Pathway to Japanese Literature

Dedicated to Hokkaido

I

It was the end of October. That day, a cold sleet lashed sideways across the vast Ishikari plain. No matter where one looked, there was nothing. A row of telegraph poles stretched endlessly onward like a line of matchsticks, and even after they disappeared from view, the land remained flat, with nothing to obstruct the eye. Here and there, poplars standing like brooms were lashed by rain and wind, swaying. The clouds hung low across the entire sky, casting an oddly dim light. Crows occasionally flew in flustered patterns, then two or three of them would trail off toward the horizon where a faint glow still lingered.

Genkichi returned from the town with a station about twelve kilometers away, carrying a large bundle on his shoulder. Genkichi's house stood among some twenty others scattered across this wind-battered plain in clusters of two or three. Some lined up along the village road while others were tucked deep into the fields. Except for the elementary school at its center, every house had a thatched roof. The roofs tilted at odd angles; cracks ran through all the mud walls; inside lay shadows so deep one could scarcely make anything out from outside. Every house had windows cut out just enough to serve as excuse. Behind the houses or opposite their entrances stood horse stables and cow sheds.

From behind the farmhouses, the land sloped gently toward the Ishikari River. Though cultivated into fields, this area still showed exposed rocks mingled with red clay and sand. For the river would flood every year without fail come May, drowning all this land in water. Thus they could never plant crops here until after those spring floods had receded. Where the fields ended, a grassland stood about knee-high. This gave way to a mixed forest lining the river's embankment. Beyond lay the Ishikari itself - wide and unnervingly deep, bending serpentine through the plain, flowing in undulating silence that revealed neither sound nor surface current. The opposite bank rose as a sandy levee where more fields stretched onward. On this side too, chocolate-brown roofs of peasant houses floated like scattered islands along the horizon. When a rooster crowed across the way, hens here would sometimes answer in kind, their calls weaving through the damp air.

Genkichi walked home deep in thought, his steps resolute. Every house he passed seemed to have a bonfire burning inside, smoke seeping through windows, doorways, and gaps in the thatched roofs. But the smoke couldn't rise straight into the sky because of the rain, instead billowing sideways to spread low across the open fields. As he passed one house, a cow suddenly let out a deep, rumbling moo. The pasture-grazing cow lifted its head while rhythmically chewing its cud, turning its gaze toward him. When Genkichi reached his house, he found the interior thick with haze. Mother's angry shouts carried through to outside. Then his younger brother Yoshi emerged clutching a lamp chimney, rubbing smoke-stung eyes. Dirty rings encircled his eyelids.

"Ugh, damn you, Mother!" He cursed.

Genkichi silently made his way around to the back. Yoshi leaned against the mud wall—riddled with cracks and crumbling in places—and began polishing the lamp chimney. Pressing the edge of the chimney with his palm, he let out a breath to fog it up, then inserted a rolled newspaper inside and polished. He repeated this process many times. Kerosene-reeking oily soot stuck to his hands. Yoshi absolutely loathed this day-after-day chimney cleaning. Before Yoshi could begin polishing it, Mother Seki had to scold him dozens upon dozens of times. And then she had to slap Yoshi's cheek once.

“Damn you, Mother!” As he polished, Yoshi remembered and muttered to himself. “Yoshi! Where the hell are you? What’ve you been doing all this time!” “I’m comin’ now!” He answered like that. “Damn you Dad!”

Mother squatted before the hearth, puffing at the fire. Her hair tangled wildly, and each time smoke stung her eyes, she wiped them with her apron. In the dim haze, Seki seemed less human than some other "creature" crawling on all fours. The hearth's firelight flickering across half her face made her appear even more ghastly. When Yoshi entered, "Hurry up and light the lamp!" she snapped.

Yoshi, choking on smoke and half-crying from his usual irritation, climbed up and took down the lamp from the cupboard. Tears and snot kept streaming out. When he shook the lamp base, there was no kerosene in it. “Mother, there’s no oil.” “Idiot! If you want it, go get it from next door, you little shit.” “What about the ‘zeni’?” “Go get it from your brother.” “...The neighbor’s dog’s scary...” Yoshi stood restlessly hovering behind his mother, still holding the lamp base.

Seki put the rice from the sieve that was sitting in the kitchen into the pot. “If yer goin’, then go!”

Yoshi went outside, thinking he’d be hit. “Brother—!” He called out like that. Then, circling around to the back entrance, he called out again: “Brother—” Genkichi was repairing a brown fishing net by the back entrance. He was attaching weights to the net at fixed intervals. “Brother, the zeni—I need to go get oil.” Genkichi silently took out a ten-sen coin from his hip pocket and handed it over. Yoshi paused for a moment and watched what his brother was doing.

“Brother, um, Masaru from Irie said Government officials are here.”

“When?” “Earlier, at school.” “Where’re they holed up?” “I don’t know…” “Idiot!” Genkichi gave a slight shrug. “Masaru said to hide the net somewhere ’cause of that.” “Brother, if government officials come here and see this—that’s why.” Yoshi twisted his hands behind his back to demonstrate. “Idiot!—Go! Go!”

When Yoshi had gone, Genkichi grinned by himself. Then he shrugged his broad, thick shoulders and laughed.

As dusk began to fall, the wind grew a bit stronger. And it grew colder. A mere glance upward revealed the endlessly spreading plain and the horizon. The entire vast plain darkened, and layered clouds streamed thickly.

After it had grown dark, Genkichi entered the house, brushing off dust from the front of his kimono with both hands. Yoshi lay on his stomach under the oil lamp, flipping through a tattered illustrated magazine that had only two or three loose pages remaining. “Sis, read this part for me.” Having said that, Yoshi pulled the sleeve of his sister who was mending tabi socks by the hearth.

“Idiot!” Sister sucked her finger. “Idiot! Didn’t stick that needle in your hand, did ya?” “Hey Sis, what’ll happen to this dog?” “Sis wouldn’t know.” “Hey—” “Shut your trap.” “Then I’ll make trouble!” Genkichi was washing his feet at the entrance while speaking to Ofumi. “Masaru from Yoshimura there?” he asked. Ofumi looked up at her brother but stayed silent. “What’d you do?”

Genkichi didn’t say anything more. “He was there.” Ofumi said this after a pause. “Huh… Did he say anything else?” “Nothing.” “Nothing? ...Didn’t he say he wasn’t going anywhere tonight?” “I don’t know.” Genkichi climbed up and sat cross-legged by the hearth. The house interior had turned completely black from years of bonfires—ceiling, wainscoting, every surface—all gleaming dully. Long strands of soot hung from the ceiling, swaying gently in the fire’s heat and drafts.

The kitchen had an earthen floor that connected directly to the stable. At all hours, the stable's stench seeped straight into the house. In summer it ripened into a stifling thickness. Great flies from the stable swarmed in clumps. The horse occasionally loosed drawn-out whinnies. There came sounds of a body scraping against wainscoting and forelegs thumping boards. A single oil lamp burned at the house's center. Its shadow fell upon ceiling beams built from rough-hewn logs. Each time the lamp shifted, that shadow swayed faintly.

