Pathway to Japanese Literature

Upon returning after a long absence, even Morioka—once denounced in the local newspapers as the "Sleeping City"—had transformed considerably compared to five years prior.
What first struck me was how my sister’s house—where I had once lodged—had now transformed into what seemed a prosperous fish shop, and right where I remembered my desk being placed, the legs of a large octopus hung slovenly from the ceiling.
Having passed by this house three times—twice yesterday and once this morning—I saw the octopus’s hanging tentacles on all three occasions.
If this had been in the old days, after remaining unsold like this for days on end, I surely would’ve been sitting there with *The Tale of the Heike* open, muttering things like, *“How joyous—the roaring waterfall’s flow persists even under the sun’s glare… Hmm, fascinating,”* when spoiled liquid would drip, drip down onto my nape—or so I imagine.
I earnestly hoped that, while I was still watching, some housewife would quickly come along—though buying the whole thing would likely be excessive—and at least purchase that single longest leg for me.
The pale green karatachi fence next to this house—which had delighted me, waking me with its freshness each morning as I commuted to school in early May—must have had an owner who was either an uncouth man devoid of aesthetic sense or someone hiding secrets unfit for public eyes; now, it has become a tall black-painted board fence that one can only gaze up at.
A little further on, a broad new road had been built straight across from Osawa Riverbed through the rice fields. Adjacent to this lay a shabby lane—the path that once led to the boarding house of my close friend Mogai—now met the same fate as an abandoned road, with granite blocks and lumber piled so densely there was scarcely space, and between those stones and timbers, weeds over a foot tall grew lushly overgrown.
I saw this and felt an inexplicable sadness well up in my heart.
For a while, I thought about sitting on the edge of that lumber and reminiscing about the past—but no, wait. If a passing policeman were to grow suspicious of me wandering this place, which might as well be called an alleyway of life, pondering things unfit for daylight in broad noon, it would amount to a lifelong disgrace—so I reconsidered and stopped myself.

However, had I been here with Mogai at this moment, we surely would have launched into some poetic antics without concern for appearances. After all, humans are weak-hearted in times of loneliness. This transformation was not at all an unwelcome one to me. If it must undergo such transformations, I would rather it had remained the “Sleeping City”—a cause for celebration both for myself and for the “City of Beautiful Memories.” The prefectural office—once a single-story structure resembling a wealthy man’s residence fit for eight concubines—had become a splendid two-story Western building modeled after a Tokyo ministry; meanwhile, in what someone had derisively called Morioka’s Ginza—the Sakana-cho and Gofuku-cho districts—bookstores and stationery shops like those I once saw in Kanda’s Ogawamachi had appeared. Among these changes, the most revolutionary were the electric company’s establishment, schoolgirls adopting shoes, Western restaurants along the Nakatsugawa River, and the dilapidated Morioka Castle shedding its centuries-old ivy mantle to become modernized Iwate Park. This castle’s transformation—like a bald head sprouting baby hairs—would have inspired me, were I more literary, to declaim: *Ah, Morioka Castle! Thou art civilization’s very emblem...* For those who knew thee in thy days of pine winds and luminous moons, thy endless lament... were they now to behold thee in gaudy raiment, who could kneel beside me without anguish at lacking praise? Undoubtedly thou art civilization’s fairyland, this new era’s paradise... Yet ponder—nay, sit with me upon this stone and ponder deeply: Could those who yesterday leaned on staffs atop thy ramparts, who stood in dusk winds severing temple bells, who wept into lush grasses—could they have foreseen this day?... Then when countless seasons pass and new centuries dawn, who now could swear thou shalt not again lie buried beneath ivy and weeds? *...Ah, fallen art thou!*—such theatrics would have suited, yet I felt no such inclinations. The reason was plain. This new park—fresh from its opening ceremony, civilized yet ungarish, still preserving those beautiful distant views—had grown rather dear to me. To think—when a lovely child is born—*since it might die tragically in old age, better kill it now while it sleeps*—such reasoning must be called history’s most unconscionable.

Therefore, when I ascended to this park, I suddenly conceived the following thought. This thought—one demanding particular discretion before Morioka’s residents—is not something I voice earnestly here; since I merely confess it by way of preface, no particular harm should follow. The thought runs thus: To make this park no longer a park—in short, to claim it as my own—I would encircle it with a thick trifoliate orange fence to bar entry, erect a marble house mimicking an ancient Greek citadel upon the former main keep’s site, then—with snow-white hair cascading thickly over my shoulders, clad in garments like a Russian peasant’s—dwell alone within. I would read books all day. On clear nights, I would study celestial realms through a cannon-sized telescope. On overcast or rainy nights, I would labor at inventing an airship. When hunger struck, I would telephone orders for fine cuisine from riverside Western restaurants. Yet an ordinary attendant would never suffice. Her face mattered not, but she must be eighteen years old and comely—dressed in dawn-hued or pale green simplicity, veiled, wearing thickly padded tabi to mute her steps—maintaining perpetual silence. As cleaning proved troublesome, she must take great care against disorderliness. Then annually, I would ride through every city quarter in a palanquin modeled not on those of Roman emperors’ triumphs, but rather on Anunziata’s from *The Improvisatore*. Should I encounter lameness, blindness, or leprosy en route—having first mastered hypnosis’s arcana—a mere touch would heal them… Amusing when imagined, yet written thus, all charm evaporates. Verbosity wounds dignity.

I, known as Tachibana Kouichi, was born over twenty years ago in a remote village more than a dozen miles from this Morioka. In the spring of his tenth year—having graduated at the top of his class from the village school’s elementary division—he admirably shouldered his pack and came alone to this Morioka Castle town; thereafter, for eight years save summer homecomings during vacations, he grew up entirely in this land. Since my mother was the youngest daughter of a distinguished former samurai clan, I had numerous relatives in this ancient castle town—an uncle here, an aunt there, and cousins scattered about. Moreover, when I was thirteen or fourteen years old, even my elder sister—now deceased—had been married into this Morioka household. I made my rounds among these relations for meals while advancing step by step from higher elementary school to middle school, delving ever deeper into scholarly pursuits.

