Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

In Tokyo—now already part of Tama village at the edge of Naito-Shinjuku town, which belonged to the county’s jurisdiction—there had recently emerged from a newly developed area with reddish soil and a sunlit crown-gate a refined figure: eyes faintly flushed as if intoxicated, cane tucked under his arm, stepping out briskly.

Clad in black Western attire—a snow-white chest and wrists visible beneath polished boots—he wore tilted forward on his head, due to some peculiar taste, a hat with a sharply jutting visor like those worn by railway officials.
The hat’s visor glisteningly blocked the early winter sunlight, casting a faint shadow over his slightly prominent cheekbones—a man of around thirty with large eyes, a high nose, an upright posture, and an air of dignified refinement—his lips tightly drawn around a cigar as he now exited the gate and faced the harvested buckwheat field.

Facing this field, taking the path before the gate to the right would lead out to the thoroughfare, with the station less than five chō away.
To the left lay a country road leading first to nearby destinations: Jūnisō, Horinouchi, Tsunohazu, Meguro, and such.

Looking around, carts laden with vegetables for market came and went in an unbroken stream as they hauled them back along the highway toward the village.
Though it was past three in the afternoon with autumn’s dusk still distant, he turned his boot tips away from the station road and instead toward Jūnisō, thrusting his cane forward as he advanced.

Moreover, he was a judge residing in the Ushigome Minami-chō area.
Last year, he had first been appointed as an assistant prosecutor; then, at the beginning of summer this year, no sooner had he been newly promoted to judge at the Supreme Court than the summer recess began. However, due to the year’s intense heat—which had afflicted him to the point of emaciation—even after the court reopened, he remained ill for about two months, quietly convalescing. Now fully recovered, he had submitted his notice and was soon planning to return to duty.

It being a Sunday, and having not ventured on a suburban stroll in some time, he had set out on foot from Shinjuku—both to regain his footing and to walk as far as Jūnisō—when, along the way, he stopped by the home of an acquaintance who was an executive of the water supply plant residing in this newly developed area.

Now, Judge Oyama Yukinosuke strolled along the rice paddy path with apparent delight, lightly scattering the purple smoke of the cigar clenched between his lips into sunlit buckwheat stalks and clusters of bright red peppers beneath an autumn sky so clear and dustless it seemed made of water.

His inner thoughts were equally transparent.
Oyama had never been the sort of boy who—disliking medicine—turned to literature, and finding literature unappealing, then pursued law or politics.

Thus, having attained his long-cherished ambition—particularly his desire to become a judge—and now newly, for the first time, he was about to assume that sacred and inviolable seat at the Supreme Court in two or three days’ time.

With each step he took, what flitted across his mind was neither earthen bridges nor streams, neither distant forests nor factory smokestacks, neither roadside thickets nor temple roofs—no shadows, no southern sunlight, no uneven ground. Instead, visions of courtroom litigants obscured his sight and weighed upon his chest: their demeanors; the downcast eyes of prisoners glancing up at him; lawyers’ furrowed brows; plaintiffs’ noses; prosecutors’ beards; bailiffs’ uniforms; the play of light over spectator benches—all these things filled the young judge’s thoughts. Burdened by this immense responsibility, his hands stiffened and his steps grew heavy as he advanced step by step, absently staring at the gleaming tips of his polished boots and the silver ferrule of his cane. Abruptly, the world darkened with a rush of wind that chilled him to the bone. When he regained awareness, he found himself on the path beneath Jūnisō Falls—where twin dragons of ice spewed from a cliff’s shadowed maw fractured into hundreds of streams before crashing thunderously into a pool below—a cascade crowned by Kumano’s ancient cedar groves that had weathered a thousand years.

II

Judge Oyama leaned against the railing of the small second-floor room overlooking the waterfall and idly addressed the old woman from the teahouse: “Has anything unusual happened?”

At Jūnisō, customers gathered only during midsummer’s peak heat—a single flourish of activity. By early winter, it became a place so desolate one could imagine foxes howling in the upper shrine’s forest. The teahouse rest stop built to accommodate visitors had once served beer and edamame in season. Now only its reed-thatched roof and pillars remained, with two or three crimson blankets laid out as mere tokens atop floorboards whose tattered edges showed through.

The teahouse was surrounded by pines and miscanthus, situated on the shore of a large pond roughly five chō in circumference—its banks made to appear slightly elevated by adjacent radish fields. Scarlet koi shimmered and black koi glided beautifully amid small ripples while scattered pine needles slid across the water’s surface as if blown by the wind, lending the scene its charm. For this reason Judge Oyama had initially rested there, leaving his cane behind. But when the glaring western sun made him furrow his brows—a headache sufferer as he was—he abandoned that blanket-covered seat alongside koi retreating into the pond’s depths and relocated instead to the second floor of the main house separated by a single earthen corridor.

Though called a middle second floor, it was merely two steps up—a slightly elevated platform where the old woman named Oki sat with a jar of salt crackers, a box of cheap sweets, and a basket of ripe persimmons beside her. Before her stood a large square brazier with a brass kettle steaming atop it, while behind her, soot-stained shelves held haphazardly arranged weathered beer bottles and agar plates. Cheap tobacco advertisements plastered the pillars, and discarded fans were tucked into the ceiling. Bathed in sunlight streaming this far in, she sat mending clothes with glasses perched on her nose.
There was no older sister or anyone else outside; during peak seasons, the main family would send over a couple from the Ikedaya restaurant in front of Shinjuku Station—along with maids and cooks—so elderly Oki, being single and unable to manage on her own, would keep watch over the place while performing acts of Buddhist merit, perhaps as a distant relative.

Prompted by the judge to share a worldly tale, Oki abruptly halted her needlework—yet before replying, she swiftly removed her glasses, as if eager to speak. She poured hot water from a separate kettle into a cup, placed it on a tray, and carried it over. Brushing thread scraps from her apron, she quietly ascended the platform and knelt before the guest.

“I’ve brought fresh tea. Please drink,” she said, crawling closer on her knees and setting it down.

Judge Oyama moved the hand that had been supporting his cheek against the railing to his knee.

“Oh, thank you for that.”

In the old woman’s eyes—to the point of seeming a rare sight—she gazed with apparent thoughtfulness at this gentleman’s gentle demeanor, but...

“Now, Master.”

“Hmm,”

“Oh, do take pity—that woman who came by briefly when you last rested here, though it may have been in jest, Master—it’s about what you said then, how she was such a lovely woman.”

She began to speak but hesitated, studying her listener’s expression—for by saying this, she sought to test whether her guest would show interest in the matter.
If he truly cared nothing for the girl, there would be no point in speaking of her and risking his boredom—but with an old woman’s shrewdness, she had sensed his concern. Just as she expected, the judge now pricked up his ears to listen.

“Oh, what’s happened? She truly is a lovely woman.”

“Yes, she’s such a lovely woman.”
“Master, you being in the capital—such a woman might not catch your eye—but through our humble eyes, she appears no less than the goddess Benten or poetess Komachi herself.”
“Moreover, she’s a woman of heartfelt kindness and gentle quietness—dress her in proper finery, and you could rightly call her a nobleman’s princess.”

III

“Ohoho, praise costs no tax—as you well know from Yanagibashi to Shinbashi, Master—but how presumptuous of me to speak such improvised words before you.”