As Mother Seki brought out the table,

“Gen, you got some business with Masaru or what?” she asked. “Nothin’.” “Then who’s helping with the net?” “Hmm... Anyone’ll do.” “I heard government officials have come. You okay with that?” Genkichi gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. “Officials, huh...” He laughed. “Hey Brother, what’re we gonna do with this dog?”

Yoshi brought the picture book over to Genkichi’s side this time. “This time, is this dog gonna take revenge?—”

“Mother, get my dōza ready—the dark blue kimono stitched with silk thread.” “Hey Brother, this dog’s gotta be strong.” "In the neighboring village, they say this dog’s weaker than a wolf or somethin’. But I ain’t heard that." “That’s a lie, ain’t it, Brother?” “We ain’t eaten fish in two or three months now, Mother. You’re makin’ fools of us!” “You’re makin’ fools of us!” Genkichi let out a hoarse voice. “Even goin’ so far as puttin’ on airs like that ain’t...” “You damn fool!” Mother muttered something to herself in a low voice.

“All right, get to your grub.”

Mother served everyone vegetable leaf miso soup from the pot hanging over the bonfire. “Quit that too, Ofumi—get to your grub.” Yoshi liked imitating his brother. He’d sit cross-legged as wide as he could manage, elbows thrust out while eating—glancing over now and then to adjust his posture to match. “Hey Brother—dog or wolf? Which’s stronger?” “Gotta be the dog.” “Shut your mouth and get scrubbin’ already.” Seki blew hard on the steaming porridge of potatoes and red beans as she scolded. She kept sniffling up snot in quick, impatient gulps.

After finishing his bowl of porridge, Yoshi clanged the bowl with his chopsticks and handed it to Seki.

“Brother, there’s a letter from Yoshiko-chan.” “Hmm.” “She’s writing how she misses the time when she was here.” “Hmph, as if! What’s so great about this dump anyway?” Ofumi truly made a face as if she had hmphed.

“Again! “But that might not be true either.” Mother interjected. “Lies.” “You’re lyin’. What’s so great about this damn place anyway? No matter where you look—nothin’ but empty fields stretchin’ so wide that goin’ to the neighbor’s feels like some godforsaken expedition. No ’lectricity, no telegrams, never even laid eyes on a train… And everyone’s dressed in rags, nothin’ but lowlifes around here, and…” “Brother, dogs’re stronger than wolves, right?” “And whenever she realizes how filthy the city is—every time that hits her—she says it makes her remember workin’ along the Ishikari River back then,”

“Guess that’s how it is.” “What do you mean, ‘Guess that’s how it is’? In this dump, slapping horse asses and working reeking of shit—Hmph!” “Hey, Brother, Ofumi’s been no good lately.” Seki looked toward Genkichi and spoke.

Genkichi remained silent. “If I said I wanted to go to Sapporo too, there’d be no way I could get there—and yet you’ve forgotten how you were the one who wanted to go yourself.” Outside, the rain lashed sideways now and then with a sound like beans being hurled. Each time, the oil lamp swayed, jostling their large shadows cast on the shoji screen behind them—stretching and shrinking.

After finishing his meal, Yoshi propped both legs up by the bonfire and looked at his picture book. The tip of his little finger-sized penis was still sticking out. “Brother, have you ever seen a wolf?” “Ain’t never seen one.” “You saw it in the picture book, didn’t ya?” “Hmm.” “Which one’s stronger?” “Stronger one’s stronger, I reckon.” “No, no! That’s no good—!” Genkichi let out a loud laugh.

The fire in the hearth—fed with tree roots and perhaps having reached a knot—crackled, sending sparks leaping beyond its confines.

One spark flew toward Yoshi’s “morning-glory-bud-like” dick. It landed on his dick.

“Hottt...!!” Yoshi flung the picture book away, fell backward, and wildly flapped at his kimono.

“Look here, see? You got the Fire God angry ’cause you were pointin’ that thing around. Idiot.” “Idiot.” “Dammit... U-unh... ugh...,”

Yoshi seemed about to cry and shook his body.

Seki and Ofumi set up candles in the kitchen and washed the bowls and such. Rain plinked against the window set there. And then it flowed smoothly sideways across the glass surface. “It’s going to get worse.”

“Brother, you should just quit while you can,” Ofumi said. “Back when I first came here, everyone used to catch as much autumn salmon as they wanted. At night, if you kept quiet, you could hear them poking their heads above the river’s surface and crying out.”

Ofumi snorted a laugh. “Hmm, you idiot. “It’s true. The world’s gotten strange, I tell ya.”

In the distance, a cow mooed. Then from another direction came another cry too. But with how the wind blew, it faded away before reaching them.

Yoshi lay on his back, humming something like a song. “Mom, what’s an itako?” he asked. “An itako came and tried to summon Yoshikawa’s father, see? Then she said he’s dead now, burning in hellfires and suffering.” “An itako’s just an old woman, see?” “They were calling her an itako old woman.”

“Huh? That’s it?” “They were makin’ fried tofu at Yoshikawa’s place to give the itako old woman.”

“That’s Lord Inari, ain’t it?” “Lord Inari’s a fox, ain’t he?” “Yeah.” “When I went to Yoshikawa’s place with Masaru and Yoshiko here, bringing a dog, we got scolded.” “Yeah, that’s how it was.” “Brother, foxes are weaker than dogs or somethin’, ain’t they?”

Genkichi remained silent.

“Yoshikawa’s mother was sobbing pitifully,” she said. “Her eyes were bright red.” Ofumi lit a lantern and entered the storage shed out back. She reached into the straw sacks piled in the corner just inside the entrance and pulled out potatoes. She put them into her apron. A rat rustled noisily as it scurried toward the back. The lantern’s shadow moved in a circle across the pitch-black ceiling of the storage shed. “Here. Potatoes.”

Ofumi returned and emptied the potatoes from her apron by the hearth. “Potatoes, huh? Damn, these ain’t tasty.” Yoshi lay on his back, rolling them about with his toes in mischief. “Hah! You damn brat!” Seki struck his leg with fire tongs. Yoshi pulled his legs in and stuck out his tongue. “Over at Yoshikawa’s place, they were digging up sweet potatoes or something.” “Just you wait—that leg’s gonna rot off.”

Genkichi stretched both arms straight upward with a grunt and yawned. His shadow appeared on the shoji screen exactly like an ogre. "Scary!" Yoshi hunched his neck and looked toward it. Genkichi turned around. "What's wrong with you, idiot!" He took two or three potatoes and buried them in the hearth's ashes. "Yoshi, don't go saying you wanna eat 'em once they're roasted." Yoshi deliberately looked the other way and rolled his body sideways with a thud.

Ofumi brought her half-sewn kimono under the oil lamp. Then she buried her own potatoes in the ashes.