Thus my still-vivid boyhood recollections—the many friends who clasped hearts with mine without pretense, sharing tears and laughter before quarreling and parting; that time when an upperclassman remarked how Tachibana’s face somewhat resembled Napoleon’s portrait, sparking my abrupt resolve to become a soldier and subsequent earnest daily gymnastics; those days when reading Bismarck’s biography led me to adopt a haughty “Little Bismarck” demeanor that sowed discord among classmates; how my innate frailty coupled with love of history and skill in composition made me fancy myself a young Gibbon vowing to write *The Decline and Fall of India*, translate it into Indian tongues to rouse patriotic fervor in those stateless wretches and incite rebellion—no, before that Japan must somehow secure Siam…

…the time I argued about following Byron’s path by exchanging pen for sword; or later when I first noticed life’s dawning light stirring within dewy starlike eyes of a certain youthful beauty—abruptly becoming one who dreamed fragrant dreams night and day while clutching *Wakana-shū* and *Burei-shū* to my breast morning and evening; visiting a small temple cemetery amid nearby paddies to weep alone against a bluegrass-shrouded monument beneath great chestnut boughs; even at school secretly reading *Midaregami* during ethics lectures—all these cherished memories unfold upon this beautiful city’s stage along Nakatsu River’s banks.

Morioka was indeed my second hometown.
“The City of Beautiful Memories.”

In the spring of my eighteenth year, I temporarily left this second hometown behind and returned to my first.
For over ten months I lived like drifting clouds and wild cranes, until five autumns past when I resolved to move to the capital and become a student under a certain renowned historian.
The following year I took the Ministry of Education’s certification exam and obtained my secondary school history teacher’s license.
My sole regret remains that despite styling myself as the Oriental Gibbon, my exam results—curiously enough—failed to rank particularly high.
I now serve as assistant teacher at Ibaraki Prefectural No. ○ Middle School; having summoned my parents and younger sister to my post last winter, I’ve established a household neither prosperous nor impoverished.

This summer, having been entrusted by the principal with collecting materials for Hitachi’s local history, I spent my entire month-and-a-half-long pleasant vacation solely for that purpose. Now, in late September, I was granted special leave of three weeks for grave visits and calls on relatives, as well as for conducting a modest field survey on historical materials related to the rise of the Abe clan centered around the Chikakawa Stockade along the Kitakami riverside—and thus, after five years, I returned to this Morioka.

At the aunt’s house—located directly behind Shinzando, an Inari shrine—where he had the carriage stop, the aunt who appeared no older than she had five years prior greeted him with “My, how you’ve grown, Kou-san!” and looked him up and down in his newly tailored suit; this occurred during the tranquil twilight of two days prior, when an autumn wind wandered through the timeworn city.

Encircled distantly by the four peaks of Iwate, Himekami, Nansho, and Hayachine; flanked nearby by Mount Togiya—famed in lunar lore—a rocky mountain resembling the back of a yellow ox, and Mount Atago with its vividly green cedar groves; straddling the Nakatsugawa River’s shallows where river deer cried; overlooking the Kitakami’s gentle currents; graced by Yūgaose Bridge whispering of Sadata’s ancient times, the Upper and Middle Bridges dripping with bronze finials’ antique patina, and Meiji Bridge’s evening-crimson vista atop cedar-reinforced embankments—this Morioka, whose thatched and shingled roofs stood tiered beneath leafy canopies when viewed from the towering Morioka Castle at its heart, undeniably ranked among Japan’s most beautiful cities.
Someone, upon first visiting this city, had apparently once said, “Toryo is the Kyoto of Tohoku.”
While I found little merit in the modern phrase “Tōhoku’s Kyoto,” I preferred the elegant appellation “Michi no Ku’s Heian Capital.”

Of this beautiful Morioka, the times I found most appealing were night among the hours of a day, rain among weathers, and autumn among the four seasons. Combining these three would make a rainy autumn night most preferable—yet that would be too perfect and far too lonely. As a historian, I believed I knew most people, objects, and events that had appeared in this world since creation—at least those recorded in writing—but I had never encountered a single person, object, or instance that could truly be called “perfect.” Therefore, I maintained little sympathy for what was called “perfection.” It needed not be perfect; merely outstanding would suffice. The world was strewn with ‘imperfection’ everywhere. That was why “hope” never ceased. This “hope” was the life of the world—the life of history; the life of humanity. While a certain scholar asserted, “History is the principle of evolution,” I had taught my students, “History is the principle of hope.” In world history, there were not few examples where time and labor had been expended for vastly differing hopes, only to bring about results entirely opposed to “evolution.” I wondered if distinguishing between these “mistaken hopes” and “unmistaken hopes” was not the very significance of proper history. In my personal view, within world history’s six-thousand-year span, the period from Periclean Athens to the present day stood as the greatest example of evolution driven by mistaken hopes—or rather, corruption born of corrupted hopes. When I thought this way, this world felt truly pitiful and disheartening—yet this very aspect became fascinating, utterly fascinating. I posited that “perfection” would never come to this world within humanity’s countable years. (For I interpreted “becoming perfect” as hope and activity’s extinction, much like water turning to ice.) Therefore, though our past spanned a mere six thousand years, our future might hold hundreds of billions of years. When I considered that this infinite history was indeed our human history, I suddenly felt as though my chest had opened wide. For humanity—endless and boundless in life—was three thousand years of corruption not utterly insignificant? Moreover, compared to Athenians who had been relatively closer to perfection, were we of today—far more distant from perfection—not instead able to hold far greater hope? ...Thus I—who valued the heart seeking truth over truth itself, hope for perfection over perfection—though I loved Morioka’s quiet lonely nights, how could I endure the anguish of this trinity coalescing into a perfect three-legged pot: this great pot of a rainy autumn night, heavy and black and cold and unyielding, being lowered over my head?

Why rainy nights and autumn in Morioka appealed to me so particularly was beyond my understanding.
Probably because over those recent thirty-odd years，the fate of this city had been none other than that of rain，night，and autumn.

