Pathway to Japanese Literature

1

I most presumptuously and humbly beg your pardon, but I shall trouble your kind attention with my tale for a short while.

Among the eight Buddhist sects, Shingon Buddhism was said to engage in mysterious practices—secret rites and Cutting the Nine Characters—but indeed, the monks of this school first undertook various methods such as cold water austerity and fasting to master the teachings. They would place an object of focus before them, chant incantations toward it, form ritual hand seals, and thereby accumulate the merits of discipline—or so it was told.

When one reached the pinnacle of training， it went without saying that they could perform techniques like invisibility and evading fire， water， and earth—it was said such practitioners could wield powers as freely as they desired.

When a Shingon temple acolyte passed through the graveyard at night, something white was hanging between the trees, swaying faintly.
The darkness was profound, the place itself ominous; trembling so violently his teeth chattered uncontrollably, he fled back while chanting incantations—or so it is told. Yet when inspected the next day, the yukata left drying there was found torn to shreds, they say. As for this acolyte, who had reached such a stage in his training—when he set up bamboo cuttings or sticks as targets for Cutting the Nine Characters, they would snap clean through.

However, when someone said to a monk, “What an exaggerated tale—such things couldn’t possibly happen nowadays,” the monk silently smiled and showed his thumb—a bit like the Konnyaku Dialogue performed by rakugo storytellers—but indeed, he showed that thumb.

And the monk said: “First, consider how much power resides in this thumb—do you suppose? For example, if shop boys are clamoring at a storefront, go there and show them this thumb while saying ‘Here I am,’ and they will fall silent at once. Or what if you showed a young person your pinkie? Raise your hand on Ginza Avenue, and wouldn’t the horse-drawn railway cars halt? Add a flute to that—if you raise one hand and blow into it, trains will depart from the station. Depending on how it’s wielded, this could sway matters of life and death or stir emotions of joy, anger, sorrow, and delight.”

If one were to apply this on a grand scale—in matters as grave as a nation’s survival—there may well arise opportunities determined by the workings of that thumb, that pinkie, that single hand.

How much more so, then, when one invokes “Rinbyōtōsha kaijinretsu zai zen” and chants “Rei hyakuyojun nai mu sho aikikan” while Cutting the Nine Characters of Four Verticals and Five Horizons—the monk had said that one could scarcely measure the extent of their miraculous workings.

No—I most humbly beg your pardon for this digression—but I must mention that midway through this clumsy tale I now relate, there appears a scene where a mysterious woman in a mountain hermitage chants “Abracadabra, treasure of this august era” while forming the bat seal.

Now, this was the tale of Komiyama Ryōsuke—a university student who, while wandering along the Hokuriku Road one summer, had been entrusted with the soul of a hot spring attendant from Ogawa Hot Springs in Etchū Province and brought it all the way to Tokyo.

In Etchū Province, there was a town called Toma—a somewhat prosperous place with several thousand houses.
If one boarded a steamship from Fushiki, the route passed through Iwase in Toyama, Yokkaichi, Uozu, and Toma; then continued through Itoigawa, Seki, Oshirazu, and Gochi before arriving at Naoetsu.

That day, Komiyama Ryōsuke departed Toyama in the morning and arrived in Toma town around 3:30 p.m.
Though called a prosperous place, the town had only a single highway running along the sea, with no backstreets or side lanes to speak of. Midway through the town, he rested his weary legs at a teahouse.

2

While sipping bitter tea, he surveyed his surroundings.
The scenery along the highway was truly exceptional. Though the bells of station roads were no longer heard now, horses, carts, townspeople, pilgrims bound for Honganji Temple, tofu sellers, fishmongers, postal carriers, and others mingled in an uninterrupted flow of traffic. The area’s famed rough sea—evoked in Bashō’s haiku, *“The scent of early rice—to the right where one parts the stalks lies the rough sea of Ariso”*—was traversed here by thirty-ton and fifty-ton vessels like the Echigo Maru and Kannon Maru. Their smoke, perhaps thickened by defiance of the turbulent waters, billowed with particular intensity and vigor.

Behind the teahouse stretched range upon range of mountains near and far, which seemed to twist with even higher waves than the calm sea surface of that day.

Komiyama had rested his weariness pleasantly, but seeming to have something on his mind, he called for the teahouse owner,

“Proprietor, there’s something I’d like to ask.”

“What might that be, esteemed guest?”

“The saltiness of Himi mackerel, the merits of Hōjōzu cod, the ebb and flow of Itoigawa’s currents, the sight of dolphins paying homage to the Nyorai of Gochi—their cries too! A bit further out, whether it’s the karmic tales of Echigo’s eight hundred and eight widows or the spans of Shinano River’s bridges—I know everything there is to know! Ha ha ha ha.”

With one sleeve rolled up—his body was nimble but his tongue even nimbler.
Komiyama also smiled gently.

“That’s kind of you, but that wasn’t what I meant to ask first.”

“Ah, what a pity that would be.”

“What pity?”

“What I want to ask about is this Ogawa Hot Spring here—what’s the story with that?”

“Yes indeed—it began when a hunter discovered a white heron soaking its wound in mountains where even laborers don’t pass during snowfall, and they opened it just eight or nine years ago.”
“Originally, this was land owned by a wealthy family here in Toma, so they set up temporary huts and began offering half-charity access to locals. Then—lo and behold—the blind regained sight, the lame could walk, women gave birth easily, mothers’ milk flowed—truly remarkable efficacy.”
“Indeed, it’s as if they’re gods—people come in droves from all over, like pilgrims during the equinox.”

“Now they built four or five two-story houses there which have since been taken over by others—now it’s become a proper hot spring resort with immaculate guest rooms and fresh local delicacies. Not that I’m some country simpleton myself, but even in Edo’s Nihonbashi district where doctors tout Arima Hot Springs, they say geishas now sing of Ogawa’s waters these days. You’d know such matters firsthand, sir.”
“How does that strike you?”

Komiyama stood agape as though a flintlock had been leveled at his face.

“The foundation of this land’s prosperity—how auspicious.”
“By the way—how far is the road to that Ogawa Hot Springs?”

“Ah, so you’ll be heading there now, sir?”
“In that case, it’s three and a half ri along the mountain path. If you were to ask a rickshaw puller or such, they’d say five and a half or six ri, but that’s just the fare rates for the distance—there’s truly no trouble at all.”

“Hmm, three and a half ri then.”
“And, by any chance, is there a hot spring inn called Kashiwaya?”

“Kashiwaya!”
“Yes indeed—it’s the top-class inn in Ogawa! They’ve recently replaced all the tatami mats, repapered the shoji screens, and the hot water’s bubbling up nonstop.”

While saying things unbecoming of his age, the proprietor looked at Komiyama’s face and strangely lowered his voice—which was rather suspicious.

“Heh heh heh, there’s a fine woman there.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Heh heh heh, shall I bring you some more hot water?”

“I’ve had plenty of tea already.”

Komiyama turned aside and splashed the leftover tea outside the camp stool before proceeding to prepare for departure.

3

Komiyama coldly dismissed the talk about a woman in front of the teahouse owner, though privately he was not without his own musings on the matter.
This man had a university friend named Shinoda who would often tell him: "If you ever find yourself wandering the Hokuriku Road, there's no need to worry about lodging—go to Ogawa Hot Springs and stay at Kashiwaya Inn. There's a woman there called O-Yuki, a rare beauty you'd never see in places like Nezu or Uguisudani—a country jewel." Yet it wasn't merely that a comely woman resided there; Komiyama suspected she shared no trivial connection with Shinoda himself. Thus, though he required only a single night's stay, he resolved to choose that somewhat alluring Kashiwaya over some dry and flavorless inn.

Now, leaving a few coins on the tray before the teahouse owner, Komiyama—dressed in an indigo-patterned summer kimono, a white crepe *heko* sash, a straw hat, gaiters, and straw sandals—shouldered his divided luggage. As a slanting shadow had already formed, he carried his folded umbrella and departed the teahouse, proceeding along the signpost marked “Ogawa Hot Spring Road.”

After traveling roughly two *ri*, the path then became a gradual uphill slope for another one and a half *ri*—in the mind of a traveler hastening to find lodging, thinking they must have covered over three *ri* by now—until at last he arrived at Ogawa Hot Springs.

The inn he sought was immediately known when inquired about—a famous establishment called Kashiwaya Kinzō.

Without pause, Komiyama headed straight to the entrance.

“Welcome, sir.”

“You’ve arrived early.”

“You must be weary.”

The maids welcomed him in unison.

At the front desk, the proprietor pushed aside the abacus and—

“Here—wash your feet.”
“Now, please show him in.”