It had gotten cold. Snow was already falling. She hated what was coming for Hokkaido! Like a bear holed up in its den—for over half a year, you couldn’t even step outside—it was unbearable. “Saying you hate it won’t change a damn thing.” “Because there’s nothing to be done.” “Then you’d best keep your mouth shut.”

“……” With a snort, “I am keeping quiet—” Yoshi, lying on his back with a ruler in hand, had been fidgeting with it when he started playing pranks on his sister’s body. At first, Ofumi was too absorbed in sulking to notice. Unconsciously, she reached toward where he’d poked her. This delighted Yoshi. He repeated it several times. Then he pressed the ruler’s edge against her nape. Ofumi finally noticed this time— “This!” she said.

He did it again. And then, poking the spot, he said, “Hey, there’s a lump right here on your neck!”

Ofumi whirled around and wrenched the ruler away with all her might. The mother, who had been sitting cross-legged by the hearth, was now shaking her head. In the lamplight’s stark shadows that fell across her face, they suddenly saw how aged she had grown.

“It’d be best if you started acting more like Mother.”

Ofumi looked at her mother and said.

The house fluctuated between brightness and dimness with the oil lamp's flame. Footsteps squelched through the muddy front in straw sandals.

The clock with a loose screw slowly struck four times at the eight o'clock mark. Yoshi fell asleep still facing away from the hearth. Genkichi went out briefly to check the rain.

Then Genkichi prepared himself. Ofumi worked while occasionally glancing at her brother.

“Is this really okay?” But Genkichi remained silent. When Genkichi had finished preparing, he shouldered the net and left the house. The rain had stopped. Yet the night stayed dark. He kept stepping into hollows, caught unawares. Each time—those hollows pooled with muddy water—he’d splash up filth so violently it smacked his face. Stars glimmered overhead. From somewhere far off came an eerie sound, like wind battering through scrub trees, ceaseless and ominous. Nowhere could he spy a single light.

In the far southeast, a minuscule patch near the horizon appeared faintly bright. It was Iwamizawa.

As he walked, he thought about what he was now determined to accomplish. Genkichi spat out a curse at something: “Damn it!” He spat repeatedly. He couldn’t keep still. And somehow, like this, the very act of walking frustrated him unbearably. “Damn it!” The road curved.

When he turned there, a light came into view about two hundred meters ahead. It was the light from a small window’s oil lamp. Then, a grass clump a dozen meters back suddenly rustled violently—and no sooner had it done so than the rain began to fall. In an instant, the sound of rain enveloped him from all sides—front, back, and sides. Only where the small window’s dim glow fell could the rain be seen, squarely framed. When Genkichi approached the house, he suddenly heard a dog growling menacingly in the darkness. He suddenly remembered the dog’s name, aimed his voice in that direction, and called softly. Then it stopped—something hit his leg—the dog had now come clinging to his foot. He said the dog’s name two or three times.

Just as he thought the rain's sound had lessened slightly, it gradually stopped. When he stayed still, he could clearly tell how the rain's noise had come from the west and was now shifting eastward. Though the rain had completely ceased where Genkichi stood, he heard it still falling toward the Ishikari River. He distinctly perceived how it crossed the field again bit by bit, the downpour ceasing from behind in successive waves.

When Genkichi went around to the back entrance, he called out, “Masaru, Masaru.” Inside the house, Genkichi heard the sound of someone standing up and hastily slipping on clogs in the dirt floor as they approached. The door had been rattling, but it swung open with a clatter. Light flooded out in a sudden rush. The light came straight at Genkichi standing in the entrance. “Mr. Genkichi?” “Yeah. You coming?” “I’m coming. Wait a second.” “So,” he said, lowering his voice slightly, “your old man hasn’t said anything, has he?”

“Nah,” Masaru replied ambiguously. Genkichi grinned slyly and flared his nostrils. That morning, Genkichi—terrified himself—had forced a reluctant Masaru to agree. The thought of it struck him as comical.

“Then hurry up an’ get ready,” he said.

After a short while, the two of them were walking along a dark path. “Where are we doing it?”

“We’re going up a little under a ri. That’ll put us near Kitamura. If we get caught, you better keep your damn mouth shut.” “I hear there’s government officials around.” “There must be, sure as hell. That’s exactly why it’s even more fun.”

“…………” “Like hell I’ll let some petty government official catch us.” “Even those bastards are worn out—they’re probably snoring away by now.”

Genkichi laughed loudly. But the vast open plain gave no echo at all; instead, the sound vanished eerily into nothingness.

Genkichi strode forward relentlessly at the head, walking as though physically hauling Masaru along behind him—the younger man followed without uttering a word. When they had walked about five minutes, the rain began falling again. Yet for Masaru, trudging through that pitch-black expanse of plain where rain pounded down with a roar—all without even the meager comfort of a lantern—remained far from pleasant.

“I don’t like this.”

“Huh?” Genkichi turned around and asked, straining against the sound of the rain. “This doesn’t feel right.” “What do you mean?” Masaru laughed sheepishly. After a while,

“Where are the officials staying?” Masaru asked Genkichi, who walked ahead with his broad shoulders. “Gotta be Kitamura village. “Gotta be the inn at Kitamura.—Soakin’ in hot baths, livin’ it up while they wait around. “Three ri from here—no way those bastards’ll come marchin’ out in this pissin’ rain.” “This mornin’, when I went down to my home river, they said five-six autumn salmon showed their backs goin’ downstream.” “Hell yeah! Now we’re talkin’!”

Then, for a while, both of them walked in silence. Masaru hurriedly walked to keep up with Genkichi’s long strides. Suddenly, from beside them, a cow let out a broad bellow. Startled by the unexpected sound, they both froze. “Damn thing had to go and startle us. You shameless cow!”

Then, from far off, the answering moo of another cow could be heard. A house came into view to the side. As they passed it by, Masaru—as if suddenly remembering— “Have you heard about Yoshiko?” he called out to the one walking ahead. Masaru knew about the relationship between Yoshiko and Genkichi from before she went to Sapporo. “Yeah,” Genkichi made no effort to hide his displeasure as he replied. “Ofumi’s a real problem too.” “……” The two of them fell abruptly silent then, as if their heads had collided.

“Masaru, don’t go meddlin’ in Ofumi’s business.”

“Me?” “Yeah. You too—don’t let Ofumi outdo you, y’know.” “She’s gone and hated peasant life through an’ through, I tell ya.” Masaru still hadn’t said anything. “Ever since she laid eyes on Sapporo, she’s been seein’ pipe dreams, I tell ya.” “Any peasant who ain’t good an’ sick of this life’s a damn fool.” “Hmph.—Reckon that makes me the fool then.” As he said this, the shoulders blocking Masaru’s view slackened, and he burst into laughter. “I’m a peasant brat through an’ through.” Masaru flinched somehow. “Nothin’ to brag about,” he said softly.

