Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

The peaks were rainbows of autumn leaves; the valleys were abysses of brocade.
...In Shinano's deep autumn mountains—ah, how to describe those frost-sharpened hues of the evening moon?...The stream became a silver-scaled dragon.

Through train windows resembling the fabled Moon Reflected in Tiered Rice Fields—where mountain air sifted hues of scarlet, ibis-pink, peach, pale plum, vermillion, cinnabar, dull birchwood, vivid yellow, and dripping crimson into crystalline reflections veiled with purple mist—the traveler first glimpsed that water's color: distant white flickers at the hem of far mountain clouds' gauzy robes, rushing forth cold and sharp. From afar, it appeared as a snow-white hare from some celestial palace parting a brocade quilt.

Pampas grass too was white.
Far upon the heights—bending along cliffs, lingering on embankments, threading through rice sheaves—its stems and leaves tangled in chaotic red deeper than buckwheat, yet its plumes a dreamlike white illusion; whether bathed in sunset's afterglow or moonlight's sheen, it blazed resplendent, imprinting its semblance upon mountain sleeves, bosoms, and brocades—a vision that shattered itself against the mountains' chromatic allure, like trailing clouds from a love-struck sky fallen from passion's pier.

It had been a clear, windless day, yet the pampas grass remained utterly still.
……

The water’s shadow, divided like chalk-like gofun white, flowed as mercury tumbling in a mortar grinding vermilion would—rushing onward while trailing slender silken threads.

As the train advanced, the water’s rippling became discernible.
...Through maple leaves of deepening and paling hues, through fissures in the mist, moonlight gradually wove its presence—as though being drawn into clouds—until beneath an azure sky where evergreen verdure persisted, it floated upward soundlessly to scatter like jewels.

The window dimmed toward dusk as village persimmons scattered lightly through crimson woods—greenery everywhere shifting to yellow, birch-like thatched roofs casting shadows into red grasses—while mist with crystalline clarity deepened its luster. Neither dew spilled nor frost settled; maples concentrated their bamboo-leaf hues until moonlight dissolved them into two or three leaves falling peakward like dripping crimson, tumbling yet never sinking into the depths.

The falling—maple leaves scattering windlessly, their shadows vanishing—occurred within evening smoke that trailed slenderly through terraced fields, mountain paddies, and small plots here and there; smoke which neither folded nor fully billowed, wandering as if lamenting the lingering memory of cloth beaten on a fulling block, spreading faintly in powerless fan-shaped wisps.……Whether they seemed human in the distance—or appeared as mountain spirits, peaks' concubines, or phantom traces of village beauties thinning into dusk mist after daylong hunts—remained ambiguously visible.

Where water flowed above, it spanned sideways to become bridges; where cliffs formed shadows, it threaded through grass to become paths; where houses had eaves, it wound obliquely to become autumn's pensive mood as dusk deepened.

The smoke hung motionless; not even the tips of burning flames found lodging there.
But what scattered flickers appeared at its base like overflowing nandina berries were the crimson clouds casting evening sunlight’s shadow behind the peaks.

Intermingling with these crimson jewels, the countless pearls scattered among small grasses were none other than the Moon Reflected in Tiered Rice Fields—growing ever brighter with each passing moment.

When the world became a lunar realm—across fields, paddies, mountain recesses, and peak foothills—the distant charcoal-burning smoke that mingled with clouds, and those slender columns rising from both banks of the faraway Chikuma River, would crystallize against the cold rainbow brocade veiling the mountains into frosted staircases.
Freezing into round crystal pillars.…

Clad in cloaks of brocade leaves, climbing those steps and pillars, the princesses and nobles of mountains and valleys would transform into beautiful birds and frolic in the lunar palace.

Leaves are the night's rainbow; the moon’s brocade abyss.

This peak, this valley—such thoughts.
Even the train passing through crimson-tipped branches, even its roar—ascending a waterfall of silent smoke turned to snow—became ethereal, subtle music resonating through light ultramarine clouds.

The station employee streamed past darkly,

“Obasute!”
“Obasute!”…

II

“Excuse me, where exactly is this place?”

“This is Obasute.”