Judge Oyama gave a wry smile,

“Don’t jest—I’m still a student.”

“Oh my, saying such things—you are a proper teacher, sir!”

“Well, what happened to that girl?” said Judge Oyama, firmly readjusting his cross-legged posture.

Perceiving that he seemed willing to listen calmly, the old woman looked delighted,

“Whatever you do—if you have even a shred of concern—please take pity on her.”
“This is the first time I’ve spoken to you here by your side like this.”
“Though you’ve only rested at our place twice, Master, there’s been no one else here, and since that girl happened to come by both times, you must surely remember her face well—though I do say so myself.”
“This too is an old woman’s partiality—thinking her a fine girl—a self-indulgent fancy, though she’s but a stranger to me. Forgive me for speaking such presumptuous words, Master—but for the sake of my afterlife’s merit, I beg you—take pity on her.” She repeated her plea once more.
For this was the old woman’s thrice-repeated plea—her face tinged with sorrow as she entreated him to “take pity on her like this”—and so the judge felt an involuntary stirring in his chest, a faint yet palpable tremor beneath his flesh.

Though even Mukōjima’s withered beauty drew no visitors in late autumn—let alone Jūnisō—and even if one set aside such seasonal curiosities, there remained the matter of Judge Oyama still being unmarried. Moreover, on his way here just now, at the residence of his friend—a waterworks executive—he had been offered a cup of sake. During this exchange of drinks, advice and opinions regarding the social standing of the wife he ought to marry had failed to align. Though admonished for his hot-blooded argumentativeness—to the point of his earlobes flushing crimson—he had insisted: “Be she of the kazoku peerage, shizoku samurai class, a merchant’s daughter, a young lady of refinement—nay, even a maid—I shall wed whichever woman I take a liking to.” This declaration must here be clarified.

Some sort of entanglement seemed to have ensnared him; the judge’s chest—his complexion altered as though anticipating some ill omen—

“What’s wrong?” he asked with a slight cough, yet his words carried weight.

“Because she’s been troubled,”

“What—troubled—”

“Yes, she has indeed been troubled—”

“You must take her to a good doctor. What’s her illness? This being the countryside—” —but this was no mere polite platitude from a man of sophistication.

The old woman too showed eagerness and became thoroughly absorbed as she began,

"I must tell you in detail because I particularly want you to hear this, Master. If it becomes too tedious, just say it's troublesome and I'll make tea right away."

"That girl is called Ome and has just turned eighteen. She's an orphan—until last spring she was raised at the residence of her uncle, Master—a renowned herbal doctor known as Dr. Enoki in the Kōjimachi Fifteenth District area."

“The large enoki tree that pierced through the gate’s roof was quite renowned, they say—yet somehow the doctor never gained any popularity.”

IV

“Though he never gained popularity—such cruel fate, you see,” she said with growing familiarity.

“Ome’s beauty too became quite renowned. Everyone from Banchō to the foot of Tsu no Morisaka Hill praised her as ‘the lovely niece of that handsome Dr. Enoki,’ yet he still hadn’t a single patient.”

“For the doctor had his wife and two sons to support, his niece Ome to care for, and maids kept merely for appearances—surely this strained his household.”

“Then came word that someone who’d built a hospital in rural Ibaraki offered him a vice-directorship based on his respectable bearing. When the entire household promptly relocated there—that became Miss Ome’s circumstance.”

“When settling the household, they offered to arrange an old chest of drawers too if she would just go somewhere—a rather convenient way to be rid of her—but that girl had no intention of marrying whatsoever. With no relatives to speak of besides them, she wished to stay together even if it meant moving deep into the mountains, yet knowing full well their strained circumstances, she declared she still did not wish to wed. ‘Though it may sound selfish,’ she said, ‘I desire only to serve.’ That was the gist of it.”

As for her uncle, he was content simply to be rid of the burden—since he wouldn’t have to give Ome even a chest of drawers that could fetch five ryō if sold—and so he readily agreed.

“That girl, whose beauty even brought disgrace upon her household—to cast aside one’s own flesh and blood may seem heartless, but given these trying times, might her unwavering virtue not be seen as commendable, Master?

As befitting a herbal doctor’s training, she had been taught proper manners.
“A suitable live-in position became available, and she now resides at the estate just ahead here. Ome works as a maid and, since her hands are skilled, also does sewing.”

“Whose estate is it?”

“Yes, it’s the Sawais—they say the master is an official in Taiwan, always stationed over there. The mistress stays behind—no elderly relatives—but they’re said to be quite a prominent family, with a great many servants besides, and menservants as well.”
“The young lady and Miss Ome often come to this pond to feed breadcrumbs to the scarlet carp and medakas. Everyone around here calls them princess this and princess that.”

“I’ve also seen the mistress’s face—since I’ve grown close to Ome, whenever I pass by the estate, I sometimes stop by the kitchen entrance to see her. And Ome, for her part—though I can’t fathom why—calls someone like me ‘Granny’ over and over, clinging to me with such uncommon fondness that it hardly feels like we’re strangers at all.”

The old woman quietly gazed at the waterfall-themed hanging scroll, the pillar-mounted flower arrangement, and the framed conventional haiku; drawn in, the judge found himself looking around without quite knowing why.

Facing each other again, they exchanged looks,

“This house, Master, operates an inn in front of the station. Though it belongs to my nephew, I am but a burden there.”
“In summer, when this waterfall bustles with visitors, I become a nuisance and retreat to the main house. Come autumn, I’m left here like a castoff—keeping watch over this nest as though dwelling on Mount Obasute. Not that I mean to complain, but does Ome find this place inconvenient? Yet whenever she can slip away, she comes darting over—pulling treats from her sleeves or wrapping cloths to nourish me—such kindness,” she murmured softly, her aged eyes already brimming with tears.

V

Secretly, she wiped her eyes with the hem of her straight-sleeved underkimono,

“That’s why I can’t bear not seeing her face even for a single day. When it comes to that, even actors’ patrons would want to see them given good roles and splendid costumes.”
“Ah, if only I still had that monetary gift I gave the manservant when I summoned Tanosuke to Kanaeya’s second floor—then I could’ve dressed that poor dear in a proper kimono with aligned hems,” she grumbled.
“Thinking her current state a punishment, she also tells confessional tales as atonement.”
“I must say this even though it shames me—things haven’t always been this way. Even if I resign myself to it all being the course of things, what I cannot resign myself to is Ome’s plight.”

“When she hadn’t shown her face for two or three days, I grew worried—longing to see her—and unable to bear it any longer, I went to Master Sawai’s kitchen entrance. ‘Why, look at you,’ they said, ‘Ome’s perfectly fine, and the mistress is in unusually good spirits! The old woman from the bamboo shop has come,’ and then the mistress declared, ‘Ome! Escort her here.’ At that, the girl bustled up eagerly, being led into their presence.”
“Lately there had been many customers, but today no one came. The weather was fine, and while admiring the early-blooming chrysanthemums around the Hour of Eight, they served me tea and sweets, sharing all sorts of worldly talk with someone like me.”

Ome too stayed close by me, looking so happy—and I felt just like a country parent whose daughter has been kindly received by her new in-laws after marriage, beaming with contentment all the while.

“Well, since Ome has often told me that you’re a kind-hearted soul, Granny—though it’s not something I usually share with others—I’ll show it to you.”

