Pathway to Japanese Literature

When one heard of men of old, their elegant traveling figures still came to mind.
Though that tale bore its title, here stood a penniless man from the east who had resolved over a year to undertake this pilgrimage—departing with the mist through fifty-something leagues of Mikawa Province in his threadbare cloak of pretense, clutching a cheap boxed meal named after sardines; though purple lingered in his name, he bore no resemblance to irises—this third-class red ticket holder.
Thus showed no glimpse of Okon’s grace nor Yajirobee’s jests—mere mementos of a first shrine visit.
Having scribbled travelogue fragments using an inn’s inkstone upon makeshift bedding—briefly presented for inspection—this new edition now properly bound resembled nothing so much as a “completely revamped sugoroku,” a game even children would see through were one to attempt deception.
Ise—a place worth visiting seven times over—yet when guides beckoned guests with “Now then,” those guests would retort “Why, I’ve been thrice to Kumano already!” Thus companions changed in swift succession—such was that bustling way of life.

Meiji 38, Year of the Wood Snake, October, Auspicious Day

Kyōka

I

“Yes now, honored guest—if you would care to partake of something hot? Perhaps have one serving of our fare?”

From Furuichi in Ise Province to the Inner Shrine—here on this side of Aino Mountain stood a tea shop with desolate lights.
The banner of renowned Akafuku Mochi clattered against the eaves in the night storm of February's third day, its lantern oil steadily draining toward midnight—yet still the customer gave no indication of departing. Given his apparent age, his demeanor akin to that of a refined modern student, and his unbroken silence, the old woman had concluded he would make neither a conversational partner nor likely become one. But at last, unable to bear it further, she ventured a gentle address.

From early evening, the lights and voices and passing footsteps reached their peak hereabouts—one block behind, three blocks ahead, merchant houses lining both sides everywhere. Young women in beautiful half-collars and aprons stood shoulder-to-shoulder, ritually calling out their wares with coquettish charm: “Have some tea,” “Rest here,” “Try our rice,” “We’ve udon too.” Through this thronged people in hooded cloaks and bowler hats, others wearing sedge hats; some in gaiters and rented sandals clutching leather bags, groups of five or pairs holding hands, solitary strutters mingling with laughing revelers. The twang of bowstrings echoed from archery stalls as smoke from houses heating their honjozo sake pooled beneath eaves on both sides—spring haze thickened by Divine Wind into dreamlike mists. Lantern shadows deepened and paled, receded and advanced, staggered like plovers flicker-flicker-flickering. Three or four cigarette butts overflowed onto the crimson night road where countless feet stirred up clamor.

Perceiving herself as a withered tree amidst blossoms, the old woman brewed tea in solitude—for those who stopped at her shop were either descendants of the Ise Taira clan, fallen warriors of the Kitabatake lords, or relatives of Osugi and Otama. Yet here now was an unexpected patron—having slipped through that thronged thoroughfare without pressing onward to the visible path ahead—who had graced her establishment. At first she rejoiced as if discovered by a provincial lord, but even as lamps guttered out, dogs barked, and she seemed to draw in the frigid wind with her yawns, he showed no sign of departing.

“How about it? Shall I pour you some more?”

“No need to trouble yourself. I’m imposing quite enough as it is.”

Gentle-mannered, the customer appeared to be twenty-eight or twenty-nine—handsome features, refined demeanor. Clad in a mouse-gray suit with a dark overcoat of matching hue tightly wrapped about him, he kept his brown felt hat pulled low over his solemn face, refusing to remove it.
Had this headpiece been black, his cheeks would have appeared far too pale, making him look every bit the invalid.

Even accounting for the deep hue [of his clothing], whether from the cold or some inner trouble, his complexion remained poor. About two sake bottles had been lined up since earlier, yet... A tray of Akafuku Mochi and a plate of simmered vegetables had been set out, yet the sake cups remained few in number, and as for what was eaten—only the cedar chopsticks from Kamiji Mountain had been snapped apart. The customer sat on one of two benches arranged in a T-shape at the rear, pressing his palms against his neck as he leaned forward, crossed his arms in thought, or stretched his legs out sideways to lie lengthwise—there in the dim corner of that small, aged tea shop, his indistinct movements and shifting posture appeared to an outside observer as though he were merely tossing and turning in sleep.

“Could he be sleeping again?!”

“Oh my, honored guest—you’ve yet to lay a hand on this sake bottle here either.”

The old woman, intending to begin tidying up, moved to set aside the previous sake bottle only to realize—it still sat heavy in her hand, full and unemptied.

“Shall I reheat the sake for you?”

The Old Woman stood on the earthen floor as if peering into his face—her demeanor gentle—and leaned her white-haired head toward the customer’s chest. Turning away as though averting his gaze, he looked outside to where a large sake bottle sat tilted in the shop-front kettle, its contents diminished yet appearing askew. From the ceiling above bulbously drooped a single octopus tentacle—curled tightly, its suckers blue, perhaps frozen by the deepening night’s cold.

II

He shifted his cool gaze—as if peering through from beneath the brim of his brown felt hat—

“Can you give me a bit of that?” he said, turning his face away again.

The kind old woman clasped her hands near her knees, straightened her back that had been bent before the customer, and looked up at the indicated octopus.

"Young master, would you care to partake?"

"Ah, and I've had enough sake—let's have rice instead."

"Yes yes…"

She rose and turned her back but, without retrieving the knife, returned to her roughly three-tatami living quarters beyond the bench, where she haphazardly placed a tobacco box and long pipe beside a thin zabuton cushion.

Adjusting her collar slightly with one hand, she took a drag while standing.

“Young master.”

“What?”