Flustered attentions—treatment befitting a nobleman.
As for his attire—exactly as described—even that, soaked with sweat and caked in dust, such excessive courtesies were lavished upon a straw-sandal-clad traveler.
This hot spring resort lay merely four or five ri from Toma, where snow piled two or three shaku deep in winter, leaving no bathing guests whatsoever. Instead, it became the domain of rare visitors—wild boars, wolves, monkeys, heron processions, and wild goose flocks—prompting innkeepers to retreat to Toma’s town.
The bustle came during the flower season and summer’s scorching peak, but now it was already mid-September—autumn’s onset—and cool winds rose early in northern climes. Thus there were scarcely any long-term guests; both upstairs and downstairs lay quiet as temple halls. Those who arrived by chance felt akin to shipwreck survivors discovering shelter in a mountain’s shadow.

“This way,” said the maid as she stepped ahead to guide him.
The upper-tier hall of the inner guest room—a ten-mat Kyōma-style space with a formal alcove—had tatami so new their surface felt slippery underfoot and sliding-door ceilings that shone brilliantly. At the alcove’s center hung a scroll depicting Shennong clutching medicinal herbs, its painter unknown. The flower arrangement used isonami blooms in a style popularized by Kobori Enshū, while the innkeeper’s favored red eboshi hats sat arranged with impeccable formality.

Komiyama Ryōsuke settled himself composedly before it.

Now, omitting the tea, tobacco tray, and formal greetings, he changed into the yukata that had been brought to him, took a bath, and returned.
The hot spring’s beauty was undeniable—its warmth seeping into skin and bone—while the rustling wind permeated his being. Having borrowed a wide-sleeved robe, Komiyama stretched his limbs and relaxed with *Koshi no Yuki* tea sweets—no, rather, with thoughts of wide sleeves, autumn winds, and *Koshi no Yuki*—yet even these pleasantries felt chilled by the faintly cold murmur of the mountain stream, lonely in its endless flow.

Fresh from the bath, drowsiness crept over him; even jotting down his travelogue felt tedious. Each interaction—the voice that had greeted him at the front desk upon arrival, the guidance to his room, the delivery of his yukata, the offer to scrub his back—seemed handled by whichever staff member happened to be free at the moment. Their faces bore no resemblance to those from Nezu or Uguisudani—not even Yanagihara. What of this O-Yuki they mentioned? A woman’s name… The chill deepened—tonight would demand hot sake without fail.

4

The large sweetfish were a pride of Etchū—though now past their prime as spent sweetfish—yet still superior to Hōjōzu’s cod or Himi’s mackerel, so they had prepared them as the fish course. For the clear soup, early-season mushrooms from Yuyama; afterward, an egg roll or such, with a flask of sake served alongside. First came draining the water from the cup-washing vessel.

“Miss, here’s one for you.”

By the time such words were exchanged, Komiyama was pleasantly tipsy—but the one attending him was not his intended O-Yuki, but a woman called Hatsushimo or such.
She was around twenty years old, with a light touch of makeup and a slender neckline, her charm abundant. Her lively conversation flowed effortlessly from light banter to local gossip, and before he knew it, Komiyama had downed three or four cups of sake.
The rear flower arrangement was in the Enshū style, the front one in Ikenobō; Komiyama, adhering to the ancient school’s form, had curved into a ‘く’ shape and set his cup aside for a moment.

“Miss, I needn’t ask anew—this is indeed Kashiwaya, yes?”

“Yes, precisely so.”

“Then if this be Kashiwaya, there ought to be a certain Miss here.”

“All told—four.”

“Four?
“I see… Four people, then.”

“O-Kiyo-san, O-Mitsu-san, O-Yuki-san, and myself.”

“What? There’s someone named O-Yuki-san here?”

Komiyama had struck a golden vein—since the story he’d long heard had proven true, his rash enthusiasm made his next move anything but ordinary—

“Oh?”

Komiyama affectedly assumed a ceremonious air,

"Ah yes—what might your name be?"

"That's hardly a proper greeting—I've neither name nor anything else to speak of."

“No, come now—what’s your name?”

“Ask O-Yuki-san yourself—you already know! How vexing… Yet how pitiful she is! For O-Yuki-san has lain ill these many months.”

“What? She’s unwell?”

“Ah yes—a lingering malady. With this sudden turn in weather, she’s grown frightfully frail and confused. Should I summon her if you require it?”

“No, there’s no need for that.”

“But she’ll surely come—it concerns none other than you yourself, my lord.”

“You see—I myself have no prior acquaintance with her either. I simply heard rumors along the journey about a remarkable woman being here—please don’t misunderstand.”

“You honor me too much, my lord.”

No sooner had she spoken than her words faltered briefly—Komiyama, as if he had just remembered—

“So what’s your name?”

“I am Kashiwaya.”

Komiyama gave a wry smile but had no choice—
“Well then, Miss Kashiwaya, I’ll tell you one thing.”
“Well, let me pour you a drink.”
“I’m good enough too, you know.”
“No, really.”
“Even O-Yuki-san can’t drink anymore.”
“Then I shall serve your meal, but as for attending to you properly, perhaps someone else should do so.”
“No need for that—just serve me a generous portion as your favorite customer, okay?”

“Oh no, on journeys, hearty portions are strictly for retainers—my lord should take it light and dine heartily instead.”
“Yes, your meal.”

“Are you joking? Come now, Miss Kashiwaya—do tell me your real name.”

“I am Kashiwaya.”

“I’m asking for your name.”

“I am Kashiwaya.”

While deftly arranging the meal, she dripped with charm.

Five

Even during the meal, there had been so many complaints that Komiyama privately felt apologetic, thinking sleep would hardly come easily under these circumstances—but the woman quietly laid out the bedding.
The bedding—needless to say—lay atop a silk cloth, with hot water poured into the bedside brazier, a tea tray set beside it, and fire lit in the tobacco tray; every detail attended to with utmost care.
The situation had gone so smoothly that Komiyama found himself feeling eerily uneasy.
The woman politely pressed her hands to the floor.

“Now then, please take your time and rest well. Since it’s still early, we’re all still awake. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to clap your hands. As for the hot water, it’s been kept boiling all night, so feel free to bathe as many times as you like. It’s excellent for relieving fatigue and is very beneficial for your health.”

With her composed and earnest farewell, Komiyama too found himself humbled by her commendable demeanor,

“Thank you for all your help.”
“Thanks to you I can stretch out comfortably—you should get some rest too… Miss.”
“Yes… thank you very much… well then.”

Having said that, she started to leave but suddenly sat back down, prompting Komiyama to think, *Hmm—is Miss Kashiwaya finally going to reveal her real name here?*—which he found rather amusing.

Then, the woman glanced around furtively but inched closer,

“I apologize for asking something so untimely, but during your travels to various places, have you encountered anything frightening?”

Komiyama thought it was a strange question to ask but promptly replied:

“Well, fortunately I’ve encountered no storms, the seas have been calm, and there were no train mishaps. As for roadside trifles like sesame ashes in this blessed era—even setting that aside, since I carry no gold worth coveting and my legs are sturdy enough to gnaw through eight or ten *ri* a day like Nonomiya Takasago—I’ve never once met with anything truly fearsome.”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” she said. “Such as tanuki shape-shifting, foxes transforming, or an enormous monk appearing—that sort of thing.”

“Don’t talk nonsense—aside from children turning into adults or brides into mothers-in-law, do you think such things as shape-shifting exist nowadays?”

He dismissed her words with a laugh, but Komiyama found himself growing wary—*What on earth is this woman talking about?*—while she remained utterly earnest.

“Sir, I truly hesitate to impose, but I have a small request—nothing unrelated—regarding that O-Yuki-san you mentioned earlier. Why must such a lovely woman have such a frail constitution?”
“To her already frail constitution comes this new affliction—for two or three months now—and these past ten days have been especially severe.”
“Since no one can determine what illness plagues her—not even doctors three *ri* away—we’ve resorted to feeding her nourishing foods.”
“But now she grows thinner by day—refusing all porridge unless watered down.”
“She’s always been gentle-hearted and quiet—so we all fret over her endlessly—yet she names no pain nor discomfort.”
“This isn’t some common cold or stomachache—if I may speak plainly—it reeks of possession by a living spirit or fox’s curse.”
“Her suffering defies nature itself.”
“As proof—every night at fixed hours—she’s tormented.”

Komiyama could not dismiss it as someone else’s affair.

