Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Yoshie Takematsu

A bitter wind blew from the north, sweeping cold across the lake surface.
The waves of Lake Hamana rose uniformly white, surging against the sea’s opposing force.

It was early April, and tattered clouds raced across the sky, wind-driven to cling against surrounding mountains.
Bright light slid through the air to fall upon the lake, revealing Murakushi, Shirasu, and Osaki-no-Hana low and dark against the far shore.

They stood at Benten Island’s bridge approach awaiting the ferry to Shin’ai.
With a creaking stern, a small boat scurried beneath the bridge from the lake waters.

“Has the ferry to Shin’ai not left yet?” called out a voice.

“Aye, she just departed from there. You’d be waitin’ near two hours, I reckon.”

“This is a bother. Isn’t there another way?” The two standing men exchanged glances.

“Where might you be bound?” asked the man at the bow, steadying his pole.

“Well now, we’re making for Iragō—but isn’t there any path save through Shin’ai?”

Buffeted by the wind, I crumpled the stubborn map and shouted upward as if probing.
The two boatmen had been securing their boat to a bridge post when the man in workman's trousers and sleeved jacket - his waist cinched with straw rope - suddenly sprang up and addressed me.

“Ain’t no gale blowin’ neither—we’re just idlin’ around here anyhow. How’s ’bout we ferry ya over? If it’s Iragō you’re after, ’stead o’ goin’ to Shin’ai, we can put you ashore at the beach up ahead.”

“That’ll do fine. As long as we reach somewhere, that’s enough. Will you ferry us across?”

“Right then, wait just a moment,”

The one man who had remained on the boat disembarked, crossed the bridge, and disappeared somewhere.
I took out the map again and asked about the conditions of the route ahead.
The boatmen put their thick fingers on the map and gave various explanations.

“They say Iragō’s thirteen ri from here. If ya take the beaches up ahead, you’ll end up goin’ whether ya like it or not.”
“Right, ya probably won’t make it to Akabane ’fore nightfall.”

“Is there an inn?” interjected S-kun, the Tokyo-born companion standing beside me, his voice tinged with anxiety.

“Inns? Ain’t no proper lodgin’s out that way, but ya can find somewhere to bed down.”

“It’s fine—rest assured. Any place would do splendidly.”

“It’s not that simple,” S-kun said with a laugh, glancing briefly in my direction.

Before long, a man returned.
We were put aboard that boat.

Seaweed and nori-dyed brushwood entangled around the boat's hull.
Crosswaves rose high, crashing in from the right.
Benten Island, covered in a forest of black pines, floated between the lake and the sea.
Late last night, we had passed through the pine rows along the Tōkaidō from Maihama Station, following someone returning from Hamamatsu to the island while listening to various stories.
The man claimed to be a relative of the innkeeper and told a convenient story for both parties.
When the road curved and Lake Hamana’s night scenery abruptly appeared before my eyes, I felt as if I had been transported to some distant land.
The scattered fishing lights floating on the water, the waves that seemed to sob in the darkness, and the faintly white inn wall visible beyond the bridge—I felt as though I had been whisked away to a Swiss lakeside.
When I looked this morning under the bright sunlight, those inns' rear second-floor railings and shoji were clearly visible through the pine grove.

Islands, the lake, and beyond them the dense wooded mountains pressing close—separated far above these by distance, a line of snow-capped peaks floated ethereally along the clouded horizon.
The shadow of distant mountains seen across the lake—it reminded me of Mount Iide at Lake Inawashiro.

“Boatmen, what’s that white mountain called?”

“That one? Well, it’s some mountain in Shinshū, but I ain’t got a name for it.”

The cold wind must be blowing from beyond those mountains. Just having looked at it made goosebumps rise on my skin. I could not help but imagine the highland’s yellowed, withered grasslands where snow still lingered. No flowers bloomed, and a cold wind swept through alone in vertical streams.

The boat advanced slowly, buffeted by crosswaves while keeping a single gray sandbar in view to its left. That single sandbar stretched long, blocking the incoming sea waves. With the wind blowing offshore, the incoming waves weren’t high. They rolled low onto that sandy beach, making a mournful sound. On the distant horizon’s edge, pale white clusters of clouds billowed hazily upward—neither vigorously spreading nor dissipating—arrayed along the horizon.