“Masaru, you know what Yoshiko’s really doin’ in Sapporo?”

Masaru spoke haltingly: “It’s... not a very good place she’s in, from what I hear.” “She’s probably whorin’ herself out, I tell ya.”

The rain had nearly ceased, leaving only the sound of their footsteps squelching through the mud. “...She didn’t wanna end up as no whore.” Genkichi muttered as if to himself. Masaru, walking behind him, couldn’t make out the words clearly. They walked along the pitch-black path through the wild plain for nearly thirty minutes.

“We’re headin’ out to the riverbank from here.”

Genkichi stopped and turned from the main road onto a small side path. “We’re almost there.”

It was a narrow path between fields. As they walked, the rain-soaked grass on both sides slapped against their work pants with each step. And then the work pants quickly became uncomfortable, turning soggy. “Alright, watch yourself now.” Genkichi said that and adjusted the net on his back. “No way officials’d be out on a day like this, I tell ya.” “I—” “Huh?” “……” “What is it?” Genkichi turned around. “Huh?” “If we get caught, we’d be done for.”

“What’s this… you gettin’ spooked now?” “……” “What’s wrong?” “It doesn’t feel right.” “You idiot—snap out of it!”

The two entered a small grove. Through gaps in the treetops, patches of sky became visible. Black clouds skimmed past the slender branch tips overhead, appearing to race through the air. Branches swayed and clashed against each other, their impacts blending into an uncanny, ominous wail. Before they had walked even half a cho further, the murky expanse of the Ishikari River appeared below them. In that dark late-autumn night heavy with coming storms, its surface flowed with a dull yet unnervingly sinister glow. Even by daylight, the Ishikari River had never been a comforting sight. Near its center swirled two or three eddies that made no sound as they turned. Fragments of sticks and paper-like debris drifted downstream. When these reached the whirlpools, they would circle round and round until something in the riverbed seemed to yank them downward, sucking them into the vortex with an audible gulp. Such sights unsettled viewers even in broad daylight.

Masaru now saw the Ishikari River below him—silent, unnervingly sinister—and his body shuddered violently in an instant. “This the ferry landing, right?” Masaru closed the distance with Genkichi and asked.

The two men descended to the riverbank. Genkichi heaved the load on his back into the small boat tied to the shore with a heavy thud. Then he sat down on the edge of the boat and spent a moment scanning his surroundings. “Hey, Masaru! You go on and belt out a song real loud.” Genkichi said while taking out his tobacco. Masaru, finding it strange, turned back. “Anything’ll do.—Well, maybe I’ll start us off with a song.” “—Just make it real loud.” Thud-thud, thud-thud, let it pass through—

To say you hate it now—that’s impossible, I say—, If you hate it, should’ve said you hated it from the start— Ah—, If you say it, thud-thud, it won’t pass through—, Thud-thud, thud-thud

Genkichi sang in a hoarse voice, projecting it loudly without any rhythm. It vanished brusquely without so much as an echo. Masaru felt uneasy; rather, he had gone completely quiet. “What’s wrong?”

Genkichi suddenly burst out laughing. Shaking his large body, he laughed boisterously without restraint.

“Huh?”

He didn’t stop laughing.

“Hey, cut it out.” Masaru frowned and stood as though pleading.

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha!” Then he said, “I’ll sing another one.” Even birds don’t pass through… uuuh…

("Ah... voice won't come out," he muttered, and) Flower—Ah, cherry tree—Ee— A person is—Ah—a samurai—?

Genkichi stopped midway, urged Masaru on, and retraced their path. After coming about half a cho, they entered the grove again. Then, Genkichi came to a halt and,

“We’ll stay like this for a while,” said Genkichi, listening intently and remaining perfectly still as he kept watch. The two of them remained like that for a full twenty minutes.

“Alright, alright. We’re good.” Having said that, he continued, “Alright, let’s go.”

The two men descended back to the boat. And then he said, “Let’s board.” After loading Masaru aboard, Genkichi exerted his strength to push the boat out into the middle of the river, then skillfully leapt nimbly to the stern in that very instant. With that motion, the boat’s gunwale reared up like the neck of a furious horse. And the boat shook violently. “I can’t tell shit from Shinola here.” After Genkichi lowered his body onto the net, Masaru said.

“Huh. Ain’t nothin’. Thought there might be officials around, so I gave it a little try. You don’t get it ’cause it’s your first time. We’ve handled everything now.”

Having said that, “But from now on, you’re gonna behave proper in return.”

Masaru's body trembled uncontrollably. Masaru had internally begun to regret coming with Genkichi.

The Ishikari River was said to have a "Master." Boats and all would be swallowed into swirling vortices. He couldn't shake that sensation off. By day it might have been a foolish tale, but now, to Masaru, such things hardly mattered. In truth—though none knew why—those who died in the Ishikari never had their corpses resurface. The river felt more sinister than the night sea itself. At any moment from the water—"suddenly"—something seemed about to emerge... yet nothing did. The boat drifted downstream, sometimes stern-first, sometimes bow-first. From the bottom came the splat-splat of water striking against wood.

Both sides were black, and where the banks rose high, they resembled sheer cliffs that had been cut away. There were also places so low that the horizon was visible. The forest reached all the way to the riverbank and swayed as it caught the wind. The water below turned pitch black, and as the boat passed through it, their faces—which until then had been visible by the faint reflected light from the water—vanished from sight. “Hey, Masaru. Listen—you keep watch on this side. If you spot anyone, give me a holler.”

Having said that, Genkichi kept watch on the opposite side. They went downstream for about ten minutes.

Because it had rained for two full days, the water level had risen by about six inches and the current had grown swifter. Before long, they came to where the Ishikari River made a wide, gentle curve. Then Genkichi took up the oar and, resisting the considerable current, attempted to bring the boat to shore. Masaru also took up the rudder and did the same. Each time the two men rowed with all their might, the small boat shuddered violently. The rudder bent like a bow. He put too much force into it and staggered from his own exertion. Masaru lost his center of balance awkwardly two or three times. Despite their efforts, the boat kept drifting toward the very center of the curve. “Grhh! Grhh!” Genkichi planted his feet like a wrathful temple guardian, groaning as he rowed. Gradually the boat began responding to their efforts—each movement taking effect by mere thousandths.

“There!” “Now!”

Masaru's entire body began to sweat.

Once the boat had cut through about six feet of the river's center, the rest of the way became easier this time, as if carried by its own momentum.

“This’ll do! This’ll do!”

When the boat thudded into the sandy bank, Genkichi staggered from the recoil and wiped the sweat from his face with his kimono sleeve.

“Before we start working, go up there and keep watch for a bit.” When Genkichi said this to Masaru, he rummaged through the net and pulled out a club that looked exactly like a baseball bat, then handed it over. Masaru accepted it curiously and gave a wry smile. “This is something else.”