Six

“How utterly terrifying it is then! ‘It’s agonizing,’ ‘it’s unbearable,’ ‘I’d rather be killed,’ Miss O-Yuki groans, wailing pitifully—and then, sir, she starts clutching at someone as if to speak, crying, ‘Who’s there? Who is it?’ By then, everyone in the inn cannot even approach her bedside. Why? Because monstrous creatures seem to swarm around the patient’s bedchamber—so we all stay far away, covering our ears and prostrating ourselves!”

That was why no one could stay by her side when she suffered like that—to stroke her brow or tend to her without coming to harm.
More than medicine or anything else, the patient simply wanted to sleep peacefully through one night—and since she wouldn’t be saved anyway, she wished to die holding at least that memory.
Gasping for breath—you see—she kept repeating it like a mantra: “Please… just grant me that much.” Everyone worried themselves sick over her plea, but even when speaking of exorcism prayers, around here you’d only find tanuki priests and octopus monks—nothing that could do any good.

“And to have someone dependable for her to lean on—it needs to be someone O-Yuki-san herself can truly rely on! Yet all these guests who come by—they could just refuse if they’re scared of spirits, but no! Nothing but country cowards! ‘I came for a cure after a python swallowed me and my skull caved in!’ ‘A fox made me eat earthworms and now my stomach hurts!’ ‘A tengu broke my arm!’ Even we think such nonsense is laughable—and they say it with a straight face!”

“Well, how could they possibly be of any help to the patient? I know this is terribly forward of me to say, but even though I’ve only just observed you, you don’t seem the type to entertain such suspicious matters in the slightest—truly, you strike me as someone most dependable. The truth is, after the patient told you her story—and even before that, upon hearing you were someone from Tokyo—she was overjoyed. What she pleads for now is mercy—a plea we too implore you to heed. Though it pains me to ask, please stay by her side for one night and grant her wish. For the sake of her afterlife.”

“And if you would kindly observe her condition, how grateful we would be.”

With heartfelt sincerity, even the woman’s rapid speech now made logical sense—for what is called truth had manifested in her countenance—and so Komiyama, who had earlier resolved to keep all suspicious matters at least a hundred *yojana* from his person, found himself unable to disbelieve her words.

“Well now, this is quite unexpected! I’m not on some warrior’s pilgrimage, so while I lack the skills to exorcise demons, at least I’m no coward—if that’s helpful enough, then very well! If you wish it, I’ll nurse her through the night. After all, even having heard that story and agreeing to let the patient sleep beside me—it doesn’t strike me as particularly frightening.”

Komiyama—being his friend’s lover and pitying her suffering, with his youthful curiosity spurring him on—consented without protest.

“But Miss, we’ll have separate bedding, right?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“What’s with this ‘bedding ceremony’?”

“Ohoho, please ask O-Yuki-san.”

“How bothersome... Well, fine then.”

“Farewell, then. Please do.”

“Very well, very well. In return, Miss—you still won’t tell me your name…”

“I am Kashiwaya.”

and she hurried out.

From this point on, O-Yuki and Ryōsuke’s bedtime tale would become a terrifying ordeal.

Seven

“Here you are, sir.”

Entering, the proprietor Kashiwaya Kinzō—who had come earlier to greet him while rubbing his hands—had now grown more familiar and was acting quite at ease,

“I must apologize for our inadequate hospitality.”

“Well—various matters aside—come over here quickly! Given this maid’s illness I’ve heard about, you must have your own concerns too.”

“Ah, regarding that matter—I must apologize profusely for having already imposed such a presumptuous, self-serving request upon you so promptly.”
“Truthfully, it was I who should have made this entreaty, but considering how even such a trifling matter might not meet your approval as our esteemed guest, I found myself too apprehensive to approach directly. Thus, I deliberately had the maids broach the subject instead. Yet now that you have so readily and graciously consented, I fear I have committed a grave discourtesy in my approach.”

I promptly conveyed this to the person in question, bringing her immense joy she hadn’t felt in quite some time.
“We are truly in your debt.”
“What with your longstanding concern for her being so gracious, we too have long since ceased to regard her as a stranger and now pay her special attention—yet every night she is tormented so terribly it’s unbearable to witness. But even so, we cannot simply shut our eyes and sleep through it—no indeed.”

Having said this, he looked at Komiyama’s nodding face and scratched his gleaming bald pate,

“I must apologize for this foolishness—not only am I speaking of monsters without any basis, but even my ramblings are no remedy for delirium! Truly, this is beyond improper. Though it’s nothing to boast of, I’ve been a born coward—startled by a window’s sudden thud or a broom toppling over.”

“And what’s more—no matter how much I say the autumn winds have risen and this hot spring town has grown desolate—well, you must understand. What an outrageous bunch—mixing young and old! Sanemon of Tomari dragged his Million-Times Prayer into this hot spring resort, and mark my words, the neighboring inn will start it too! Disgraceful, isn’t it? These days it’s every night—even if a dolphin cried in Gochi, it wouldn’t make such a gloomy racket!”

“With a possessed patient and the Million-Times Prayer making such a spectacle—why, it makes one want to weep.”
“Hahaha! They say laughing beats crying—but no matter the cause, it’s all a nuisance to you, sir.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Compared to our troubles, you must be terribly perplexed by such circumstances. But since caring for each other in this way must be some twist of fate, everyone should feel free to ask without hesitation.”

As the two men conversed face-to-face, O-Kiyo and O-Mitsu—likely their names—hurriedly carried in bedding. They laid it out beside Komiyama’s own to prepare a sleeping area. Perhaps mindful of the guest’s presence, the bedding they brought was far finer than their usual fare: a mattress folded neatly at the edge, and atop it a pillow that—unlike the pristine nightclothes—bore grime from O-Yuki’s perpetually tousled black hair and what might have been traces of tears.

O-Mitsu and O-Kiyo bent down briefly on either side of the pillow, straightened it with brisk efficiency, bowed to Komiyama, and retreated to the corridor.

Here she appeared—leaning her delicate hand on someone’s shoulder, her frail form slightly tilted, clad in a yukata beneath and a striped nightrobe layered over it with a satin-trimmed collar that looked chillingly cold against her powder-stained skin. Her narrow sash was loosely tied, and though her hair had been hastily gathered with a comb, its disheveled state betrayed no elaborate styling—a modest effort, perhaps, imbued with a woman’s tender consideration for appearing before a guest.

She appeared to be nineteen or twenty years old; her complexion was translucently pale, her nose finely shaped. Even in her emaciated state, her lower body retained a fullness, her entire being so fragile that even the caress of the wind seemed agonizing—a figure reminiscent of a wilted wildflower steeped in sorrow.

Eight

Though he had been told it was merely a nervous disorder, Komiyama found O-Yuki’s condition far graver than expected. Pity rising foremost within him, he exchanged glances with the innkeeper.

The attendant woman deliberately adopted a carefree air,

“Come now, Miss O-Yuki.”

and firmly pulled her hand to help her inside.
O-Yuki appeared deeply embarrassed even amidst this commotion. With a dazed expression flushing her face—like autumn leaves tormented by frost yet beautiful in their sorrow—she sat down beside the bedding.

“O-Yuki-san,” teased the attendant woman with forced cheerfulness that barely masked her concern, “you must be happy.”

Even the proprietor looked delighted, smiling gently again and again,

“You must express your thanks properly.”

he said.
I must explain separately: henceforth, all leading female roles would be performed using the gentle, pitiful voice said to have afflicted O-Tora—a most convenient arrangement where we skillfully employed five or six favorable substitute names like “Haruba-kun.” Yet with my natural voice, not a shred of emotion would convey.
Overlooking that matter—no, rather, I beg your indulgence for this digression—O-Yuki, with an air of bashfulness and graceful poise, supported herself with her hand,

“Thank you… Please…” she implored, her voice clinging like vines to stone.

Komiyama felt his chest tighten—the innkeeper’s forced cheer, the maids’ strained kindness, O-Yuki’s spectral pallor all pressing upon him. A hot prickle stung his eyes, yet he schooled his face into calm detachment and nodded once.

“Now then, O-Yuki,” the proprietor interjected with false heartiness, “no sense standing on ceremony at this hour. Best lie down before you catch chill.” His fingers worried at the hem of his apron as he added, “Even my bones rattle in this cold—how much worse for one so ill? Sir ought retire too. O-Tetsu—attend them properly.”

Abruptly—though in truth partly intending to flee—this coward appeared terrified even at the mention of the patient’s name,

O-Tetsu (this one hardly warranted a formal introduction) had been tending to the patient behind a sleeve-shaped screen when—

"Come now, hurry inside! Even if the beds are separate—what's this? On a wedding night, it's the woman who retires first! Oh, don't hold back—aren't you both from Tokyo? Why not listen to some tales about Nihonbashi they say you can glimpse from the back mountains? Go on, lift your spirits!"
"If you'd been drinking tap water, your complexion would've fared better for *that person* of yours—right, sir?"