Yesterday, the autumn rain that had begun to fall in the early morning continued until around three in the afternoon.
Sitting facing each other across the long hearth, he and the Aunt from Shinzan-dō continued their lengthy conversation from the previous night—a tale endless as threads of rain.
With topics of my father and mother and Hikari-chan (my sister), the Aunt’s four daughters, Genbō who died at eight, and my own boyhood days—using these countless threads as the weft—the Aunt, ever fond of conversation, wove into the warp all the threads of her forty-nine years’ worth of memories.
This endless reminiscence, filled with quiet joy, harmonized perfectly with the quiet air and quiet sounds of rainy Morioka.
As noon approached, from the direction of the neighboring town came the call of “Tofuuu!”—a low, carefree voice that drew out its tail at length.
Ah, this “Tofuuu!”
Is this not the “voice of Morioka” that I had, unfortunately, completely forgotten over these five full years?
This low, carefree, drawn-out quality was none other than the very essence of rainy Morioka.
After this voice drifted through the quiet sound of rain and strangely echoed in my ears dozens of times, it finally arrived at the gate of this house.
And with a kind of rusty voice that sounded the same whether heard from afar or nearby, they once again called out “Tofuuu!” in a low, carefree manner, almost as if muttering to themselves as they passed by.
Aunt seemed not to have noticed at all.
Soon, the twelve o’clock whistle from the station’s factory let out a drenched groan.
Then, the bell of Shikemachi Church—which faintly resonated Catholicism through this city—began clanging.
Immediately, another peal came through, drowning out that sound.
This was the voice of the giant bell that had reverberated the same whale-like toll through Mutsu’s skies for hundreds of years from the bell tower beside Morioka Castle.
When it had finished striking precisely twelve times, the faint hum of thirty thousand citizens’ activities that had been barely audible until now came to an abrupt halt.
Morioka was now partaking of today’s midday meal.

“Oh my… How could I have forgotten even to prepare the meal…”

With that, Aunt stood up in a fluster.
And then she said to me,
“Kou-san, it seems the tofu seller didn’t come today.”
Every movement of this aunt harmonized completely with rainy Morioka.

When he went in the morning, the lid had not yet been opened; therefore, after the meal he went again to a nearby public bath. Holding a large snake-eye umbrella and wearing tall geta, when I stepped out into the town, there were men and women walking about with large snake-eye umbrellas and tall geta just like mine. All walked in silence, taking great care with each step to avoid splashing the muddy water, moving with utmost quietness. On both sides of the street, among the roofs and low houses, there were times when one caught sight of men who had been classmates over a decade ago. They were mostly carpenters, blacksmiths, or owners of hardware stores. There were also women whom I had noticed as young girls—now grown into young women mindful of their hairstyle—standing here and there in doorways, gazing blankly at the passersby. These old acquaintances never initiated conversation from their side; they did not even exchange glances. This, to me, felt as though it further accentuated rainy Morioka’s distinctive charm, and I found it profoundly refined. In general, Morioka—its people, its language, everything—was thoroughly suited to the rain. If one were to come and wander the streets of Morioka for half a day, they would surely find, in front of some barbershop or another, a round-faced girl of seventeen or eighteen with her hair in a ginkgo bun standing there, engaged in conversation with the barber inside as follows.

“That person… I just couldn’t meet him… Yesterday, that happened… He’s…”

“Hmm, hmm. You didn’t go either, did you.”
“Hmm, truly, that’s just how it is.”
“Since then, there’s been nothing. Even when he comes home next time, it won’t be any fun, I tell ya.”
“Oh dear, oh dear, it’s been awful, I tell ya.”

Within this strange exchange between these two lay dramatic substance sufficient to be written into at least a three-act play. If a person who had never set foot in Morioka could discern both the profound depths of meaning in this conversation and its truly elegant cadence, they would likely be either someone qualified as a great novelist or detective—or else one long accustomed to the exceedingly quiet, languid, drawn-out sound of raindrops falling from eaves for a hundred days.

Beneath a crystal-clear steel-colored sky, the solitary pleasure of wandering like a stray dog through Morioka’s night-quieted streets was my nightly ritual in those days. Yet having returned after five years’ absence, I had spent both nights regrettably sheltered beneath roofs—though now with electric lights stealing half the old enchantment, this was perhaps inevitable. Here I might delight in summoning old memories to expound upon nocturnal streetscapes, were it not for a certain matter that lingers, barring earnest recollection of bygone times—that being the extraordinary incident from my nighttime wanderings through Morioka of yore.

One evening I set out walking as usual. From Nioh Alley to Mitsuke Town, then onward to Akagawa—from there stretched Nawate, a straight kilometer-long path through rice fields leading to Sakurayama’s grand torii gate. I thought nothing of traversing this deserted stretch twice over. Nor did I hesitate to detour briefly and stroke by starlight the back of Tanaka’s stone Jizō statue, famed in these parts. Whistling my habitual Matsumae Oiwake melody, I ambled back only to encounter a man in overcoat and deep-drawn hood—though I paid him little heed.

Then recalling Hanagou—he who with Mogai and myself had formed our triangular fellowship—I quickened my pace toward his dwelling. Shikemachi lay silent save for one barbershop’s lit glass door leaking voices—proof enough this too remained human territory. Soon I entered Hanayamachi (let me note its adjacency to Daikumachi’s covert brothel quarter and Honmachidōri’s geisha district). Hanagou’s residence defied easy categorization—the master being some rural village headman, while here in the main house lived only his grandmother in fitting solitude. Hanagou himself, her nephew by a brother, kept court on the second floor.

Looking up, I saw light through the shoji screens. When I whistled “Hyō,” a “Hyō” answered back.

This time I whistled *Hōhokekyō* (the code for my name), and again came the reply *Hyō*. With this alone, the visit’s formalities were complete, so thinking to enter as usual, I reached for the upper doorframe—when suddenly, from the darkness, an iron-like hand seized my wrist in a vice grip. Still reeling, I strained to see him by the starlight—a man of medium build in an overcoat and hood pulled low over his eyes—who bore a striking resemblance to the figure I had encountered earlier on Nawate.

“Tachibana! Once I’ve found you, it’s over!”

I was shocked—truly shocked.
This voice belonged to Suyama—the Reserve Sergeant who served as my middle school’s gymnastics teacher and off-campus supervisor, the most spiteful man in the entire school.

“The whistle you blew earlier in the rice fields—what was that?
“Some folk song, was it?
“When I tailed you here, sure enough—using whistles to signal those underground whores...”

With my wrist still gripped tight, my gaping mouth refused to close.

“At last week’s faculty meeting—your nightly solo outings came up.
“Highly suspicious behavior.
“Since Nioh Alley’s under my jurisdiction—Redbeard chewed me out over you! Outrageous! Unconscionable!
“So I shadowed you three nights straight.
“Night before last—saw you buy that fancy hairpin in Kofukumachi.
“Asked casual-like—lied about giving it to your sister.
“Last night—lost you under that sai kachi tree in Kogahata.
“But tonight—tonight I’ve seen it all!
“Just as I thought—Daiku-machi.
“You don’t even have coin for Honmachi.
“...Hah! In my regiment—this’d mean stockade.”