While fiddling with it like a toy, he began scaling the sandy embankment that had formed there. Genkichi followed behind, climbing up using the rope attached to the net's edge. The two poked just their heads above level ground and warily scanned their surroundings first. The pitch darkness made details impossible to discern. The wind moaned distantly—they could distinctly track its shifting passage. Sky and earth merged into undifferentiated blackness. Sideways-slanting rain intermittently flared white before their eyes.

“Damn officials’ll come at a time like this.” Genkichi had Masaru stand watch and wrapped the rope around the tree trunk he’d chosen earlier. The rain-slicked trunk shed chunks of bark when he yanked the knot taut. After securing it, he braced both hands against the wood, stamped his boots into the mud, and shook with full force. Leaves erupted in a violent rustle overhead—rainwater pattered down in their wake. Masaru jolted where he stood a few paces back and bolted toward Genkichi. Genkichi spun around, muscles tensed ready.

“What?” Genkichi lowered his voice but asked sharply. “What was that just now?” Masaru, flustered, stammered. “Huh?” “That rustling sound.”

Genkichi said, “What’re you on about?” and laughed. “Nah—what’re you on about? You’re the one who startled me!”

“What?” “I was startled.”

“I shook the tree. “With this current speed—wanted to check if it’d hold up, so I tested the trunk. “If that gave out, this damn club’d be useless anyway.” Genkichi laughed. The two men returned to the boat again. After reorganizing all the nets neatly in the boat, Genkichi took up rowing himself while having Masaru lower the nets. The boat was driven straight toward the opposite bank with full force. But doing this meant they ultimately ended up landing diagonally downstream at a curve on the far shore.

Genkichi said while rowing, “There, done.” Masaru kept throwing the fishing net into the water with heavy thuds. When they reached the opposite bank, Genkichi had Masaru help him sling the rope from the edge of the net over his shoulder facing backward toward the river, and resisting the force of the current trying to sweep the net away, tied it to a tree on shore. Even with their combined strength, there were times when both of them staggered backward unsteadily. Then they pulled the boat up onto the shore.

That was it.

The two men decided to come back here around four the next morning, exited onto the farm path from there, and returned home.

When Genkichi entered the house, the lamp was out and everyone was asleep. He groped his way to the kitchen and drank two or three ladlefuls of water straight from the crock, gulping noisily with his throat clattering each time.

In the stable, the horse struck its own body with its tail hair in sharp, rhythmic sounds.

II

Four in the morning was pitch black, just like nine or ten at night. It took on a bluish tinge rather than pure darkness, carrying a bone-deep chill that seeped up from somewhere below. The river swelled with water, its force bending and swaying the tree they had tied their rope to. Though the rain had stopped from when they left home until their arrival, it started pouring again just as they began working. They immediately set to pulling in the net. Dragging it against the current proved no easy task. The two men staggered repeatedly— nearly getting dragged into the river’s heart mid-stumble. Heaving breaths ragged, their bodies streamed with sweat that steamed off them within twenty minutes. Still, they managed to haul it in bit by bit. Once they gained even slight ground, their rhythm steadied—voices rising in an “En’ya! En’ya!” chant as they pulled. From then on, they hauled steadily, heavily— no longer straining as hard.

Genkichi paused briefly to catch his breath. “Masaru, you got the club?” When Masaru said “Yeah,” Genkichi laughed heh-heh, heh-heh. “Can’t take it! Damn! You bastard!”

Overhead, as if someone had overturned a bucket of water, the rain pounded the ground violently, splashed back up, and rushed with a thundering roar. Despite the pitch darkness, the rain created a strangely whitish brightness that lingered in the air.

Then came a violent splashing sound of water being thrashed about, but it ceased abruptly. After a moment, another splashing resounded as water sprayed up again. Then immediately following came a much louder thrashing. The net was steadily drawn in. Pull that, pull that. The girl’s cunt—pull that, pull that. Pull that, pull that, The old hag’s cunt—pull that, pull that. Ah, heave-ho, heave-ho.

Heave-ho, heave-ho. Genkichi panted heavily while chanting rhythmically, swinging his large frame as if dancing. Bending his waist and curving his inner thighs like sickles, he kept his body in rhythm. This made Genkichi move like a mere child. As the net gradually tightened, salmon began slapping the water's surface with sounds like wooden planks.

“Gen! Gen! Gen!” Masaru called out. “Hm?” “Ah—! Look!” The night was pitch black—as dark as being blindfolded with a black cloth. When they looked, within that darkness flashed a scaly glimmer so startling they might doubt their eyes. Immediately after came a powerful sound of water being struck. “Autumn salmon!” Genkichi shouted. “It’s a whopper, I tell ya...” The splashing grew increasingly violent, like children playfully dousing each other. Soon two or three salmon seemed to leap onto the sandy shore, thrashing their thick bodies against the ground. Genkichi made Masaru keep pulling the net while he took the club down to the riverbank. Approaching the net, he roughly estimated over ten salmon were caught. Suddenly a tail fin flicked out as if slapping his cheek, sending water and sand flying.

“Bastard!” Genkichi wiped his face with his rain-soaked sleeve and swung up the club. He took aim and struck the salmon’s snout. Thwack! The fish stretched out its body, tail fin pointed skyward. It hung motionless for an instant. Then the fin drooped downward. When it touched the ground, drained of strength, the body twitched two or three times. After that, it moved no more.

Genkichi called Masaru. When Masaru arrived, Genkichi said nothing and delivered another strike to a salmon’s nose. Masaru jolted and froze. Genkichi let out a choked laugh. Genkichi kept striking them with the club, one after another. Masaru immediately grabbed each by the gills, dragged them over, and stuffed them into the kerosene cans loaded on the boat. Every time he pulled, their bodies twitched—some still breathing faintly, only their gills fluttering.

As he continued, Genkichi found himself growing strangely brutal. He did this to each fish—"Bastard!" "Damn beast!" "Bastard!" "Damn beast!"—biting his lips and grinding his teeth all the while. Strangely, the muscles of his face twitched and stiffened. And as if deranged, he struck wildly again and again. Then, while uttering the names of those he had always thought of as "bastards" one by one, he kept beating them down. That act, in turn, dragged him forward with uncanny momentum.

Something tepid would abruptly fly at his face. When it clung to his skin, it turned viscous and repulsive. Blood. Each time Genkichi clubbed one to death, he tallied them off—one, two. As the count climbed to seven, eight—the thunderous thrashing of large fish grew fainter. When he reached ten, only a single thrashing sound came from slightly beyond his position. Genkichi moved toward it and trod on a salmon's slimy body. Even Genkichi shuddered involuntarily. He felt like he'd stepped on a train-crushed corpse along midnight railroad tracks. “Eleven—.” Genkichi said this and listened intently. Silence. Suddenly only rain drummed against Genkichi’s awareness. Eleven, he thought.

“It’s over. Eleven,” Genkichi said to Masaru.

