Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

When a woman was alone with no one else nearby, she should not receive a massage therapist by herself—or so any old-fashioned person would say.
The upper classes need not go that far.
It was those lower matters being referred to here.
In the bedroom, special care would likely have been required.
In the past, they said shadow plays and projected images would show such flirtatious scenes.
“Madam... Madam.”
“Now then—on your side, please. I’ll begin massaging your lower back. If I position you sideways, you’ll end up facedown; one swift turn, then gently back to your side again.”
The glistening fish lay upon a cutting board of silk floss and habutae—the practitioner was a cook who wielded no kitchen chopsticks.
As he permeated through the clothing, kneaded the flesh, and withered the sinews—thus did the body within dissolve into ecstasy.
Her once-neat appearance grew disheveled, her undergarments began to come undone, and her obi slackened.
Even when properly arranged, there had already been a hint of this disheveled charm.
In pleasure trip inns and hot spring lodgings—when clad in sleeping garments or yukata, with sashes tied simply and a single decorative obi—the scene was one that could almost be imagined without further elaboration.
As the skin was rubbed side to side, the so-called indigo-dyed silk overflowed, while the crimson crepe and patterned silk spread out and fell away.
The one being massaged rendered the practitioner blind.
Therein lay carelessness in posture.
When working on the ankle—a matter requiring professional decorum—the therapist bent and lifted from the calf, smoothly wrapping the kimono’s hem to contain it. Yet as the treatment progressed, their mutual lassitude loosened the fabric: the heel slipped downward, the hem fluttered down like a wave, and from beneath the now-unfurled knee, a pale ankle swayed weightlessly in air. Limp and pliant, it tangled in the therapist’s hands like unraveling thread—the alluring upward strokes, downward strokes taking on the semblance of one walking backward through snowfall swirling in mandala patterns.
Suddenly, pitch darkness fell... and the shadow play was said to have vanished.

――Upon hearing such things, one ought to exercise prudence.――

However, let me clarify that the O-Katsu of my tale—this downtown girl now married as Kawasaki Fujin—never engaged in such conduct or found herself in such circumstances.

The matter at hand concerns O-Katsu’s mother—now counted among the deceased for roughly two years—who rose from backpack peddling in Teragorocho to establish a wholesale house on Muemoncho’s corner lot; eight-tenths of Oshima-ya’s prosperity was said to stem from her efforts.
Her imposing frame—a solid 21-kan belly—earned her the nickname “Female Chobei.” For her beloved youngest daughter O-Katsu, she took peculiar delight in dispensing pocket money… When O-Katsu went out for trinket-shopping or theater visits, her mother would pretend not to notice the clerks and apprentices bustling at the shopfront. Feigning a nap at the elevated accounting desk—plump dimpled chin resting on rounded elbows propped in a cheek-cupping pose—she’d adopt nonchalance as she wordlessly pulled coins from the cashbox. (“Mother, just a little,”) But her large palms overflowed with maternal affection… Slender, delicate O-Katsu couldn’t catch them all in one hand. Piling the tiny silver coins onto both palms, they’d spill gritty through her fingers—so it’s told. Even after death, inside the shabby personal box she’d habitually used—where something carelessly wrapped in hanshi paper bore a scrawled “For Katsu-bou”—onlookers expected a crystal Buddhist rosary fit for a nineteen-year-old girl still unwed. How wrong they were: inside lay over a hundred perfectly matched pearls.

When an adopted child came into her elder daughter’s household and she had taken charge of that child’s spiritual care, she began visiting Izu for hot spring cures periodically to regain her vigor.
I-Kikuya, this hot spring inn, became her regular lodging—over more than a decade their rapport deepened until it resembled kinship.
Needless to say—each time—her cherished daughter O-Katsu would be enveloped within her sleeves like a white lily spirit nurtured by mountains: hair styled in looped *Shimada* updo with silk-floss ties; scarlet-dappled *hirokago* silk and striped *hikiita* cloth adorned with *shibori* patterns; fair-skinned slender face framed by alert eyes and gentle brows; pure downtown elegance incarnate……

“...The late proprietress of that Oshima-ya—the imposing one—took pity on him, you see.”
“Yes, well—regarding that aforementioned young masseur—Koichi was his real name, you see, not an alias nor religious title... As he appeared rather small for his age, my master had instructed us to tell guests he was sixteen, and Koichi himself likewise informed others so—but when I say he drowned in Kamagafuchi downstream... no, if I may correct myself—not the Shiraito Falls visible from Togetsu Bridge...”
“It’s much further downstream.—When he threw himself into Kamagafuchi—Koichi was twenty, and thus possessed that youthful charm about him, you see.”

“You don’t need to be twenty to have charm.—I’m living proof.”

The one who said this while cheerfully laughing—having his shoulders massaged—was Kawasaki Kinushichirou: O-Katsu’s husband, a brilliant graduate of a prestigious commercial college who held the respectable position of bank employee. Though forty, he retained a youthful vigor; while there was some discrepancy in their ages, this marriage left nothing to be desired.

In the ten-tatami room next door at I-Kikuya Inn along the Katura River, bedding already lay prepared. Sinking knee-deep into the fluffy feather quilt, she relaxed completely……

Sliding out of the bedding, she turned her back to the rosewood desk beneath the window and hung her indigo *omeshi* silk lined kimono—patterned with tea-brown stripes—smoothly over her shoulders. Having released her travel-styled hair, the comb bundle meant for tomorrow’s hairdresser swayed its tassels as the coral hairpin at her pristine earlobe shone faintly through…… At twenty-four, her complexion—like fresh snow on a pheasant’s plumage—had shed its lingering girlishness to glow whiter still.
Her eyebrows spirited, her mouth imbued with emotion—sharply defined yet playfully tomboyish in the disheveled charm of her askew crimson-crested crepe kimono hem—she carried the air of a provincial Genji, a Katsura tree whose name resonated far and wide.

Madam O-Katsu pretended not to notice and—erroneously—read her beloved… an ersatz play titled *Yamabuki* from Izumi’s works, her cheek lightly propped on her hand.

“As you say, heh heh heh.”

At his master’s remark, he cowered—sliding down from her shoulders into a deep bow with arched back before springing upward with a pop of his head—then sniffed wetly through his nose.
This Kensai-bou had stripped to a thin twisted-hem undergarment despite late October’s chill—the parlor’s warmth and his exertions leaving his cotton habutae collar agape at both sides to reveal hairy chest flesh from which bulged a drawstring pouch as he worked.