One could well imagine my exhausted state.
At that very moment, Hanagou opened the door with a Western-style lamp in one hand.
He made a face as if he could hardly contain his bewilderment and, in the Morioka dialect,
“What’s going on here?”
and he asked me.
I suddenly regained my vigor, explained the situation in detail, and then turned to Suyama,
“Teacher, this town ain’t Daikumachi—it’s Hanayamachi.”
“And Kobayashi-kun ain’t no prostitute either.”
Suyama did not answer, but Hanagou, precariously moving the Western-style lamp he held in his hand, let out a witty cry and shouted.

“Tachibana Hakuhin-kun’s bizarre tale—what a bizarre tale!”

“Tachibana! You’d better watch yourself—that won’t do.”
“Remember this well!”

No sooner had he roared than Teacher Suyama’s black figure vanished into the darkness.

I had already described the various changes I observed upon returning to this city after five years, my impressions of them, and—from the relationship between this city and myself—that Morioka was one of Japan’s beautiful cities; that this beautiful city most appealed to me in rain, night, and autumn; and I had also attempted some description of Morioka’s particular charm in rain and night.
And so now I had encountered an opportunity to produce as detailed a description as possible of Morioka in autumn—the most delightful season of the year here—where the great vault of the sky stretched boundlessly clear, not a speck of shadow in the air; where the crisp, clear ringing of bells from horses carrying charcoal and firewood sellers entering through the rural outskirts resounded distinctly even to the city center in such crystalline purity; where the raindrop-like women of this city, struck by autumn’s air—solemn, naked, lucid as a pristine mind—exclaimed in unison, “Ah, ah, it’s autumn again this year…”; of the subtle psychological workings behind such utterances, of the charming conversations arising here and there at well-sides, and indeed of all autumnal expressions born within this feminine city.

However, I must now substitute another account in place of that detailed description of autumn in Morioka.
"The phrase 'another account' refers, in this context, to something that is by no means an incongruous mismatch—of this I am convinced."
No—or perhaps choosing this account may instead be precisely what allows one to express the essence of autumn in Morioka more aptly.
For the reason is that this single account concerns an event that occurred on the most beautiful day of late September—today—within Morioka's three splendid autumn months.

To confess the truth: after finishing dinner earlier, I avoided my aunt—who loved to chat—by claiming I had some research to do, secluded myself in this ten-tatami inner room, and took up this brush before a dim Western-style lamp with its five-minute wick not for any investigation, but rather to ensure I would never forget an event I had encountered by chance on the road today—an incident utterly unrelated to me yet one that had shattered my entire ideology to its foundations—that is, the account I was now compelled to record below.
Moreover, my extreme enthusiasm for this rare event did not even deem it a burden to attempt such an unnecessary description spanning thousands of words as above—all to explain how and where I had encountered this occurrence.

Let me clarify—what I am about to record below may be nothing more than an utterly trivial incident, hardly worth a glance in this world of infinite life.
Therefore, should anyone read these words, they might mock me outright: "What's this, Tachibana? Did you write such trifles with such solemnity?"
Yet I believe this single event stands as the greatest and most profoundly significant occurrence I have personally encountered in my modest twenty-odd years as an insignificant being.
It is precisely this conviction that compelled me to abandon even the pleasure of sipping tea with Nagasawa-ya's famed bean sugar candies while reminiscing with my aunt—cherished since childhood—to instead endure this labor before a dim Western lamp, perspiring through my brush's stiffness as I persist in recording.

Let me state clearly once more: I already believe this incident to be the greatest among those I have personally encountered, and for its sake, all thought I had cultivated over twenty-odd years had been shaken to its foundations.
And now, I stood at the dawn of a new mental existence.
"Indeed—the place where I now stand is unmistakably the 'Dawn'."
I had not advanced a single step—no, not even a fraction of one—toward resolving this monumental problem.
Perhaps before I laid down this brush tonight, I might reach some beginning of a solution… No, no—that was not to be hoped for.
The sacred characters engraved on the surface of this newly unearthed “Rosetta Stone”—it seemed that even Thomas Young, Champollion, or Ptolemy could not have deciphered them in ten or twenty years.

I left my aunt’s house by Shinzan Shrine this morning at probably around half past eight.
Puddles leftover from yesterday’s rain reflected passersby’s figures here and there on the road, yet the sky stretched beautifully clear without even a palm-sized cloud, and the autumn sun above the rocky hills was gently warming the transparent air.
At the relative’s house in Kaganoshin Shin Alley, where my uncle—a health department staff member at the city office—had already left for work, the barley crackers provided by my thin aunt were rather damp, likely still retaining yesterday’s rainy scent.

From this house, going to the nearby Sumiyoshi Shrine, I would gaze up time and again at the branches of the great ginkgo tree—a tree that spoke much of the past—still not shedding a single leaf.
Turning left from beneath this tree led to a rugged path through thick undergrowth; heading east along it for about a house’s distance brought one to Tenjin Hill.
Surrounded by densely grown cedar groves, in the shrine’s front garden—several dozen paces across, where moss-covered stone pavements flanked by overgrown autumn grasses lay—fell the gently warming, pleasant autumn sunlight.
Only the sound of a distant rooster could be heard; the divinely desolate sacred abode lay in stillness.
As I advanced closer to the worship hall, carving the resounding clatter of koma-geta into the stone pavement, I unexpectedly noticed a nostalgic old acquaintance standing there.
The old acquaintances were none other than a pair of stone komainu crouching opposite each other before the shrine.
Having been stroked time and again by worshippers’ hands, their misshapen heads were black and glossy.
And as for those faces—they must surely be considered rarities under heaven.
They were extremely haphazardly sculpted faces—ugly and even idiotic at first glance—but upon closer inspection, one found them truly endearing.
Faces resembling noble sages who had transcended worldly affairs—no, rather ones even further removed from the mundane—faces that seemed to declare, “We’ve never known whether this world lies east or west since birth.”
In days past, I often used to come here with friends to play and would say things like “Oh stone komainu! You too understand poetry,” or “Oh stone komainu! You too are one of our comrades,” striking their misshapen heads time and again with my cane.
However, today—fortunately—I had not brought my cane, so I carefully stroked their heads with my hand instead.
When I turned my gaze, as far as could be seen through gaps in the cedar grove, fields and mountains alike were beautifully tinged with autumn colors.
It was as if a masterpiece landscape painting had come to life.
In the surroundings, a pleasant scent of autumn grasses wafted.
This scent once again returned me to over a decade ago.
In the pine grove of Hirano Field, not far from the local school, my younger self would wander beneath the shades of pines—now here, now there—searching on clear Sunday mushroom hunts, distinguishing between the scent of autumn grasses and the scent of first mushrooms.――

I had lunch at the house of my cousin Osono-san of Mikota—the second daughter of the aunt from Shinzan-dou and a sister three years my senior.
After the meal, Osono-san stroked her adorable baby’s small head—born last year—and said, “Shall I take care of something for you, Kou-san?”
“What would that be?”
“Oh, I know even without you saying it,” she laughed merrily. “A beautiful wife, eh?”