“Enough.”

No sooner had he spoken than Kinzō grew flustered.

As time passed, Kinzō was likely growing concerned about the Million-Times Prayer.
O-Tetsu cheerfully laid the bashful O-Yuki down with gentle compliance, patting her sleeves and adjusting her hem,
“Come now, esteemed guest.”
Having said that, Komiyama too found laying out pillows side by side before others’ eyes to be discomfiting and awkward,

“Now, now, you two.”

“Well then, I beg your pardon. You’re no guest from Iga-goe—so even if my leggings get soiled, I needn’t wear them to bed, eh O-Yuki?”

“That’s no jest from you, sir! How rude! Esteemed guest, I beg your pardon.”

The two bowed together and exited the upper room. Kinzō, while dangling two tobacco pouches, meticulously adjusted his bald head, trudged over the threshold, and upon reaching the corridor—*wham!*—caused an uproar.

“Ouch,” he said, rubbing his head.

It appeared that someone had been watching from outside the shoji screen for some time now, and he had been startled by the shadow of a maid.
Amidst the mix of laughter and shouts and general commotion, O-Tetsu closed the shoji screen.
The ten-mat room behind them fell utterly silent, and the two lamp wicks hazily illuminated the figures of the two, the flowers in the tokonoma alcove, and the statue of Shennong-sama.

Nine

Komiyama, restless, soon lay down and draped the quilt over his shoulders, but when he looked at O-Yuki, she had settled delicately on her side, like a female doll wrapped in cotton.
Naturally, being a shy woman, she would not think to initiate conversation herself.
Since Komiyama had taken on nursing her through the night, he now felt almost like a physician himself—a role that made conversing with her feel more natural.

“Miss, you must feel so desolate—I can imagine.”

“Yes.”

“What on earth are you feeling? As the proverb says, bad dreams should be blurted out without hesitation—so talking about your worries with someone will clear your mind. That’s the best remedy there is.”

Komiyama earnestly consoled and comforted her with questions—his sincerity seemed to reach her—and as O-Yuki slightly drew her pillow closer, turned toward Komiyama, and let out a sigh,

“You’re from Tokyo, I hear.”

“Hmm, Tokyo indeed. Even so, I’m a true child of Edo.”

“Well… even just hearing that makes me feel as though I’ve met someone from my hometown. It feels so dear.”

“So Tokyo holds special meaning for you—how touching. And here in these parts, such favor seems rare… There must be some particular reason behind it.”

Komiyama likely already knew the circumstances without needing to hear them, yet he wanted to let her speak her heart freely and comfort her regardless.

“They say Tokyo is vast beyond measure, so I couldn’t possibly presume to know everyone there… but… well… I have some slight acquaintance with a Lord Shinoda who moves within your esteemed circles.”

Komiyama thought to himself, *This is it…*

"I cannot explain the reasons, but I was constantly preoccupied with thoughts of that person—because of that, I would weep or laugh at any moment, fretting so intensely that even I could not understand myself."
"That—well—is likely the cause of my illness."

"I was in such a state that I couldn’t tell whether I was dreaming day or night—constantly drifting in a daze. Though I took medicine, there was no vigor left in me after recovering, so only my body grew weaker. As days passed, staying awake became too burdensome. With no particular pain to speak of, I ended up lying in bed all the time."

Now, it wasn’t that anyone there had bluntly declared this to be lovesickness—Komiyama listened earnestly to her animated account with due solemnity. Of course, being intent on inquiring about her condition, O-Yuki for her part spoke without reserve, believing him to be a physician.

“While I had been in such a state for so long, it happened exactly around ten days ago at midnight.”
“Blinking my sleepless eyes and staring at the wall before me, there appeared—as if painted—the figure of a tall, dreadfully imposing deity, her form both towering and indistinct. Thinking it a dream, I stared intently when she soundlessly emerged from the wall and stood at my bedside—a woman with an oval face, sharp features, high nose, and striking beauty despite her years.”
“And then—you see—her kimono, face, hands and feet all became clearly visible in a pale bluish glow, as if struck by lightning.”

“How strange.”

“Under normal circumstances, I would have screamed or made some sound—but somehow I didn’t feel scared at all. That’s what I said.”

She turned her face upward on the pillow, opened her clear eyes wide, and fixed her gaze intently.
Komiyama shuddered.

“Isn’t it strange how that deity knew my name so clearly—”

(O-Yuki, you poor thing—I’ll cure your illness. Stay with me.)

“She tried to pull me by the hand while standing there, but before I knew it, my body had passed through that wall and gone outside—heading toward the familiar back mountain, across the cold grassy field—you see—barefoot, I hurried along.”

Ten

“When I go gathering wild yams and such—I know this area well—there shouldn’t be any house here at all. Yet there stood a single crumbling house, so insubstantial it seemed it might be blown away by the wind—that was where she lived.”

“The deity led me inside, but when I entered—how can I put it?—there was a stand on the earthen floor with a rough-woven mat spread out. Everything lay buried under soot, the floor damp and mold-ridden, while in the corner flickered a pale blue flame matching the deity’s own bluish hue.”

“Well? Do you know what’s here?” said the deity, pointing to the objects on the mat. When I peered fearfully at them, there lay an assortment of foul-smelling杂物—various unspeakable things.

(‘Now these—these are the ropes used when crucifying people,’) she proceeded to show me.
“By then, I was trembling uncontrollably from both disgust and fear when—you see—the deity firmly grabbed a nail and…”

“(This nail was driven into Sarumaru’s cedar tree by someone performing the Ushi no Tokomairi curse—the grudge’s resentment has rusted onto it. Look closely.)
‘(This one here—when a carpenter was building a house, he accidentally drove it into a gecko’s body. Then there’s an old nail from a shipwreck, strands of a woman’s pulled-out hair here, and a severed lizard’s tail—twitching and writhing—you *must* look at it.)’” When she thrust these before me, I was rendered speechless.

“O-Yuki, what I intend to do with this—surely you must know.” “How could I possibly know?”

“Hmm, you know—you *must* know. Well?” she pressed accusingly, and I—so overwhelmed with terror—could only whisper, “I don’t know anything,” my voice barely audible even to myself.

“How could you *not* know? This—O-Yuki—is for your body. With this, I’ll cure that illness of yours,” she declared with a piercing glare, at which point my tongue stiffened completely.
The deity, perfectly composed, adjusted her appearance and then chanted something like an incantation, proceeding to hurl those nails and ropes haphazardly at my body.

The moment I thought “Ah!”, my hands and feet could no longer tremble—what do you think happened? I simply stood there perfectly straight.

At this, the deity took out another crimson jar from the shelf, grasped its mouth, and chanted another incantation—then black smoke billowed up, seething as it spread across that earthen floor’s corner. From within it emerged a gaunt woman with disheveled bramble-like hair, bloodshot eyes, a pointed nose, and her face turned downward—suddenly appearing.

(O-Yuki, this is the grudge of one driven mad to death by jealousy. I summoned it here for no other purpose—to use in restoring you.) Having said that, the deity suddenly rolled up her sleeve, pressed her hand against the grudge spirit’s chest, and thrust it inward. Then—with a sickening crack—its jaw gaped open, and her fist plunged deep inside."

Her voice brimmed with force even as her body grew feebler—O-Yuki heaved repeated sighs, her face draining of color. Komiyama, overcome, half-lurched from his pillow—

“She snapped off one of those pure white ribs with a crisp crack and pulled it out.”

“How about it? Does this compare to the agony you felt when jealousy killed you?” the deity said to the grudge spirit. At this, that very spirit—you see—clenched its upper and lower teeth and groaned, “Hmm, hmm,” nodding twice in emphatic agreement.

“Enough,” declared the deity, whereupon the grudge became a broad plume of smoke once more that gradually vanished into the jar’s mouth.

“And then—you see—”

O-Yuki trembled violently, appearing unable to speak for some time.

Eleven

Now, according to what O-Yuki recounted at that time, the mysterious woman of the solitary house—possessing that rib said to have been ripped from the chest of the grudge spirit who died of jealousy—proceeded just as described earlier: with nails and ropes cursed to immobilize, she mercilessly struck down the ailing O-Yuki, whether on her hands, chest, shoulders, or back,

“Well? How about it—will you let go of that man? Isn’t this an illness that’ll heal if you just cut him off? How about it—won’t you listen to me even now? Or is the medicine not working?”

she would press her further—and from that unbearable torment—

“Forgive me… Forgive me… I’ll let go.”