“You should stop now, as it would only go to waste—and besides, that isn’t very fresh.”
“Moreover, from what I observe, you neither drink the sake nor do you ever touch your chopsticks.”
“Perhaps you have some circumstance that leads you to deign to rest here with us.”
“As time passes, deeming it improper to simply remain, I imagine you intend to lavish this old woman with various dishes—ho ho ho ho ho.”

Blowing smoke with her laughter,

"No, we've profited more than enough from having a single honored guest like yourself."
"Since we've already received what amounts to standard lodging fees, if we had another room—or even a separate parlor—we'd gladly offer you accommodations. Yes, if I may say so, young master."

The old woman settled onto the threshold, her tobacco box tucked into her apron and long pipe resting across her lap. Addressed thus, she moved her chopstick tips as if suddenly remembering—ignoring the vibrant red Akafuku mochi—and clamped a slice of black kamaboko from the simmered dish. Leaning back to face the customer directly,

“Young master, I assure you this isn’t meant to hurry you along—perish the thought—but might I ask if you happen to have secured lodgings elsewhere?”

The customer remained silent.

“Could it be you took rooms somewhere first before stepping out for leisure?”

“Well, from Yamada Station, I turned right straight into what’s called the Inner Shrine Road and came this way.”

“In that case, you must be well-acquainted with Ise—might you have relatives in these parts?” said the Old Woman, seizing on his phrasing. Yet his unfamiliarity with the locale was plain to see at a glance.

"What do you mean? Far from having relatives here—I don't even keep regular lodgings. Just your typical country pilgrim."

"Oh!"

"Oh!" she exclaimed loudly,

“Even so, you’ve managed to come all this way.”
“Before arriving in this area—well now—those who deign to visit Ise must first pass through Yamada as though it were the front gate, mustn’t they? Then surely you were guided here by beautiful attendants waiting with sleeves at the ready, leading you to Furuichi where guest parlors spread cushions and arrange flowers—or does such a place not exist?”

The customer, looking somewhat chilled and as if to say *even this*, poured the freshly heated sake and brought the cup to his lips, but after merely sniffing the aroma, he held it there for a time. As it cooled in his grasp, he pretended to drink before setting it down heavily with a thud.

“Well—as I went straight in from Yamada—now catching sight of two-story houses in the distance, now thatched roofs appearing right before my eyes—then suddenly there’d be water glinting in the paddies at my feet. Those paddies too had an air of being landscapes deliberately arranged within some vast garden. Once past that gently sloping path, there came a hill where both sides abruptly turned crimson.” “That must be the place—paper lanterns at the shopfront, eaves lanterns hanging—I passed through there.”

III

“Yes—each eaves, each house arranged as three shops across and two on either side—there were ball-rolling games, shooting galleries, and gambling stalls. As many lights as there were piled-up decorations, all lit up so brightly it resembled a perpetual blossom season—a bustling place indeed.”

The customer shaded his hand over the hibachi,

“Every shop displays these large dolls, don’t they? There are older sister figures wearing red hitatare robes, clowns with opposing wrestler headbands—Ushiwaka over here, Yajirobee over there. No sooner would you see a giant octopus about to reach its tentacles onto the roof than Murasame in a straw rain skirt stands at the neighboring shop—they’ve even decorated the geta shops. They’re all so vividly colored, aren’t they?”

There in the middle stood that Hotei doll filling a three-ken storefront—its belly planted like a small mountain, probably mechanical—those auspicious gentle eyes too, being as large as this plate due to the doll’s size, gaping open wide while flapping the uchiwa fan in its hand to beckon passersby. But in this narrow stretch of road where travelers familiar from the sugoroku board game appeared so small, they seemed about to be blown away.

“Moreover, the paint on the black priest’s robe had peeled, and the mottled skin’s appearance was truly ghastly.”

“Invitations can be both good and evil—princesses and children declare them frightening, and there are even those who suffer nightmares at inns, so I’ve heard.”
“So you found it unsettling and hurried straight through, did you?”

“What nonsense.”

The customer smiled, the corners of his mouth drawn tight.

“Still, it must depend on the land—had someone seen such sights in Oshu’s plains or Hida’s mountains, they wouldn’t escape fainting—but precisely because this is Ise, after all, even the painted advertisements clinging to telegraph poles make one feel as though viewing Tosa-e paintings. Thus even a woman clad in red Chinese crepe appears as beautiful as Kyoto dolls.”
“Since I came this way, the journey felt unlike anywhere else—passing over those three gloomy rivers, the Nagara, Ibi, and Kiso, in the evening. The water lay like oil, so still I thought I’d slid across the magpie bridge and crossed the Milky Way without even hearing the train’s roar. After that, entering this Ise road at night felt like stepping into a land above the clouds—so how could I possibly feel uneasy about those dolls?”

“Young master, your flattery is too kind—I am most delighted you praise our land so. But might I ask—have you pressed on this far because you intend to make your pilgrimage as soon as possible?”

“Not exactly, but I’ve no intention of watching the Ise Ondo. From Furuichi to Ainoyama—wouldn’t the top-ranking spot be best? Ainoyama.”

The customer, lost in thought, rested a hand against his cheek, while with the other arm he feebly cradled his chest,
“Old woman, are those O-Sugi and O-Tama I’ve heard about for ages still around?”

“They do exist. You’ve just trudged up this path—if we call it a road, it first reaches a ridge-like spot where an entertainment tent stands, with performers in red and white makeup captivating crowds via shamisen music. But young master, if you proceed ahead to view the riverside, you’ll find thirty or fifty attendants standing there. Passersby on the bridge toss coins like pebbles, which they catch midair with nets fastened to long poles—resembling dragonflies fluttering about in early autumn. At the bridge’s base, the women line up in rows upon the earth, exchanging coins for ryō—a mon or two at a time. Now, this bridge is called Uji Bridge, and it serves as the entrance to the honorable Inner Shrine. The river, as you know, is the Isuzu River; the mountain, Kamiji Mountain. Its form is gentle, noble, sacred, pure—when one stands facing these waters, the skin of a person appears so translucent from behind that it seems their very flesh could be seen through. The river neither flows swiftly nor stagnates; there are no rapids where waves might rise. Thus its color appears neither blue nor white, nor does it form green depths—it simply maintains water’s true hue throughout.”