“‘If gold is worn against the skin,’ she said, ‘they claim it can part the fog six feet around your body.’”

"Your five hundred yen."

"Sent by the master in Taiwan—she had just collected them from the bank that very morning—they were hefty and weighty, five coins in total at one hundred yen each."

From the drawer of the chest of drawers, she took out something wrapped in thick paper and had me receive it.

I held it reverently in both hands, but found myself at a loss for words.
“I stammered deferentially, whereupon she said: ‘Well now—they’re newly minted, with this year’s date! You’ve never seen their like before, nor will you ever again. Take your time looking—since you’re an honest old woman, I’ll let you view them privately.’”
“‘Please take some rice and tea,’ she said with a gentle smile.” Heh heh,” the old woman gave a thin smile.

The judge furrowed his brows; such absurdity was surely beyond compare.

The old woman rubbed the wrinkles on her forehead with her hand,

“Truly most kindhearted—what they call a Red Cross of a face, round and plump in her compact frame, florid-complexioned, always styling her hair Western-fashion—why, you should’ve seen her when she returned briskly from the bank! Layered in two fine-patterned silk crepe kimono with white collars, chattering away with that crisp eloquence of hers—fussing this and that, her body kept twitching in little motions all the while—such extraordinary vigor of spirit she possesses, Master.” She peered up at him.

Judge Oyama silently nodded.

The old woman swallowed saliva,

“Though Ome always insists Madam is all kindness—you see, even when criticizing the maids’ every move with their chopsticks as ‘No, not like that’ or ‘Do it this way’—claiming noble concern lest they ruin their stomachs by eating greedily—what enters stomachs matters less to me than what doesn’t sit right in my gut.”

VI

“It happened last year—though it’s all tangled up with cousins in a rather strange way—but from there, passing through Shinjuku’s train station, Ōkubo, and Itabashi, I arrived at Akabane. From Akabane Station, a small carriage that seats about four people shuttles back and forth.”

“At the approach to Iwabuchi’s ferry landing, my sister’s son lives there with his wife as an impoverished tenant farmer. Though their circumstances are humble, he is such a kind-hearted soul that I find myself relying on him in my heart, even if I don’t openly depend on them.”

“When I visited after such a long absence, they let me stay overnight in their cramped home. The next day, as I was leaving past noon, my nephew picked persimmons from beside the storehouse, wrapped them in the furoshiki I’d brought for gifts, and said, ‘Auntie, even if it’s just some trifling thing, take it with you.’”

“In return for your kindness, I’ve deliberately calculated and left some small change here—with this, please ride the second-class car so your back won’t ache,” he insisted, which must have made him feel quite pleased.

“It’s wasteful, but very well—let’s ride.”

“Ah, take care now, Granny!” the wife said kindly.

Both of them were about to head out to the fields and, saying they wouldn’t see her off properly, stood barefoot side by side at the gate watching.
When I returned from Iwabuchi to the station, they soon began selling tickets for the Shinjuku-bound train. Then, unashamed in this attire of mine, I purchased a ticket—though first and second class are sold at separate counters, you see, Master.

"Not jostling nor being jostled in the crowd—this too thanks to the couple's kindness—and feeling emboldened by my joy, I boldly entered another waiting room. There was no one there—oh, how twice as splendid it was! Upholstered in brocade resembling Western damask. When I sat down, it sank softly with a poof, and my fingertips made a soft popping sound—"

The old woman aligned her hands and lightly brushed them sideways,

"Just as I was restraining myself from leaping up—wondering how my courage had steadied so—there you have it, four or five people came scattering in: Madam Sawai and her company."

When suddenly shawls and cloth bundles clattered onto the tabletop, the younger man among their group thudded his gun down heavily.
“Because the gun muzzle was pointed at my chest, I leapt up—Master—and while my vision swam, I bowed, when the mistress’s voice—”
“Oh, Granny, this is a first-class waiting room, you know,” she said...
Whatever the state of people’s stomachs or hunger may be, what I cannot fathom lies here—but at that moment, drenched in cold sweat and wishing I could vanish into a hole, I dejectedly sank into an ice-cold chair in the corner.

The one who came trotting hurriedly after them turned out to be none other than Ome herself among the attendants.

"The whole family lined up around the table," she continued, "but Ome wouldn't take her seat facing the young mistress where it stood empty—'Oh, there's a seat here—come, sit over here. You'll catch cold otherwise,' said the Master."

The old woman once again had tears in her eyes,

“Taking a handkerchief from her sleeve—imagine that!—she grabbed hold of that splendid chair and must’ve dusted it off despite the crowd’s grime. That was when I first became acquainted with that girl.”

Wait—that too had been the first time Judge Oyama saw Ome.

VII

The old woman knew only that Ome had unexpectedly come to her teahouse when this gentleman had rested there some days prior—but did she know that at that very moment, at Akabane Station, as Sawai’s party sat encircling a table, he—far removed, hat pulled low, coat collar raised, exhaling that telltale purple smoke—had fixed his clear eyes, only his eyes visible, upon the entire scene?

Though the old woman now said nothing of that matter, in truth, when Ome was invited to dust a chair and beckoned over, this crone—ostentatiously pulling a blue-class ticket from her obi while muttering “How presumptuous for one like me”—glared sidelong at Madam’s entourage, shuffled forward to reclaim her former seat where Ome now stood behind her, then clasped her hands in prayer toward the maid, even witnessing how thoroughly disconcerted the group became. Thus, while their meeting at this teahouse had been mere chance for the girl and the old woman alike, for Judge Oyama, it was nothing short of a miraculous encounter.

To Judge Oyama—who knew of the comedy Oki had performed at the station—the Old Woman’s bygone splendor, her history of summoning actors to the teahouse’s upper floor, her endurance of this desolate solitude through autumn and winter alone—all these matters intertwined throughout. Yet he kept silent about everything, concealing even these thoughts alongside his secret feelings for Ome. What weighed on him was concern for the woman’s fate; what he wished to hear was how the Old Woman had come to receive those gold coins—

“And then, when you showed me those gold coins—”

When he pressed her with questions, the response proved utterly unexpected—

“Those gold coins—the five hundred yen—had completely vanished that very night when they tried to take them from the chest’s drawer for use,” she paused mid-sentence. The old woman sighed while observing Judge Oyama’s face—and Oyama too widened his eyes sharply.

As he listened, Judge Oyama had silently connected threads between the old woman’s conduct at Akabane Station and how the mistress had made her receive those coins—assuming these strands might somehow entangle Ome’s fate—yet this revelation of five hundred yen disappearing struck him as astonishing beyond measure.

“What—completely vanished?” The Judge too widened his eyes sharply, but these people, in their disposition, were not the sort to panic over a sum where “five” became “hundred” and bore the mark of yen.

“Mercy me, what could have happened? I myself saw it placed in the drawer at that time—why, even hearing of this astonishes me! The mansion was in a great uproar.”
“The women tumbled over each other as if a hair-cutting demon had stormed in—whirling about and colliding—and Ome herself turned pale as snow came rushing over to tell me all about it.”

“Now even after two days pass, then three—’twouldn’t be discovered,” Madam declared, “wanting no criminal from her own household exposed inside or out. ‘We’ll avoid public scandal, but still—such negligence it is! I’m terribly concerned about facing Master’s reproach.’” To every visitor who came offering sympathy, she’d stress—“even if it’s just a trifle, even if it’s just a trifle”—spreading word of it all.