The boat's bottom kept sticking to the sandy ground and wouldn't budge.
The boatmen strained with all their might and forced it free using their poles.
Where sandbars parted, shallow currents flowed between them, clashing with incoming sea waves that sent sand cascading from both banks with each collision.
The two travelers sat huddled in the boat with raised coat collars, but when it neared a sandy beach's edge, they sprang up energetically and leapt down onto the grit.

When I looked around, a vast sandy plain spread before my eyes. Small dunes had formed here and there, and in the shade of one of them, fifteen or sixteen fishermen were pulling nets between them, mending the gear. The wind blew fiercely, scattering sand from the dunes in pattering gusts. “Whoa, whoa,” the fishermen exclaimed while ducking their heads and waving their hands to shake off the sand, but more kept pelting them relentlessly from behind.

“This sand is terrible—it’ll bury us alive,” a man said as he rose from the sandy ground and moved closer to the base of a dune. Then came a cascading crash as a mass of sand came sliding down the slope, pouring over the man who had just sat down.

“Agh!” he cried out—but looking over, the man had failed to escape; his lower body and right side were now trapped beneath the sand. Moving only his left hand and head, he tried to free himself but couldn’t budge. “Get me out!” he shouted at the top of his voice.

“Look at you, going off alone to a place like that, you idiot!” a man said as he stood up, grabbed him by the neck and left hand, and pulled him out. From his right shoulder down was entirely sand, half his face smeared with it. “What a mess!” they all laughed. The man laughed along with them while frantically digging sand from his ear with the fingers of his right hand.

The rain of sand and dust came pelting down relentlessly from above and the sides.
We turned our backs to the wind and walked sideways.
When we paused for a moment, the sound of flowing sand flying all around us—hissing, hissing—rang out with a desolate, piercing sharpness as it flew past.
Each time we looked, sand would pile up at our toes, and when we lifted our feet, the footprints would immediately half-vanish, taking on an elongated shape.
Facing into the wind, we could hardly open our eyes or mouths.

The two reached the shade of a small hill and sat upon yellowed grass that exposed only their heads.
Like those who had encountered a blizzard, they buried their necks in their coat collars and closed their eyes for a while, surrendering to the course of events.

Countless grains of sand too fine for the eye to catch now collided and rubbed against each other in midair creating a lonely delicate musical tone.
What could be lonelier—what more desolate—than this natural music made by countless flowing sands?
Hiss hiss—it resounded through empty space as if announcing something.
Like bat cries echoing through evening darkness—now above their heads now past shoulders now around knees now at ears—it crept beneath feet muttering complaints as if resenting a solitary human presence.
Hiss hiss—the persistent sound now surged purposefully seaward en masse.
Withered grass exposing only its tips bent like trails left by some invisible traveler pressed flat.
When they reached water's edge sand fell plop plop into waves with metronomic rhythm.

We stood up again and began walking in silence.
Small thickets and clumps of grass were buried in the sand.
Looking up, a black human figure was visible atop the sand dune’s crest.
When we looked up and strained our eyes, there stood a stone Jizo statue wearing a red apron.

We couldn’t bring ourselves to calmly gaze at the sea.
When we looked ahead, sand dunes stretched continuously into the distance.
Dodging the wind again and again, we trotted along, picking our way between the dunes.
Between the sand dunes stretching in a line, the sand fell less thickly, and the grass grew tall. When we looked back at the path we’d come, two trails of footprints stretched long behind us.

When we emerged onto a small hill and looked out into the distance, waves came rushing all at once onto the bleached sandy beach, breaking white. The tip of the cape lay shrouded in haze, its outline impossible to discern clearly. Iragō's thirteen ri—the realization that our destination still lay far ahead began to take shape in my chest.

As we walked between monotonous sand dunes, both our heads and legs grew heavy. The wind weakened slightly, but it still didn’t seem likely to die down. Since we decided to leave the coast for a while and enter the peninsula connected to the mainland, we ran up a sandhill and entered Hama village through wheat fields on our right.