“Upon crossing, you’ll enter a three-thousand-year-old cedar forest—dim even at noon since the Age of Gods—with the Isuzu River glinting through its midst, enfolded by Kamiji Mountain. Always quietly blows the Divine Wind from here—here stands the honorable shrine of unpainted wood.”

IV

“It resides at the honorable Inner Shrine.”

The Old Woman raised her palm and placed it upon her white-haired forehead,

“Though I know not what deity resides here, tears spill from my unworthiness—my head bows of its own accord.”
“On your return journey to Futamigaura—I need hardly mention—where the Isuzu River meets its end, pines with drooping branches and exposed roots line both banks, moored there, and boats too make their way to that place.”
“There flows a sacred river where boatmen wear undyed hemp robes yet lack the tall court hats one might expect—women-pulled rickshaws too travel these ways—and tomorrow marks the old New Year’s Day.”
“The first sunrise—”

She began to speak—then abruptly her knees—

“Oh! Now that I mention it, young master—how do you intend to manage your lodgings?”

“Indeed, as you mentioned by name—you have come to Ainoyama—but even should you proceed further ahead from here, there are no good inns.”
“Save for Furuichi in the rear, there are no inns where young masters such as yourself might lodge—though I must stress we would never presume to rush you unduly—yet if you do not act swiftly, securing accommodations will prove most difficult indeed.”

Yes, we always prosper here under the Grand Shrine’s protection—but come the old New Year’s Eve, pilgrim groups from various provinces, travelers and ascetics beyond counting from Kyoto and Osaka alike would lodge overnight in Furuichi. Come New Year’s dawn they crossed Uji Bridge, honored guests rinsing hands and mouths at Isuzu River, viewing Kamiji Mountain to their right as they emerged through cedar groves until faint light brightened before the sacred shrine—then circulated to Futamigaura to worship the first sunrise—all in great numbers.

“Around the time you passed through, young master, the ball-rolling game shops and brothel gates had their doors open in rows, but I believe most inns kept theirs closed.”

“Every house is full to capacity; they cannot possibly accommodate any more guests, so it is.”

The old woman pressed relentlessly toward the large gate,

"But honored guest—when three or five guests overflow—the inns acknowledge this reality. Since shared rooms cannot accommodate them either, they receive such guests in enclosures at corridor ends, in tasteful arbors, or even the proprietor’s residence."

and they would open the rear gate to let them in, so it was said.

But there was no urgency—the guest neither made a fuss nor outright dismissed her. Despite there being no occasion, he snapped open a small silver pocket watch and casually tucked it away.

“Old woman, I’d like to settle the bill.”

“Yes—might you care for a meal?”

The customer looked up and, gazing anew at the Old Woman’s face, smiled faintly.

“No—truthfully, I’m not particularly hungry.”

“My, just look at you! For all that, here you are saying you want to eat vinegared octopus and go night-carousing—what an extraordinary young master you are. How could this old woman’s simple fare ever suit your palate? Hohoho.”

“By the way, is there an inn called Miyuya?”

“Yes—it’s Furuichi’s most venerable old establishment and a first-class inn.”
“Even so, there must be an extraordinary number of guests tonight.”
“No matter what one might propose—in Furuichi it’s Miyuya above all others, and with the pilgrimage group leaders factored in too—guests of every station are packed full.”

“That’s no matter,” said the customer, unfolding his narrowly crossed knees and pressing down on his shoe tips two or three times as he resettled himself.

“Oh my, what a situation! Then there was no need for you to fret—since a certain beautiful someone has arrived ahead and awaits at Miyuya Inn, does she not?”
“Why play the lost child? Very well—this old woman will keep watch at the shopfront from before dawn tomorrow. Should you come parading by in a rickshaw with some geisha, I’ll fling those octopus legs you crave right at you.” She scooped tobacco ash from below and tossed it lightly from the earthen floor outdoors—ah—just so.
Just then, a returning rickshaw from Ainoyama passed before the shop; beneath eaves where flags clattered noisily, the rickshaw puller halted abruptly, still gripping the shafts as he gazed upward.

“Rickshaw man.”

“Yes,” came a flirtatious voice, as the woman attached a sign that read “Furuichi Union.”

V

“Yes!”

In Furuichi, at the renowned Miyuya Inn, the senior clerk pressed his hands firmly against the threshold of the next room,

“I most humbly report.”

In the upper-tier ten-mat room—flawless moonlit-blue tatami, plump purple crepe bedding—sat a noblewoman in resplendent attire, as though riding clouds or emerging from violets. Travel fatigue showed through her mouse-gray crepe robes revealing hemp-leaf and fawn-spot undergarments at the hem, knees tilted alluringly beneath three layered robes that draped slenderly on her frame. Her right shoulder sloped gently as she gripped fire tongs resting on a paulownia brazier’s edge, one hand tucked delicately into her sleeve. Though her attire was properly arranged, her bearing leaned too far into coquettish allure compared to her noble features. The vividness of her brows and porcelain complexion marked her as a woman of refined lineage—had her jet-black hair cascaded willow-thick with a misted hairline, one might have mistaken her for a painted illusion. From sleeve cuffs to eight-layered openings to trailing overrobe, even upon the flickering crimson of Tomozome-dyed blossoms hovered a wisp of cloud, as if demurely shielding that beauty.