“And so it came to pass—Sasuke, you see, the proprietor of that large greengrocer’s who’d long frequented their household. Ordinarily, he’d have his many servants haul goods about while he sat at the counter, operating extensively around Yotsuya—yet this man went out of his way to visit the mansion and recommended him to Madam.”
“Now this, Master—a large-nosed old goblin who prowls around Meguro, Horinouchi, Shibuya, Ōkubo, this whole Meguro area, conversing with beings from the sky at midnight without anyone knowing, they say.”

VIII

“Master, if you have ever passed through this area, have you not seen him on country roads?”
“If you have seen him, Master, then surely you would understand if I were to mention just ‘the nose.’”

Judge Oyama interjected,

“A nose—what a large-nosed old man,”

“Did you catch sight of him?”

“Hmm, I did think there was a peculiar individual when I came by the other day—so that was him?”

“That’s precisely it, Master.”

“Wait—right there,” the Judge said, twisting his upper body diagonally as he leaned on the railing and pointed to a thicket where the path beneath the waterfall undulated about three times before disappearing into the shade of leaves.

“After exiting that thicket, a short way along the roadside where the sunlight falls well, there’s what I believe to be a gardener’s gate.”

“Yes, that would be Uekichi.”

“Ah, I see. In front of that gate, seemingly meant to be taken to some festival around Yotsuya, there were Patrinia scabiosifolia, bellflowers, gentians—nothing remarkable, just ordinary wild plants—piled there in full, splendid bloom.”

I had just begun to lower my gaze when a single small snake darted before my eyes—perhaps drawn by the unseasonable warmth lingering just after the autumn equinox—and slipped from beneath the gardener’s hedge to cut across the path into the field’s grasses.
Because I hated it, I shuddered and stopped; but when I tried to start walking again, wasn’t there something even more unsettling than the snake?

That was the old man!

He wore a stained, striped wide-sleeved kimono thickly padded with cotton, his back rounded toward the sun—yet his stature stood rather short.
Clad in grass-green loose trousers and straw sandals, he stood there—his face at cart-bed level. A face, to be sure, but truly, that nose was all nose.

“That must be it, Master.”

“It’s not merely tall—that’s extraordinary. A horse-like face with a head as large as a torso; a white beard growing as if needles had been carved and smeared across his skin; a chin sagging below his navel down to his jowls; and that nose tip—pressed over his mouth—coiled like a spring.”

“It bore a pale red hue yet lacked any defining lines.”

His eyes squinted weakly beneath sparse eyebrows; his back bent as though bearing some great weight. He pressed a short staff—thick-gripped like a boatman’s oar—to his lips and stacked his hands atop it. With that posture, the weight must have been considerable—his nose resting there listlessly, his breathing labored like a convalescent’s. Altogether—what a nose! As if every ounce of vigor from his body had gathered and festered there.

“And how he stood hunched over—it could only bring to mind a wild goose sleeping.”

“Yes, indeed—it’s like the shape of a specter’s umbrella slicing through a dragonfly.”

“There was a stench as if entering a village of rotting citrus; that old man—likely having overindulged in Hinambokko citrus until his face flushed crimson—held a large brass ear pick in one hand, propped his staff against his nose, set his horse-like visage, and began scratching his ear canal.”

“That is his habit, Master—he has never once let go of that ear pick, no matter the circumstance.”

“It was so extraordinary—hmm, these aren’t the gardener’s wares but potted plants meant to decorate some makeshift stall. This old man must be preparing a sideshow act,” I muttered, pressing my hand over my nose to block the foul stench as I watched—when suddenly, he began to chuckle.

What terrifying nasal breathing! He was thrusting his face into a planter loaded on a cart, sniffing bellflowers.

"He had no aesthetic sense, but I couldn't bear to see how pitiful the autumn plants looked.
'I didn't even glance back—just hurried straight through here. But what in blazes was that?' said Judge Oyama, knitting his brows together.

'Please listen, Master—because of that old man, Ome has been driven to flee.'"

IX

“First of all, he’s a fortune-teller—Sasuke recommended him to Madam—and the nose performs divination.”

“Divination.”

“Yes, he performs divination, Master—but not the sort where one reads those bamboo sticks and arranges counting rods.”
“The newspapers wrote about it with great fanfare two or three times in some paper or other.”
“They say it’s something complicated like Christianity—calling him a prophet or whatnot—but really, he’s like the Living Tathagata-sama who sees clear through a thousand years ahead, knowing this is thus and that is so,’ or so they claim.”

While listening to her speak with a serious face, Judge Oyama lightly pressed two or so clenched fists positioned sideways against the rim of the brazier, as if confirming,

“That nose—the Living Tathagata?”

“No, the newspapers called him a ‘Prophet’—though I don’t quite understand what that means—but that’s how they presented it, they say. After all, you see—back during the First Sino-Japanese War in the 27th and 28th years [of Meiji], from start to finish, he predicted it all: yesterday this castle would fall, today a terrifying warship would sink, tomorrow a great battle in the snow—though of course we should rejoice at our victories! No—he’d say the fighting would end in two or three months, and soon Taiwan would become Japan’s. Every single thing he declared came true—it’d be foolish to think he didn’t know it all more orderly than the newspaper extras. Ah! Even now, they say—‘A dog’s sniffed out the Qing army’s landmines and is digging them up with its paws! Look there—an eagle’s perched on the warship’s mast! An auspicious sign!’ And wasn’t that the very boast—how he knew things about those gentlemen who went off to China for the war—things their own parents or wives couldn’t fathom even in their dreams—as plainly as if he held them in his hand?”

And it stands to reason—this old man had vanished from society around eighteen or nineteen, and ever since had secluded himself on Mount Hakun among the Kōshū mountain ranges. There, where all human presence had ceased, he purified his practices until he gained freedom to converse with formless, shadowless entities—truly an extraordinary Prophet. As for descriptions of that mountain, they wrote of it as vividly as a grand Satsuma tapestry.

That nose belongs to that very old man.

“Yes—no, that’s correct. Even if you’ve heard of him through the newspapers, Master, you’d never imagine that old man being the one they wrote about. They say they didn’t write a single word about his large nose, you see. Of course, if Lord Shōki were to laugh aloud, demons would hardly cower—but when we call him the Living Tathagata and the newspapers name him that Prophet, well! With a nose like that on your Living Tathagata-sama or Prophet-dono, there’s nothing remotely worth revering—it’s just a flower blooming for sale, I tell you.”

“Yet it was said clouds and mist hang thick there, making midday pitch-dark—and on that peak along the Kōshū Kaidō, there remains a hermitage where the old man still sometimes secludes himself.”
“That place lies behind Fuchū’s tutelary shrine, you see—a small hill that seems within arm’s reach.”
“To be sure, it’s a spot where laborers ceased coming since ancient times thousands of years past—though were bracken to grow there, children might venture in to gather it. Just look—even the cliff across Ochanomizu hasn’t had a soul set foot there since Lord Sendai’s days of digging moats.”
“Shade-darkened places stay dim from morning wherever they lie—after all, it’s ground where such a nose grows, thick as a sprouting loofah! Careless entry would have you stumble upon earthworms ascending to heaven—wouldn’t that spin your head clean round?” The old woman launched rapid-fire, as though stirred to agitation.