“And so, sir, after the suicide occurred, that Kamagafuchi… which was merely known for its depth… henceforth became Lantern Abyss—since Koichi must have carried a lantern when he died to light his way through the underworld—and also Evening Faces Abyss… owing to how that young masseur’s appearance resembled such gourds.”

“Well, that’s quite something.”

The masseur opened his mouth in a silent laugh, turning sideways without making a sound.

"But then again—with a sallow-swollen face, an oversized head, and that terribly protruding forehead."

"In that case, the evening faces must've been quite put out."

“As you say.”

And once more, sliding downward, he kowtowed,

“Therefore I might propose calling it Gourd Abyss instead,”
“Koichi’s complexion resembled a blue gourd turned upside down with its base struck once—as my wife and others would say—yes, being so short he seemed childlike. Thus during mutual training sessions we sometimes had him hold onto shoulders, though his limbs were formed as well as any adult’s.”
He would drag oversized weather clogs askew—still an apprentice of lowly status without privilege to wear haori... Nowadays he’d walk about in hitched-up handwoven striped garments, his gloomy face bobbing as he blew his flute (“peepoo”) and thrust his cane forward. When that young masseur passed by, our honored guests would claim a maimed crow from the temple mountain seemed to follow above his thinning-haired head.—A diligent soul he was, studious too; well now, this spa resort thrives through our patrons’ gracious custom.
“Though he needn’t have practiced massage work—all in training’s name—he’d cross bridges and thread alleys from dawn’s early light, going ‘peepoo’ with his flute.”
“After his death—no matter how lively the shamisen from across the river’s geisha quarter sounded—the guests would never deign to hear a masseur’s flute again.”
“Not that there’s aught worth hearing in it—oh no no, please remain as you were... Yes.”

“Despite being such a studious soul as yourself, when administering treatments, he would doze off sitting up—incessantly, in a manner most unprecedented.”
“Since ancient times, the sharp eyes of mothers-in-law and a masseur’s dozing have been deemed exile-worthy offenses.”

Snapping his fingers with a rapid patapatapata,

“I do recall.”
“During their apprenticeship, their drowsiness was such that they could’ve used a giant serpent for a pillow.”
“But Koichi’s drowsiness was so severe that… when he grabbed a customer’s shoulder—immediately came that nodding off repeatedly… In the end, it was this very habit that led to his demise.”

“What—did he trip and fall into the river while walking or something?”

“No, that was a suicide.”

“Ah, right—it’s not me dozing off here, is it? So he got complaints from customers and was scolded by his master… that teacher of his, huh?”

“...It was a constant occurrence... The master had no cause to rebuke him anew, you see. Moreover, I wouldn’t go so far as to say he was dozing off constantly in the evenings and late into the night either.”

“Well, of course—if he’s been dozing off since morning, it’s no different from being half-dead.”

Kinushichirou said with a laugh.

“Might it have been the prime of his life? Now, the great proprietress of Oshima-ya would often stay for half a month—or even a full month at a stretch—but whenever she lodged here, Koichi’s chronic drowsiness would flare up violently again.”

“Hmm—”

With that, Kinushichirou cast a teasing glance at O-Katsu-chan’s snowy nape.
But his wife did not even turn around.

“As a result, at your esteemed household—the primary venue for such comings and goings—complaints arise from guests far and wide. All sorts of things must have reached the ears of Oshima-ya’s proprietress—the proprietress took pity on that poor blind apprentice.”
“…She knew him to be about sixteen or seventeen… but given his large, plump body, even if that young masseur slept atop someone’s shoulders, one would hardly notice it any more than a mantis alighting there.”
“As spiritual compensation—since we couldn’t simply offer money gratis—she mercifully had him labor at treatments nearly every night through.”
“However, sir…”

And toward the darkness—opening a black mouth—he took a breath.

“Stubborn… no, it’s strange—but during those times alone, the young masseur never dozed off.”

“Did that proprietress have some sort of electric current about her, I wonder?”

“Heh, heh—nothing of the sort. Beside the proprietress, there was always—truly—a most lovely and beautiful young lady reading her favorite novels, you see.”

“If some girl’s reading them, they can’t be proper novels anyway—and she can’t be a proper girl either.”

“What sacrilege!—A young lady whom the locals extolled as the moon over Katsura River, snow upon Amagi Mountain, blossoms through misted chrysanthemums.”

“Mr. Masseur, Mr. Masseur.”

Kinushichirou intoned sharply.

“Yes,”

“You’re counted among the old-timers here too, I hear. So that parlor must’ve summoned him as well—given treatments too, I’d wager. What say you?”

“Ah—well—you see, I only ever heard rumors and never administered treatments myself. As for this establishment’s guest room, my colleague Shousai—a man like a pufferfish in appearance but devoid of any venom within—had rightful charge of it. This Shousai being none other than the aforementioned Koichi’s master.”

“I see—but it’s such a small town. If you linger here that long, someone like you might’ve caught sight of that girl or the proprietress along the way—no—my apologies—you couldn’t have seen her.”

“Sir, though it may sound presumptuous, hearing proves more reliable than seeing with eyes. Moreover, when someone like that passes by and you encounter a place where everyone whispers along the way, the fragrance—well—it defies description… After ascending from the hot spring… it’s as though one were catching… the scent of plum blossoms… yes.”

In the room now lingered a fragrance—slightly paler than white plum blossoms, the scent of spring plums.

Carelessly, she sniffed sharply—

“How presumptuous!”

she blurted out without thinking.

“The fragrance’s loveliness was such that even passersby like us, after changing into nightclothes at bedtime, would feel our bodies faintly refreshed and dream of paradise all night long. If one were in the same room by her side, that alone would make life not worth clinging to. Moreover, even if they’re mere human youngsters—they’re spirited young ones. Dying must have been his true wish, but due to one thing and another, he ended up being pushed into Kamagafuchi.”

O-Katsu’s slightly turned eyes met his, and Kinushichirou looked over his shoulder at the masseur.

“So, did he have some kind of entanglement with that young lady?”

II

“As for such an outrageous matter—the young lady knew nothing of it.”
“It was merely that, on the evening of his death, she had personally lit the lantern’s flame for him.”

O-Katsu remained leaning against the desk, her sleeve straightened and layered collars arranged beautifully.