Upon hearing it was a five-minute stop, the solo traveler descended through the train’s vestibule to a platform resembling a mountain pass bridge—near the clouds, bathed in the pale glow of the evening moon—and asked with a dazed expression; the station employee who encountered him... answered thus.
But he must have thought that one who had just awakened—still groggy—had earnestly confirmed the name of the inn.

“This is Obasute.”

“I see.”

He nodded as though gathering resolve and spoke, but mingled with the slight fatigue from being jostled by the train, his words—made languid by how thoroughly the mountain’s beauty had enraptured him—resembled a sigh.

In truth, he had already heard and understood this station's name from the employee's call. The sky and mountains, overwhelmed by such colors, made me wonder: where in this world do I truly exist?

“I simply can’t find the words to describe it. It’s truly a place of splendid scenery.”

Passengers coming and going numbered merely two or three. For him—the sole passenger who had alighted from the carriage—the platform atop a two-thousand-shaku peak appeared as a white agate balcony fashioned above the clouds; thus his greeting to the station employee resembled that of a guest expressing gratitude toward a welcoming host.

Their hearts connected, and the station employee too wore a smile of apparent satisfaction,

“It’s splendid that you’ve taken a liking to it. Are you here for maple viewing?”

He stroked his beard with a hint of pride.

"No, if I were to call it sightseeing, that would sound rather extravagant."

Here, for some reason revealing his chest in an awkwardly performed gesture of humility, he said:
“On a whim, I’m imposing on you like this.”
“However, it seems tourists are quite scarce for such a place.”
“Hmm…” he said, briefly glancing at his watch,

"It's about ten days past the peak season."
"It's already snowing now."
"Depending on the wind, everything might turn pure white tonight... Though mind you, even at its busiest time, it never draws crowds like during the moon-viewing season."

"Ah, which one would be that Obasute Mountain?"

"They say this entire mountain behind us goes by that name."

The fair-skinned young station worker, having arrived coincidentally and come to a stop, took charge.

Within reach of the mountain's embrace, beneath layered brocade foliage where crimson-leaved gentians bloomed in two or three dense clusters—their purple intensified by frost—they...

All along the way, these mysterious and ethereal flowers transformed their hues—at pampas grass roots, within forests, upon jagged mountain crags—shifting from pale azure to deep indigo to sudden primrose yellow, arrayed in rippling colors that seemed to proclaim their living essence to any who might behold them.

Then, descending to the world below, there emerged an impression of purple stars moving furtively as they wandered dimly across peaks and plains.

“About what’s called the Moon-Viewing Hall...”

“That’s the one there,” said the fair-skinned young station worker, pointing.

At that brocade abyss where mist veiled pampas grass along its borders, upon a mountain’s edge resembling an islet spread with crimson carpet, stood a rare cluster of green trees. A single bright yellow ginkgo tree. The roots burned as if lighting a bonfire while the crimson treetop scattered flickers of evening’s glow, gushing forth vermilion radiance.

Along the paths—on peaks, in streams—in all such places—the torii gates of small shrines could be seen.

Here, a single silver moon.

III

“The color of the sky is like a deep pool—how should I put it?… Azure? Pale yellow? Or perhaps a light navy…”

When he gazed up at the gauzy veil the moon had drawn over the mountains, he felt as though standing upon a bridge of clouds.

Having looked at his pocket watch once more and put it away,

“How about staying there for the night?”

Beneath his eyes, among the trees on the cliff, stood a white-walled structure like a mirage conjured by a mountain bird; even the roof stones scattered fragments of ultramarine rocks across the leaves.

When he simply looked, the station employee smiled gently and crossed composedly through the mist toward the locomotive.

“Ah, we’re off now.”

When the train plunged into the tunnel, the young station worker dashed toward the rear of the carriage.

The whistle echoed; a bird called out; the train began to move smoothly and elegantly.

At the window, as he was removing his hat, the station employee raised his hand in a salute and bowed.

The mist thinned yet clung with a chill that seemed like frost, making him draw the door shut; but he remained motionless, face pressed tight against the glass, still utterly captivated.