On my way back, I visited the teacher from Umamachi and arranged for us to visit Kuriyagawa Barrier together within the next few days.
As for this teacher from Umamachi—I need not explain.
He was this region’s most renowned scholar: a haiku poet, master calligrapher, and one who had conducted supremely exhaustive yet precise research on local historical materials—my former teacher.

When the massive bell on the Normal School side struck three in the afternoon with a solemn toll that seemed wrenched from the boundless bosom of the crystal-clear autumn firmament, I happened to be walking westward directly beneath that bell tower along Uchimaru’s broad, beautiful avenue.
I passed the grand prefectural office, the gloomy Normal School, and the courthouse famous for its Ishiwari-zakura, emerging at the crossroads.
And there, a giant clad in snow-white garments abruptly stood as though emerging from the earth’s depths—

This is the most eye-catching, grand two-story white plaster building in this city—my beloved alma mater.
It is Morioka Middle School.
A giant? Yes, indeed a giant.
Not merely a giant under construction among Morioka’s six thousand households—but also, in my world of memories, the entity that stands as a giant in every sense is indeed this majestic, imposing grand school building: snow-white and towering resolutely beneath autumn’s azure expanse.
In the past, I existed within the belly of this giant—at times I was a little Napoleon, at times a little Bismarck, at times a little Gibbon, at times a little Cromwell; there were also times when I became a little Rousseau, a little Byron, or Schiller from my school days.
From the spring of age thirteen to the spring of age eighteen—a full five years—my very life was indeed but an eternal fragment of this giant.
Ah, that’s right—that’s right—I thought, and then this giant—a phantom of the past—seemed to sway ever so slightly.
But no—it had not budged an inch. Rooted in the earth as though grown from it—not a single tremor—it remained standing tall beneath autumn’s boundless azure, clad in snow-white garments.

Not to mention *The History of the Decline and Fall of India*—having not even a single publication to his name, Gibbon—that feeble middle school history teacher drawing forty yen monthly in some rural corner of Ibaraki Prefecture—now found himself involuntarily bowing his head before this colossal historical giant.

Before the white grand school building’s front stood equally white gate pillars in an imposing row.
Flanking these pillars stretched countless white wooden fence posts—hundreds upon hundreds.
White!
White!
White!
This whiteness must be the very hue of those pristine hearts—hearts belonging to the academy’s youthful scholars who passed through these white gates, untouched by worldly dust.
Before the fence stood a row of aged cherry trees.
Their beautifully crimsoned leaves burned with exceeding tranquility under the autumn sun now slanting toward three o’clock.
Five or six fragments—bearing broom-swept marks—lay scattered on the soil at their roots.
Between fence and trees ran a shallow ditch where autumn water flowed—water so clear it might crystallize in one’s palm—carrying shadows of white pickets and scarlet leaves.
On every fence post’s tip perched a bright red dragonfly—nearly one crowning each spike.

He advanced his steps toward this white gate, his heart filled with indescribable nostalgia and reverence. On the granite bridge spanning the ditch sat a beggar woman with disheveled hair and grime-glistening tattered rags, letting a stone-like child of about two years suckle at her breast. Around her stood five or six boys whispering secretly among themselves. Before the white sanctuary—this single blot of ugliness! Yet even this ugliness he did not perceive as such. For he had never forgotten that this land was Morioka. In the main thoroughfare at the city center, in broad daylight, a filthy beggar woman prostrated herself, baring her grime-covered chest and exposing her breasts before passersby! This scene does not exist in metropolises—nay, must not exist—yet in this Morioka it remains ever-present; nay, through its very presence demonstrates what makes Morioka Morioka—a necessary condition. Therefore, not only did he feel no ugliness upon seeing this, but rather sensed a peculiar interest. And quietly he stepped inside the gate.

He knew the school’s layout well.
He turned left immediately from the gate and steadily proceeded to the entrance of the janitor’s room.

“Has Teacher Kakugawa already left?”

Teacher Kakugawa was an elderly Confucian scholar nearing seventy, renowned throughout the prefecture for his virtue, who had shared this school’s destiny since its founding.
Thus did the reverence felt in the hearts of thousands of young scholars who had passed through this auditorium converge upon this venerable elder—his gaunt frame, like a thousand-year crane, standing as the very model of a living educator.
To confess—even one such as myself, who received instruction from over twenty teachers in those days—the sole figure I still recall with such vivid gratitude that tears well up is Teacher Kakugawa alone.
The purpose behind today’s visit required no explanation.

In response to my question, there was no answer for three or five seconds—but in an instant,

"Oh, if it isn’t Tachibana-san?"
"Well now, it’s been an age since we last saw you, hasn’t it?"

A familiar-sounding, rusty voice responded.
Ah—I must not forget the owner of this voice.

And a familiar-sounding, rusty voice responded.
Ah, yes—I must not forget the owner of this voice.
Like Teacher Kakugawa, he was Old Janitor Abe—an honest man who had served at this school for nearly thirty years since its founding and had likewise been called by the nickname “Duck” for nearly thirty years due to his peculiar way of walking.

“Why, today’s Saturday, so all the teachers’ve gone home.”

Saturday?
Ah, so it was.
Every schoolteacher counts the days until Saturday’s arrival, fingers bent in anticipation.
I too was one such teacher—and though I had meticulously studied even how this seven-day week system, along with the twelve zodiac signs, was created five millennia ago by the great Akkadians; how the Greeks later imported it from Alexandria; how the Romans abandoned their eight-day week around the Common Era to adopt it, ultimately spreading it across today’s world—how could I have forgotten this was Saturday? A truly absurd oversight.
Perhaps three days in Morioka had already suffused me with its residents’ carefree spirit.

In the earthen floor of the janitor’s room stood a large brick-built stove, upon which an immense kettle was boiling water exactly as it had in former days.
During my first winter as a first-year at this school—when our class of 120 students had been allotted only two heating stoves—I remembered how my physical frailty kept me from approaching them, compelling me instead to often come before this very stove to chew my lunch bread.
Then he departed from that place.

After exiting the gate, he looked up at the large terrace above the entrance where he, Mogai, and Hanagou used to enjoy lively conversations during every ten-minute recess in the past. Just then, one of the children standing around the beggar woman let out a piercing cry.