“That night too, Koichi the masseur came shuffling into the esteemed household and appeared at the front desk like one dangling from the spirit shelf.
——It being already the season of early winter showers——when that gourd-shaped head lowered itself, an old-timer named Hansuke—responsible for guest transfers, inn guidance, clerk duties… stubborn yet somewhat witty—called out from this side: ‘Hey now, Kasumi no Goban-san! No treatments tonight.’ You may know him.”
“With vigor,”

“That’s the one.”

When Kinushichirou said this, O-Katsu silently nodded.

“When Hansuke said that, he became as wilted as greens sprinkled with salt—‘Then I’ll inquire with the outsider.’ ‘Ah, go ahead.’ ‘We don’t let him circulate through the guest rooms here—but you know how he is.’ Though truth be told, aside from Oshima-ya’s proprietress—Kasumi no Goban-san—there’s no one who particularly wants a massage from him.—Where did he even go? The fellow who came at dusk returned dazedly to the front desk past ten, just as the boatmen were departing for their hometowns. Bowing deeply, he reportedly said on his way out: ‘It’s dark tonight—might I borrow a lantern?’ ‘Here, take this,’ the villagers called out, handing one over as casually as they’d assist with any comings and goings.”
“—Now, this is where things took an odd turn. Whether he was blind from birth, blind by circumstance, or even sighted—no one paid such matters any mind… Perhaps because the front desk was somewhat bustling around sunset?”
“They didn’t light that lantern for him.—Though that’s a story for later.”

“Oh my, but that does sound likely.”

“Yes—he brought that lantern to Kasumi no Goban, but the young masseur turned back.”
“—(Lady Katsu.”
“(Lady Katsu.) Those of us here all feel familiar enough to address you by name.”
“Even as an esteemed household, a merchant’s hardships mean this mansion’s facade…”

He made a face as if stifling a sneeze, paused mid-motion, pulled out an intestinal-like hand towel, entangled it in the strings of his frog-mouthed purse, then twisted it to wipe his forehead while looking down.

The meaning was not hard to infer.

Kinushichirou was lighting his golden pipe while,

“No need, no need. I’m a common townsman myself.”

“That’s not the case, sir—but…”
“—To Lady Katsu: ‘Though I borrowed a lantern in my fear of the darkness, they laughed at the front desk—saying what use is light to a blind man—and refused to lend me a flame… Please show mercy… kindness.’” He spoke these words with a cripple’s resentful disposition.
The late proprietress of Oshima-ya was already in bed—her eyes wide open—or so it was said.
By the way—the daughter had lit it without a second thought.
Well now—from Kasumi—had he gone straight—he would have reached the entrance—yet for some reason—he took a long detour through corridor after corridor… this… zigzagging from flowers to snow as if stitching a path—and emerged—or so they say.
…The mark of Iikikuya was there—but with its gloomily lit lantern—through the dark corridors passed the yellow rat-like masseur in frost-whitened clogs—a shadow slipping by.
“This lantern—before long in the dead of night—hung from the branch of the Night-Weeping Pine on the embankment above Kamagafuchi—and Koichi—they say—left only his straw-thonged clogs upon the rocks by the abyss before vanishing into its depths… Upon hearing this… someone fell ill…”

“Ah, the daughter fell ill then?”

“That... no—it concerns the kind-hearted young lady... When one hears that someone who frequented [her household] had taken their own life—‘pitiful’—that... one might indeed think so—but... there’s neither obligation nor occasion that should trouble you so.”
"The one who fell ill was an elderly bachelor—unmarried—who had been in the snow……"

He was said to be from the Keihanshin region and had been lodging here long-term.
"—Click,"

he said.
The masseur produced a sharp sound.

“Click, heh heh.”

He made a pouting face.

Kinushichirou was led in,

“Click?… What’re you trying to do?”

“It was the sound of a hairpin coming loose and falling.”

“The hairpin?… Wait.”

While hesitating to call out the name, she paid attention.

“No.”

The elegant lady said.

“Goodness gracious, how preposterous… My lady, that was not now.”
“It was from that time.”
...As the elderly guest from Kamigata awoke from evening slumber and made to go out toward the sliding door—intending to ease his boredom with another bath—Lady Katsu of Oshima-ya passed smoothly through the corridor. Now, what we refer to here as “the present Flower room”—would this parlor correspond to that very space, or perhaps its neighbor?
The young lady had an uncle—one Tomizawa-cho, a pawnshop owner from Ryogoku—who was keeping company with a young woman of somewhat different standing, at which the late proprietress of Oshima-ya made a bitter face; but as Lady Katsu happened to be acquainted with that young woman through nagauta lessons or some such connection, matters stood thus.
There—it’s here… Your parlor was in a separate building over in Kasumi at that time.
……she came over here for a visit.
For it was during her return.

When the Elderly Guest from Kamigata opened it, she met him face-to-face.
The exit led to the next room where fusuma doors—already laid with bedding—stood dark in chambers prepared for sleep. As you know, what we call “Snow” marks this inn as truly northern country; even its corridors were said to be unnervingly gloomy enough that we masseurs would feel a chill groping through them.
“Startling anyone who might have been there by abruptly opening that dark space, the young lady hesitated mid-motion...... As she passed by, something—drawn by her indescribably sweet fragrance—suddenly lunged from the side shadows and sank its teeth into her white neck.”...

“…………”

She made no sound, but when Lady Katsu—slightly bent forward—swiftly swept her shimada chignon to the side, there came a click.

The Elderly Guest involuntarily let out a cough and, placing his hand directly on the torn part of the shoji screen he had been peering through, slid it open—whereupon Lady Katsu slipped across the garden pond’s bridge approach with both sleeves held together, taking small, hurried steps.

Whether bat or spider, it—just like that—vanished into the bedding storage room on one side of that corner without so much as a rustle.