The Chikuma River appeared like a net cast by the moon from behind the mountain ridge where the moon-viewing hall receded... As the train advanced, mountain gorges and valley clefts layered rice fields upon furrowed ridges—pale cherry blossoms, crimson cords, yellow-green hues, and haze-tree scents clattered like armor plates over a surcoat woven from azure, scarlet, and cinnabar brocade. Human silhouettes rose amidst evening smoke that swayed in deepening purple gradients across near and far.

The water was a seam of gold and silver.
Even Kawanishima seemed distant.

When I bought that bento in Nagano, I gave it no proper consideration. Lotus root, carrot, stinking beef—and as for the main dish, that half-raw salted salmon was unbearable... Hiezawa Mountain was just the same with its meager rice. Ahh, I thought I shouldn’t have gone on this trip. But no—I shouldn’t speak of extravagance. To do so would be presumptuous toward this scenery.

“Excuse me.”

At one station, the gaunt, sallow-complexioned man who had been sitting next to him—wearing a plain black Western suit with a half-coat and hunting hat, appearing to be some sort of forestry official—leaned his face out from the dim window and called over a passing station employee to inquire.

“How many ri is it from this station to Ina?”

“Six and a half ri via the mountain pass—it would be seven ri.”

“In that case, what would it be like from the next station?”

“Hmm... Hey... hey there!”

When he called out, the station employee came running.
The sound of boots resounded loudly despite the early hour.... At the ticket gate, a mountain village child peered curiously through toward this side, their face—like a dried chestnut—radiating loneliness.

“...From the station to Ina—how many ri would that be?”

“The mountain path is six ri... roughly seven ri, sir.”

When he uttered “Haaah...” in a sighing manner, both the traveler’s pallid complexion and the surrounding scenery took on a profoundly gloomy cast.

“Are there rickshaws available?”

“There are, sir.”

replied the station worker.

“At the next station—”

“There would likely be one rickshaw or so.”

“No—I’ll disembark here.”

Having been lost in thought, he suddenly said hurriedly,

“I shall alight here.”

he added, as if confirming himself once more.

The station employees scattered to both sides.

With his brow seemingly buried beneath range upon range of brow-crushing mountains, the traveler retrieved his luggage from the rack with downcast eyes; but when the whistle blew, he took up his Western umbrella alongside the rectangular leather bag and alighted briskly with resolute bearing.
At the moment of alighting, he looked back and nodded to him.

He prayed for his health.

IV

The passenger who had been sitting beside him—he did not even know from where that traveler had boarded. Moreover, both parties, absorbed in their own thoughts, had not exchanged a single word. Yet when the time came to part, each felt such lonely wistfulness—so much so that they hardly seemed strangers—in a train so sparsely populated… No, not merely sparse; there was almost no one left at all. He thought of his new acquaintance’s path ahead—a solitary journey parting mountain after mountain. The Shu roads are rugged; how much more perilous is this world!

The solitary station was already shrouded in night, and regardless of direction, the distance beyond the mountain pass exceeded seven ri.
...He thought of the brocade-like foliage along his journey; he thought of the mist's depth; he thought of the frost's bite; rather than these, he thought already of snow—the black overcoat sank darkly away...

When the moon blazed through the window like the sudden opening of a jeweled casket, the crimson brocade of leaves across mountains and valleys—now radiantly aglow—abruptly unfurled before his eyes like unrolled silk.
Yet its fringes grew faintly thinner as they stretched onward.
By the moonlit shore spread with beautiful shells, that slender trail of smoke—seeming to drag a seagull's white shadow along the cape—came to be perceived thus because his memory had returned.

The train pressed against both sides of the mountain pass, boring through dark cliffs as it advanced.

At the peak beyond the window, he saw the fire-watch tower's lofty ladder piercing through the stars.

Not even the lamplight from a solitary dwelling held brightness enough to stand as illusion—nothing more than the phantom trace of a single crimson fallen leaf.

Water trickling down the carved rock dripped slowly onto the fire-watch tower’s ladder—icicles forming even as they fell—and the cold seeped into one’s bones.
Where would there be flames of a house burning?

Splitting dawn’s frost and parting dusk’s mist, Yamahime struck her bell hammer, sending maple crimson reverberating through the village—a brocade of trees announcing autumn’s reign. Yet when observed, the half-bell’s bronze—resembling a downward-curved gentian—cast purple shadows in the moonlight.