She whispered her apologies under her breath.
Then, declaring she would send her back, O-Yuki found herself returned to her former bedchamber before she knew it.
The following night, just like the previous one, the same woman would come, take her by the hand, lead her to that solitary house, and repeat the same ordeal—nails, ropes, strands of pulled-out hair, lizard tails, ribs—all while striking her until the blows sank into her very bones.

“You keep spouting such careless words, yet show no sign of letting go at all. Come on—let go! Declare plainly that you’ll let go! Or is this ‘medicine’ still not working?”

So it was said she would declare.

Needless to say, it proved utterly unbearable for O-Yuki—hence she would resolutely vow to let go.

At this, she would send her back.

Night after night without fail at the appointed hour, that woman blue as verdigris-cast bronze would come to lead her to the solitary house, only to find her promises hollow—“You shameless creature! Protracting this farce, you demon!”—and ultimately erupt in rage to resume beating her.

O-Yuki appeared unable to even speak of this.

“You… why can’t I bring myself to let go…?
The torture is so unbearable that I do say I’ll let go, but when they torment me again the next night with the same demands—even I realize it then—I truly can’t bring myself to let go.”

“Why can’t I cut this bond—is this what they call karmic fate? No matter how I reconsider it, whether they scold or coax me, I remain trapped. Before long, they’ll surely torment me to death.”

As she spoke—her face emaciated, limbs gaunt, breath labored—to Komiyama’s eyes, she appeared as fragile as an autumn butterfly that might vanish if touched by sunlight,

"I don't mind dying in the slightest, but waiting through each day for nightfall—knowing I'll face another terrible ordeal—has become unbearable."
"You must have already discerned this."

"Truly forgetting all desires and thoughts of the future—if I could just sleep peacefully through one night before dying, I would have no lingering regrets—yet even that simple wish remains beyond my control. Though this frustration torments me beyond measure, having you stay by my side has quieted the palpitations in my chest like nothing else could bring me such joy."
"Oh, you must be utterly exhausted—drowsy and troubled as you are—yet I selfishly indulged in your kind words and committed this terrible imposition."

How much untold hardship had accumulated and been harbored in my heart—the full course of this ordeal, which one would think could hardly be ordinary given such a condition—I have now laid bare in full.

Komiyama, who until now had remained silent and done nothing but nod—what resolve had taken hold within him? With a vigor as if to wrestle a tiger, he struck the edge of the futon with a resounding slap, heaved himself up, and smiled a composed smile brimming with valor.

“It’s nothing complicated. Miss, what’s all this about?”

Twelve

“All of that is because of the fever—it’s the fever.”
“You must know this already, Miss—a fever makes people see all sorts of things.”
“People often talk about things like the god of plague or smallpox, don’t they? It’s all just patients seeing shapes born from their fever.”

“Here’s a minor example—a story about an acquaintance of mine from around the Meiji Restoration. There was a man who served through dance performances and worked as a page in the inner quarters of a certain daimyo in Shitaya. One night, returning later than usual from an engagement, he promptly took off his work attire and neatly laid it out—*this is a woman’s habit*, Miss—surely even you’d do the same, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well then—after that striped crepe nightgown with purple crepe lining—he put that on, fastened his red plum-patterned obi, and sat on the futon with one knee raised. Then he swept back his hair and wiped off his face powder here and there with a pocket tissue—and as he brushed his lips, a bit of rouge must have transferred.”

“The page, you see, smoothed out the creases in that powder-stained pocket tissue and was looking at it when—who knows what came over him—he noticed the flat silver hairpin with a round design worn in his high shimada hairstyle. This was the crest of Sukedakaya—now known as Sawamura Tosshō—and this page had taken quite a liking to it.”

“He yanked out the hairpin and gave it a quick look, then with a faint smile wrapped it around and around in that rouge-stained pocket tissue—well, you can imagine how he took it.”

“So there—after putting that in the cabinet and finishing his bedtime preparations, he transferred the lamp’s flame to a paper lantern, grabbed it, stood up briskly, then clattered along dragging his layered straw sandals with silk straps. And since she was such a flashy woman, her underkimono must’ve fluttered about quite showily.”

“She would head to the restroom via the long corridor.”

“With arrows, guns, and those oversized obis stored there, the restroom was large—so spacious, they say you could lay out two tatami mats’ worth of space.”

“When she tried to enter that place—ahem!”

“Without a word or a song, she sensed someone might be inside, so she suddenly stopped. Even after waiting a while, no one emerged. Calming herself and thinking it over, she realized there was likely nothing there after all.”

“Well, Miss—isn’t that strange? You must feel awkward about it.”
“Then that page set down the snow lantern and flung open the door—and at that very moment, something dreadful occurred. But you mustn’t let this unsettle you—it’s all because of your illness.”

When he opened the door, there inside—a filthy old woman who had been lying face down—raised her indescribable visage and glared piercingly. Her white hair was no ordinary gray; like silver wires or a bundle of harvested pampas grass, it stood coarse and bristling in wild disarray.
The page was never the same after that.

Well, in the inner quarters there was a great commotion—with such a terrifyingly high fever, the risk of contagion was too great, and since she herself seemed unlikely to recover, they sent her back to her parents’ home.
"The doctor, you see—he gave up on you, but you recovered before long."

After she regained her senses, the girl said that even while trapped in this state, she had been making daily pilgrimages to Yushima Tenjin Shrine—where she had long practiced devotion—in hopes of somehow recovering from her illness. Yet from the very first day, when she tried to ascend that Otoko-zaka slope, she saw a filthy old woman lurking in the restroom halfway up, lunging as if to seize her, so she turned back dejectedly.
"The next day when she went, that hag was there again, damn her."
She would go only to turn back, go only to turn back—for exactly twenty days. On the morning of the twenty-first day, if only her prayers could reach and cling to the shrine’s gong, her lifeline could be secured—but hindered by that hag from ascending this slope, she would ultimately find no salvation. “How infuriating!” Even if she were to be struck down halfway, she couldn’t abandon her pilgrimage. Gnashing her teeth, she tightened her undergarments firmly, removed her snow clogs, and began scrambling up the slope.

The old woman who had been blocking her way glared at the girl now climbing toward her with a terrifying face，then feebly grabbed her and strangled her throat with cold hands—“There!” she said—but her limbs no longer obeyed，and as they often say in tales，she was already in peril there.

Thirteen

“A young samurai emerged alone at the upper torii gate—upon seeing this apparition, he strode down decisively. Clad in a black crepe haori bearing three family crests, Sendai-hira hakama trousers, and a black silk kimono adorned with emblems, his head crowned with a Sōjūrō hood, he wore daishō swords glittering with gold and silver inlays at his waist, snow clogs on his feet and white tabi socks—a fair-skinned, handsome youth whose magnificence defied description, or so the tale goes.”

“From the upper stone steps he advanced purposefully,”

“‘How insolent! You repulsive crone!’ he barked, seizing the plague demon by the nape and hurling her headlong down the slope with a resounding crash—what satisfaction that must have brought!”

“The page, overcome with gratitude, could do naught but press his palms together in prayer to every god and buddha before prostrating himself before the samurai—and in that very moment, they say his senses returned to him.”

“Then the fever broke, and he recovered as smoothly as peeling damp paper—such things happen quite often depending on the illness.”

“The way that woman torments you is just like this story—it’s all nerves. Steady yourself and keep your wits about you, see? There’s no way such a thing would come to take you away.”

“It’s not that I’m putting on scholarly airs—you’ve been explaining everything so clearly until now. I’d never think any of it was lies or foolish nonsense.”

“There now—do you understand, Miss?”

Komiyama both comforted and admonished her. As he did so, it seemed the story’s tone resonated well, and the analogy he employed struck a chord.

“Is that so?”

Though what had been said was but little, her heart calmed well, and her body seemed to settle.

“Exactly. Absolutely,” he said. “It’s okay—there’s no need to worry so much. Just take a little time to regain your composure, and those strange things will be swept away to the western sea.”

“Yes… thank you kindly,” she replied haltingly. “Well… perhaps thanks to your kindness bringing me some peace… I believe I’ve grown a bit drowsy.”

She spoke with apparent difficulty.

“Go on, go to sleep. Go to sleep.”
“Resting your mind is the most important thing. I’ll stay with you tonight, so don’t worry.”

“Yes.”

With that, O-Yuki nodded deeply, quietly turned the pillow over, and remained silent for a while; then she quietly turned back toward Komiyama again,

“Well, when I face the wall, it still feels like she’ll slip out from there, and I’m so terrified I can’t bear it... so please, keep facing me.”

“Hmm, sure thing.”

“But still…”

“What’s wrong?”

“Well... this is rather embarrassing.”