"Oh! Here comes the ganko! Here comes the ganko!" Ganko referred to a funeral procession in the Morioka region.
How loud that voice had been could be understood from how I, suddenly jolted from the leisurely pleasures of reminiscence, turned around and looked in the direction the child was pointing.
This was akin to how hearing a deliveryman at one’s gate shout "Telegram!" in a shrill voice—as if grabbing and hurling it—causes greater anxiety about the message than if he calmly says, "Mr. △△, a telegram for you." In truth, I was considerably flustered, wondering if this might be some extraordinary funeral procession.

This wild warning was no lie.
The broad thoroughfare—immaculately beautiful under the warm autumn sun that left no dust unsettled—now saw a funeral procession advancing silently from the opposite direction I had come earlier.
Moreover, this funeral procession was truly extraordinary.
It wasn’t merely extraordinary—it was extraordinary in its shabbiness.
At the forefront stood a pair of tall lanterns torn in places, followed by artificial lotus flowers, then immediately the coffin.
The coffin was wrapped in white cotton cloth, haphazardly bound with coarse rope, and carried by two men using a pole passed through its upper part.
Behind trailed a group of mourners.
When I counted them—do not be startled—the group numbered six.
Though I had said there was no need for surprise, I found myself considerably taken aback at this moment.
What further astonished me was how all six showed not a trace of grief or solemnity, walking hurriedly with bitter faces as if ashamed to participate in this wretched funeral.
Beneath an azure vault as boundless and lucid as a great sage’s mind, I watched this pitifully feeble procession advance soundlessly across the wide, quiet thoroughfare, feeling an indescribable impulse stir deep within my heart.
And I thought this spectacle must surely be one of Heaven’s most mercilessly absurd displays shown to me.
Then—that too an instant, this too an instant—I felt: This is a prisoner’s funeral procession.

To declare without reason, "It’s a prisoner’s funeral," and make such an extremely ominous observation was, at this juncture, a rather absurd notion.
But I had my reasons.
It was when I was eleven years old.
One of my uncles—who had lost his wife and children early and lived alone—ended up violating the law alongside others out of desperation and moved to Kitsunemori Ichibanchi.
(Note: Kitsunemori Ichibanchi refers to Morioka Prison.) As he was already over sixty years old at that time, he fell ill and died in prison after barely half a year.
The one who claimed these remains crystallizing “Misery” was the uncle now living in Kaganoshin-koji.
On the day of the funeral—just like today’s—there were only six mourners, three of whom were none other than Aunt from Shinzan-dou, O-En, and myself.
Even with my childish innocence back then, I knew this funeral was unusual—shabby—and as we walked along the road, I secretly felt my shoulders hunch with shame.
Thus now, seeing those six people’s hurried gait, I could well fathom their feelings too.

This too was but an instant.

Parallel to the front of the procession, there was a group of boys coming under the shade of cherry trees.
They were the first to notice the “warning group” standing with me and came running over.

The conversation exchanged between the two groups was as follows.

"Where's this *ganko* from?" "The madman's—Shigeru's." "That Takanuma Shigeru madman's?" "Yeah, exactly—Takanuma's madman." "Huh." "This morning's paper even said Shigeru kicked the bucket." "Huh."

Takanuma Shigeru? Madman Shigeru!
I immediately realized this was by no means a name I was encountering for the first time.
In any case, one of the stone blocks sunk to the depths of my memory was undoubtedly named "Takanuma Shigeru"—and this name, I was certain yet uncertain, had belonged to a certain madman.
In the hundredth of a second that I felt this, another incident abruptly occurred, startling me considerably.

The beggar woman who had been kneeling on the stone bridge where I stood, nursing the infant in her arms, suddenly rose to her feet.
The moment she rose, she disheveled her briar-like hair, her obi askew, clutching the infant in her arms with one hand while raising the other high, and dashed out barefoot.
No sooner had she dashed out than she closed in on the silently advancing funeral procession with the force of a gale.
No sooner had she drawn near than an inaudible word—no, a scream—that chilled me to the marrow abruptly pierced my eardrums.
When I inadvertently let out a cry—"Ah!"—the soundless funeral procession came to an abrupt halt, and the man at the front of the two coffin bearers had his left foot suspended mid-step.
At the very edge of his suspended foot, that filthy beggar woman had collapsed heavily.
The group of boys standing beside me shouted in unison at the top of their voices, "Oh! It's O-Natsu! It's O-Natsu! The madwoman!"

The beggar woman called O-Natsu let out a single cry in some unintelligible words and clung to the coffin.
And then she was kicked down by the man carrying it.
This extraordinary drama had of course unfolded in but a single true instant.

Ah—this name O-Natsu too was by no means one I was encountering for the first time.
It was yet another name—one of those stone blocks sunk to the depths of my memory.
And this name too seemed undoubtedly to have belonged to a certain madwoman.

When these two familiar names unexpectedly clicked together in my mind, in that instant, a solemn, golden-brilliant scene welled up like lightning and stood blocking both my eyes.

I must now, here for a fleeting moment, return to five years into the past.

The time was the end of Kannazuki on a certain early morning; the place was again this aunt’s house by the Shinzan Shrine.

Having conceived a great aspiration for historical research and resolved to go to Tokyo, I arrived at this aunt’s house on the evening of the day I left my parents’ home, where together with my second hometown we lingered over our reluctant parting during three or four days of late autumn.

One night after talking with Aunt and O-En until late into the night he went to bed around the time when first roosters crowed both near and far. Yet come morning he awoke earlier than usual for some reason.
At the shoji by his pillow moved a faint light—as if lightly sprinkled with water—soundlessly.
The night before O-En had been so absorbed in their stories she forgot to close the shutters.
It’s still early I thought yet this body bearing grand aspirations—this heart that felt like dawn before one’s first battle—made remaining in warm bedding after waking seem akin to indulging in base comfort.
I quietly rose so as not to disturb others’ sleep took the hand towel hanging from a pillar and slid open the shoji without a sound.
The crisp autumn morning wind swept through pleasantly permeating every part of my body.
He stepped down into the garden.

When he circled around to the back of the house where the well stood, he found a vegetable garden of about half a *tan*. Upon it—the frost-withered taro leaves lying flat on the ground, ridges lined with the emaciated skeletons of eggplants whose purple had faded to mere stems, and the tough leaves of daikon radishes left unharvested—the light of dawn lay pale.
No, this was not merely the light of dawn—the overflowing dewdrops were sharing a cold kiss with its glow.
The far end of this vegetable garden was, by a single-layered hibiscus hedge, back-to-back with Shinzan-dou’s Lord Shōichii.
The heavens and earth were filled with a silence so profound not even the faintest throb of a pulse could be heard.