Indeed, there had been a distinct click of a hairpin falling. Though no one could have retrieved it in that brief moment, the Elderly Guest's eyes remained keen.
...Come morning, when examined carefully, a railing attached to the rock formation marked where pond water spilled onto pristine pebbles below—water clinging to the stone's base glittered under morning sunlight filtering like fine rain, making the surrounding gravel appear iridescent.
This displayed what might be called the pearl's radiance—the mandarin orange motif of that hairpin embraced by its stamen.
The water stood shallow, making retrieval no particular challenge—yet what taxed the Elderly Guest so... From the bedding storage room emerged a single oversized slug, unseasonal and dragging a viscous trail... looping slime paths as it licked its way about until crawling behind the very railing where the hairpin lay—its curled snout visible as he bent closer.
This proved quite the ordeal.
Now regarding how the hairpin returned to the daughter's coiffure—it was undoubtedly through the Elderly Guest informing Oshima-ya's late proprietress of these events, which consequently led to the young masseur being discreetly removed from proximity. Ah yes, this Kamigata gentleman—he later grew perturbed upon spotting said young masseur carrying a lantern late the following night. To his perception, given circumstances, this must have seemed like that blind man at death's door manifesting vengefully—and pressing further, perhaps even Koichi himself had intended it thus.
Of course, Lady Katsu herself remained wholly unaware of these matters.

First, both the click of the hairpin and the ahem of the cough belonged entirely to that Elderly Guest, who later came for his hot spring cure on what must have been his third or fourth visit—(by then, that daughter too had apparently adopted a married woman's chignon).
(In truth,) this matter became known to both the front desk staff and regular patrons alike. However, after the late proprietress of Oshima-ya passed away—and what with her marriage arrangements and such—for three or four years thereafter, she did not come at all.
Though it seems Her Ladyship was thriving.
...However, if we are to believe recent accounts, that Elderly Guest from Kamigata had been taking his annual hot spring cure this very month and was said to depart in four or five days—though one shudders to think what might occur were he to catch sight of this latest manifestation. This time, it would be no mere illness—he could very well collapse on the spot.

——Someone had hung a lantern from the branch of the Night-Weeping Pine—this… twenty-seventh day of the eleventh month by the old calendar… and now sat dejectedly in that true darkness’s faint light.
“From the swollen state to the flattened shape of his gourd-like head and the set of his shoulders—it was exactly like the real thing itself… Indeed, there it was.”

“Yes.”

O-Katsu shuddered, turned around, and hunched her shoulders.

“Even as we were coming here, the passersby were making quite a stir—some shouting they’d seen it, others vowing to go look.”

Kensai’s entire account had indeed begun with that very incident.

The mountain stream's rapids merged with the pond's melody—clang-clang, clang-clang—as gong-accompanied flute notes and drum reverberations flowed and pooled through the star-still night, their undulating waves sounding as tangible as objects held in one's palm.

In truth, this hot spring village had instituted new municipal governance; constructed an amusement park in the foothills; completed a stone bridge at the scenic landmark; adorned its bridge railings with flower-shaped electric lamps; consequently saw thriving commerce and rising profits—yet even amidst this prosperity that should have been sufficiently celebrated by festival drums alone, affluence now staged its orchestral performance. Thus gongs clamored, flutes trilled, and dancing became inescapable.

The red-letter day that came once every few years dawned clear again.

By day, stalls revolved and paraded right up to this entrance; the geisha troupe lined up on the ground, apprentice geishas mingling with town girls—all wearing identical flowered hats—performed what is called the Yunohana Dance.
Artificial flowers of wisteria, iris, and peony adorned the stall’s bamboo fence, but what stood out, overshadowing their crimson and purple hues, were the scarlet of undergarments, the pale green of obi sashes, and the turmeric-dyed crepe of date-maki sashes.
Gathered together, their patchily applied white powder flushed in the sunlight; their forms, restlessly moving limbs, were like foxes dancing openly in a vegetable field.
Clang-clang, clang-clang—how serene the rural Indian summer!

The guests in their entirety—even the maids and male staff—all stood upon the entrance platform, splitting left and right to strangely claim corners and pile up like windblown leaves.
A grand corridor polished to a shine ran through the center, while deeper within, an arched bridge spanning to Kasumi blazed crimson with the garden’s maple leaves.
The pond water, though blue and clear, under the dappled sunlight filtering through leaves, took on hues of pale blue, hazy silver, and bluish gold, as the koi’s shadows floated and swam leisurely, intersecting with their reflections.
It was O-Katsu’s figure alone that was adorned—her shoulders, the trailing sleeves of her kimono, the curve of her obi.

This couple—not on a honeymoon—after four or five years’ absence, had arrived at the hot spring just the day before yesterday; yet since over a week prior, notices for today’s holiday festivities—adorned with red double circles—had already appeared everywhere at crossroads, on walls, temple gates, and bridge railings. Alongside the geishas’ stall music, what drew the most attention was the costume parade event.
With volunteers and double circles overlapping—and with free participation permitted—the celebration committee, after deliberation, had decided to present prize money and scenic beauty awards up to third place for outstanding costumes; yet the reader is once again entreated to take particular note.

Therefore, lured by the sound of the retreating festival music from the dance stalls, when O-Katsu went out into town with Kinushichirou, they encountered Benkei on the bridge and saw the scarlet-laced warrior emerging from Tōfu-ya. Standing in front of the barber shop was one of the Gonin Otoko, his shakuhachi flute ostentatiously slung across his back with a tag labeled “Gan’gane” attached. Even the dogs were caught up in the excitement. Under the stone wall, wild ducks quacked raucously—but these were not wagtails, common in this river, disguised in costume.

Even when considering examples from Western soirées, it seems costumes have traditionally been a nighttime affair. The knowledgeable individuals who styled themselves as committee members had indeed grasped such matters. The procession was scheduled to commence at five o’clock in the afternoon, as officially noted in Hira. Those gallant knights—who should have remained hidden by day to emerge like mysterious stars slicing through night’s veil—must surely have been unable to endure their idle lament. Just then, there was the cooper’s son, diligently having his apprentice assist him as he shaved bamboo to assemble a large square frame while busily pasting paper over it. He exchanged words with a passing horse driver.

“I tried to hold back, but with all this excitement, there’s no way I can stay hidden.”
“Hmm, what’re you supposed to be?”
“A kite... Keep it quiet, will ya?”
“I’m gonna stretch my whole body onto a giant kite and go flying around on foot.”
“I’ll add a hum to both ears.”
“That’s a shocker—you’ll nab first prize for sure!”
“Keep it quiet, will ya?”

The horse let out a high-pitched neigh. This horse was troubled. When they began shuffling forward, the first they encountered was a scarlet-laced warrior; next emerged Gan’gane; then came Benkei swooping in—all vying to mount their steeds.

Amidst fierce jostling, tachi long swords and naginata halberds were forced apart to either side as the shakuhachi leapt back onto its horse. Instead, they were thrown down into Yokota’s rice field.