Masaru loaded them into two kerosene cans and shouldered the load. “What about the net and boat?” “The boat?—We’ll leave it here, I tell ya." “When morning comes, the motorboat’ll pass by—they’ll haul it off for us then, I tell ya.” “The net? I’ll take care of it, I tell ya.”

“This ain’t funny.” “If water gets in ’em cans, they’ll be way too heavy.” “The hell ya yammerin’ about!”

＊

The two emerged onto the farm path; Genkichi, who’d never imagined they’d catch so many, was as cheerful as a child. But Masaru was trembling all over. On this return path, what if they encountered officials head-on? The thought had Masaru’s heart gripped as if by the nape of his neck. Everywhere was still dark. When a cow abruptly stood up from the pitch darkness right beside them, Masaru nearly cried out.

A lantern came into view ahead.

“Gen, lantern.” Masaru called out to Genkichi from behind. “Yeah.” Genkichi immediately left the path and entered the fields. When they were about ten ken away from the road, they stopped. Thus, they let the lantern pass by. When they stared intently, everywhere they looked was uniformly pitch-black; however, only the portion reached by the lantern’s moving flame became visible. The thicket flickered with light, and then parts of the fields on both sides of the road became visible, puddles on the path appeared, and as the lantern swayed, the illuminated area would widen to the left or right, then narrow again.

When it had passed, they returned to the path.

“Officials? They come with lanterns, I tell ya,” Genkichi laughed. “Then we shouldn’t even need ’em anymore, right? They wouldn’t notice till this thing’s smacking their noses.” “Then here.” With that, he twisted his body halfway back and thrust the bloodied club right under Masaru’s nose. “This.” The moment Masaru sensed the bloody stench coming from that club, he recoiled. “You idiot!” Masaru stammered out, sounding so flustered even he himself found it comical.

“In this village, we ain’t had a single fish to eat in three damn months.” “You call this living?” “Go down to the river later—them autumn salmon bastards are swimming with their backs poking out! Three months without a bite of fish?” “You damn brat!” “How can you not get it when it’s staring you in the face?” “And look—head downstream and those rich bastards at the fishing grounds are hauling in loads!” “Licenses and shit—who gives a damn!”

Masaru remained silent. When it came to such matters, Genkichi felt a strange anger simmering up from deep within him—a restive irritation that gnawed at his core. Had he encountered an official then, he might well have brought the club he’d used to bludgeon salmon crashing down on that bastard’s skull. “If you think I do this shit ’cause I want to, you’re dead wrong, I tell ya!”

Masaru knew there was something unnervingly primal about Genkichi—a bottomless terror lurking within him—and the thought of it now filled him with dread. He just hoped they wouldn’t run into any officials. That was because he thought if they encountered officials, Genkichi would surely—truly, surely—beat them to death. Masaru had known something about Genkichi—that now came to mind. Long ago, after Genkichi’s father had crossed over from mainland Japan to this bear-ridden Hokkaido and bent his body like a shrimp over the soil, working himself to the bone until he’d finally carved out a proper plot of land—that land had once been seized by some wealthy man. When that day came, despite all efforts, it had to be handed over to the wealthy man. Father slumped dejectedly and complained of a headache.

When wealthy men and officials—two or three of them—came barging in, they made the father stamp a certain document. The father, utterly dazed, had gone into the back room to fetch the seal, yet there he was pacing restlessly before the sliding door as if he’d forgotten something. It was exactly when Father pressed down the seal. Bent over the document, his attention wholly fixated on it, the wealthy man let out a triumphant “Hah!” Having said that, he leaned back arrogantly. Everyone was startled and leapt up. Then everyone saw Genkichi—then eleven or twelve years old—clinging to the wealthy man’s leg and sinking his teeth into the hairless shin. His body convulsing violently, eyes blazing with fury, Genkichi kept biting down. The father and officials were shocked, and no matter how much they tried to pull him away, he wouldn’t let go. The large wealthy man thrashed about like a rabbit caught in a snare. The wealthy man wailed at the top of his voice—.

Until then—until that day—Genkichi had not uttered a single word about the fields, and even when his father fretted anxiously, there had been no noticeable change. Instead, he had only become even more silent and subdued than usual. That had been why! This incident grew elaborate embellishments and spread throughout the village. Masaru had heard that too. Even when incidents occurred, Genkichi remained motionless. If it were anyone else, they would say something or talk about it. Genkichi did not do that. And while the others—despite all their noise—ultimately did nothing but chatter away, he would slink off and pull off some outrageously bold feat all by himself. He would return and, just like that, sit in stony silence without uttering a single word about it—there had been countless such instances. It wasn’t due to simple-mindedness—no, there was something deep and resolute within him that made him act that way, Masaru thought.

Now, Masaru—if Genkichi were to unexpectedly encounter officials—immediately thought of that Genkichi who had once sunk his teeth into a wealthy man’s shin, and he could only think that Genkichi would surely do it—use that club to strike them down. It clung to Masaru’s heart like a scorpion of terror, sinking its fangs deep. The two walked in silence. Only the squelching footsteps in the muddy path continued. Only when they occasionally stepped into a hollow, their bodies lurching forward, did that rhythm falter. Even as they did so, Masaru—and of course Genkichi too—remained vigilant toward what lay ahead. When Masaru came to his own house, he realized how much mental strain he’d been under—so much that his body suddenly went limp. _I’m saved_, he thought.

“It’s been a year，huh.” “Look，go make your mother happy.”

Having said that, Genkichi was no longer visible to Masaru. Only the sound of footsteps lingered in the darkness, briefly audible before vanishing completely. He had turned onto a path through a grassy field. Then Masaru circled around to the back door. As he was unloading his belongings into the shed right beside the back door, he heard footsteps approaching along the muddy path. Masaru felt his body turn rigid as a log in an instant.

“Masaru.” It was Genkichi.

Masaru understood, but the words wouldn’t come out immediately. “Genkichi...?” “Yeah.” Having said that, his lumbering large body—responding to the words “Genkichi...?”—drew near. “Look, come mornin’, you’re gonna take these from here to the houses along the riverbank—one fish each.” “Yeah.” “Since nobody’s gettin’ any food.” “Just say you bought ’em—that’ll do.” “I’ll handle distributin’ up to Ishida’s area.” “It’s only natural!” “Right?”

“Yeah.” “Got it. Then let’s go.”

And he walked away. To Masaru, each heavy, deliberate footstep seemed imbued with a certain power, and he listened intently as Genkichi walked away.

III

The weather that had seemed poised to bring snow at any moment passed.

Days of clear, high skies at autumn’s end continued one after another. The fields, the grasslands, Inamura village, the woods, and even the distant low mountain range to the west—all had turned a fox-brown hue. Seeing it spread endlessly, sharply contrasted against the clear blue sky, the peasants somehow thought it seemed like something new—as if abruptly revealed to them.