Lake Hamana still showed its waves in the distance, while snow-capped peaks faintly towered against the skyline. The sun grew gradually warmer, and the rows of pine trees along the Tokaido cast dark shadows upon the sandy path. While brushing the sand from our straw boots, we climbed Shiomizaka slope and finally reached Shirahama Station.

Shirahama Station stood on a north-facing slope. It showed none of the desolation seen at Nakasendo's waystations. The row of merchant houses along its streets was thriving considerably.

We entered an inn at the town's center and decided to have lunch before moving on, though the hour was still early. In the courtyard lay numerous garden stones, where small blue fruits had appeared after the old cherry tree's blossoms had scattered. Two or three palm trees stood clustered nearby, while a Fatsia japonica spread its broad leaves to encircle a water basin like embracing arms. They showed us what seemed to be the station's former honjin residence, its transom panels hung with calligraphic works by Watanabe Kazan among others.

“Well, there probably aren’t any inns like this from here on out.”

S-kun said something like this again.

“Why don’t we just stay here after all?”

“This isn’t a joke.”
“We can’t just change our plans now and endure it.”

“Well then, shall we go to Akabane and stay at a cheap inn or something?”

“You’re being quite mean-spirited.”

“But there’s nothing we can do about it, is there?”

The two had fully recovered from their fatigue across the sandy terrain and, after resting leisurely, departed from the house.

Following the Tokaido, from the town’s outskirts we turned right by the map’s guidance and walked along a narrow path.
Today there was a horse race in the village called Komatsubara and a Batō Kannon temple fair, so all the people from nearby villages bustled back and forth along this same road.

A man who had come from Futagawa-zai led the way as they passed through villages called Kami-Hosoya and Shimo-Hosoya.
Each was a village with large camellia trees and thickets of zelkova and oak, where camellia flowers pattered down from both sides of the road, turning the ground crimson along the hedgerows.

When we sat down to rest on oak logs felled by the roadside, everyone passing before us offered greetings and bowed their heads as they went.
Five or six hunters with guns shouldered and game bags dangling emerged from the village's depths and passed by in the opposite direction.
Somehow reminded of the peninsula's inner reaches, we exchanged glances and watched their retreating forms.

What could hardly be called a path—through thickets of grass and clambering up the red-bald tops of sand hills—we arrived at a village called Komatsubara. A sea of people crowded around, with stalls set up at the eaves of farmhouses here and there. Women covered in sand dust and women with hems turned pure white swarmed together, eating something. The horse racing area was securely fenced in, with a judge's stand erected atop Komatsu Hill at its center. In the wind that whipped up sand and dust, white and black horses raced about as if half-mad.

As we watched for about half an hour, the sun shifted westward, and a chill began to creep through its light, spreading.

Since there was no place to stay tonight, we parted with the man ahead and walked along the instructed path, turning left again and again.
People returning in this direction continued ceaselessly.
The villages following Komatsubara were Takatsuka, then Ikobe, Akazawa, and others.

It was nearly five o'clock. The shadows of the swaying bamboo grove stretched long across the ground, and the early spring cold seeped into our bones. Wondering if there might be any lodging ahead, we caught up to a group of young men walking before us and asked.

“There was one in Akazawa, but ain’t none beyond here.”
“Why don’tcha just go all the way to Tahara? We’re headin’ to Hōnan right next to it ourselves.”

“How many ri is it to Tahara?”

“’Bout two ri. Ain’t no trouble at all.”

“Can’t we go to Akabane?”

“What do you mean? It’s still five ri away,” said another man.

“Are there inns in Tahara?”

“There certainly are! It’s a proper town along the prefectural road—plenty to choose from.”

So we decided to walk to Tahara.

As we passed through more villages of oak trees and camellias, through wheat fields and grasslands, groups of two or three riders overtook us from behind, urging their horses onward with shouts of "Hoy! Hoy!"