To wash my face, I quietly approached the well, having no need to let the clamorous sound of the well pulley break this dawn’s divine silence. Upon the washbasin resting on a large granite pedestal—behold!—autumn water overflowed abundantly, without even a hair’s breadth of a ripple, sparkling like liquid silver. Moreover, upon this mirror-like surface rested even a small fan-shaped fragment of the most vivid golden hue—among all leaves, none could be more worthy of being called the queen of the realm than this ginkgo leaf—which must have fluttered down from the towering mother tree in Shinzan-dou’s precinct on a starry night at midnight.

I stood utterly entranced, gazing at it.
This sensation differed from self-oblivion—that state where the soul wanders through formless realms.
Rather, it felt as though the dawnlight had permeated my very bones, rendering both body and mind as translucent as water.

After a brief moment, I slowly picked up that single ginkgo leaf from the water's surface.
And let one or two silver droplets drip into my mouth.
And very carefully placed it on the edge of the dustless well curb.

After washing my face, I drew up water as quietly as possible, refilled the basin’s water to its former clear abundance, then took that small fan-shaped leaf and floated it there just as before.

Thus, I felt an inexpressible, pure satisfaction filling my heart.

It had grown considerably brighter than when I had first risen, but sunrise was still some time away. In neither the house nor the neighboring homes had anyone risen yet. I walked quietly through the vegetable garden while taking deep breaths.

As I advanced step by step, beneath the hibiscus hedge at the far end lay six or seven snow-white cabbages—each as large as a full moon newly separated from the mountain ridge—thoroughly drenched in dew. My heart felt no small delight at this “sovereign of vegetables,” which alone within this frost-withered field displayed such abundant vitality that its fruits seemed ready to burst.

Suddenly, there was a sign of someone approaching.
Could it be the rustling of dew blanketing the vegetable garden?
No, no—dew cannot have a voice.
When I turned my gaze with that thought, an icy chill startled my heart.
And I held my breath.

As I mentioned before, the old hibiscus hedge now before me was the boundary between the Inari shrine’s precincts and this vegetable garden.
And just a few feet beyond this hedge stood the last pillar of the shrine building, appearing decayed.
As is well known, on the rear side of the Inari Shrine, beneath its high raised floor, a special small shrine had been constructed.
This was said to be the place where the white fox—an envoy of Lord Shōichii—came to sleep every night, and where those of particularly devout faith would occasionally leave heartfelt offerings such as fried tofu, dried herring, or even glutinous rice, much like how sardine heads are offered.
Now, I stood in a position where, through the leafless hibiscus hedge, I could peer into the very interior of this white fox’s sleeping quarters.

However, what sent a chill through me was not, in fact, an ox-like white fox leaping out from here.

Beneath the side eaves of the old shrine building, a strangely dressed man approached without making a sound from his tattered straw sandals.
A lanky man in his early thirties—thin-bearded, with gaunt cheeks devoid of color—wore a dusty short lined kimono, filthy white tabi socks, and a faded floral-patterned merino women’s obi tied around his waist, a scrap of red cotton cloth wound about his neck…… Head bowed, he stared fixedly at his toenails while approaching with a faint smirk.

I understood at a single glance that this strangely dressed man was none other than Takanuma Shigeru—the guileless madman known to all in Morioka.
That he wandered daily through the city like a mourning stray—sometimes idling entire days beneath people's eaves, sometimes pacing the same street endlessly as if seeking something—was well known to me. I had also witnessed with my own eyes how he once knelt atop Morioka Castle muttering prayers to some corner of heaven; how on a summer noon when classes ended and students streamed out, he stood sentry-like at the middle school gate offering courteous salutes to each departee; how during the shrine festival when the famously beautiful governor's wife visited with her daughters, he darted from shadows into the crowded plaza to drape a faded yellow cloth over her finery—all these I had seen firsthand.
He had both parents and a proper home.
Yet that he habitually lodged without payment in Shinzan-dou's white fox shrine was also knowledge I possessed.

After ascertaining who the man in strange clothes was, I returned to my usual state of mind.
And, holding my breath as much as possible to avoid being noticed by him, I observed his every move with keen curiosity.

He, walking with a faint smile and bowed head, soon advanced with faltering steps and came before the white fox shrine.
And he came to an abrupt halt.
At the same time, he let out a stifled “Ugh” and bent his lanky body halfway at the waist.
He backed away slowly, little by little.
――This indescribably comical behavior nearly made me burst into laughter.

With curiosity that had nearly reached its peak, I peered into the interior of the shrine he was glaring at.

Until now, I hadn’t noticed at all—there was another person here. Not a man.
A woman.
She wore a red-striped padded kimono with raised shoulders—now faded and soiled to a single hue—tightly curled hair adorned with a red lacquered comb of the kind used by seven- or eight-year-old girls; twenty-one or twenty-two years old, neck caked with grime but face round and pale…

The woman who was not a hair’s breadth different from this one had come to Aunt’s gate yesterday afternoon and called out, “Please, I beg you. Please, I beg you.”
Since Aunt was working in the kitchen, I went to answer the door, wondering, “Who could this female visitor be?” when suddenly she thrust out her hand, saying, “I’m starving, I’m starving—can’t take another step. Please, something…”
Here, Aunt came out and gave her a few coins, then later said to me: “That’s a woman called O-Natsu—who had worked as a maid at an inn called Kanbeiya in Shizukuishi (a relative of our family) from the age of eleven or twelve.”
“According to the innkeeper who came by recently, she wasn’t so bad when she was young, but as she grew older, her foolishness gradually increased.”
“It is said that Houkaiya—a single man who had been bereaved of his wife early that spring—once stayed at that inn.”
“O-Natsu’s behavior that night was exceedingly strange.”
“The next morning after Houkaiya left, O-Natsu went out to the entrance and kept gazing toward Akita where the man had gone. No matter how much they scolded or threatened her, she wouldn’t enter the house for nearly two hours.”
“The next morning when the master awoke, O-Natsu’s figure was nowhere to be found no matter where they searched.”
“About a month ago she happened to return.”
“But by then she had already become a true madwoman—even when meeting her former master she didn’t offer the old courtesies anymore.”
“No one knows what she’d been doing for over half a year, but apparently she had around twenty-some yen when she first returned.”
“She probably came here after begging.”
“It’s unclear since when she came to Morioka, but lately she’s been standing at people’s gates like that every day.”
“And what she says is always ‘Please I beg you I’m starving.’”
“As clear proof she’s no longer an ordinary woman—you’ve seen it too Kou-san—even while begging she always wears rouge and new geta.”
“Where does she sleep at night I wonder…―”

This O-Natsu was now sitting flat inside the narrow white fox shrine niche, her vacant expression turned toward the entrance. She must have woken up quite early.