For the winter that was truly coming, the villagers went out to the fields and began preparing. To carry mixed grains to the town with the station and peddle them around the area, four or five girls departed early in the morning on a horse-drawn cart. Ofumi had joined them. Chattering noisily atop the cart, they called out to each and every farmhouse from outside as they passed. The women returned after dark having bought cloth for waist wraps and underrobes. As they came singing in clear voices with several others, those inside the houses immediately realized—

"Ah, they’ve just returned now," they realized.

From the town with the train station, an errand boy from a hardware store would often come cycling down the country road. The peasants working in the fields would straighten their backs each time and watch. The errand boy would occasionally call out as he passed by. The women preparing pickles descended the Ishikari River embankment and scrubbed the freshly pulled daikon, still caked with soil, using makeshift skewers fashioned from rope scraps. There, at a bend in the river where the current had formed a sandbar. From there, various women’s songs reached the peasants working on the embankment.

To transport agricultural products from the mountain regions—primarily green peas—motorboats clattered noisily as they chugged upriver against the current. Whenever they heard even the faintest sound of it in the distance, the children went thudding down the riverbank path. And then, sitting on the riverbank embankment and swinging their legs idly, they waited for the motorboat to pass. Whenever the weather was fine, the children would always do this. The motorboat was heading "upstream," but only its sound reached them—the vessel itself remained stubbornly out of sight. However, because the river twisted and turned, it would instead abruptly appear when least expected. The children, rejoicing, waved their hands and shouted things like “Banzai!” Then, from the boat, a man in a blue, grease-stained coat occasionally waved his hat. However, no matter how much the children shouted “Banzai!” or similar cries, when no one from the boat responded, they would sometimes just watch it depart in bored silence. When towing a barge loaded with cargo, the motorboat would clatter noisily without pause, each time shaking its body in a straining motion as it moved past the children at a speed that made it hard to tell whether it was advancing at all. “Oh, the motorboat’s sweating and huffing and puffing!” the children said.

Yoshi grabbed the hand of the companion sitting next to him, pressed it to his own heart, and said, “Feel it? It’s goin’ thump-thump, see?” “My sis says that motor’s clatterin’s just like this heartbeat thing here.”

Everyone went “Hm? Hm?” and each of them this time pressed a hand to their own chest. And then, “Yeah.” “Yeah,” they said.

When the motorboat had passed, the children each ran off to help their parents working in the fields.

Two or three days later, there was a sermon at the elementary school by a monk specially summoned from town. This was because the landlords controlling all land in these parts held it twice yearly without fail for the peasants' spiritual betterment. The aged peasants had long awaited it. And they celebrated, declaring these landlords who provided such services to be generous benefactors. Each time, the landlords strictly ordered young women to attend without exception. Thus young men too would occasionally find themselves drawn along.

On that day, the elderly—their bodies creased like old wrapping cloths from decades of peasant labor, bent like rusted nails—would set out from morning, each inviting the others along. Even old women who couldn’t even go outside to relieve themselves had been made to attend. Seven- or eight-year-old girls and seventeen- or eighteen-year-old women took them by the hand and helped. Thus, people with sun-darkened faces, clad in unsuitably vivid red kimonos, became visible on the paths between fields.

Genkichi’s mother had never missed a sermon since her husband died. Each time, she tried to take her daughter Ofumi along as well. But Ofumi would not comply. "You damned fool!" Mother said.

When the sermon began, the school’s classroom—with its desks and chairs removed—was packed full. Every peasant who had gathered bore some part of themselves that had been forcibly warped by their long, bitter lives—somewhere, they were crippled. The elderly were like toads that had crawled out of the earth. They were all people who hadn’t seen each other in ages. Even though they were in the same place, they hadn’t met like this. All sorts of topics came up. There were those who brought out smoking utensils and lit tobacco. The grandchildren who had come along played pranks on each other and leapt over the elders’ rounded backs to run riot. The air was strangely cloying—sweet and sour—and the classroom grew stifling.

The monk was supposed to come from a village about four ri away—a place that felt more like a proper village than this Higashi Village did. The monk would sometimes come by bicycle still wearing his robes, or ride in a horse-drawn cart with a wooden box after laying out a zabuton cushion to sit on. This time, since the rain had just let up, he came by horse-drawn cart. He was a short man over forty with sunken eyes, thick eyebrows, and a completely bald head. He preached in a raspy voice that carried loudly. While delivering his sermon, he kept shifting his gaze restlessly with those sunken eyes, darting them about—a habitual gesture. It was the same monk who had come before.

The village peasants responded to each of the monk’s words with “Namu Amida Buddha,” clacking their juzu beads with rough, thick palms crisscrossed with cracks. “Everything is by the will of Lord Amida. —Everything is by the will of Lord Amida. You must not forget that—do you understand?” “...You must never raise complaints—that is what Lord Amida has declared. Everything is by the will of Lord Amida. In this present world—in this world of ours—those who have suffered will only attain great enlightenment when they come to Lord Amida’s side. When you go to the afterlife and properly sit upon a lotus, you will be able to wholeheartedly chant ‘Namu Amida Butsu.’ You must never raise complaints about anything.”

The monk said in a practiced tone. The peasants had heard those phrases countless times before. But no matter how many times they heard them, they still thought them benevolent words. And as though only now realizing it, they lowered their heads and repeated, “Namu Amida.” The elderly peasants looked back on the long and bitter lives they had lived until now. And when they realized they themselves had never raised complaints, they felt relieved. Having endured such suffering—believing that once they passed to the afterlife they would reach Lord Amida’s side—the elderly peasants thought of nothing beyond this. After all, they thought, the things of this world must be endured. The monk again brought up Shakyamuni’s ascetic practices and applied them directly to the peasants’ arduous lives as he spoke. That moved the peasants to their very core.

After finishing this sermon, the monk was put up at the most devout household, then went around from house to house preaching. In peasant households with elderly members, even when they made do without buying new split tabi, they called the monk. If they failed to do so, they feared their “afterlife” might turn wretched. That was the most terrifying thing—the peasants had been forced to work without a moment’s rest all this time; if even after death they still had to labor on like this, they thought it would be unbearable. Every peasant, to some degree or another, had grown disgusted with this world that forced them to work so excessively. And more than anything, they wanted to escape. For the peasants, that matter was far beyond tabi socks or miso. The peasants, even if they didn’t think of it clearly, somewhere in their hearts were always mindful of "the afterlife."

On the day the monk was to come, Genkichi’s mother had been preparing something in the kitchen since morning. And when the monk came, she brought it out. Genkichi’s mother found her lower back and ankles aching whenever the weather turned cold. The accumulated strain of years of excessive labor had gradually taken its toll on her body. Mother had Yoshi, who was reluctant, constantly rub her shoulders and waist. The monk, with an air of solemnity, rapidly chanted the sutra—almost as if intoning a spell—then rasped his juzu beads and used them to rub and stroke Seki’s shoulders and lower back. And that was how it went in every peasant household. Even if they appeared sturdy, the peasants would almost certainly suffer through nights unable to sleep, their lower backs aching or shoulders growing stiff. Therefore, when the monk made his rounds from house to house, that too brought in a considerable amount of money.