Evergreen forests of oak and camellia grew thickly everywhere.
The field of withered grass connecting these spaces was whipped by the wind, sending grass leaves flying along with dry soil.
When we climbed the slope and emerged onto the hilltop, suddenly the sea spread out below our eyes.
Deep indigo waves crested white here and there, while the chill of approaching evening drifted across the vast expanse of water.
A powerfully drawn line demarcating sky from water - awakening as if from slumber, we cast our eyes along that boundary.
The pale white clouds we had seen that morning had already vanished, and the sky meeting the water glowed with a faint yellow light.
The soft light melts away even the hearts of those who gaze upon it.

The group of young men who had been traveling together had already gone on ahead.
We too parted from the sea and entered the forest.
The road wound ever westward until we came to a red earth mountain clustered with young pines.
In the far distance where the sun was beginning to set, the mountains of Bishū stretched into view across the horizon.

Glinting, glinting, golden water sparkled where the distant path met the horizon. Ah, Chita Bay.
I involuntarily turned back and looked behind again.
Enshū-nada drew a line deepened to navy blue beneath the distant sky.
We were now walking deeper and deeper into the desolate peninsula.

The sun had already sunk below the horizon, but the wind showed no sign of abating.
It blew across the peninsula from sea to sea.
The barren red earth mountain had dust swirling up under its force.
From somewhere in the valley came a horse’s neighing though no human figures were visible.
Descending the mountain and passing along a narrow riverbank where pampas grass clustered thickly，bats flew out from among the reeds two or three at a time，flitting through evening sky.
A faint shadow stretched long over riverbank，and when I looked back，a seven- or eight-day-old moon cast cold light from heavens.

In the shade of a mound made from cut and gathered pampas grass, five or six children were chattering away about something.
When I asked, “Is going straight the way to Tahara?”, they simply stared this way without answering. When I repeated the question, one of them nodded.
“How many ri is it?” I asked, but they remained silent again.
“Hey, how many ri is it?” I pressed more firmly. “Dunno,” said the child who’d nodded before.
I turned my back to the wind, struck a match, and lit a cigarette.

Having walked about one ri along the river embankment, a man carrying a load approached from the opposite direction, leaning on his walking stick. When we asked about the road, he told us the prefectural road lay just ahead, and from there it was only half a ri to Tahara town.

Before long, our eyes caught sight of electric wires stretching ahead.
Under the moonlight, a horse-drawn cart passed along the white prefectural road, its wheels clattering.
We let out a sigh of relief.
Along the right side of the prefectural road, though low, a mountain came into view.

The town of Tahara had electric lights shining brightly, with people bustling to and fro.
When we took off our straw sandals and faced each other on the inn's second floor, we felt as though we'd been reborn.

The day spent battling winds had left our heads heavy.
As I sank into thick sleep, quicksand fell and winds roared through my dreams.
Having anticipated a warm peninsula journey, I'd brought only my coat against rain—no gloves, just a thin shirt.
The backs of my hands began stinging sharply while my face grew lined.
My legs weighed like stone when descending from upstairs.
Though Tahara was Watanabe Kazan's birthplace with his memorial standing somewhere, I lacked strength to seek it.

The inn clerk came and told us that going out to Akabane，circling around “Back Beach，”and proceeding to Iragō Village would take eight or nine ri.
“If you’d prefer，you could take a rickshaw to Akabane—the road is passable by vehicle for four ri from here，”he added.

We decided to go to Akabane by rickshaw.

The wind wasn’t as strong as yesterday, but it blew coldly.
Under last night’s moonlight, what had been vaguely perceived as lying beyond the sea—the mountain silhouette—now appeared distinctly encircling Tahara town’s rear.
Chita Bay’s waters cut into that mountain’s foothills, forming reed-filled shallows that extended all the way to the town’s edge.

The rickshaw traveled about one ri south along the prefectural road before turning right.
The wind chasing from behind blew over the peninsula and plunged down toward sea after sea.
Along the road stretched only plank huts exuding the desolation of newly cleared land, upturned grassy soil, thickets yet untouched by sickles, and felled pine trees—not a single skylark sang.
Scattered like spilled remnants stood reddish-brown sand dunes, while camphor and oak forests grew thick and spreading; at the end of their continuation stretched the sky, its southern portion glowing with an eggshell hue that evoked visions of great azure wave swells undulating beneath.
A powerful sensation of being at land's end coursed through me.