Registered in the inn ledger as "Satomi Inako, twenty-seven, of ×× Town, Gifu Prefecture"—though there was no need to explicitly record this detail, for when one spoke of "the Satomi of Gifu Hospital," it meant the family revered like deities by all their household staff due to their late master being the renowned physician who cured intractable illnesses, and moreover signified their recent status as shareholders in the bank that Miyuya Inn had established through stock offerings in Tsu, Ise.

In the evening, a telegram addressed to this senior clerk entrusted with managing the premises during his absence—sent from the proprietor away on business in Tsu—arrived instructing that Mrs. Satomi would be making a pilgrimage and must be accommodated with utmost care. Thus no matter how many guests there were, they were to keep one room vacant; having received this discreetly important guest into the reserved quarters, they had smoothly served the evening meal without incident.

Beside where Madam sat, near the clothes rack hung with her shawl and hood, a light green damask summer duvet had been spread high and soft, accompanied by a fully lacquered pillow. At the pillow’s head stood a gold-lacquered tobacco tray and tissue stand adorned with an incense burner above, even a call bell within reach. In the corner of the adjoining room, a shelf displayed—albeit informally—a simple tea set.

In the brazier, the kettle’s murmur reached afar through Kamiji Mountain’s pines, harmonizing with Isuzu River’s flow—for early night had already passed—and now here the andon lanterns and there the lamps verged on mingling.

“Yes, Madam, there is a guest for you.”

In a gentle voice,

“For me?” she responded with refinement.

“Yes! A guest has arrived for you, Madam.”

The Madam gracefully inquired,

“Who might it be? The name card?”

“It most humbly pertains to that matter.
Regarding the name card—he most humbly states that he unfortunately does not possess one—which is only natural, as you arrived late in the evening, and it is now around twelve o’clock.
Considering the lateness of the hour and that this concerns a solo traveler, we might have refused by stating no such person resides here—yet as this pertains to an esteemed guest, and as any oversight would be most improper, I have come most humbly to inquire.”

The senior clerk stiffened as though facing a grave matter, and upon receiving her consent, the Madam maintained an air of utter nonchalance.

“My, what a way for you to put it.”

“Yes! Mr. Tachibana.”

“Tachibana.”

“Yes, he is indeed a beautiful person of few words and refined character.”

“I see,” she said lightly, smiled faintly, shifted her knees slightly, and pushed the brazier a little forward. “If he ought to have come straight in—you there—please show him through.”

“Yes, is that acceptable?”

The maid raised her long-chinned face blankly—taken aback by the Madam’s casualness, her body went slightly limp—then as she tried to rise, her knees buckled; she weakly braced her hands, forced a bitter smile, and once again—

“Yes!”

VI

Eventually entered a maid—a temporary helper for the night’s bustle being a relative’s daughter of good character, ordinary with unpolished nails—

“Pardon me, um, how are the preparations?”

At this moment—loosely cascading back hair reflected in the Edo-purple collar, snow-white nape turned toward this direction—the Madam leaned against the brazier with her back to it before lightly turning around,

“Oh, it’s already done.”

“Yes,” she responded in apparent incomprehension, lifting her head while keeping three fingers pressed to the floor.

Nonchalantly,

"It's the bedding, isn't it."

"No, it concerns the preparations."

"Dinner?"

“Yes.”

“That was quickly handled by you,” she remarked with an unexpectedly casual air, while the inn’s commotion—distracted by its own bustle—seemed to find amusement in this, smiling faintly.

The maid—perhaps thinking she was being teased again—laughed along,

“Madam, regarding that guest who has just arrived.”

“A guest? No one’s coming here, you,” she declared crisply, glancing sidelong over her shoulder as if brushing the matter aside.
Without a retort,

“Oh dear, oh dear,” muttered the maid, her face flushing crimson with discomfort as she made a strained expression and peered about the seating area—only to find it desolately empty and silent, save for the kettle’s intermittent clinking that chimed “tink-tink” between pauses.

Restlessly, she stood up and stepped back, absently hiding herself behind the sliding door.

“Forgive me, Madam,” said the maid, vanishing like a snuffed-out flame.

Without seeing her off, the Madam lightly touched the temples of her high chignon, withdrew a gold-lacquered tortoiseshell comb, and as the gemstone on her ring glinted, smoothed down her back hair.

Clattering and softly pattering footsteps sounded on the corridor’s tatami mats.
Hiding half his body behind the sliding door, the Senior Clerk thrust forward his long, exasperated face as if lifting it, though his tone remained hurried—

“Yes!”

The Madam settled back into the bedding and placed both hands properly on her slender knees—coquettish yet dignified,

“Since I’m going to sleep, there’s no need for further attention. I don’t want to trouble you in your current busy state.”

“Ha ha.”

The sound of labored breathing from someone running down the long corridor—the senior clerk covered his mouth to cough,

“Well, given the crowding, we truly cannot attend to everything adequately; we most humbly beg your kind forgiveness.”

“No.”

“If I may say so, your ladyship—this is most unusual.
“I most certainly did usher the guest here just now.”

“So, you said a Mr. Tachibana had arrived. What happened?”

“Yes, well, I had the girls inquire about the preparations, but it appears that no one has arrived.”

“Ah, I see. No one has arrived at all.”

“Well now, this is most peculiar...”

"What do you mean by 'preparations'? Does this mean someone has just arrived? Is someone staying here in the inn? And not that they learned of my presence through the guest registry?"

“Well, as you can see, this establishment has a central courtyard separated by a bridge-like passageway and one specially designated guest room, so it isn’t excessively noisy—but with over two hundred guests, the early evening becomes an all-out war. By the front desk and hearthside alike, everyone jostles so fiercely that one can hardly stretch one’s legs—it resembles a battlefield encampment.”
“Since it was utterly impossible to accommodate any further guests, we quickly closed the main gate.”
“The front desk will be up all night regardless, but at twelve o’clock, a rickshaw stopped and knocked on the gate.”