X

She caught her breath and continued,

“First of all, he claims to have foreseen everything about the First Sino-Japanese War—as if he’d opened a mountain shrine’s door, taken hold of the god’s horse’s bridle, and dashed barefoot through the sky to assist at Port Arthur—but truth be told, he understood nothing of such matters while the war was actually raging.”
“It was only from the year before last to around last year that people began making a fuss about it—so on days when I doubted him, his predictions never came true.”
“But well, you see—since all his omens of victory came true and that’s fact, it’s all well and good. When I first heard those stories, oh my, Master—”

As if pleading with the silently listening Judge,

“Aren’t you troubled?”

“Let me hear everything.”

Judge Oyama showed no sign of weariness; Oki hurriedly,

“Yes, please.”
“Unless I explain the particulars, you’ll never grasp it.”
“We used to think him a blessed soul when we heard how he’d prayed over the war matters, secluded himself in devotion, fasted—why, even that hideous nose of his seemed somehow sacred then. But now with this Ome business, we’ve turned full against him—hateful wretch! It gnaws at my very bones, I tell you.”

“How could anything that wretch says ever come true? There’s no divination or nonsense to him!”

“But even without an ounce of virtue worth revering—even if I don’t worship him—he’s such a detestable creature that I can’t help fearing... Though I can’t see him, he must be listening somewhere to me speaking ill like this, just waiting to exact revenge. A truly sinister old man,”

As she spoke, the Old Woman—bathed in twilight’s sudden burst of brightness within the dim, lusterless storeroom below—glanced around her seat at the thinly soiled zabuton cushion where no one sat. Her manner suggested she felt watched as she lowered her voice,

“To begin with, that old man was a retiree from a household along the Kōshū Highway—neither quite a small merchant nor stew vendor nor teahouse proprietor, but peddling cheap sweets, persimmons, manjū and suchlike. We’d heard stories from our parents since childhood that around sixteen or seventeen—whether spirited away, kidnapped or simply vanished without trace—he disappeared.”
“They say they treated the day he vanished almost as a death anniversary—but after about seven years had passed, he suddenly showed himself to his family again—or so it’s told.”

"And you see, Master—he didn’t return properly. ‘He opened the gable and stuck only his face out—isn’t that dreadful? They say it was the very Hour of the Ox (1–3 AM),’ the old woman said, hunching her shoulders."

“Moreover, it was said to be the same night he had been taken during that unrelenting May rain—with a voice as withered as his face—”

(Is everyone in the household safe?) he had reportedly said.
“When they looked, wasn’t there a blurred nose peering out from between the pitch-dark gables?”

Everyone must have shrunk back in terror, as though bound hand and foot—but they say that even as a child who had strayed into the occult, he had been so endearing you’d want to pinch his nose—back when his parents were still alive.

As the father tried to approach—(Hey, now...)—he let out a strange voice,

“Do not approach me—I will have no dealings with humans for a time,” he said, waving him off as if to drive him away. Then, declaring it a “full repayment of debts,” he taught them how to make the manjū filling at that moment—before vanishing from the roof once more, they say. And ever since, those Shimaya manjū have become a renowned specialty along the highway.”

Eleven

“The outer layer’s just ordinary country-style manjū with a coarse wheat aroma, but the filling’s exceptional—truly indescribable in its deliciousness. What’s more, even after days, they don’t dry out and keep their flavor unchanged. That reputation makes them sell like wildfire! Not just nearby areas—they get packaged as souvenirs all the way to Fuchū and Hachiōji. In Mitaka Village’s Jindaiji, Sakurai, Komagaeshi—why, they’ve even come to boast to Tokyo customers that these are the finest tea accompaniments you’ll find!”

Within three to five years, they rapidly built up their fortune: expanding their house, constructing a parlor, crowding both sides of the passageway courtyard with customers—such momentum that they even built two storehouses in front. All this from what began as a mere stall serving bitter tea—now a sudden fortune.

After showing his face once in the seventh year, every year on that night of the May rains, he would surely peek once from the gable,

“Is everyone in the household safe?” Oh, how dreadful!” Oki laughed bleakly and trembled.

In their family of three brothers—with Niemon being their firstborn and main heir—it fell upon his younger sibling next in line; however, finding this duty detestable, he fled home and became a monk.

Now, the youngest brother—called Sanzō—took over the household. But with their prosperity unmatched along the highway, how could he remain just plain Sanzō? At gatherings, he sits in the highest seat as Master Sanzō.

“Whose protection do they think this is? They treat him like a god, bowing down in worship, saying it’s all thanks to our elder brother’s guardianship—some repayment of debts!”

The old woman pressed her palms together demonstratively,

“Every year, on that same rainy May night when he stuck his nose out from the gable, they would ask, ‘What is it you desire?’ and he would reply, ‘Just leave one wife here for me’—so it’s said.”

“Hmm,”

“Well, do listen—this is how it is.”

After that, no matter what else was happening, they would search, and there would be one.
“If those who came were prepared to serve for life, the Shimaya house intended to keep them confined—it made no difference if they were elderly or disabled.”

“Fair-skinned and beautiful ones are gooood.”

In a changed voice, he would proclaim his preferences from the gable opening—so they brought an eighteen-year-old. The first bride began moaning and weeping from the very night she arrived—you see—and within three months grew emaciated and died.

The next one too would let out screams now and then, they say, but after two years she became mere skin and bones—pitifully, she too met her end.

Well, those who came—one after another—none lasted a year or two, let alone five, until nine had perished.

“They must’ve handed out gold coins as needed, but truly—what a vast world it is—to think there were eight or nine women with proper features, limbs, torsos, black hair, and fair complexions! As the tenth, there was a woman reputed to have lived thirteen years—when I happened to stop by that area to buy manjū, I caught a glimpse of her.”

“She was a large-framed woman with a straight nose, fair complexion, and a somewhat fearsome demeanor—disheveled hair bound by a pale blue headband, giving the appearance of an invalid. Yet there she sat slovenly at the edge of the inner hearth, one knee raised, resting her forehead on a long-stemmed pipe as though her bones had melted away, slumped forward...”

Twelve

“In the dim light of a peasant house’s storeroom, disheveled hair at her neck—snow-like—and how she turned this way with a deathly pale face when she saw me, mistaking me for a customer… I still haven’t forgotten.”
“Pitifully, in the second year after that, she finally passed away—but they say this was a retired prostitute from Fuchū whom they had purchased and brought here.”
“Even before that incident, their reputation had already spread far and wide—so much so that no one would sell their very lives for piles of gold coins, and none could manage dealings with the retired head of Shimaya. Yet despite having brides formally chosen or wives already in residence, he would still appear at the house each year on that very night—midway through the rainy season, they say—peering from the gable. If you counted on your fingers from the onset of the rains to his arrival, it was rumored to align almost exactly with the end of the monsoon.”

“In truth, even after they had a proper mistress, he certainly came once a year—though whether he actually visited three times a day or not remains unclear.”

“No matter what they did, all who came and all who married died—since funerals were held, this fact stands undeniable.”

“Well, ever since that courtesan at the end of her rope was killed, they don’t even come around for injuries—this too must amount to nothing, I suppose.”

And so, year after year—one, two, three—the shop gradually declined, and the house and storehouses lost their former appearance. “At one point, there was even a rumor they’d put up for sale the rice fields they’d bought up.”