To the sea, to the sea—how I longed to quickly escape this desolate wasteland and stand upon that shore.
I longed to gaze deeply at that boundary line demarcating the wild waves crashing ashore, the sea inducing deep quiet pensiveness, and those powerful sky and waters—since we couldn't converse on the rickshaw, these thoughts kept unfolding within me as we traveled.

In about two hours, we arrived at Akabane.

Along both sides of the narrow road stood two or three houses each, their doors mostly closed, making it impossible to tell if anyone was inside.
I searched for a house where someone might let us warm ourselves by a fire, but none were to be found anywhere.
As we dragged our heavy feet onward and onward, the door of one house stood open with a hearth fire burning inside.
Without a moment to consider their surroundings, the two rushed in and were allowed to warm themselves.

“Is it always this cold here?” I asked. “No, even in midwinter we don’t get anything like this—it’s quite unusual,” he replied, tossing a hefty armful of pine needles into the hearth.

“Where can we find an inn?”

Shielding his hands over the fire, S-kun asked.

“There’s no inn as such, but if you ask, we can put you up at our place.”

A young man of about twenty said while pouring tea.
The two looked up and surveyed the interior of the house.
From beyond the sooty plank door came the whirring sound of a silk-reeling hand-crank.
Beside the hearth stood a staircase leading up to the second floor.
The door beneath the stairs stood open, and the clattering of dishes caught my eye.

“What about the sea?” I asked, as if shifting my thoughts.

“Ah, the sea? It’s right below here. Under that forest ahead—there’s a beach, you see.”

“Is there fishing?”

“No, when it’s this rough, it’s completely hopeless, you see. — Where might you be heading now, you see?”

“We’re heading to Iragō, but about how many ri would that be?”

“Iragō, you see? About five ri, I’d say.”
“Are there any stretches along the path where one might lose their way?”
“The path? Well, for the path—just go straight ahead here, and as long as you keep turning left toward the sea, you’ll be fine, you see. If you’d rather, you can go down to the beach and walk right along the water’s edge—that’ll make for an easier trip, you see.”

"There probably aren't many travelers who take this path."
S-kun interjected.

“That’s right, you see. Usually folks take the prefectural road to Fukue,” he added.

The two left the house and followed the path beneath the trees. Camphor and camellia trees arched densely overhead like a tunnel, their narrow path stretching visible all the way to its distant end. As they trudged forward, two or three figures materialized ahead. Drawing closer, they recognized a bridal procession—a matchmaker in black formal kimono and silk hakama trousers, an elderly woman likely the mother, two porters laden with bundles, and the bride herself clutching an object while walking adorned with hair ornaments. Village children swarmed behind them, filling the air with boisterous chatter.

When they emerged from the tree-lined path, the view before them opened up completely, and the sky shone with bright light.
The clouds billowed white, seeming to demarcate the land's end.
When they paused briefly to listen, the crashing sound of waves could be heard.

The wind gradually subsided, and the sun began shining warmly down. We passed through small villages—Ikejiri, Wakami, Tsuchida—until reaching Waji, but found not a single house that looked willing to serve us lunch. Swallowing raw eggs in place of a proper meal, we made our way down from Waji to the beach.

Waji Beach bristled with treacherous rocks. Waves smashed violently against them. Between these gaps waded fisherwomen, scraping sweet laver from the stone surfaces. Waist-deep in seawater, they patiently gathered their harvest into small baskets. Though they urged us to dig up oysters from the sand and try them, something about it repelled us—we couldn't bring ourselves to reach out.

“Isn’t this poisonous? Huh, won’t it make us sick?”

“Don’t talk nonsense! When times are bad, everyone eats these oysters. Here, you eat ’em!”

When one of them threw an oyster to a small girl, she hurriedly picked it up, used her long, grown-out nails to pry off the meat, and slipped it smoothly into her mouth.

Hesitantly taking one myself, I put it in my mouth and chewed.
It had a vivid sweet and salty taste, but felt unsettling.
I finally managed to swallow it.