VII

“Regrettably, we refused accommodation, but a group came and are staying.”
“In any case—regarding Tachibana insisting on staying—well, your ladyship, the entrance hall there, which is about as spacious as a field, had become so overflowing with pilgrims that one could hardly move a step. We had them perch on the doorframe and offered the brazier from the front desk. Then he relayed a message: ‘Since your ladyship is supposed to be staying here, tell you Tachibana has come.’ Such was the situation.”

I thought to have [him] shown in immediately, but since your ladyship is a woman traveling alone, I took the liberty of coming to inquire out of prudence. Upon receiving your instruction to proceed without delay, I returned and guided [him].
“Yes, indeed, the woman from earlier escorted [him] through the corridor.”

The woman, having seen that Mr. Tachibana had entered your ladyship’s room here, turned back and immediately sent someone to inquire about the preparations—yet [your ladyship] now states that no such person has appeared at all.
“Then she insists—wide-eyed—that aside from your ladyship, no one else is present in the guest room. So I rebuked her: ‘What nonsense are you spouting in your drowsy state? You must be jesting!’ But the woman maintains—dead serious—that this is no玩笑, and as proof, well… I examined the dirt floor myself.”

The Senior Clerk started to speak, leaning over the threshold with one hand:

“At that moment, the footwear that had just been removed was nowhere to be seen—as he had been wearing Western attire, there ought to have been shoes.”

“Well now, everyone present gathered to look under the floorboards, but found only tagged sets of stored footwear—none resembling his. When I reported this strangeness, why—the woman who had guided him earlier insisted she had clearly seen him walk ahead down the corridor, and turned pale as she trembled.”

“As she was too frightened to come here herself, I rushed over in her stead—but could it truly be that no one at all has come to your presence?” he said with an uneasy expression.

The Madam smoothly slid her knees back, pulling her body away, and braced herself with fingers splayed beyond the sitting cushion—whereupon the pink silk handkerchief that had slipped from her knee spilled softly onto the folded hem.

“I said no—this isn’t some jest—there are no shoes.”

“As your ladyship commands.”

“How strange,” she said, furrowing her brows.
The Madam’s face—eyebrows shadowed within the starched collar of her garment—seemed cast with a sinister shadow near the andon lantern’s shaded glow; her high chignon glistened, giving the impression that another presence lingered there.

As if tearing his hands from the tatami and spreading his stance, the Senior Clerk stiffened and drew a breath.

"That would be the case..."

“You—come to think of it—when you came earlier saying he’d arrive soon, I was poking at the brazier’s fire when, well, after a while, that maid came clattering in here.”
“When she briefly appeared in the next room over there, I thought a guest had arrived and was about to call out when she hurried off looking busy. Then when she came again this time, suddenly mentioning preparations—since I’d heard nothing about them—I found it strange, as no one had come at all,” she said with evident suspicion, scrutinizing the clerk’s face.

At last, he stiffened abruptly,

“Well now—truly puzzling—yes, she claims he walked briskly down the corridor in haste, and indeed there were no footsteps to be heard. But that must simply be her imagination.”
“In any case, there’s no doubt he walked briskly down the corridor. The woman who went ahead was gasping for breath as she hurried along, and at times it seemed the guest’s body was nearly pressed against her back from behind.”

The Senior Clerk, perhaps sensing something, abruptly turned to look behind him—the kettle’s water was boiling, yet not a speck of dust could be seen; in such circumstances, the space felt excessively vast and immaculately clean.

“Because of that, it seems she paused her steps a couple of times.”

VIII

“Some among us suggest this Mr. Tachibana might be a jocular sort playing tricks on Miyuya Inn most prominently—but in this cold, having just come indoors, he’d hardly be in spirits for playful hide-and-seek.”
“Particularly hiding even his shoes seems rather excessive—most peculiar. Yet given his age and appearance as I previously described—a handsome, refined gentleman with an oval face—it must indeed be him.”

“Exactly so.”

“So, is he the sort of person to engage in such jests—this Mr. Tachibana they speak of?”

“No, he’s a quiet man of few words—and a patient.”

That’s precisely it! the Senior Clerk interjected.

“Yes.”

“It’s nothing serious now, but he did suffer a grave illness once and was hospitalized.”
“In Tokyo, I treated the cousin of a certain young lady like a sister—well, he’s an artist, a sculptor.”
“While traveling through various provinces for his training, he fell ill after visiting Yoro Falls and convalesced at home.”
“Though he’d improved greatly these past two months—truly recovered—he refused to heed advice and set off traveling again before fully regaining his strength.”

“Since we had long since discussed that I would stay here tonight and visit the shrine tomorrow morning, I had thought he would come to meet me from his travels—but really, what do you suppose happened?”

“Ah!”

At this, he hunched his shoulders and bowed his head,

“Perhaps he has taken ill during his journey.”
“No, there is nothing amiss with your ladyship’s health, but such occurrences are not uncommon.”
“Though we have only just made inquiries, your ladyship—no cold wind could possibly encroach upon your person—but once you return home, do keep this matter in mind and make further investigations then. There can be no doubt that this Mr. Tachibana has been relying upon your ladyship more than even his own parents or siblings.”

The Madam listened with her head slightly bowed, leaning forward as though entranced by the floral pattern of her underkimono visible at the cuffs of her drawn-together sleeves, her eyes downcast. After a moment, she shuddered deeply as if struck to the core, causing the loose hairs at her nape to flutter down.

"It’s grown cold. I’m going to bed."