Like a great bat, the smoke oozed unevenly through the gaps.

Ah—we entered the tunnel.

People knew... this tunnel was of extraordinary length.
Ordinarily hailed as Japan's foremost—inscribed with (Daitenkō)—the Kōshū Sasago Tunnel might actually be shorter than this one.

At first, he had merely intended to pass through too quickly and hadn’t taken it seriously at all.
Having utterly lacked any knowledge or experience regarding this anomalous landmark, he found himself considerably astonished by the inexorable force with which the train emitted a violent, deafening roar through its skylight and transformed into a blunt drill-bit plunging into the mountain’s depths—all as the surroundings gradually darkened, grew ever deeper, and became increasingly terrifying.

"This is treacherous terrain."

To speak of being captivated by beauty—what could possibly come of it? Only this pitiable sight: he slumped helplessly against a mirror stand.

He climbed onto the seat, and upon noticing his drained, frozen reflection in the moonlit glass window, frantically turned around—fumbling for his geta—then tightened the sash that had slid loosely beneath his overcoat. As he adjusted his collar, he repositioned the precious travel funds that had slipped into his sleeve and hovered midair ("Back to my pocket with you"), yanking his hem taut with a forceful tug.

"No—it’s bad enough as it is, but there’s still more…"

The train rumbled on, its roar resounding as if swept along by a waterfall. Here, having neatly taken a seat and adjusted his overcoat sleeves with composed resolve in his lower abdomen, the settled composure choked back uncontrollably in rapid succession. The smoke was intense.

V

The interior already thick with swirling haze now took on a garish yellow tinge that formed a tepid current bubbling up like froth... Through every conceivable gap—windows gnawed into lion-bite patterns by jagged teeth, ceiling joints, eave crevices—it poured in.

If this was the tunnel he hadn't even heard rumors of, then the famed Sasago must be truly dreadful. He nearly thought of taking the Chuo Line instead of the Nakasendo to make a grand detour through Nagoya.

"No matter what, this is intolerable... Poison must fight poison," he resolved.

From his sleeve he took a rolled cigarette and struck a match. With its tip flaring fiercely at his lips, he drew deep on the smoke—filtering out the coal-tinged fumes through his teeth before exhaling.

As his vision cleared somewhat and he breathed through pursed lips—suddenly, no, let us say for the first time—he glimpsed a beautiful shadow suspended within layered mists across the compartment; a form fallen yet not fallen upon the opposite seat where he sat angled.

It was not a shadow; he saw the alluring hues of colored garments.

There were women.

Moreover, two...

He recognized them—limp forms closing in from either side—one collapsing onto a knee, the other onto a shoulder where stray hairs lay disheveled—each hiding their face completely within sleeves as they clung together in an embrace-like manner, prostrate and anguished.

Their figures—supplely folded—bore sleeves of deep green.
Deep purple.
Though clearly wearing haori over their garments, the stripe patterns eluded discernment.
Crests undoubtedly adorned them—this went without saying.
Yet shrouded in smoke and haze, these too remained indistinct.

The under-kimonos too remained indistinct. But it was certain that both of them wore scarlet long under-kimonos—likely what would be called crest-patterned crepe silk—with what appeared to be tie-dyed or dyed speckles. From the four entangled sleeves, green and that purple divided their hues—scattering into eight fluttering parts while damply tangling together—their forms disordered into a dwelling crimson…

The crimson slipped along down-turned collars, collapsing into draped necklines where skin showed through its glimmer—their vitality subdued yet smoldering.

And across their chests—overflowing with bright green and draped in purple—what appeared to be ornamental sashes: one in turmeric yellow, the other ibis-hued—their loosely tied obi draped in loose array.

"Oh my... Could they be courtesans?"

Though no established doctrine dictated traveling with only a haori over one's under-kimono.
...I thought they might be elopers, but they wore no hoods.

The one with bangs resting on her shoulder covered her face turned toward this direction with a purple sleeve in a slightly bowed manner; having slumped heavily into shadow, the shape of her hair became indistinguishable.