It was only for this brief span—the flags of the Engeikan entertainment hall and Hanamiza theater at the mountain’s base fluttered apart like copper pheasants today, while before the geisha house at the town’s corner, the festival float from earlier sat desolate as a great insect cage, its red-and-white curtains still draped, with no trace of dancers. So narrow was this hot spring town that even a single parade procession had nowhere left to parade through its streets. After forming their procession at the newly built stone bridge and parading through town, they all converged upon this Engeikan hall—awaiting the costume parade that would soon erupt into unrestrained revelry. The swept-clean area around here, lined with rows of eaves lanterns, felt paradoxically more desolate than usual.

The fallen leaves from the mountain peak drifted over the roof—

A cold shaded rivulet flowed beneath the eaves; right at the opposite corner of this intersection stood two shooting galleries side by side—their red felt surfaces resembling patched and soiled futons.
The Daruma otoshi and bat shooting were mere passersby, but both shops had ghosts hung in their attics.
When a bullet hit, the contraption would clatter and rattle as it extended like bellows from the ceiling—each one a female ghost with a pallid blue forehead and slender pale chin jutting from wispy hair, her spine arched backward, spider-like hands dangling limply from the mechanism.

“Disgusting... Still the same as ever...”

When O-Katsu was about to turn back, at the shop just steps away—beneath a grimy canopy resembling a whitewashed shop curtain—something within the cascade of disheveled hair watched through half-lidded eyes, one indigo-tinged cheek pressed close as if peering at the stationary festival float. At the neighboring establishment, from a tear in an old paper lantern hung aloft, only the pointed tip of a wig dangled like a mamushi snake’s tail attempting to slither into a hole.

On the way back, she saw Musashibou, the scarlet-armored warrior, and Gan'gane all together at the barber shop.
And needless to say, Gan'gane was applying white powder with shameless abandon.

The diminutive form of Koichi the masseur had, in reality, appeared under the branches of the Night-Weeping Pine as one of the costumed figures—

Kensai the masseur had spoken to Kinushichirou while administering treatment—this had occurred that night, after dinner.

III

“Mr. Hansuke! Mr. Hansuke!”

Smoothly revealing herself at Inokiku’s wide account-office shoji was O-Katsu.

On her way from that inner flower-adorned guest room—what they called the northern region of this house—she had passed through the snow corridor, needless to say.

Click...

Startled, she raised her hand to press down the coral bead while instinctively rising onto her tiptoes—as if glued in place—with a tingling sensation creeping up from her ankles as she adjusted her kimono’s hem. This occurred because she had stepped on a slug’s trail just as Kensai was speaking; kicking off her slippers—now left askew on protruding nails—she shuddered and dashed through.
The warm mist steaming from the bathhouse dissolved instantly at her shoulders there, while the pure white tabi-socked feet trailing along the pond’s railing—where scarlet carp fins threatened to spill over—felt colder than bare skin.
And... When she gazed at the arched bridge spanning toward the mist, there—a fresh soul with her hair in a Shimada chignon slipped free from her own body, turned backward, and darted about in restless agitation; hunching her shoulders slightly, she called out while drawing her sleeves together.

“Mr. Hansuke…”

There she saw the festival float; its daytime form was ripples of pale maple leaves where carp played.
Now, tracing those traces, a giant catfish lurked—drawing drops from the pond with soft lapping—its fervor poised to strike.

Kensai’s story had continued from there—the Night-Weeping Pine where Koichi had appeared was, as one of the local landmarks, in a different location from the one featured on picture postcards. It had been selected for the pine with fine branches atop a small hill along the Port Highway. The true Night-Weeping Pine stood along the main road where guests arriving by steam train entered this town—cloaked in sorrowful earth beside an old stone bridge—with thirteen moss-covered and crumbling stone Jizo statues. At each mound lay offerings of shikimi branches and incense—they called it the Thirteen Mounds... neither the grave of a rebellion leader nor a warrior fallen in battle. What made spirits sink upon hearing was this: long ago during a year of Great Famine, old and young alike had crawled from nearby valleys drawn by hot spring vapors—unable to be saved, their sallow-faced starved bones were gathered and buried. Thus precisely because this pine stood along those mounds was it called the Night-Weeping Pine.—It weeps even in daylight. The obsession of costumed masseur Koichi crouched heavily beneath the pine’s branches—where between the Thirteen Jizo Statues and himself flowed the Nogawa River with its waterwheels, running sideways beneath a stone bridge before spilling into the Katora River’s current—a single stride away, lanterns already hung from dusk, his hem nearly dampening as he squatted.

The newly constructed stone bridge spanning the valley stream stood diagonally across from the Jizo statues.
From the garden of the grand inn across that bridge, the costumed procession gathered as promised and entered the hot spring town—though one might question phrasing it so—for this was a commemoration of the Great Famine year. As the parade passed through, even the square lanterns hunched their squared shoulders into rounded forms, edging past the Jizo statues in half-circles.
……Like a single will-o’-the-wisp drifting apart, beneath the Night-Weeping Pine, the delusion of the masseur apprentice remained solitary and desolate, refusing to join the procession.……

The person was unrecognizable—it was a costume, after all. At some point, one of the enthusiasts along with four or five costumed companions tried to persuade him, but even when they tugged at his hand—no, the act of pulling that hand felt eerily unsettling—the actual suicide masseur remained utterly immobile. …so it was said.

Though Kensai had recounted this, it later became clear he’d forgotten a crucial detail—that despite the group’s repeated entreaties to invite and urge him along, Koichi the masseur never once opened his mouth. “Pii, puu.” A flute instead of a tongue. He simply blew his flute—“Pii-puu.”——

Halfway through listening—and slipping swiftly from the flower-adorned room with a waft of sleeve fragrance—the wife sought first and foremost to verify the truth of it all with Hansuke—such matters being mere amusement and he being the most informed.
To address concerns—this was O-Katsu’s primary approach in this situation—but…

He wasn't there.

"Oh, he's not here?"

Pulling her sleeve tighter as her collar chilled her, she crouched slightly to peer through a gap in the shoji—only an iron brazier met her eyes; no one was there.

“Oh my.”

As soon as [she] slipped out from the side entrance beside the formal entryway, a lanky figure in mourning attire immediately doffed their silk hat and bowed with exaggerated deference...

“Oh!”