"Your ladyship retires now—yes—I shall send a maid immediately to attend your bedside—"

"No tobacco needed—there’s already ample fire."

“But, well...”

“But—you know—do take care he hasn’t mistakenly gone to another guest room.”

“We have most certainly already had them check every corner—and still do.”

“Is that so? This house is vast—it would be troublesome if he’s gotten lost like a child, being such a dear young master.” She pressed her hand firmly against her obi, and the metal clasp at its fastening snapped sharply between her fingers.

The Senior Clerk, who had been shivering uncontrollably since earlier—his vitality as thin as water—observed with surprise that the female guest showed no fear; under these circumstances, he thought, even the Four Heavenly Kings would not reach her next.

“Yes—if this must be our farewell—let us part quietly.”

“Ah, thank you for your trouble,” she said and stood up swiftly; perhaps her undergarment sash had loosened from remaining as they were since being on the train—the hem of her long underkimono slipping down over her silk tabi socks as the right panel slipped down smoothly.

“Hand water.”

“No, I’m going to bed.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed, rising while sliding open a fusuma panel and slipping out onto the engawa—where two onlookers holding their breath recoiled and stealthily withdrew.

At the Senior Clerk’s “Ah!”, feet and hems swirled like a tomoe pattern down the corridor; footsteps here, footsteps there, growing clearer.
In this retreating tide that swept away all voices to what seemed a distant second-floor corner outside, the shamisen’s sound abruptly stopped.

Listening intently, Madam Satomi tried to arrange her robe in front when the careless hem caught, causing her to stagger as if restrained; she placed a hand on her sleeve, glanced around, and fixed her gaze on the closet across the way—a sudden flicker of pale plum blossoms across her eyelids.

IX

A tobacco tray, a pillow, a hibachi, and five or six floor cushions.

(This is a storage room.) Tachibana realized.

At first he had thought it a closet—but the surrounding space felt unexpectedly spacious, with what might have been a torn mushiro mat or tatami laid out, giving the impression of an area roughly four-and-a-half to six tatami mats in size.
They had likely repurposed this unmaintained, dilapidated enclosure as a closet as-is—though it seemed almost tailored for concealing oneself.

*Wait.*

After guiding them, no sooner had the Miyuya Inn maid vanished than—before words could form—their lips first quivered, partners bound by this forbidden yet shared yearning. Having barely exchanged glances, they concealed themselves as planned; yet within the closet darker than their hearts' shadows, this sudden capacity to distinguish shapes could only stem from their eyes growing accustomed to the gloom.

Tachibana had grown utterly weary of waiting—what felt like half an hour since the Senior Clerk left the guest room had in fact stretched to five or six hours.

(First, this will do.)

He pressed his body tightly against the sliding door, but since carelessly emerging was out of the question and initiating conversation was impossible, he stifled his breath and edged forward; after a moment came the rustling sound of garments.

As if a path had opened before his eyes, the fragrance of Runanki passed through the guest room, nostalgically permeating his being; a butterfly drawn to the scent of a man who also seemed to be thinking of distant things approached two sliding doors without error—to the left side, where Tachibana stood waiting.

“Mr. Tachibana.”

“…………”

“Mr. Tachibana.”

He pressed his lips against the back of the sliding door.

“Is it all right?”

“Not yet—the maid might still come any moment. Did you even hide your shoes?”

Before him, the Madam’s faint smile—her eyes and brows vivid against the darkness—stood outlined at full height, the contours of her black hair sharply defining her round chignon as it glowed bright.

Tachibana smiled faintly in return,

“Since I thought I might as well deceive them, I hid them under my coat and came here.”

“It worked out, didn’t it?”
“It did go smoothly, didn’t it?”

“You can kill me later if you must, but endure a little longer.”

“Ms. Ine.”

“Yes,” came a tender whisper.

“I’m starving.”

“Didn’t you eat somewhere before coming?”

“How could I have swallowed even a grain of rice before meeting you?”

“Oh...”

After a moment of silence,

“Here.”

She slipped her hand inside and tightly grasped the paper package; their fingers entwined—the two of them.

The partition’s sliding door, pressed by their shoulders on both sides, smoothly opened three inches—dark willows and clouded blossoms exchanging lonely glances upon its surface—when clang! Footsteps echoed on corrugated iron, followed by more footsteps; the Madam jerked back with a stifled cough.

Quickly closing the door with a thud behind him, Tachibana placed it in his palm and peered close—the lightly twisted tissue paper fluttered open at two corners, revealing three exquisitely wrapped sweets.

When he looked, they were white and red.

"Hmm?"

Tachibana instinctively dropped to his knees and looked up at the ceiling—but whether it was made of planks or walls remained unclear, its height indeterminate—somehow it seemed as though nothing but a single layer of cloth separated him from the pitch-black night sky. In his growing agitation, he pulled his sleeve closer; peering at it, he saw the faintly gray hue of his coat, still worn as concealment.

The colors of the sweets—even the whiteness of the paper—appeared discernible at first glance, yet when he looked up, there was no light that might have come through knotholes; moreover, not the slightest gap existed through which illumination from the guest room could penetrate. Startled, he dropped the Madam’s gift with a clatter and covered his eyes with those same hands.

Tachibana, trying to steady his mind before his vision, covered his face with both hands—but within that darkness came the realization that he stood on the brink of violating human morality; abruptly releasing his hands, he struck his chest with them and flung his eyes wide open.

For he realized that his current kneeling posture—the very way he now knelt—was identical to the stance one assumes when offering prayers before gods and buddhas.

Alas, even with this resolve, Tachibana was no longer one who could worship gods and buddhas.

Now, when he opened eyes like those of a demon from his very core—likely from having pressed his face too forcefully—the Madam’s voice conversing with perhaps two maids beyond a single sliding-door partition reached him distantly: faint yet distinct, quivering thinly at hearing’s edge.