“In the midst of all this—yes, it was the year before last—I heard the retired head of Shimaya had returned home. Then came the notoriety of war prayers—first with that wife incident—where even those who’d grown queasy from manjū fillings fasted and secluded themselves for the nation’s sake, claiming clairvoyance spanning a thousand miles and three years beyond. It sounded absurd to call this popularity, but then the retired head’s crooked nose straightened itself, causing such a stir it even made the newspapers. ‘He’s the Prophet,’ Master—treated like a living Buddha, I suppose.”

“Ah, good grief! Even after returning home, at his age, every single night he’d spy on weaving rooms, peek into spinning areas, drag himself around crawling—and on both sides of Goshuku’s post-town courtesan quarters, as if stitching thread through each house’s lattice doors, he’d stick his nose in and go sniff-sniffing about—haven’t you heard whispers of this? I’d caught wind of it myself, so that’s what I’d thought. Not that I thought well of it, mind you—but if he caught scent of what’s in one’s belly and cursed you with that strange staff of his, who knows what horrors you’d suffer? A most unsettling old man, he is.”

“That’s why, you see—he’s been after Ome since long before your time.”
With some hesitation in her speech,
“He’s been shadowing her every step,” she declared with finality.
“What? Ome—that creature—” the judge said tersely, raising his knee upright.
“No, well—there’s no fixed pattern to it, strictly speaking. He’d wander aimlessly around Lord Horinouchi’s estate and Goshuku, even late at night, drifting wherever chance took him. He rarely ventured here—until Ome began serving at Master Sawai’s household. Once her beauty became the talk of these parts too, he started emerging from thickets and fences to trail that woman wherever she went.”
“One might glimpse that old man standing vaguely somewhere, and if you waited for him to start moving, they say Ome’s figure would inevitably appear on the road—so the story goes.”

Thirteen

“The same fellow servants—already prone to malicious talk—exaggerated it into a grand scandal and jeered at her half-mockingly: ‘Miss Ome’s caught the god’s fancy! Soon she’ll be wearing scarlet hakama!’”

Though no one seriously believed there could be any real intent behind it, even enduring such mockeries alone left that woman utterly worn down—as if a leper’s breath had been blown upon her—or so it was said.

It was shortly before the incident occurred—around the time evening glory flowers bloomed in Master Sawai’s rear garden, when people still wore yukata.

As there was urgent sewing work to be done, Ome was engaged in needlework in the room facing the rear garden.

The lights had not yet been lit—in the evening, right beside the fence where evening glories were blooming stood a rough lattice.
As shadows deepened around her hands, she moved so close to the lattice that her sleeve brushed against it while sewing. Outside lay open fields and embankment paths where horses and farmers came and went—though how he had tracked her location, that old man came sniffing through wisps of mosquito-repellent smoke drifting everywhere. Gradually drawing nearer, he gripped the lattice as was his habit, leaning on his staff beneath his nose before suddenly thrusting forward that swollen, faintly ruddy, glistening nasal tip to sniff at Ome’s profile.

He’d already sniffed up every last scent—the oil, white powder, and collar grime of Goshuku’s courtesans—until the very stench had gained physical weight, such was his maddened vigor driving him.

You see, he wasn’t just standing there abruptly before her—after stretching his spine to a height that would make most people crouch, that arrogant creature, composed as if newly born into this world yet bearing a face weathered by society’s harsh winds, remained silent and let out a belch before sniff-sniffing with a sound no louder than a small conch shell.

Bound as if inside a fermentation chamber by that indescribably unpleasant feeling, she endured for some time—so it was said.

Ome, despite being a timid coward by nature, had a bit of a temper—the kind where if something offended her, her temples would immediately start throbbing—making it quite unbearable.

Even so, knowing that old man’s ancient past, those of us who had endured eons found him unsettling—a creature without human registry whom one would flee with eyes covered rather than call strong. But as for that woman, having only recently come here, she knew nothing of the “Is she safe?” incident from the gable opening, nor did anyone at Master Sawai’s household.

"If I were to let her hear even a hint of how he’s been stalking her—whether as mockery or otherwise—I thought it would distress her so much she couldn’t sleep at night, so I’ve been careful not to speak carelessly. She had only understood him as some filthy, strange beggar—Niemon, an unreliable diviner—whom the ignorant revere like beasts worshiping a deity."

(No good! No good!) she protested, freezing stiff as he sniff-sniffed.

“You’re being noisy,” she reportedly said while pressing the needle’s tip against her earring and giving her own nose a light poke—yes.

Having said that, the old woman composed herself.

Fourteen

“They said she’d become some foreigner’s concubine—so repulsed was she by the thought of being tormented in those scarlet hakama that in her virginal pride, she took drastic action. She once told me how relieved she felt afterward.”

I won’t claim she didn’t mean to unsettle him—ah, but this woman did an outrageous thing! That detestable old man was no ordinary being.

Thinking there must be a curse as dire as poking a pit viper’s neck with fire tongs, my very guts quaked—and when I asked what became of the old man,

“No—he kept fidgeting and went off somewhere. Since then, we haven’t seen him at all,” Ome announced with a triumphant look, her voice clearing as if relieved.

Indeed, after that incident, he showed no signs of prowling around this area for some time.
Since we hadn’t seen any trace of him for some time, I wondered if he had settled down accordingly.
While thinking it probably wouldn’t be resolved, with each passing day, my worries also gradually lessened a bit.

“Then came this latest affair—utterly outrageous, Master—regarding the missing 500 yen. The greengrocer who frequents Master Sawai’s household, as I mentioned earlier, came forward himself and insisted—‘Let’s have Niemon investigate the money’s whereabouts! We’ve been deceived, I tell you!’—and pressed them to do so.”

"He’d get angry and curse if you thanked him—said he only helped people by secluding himself and gathering information from unseen sources," explained the well-meaning man, though he was the meddlesome type who’d swallow any trifle whole and thrust it forward as fact. Since he’d earnestly recommended it, Madame Sawai—who read five different newspapers yet had no real occupation—acted.

Having been privately aware of this so-called Prophet, and with no other recourse available, they promptly resolved to request the old man’s services.

It seems Sasuke was dispatched as a messenger to the hermitage at Hakunzan in Fuchū.
A day later, he reportedly went to Master Sawai’s residence.
“And this isn’t something I heard from Ome—as for them summoning that old man, I knew nothing about it—it was exactly on the evening of that divination day.”

“Master, it was Yoshisan—the gardener’s wife—who says she saw you sniffing those bellflowers.
Living modestly with both husband and wife working odd jobs—hired for errands and weeding she was—returning from such labor it seemed, wearing work gloves and gaiters with a sickle in hand—she came scurrying over and...”

“Granny, something strange happened today. After being commissioned for Master Sawai’s grass-cutting, I had been working there since early morning when Old Man Niemon arrived around eight o’clock—they said he was to determine the whereabouts of the missing 500 yen—and entered the room where the money had disappeared. Then the prayer ritual began, so I stopped my work and watched that room from the garden.”
“I don’t know what he did—the sliding doors were shut tight, you see—but after what felt like half an hour of watching, I got such a fright that I shouted in this awful loud voice, ‘Earthquake! Earthquake!’ But it was nothing of the sort—the tiled roof of the parlor started heaving like waves! It shook so violently it made your head spin, then went still all at once. I rushed to the veranda and said to Miss Ose—the maid who’d just come out—‘That was a terrible quake!’ But she just gave me this puzzled look and went ‘Right,’ like it meant nothing at all. Most peculiar—utterly peculiar!)”