A cook with an attached beard.
The one who emerged next was the handsome geta clerk from the entrance—recently obsessed, he’d conceived this idea: pasting thick paper over his entire face from forehead to chin, smothered in gofun white pigment, then painted crimson as penance for perpetually tormenting young girls—in other words, Haato No. 1.
Into the crimson, he playfully stuck out his tongue and bowed.

“How dreadful.… Where might Mr. Hansuke be?”

“That guy’s already…”

Both of them bowed again in unison,

“He’s been missing since daytime.”

As they spoke in unison—clang-clang, clang-clang, boom-boom-boom, wheee—the procession arrived right there.
Shadows of maids swarmed restlessly toward the account office; guests too filed out in droves.
...A middle-aged maid from what appeared to be the red-light district—her long hem shuffling unsteadily—looked at a playing card’s face, made coquettish eyes while furrowing her brows, pressed her shoulder against someone; mingling with others, she rushed out toward the gate in a sudden surge.

The wife too found herself drawn to stand at the gate.

The light from the tall and bow-shaped lantern stands on both sides of the gate, from which the red paper lanterns hung, intensified brilliantly.

The cooper’s kite had likely flown ahead already, droning through the air.
With two horses at the center—snorting frosty breaths into the wintry night as they pulled the music-laden festival float—the human torrent surged down the stony slope of Daishi Road, descending gradually from near Iroha Crossroads.
Benkei’s naginata loomed like a festival float—loomed!
There stood the Young Lord on tall geta clogs, another Momotaro lookalike, and about three loyal retainers.
Seven men from five-man bands clustered together, three wild geese flocking among them.
...Clang-clank, clang-clank, wheee—to the musicians’ raucous playing, the procession now swayed drunkenly onward. Even the geisha—who’d swapped their daytime woven hats for lively dance garb—were merrily tipsy.
Blue-bearded faces, white-painted visages, crimson-daubed cheeks—all sang in raucous unison the Loach-Scooping Anzaka Song.
And blaring “Vroom-vroom-vroom-vroom” through it all—something straight from the newspapers—marched a man with a makeshift automobile strapped to his waist.

Now, since Iikikuya stood nearly at one edge of town, having completed its rounds through the festival grounds spilling into the village outskirts, the procession—now bound for the performance hall across the river—found itself precisely at low tide.
The crowd had doubled in number, but with the opposite side being a cliff-lined stone wall and the irrigation channel’s current rushing violently below—risking being pushed and tumbling over—the entire throng built a human wall solely along Iikikuya’s side. Thus, to the wife standing obliquely at the rear with one sleeve trailing, the festival floats streamed crimson and luminous upon a human tide, mingling stars with mountains as they flowed.

The shadows and lantern lights—along with about three dogs scampering aimlessly in their wake—turned black and dissolved into the riverside’s red paper lanterns; after that, only the people of Iikikuya remained loitering to watch them depart. Just as it seemed the place had grown suddenly desolate with those who had already gone inside, a step behind them from the dark slope—a grotesque figure descended.

Using a studded iron rod as a carrying pole, even the coopers and basket makers must have lent their hands.
Ox-Head and Horse-Head—a Blue Demon and a Red Demon—shouldered a jet-black, drum-tight large cauldron without its lid.
The Blue Demon took the front, the Red Demon the rear pole, both wearing horrifying masks.
Though undoubtedly costumes, their realism intensified as darkness fell…… At the cauldron’s bottom, a fiercely crimson flame blazed with vivid hues.

The Blue Demon,

“Blaze-blaze, blaze-blaze,”

The Red Demon,

“Grind-grind, grind-grind.”

With this sinister chant as their passphrase, they manifested beneath black clouds that bore the border mountain range upon their backs.

The Blue Demon,

"Boom-boom, boom-boom,"

The Red Demon,

“Grind-grind, grind-grind.”

A poor stunt.—But there was reason behind it.
…Once before, in this hot spring town, at the height of cherry blossoms, they had held a costume gathering.
At that time, someone had disguised himself as a skeleton emerging from a grave—baring buckteeth while leaning on a stupa staff—and shambled unsteadily through the trailing darkness of the procession, frightening women and children; this act had won first prize.…

They must have conceived both the hell’s cauldron and the masseur’s grudge from that incident, one could think.
Even national artists engage in imitation; how much more so the village youths, who had made a poor copy indeed.

“Boom-boom, boom-boom.”

“Seethe-seethe, seethe-seethe.”

“Oh! It’s Hansuke!”

“It’s Hansuke!” said a young maid.

The two demons—having stepped through the stones with blue and crimson heels—pulled forward from behind, thudding heavily as they retreated slightly, then approached the wife where the shadows of evergreen trees stood sparse amidst the thinning crowd.

The Red Demon, in the most exaggerated contrived voice,

“Ox-Head! Ox-Head! Blue Ox!”

“Moo—”

the Blue Demon responded in a bovine voice.

“Hey! You little masseur bound to the Thirteen Mounds.”

“Moo.”

“Now go and throw him into the cauldron.”
“Moo.”
“Then—march.”
“Moo.”

“Ah, wait.”

O-Katsu-san threw a sleeve and took a step,

“Please wait.”

No sooner had O-Katsu grabbed the cauldron’s rim with a white hand than—

“Ouch! Hot!”

She recoiled and covered ears.
The disheveled figure—open underarms and collar—resembled winter peony leaves scattering in electric light’s frost.

IV

“Koichi-san, Koichi-san.”

The white-paper lantern—like night’s eyelashes, its pine branches resembling ink paintings—thus invoked cast a deep reflection upon O-Katsu’s slightly bowed bangs.

Her figure—graceful and tender—stood before the swollen masseur without wearing a coat, a black scarf lined with purple deeply wrapped around her collar, peering outward as she spoke.

The hem fluttering like phantom maple leaves, beside a small stream and across that narrow stretch of water where tonight the fragrance of incense rose distinct in the air—before the Thirteen Jizo Mounds stood Kinushichirou wrapped in his coat, his fedora pulled low over his eyes, trudging along with his cane.