This too filled him with unease. Wanting to verify their words—just as he had overheard the Senior Clerk speaking in this hideout earlier—Tachibana stretched out his hand and touched the remembered partition sliding door, seeking to confirm his location.

He had long since realized that to secretly meet another man's wife through such means meant there was no god, no possessions, no father, no mother, no siblings, no honor, no life left for him—yet knowing Madam Satomi existed in this world had made him rely on her more than on gods or buddhas, more than father or mother, siblings or honor, even life itself.

How futilely the palm stroked empty air.

He frantically spread all ten fingers before his eyes and groped through the darkness to both sides, yet found nothing obstructing his way.

Perhaps he thought—comforting himself first—that having layered darkness upon darkness over his eyes had caused his mind to lose all sense of direction; straightening his posture, he thrust his arm toward what should have been the opposite side from where he'd faced earlier, yet only his hand moved.

Startled, he looked down and shifted his shoulders forward and back to both sides, but only the sleeves of his coat rustled faintly as they swayed.

Flaring up in rage, he couldn’t help but jerk upright—but at the sudden clatter of "Namusan!", he froze in shock.

A startled cry rang out—the maid seemed poised to open the sliding door—yet desolate silence prevailed, save for how Madam’s reverberating voice quivered against his ears, creeping strand by strand along his hair until it became indistinguishable from the instant before losing consciousness.

At his feet where he stood rigidly upright, the russet leather boots—smuggled through guest rooms to deceive the inn—now faced outward in perfect alignment, making Tachibana shudder from head to toe.

The left boot halted with a thud…… then the right crossed over from behind…… As they advanced, left shifted slightly, right shifted slightly.

Just as when one glimpses their toenails mid-stride, he began advancing forward—ah!—rapidly covering two, three ken before his eyes.

Ten ken, fifteen ken, one chō, half, two chō, three chō—though he briefly wondered how scenery so distant could register in his vision, this was no mere doubt; the one shifting his steps was he himself—that is to say, Tachibana.

Blankly.

If there existed a color called blankness in this world, the surrounding scenery was precisely that.
No moon, no sun, no trees, no grass, no path—a realm resembling clouds yet solid underfoot, akin to snow yet devoid of coldness; a space that seemed a hazy night yet darker, mistook for daybreak yet steeped in gloom. Within it lay tobacco trays, pillows, braziers, kotatsu frames—shapes aligned irregularly in two rows to either side—pickling barrels for takuan, stone mortars, cutting boards, and three or four unlit andon lanterns, all like a vacant tool market devoid of people.

And whether it be braziers, mortars, pillows, or andon lanterns—they all swayed faintly yet ceaselessly in unison, evoking a land annihilated by flood where all breathing creatures perished and only such objects drifted untethered, with not even a whisper of wind to stir them.

Ten

Among these, what struck him as most human-like, oddly comforting, and yet bizarre was a single octagonal clock lying face-up atop a Chinese-style chest.
In his dreamlike state, Tachibana perceived something seemingly meaningful; stomping closer in his boots to peer inside, he found himself discerning the time with perfect clarity—though the surroundings lacked sufficient light to distinguish the clock hands' lengths or positions, as if glimpsing shadows of things.
Moreover, though the clock had stopped at nine-thirty, its numerals remained vivid enough to count—all due to a faint, unblinking firefly-like glow that cast an oblique shadow from near his chest.

When he touched it, it was cold; the light concealed itself as his palm enveloped the small gem from his collar ornament. Then another traced along his wrist—moonlight flickering through trees onto snowy cuffs—and what glistened as if overflowing with dew was surely the jewel of his cufflink.
When he stared curiously to the left, this ornament too emitted light; as he spread his arms, his chest began to shimmer again.
This light did not merely cling to his body—it shattered against the earth, flew into the void, and danced like emerald butterflies. All that obstructed his vision—mortars, buckets—aligned as if arranged in mother-of-pearl inlaid vessels.

With each step forward, as he walked and moved his body, the light swayed swiftly and scattered briskly—as if each star chimed one by one—clad without gaps in silver, gold, crystal, and coral beads, no different from dew gleaming under moonlight; thus perceiving it not as the hues of the netherworld but a stream of pearls he crossed, Tachibana seemed to awaken and discerned his own form clearly.

Even in death, this body of mine that once knew glory—has it now shattered into jewels?
Wait—realizing he was meeting a married woman in secret, he bowed his head. When darkness enveloped him once more, he nevertheless rallied his resolve: My body remains pure. With renewed determination, he gazed joyfully at the blue-burning ornament on his garment.
And then Tachibana thought that Ise was a vast land of horizontal chaos.
From Yamada, which he had passed through in the evening, to Aino Mountain; the Isuzu River he had heard about at the tea shop; Uji Bridge and Kamiji Mountain as well—all stretched vertically long and seemed to pierce through his very being.

At that moment—had this occurred even an instant earlier, when Tachibana was pointlessly agitated, unable to distinguish black from white—he would surely have collapsed in shock. About one ken ahead on the path stood two identically dressed girl attendants, their sleeves trailing and thick hems layered at their heels.

He could even discern the deep crimson hue of their vertically tied obi sashes, but believing in his heart that should he once cover his chest and fold his hands, they would vanish instantly, he stared fixedly without stirring.

“Yes.”
“We have come to escort you.”
He was aghast,
“Me?”

“Those inside bid you come.”

“We are envoys tasked to escort whomever we find illuminated by their attire’s jewels,” they alternated, facing each other. Standing rigidly with sleeves aligned, they carried and set down between them a shogi board—its surface like burnished silver, its borders dark as lacquer.