Fifteen

“I certainly don’t think there was an earthquake—that morning,”

With that, the old woman turned around, rose from her seat where daylight had receded somewhat, and while gazing at the autumn evening’s chill-seeming zabuton cushion—

“Now, Master, I was sitting over there—there was no wind rising, no sound from the shoji screens—it was such a calm day.”

(Isn’t that strange? What on earth could that mean?)

“That was the miraculous power of Old Man Niemon’s prayer. No one at Master Sawai’s household thought it was an earthquake—only to my eyes, as I cut grass, did the parlor’s shaking become visible. It must have been a sign that the gods graced us with their presence.”

“Just as I thought—you see, right during the prayer ritual, at that very moment when I saw those roof tiles shake, in the next room Ome—that maid helping Miss Ose—had been wiping down the alcove pillar with her tomozome-dyed sash-tied cloth when she suddenly paused beneath the hanging flower vase. Staring fixedly at the autumn blooms she’d arranged herself, her face turned crimson as rouge—so they say.”

“It seems there had been some prior arrangement—they had already secretly marked her as their target.”

Ome—just like that—her hands trembling, legs unsteady, quivering all over as if struck by sudden fever—retreated to her room and lay down, so it’s said.

By early afternoon, wherever people gathered in the mansion, hushed whispers spread.

Though it couldn’t be spoken of aloud, they had clearly uncovered the money’s location.
However, with no tangible proof, they summoned her before them and struck her using a long tobacco pipe—not to extract a confession, but simply to intimidate. Madame was determined to keep the matter hushed within the household, avoiding any formal charges, while the prophet—through his divine craft—had apparently vowed to prevent public exposure once the culprit was identified. A fortunate turn of events, so they claimed.
“What an audacious plan,” the maids had said. “To think we might see that slender frame shackled in chains!”
“With that pallid face like an onnagata actor in full wig—how could this ‘Ome’ dare such a thing? Even a proper villain would stage a grander spectacle! And ‘500 yen!’—merely hearing it left us breathless!” So prattled that gardener’s wife, on and on.

“What would you say to that, Master?”

Judge Oyama gripped his left arm over his Western-style coat sleeve with his right fingertips and looked sharply at Oki's face.

"What would you think? I couldn't speak—it felt too shameful even to make excuses, so I barely managed a reply—and when I went to light the lamp, Uekichi's wife scurried off in a fluster."
"She means no harm and knows nothing of my ties to Ome—there's no comfort in startling her. Even if Ome knew nothing, what was said must surely have happened that day."

“I couldn’t sleep a wink.”

“Devote thyself and receive!”

“If we are to suppose Ome stole it—on the very day they claimed those five hundred yen went missing—I was made to hear every excruciating detail.”

“Faced with those Sawai household faces—oh, how infuriating! Resentment seethed here, hatred boiled there—expressions so vile I could’ve lunged to grab and tear them apart! That’s when I declared I’d go see Ome and marched out.”

Sixteen

“In truth, I agonized over whether to go or not—wringing my heart dry—until I could bear it no longer and resolved to come here.”

“It must have been sincere—though they dismissed everyone’s greetings curtly—not even breathing a word about suspicion falling upon Ome. Just let me meet her and leave!”
“...and so I was shown into the room.”

Even so, she was alive—a feeling akin to encountering something from beyond this world.
Suddenly clinging close, when her hand touched the sleeve of the futon where she lay, she opened her eyes wide and looked at my face—in just three or four days, she had grown alarmingly gaunt. When our eyes met, both of us shed tears before a single word could be spoken.

Without uttering a word, that woman pulled her velvet collar up over the disheveled bangs at her forehead and simply trembled there, weeping.

It was no small struggle until she finally began to speak.

When they coaxed and cajoled, reproached and scolded—employing every means to extract an explanation—there was no need for her to make excuses: though she hadn’t laid a hand on the money, the efficacious prayers cast upon her had left her unable to stay still.

“What?! That?”

“It was indeed about the money that I made such a terrible miscalculation—what am I to do now? Of course she doesn’t even know how much was there, but since she did something truly inexcusable in her heart, who knows what divine punishment awaits from the gods and Buddha.”

The detestable old man with the nose—with an insight so unnervingly precise it chilled the air—saw through every crevice of her heart and came haunting her bedside countless times each day,

“Woman,” he’d rasp while crowding closer—so they say—“I know full well no crime stains your hands… yet guilt festers in your soul. Cling to me… and salvation I’ll grant.”

Even were her tongue bitten through—so fiercely did she shake her head—Ome swore she’d sooner die than clutch at those gnarled knees.
“I’d feel no different,” I told him then… “but why tremble so if innocent?”
“What ‘guilt’ could plague her?” they pressed—coaxing one moment… berating the next… but all she’d beg was “Ask me not!” Press further… tremors wrack her frame… plead gently… tears drown her words… voice fraying wild… eyes darting frantic… yet no answer comes.
That day… home she dragged herself… spirit crushed twice as deep as I’d feared… my own heart near clawing free from my chest… till at last… senses unraveled… dreadful words spilled unbidden—now shrieking “The officers come!” jolting upright… now vacant-eyed… moaning “So dark… they’ve caged me!”
Day upon day… now so frail you scarce can bear to look… barely swallows broth… water chokes her throat.

“It’s as though all manner of terrifying things have swarmed together to torment her—even if she were to cling to that old man and beg for help, even if she could pray to the sun again, she herself has said in moments of clarity that she’d rather die than do such a thing.

Whether god or Buddha, if they do not quickly withdraw their noble hands they have extended, right before your eyes, Ome will crumble grain by grain into the earth, Master.

It appears as though she is descending even into the very depths of the abyss.
“On top of that, that meddlesome wretch barges into Master Sawai’s residence daily.”
“Since that prayer ritual, Madame has apparently become utterly devout—even placing a ritual staff upon the tatami mats—and with it, she would tap-tap at Ome’s bedside,”

“(How are you feeling?)” they say she would ask.’

Seventeen

Oki, by the composure of age alone, barely kept her body from trembling, but

“Oh no—I’ve gone on and on about such trivial matters, and yet you’ve graciously listened to it all.”
“This clumsy old tongue of mine must have bored you terribly.”
“There was no one else I could consult—filing a report at the police box wouldn’t bring help. Even if I told relatives or acquaintances who might listen, it would come to nothing. But since you listened, Master, I feel half my burden lifted.”
“Your kindness alone is more than enough, but in my greed—might Master somehow render judgment?”

“To speak of such matters and trouble your ears… Nay, if I’ve given offense, I humbly beg pardon—but since first laying eyes upon you, Master, I’ve come to know Ome’s heart true and clear.
“Even in her ravings—this recent business of some inexcusable thing—it seems shameful before your eyes, Master. Yet I make this trifling entreaty.
“Should you think me a wretch spouting madness, rebuke me alone—but spare your scorn for Ome, who knows naught of this.”