The one who draped a bright green sleeve over her knee and leaned forward sharply wore an under-kimono patterned in tie-dye or dappled speckles, its scarlet motifs swelling voluminously. Tangled hair—thick locks swaying yet glossy sideburns parting the smoke—was bound in a traditional topknot.

The green-clad woman sat upright while the purple-clad woman perched limply at an angle.
Both fallen hems and twisted sash ends lay disordered to a distressing degree.

As for their age—needless to say—clad only in layered garments with limbs appearing equally pale, their stances and builds showed not the slightest difference.

......Such being their stature and build?......

VI

Could they be women meant to be put on display?

Once he had thought them that small.

But they were neither wilted nor shrunk.
Though their appearance was disheveled by the billowing smoke, there remained a dewy suppleness about them that stretched out gracefully.
Their collars, shoulders, and hem alignment were all ordinary yet harmoniously balanced.
Rather than small... they were simply petite.

The train plunged violently onward without stopping.
The dense smoke crumbled rocks, scraped away mud, whipped soil into wave-like formations that writhed in convulsive turmoil.

It is commonly said that even the longest tunnel can be traversed in the time it takes to slowly smoke a single Shikishima.

When he lit his second cigarette, he found himself unable to suppress a growing unease.
......They were strange companions indeed.
The dimly visible women, their forms concentrated with color as they clung together—could this be an omen of some impending incident on the train?

When this tunnel was once bored through, was this not a phantom of the weak inhabitants subjected to the cruelty of picks and explosives?

Or perhaps—were they not vengeful spirits of the deceased, manifesting form only in this compartment through confluence of place and circumstance?

Lured into this vision, he too felt as though dwelling in a tomb trembling like an earthquake, overwhelmed by an uneasiness that bordered on the uncanny.

Unable to endure sitting still any longer, he suddenly leapt to his feet only to stagger dizzily and fall back onto his rear with a thud, letting out a wry chuckle by himself.

Suddenly, as if a great wind had died down, the echoing ceased, and the train’s noise returned to its former state.

He hurriedly opened the window and looked up at the moon as if expelling every breath from his mouth—whereupon, upon the clear-cut mountainside leaving behind a swath of clustered pampas grass, the smoke in the compartment thinned.
It soaked into the rocks and gradually disappeared.

With the sensation of awakening from a dream, he stroked his thickened face, rested that palm on his knee, and when his mind had fully righted itself with clarity, he laughed alone at the excessive foolishness of his earlier imaginings.

No—to laugh alone before women who weren't even acquaintances must be an owl's doing.

Because the two women—whom he had even suspected might be companions from the underworld or tenants sharing a grave—now sat utterly ordinary, yet with their beautiful faces raised in unison.

"So it was the tunnel that had been tormenting me after all."

He nodded.

"And if seeing their disheveled state on a dance... dance troupe's return journey... this couldn't be their outward trip. They must be dancers."
"There must have been an event at an inn further ahead where they were invited—selected performers from some town—perhaps heading to the next station or returning to the previous one... If it was a dance event, maybe a garden party where they were jostled by a crowd of hands—gray hands, yellow hands, birch-colored hands; weasels, foxes, raccoon dogs, even bear-like figures mixed in—boarding the train like fugitives with sleeves and hems in disarray."

If we speak of fugitives, the dance program they performed might belong to that same category. ...The purple-clad one's hairstyle had initially resembled a bundled-grass Shimada chignon, but in truth she wore a male-style topknot with hanging strands.

This one had a somewhat slender face.
The girl with the topknot was voluptuous.
He thought both might be wearing wigs.
They appeared young—thirteen or fourteen, or perhaps fifteen or sixteen, seventeen or eighteen—their faces heavily made up with crimson even at the corners of their eyes, yet their intense exhaustion showed through; cheeks tinged with pallor beneath the gaudy cosmetics, their skin so pale it seemed translucent.
If that crimson—what he took to be eyelid crimson—were absent, given their petite frames, they would have been nothing more than moving dolls.

VII

"In any case, they seemed exhausted. …To cross that tunnel on their return from the stage was like descending through a theater’s hellmouth—no, it had been a true abyss."