Crouching halfway and glaring at O-Natsu, Shigeru—who knows what crossed his mind—pursed his lips and snarled like a cat beset by dogs: "Hsss!" It was likely an outburst of anger at having his usual dwelling place occupied by someone else.

What O-Natsu thought this time, she suddenly shifted her body and turned her back toward Shigeru. She seemed to be searching for something, but what she took out was a small dish—a rouge container. Ah! I thought as I watched. She began moistening the rouge with her saliva-dampened little finger and applied it two or three times to lips already thickly painted. And then, slightly bashfully, she turned to look toward Shigeru.

Shigeru twitched his entire body.

O-Natsu applied rouge again.
And again she turned around and looked bashfully at Shigeru.

Shigeru growled deeply from his throat.

Having likely noticed the slight change in Shigeru’s expression,
O-Natsu hurriedly applied rouge three times.
And she turned around a third time—but this time not out of bashfulness.
She twisted her body slightly, and then, and then, while looking up at Shigeru, smirked slyly.
Because she had applied too much rouge, her mouth—resembling a peony ablaze in daylight—spread so widely across her face that it seemed about to engulf it entirely.

At this moment, I had completely forgotten the very concept of reality.
As though I were watching aged monkeys—having grown old alongside the rocks in the deep, deep depths of a myriad-fathom valley somewhere in the Himalaya Mountains—perform a play staged once every thousand years.

When O-Natsu’s face contorted into a sly smirk, Shigeru growled “Ugh” for the third time.
The moment he saw this, he lunged forward and seized O-Natsu’s hand.
He pulled her out.
The look on Shigeru’s face at that moment!
It was neither a smile nor tears.
I had no words to describe it.

O-Natsu continued smirking slyly as she let Shigeru pull her hand.
The two went under the side eaves and disappeared from view.
They had come out into the broad courtyard before the shrine.
——I too had changed my position.
To a place where the broad courtyard could be surveyed.

In the center of the flat broad courtyard stood an immense ginkgo tree that pierced through clouds - now arrayed in its singular annual finery.
Every leaf glowed gold beneath dawn’s light - motionless - forming against heaven’s vault a grand canopy where jade-like radiance pooled into sharp contours - so that looking up - one saw verily a titan mantled in gilded mists.

When the two reached the base of the ginkgo tree, Shigeru whispered something rapidly.
O-Natsu appeared to nod.

Suddenly, an utterly absurd voice—completely off-key—burst from Shigeru’s mouth.

“Yoshikita, hora, hora!”

“There again! Heave-ho!”

O-Natsu joined in.
The two released each other’s hands and began to dance.

Even if you called it a dance, at its core lay the chaos of madness. O-Natsu would sometimes fall when swept off her feet. They would sometimes collide with a thud and tumble over each other. Shigeru would sometimes crash into the great ginkgo’s trunk, staggering to regain his balance. And whenever such things happened, they would burst into belly-deep laughter—laughing until breathless—only to resume chanting “Yoshikita hora hora!” or “Sore yamata dokkoisho!” or “Kita kora sassa!” and throw themselves back into their earnest dancing.

Their voices rang clear and crystalline, flowing through the heavens like divine laughter—the morning wind had begun to stir. And so the giant tore through its mantle of golden clouds, showering upon them a rain of gold akin to Zeus’ ancient metamorphosis. Ah! Ah! Countless small golden fans—dancing, tangling, untangling—fluttered down enough to bury them both completely. Some hung suspended by invisible threads, neither returning to branches nor falling to earth, their bodies tossed by luminous winds. Leaves danced in the sky; people danced on the ground! Those who witnessed this must neither exalt what soared above nor scorn what moved below. The golden leaves danced their celestial dance down to earth. Madman Shigeru and Madwoman O-Natsu danced their earthly dance in the gods’ own garden.

Suddenly, the great light of Brahma, with a radiance of seven dazzling colors, illuminated the three realms of humans, heavens, and earth as if heralding the dawn of the world’s creation.
First, it dyed the head of the giant hidden in clouds; next, it adorned its golden garment with blinding brilliance; and soon, it illuminated each and every thing upon the earth.
The morning sun rose above the mountain ridge.

Behold，behold—the radiance of O-Natsu and Shigeru’s faces as they danced and danced，twirled and twirled！Where had the emaciated，pallid Shigeru gone？Where had O-Natsu with her darkened nape and vacant eyes gone？Here now were these two dancers—with faces shining like the heavenly sun—chosen from the distant lower world for the morning dance in the divine garden．Golden leaves were falling incessantly．Golden sunlight was shining vividly．Was it the radiance of those leaves and that sunlight that made their faces appear so vividly tinged？No—that could not be．That was probably not the case．

If that were the case, then it would be a form of falsehood. In this solemn, golden-brilliant realm, how could even a single speck of falsehood's shadow lurk? I believed this could not be so.

Having utterly lost all function of my mind—entranced, adrift, dissolved into the spectacle before me—the sole phrase I could now barely whisper from the deepest depths of my chest, in a voice scarcely audible, was this: “Madmen are heaven’s darlings, as Plato said.”

O-Natsu raised her voice and sang.

“I’ve fallen—Ah—fallen in love—Oh— / Lord Wakamatsu, oh—Ah—I’ve fallen in love—!”

“I’ve fallen—fallen—fallen in love—Ah—!”

And Shigeru took up the refrain.
The heartfelt prayer of gratitude that these two heaven’s darlings offered to the immeasurably all-wise heavens could truly be nothing other than this.

The scene that had surged like lightning to block my vision vanished in an instant—exactly as if countless thousands of golden leaves had all silently fallen at once without a sound.
But this moment was an extremely significant one for me.
In this very moment, I was able to thoroughly interpret all the events unfolding before my eyes.

When O-Natsu—clinging to the coffin like a sudden gale—was kicked and fell with a thud, the infant in her arms let out a sharp “Gya!”, its scream piercing and solitary.
And that scream remained its only cry.
I was so startled I nearly leapt from my skin.
Ah—could it be that infant had been crushed to death?…