The sand was so deep it seemed to swallow them up to their knees.
Leaving behind the fisherwomen who were making a clamorous commotion—diving into and emerging from the waves with sharp cries—they passed through the rocks.
Large, bleached-white shells were washed up here and there.

When they trudged fifteen chō to Koshiozu Beach, the rocks vanished, and a wide sandy beach stretched continuously across the expanse toward sunrise's farthest edge.
Iragō’s back beach ended after about one ri.
They decided to sit down and rest atop a thick fir tree that had been washed ashore.

Before our eyes stretched Enshu Nada—though no towering cloud peaks had yet risen, smoky silver-hued clouds rolled and glimmered at the water's edge. Though powerfully drawn, this soft line at the sky's edge demarcated the nearing noon light from the navy-blue sea, running freely as it pleased. Though vast, the water's surface—with its countless small undulations—gave a truly rich and warm sensation, as if listening to complex, endless music. Embraced by this deep azure water, I wanted to have my body carried away to any distant shore. I wanted to dance with the waves, play in their embrace, and live an endlessly free life.

When I faced that gentle yet sharply clear line demarcating the mountaintop, my body would tense, bringing unity to my scattered mind, clearly halting my aimless self—allowing me to see precisely where I stood within the vast cosmos, a moment when I could savor precious joy.

But when I face the sea—this calm and abundant sea—nostalgia wells up, and I cannot suppress my leaping heart.
To shed this life stiffened into a dry, rigid shell and be granted an endlessly supple existence overflowing with flow.
From this existence of mine—wracked by doubt and hesitation, like skeletal faces glaring at one another—I can at last escape, if only briefly.
When I doubt, people too appear as suspicious shadows.
The arduous daily life—where shadows bare their teeth at one another, poised to grapple—is forgotten when I stand before this vast, ceaselessly flowing sea.
In one of these crumbling waves, I want to carve my shadow and send it flowing far away.
I want to keep the free resonance of those waves in my heart and make it an eternal resonance.
Entwining, clinging—this indigenous life is wretched.
I want to seek the ceaselessly flowing sea’s boundless freedom.

I sat down on a piece of driftwood and silently gazed out at the sea.
S-kun also sat down beside me and remained equally silent, not uttering a single word.

Behind where we were stretched sand dunes, their shade sheltering a row of camphor, bamboo, and oak trees that formed a natural windbreak forest. From between those dunes emerged a man leading cows; he released the animals onto the beach and lay down alone in the sand. The cows plodded along the water's edge, but whenever waves crashed ashore with a roar, they would suddenly bolt toward land—only to return again and bathe in the surf.

At Hinode Beach, children had gathered to build a bonfire. Finding endless fascination in burning the seaweed that clung to boat hulls, they darted around the flames shouting excitedly.

Off Hinode Cape, three massive rocks stood bathed in waves.
Beside them, fifteen or sixteen boatmen rowed their fishing boats past while chanting.
When I asked the children whether we could go around the cape's farthest point along the shore, they just said "Dunno" and ignored us.
With no alternative, we trudged through the deep sand to beneath the cape's extremity.

The cape’s projection was formed by a massive rock dozens of yards high that stood immovable against the Pacific waves like a crouching frog with its mouth agape, ready to receive endless crashing breakers. The waves rolled in from afar, smashed against the rock’s base, surged back, then pierced through its midsection with their deep indigo force. Sunlight leaking through the rock’s crevices fell upon the water’s surface, glistening ominously. With waves crashing in relentlessly from behind, those arriving first found themselves driven upward against the rock’s middle section. Forming rapids, the surged water came cascading down. If we timed it with the ebb tide and dashed through quickly, circling around seemed possible. But slipping on the wet rock would mean certain doom.

When we turned back and sought a path to climb to the cape's summit, a winding trail where sand crumbled away came into view.
At the edge of the path, pale purple trailing cape flowers bloomed delicately.
I picked one of those flowers and slipped it between the pages of my notebook.