Lonely indeed, this journey through Kisoji—

Leaves dance onto the hat—

These doll-like women—I want to hear their voices—would they be songbirds trilling among brocade leaves?

When he gazed intently through the smoke that had not yet completely dissipated—neither avoiding nor acknowledging its presence—the two women sat perfectly aligned, their eyes piercingly sharp, the crimson blazed across their figures here and there like raging flames.

The burly man suddenly stood up.

Earlier—there had been a casual acquaintance who had attempted to descend after crossing Shichirihan Pass, separated by the space between seats on the same side as him, lying prone with a pale blue velvet armrest as a pillow, submerged in night’s depths within smoke-shrouded gloom since before the tunnel crossing—this figure now rose into the fierce stance of temple guardians.

But abruptly, what seemed like a massive timber transformed and stood upright, its limbs appearing to sprout branches. Even with the tea-colored hunting cap pressed deep over his towering frame from above, his stature remained so immense it made one crane their neck. He wore a speckled woolen overcoat whose hem billowed wider than a straw raincoat braced against the wind, and red leather boots that gleamed dully.

At that moment, he stomped diagonally across the compartment and planted himself wordlessly before the two women. Beneath the overcoat's armpit, purple-rimmed eyes now cast downward looked pitiful indeed—the crimson at their lids fading, while the pale green collar stood crisp in eight-fold layers.

The burly man's hands reached up to the overhead rack as though piercing through the ceiling; first he seized a bullet belt, tightening it around his coat's waist with a creak, then took down his gun and clanged it into place high on the rack.
Along with the large game bag and small leather satchel, what he pulled down in one handful was the leather-strapped magic jar.

Then, with a shake of his shoulders, he heedlessly threw them over opposite sides in a decisive motion, his waist swaying loosely with each movement.

The game bag appeared heavy yet shook vigorously.

--Seven wood pigeons, thirteen snipes, fifteen quails, three wild ducks--

The weight of its contents became palpable, as though densely packed within……

Yesterday, when he had alighted from the train at Usui and visited the Gongen-sama shrine on the pass, upon reaching the approach, he stepped down from the rickshaw and inquired of the coachman—who had stood behind to guide him—on the lonely upward slope.

“There don’t seem to be any small birds around here at all.”

“They’re there if you look properly. …Just yesterday, I had the honor of accompanying a hunting gentleman as his guide—we bagged a fine haul for him.”

He said with cunning eyes gleaming.
Snipes and pigeons—that he even recalled their numbers now stemmed from his memory of the coachman’s words that day.

Having heard almost no birdsong through this mountain village from the train, he found himself imagining that every small bird in these valleys had been hunted to extinction by that hunter’s massive hands, and shuddered involuntarily.
Even that lasted but an instant.

The train stopped.

"Shiojiri, Shiojiri—transfer for the Chuo Line."

It was that very moment.

...The gentleman, having finished securing his belongings with practiced ease and magnanimity, now thrust his hands—which had been poised in vain for this very purpose—to both sides, seizing the two women by what seemed to be their necks with his bare hands and dragging them up—Ah! Their garments and sashes scrambled upward, pale faces slipping into collars—streaming crimson suspended midair from purple and pale green figures—as the gentleman stomped heavily forward in great strides. Leaving the dumbfounded traveler alone in the compartment, he stepped calmly through the door.

The aftermath—its terrifying intensity.

VIII

Two lovely crimson lips—frozen like scattered cherry shells faintly tinkling—glimmered here and there under the moon—

“Ah, I’m cold.”

Even as he changed into Kikuya’s wide-sleeved kimono to visit the hot spring, he found himself considerably unnerved by how his body tremors persisted throughout the process.

From the moment he had departed Tokyo—having planned to stay one night in Suwa—the inn he had chosen was that Kikuya on the town’s main street.

What made it disheartening was that even at Shiojiri, not a single soul boarded the same compartment.
...The inn’s name was Yaegakihime—sharing its title with an essay I knew only by reputation—a stranger yet somehow familiar.
I had imagined it would feel like meeting a long-lost cousin and uncle for the first time.
………

When we arrived at Shimosuwa, seven or eight merchant-types who seemed fond of river snails—their worldly demeanor accentuated by gaudy attire—came streaming in with clattering commotion. Among them, that man sat down with affected composure in the very spot where the two women had been.