Large white peonies were presented as two butterflies danced madly around them, wings flickering while making their offering.

Now even should the ground turn to water beneath his feet, even should Kamiji Mountain’s pines transform into a stream clear enough to reveal human skin beneath, even should a boatman in eboshi cap and hitatare robes moor a vessel within his chest—Tachibana felt prepared to board if summoned.
He neither flinched nor faltered—what some might call unshockable—as he concealed his cufflinks and collar ornament, steadied his resolve to avoid further sights, and quietly followed the girl attendants. The sky became stars cascading down—not from parting clouds.
Nor had fog lifted; rather, he spread that same light into a grove of jeweled trees.

There stood a brushwood gate.

The door was opened inward from both sides by two maids who had been awaiting in readiness; the fence stood low, the women's high chignons forming a pair that rose higher than the branches of the pines clinging to the ground.

Eleven

“Please come this way.”

The pavilion by the pond’s edge—where chairs had been placed with pillars of agate and eaves of crystal—he sat down resolutely, the surroundings brighter than daylight.

At that moment, onto the table opposite him, the girl soundlessly set down the shogi board before darting back and forth with a nimbleness surpassing heat haze’s entanglement, concealing herself in the tree’s shadow; meanwhile, the two maids who had opened the brushwood door stood poised behind Tachibana, hands resting demurely on their knees.

Tachibana thought to speak, but given such deference shown toward him, addressing them abruptly seemed improper.

There, leaning on the table, he tentatively arranged the pieces using the jewel of his cufflink—vividly blue and radiant, casting an extraordinary gleam.

King, Gold Generals, Silver Generals, Knights, Lances, Rooks, Bishops, nine pawns—even in this realm, their numbers held no difference.

As soon as he finished arranging his own pieces and completed laying out the opponent's formation, an exquisite fragrance arose—faint yet distinct, as if a single plum blossom from heaven wafted its scent here from afar—its presence seeping through the distant trees.

Rounding the circular pool in a wide arc, small waves rippled across the emerald water's surface. What he first perceived as two or three clusters of wisteria blossoms swaying gently—their reflections like inverted waves upon the shore—gradually drew nearer and resolved into three women.

When they reached the far side of the pavilion, the two attendants swiftly split to either flank, bending deeply at the waist—their broad obi sashes tied in drum-shaped bows—as [the third woman] passed silently through their midst. Already, the damp rustle of robes sounded demurely from the chair ahead.

When he looked, there sat a noblewoman behind the curtain wearing wisteria-purple robes with white silk collars layered beneath a pale tea-colored obi, her lustrous black hair pierced midway by a tortoiseshell hairpin.
Tachibana, struck by her dignity, involuntarily bowed his head.

In a voice imbued with profound compassion and gentleness,

“The wait must have felt interminable.”

A single word resounded in his ears as if a hundred thunderclaps roared.

"Oh, you've already arranged the pieces—as hasty as ever. Now, you may begin."

Tachibana was as if dead.

"Shall I begin, Mr. Tachibana... Mr. Tachibana..."

This voice—undeniably hers. This woman—the object of his first love, whom he had never forgotten for a single day from age fourteen until now. She who had since married into Kyoto nobility, her face unseen by him for over a dozen years—a peerless beauty.
Tachibana could neither shed tears nor utter a sound—needless to say, through countless years of waking and sleeping, in dreams and reality, no matter how repeatedly he pondered it over and over, he still had not discovered the words he ought to speak when they met again.

And yet, and yet—

“Mr. Tachibana—isn’t this what you desired? To meet me openly in this pavilion, just as we used to spend time together every night from half past nine?”
“Which is precisely why I’ve arranged to play shogi with you like this—just once.”

“Isn’t that so? Oh, listen to that.”
“All those voices of the crowd have come to this pavilion out of admiration for your honor.”
“Look here—if you improve in your work, your wishes will be granted, and your very being will shine. Why must you grow distant and entertain improper thoughts?”

“Is your desire to commit adultery with another’s wife rather than play shogi with me like this?”

Reaching out abruptly, she placed her hand over Tachibana’s clenched left fist as if to loosen it,

"If something were to happen, that poor soul would be unable to go on living."
"If you would adore me, then I too owe a debt of gratitude."
“If that is your noble intention, then I shall cast myself aside for you.”
“I shall join myself to you, so you must not misunderstand others’ intentions.” Her forceful words softened until they brimmed with tears—soaked deeper than willow dew blessed by Kannon’s mercy—and Satomi’s seized hand trembled.

Behind, before, left and right—human shadows sprouted up.

With a stifled “Ah!”, he struggled to pull away, but she remained composed.

“Now there’s no harm in being seen by anyone. Once your heart has mended properly, come—let us begin our shogi game.”

When she quietly released her grip, his captured hand withered to bone-thin frailty, his clothes hung loose, and wrinkles billowed across his chest. Jerking his head up in shock, he found strands of hair cascading over his shoulders—now miraculously turned completely white—while the jewels within him blazed forth, illuminating their surroundings with starlike radiance.

When he grabbed his white hair in surprise, his ears grew warm; the sliding door opened, and Mrs. Satomi smiled faintly as she peered in.

"That’s enough now, Mr. Tachibana."

They preserved their chastity.
The sculptor moved through that night—stealthily navigating the veranda by his heart's inner light through unseen darkness—crossing rear fences and exiting gardens with a retreating figure that Mrs. Satomi perceived as traversing that very boundary between reality and illusion which Tachibana would later recount; she watched solemnly while silently blessing the artist's future prospects—a moment known to none.

However, though Mrs. Satomi's face had grown markedly haggard overnight, when she departed Ise the following day, there was no beauty to rival hers among the jostling guests at inns, the endless streams of travelers on roads, or even aboard trains.

May 1903 (Meiji 36)