Following the path to the cape's summit, a bright circular expanse of sky and earth suddenly came into view.
The horizon revealed nothing but sea in every direction, drawn in an arc centered precisely where we stood.
Before our eyes floated a large island on the sea that one might mistake for a mountain.
The white walls of houses glistened in the sunlight.
It was Kamishima.
I recalled a boy from this island who had gone to the capital, saying he wanted to become a naval officer and coming every night to study languages.
He was a round-faced, fair-skinned, energetic lad.
He had told me tales—of two octopuses becoming sails and boats to race across the sea, and of abalone-diving fisherwomen who would submerge their nursing infants in tubs, emerge from the depths while blowing heavy breaths, then press one edge of the tubs to let their children drink milk.
Remembering these things, I stared fixedly at Kamishima.

The surface of the waves stretched smooth as if ironed; only beneath the rocky point where we stood did fierce struggles occur, with terrifying screams resounding endlessly—yet even these were overwhelmed by the vast view and perceived as soft musical notes maintaining a steady rhythm.
When I looked back toward Waji and Koshiozu along Iragō's back bays that we had traversed—where waves came rushing in with pure white crests swirling like tassels, appearing to anxiously stretch their hands toward land's breast to reach just a little farther—

The two pushed through thickets of rhododendron and small red pines, veering ever rightward as they advanced.
When the thicket ended, below lay a vast stretch of bleached-white sand where the sun glared down directly, blazing intensely.
The sand dune sloped steeply, constantly shedding sand from above.
Withered yellow grass grew thickly from the beach, stretching down to the base of the dunes.
It was a desolate sandy beach.
A single boat was pulled far up from the water’s edge and lay exposed on the sand.

Across that sandy beach, on the opposite side, Iragō Cape came into view—covered in short shrubs and dwarf bamboo.

We slid down the side of that sandhill along with the sand and tumbled all the way to the water’s edge.
The beach connected the bases of two capes, facing Kamishima straight ahead.

Traversing this desolate sandy beach where not a single soul remained, we reached the tip of Iragō Cape. Worrying whether we could skirt around the edge of this cape along the sea, we lingered awhile atop the rocky promontory. When we looked down, footprints from straw sandals and a dog’s paw prints stretched across the sand at the water’s edge all the way to the far side.

“Don’t worry—it looks like we can make it.”
“Is that so?”

The two resolved themselves and, having come this far, started walking to reach Iragō’s farthest extremity.
At first, seeking gaps between rocks and waiting for waves to recede, they walked on following footprints ahead.
As the sun gradually sank westward and waters before them revealed Ise Bay, the evening tide surged forth with sudden force.

We had leaped over boulders and trudged through sandy patches for a couple hundred yards when—beyond that point, neither straw sandal imprints nor dog tracks remained visible. When I suddenly turned around—startled—S-kun, who had fallen slightly behind and was perhaps waiting for the receding waves at the rock’s edge, was nowhere to be seen.

Leaping in one bound onto driftwood lodged between rocks, I found two or three footprints remaining on stones below the cliff. But beyond that point, waves formed a deep blue abyss pooling ominously. When I looked up, the crumbling cliff face lay pitifully exposed with pebbles scattering down. As I stood bewildered, S-kun finally clambered up gripping the driftwood’s edge. Leggings and straw sandals were soaked through.

“Shall we keep going forward?” he asked anxiously.

“Well, even so, there’s no turning back now.”
“The evening tide’s come in.”

“This is troublesome.”

“Shall we just climb the cliff now?” “I suppose we should.”

The two hesitated for a while, but resolutely, I took the lead and began climbing the rocky outcrop.
While packing down the fallen sand to create footholds, I moved forward by gripping the rocky outcrop with both hands.

The waves beneath the cliff crashed higher with each passing moment, spiteful in their assault.
Baring white fangs, they showed a ferocity that would instantly sweep away anyone who fell.

“This is just like an explorer’s work—one slip and it’s over.”

“This is bad—can’t we cross over the mountain?”

“Why don’t you just come and see?”

I stepped from the rocky outcrop into the thicket.
What had appeared from the outside to be low shrubs clinging to the rocks—or something of that sort—upon entering revealed itself as tall dwarf bamboo crisscrossed in every direction, refusing to permit even a single step forward.
Even when I tried to part them with both hands, they wouldn’t separate.
The two stood there exchanging glances.