At first I thought he might react, but he remained completely unfazed, seemingly bound for Kofu or Iidamachi. Until he disembarked at Kamisuwa, nothing particular occurred—the red-tipped nose of what appeared to be a mere heavy drinker persisted without transforming into grass, tree, or even persimmon fruit, which I found rather peculiar.

From the beginning, he had heard how around that area both mountains and fields dwindled into insignificance as they transformed into Lake Suwa's waters—yet this knowledge had passed through his mind without taking root, for his attention had remained fixed on watching the women’s retreating figures.

When he emerged coldly from the ticket gate, the surroundings—encircled by mountain shadows and cradling a crystal-clear lake—appeared lustrous as lacquer, black yet crystalline and translucent, perhaps reflecting the moonlight.

White were the roofs of the townhouses.

Like shadows welling up from water, sleekly swirling black, three rickshaws dashed out right before his eyes.

--Three rickshaws, three people--

“Wait—that gentleman earlier, I thought he had disembarked at Shiojiri... Or did he change compartments and come this far? Three rickshaws, all lined up.”

As he looked, before his eyes flowed the light of yellow lanterns, and there appeared something pulling out a clattering blue-painted handcart.
The lanterns bore crimson pistils; the cart displayed white crests—unmistakably Kikuya’s establishment.

“Hey, Kikuya’s pickup.”
“Yep.”

He stood rigidly.
Nakaya's Errand Boy—a bare-shinned figure—answered curtly.

“Hey, you’re headed there, right? Got a rickshaw?”

“They’ve all been taken by the last group,”

“All gone… I see… Any left at all?”

“Nah, it’s just up ahead.”
“Mister, shall I take your blanket?”
He placed the striped lap blanket on the cart.

“Go ahead and pass over the luggage too.”

“This feels like highway robbery.”

He couldn't help but laugh, but the meaning was lost on him. The guy remained utterly unfazed, clattering his cold weather clogs loudly as he stomped them down with exaggerated steps.

"Hey, it's here."

The cloth carryall he tried to retrieve felt alarmingly light when inspected. When placed on the cart, it seemed liable to bounce right off, so he thought better of it.

"This is fine."

"Right then, best come quick."
"It's freezing cold."

With a spirited "There we go!", he bent forward energetically, snorted through his nostrils, turned black all at once, and clattered away into the moonlit night...

Startled as if a boar had burst forth, he stood alone at the wide crossroads and saw pale stones on the great roof—countless as they were, outnumbering even the electric lights of the shops.

He saw a paper signboard bearing (The Waves of the Floating World.) labeled as a Shinpa play—a withered branch washed ashore by those worldly tides. No—crimson leaves instead, two or three scattered ones coloring the winter lake.

Nine

“I’ll have sake. Just... make sure it’s hot.”

Upon arriving at Kikuya and being shown to a room—before even sitting down, while removing his overcoat—this man ordered from the guiding maid what amounted to an amateur’s crude restorative.

He sat heavily before the central table in the six-mat room. Already thick and thin dyed leaves flickered before his eyes as though intoxicating him—pressing against his forehead, he slumped limply. When the brazier was brought again, unaware of who had brought it yet acting as if fire had been prepared there from the start, he unconsciously lit a cigarette.

Thin smoke drifted toward the peak.

“Please kindly change into your yukata and enter the bath.”

"That's right—I'll jump in."

Having changed into a freshly starched yukata—shivering all the while—he stepped into the corridor. But as he watched the maid dart swiftly toward the distant front desk, he stood at the railing and hesitated.

The steam hung warm; below him, the bathhouse window glowed tinted like mirrored brocade leaves, its light arching to graze the second-floor eaves while swaying with the gurgle of water from what seemed a courtyard pond—thus even without being told, the indoor bath’s location was evident.

But the room he had been shown to had a wall immediately at its far end, and from there, the entrance to the back stairs leading downward was not visible.
To reach the bathhouse, he had to take a considerable detour.

Now, from the moment he was first guided through by the maid,

He mentally shouted, "I can't get drunk here!"—this high place having nothing resembling a proper staircase, and after rounding the corridor once, the slope leading downward ahead being quite steep.
As he crossed the low drum bridge, the polished floorboards slid as if greased.