With her eyelids faintly flushed, she closed her eyes yet seemed to seek solace—as if mustering strength—showing her profile as though hiding her face against Komiyama’s chest. Lowering her head with its topknot while separated by the bedding, she drew the quilt’s collar up to her lips before finally drifting peacefully into sleep.

How happy she had looked at that time—Komiyama still recounts it to this day.
Now Komiyama—unable to sleep himself—had been watching O-Yuki’s condition for some time.
The hour had grown somewhat past the first watch of the night.

The mountain hot spring inn had fallen utterly silent, yet from somewhere far off came the scraping sounds of a hot spring attendant scrubbing the bathhouse while singing a song.

In this vicinity and neighboring provinces, there are geisha and such who are known solely for these hot spring attendant songs. They sing in a tone that seems both languid and lonely, yet paradoxically sharp, drawing out each phrase with long pauses—listening to it gives one the vague sensation of being dosed with a sleeping draught.

"At Katsura Shimizu, a hand towel was picked up—this too was part of Ogawa Hot Springs’ flow."

Such lyrics—whether water dripped from rocky crags into the bath, or steam condensed and fell—echoed pitter-patter in the intervals between verses of the attendant’s song, it was.

Fourteen

And lo—had they not brought in that forewarned Million-Times Prayer? Esteemed ladies and gentlemen present, those raised in the capital may not recall such things: the clanging of bells circling the mountain’s foot, voices calling “Santarō! Hey, Santarō the lost child!”, nor how these Million-Times chants are hardly commendable affairs.
Namu Amida Butsu… Namu Amida… Namu Amida.

The innkeeper must find it amusingly convenient that he could likely see the bedding through the skylight, Komiyama thought; meanwhile, the mountain air seeped into his very skin, and he felt the urge to relieve himself.

It would be a pity to wake her when she was finally sleeping so comfortably.
Like a warrior roused by the clatter of bridles or a beauty undisturbed by the rustle of quilts, he slipped out quietly to relieve himself and returned without incident. Yet on the opposite end of the corridor from where Komiyama had gone, about three pillars stood visible, and threading between the dim lamps hung upon each one, there fluttered a strange shadow that obscured his vision.
It flitted in and out of view about a foot below the ceiling, so Komiyama, startled, left the sliding door to the guest room half-opened as he had begun to enter. *Hmm*, “That’s no ordinary will-o’-the-wisp—its color is black,” he thought—but before he could even process this, the flying creature beat its wings with a whoosh and landed with a thud on the sliding door right before Komiyama.
“What—what on earth is this?” he thought, staring intently. What he now clearly recognized was a large bat—about the size of a kite—with wings sprouting from a black will-o’-the-wisp and ears newly formed.

The way it flapped its wings, crawling round and round against the shoji screens—as it moved, the lamps in the room brightened and dimmed. Was this merely a trick of the overwrought mind?

Now, in essays, it is recounted how travelers lodging in remote mountain villages near Hida and Shinshū often perish within a single night without any illness—a phenomenon known in local dialect as the Hinoenma. This aberrant creature, resembling a bat with a sharp beak, dons a long underkimono and sash. To the traveler’s eyes, it appears as an alluring woman who slips into the bed of her sleeping victim, parts its beak to cover their mouth and nose with upper and lower jaws, then suffocates them by inhaling their breath until life ceases.
“Is this not it? Or is it? In any case, it’s uncanny—such a thing must not be allowed within this space,” Komiyama deliberated. No sooner had he opened a corner of the shoji by five or six inches than he leaped inside, spun around, slammed it shut, pressed down on the seam, and braced himself firmly.
For a while, he kept pressing down firmly, peering to assess the situation—but since no further sounds came, he let out a breath, thinking it safe for now. Yet just as he quietly turned toward the bedding—unexpectedly—the bat fluttered softly about the room.

Komiyama uttered “Namu Sanbō” in stunned disbelief and widened his eyes—only for the bat to strike the tip of his upturned nose with a sharp slap and dart away.

Just as when a cat has its cold spot rubbed, such must have been Komiyama’s state of mind at that moment.

Unable to sneeze and grimacing in frustration as he braced against the screen, the bat flipped its wings and swooped low—so low that even the stitching threads of O-Yuki’s nightwear trembled—circling three times around her peacefully sleeping form. Each time it circled past her sewing path while letting out faint groans of “Umm… Umm… Ugh,” no sooner had this been perceived than O-Yuki—like a wilted wildflower mercilessly tossed by the wind—jerked upright with a start. Komiyama, without protest, lost himself and collapsed behind her.

The bat flipped around and fluttered out through a gap in the opposite shoji screen—then O-Yuki followed close behind, trailing after it without pause.

Exiting the mosquito net—yet another shoji lay ahead under the summer moon—without opening the storm shutters, her body slipped slender through a gap where only wind could enter, and like a willow's shadow hidden in reflected water, she vanished outside in an instant—or so it is told.
Of course, she had been led out by the bat.

Fifteen

Komiyama gnashed his teeth, split a red oak log into an octagonal shape, and carried a staff fitted with sixteen iron rings. Though he wore neither Hikoshiro Sadamune’s sword nor carried Mitsui no Dentamitsu’s dagger at his side, he was a man—a man of Edo—and stamped his feet mid-chase, resolved not to let the demon claim without resistance the woman he had sworn to protect.
Unfortunately lacking supernatural powers, he naturally slid open the shoji screens, threw open the storm shutters, and leapt down from the veranda into the garden—still clad in nightclothes and barefooted.

Outside was a moonlit night as bright as midday—so luminous that even insects flitting about were visible. The lush grass bowed in a single line, and through scattering white-jade dewdrops raced O-Yuki’s figure, already growing small in the distance.

Komiyama spread his hands like a bat’s wings, poised to resist even if tackled from afar.

“Hey! Hey! O-Yuki-san! O-Yuki-san! O-Yuki-san!”

With his voice strained to its limit—muttering “This is no time for tricks!” to himself—he trampled dayflowers, parted silvergrass, shoved through cogon grass, and gave chase like a tengu demon. His figure flickered through the vegetation like a rabbit dancing in moonlight.

“O-Yuki-san! Hey, O-Yuki-san!”

Before long, he had drawn somewhat closer—had his voice reached her?—when O-Yuki suddenly halted her steps, turned around, and clasped her hands together.
He thought she must be pleading for help—such was her pitiable, helpless state—but as he closed in, O-Yuki staggered left and right as if pulled by puppet strings, her slender form twisting as she struggled momentarily.
However, she suddenly broke into a sprint once more, and in the very moment when it seemed she might be caught, her figure vanished without a trace.

At that moment, a hut—like those seen in mirages that are renowned sights off Uozu’s coast—materialized hazily ahead, showing no light in the moonlit night.

Komiyama, adopting the manner of Sun Wukong whose Sanzang had been abducted, peered restlessly in all directions—but the mountain peak stood distant, the surroundings a desolate wilderness. Even if he rode a bat’s wings, ascending into the void would be impossible. In the span of a single blink, O-Yuki’s figure had vanished—*That wretch must be inside this house!*

Convinced this was Ogawa Mountain’s demon at work, Komiyama paced around the house clockwise and counterclockwise, scrutinizing its perimeter—yet found no sign of fortifications.

What a snail-like dwelling! Once he stepped inside and confronted them, even if they fled with shells on their backs, he’d corner them—so with nerves steeled by this resolve, he planted himself firmly and roared with a voice full of imposing presence!

“I beseech you! I beseech you!”
“I beseech you!!”

He continued shouting in rapid succession, but within remained silent as a deep forest; straining his ears revealed no sound at all—only to hear from somewhere far off what resembled bewitched frogs croaking in unison: *“Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu.”*
—the Million-Times Prayer.
Komiyama furrowed his brows and shouted irritably—

“I beseech you.”

Then—lo and behold—the wooden door before his nose slid open soundlessly.

“How noisy you are.”

The one who showed her face had a pointed nose, sharp eyes, stood terrifyingly tall, and wore garments of indigo blue.
A fearsome middle-aged woman.
At a glance, there could be no mistake—this matched exactly what O-Yuki had described.

Komiyama involuntarily stepped back—the woman raked him with her gaze from the skylight above down to his bare toes, then twisted one side of her mouth into a smirk that chilled the blood.

“Oh—do come in, my guest from Kashiwaya.”

Outrageous—outmaneuvered, Komiyama stood dumbfounded,

“Uh...” was all he could manage, blinking rapidly.

"Well, well—you've had quite the ordeal," she said.
"I thought you'd come sooner—you can't imagine how long I've been waiting."
"Now, now—do come up here. I have a little matter to discuss."