(—In truth, this marked the second time tonight that they had visited there beneath the Night-Weeping Pine—)

To begin with… Though it was but a mere speck stuck between one’s teeth—a trifling matter—still, driven by the urge to address that discomfort, the two had come together there that night, both to view the festival and…
“What’s this—Kensai? That masseur.”
“Meticulous and dutiful my ass—he’s full of hot air.”
There were only pine trees, only Jizo statues, only water—no shadow could be seen.
The stars blazed brilliantly overhead, their faces pale and distinct as they began to cross the old bridge. Absentmindedly glancing toward the valley stream that snaked like a mortar’s groove from this sideways-flowing thin cascade, they saw—not a reflection from the bank—a single lantern shimmering in the riverbed.

The two who knew the land, suddenly drawn to this sight, retreated slightly toward the pines and stood at the opposing cliff’s edge to peer deeply into the ravine—there, before the new stone bridge had been built, lay a path carved into the precipice with tree roots and jagged rocks for those taking mountain shortcuts from the far bank. Descending to the bottom revealed rapids leaping from boulder to boulder, interrupted once by a massive midstream rock, where a flimsy plank bridge jutted precariously. Just downstream from the white waves that surged and tumbled beneath it lay Kamagafuchi Abyss—a place shrouded in darkness even at noon.

On that makeshift bridge—resembling scattered white bones as if wolves had gnawed it—beneath the flickering light of a single gloomy lantern, the little masseur squirmed faintly.

It was not unexpected.
As the two stood exchanging glances without looking away, the lantern drifted toward them before eventually vanishing in a soft flicker.
It had hidden among boulder roots, then soon after—like a festival dragon lantern—snagged on treetops.
It climbed up the cliff and emerged onto the highway.

At that moment, O-Katsu stepped aside before the crossroads and Jizo statue, then moved sideways across the highway toward where the little masseur under the Night-Weeping Pine lingered.

“Well now, quite the contrivance!” Kinushichirou cheerfully burst out from the start.
“No doubt about it—first prize.”
The little masseur pretended not to hear anything and fumbled with his fingers like a frog struggling with its limbs while hanging the lantern on a pine branch—then just as Kensai’s chattering promise had foretold—he slumped dejectedly at its roots and let both hands droop limply over his crouched knees.

“Hey.
“Mr. First Prize—let’s have a drink.”
“Get over here.”

That was when.

“A shrill whistle, then a hollow note.”

He held the flute between his lips and blew upward into the empty air.

“I get it. First Prize it is.”

“A shrill whistle, then a hollow note.”

“Now then, let’s raise a celebratory toast.”

"A shrill whistle, then a hollow note."

He whistled into the emptiness and sounded his flute.

The madam beckoned.
Why was there no Ryūjo shrine behind it? She stood before the mound, a shadow of her former self.

“Tsk.”
With a click of his tongue, Kinushichirou abandoned the stubborn, patient, and persistent little masseur, matched his summoned hand to his shoulder, and then, exchanging low whispers, slipped away side by side into the town’s festival lights.

"A shrill whistle, then a hollow note…"

“Koichi-san.”

After some time, when the two returned—as mentioned earlier—Kinushichirou waited before the Jizo statue, and the madam herself confronted the little masseur.

“A shrill whistle, then a hollow note.”

“Koichi-san.”

“A shrill whistle, then a hollow note.”

“The daughter of Oshima-ya has become a ghost, you see.”

She stepped back and hid in the shadows to wait—then slid out that shooting gallery ghost (the one who had been peering with one eye) still tied to its bamboo pole. It dangled down, and a blue woman licked the lantern with her disheveled hair.
Alongside the ghost’s face, in her swept-up black hair, a scarlet single-petaled camellia comb—crafted by a contemporary master artisan who had painted each leaf in black lacquer with meticulous brushstrokes to capture their essence—stood in colors so vivid they seemed to drip, that it appeared to slash a bloody gash across the upturned face of the masseur’s apparition.

“Do come along with the ghost.”

The bloated masseur's mask—its mouth splitting open like a rotting fig—grinned crookedly and rose waveringly.

In O-Katsu's plan, having chosen this method... she would send the little masseur to Geishaya-cho's Entertainment Hall.
...she had tried to send the little masseur to the costume party's center stage.
If they succeeded, they wouldn't even need the monster under the attic's eaves... It would be like releasing that repulsive caterpillar—lurking beneath leaves outside the storm shutters—into Ginza's bustling heart, after which one could wake unburdened.

On a whim, she had borrowed the ghost from the shooting gallery.
Since Kinushichirou was a gentleman through and through, he had naturally tried to prevent this; thus, the negotiations fell to O-Katsu herself.
Placing one knee on the rug, she declared, “I shall wear a costume too.”
Even as the esteemed madam, being a downtown girl at heart, her festive spirit peeked through her pale neck and wrists—a glimpse of skin as red as her underrobe’s crimson lining…

It was simple now.
……With the artificial ghost at the center, O-Katsu walked alongside the little masseur, clacking her plain wooden clappers through the town. Already some eaves lanterns had gone out while others teetered on the brink of extinction. Kinushichirou kept protective watch from their shadows—never drawing too near yet never falling behind.

Before the bridge leading to Geishaya-cho—as if before the gates of a grand temple—came Jizo’s kettle crossing over from the opposite side.

"Boom-boom, boom-boom."

“Creak-creak, creak-creak.”

“Ah, the little masseur has come… No need to venture out now, Blue Ox.”

“Enough.”

Blue Ox howled.

"A shrill whistle, then a hollow note."

"Boom-boom, boom-boom."

"Creak-creak, creak-creak."

There, the procession of grotesque figures crossed the bridge, treading upon the dreams of wild ducks.

The demon had apparently come to look out for O-Katsu.

The Entertainment Hall’s flag glittered with electric lights amidst a sea of faces and heads.
...for from the town’s corner, they had packed tightly into the square before the hall and spilled over onto the terrace.
At this time, apart from those who remained at each house only to take care of the eaves lanterns and fire prevention, one could say the entire town had crowded there.

Instead, behind the single-layered crowd, the road stretched pale and still.

“Hey there, young lady… I’ll handle that. It’s my job.”

The red demon’s voice was unmistakably Hansuke’s own.

The masseur’s head—alongside the lantern—reached the rear of the human-wall crowd.

“I don’t need it anymore. Return it to this shop.”

she said.

“Blue Ox.”

“Enough.”

“A pale one – prime catch.”
“Toss it in the kettle.”

“Enough.”

The hall’s electric decorations flowed like water as the town’s decorative bamboo and artificial cherry branches rustled in unison.
The night deepened, and the mountain gale roared.