He crossed Kiso Plank Bridge alongside the inn's shoji screens and plank-walled rooms... That too held its charm.

Though consciously aware of his unsteady footing—even having merely loosened his three-shaku sash into a front knot against the cold—he couldn't conceive of dashing out recklessly.

And it was dark.
......Anticipating the descending path ahead from where the slope grew steepest, only a dim hanging lantern illuminated the wall forming the low veranda along the main house's front.
As for the rest—save for his own room and another one room apart in a corner of the high building where a guest resided, their shoji screens casting shadows from electric light—there remained nothing.

"This calls for proceeding slowly and carefully."

Smiling wryly to himself, he traced the pond's railing as if navigating a bridge approach over a mountain stream.

Bending past where other guests had been, when he stepped onto the gradually sloping corridor, the polished-glass bathhouse appeared beneath the old drum bridge as though at some unfathomable depth—and then his footing suddenly darkened.

Where was it echoing to? What did it connect to? With each tentative step he took, the corridor floorboards emitted faint creak-creak sounds.

Though but a murmuring stream without embankments to hold it back, running continuous with the land, with Lake Suwa lying just beyond, the great lake’s waters beneath his feet seemed to forge their ridge, nock their arrow, and press inexorably closer.
……Even that sound—seeming to hesitate in its path—resonated in his ears before piercing through with a shrill, needle-like keen.……

In the solitary Okuyama house dwelt a delicate woman; the sound resembled that of a spinning wheel drawing threads of snow-white silk through the valley... Comforting, nostalgic, beautiful, lonesome, and chilling.

The sound came again.

(Creak, creak)

(Creak, creak)…

Ten

He stood as if pulled down into place.

The large structure said to be an ancient honjin (official inn) stood in silence.

There were no other guests.

Perhaps they were out at the bath—though showing no particular vigor—but thinking the three guests who had come by rickshaw from the station might be there, he paid keen attention. Now behind him—before the shoji where the fastened electric light was enclosed—a shadow of a bird tucking its wings to cross the ground was cast blackly.

About the size of a small dove…

When he looked, it moved swiftly.
No sooner had it vanished beyond the shoji screen than it creaked sharply against the floorboards, slid smoothly along, and—just as he thought *Ah!*—passed beneath his sleeve, piercing through with a chill that froze his chest in dread.
But with a swish—emerald overtaken by indigo, ultramarine contained within—it became purple and finally passed by the hanging lantern.

But it opened its vermilion beak.

The chartreuse neck stretched fluidly, and the wheel groaned,

(Creak, creak)

(Creak-creak, creak-creak)...

(To the trees, to the trees.

Woodcutter, do not come! Woodcutter, do not come!
Creak-creak, creak-creak.)

It called out.

Ah—that blue-headed duck from the hand game, he realized—and then slipping beneath the sleeve of the hunting robe came a mandarin duck glistening in scarlet and gold.

Together, smoothly down the slope like flowing water,... they slid along the corridor.

"I must have snagged a thread somewhere."

The maid fastened something to her wide sleeve and fluttered it briskly when suddenly he thought she had transformed into a bird, leaving him stricken with dread in the darkness.

After all, a toy bird tethered by threads to one's body that had trodden upon something—there was no way it could have passed through to the other side.

Clenching his hands, he peered—from the main house’s distant and dim front desk, the faint light reached hazily.
The large hall facing the pond—its interior seemingly spanning forty to fifty tatami mats—amidst numerous dim shoji screens.
Cracking open a narrow gap and standing there, behind her lay valleys between endless mountains where even moonlight couldn’t reach—held back as if within a spider’s web—as she spread wing-like vast darkness resembling a black cavern stretching to the stars, her form but the slender post of a shoji screen.

In the hot spring's steam, faintly—a snow-pale face, a black-haired chignon.

As moonlight fell upon an illusory robe, she stood poised on pale tiptoes, raising a hand like the spirit of a flower to beckon with a fleeting gesture.

With a creak-creak, the form of a bird circled the pillar.

That woman—

――Regarding this, there exists another tale altogether.