He disliked her phrasing; this talk of "business" didn't seem like it would be straightforward.

Sixteen

The opponent was a woman; the fortress was but a snail’s shell—what threat could that pose? Let them have their way! Caught off guard yet gripped by terror, Komiyama felt a reckless determination take hold. Steeling himself, he followed without hesitation and was ushered into a relatively spacious room.
There were no lamps, yet the space hovered between dimness and an odd luminosity—bright enough to count every tatami mat. When considering the light’s source, it seemed to emanate outward through the woman’s skin from the deep indigo kimono she wore.

“Since I have a small matter to handle, I thought it cruel to send away someone who troubled themselves to come—so I let you in. Now wait here properly.”
“Since I have preparations to make, if you go shouting loudly, putting on airs, or making a commotion, it will serve no purpose.”

She charged headfirst and vanished somewhere with a swish.

Swallowed whole, Komiyama crouched toward it as if being digested within the suspicious woman’s stomach.

Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu—the voices ebbed and surged with the wind in an endless Million-Times Prayer.

How infuriating—even Yajirobei from travelers’ tales would have faltered at this; it was unbearable. Stealing glances around him, Komiyama found that within moments—not a single speck of dust obscuring his view—a tatami-floored room had materialized, its walls adorned with a hanging scroll depicting Shennong-sama clutching herbs between his teeth. Unable to comprehend it all, he resolved that steadying his nerves took precedence and braced himself by tightening his lower abdomen.
Yet again came the Million-Times Prayer.
When Komiyama heard it, a chill gripped him so fiercely that—even as he tried to shut it out—the shrill sound of a woman’s weeping pierced his ears.
He stiffened—*Now she’s started*, damn it, twisting the knife with those ribs again—and unable to endure another moment, Komiyama sprang to his feet. By then, O-Yuki had already been transformed into one of the spectral figures from her own tale.

Intending to rush in and rescue her, he abruptly slid open the partition’s sliding door and leapt into the next room—only to find another space of identical size and layout, with yet another identical sliding door. When he slid it open, there was nothing—just another six-mat room of identical size and appearance, with yet another sliding door. He slid it open with a clatter—a room with nothing inside, identical in every way.

Komiyama was overwhelmed by the space—more terrifyingly vast than the Epang Palace—and frantically threw open door after door. No matter how many times he tried, it was no different from peeling the bark off a bamboo tube. Exasperated, he fell back with a thud and gazed blankly around—only to find himself back in the same room with Shennong-sama’s hanging scroll, the very one the woman had led him through earlier. Oh! Oh! Oh! As "Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu" once more reached his ears, this time Komiyama too was drawn in, and before he knew it, he found himself chanting "Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu."

At that moment, he smoothly slid open the sliding door,

“Who’s there—the one making all that racket just now?”

“Uh,” he said, now nearly driven to prayer—Komiyama timidly looked at the woman’s smiling face and could only think that, one way or another, he might escape being killed.

“You who came poking into this place out of curiosity—you want to see something terrifying, don’t you?”
“Just a small taste, hmm?”

“No, nothing,” he muttered under his breath.

“Well now, do come here.”

Declaring imperiously, “Follow me this way,” she stood solemnly and began to guide him, leaving him no choice but to comply.
The moment the cold earthen floor touched his heels, Komiyama’s face turned ashen!

There they were—that blue lamp he’d heard described, that platform, that rough-woven mat, that oppressive aura of the surrounding objects.

O-Yuki was disheveled on the far side of the platform, collapsed and fallen.
The woman deposited this hapless Edo-born lad on one side of the platform, then stood rigidly in the center where O-Yuki lay collapsed. Her short-sleeved kimono revealed a pure white arm, which she stretched long across the mat before decisively seizing a single nail.

“How about that, sir?”

“Not at all.”

Komiyama politely declined.

Seventeen

“Do you recognize this, I wonder?”

She bent her upper arm, brought the aforementioned nail near her breast, spread her palm, and set it down.

“Not at all.”

“Don’t you know?”
“No, nothing of the sort. I’m well aware.”

“Then what about this?”

“Right.”

“A woman’s shed hair.”

Komiyama hurriedly—

“Not at all.”

“Well then, behold.”

As she held it aloft in midair, her loosened black hair whispered through the air.

“No, it’s nothing. I’m aware.”

“And this?”

“I’m aware.”

“And next?”

“I’m aware.”

“Then—do you know what purpose it serves? Do you know how to use it?”

If he were to claim ignorance—*I don’t know a thing*—she might demonstrate its use by brandishing this dreadful magical tool, and that would spell disaster. Komiyama swiftly—

“Yes, I’m already well aware of that.”

he replied with particular earnestness.
Before the trailing words could even finish, the rope and nails came showering down—Komiyama could only let out a gasp.

I must say to you all, ladies and gentlemen—here, kindly consider your own gestures, expressions, and physical states when you would let out a gasp.
In the end, Komiyama remained exactly as he was when he had exclaimed “Ah!”—his hand, foot, and face frozen in place, even the tips of his fingers now immobile.

“You were quite well-informed, weren’t you?”

With mocking courtesy, she spoke deliberately polite words while casting a sidelong glance and grinning, then turned toward O-Yuki and placed her white hand upon the girl’s shoulder.

Damn!
He thought to rush over and help, but moving was utterly out of the question—for even in such agonizing circumstances, people still perceive humor in their own absurd foolishness—and Komiyama, overwhelmed by it all, burst out laughing at himself,
“Komiyama Ryōsuke—what a fool! This is like being turned away at the gate after seeing the admission fee. Good grief!”
He thought to himself.

The woman shook O-Yuki’s shoulder and, in a mysteriously intense voice,
“O-Yuki, are you in pain?”

O-Yuki, her face already downcast, slumped it even lower.

“Hmm, that’s enough. You won’t suffer anything terrible tonight, so there’s no need to worry.”
“I’ve tried changing methods and tools, tried every approach, but still you refuse to let go. Why can’t you release it? Very well—I shall arrange matters as you require.”

As she spoke these words, she turned toward Komiyama.

“Sir, you’re truly vile—this child has endured such trials because of it. Are you not intimate with a man called Shinoda? Yet you—fearing your journey’s load might increase—wouldn’t heed her entreaties, feigning ignorance all along.”

When those sharp eyes scrutinized him, a shiver ran from the skylight through Komiyama Ryōsuke—now as rigid as an automaton by Anbon Kamehachi that had gasped “Ah!”—as if doused in ice.

“In exchange, I’ll have you carry a heavy burden instead—take good care of it and bring it all the way to Tokyo.”

“This is what ‘entrusting’ means—since O-Yuki cannot recover, I’ll have you carry this girl’s soul on your back via the boat I’ve ridden until now. Take it secretly all the way to Shinoda’s place.”

“I’m sure it must be quite an inconvenience for you.”

Eighteen

Komiyama remained frozen in that posture, unable to speak a word, while the woman spouted her twisted pleasantries.

Then the woman removed the single-layer garment she wore and stood completely naked, not a thread left upon her body.
Komiyama cursed inwardly—*Of course this damned hot spring monster would be naked*—he thought.
The woman took out another blue jar. When Komiyama braced for a grudge’s manifestation—contrary to expectations—she instead poured three drops of sennenko incense into her palms. Slapping them together, she rubbed the mixture from shoulders to arms, chest to abdomen, behind ears, then across thighs, calves, and down to toenails until fully coated. Finally, she stood erect.

Komiyama inwardly cursed,

"Good grief."

The woman—having done so—faced the target stand and chanted a mysterious incantation that sounded like "chichin puipui" or perhaps "treasure of the reign," though its meaning escaped comprehension, while flapping both arms extended rigidly to her sides in vigorous up-and-down motions.
No sooner had her body convulsed violently than the naked woman vanished like extinguished flame, transforming into a solitary giant bat.

True to form, it fluttered weightlessly two or three times across every corner of the earthen-floored room before abruptly pressing its face against O-Yuki's downturned visage. Cradling her slender neck with membranous wings, it forced her head back with its beak clamped over her mouth and began drawing breath in hollow sucks—*suu, suu*.

When shown this, Komiyama Ryōsuke gasped sharply and drew in his breath, but could do nothing to intervene, remaining frozen in that rigid "ah!" posture.

Two or three times—no, five or six times—the breaths were sucked away over what seemed an eternity, until O-Yuki’s body became as still as death and abruptly collapsed sideways.

Yet the shock did not cease there—for the bat came darting into Komiyama’s chest with a soft flutter. As he leapt up with another startled cry, he realized he had been lying all along in Kashiwaya Inn’s old guest room.