“Whether regarding him or others, I consider your untimely visit to this area a connection—though please resign yourself to this being an extraordinary fate—and would you be so kind as to say even a single word that might lend strength? Given how she suffers, I wish to grant her even a moment’s respite—but here’s the truth of it: having met you, Master, I humbly beseech you.” Her words grew fervent, her voice urgent, and the tears pooled in her eyes now overflowed across her face.

From the conversation’s outset and fragments of speech, she inferred him to be a dependable gentleman; moreover, through her own appraisal of Oyama’s bearing as observed by an old woman’s eyes, she seemed to have concluded he was a renowned physician.

The judge of the Supreme Court—who beneath lofty heavens ought to adjudicate the nation’s laws—had indeed endured and heard Oki’s tale from beginning to end; yet he found himself compelled less by dispassionate judgment of facts than by compassion kindled through Ome’s plight, and thus could not deliver an immediate verdict to resolve the affair.

“No sooner does one leave the capital than such outrageous tales emerge, Old Woman,” he said with only a sigh—yet beyond his words lay an unspoken resolve revealed: that within three ri northwest of the Supreme Court’s august chairs, where his discerning gaze should reach, he could not endure letting such grievances remain unaddressed.

“Please, at any rate, do have another cup—the tea has gone cold.”
“I assure you, I am not making any request regarding that recent matter. From now on, as part of the teahouse’s humble offerings, I shall do my utmost—finely sliced persimmons prepared just so.”
“I have raw chestnuts—if Ome stays well and visits today too, I’ll bury them in ashes and have her deft hands roast them beautifully for you.”
“...Please—let me bring fresh hot water at once.”
“Master, might you be feeling chilled?”

Now sunk deep in thought—within a single second, the old woman’s lengthy tale replayed three or four times, swift as a whirlwind, rushing past—the distracted judge suddenly came to his senses and glanced beyond the railing at the scene outside that pierced his very being.

Dusk—ah, dusk had already cast its hues from the forest, bathing the path beneath the veiling waterfall where a woman’s form blurred into monochrome—drawn perhaps by threads of fate—her hem, sleeves, and disheveled hair all adrift in the evening breeze.

Eighteen

“Oh—that’s—”

“That’s Ome—oh! Master! Miss Ome!” she cried out to the judge—half addressing him, half calling to the woman.

Oki slid down the steps as though losing her footing and scurried to the shopfront—then Ome, who had dashed beneath the railing and along the wall, now rushed headlong before the old woman—barefoot, clad only in a thin obi over a pale-blue layered nightgown with its collar askew, her haggard form having escaped her bed—appearing as one pursued in flight—she caught her toe on the threshold she sought frantically to cross and pitched forward face-down, veering sideways into a stagger—

“Ah—” she cried out, taking her hand.
The old woman supported her back and sat down heavily with a thud as she pulled her knees in, drawing Ome into her embrace—then collapsed together onto the tatami.

At this commotion, the embers in the brazier at the old woman’s side—which had been smoldering feebly since earlier—burst into a white scatter, dancing across the woman’s black hair and the old woman’s sleeves, but before their hues could be discerned, daylight faded.

“Miss Ome—oh—” she gasped while holding her, labored breaths escaping as her exhausted body writhed,

“No! They’ll catch me!”

“By whom? Who’ll catch you?”

“No! Oh no—the Officer!”

“What—the Officer?” she gasped in alarm, but the hand clutching Ome grew damp with pitiful cold sweat as the girl writhed and tried to flee—and realizing Ome no longer even recognized her, the old woman felt a pang of sorrow.

“Pull yourself together, Miss Ome. Pull yourself together now.”

Ome merely looked anguished, letting out moans of “Ahh… Ahh…,” but suddenly, as though she could bear it no longer—

“Have mercy! Ah!” she shouted.

“I’ll show mercy if you apologize.”
“No matter where or how you rave in madness, there’s no hole to hide from my sight.”
“The lost gold was found today, but thy sin remains unshriven.”
“Woman—come! Rely on me! Offer thy legs! Cling to this staff!” he uttered in a voice like a mosquito’s whine—a muttered cadence that, upon leaving his lips, seemed to enter the nose draping over them before reaching others’ ears.
The grotesque bearer of that nose had planted his elongated face straight downward in the gloom, emitting a foul stench as he stood on the earthen floor rhythmically tapping his staff against the ground.

“Ah!”
As though struck and reverberating, Ome’s body convulsed.

Unable to bear it, the Old Woman squared her shoulders defiantly toward the nose—but upon catching sight of the Prophet sniffing and snorting as he writhed side to side, she recoiled, clutching Ome tightly as she froze in place.

“Cling to the staff and be swiftly saved.”
“Woman! You there, woman! Even if you didn’t steal the gold, your own heart will torment you to death! Fool of a wretch—hmph!”
“Rely on me, clutch my knees, cling to this staff—verily, thy life is forfeit!”—as if calling from the depths of a cave, his voice reached human ears faintly, this lewd demon muttering while committing such brazen outrage.
He took the staff upside down and, lying face down at the entrance, snapped it against the hem of Ome’s robe once, then struck again.

"No! No! No!"—a scream that seemed to mark the end.

“You damn fool!”

The judge—clad in black robes with a pallid face resembling a lean crane—who had stood tall upon the step like a statue from an aristocratic house without so much as blinking while gazing at the unfolding scene, now descended abruptly and strode straight over to take his seat at Ome’s bedside.

When the Prophet stared fixedly with dim eyes at Oyama’s figure bearing an air of inviolable dignity, his nose shifted position as he retreated one step—and needless to say, his staff withdrew in tandem with that nose.

Without so much as a glance, the judge quietly placed his hand on Ome’s shoulder.

He pressed lightly and, after a moment,

“Do you understand what I’m saying, Miss? Do you understand? You see—you didn’t steal or even see that missing five hundred yen, but you wanted it, didn’t you?”
“Yes—you wanted it.”
“It was because this kind old woman, upon seeing that she had been made to receive the gold, thought that if that gold were her own, she would want to give it to the old man… Yes.”
“That’s where they saw their chance.”
“Well—you must have encountered something strange and been distressed by it.”
“Hmm, there’s no sin in merely thinking—even if some strange thing bears blame, I will vouch for you.”
“There we go. Hold on tight.”
“I’ll become your shield and hide you from that monstrous being’s sight.”
“Come right here—now, grab hold of this body and calm that throbbing.”
“Don’t let go,” he said clearly, and with each word, each utterance, Ome trembled all the more, clinging to him as though to vanish from sight.

“Old woman—light.”

As if leaping up into the shadow of the light that Oki held out—when observed—the Prophet turned his back abruptly, listening intently as he leisurely used a brass ear pick, as though heeding the judge’s words.

“Rest assured, Miss—even if your heart bears guilt, it’s no grave matter.”
“I forgive you. I am Koyama Yūnosuke—the Supreme Court Judge forgives you. As proof, I shall unite with you who thought of stealing.”
“Old Woman, I asked you to be the matchmaker.”

The deeply superstitious Mrs. Koyama thereafter long abstained from meat and tea, praying for the judge’s safety.
For indeed, at that time—having left behind a curse-laden farewell against the married couple with his declaration “My words shall not deviate thus!”, and having struck the earth thrice with his staff—on the tenth night of the waning moon, the Prophet’s nose vanished without a trace after he dashed around Jūnisō’s pond in an arc as though taking flight; its whereabouts remain unknown to this day.

January 1901 (Meiji 34)