Off the cape came the creaking sound of oars as a single white-sailed boat emerged from the bay heading toward Shima Province; those aboard had likely spotted us two and were laughing away, making me feel disheartened.
The path ahead twisted through countless overlapping inlets, showing no sign of ending.

Steeling myself once more, I made my way by clinging sideways to the crumbling sandy outcrop as though crawling forward. Avoiding looking downward whenever possible, I pressed on by grasping whatever exposed tree roots I could find and driving my hands into the ground to pull myself through.

Ahead, I saw a sandy beach.
Ahead on the sea, the silhouette of a mountain came into view.
Paying careful attention with each step through the winding embrace of the mountain, it was about an hour later that we finally descended to the sandy beach.
When I let out a relieved breath and looked back, the waves took on a frenzied appearance and were crashing against the base of the cliff with even greater ferocity.

In the far distance along the sandy beach, several fishermen's huts came into view, with smoke rising from them.
My head grew hazy, and my legs ached even more.
The two of us no longer had the energy to speak as we trudged through the deep sand.

The sandy ground ended where a bamboo thicket grew densely.
Beneath it lay what appeared to be a path.
Hearing a rustling, crackling sound, we stopped to listen when an old man emerged from within, holding cut bear bamboo in his hand.

“Does this path lead to Iragō Village?”

“Ah, that’ll do.”

“Are there any houses where we can stay?”

“Well now, there’s inns alright, but for folks like you’uns, if ya ask Mr. Fujiwara, he’ll put ya up.”

“What kind of house is that?”

“It’s the former village chief’s house—I hear their son went off to Tokyo or somethin’.”

“Do you think they’ll let us stay?”
“Why don’t ya try askin’? Tell ya what—ain’t I comin’ back that way myself? I’ll walk ya there m’self.”

The old man bundled the cut bamboo and shouldered it.
I stood surveying my surroundings when I suddenly noticed reddish-purple five-petaled flowers blooming at my feet.

“Old man, what kind of flower is this?” I asked, plucking one.

“That’s a radish flower.”
“Were they sown?”
“Nah, they just grew on their own.”

Wild radish flowers bloomed here and there with delicate beauty.
The old man went on ahead, his bundle of bamboo rustling as he moved.
The two followed behind, asking various questions as they went.
The village of Iragō had originally been located in this vicinity but had since relocated about two kilometers further ahead.
At the sites of former dwellings, only wells remained with their stone covers, several of which caught our eye.
Beneath a large pine tree stood a monument.
At Bashō’s memorial stone was engraved: “A hawk spotted—how gladdening at Iragō Cape.”

The evening sun had faded completely when we passed beneath newly planted camphor trees on the wooded slope—the mournful moan of waves echoing from rocky shores below—then parted from the old man in the pine forest and emerged at Iragō Village's center just as dusk's chill began piercing our skin.

Using the great pine as our landmark, we located and entered the Fujiwara village chief's house.
No answer came no matter how many times we called.
Eventually a woman who seemed to be the mistress—about fifty years old—entered through the rear door.
We courteously stated our purpose and asked if we might stay.

We washed our feet in cold water and knelt before the large zelkova-wood corner brazier.
The housewife brought out numerous large rice cakes and added charcoal to the brazier while instructing us to roast and eat them.

“Our son went to the Agricultural College and graduated two years ago,” she said. “He immediately enlisted as a one-year volunteer soldier and came home this year. But four or five days back he went to visit his elder sister who married into Shinoshima—he should return tomorrow or so.”
“And it’s not like our child would ever be a burden on anyone in Tokyo either.”
“We sincerely ask for your understanding.”
“There’s not much hospitality we can offer here,” she said courteously while hosting us, “but please rest at your leisure.”

After dark, the husband who had gone out on an errand returned by bicycle, sweating.
He was a talkative and seemingly good-natured man.
When told the bath was ready, we were allowed to bathe.

In the inner room, as we lay talking about today's adventures, people who had come for baths were conversing loudly about something in the kitchen.

The lonely sound of distant waves drifted in.
Perhaps from sheer exhaustion, I couldn't sleep.
The mournful waves boomed and boomed, enveloping the house.