Heaving a deep sigh and sitting up on the futon, Komiyama could not discern whether this body was his own or someone else’s, vaguely sensing he was being watched. When he turned to look, one panel of the shoji screen—and beyond it, one panel of the storm shutter—stood wide open, moonlight streaming through. Dew-laden grass, fields, mountains stretched boundlessly into the distance; not a crow from roosters nor a bark from dogs could be heard.
Above all else, what worried him most was O-Yuki—and there beside him, she lay in the same posture as when her breath had been sucked away moments earlier: her form present, but whether she lived or died remained unknown.

Komiyama could only let cold sweat stream down his face—*Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu*—as the Million-Times Prayer continued its mechanical recitation beside him.

“Miss! Miss!”

He called out in a low voice, but receiving no reply, he could no longer bear it and shook her through the bedding.

“O-Yuki-san.”

After calling her name about three times, she finally opened her eyes slightly—but the moment she saw Komiyama’s face, she recoiled in terror as though confronted by something monstrous. Clutching his obi as if lunging forward, she pulled herself tightly against him and collapsed onto his seated lap.
Komiyama firmly embraced her trembling back—having witnessed her state, his pity grew a hundredfold.

Komiyama, too, was gripped by fear. With his forehead pressed against O-Yuki’s back, he waited for dawn—each moment feeling like a thousand years—until exhaustion overtook him, and he drifted into unintended slumber. When he awoke, the moonlit night had transformed: a radiant morning sun now crowned the mountain ridge, and dewdrops on the grasses and trees glittered like golden specks.

When he quietly lowered his knees, O-Yuki remained just as she was, soundly asleep.

“Good morning.”

With this call, the innkeeper was first to inquire after their well-being; once even the Million-Times Prayer had ceased, the old man regained his vigor, and soon O-Tetsu also arrived,

“Good morning, esteemed guest.”

Nineteen

Komiyama promptly washed his face and rinsed his mouth, feeling refreshed, but when pressed from all sides by the innkeeper and women about the previous night’s events, he dismissed it—*No—it was merely O-Yuki being slightly haunted*—and withheld the details. This was deliberate, for he had resolved to ensure they could care for O-Yuki without fear in the days to come.

He realized that neither curing O-Yuki’s illness nor vanquishing the supernatural forces required the skills of Qibo or Bian Que, nor the prowess of Miyamoto Musashi or Iwami Jūtarō—it hinged solely on Shinoda’s heart. Though he had wanted to stay two or three more days to care for her, Komiyama knew his own power fell short. Resolving above all else to meet Shinoda first, he promptly departed on his journey, though it was not an urgent one.

Even as he left Kashiwaya Inn, O-Yuki remained asleep just as she had been the previous night. He restrained those clamoring to rudely wake her, arranged the morning meal in a separate room, and left instructions: "There’s nothing for you all to fear, so care for her together in numbers." With these final words, he departed, though reluctance tugged at him like a hand grasping his retreating hair.

On that day, after boarding a steamship from Itoigawa and arriving in Naoetsu in the evening, Komiyama stayed at a traveler’s inn called Iwaya in Honmachi. Though the early part of the night passed without incident, at midnight he clearly saw O-Yuki sleeping under the same futon cover—and the moment he started in surprise, her sleeping form turned over, causing her hair ornament to spill out with a dry scattering sound onto the tatami mats.

There was no chance of resting his head on the pillow—though he had not fully believed it even when her soul was entrusted to him, thinking Ah, even when crossing from Etchū to Echigo and changing provinces, does a woman’s attachment never fade?—he heaved a deep sigh.

When dawn broke, it was said to be when the first ascending train was crossing one of the Usui Tunnels—though exactly which one remained unclear.

Komiyama absentmindedly leaned his face out and peered through the pitch-black passageway—into the dripping depths of Yamashimizu Tunnel, where the train compartment's light reflected his face—and there beside it appeared a woman's visage.
It was unmistakably O-Yuki's features.

Thereafter without further incident, the train crossed Kawanakajima, glimpsed Asama's smoking peak, and gradually approached Musashi Plain.

He arrived in Ueno at half past nine in the evening, just as autumn winds began to rise in the capital. When he got off at Kumagai Embankment, a torrential rain—like bamboo grass whipped into disarray—was lashing down. With no rickshaws available, Komiyama, though seasoned in travel, set out under his bat umbrella toward his lodgings in Yushima Shinhana-cho. By the time he reached that cliffside path, not a soul was to be seen.

From behind,

“Miss, shall we go? Miss.”

There was someone who called out.

When he turned to look, there was no one there—only the sound of pouring rain masking any clatter of wheels—yet a single rickshaw puller had followed him.

Komiyama shuddered and halted in the downpour. *Wait—could this be her spirit clinging to me?* he thought, horrified. But reasoning it unwise to bring such a thing into his home, he immediately turned his steps toward Honkō Motomachi.

There was Shinoda’s lodging—a place Komiyama knew well. Approaching the familiar entrance without delay, he found it already closed despite the early hour, likely due to the rain. But Komiyama was accustomed to this; beside the gate stood the Nurses’ Association. Brushing off raindrops, he entered the alley between them and reached the end building. On its second floor was Shinoda’s room, its light still lit—a sign he was awake.
But before Komiyama could call out, the light on the second floor—carried by someone departing elsewhere—vanished, leaving the shoji screen dark.
Even after waiting for some time, he did not return.

Perhaps Shinoda had gone downstairs; if so, calling out at the entrance would be quicker. As Komiyama turned back to do so, the boarding house door—which had been locked just moments ago—opened without resistance when he touched it.

Without a second thought, he opened the door and stepped inside, standing on the threshold—but since the clerk lay asleep at the front desk, he refrained from entering carelessly,

“Shinoda! Shinoda!”

When he called out loudly, before he could call three times, Shinoda promptly came downstairs,

“Ah, you’ve just returned? Come now, do come up.”

he hastily took the lead.
Komiyama followed him up to the second floor. When ushered into the guest room, Shinoda—still holding the oil lamp—stopped at the entrance and peered into the room,

“Oh,” he said, peering restlessly around his surroundings, though he seemed distracted.
Komiyama drew closer until he nearly tapped his back,

“What’s wrong?”

“Since you already know everything, there’s no use hiding it—I’m grateful, but… O-Yuki, whom you brought here and entered ahead of me, was right here until a moment ago. Where could she have gone?”

he said with a solemn expression.

Komiyama shuddered again.

"Well... O-Yuki-san—what did she look like?"

“The truth is, while I was up reading tonight—just moments ago—there came a woman’s voice pleading urgently: *I beg of you*. Though I didn’t know whom she’d come to see, thinking she must be in distress out in this rain, I went down and opened the door… and there was O-Yuki.”
“She said she was with Komiyama-san. Her body was soaked through from the rain—I brought her here straightaway, saying we’d talk later—but she just sat there like that… The tatami must still be damp.”

Shinoda paced restlessly, patting the tatami mats.
At this sight, Komiyama Ryōsuke crossed his arms and fell silent in thought for a while, but then, as if steeling himself,

“Shinoda, there are things we need to discuss, but let’s sort everything out tomorrow. Until then, just calm your mind and wait.”
“Well then—I’ve handed over the entrusted item, I tell ya.”

“Yeah.”

“No, I’ve handed over the entrusted item, I tell you.”

“What’s this ‘entrusted item’?”

“The one you just received, I tell you.”

“What are you—” exclaimed Shinoda, eyes darting wildly in panic.

“Well, just say you received it.”
“Just say it for now—you’ll understand later, I’m begging you here.”

Since Komiyama was attempting to secure the soul’s spiritual petition, the negotiation proved treacherous—recklessly pressured, Shinoda could no longer distinguish dream from reality. “Fine then—I’ve received it,” he acknowledged. No sooner had the words left his lips than Komiyama took his leave from Shinoda and dashed out desperately. *Alright—the burden is delivered. I’ve reached Tokyo. The rain’s letting up—this is odd.* He hurried homeward.

The very next day, without a moment’s delay, he went to find Shinoda and gave a thorough account of everything. Upon hearing this, Shinoda—who, upon reflection, had not informed him of his whereabouts—turned ashen and began to tremble violently, they say.

From then on, the two of them sent a jointly signed letter to Ogawa Hot Springs.
About a week later, there arrived a package containing the yukata that Komiyama recognized as having been worn against her skin and the underrobe she had been wearing at the time—stained with white powder—along with a letter stating that poor O-Yuki had passed away.
Shinoda remains unmarried to this day.
Both of them declare that they shall not forget her death anniversary for a long time.

This tale has grown far too long—I must apologize for subjecting you to such tedium. My deepest regrets.

May 1900 (Meiji 33)