It was when they were handling bamboo poles—for instance, attempting to skewer the ghost woman from above and thrust her into the cauldron. Scattering gravel, a sudden swift wind whooshed across the ground, then swept past—slanting over the eaves, up onto the great roof—look there!—leaving the clothesline behind, the hem of its white robe against the sky, the ghostly figure drifted into the distant void like chimney smoke with hands tucked into sleeves—farther and farther into emptiness— The crowd—already overflowing—crouched and watched like nodding stones; then the people stood like sheep and exclaimed, "Ah!"

Koichi the masseur’s delusion vanished into the crowd.

V

The local legends that linger—what sporadically reaches the ears of hot spring guests… was likely nothing more than this.

However, there was a slight digression.
In any case, O-Katsu-san and her companions did not return home together as they had come—

The aftermath of the ghost that had ridden the wind, flown away, and vanished into empty air was settled by Hansuke—still bearing his red demon countenance—as he blew on a bat-shaped whistle and arranged matters with the shooting gallery.
It was said this fellow had slain a stray calico cat to fashion a loincloth, secretly curing its pelt in the storage shed for over two months.

The morning after the jest remained just as clear.
In the valleys behind the nearby mountains, remnants of the first mushrooms and dried shimeji mushrooms likely still lingered; hot spring guests heading into the mountains were not few.

O-Katsu-san and her companions also strolled leisurely.
Dried rice stalks adorned with yomena flowers; in the radish fields, the wet hues of frost also felt warm.

From midway up the slope through the fields, the wide path leading to worship at the Great Kannon enshrined on the peak of the large temple wound high into the mountain’s embrace through pines; a narrow path of dried leaves branched off thinly, marked by a signpost.
It pointed to Kangiten Hall—"...bestows blessings..." was inscribed there.

“Blessings aren’t just about money.”

Kinushichirou complained that the path before breakfast was tedious, and after a brief, light dispute, he ended up waiting alone during the pilgrimage.

“If you slip away from here… I couldn’t bear it… I’d be all alone.”

O-Katsu-san vigorously pushed through the dry grass and climbed up. When her figure disappeared into the thicket from Kinushichirou’s view, a somewhat steep stone staircase appeared once more before the lady. Lightly panting, she climbed it to find a dilapidated house without a fence or folding door standing in a shallow depression atop the modest rise.

There it was—a single pine tree at the mountain’s edge. At the vantage point by the gentle-trunked tree, she tried to catch a glimpse of the person waiting below, but from where she had climbed up—amidst red roof tiles and white plastered walls—her husband remained unseen. The remaining three sides revealed sparse farmhouses amidst an expanse of fields, with Kobo Daishi’s Okunoin and the Shijushichicho Iroha Road visible beyond, while across the way, the Katura River flowed gleaming along the mountain’s base. To that small wayside shrine tucked aside—where the couple had walked together around noon yesterday—there now, Kinushichirou’s fedora could seemingly be seen.

Ah, in that same spot as this morning—where decorative bamboo flanking the country path rustled with festival lanterns fluttering at the edge of rice fields—Kinushichirou took out a cigarette only to realize he had forgotten his matches. From the path's depths came someone hatless—likely a local. A frost-haired young man who had apparently bought a bundle of candles came holding them; in the hot spring resort's carefree atmosphere and sightseeing mood, he called out:

“Do you have a match by any chance?”

He stood vacantly and stared intently at them both,

“Yes, even if there were any in our sleeves, they’d be will-o’-the-wisps.”

The one who had briskly parted ways cut sideways across the ridge and entered a gently ascending path.

“Seems like a monk… Thought he was handing out lantern candles.”

Though vulgar, Kinushichirou tacked on the remark.

With that smile as he spoke.
As if she were being accompanied—even now before the morning bath, pressing the tree trunk against the warmth in her chest and the trembling in her breast, she shaded her eyes to peer into the distance; at the precariousness of her footing on the slope’s edge, she clung to the pine’s branch with one hand—her unsteady waist swayed beautifully by the morning wind.

It was the young wife’s gentle attentiveness toward her husband—having adjusted the hem of her kimono.

Surely not—in this dilapidated house—no—rather, in this pine and its paired counterpart with slightly higher treetops, standing beside the house on a gently ascending slope where roots diverged yet branches intertwined—through the deep emerald hues, a hall stood with its plaque reverently raised.

The lady adjusted her collar as she approached.

As she approached,

“Ah!”

She unintentionally let out a muffled sound—there on a six-foot branch that pierced through empty space, its hem turned inside out and wrapped around itself, hair falling like wild mugwort leaves, was the ghost that had vanished into nothingness.
When she looked, its face twitched; a hairy leg protruded from its sleeve, and through a gash in its flank writhed a beastly tail—though she didn’t mistake it for a fox, her mind remained clear as she distinctly recognized it as a dog.
Drawn perhaps by human scent, it—the ghost—gnashed at the air while writhing closer, its sodden hem dragging behind. In panic, she spun to flee down the slope, but before she could descend halfway, something cold and swift clung to her waistband—a shivering touch grazing her hair… or was it her face?

Like a blizzard of scattering flowers, her hem and sleeves whirling in circles, the lady flung herself toward the edge of the decayed shack.

“Who is it? Who could it be? Who?”

“Oooh… oooh…”

Mumbling groggily, the one who slid open the broken shoji was Koichi the masseur’s lingering grudge—his head and face preserved exactly as they had been in life.

“Wha—?”

The voice died out, and the lady collapsed.

The sound reached them from afar.
Worried over his most beloved wife's delayed return, Kinushichirou—clambering through the grass in haste—saw before reaching Kangiten Hall a pallid ghost: chin slumped against a broken basin at a solitary house's edge, knees clinging to a rotted wooden platform.

Sideways with his cane, he struck it aside. But when he peered into the broken shoji bustling with human presence up to his waist—unlike this exposed door panel—a pungent alcoholic odor assailed his nose before his eyes could register anything. The gentleman who disliked alcohol frowned and covered his nose with a handkerchief; when he stealthily peered in again, his complexion turned deathly pale all at once.

Amidst scattered bamboo husks and a toppled cheap sake bottle, Koichi the masseur was biting into the lady.

The reader should imagine, in the innermost recesses, the certain circumstance the author first mentioned.

The one who had disguised himself as Koichi was the temple caretaker living alone at the foot of this mountain, who was on familiar terms with the old field-tending servant of Iikikuya’s estate.

Taisho 14 (1925), March