
Yet the air drifting about the villagers and that enveloping her alone remained utterly distinct.
Though mutual affection flowed between those dozens of people like a single thread between them all,
between her and them existed no connection whatsoever.
She alone was nothing more than a sudden intruder.
Even in this ignorant and uncomprehending woman worked an instinctive desire—blind yet tenacious—that could not endure solitude’s loneliness.
Dragged by cosmic law itself she had come here now yearning for nothing less than their cold gazes.
And with what feelings had they received her?
Even a fool of a woman could imagine that readily enough.
Nor did her imagining err in any particular.
"A thief’s wife remained a thief’s wife."
Though drawn out by what she’d thought were kind words from that gentle Elder Sister,
though made one of them at last in some corner,
still she found no satisfaction.
Jealousy and malice seethed and boiled within her heart.
Who would live in such a house?
Suddenly flaring up she fixed her eyes upon the preacher.

The preacher’s sermon was, to her, even more indifferent than the singing voice of a mechanical puppet show. She could only perceive that his lips were merely moving. It was not to hear this that she had come here. If she thought to go back, she could go back immediately. A virtuous feeling of listening earnestly to the story should never have arisen in her. That was truly strange. When she, without reflection or thought, fixed her gaze upon the preacher, she found herself listening—unintentionally yet intently—to a few words of his sermon, words brimming with earnestness and truth.

“Now, fellow travelers, we come to the grave matter of salvation. You must listen carefully.”

The itinerant preacher paused his words, looked around the congregation once, then continued speaking.

“It was the height of summer during an unrelenting heatwave; I crossed Mount Yone this summer.”
“By the time I began ascending the mountain pass, it was already past noon—likely around one o’clock.”
“Given the blazing midday sun, the heat rising from the earth flared up like flames.”
“My legs were gradually growing tired.”
“Sweat poured down in streams—such was the state of things—flowing right into my eyes.”
“Even I, carrying nothing but a small bundle, had to stop every ten steps to rub my aching back and catch my breath every hundred meters in that scorching heat.”

“When I neared the summit, there was a single black horse loaded with rice bales crossing the mountain just slightly ahead of me. Though it must have set out far earlier than I did, being unburdened as I was, I caught up to it there.”

A horse handler held the reins.
“The horse was already spent.”
“Its legs clung stubbornly to the ground—no matter how hard they pulled, it wouldn’t budge.”
“The more it struggled, the tighter the bit rope became until the iron bit gnawed into its tongue.”
“White foam spewed from its mouth like blown froth.”
“Its sweat wasn’t like ours at all—‘pouring like a waterfall’ fit perfectly.”
“In that state, it couldn’t have taken another step.”

Even so, the horse handler kept driving it mercilessly.
“He cracks the whip sharply with the end of the rope.”
“He strikes it with a limp stick of a whip.”
“And he kept shouting, ‘Beast! Beast!’”
“The one who can’t endure it is the horse.”
“Because of the pain and the shouting, it tries desperately to walk with all its strength, but no matter what it does, it can’t move.”
“It had already lost the strength to move itself.”

The itinerant preacher, unable to bear watching this, admonished the horse handler.
“Let it rest a little! Have you no pity for the horse? In this sweltering heat with such a heavy load—it can’t possibly keep moving!”
“Even when exerting all its strength, its legs wouldn’t move, and its breath came in ragged gasps.”
“Look at its eyes—look at them!”
“I even tried admonishing him—‘Look at how resentful its eyes are!’—but the horse handler simply wouldn’t listen.”
“If I pressed him further, he would grow angry—so I finally abandoned him and continued up the mountain,” he concluded skillfully, having narrated even this outcome,

“How about it, fellow travelers?
“So you see, humans are precisely like this horse.
“When they say they hate, when they say they grieve, when they covet others’ things, when they pity themselves—whether waking or sleeping, the demon of the heart torments them.
“This mortal world is Mount Yone.
“The demon of earthly sufferings is the horse handler.
“Humans are horses.
“They are bound by ropes.
“They are lashed with whips.
“The load is heavy, and their legs are exhausted.
“If only we cross this pass quickly, the Pure Land of Utmost Bliss will manifest as a world of radiant light in all directions, shining brightly at the foot of the mountain.
“But that mountain pass is difficult.
“It’s a steep path.
“Deep valleys yawn on both sides.
“Terrible is this mortal world, I tell you.
“Taking pity on us, deeming us wretched and pitiable—that is Amida Buddha’s vow to save us ordinary beings, steeped in sin though we are.
“What a merciful decree this is!”

By the time the sermon ended, everyone present felt as though intoxicated.
The voices of the multitude reciting *Namu Amida Butsu* as if murmuring filled the room, as though melting out from the depths of their hearts.
There were even those who sniffled faintly.

All at once, everyone started to leave.
While they lit the flames in handmade hexagonal lanterns, they exchanged greetings and engaged in small talk, yet the atmosphere remained rather forlorn.

Otsukasama addressed each and every one.

“You’ve had quite the ordeal, haven’t you.”
“Rest well now,” she said, seeing off the villagers with such words.
In less than ten minutes, they all left completely, and the aftermath gaped like extinguished embers.

The thief’s wife still had not risen from her seat.
Perhaps she had been so consumed by the sermon that she forgot to return home.
Perhaps because the preaching had pierced the deepest core of her desires, she genuinely felt remorse, enlightenment, and religious rapture.
Perhaps her habits—daily tormented by life’s hardships and increasingly bent toward vice and obsession—had been completely straightened by that single evening’s sermon.

Her knowledge fell far short of being able to analyze what that was.
She somehow felt as though her head were being clawed at.
A vague anxiety assailed her—the kind that made her think she herself might vanish like chaff before the wind, blown away to some unknowable place.
If she died, there would be no such hardship.
If only she clung to Amida Buddha’s power, she could die and go to the Pure Land.
How comfortably, how free and unburdened a life she could live.
She was also thinking such things.

“Gihei’s woman.
“You’re the only one left now, I tell you.”

To Madam, it was already hard enough to comprehend why she had come tonight in the first place—that she now remained all alone like this, keeping her head bowed, seemed all the more absurd.
When there was no response for a while,

“What do you intend to do?”

Having said this, Madam looked at her shrunken figure.

“I can’t...
“I ain’t gonna die.”

She herself didn’t really understand what she had intended to say—but she was conscious of having uttered these very words.

“What are you saying?
“You.”
Madam was startled,

“Don’t go spouting such nonsense.”
“It’d be embarrassing if others heard you, I tell you.”
“Go on home now.”
“It’s gotten quite late.”

Madam said in a gentle tone, wrapped the cheap sweets that were beside her in a piece of paper, and placed them before her.

“The children are waiting too, I tell you.”

She was suddenly overwhelmed with longing.
Had Madam’s compassionate manner of speaking brought tears to her eyes?
Was it that something called greater human warmth had stirred her heart?
Soothed emotions, a yearning perceived as loneliness, an obsession entangled with malice and jealousy.
Had all these things combined pierced her tear ducts?
She cried without words.

“Yes.”
“Truly…”

Raising her body that felt too listless for any action, she went to the doorway.
The people from earlier seemed to have already each reached their destinations.
Neither the sounds of geta clogs nor voices could be heard.
The night turned utterly black, and night crows cawed near the roof.

(Taisho 2nd Year October 11th Creation / 『Bunsho Sekai』 Taisho 2-10 / Included in 『Yuko』)