The monk stayed for two days, and after making the rounds to every last house, he departed for home. He had stuffed a considerable amount of money into his pocket.

When Genkichi was returning from the fields, he encountered that monk. The monk, somewhat sly in a merchant-like way, gave a curt greeting. But Genkichi, sullen, remained silent. A short while later, he met the school principal.

The elementary school principal was a stern-faced man of thirty-seven or thirty-eight with an unlikable air about him. He served as principal, teacher, and even janitor. The school had only one classroom furnished with about twenty desks. Boys and girls from first to sixth grade were all together there. The classroom had maps on its walls, a cabinet containing science specimens (among which was a taxidermied crow), and an organ with worn white keys pushed into a corner. The principal hated monks most of all. No one knew why this teacher had come to the village. And though his stern face made him unlikable, he was respected as a "great man" precisely for that reason. It was also said he had come to this place after quarreling with the principal at a city elementary school. The teacher’s room—separated from the classroom by a hallway and directly adjacent—had books piled high.

Genkichi said to the Principal, “The monk’s gone back.” The principal grimaced! With his face contorting in that manner, he said: “I see. You should’ve just tossed him into the manure pit.” “Every time that bastard comes to this village—damn it!—the peasants grow more spineless and dim-witted,” he said.

*

The village festival coincided precisely with this fine weather.

When such events occurred, it was always decided that those who would take the lead were establishments like Kiku [shop symbol 47-9] and Maruyama’s Onko; they erected tall vertical “Offering” banners before the shrine and had the children help build a creaking stage. Those in new short coats, their forelocks slightly grown and oiled, rode bicycles to borrow curtains and transport various tools from the town with the train station until everything finally took shape for the festival. From early morning, four or five children in new kimonos played beside where the young people were making preparations. The shrine stood near the school in a wild field enclosed on three sides by a scrubby mixed grove. Come evening, rubber balloon merchants would arrive shouldering their bundled wares while Hokkai-bushi performers from the town with the train station were set to perform Yasugi-bushi songs and hand dances on that stage.

Ofumi and her mother prepared the festival’s special dishes. Peasants always thought that no matter how wretched their lives might be, they had to do such things. Genkichi lay sprawled beside the large hearth where a bonfire was burning, using his feet to play tricks on Yoshi.

“Gotcha!” Yoshi, who had been clinging to Genkichi’s leg, was knocked over a moment later. Yoshi, determined not to lose, planted his feet and lunged forward. But the more he resisted, the more easily he was flung flat onto his back. “Again!” “Damn it!” “Brother, you’re grabbing at my feet, damn it!” “Idiot.”

Their mother yelled from the dim kitchen, “Yoshi, go to the festival!”

“Aah— Brother, I lost, I lost!” Yoshi pinned Genkichi’s leg down against the tatami with a forceful shove. When Genkichi abruptly snapped back to his senses, he reflexively jerked his leg with too much force. The momentum sent Yoshi flying into the firewood stacked by the hearth, his head striking the logs. Yoshi started wailing dramatically. “Brother cheated! Cheated, cheated!” Genkichi forced a pained smile and rubbed Yoshi’s head with his broad hand.

“You’ve got a hard head. “Here?” “Alright, I'll do a spell for ya.” “Fu ento ka fuekashi koramiyo no dai myoujin.” Genkichi repeated this several times, vigorously rubbing Yoshi’s head. At first, Yoshi had been silent, but upon realizing it was a prank, he burst into loud sobs again. Genkichi grabbed Yoshi’s head in one handful, “Hey, hey!” he shook. “Making such a big show—then go make all the noise you want with that brat!” Mother shouted.

Yoshi, this time while crying, started saying: “Brother, give me money! Give me money!” “If you give me money, fine.” “If you give me money, fine.” “Damn sneaky brat. Think coughin’ up cash’ll fix it?” “So ya think coughin’ up cash’ll fix it?” “Money! Gimme money!” Yoshi, fired up, began shouting while stomping his feet: “Waaahh! Even Masaru’s Ken got ten sen, and he’s just a stone! C’mon, Brother, gimme money! Gimme money! Money! Now!”

Genkichi did not so much as twitch in response this time. When he had been told Yoshiko went to Sapporo, he remembered how it had made him feel "lonely" in a different way too. In the village they couldn't make ends meet—women left to become maids or factory girls, even men who ought to work the fields went away. The village was losing its people, he thought. An unpleasant feeling came over Genkichi.

“Money! Money! Now!” “No-o-ow!” Yoshi began shaking Genkichi’s body. Genkichi remained silent and suddenly twisted his body. Yoshi rolled helplessly. He began crying even more violently. “Go on and make a racket, you little shit!” Mother shouted again as if she could no longer bear it. Genkichi felt something unpleasant welling up from the pit of his stomach, creeping steadily upward.

Outside, about two children came to call Yoshi. “Hey, Yoshi, they’re callin’ for ya.”

Yoshi abruptly stopped crying, wiped his whole face with his sleeve, forced an awkward, ill-fitting smile, and went outside.

Genkichi lay on his back, vacantly staring at the soot-blackened ceiling that glistened darkly, thinking he wouldn’t go tonight. When evening came, seven or eight people passed noisily by the front. They were a hand-dancing troupe from the town with the train station. There were men wearing tinted glasses carrying large indigo furoshiki bundles with coarse textures; a gaunt man with prominent cheekbones caked in white powder; a woman also wearing tinted glasses who had a shamisen slung over her shoulder; along with a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old young woman and about three girls aged seven or eight, all heavily powdered. After that, four or five village children followed along.

Genkichi remained lying down, staring vacantly. Right beside him, Ofumi sat facing a mirror with its red backing peeling in spots. Where had she gotten it from? She shook the powder bottle upside down into her palm and dabbed it on her face. Genkichi had not said a single word to anyone since earlier.

“What kind of hand-dancing will they have this time?” Ofumi said without taking her eyes off the mirror. Genkichi either hadn’t heard or kept silent. To Ofumi, it hadn’t really required an answer anyway. While muttering to herself, she stayed completely focused on the mirror. Not even waiting for a reply, she remained unaware of Genkichi. “Mr. Ishida Roku’s going to perform naniwabushi…” Then after a moment: “What’s Mr. Roku’s naniwabushi like? It must be really funny,” she said.

“Where’d Mother go—” Genkichi kept staring at the ceiling. He propped up his legs. Now and then he wiggled just the toes of his top foot. The movements were automatic. “I told you I’m going to the festival—what’s Mother’s problem? Seriously.” Still, I kept my face pressed to the mirror. “Brother—you coming to the festival?” Genkichi slowly turned his head toward Ofumi. She’d shoved her face so close to the glass it nearly stuck, squeezing at something by her nose. Her mouth contorted weirdly. Genkichi turned back without a word.

“What a bother.”

This time, Ofumi wiped her face with a hand towel. “I’m taking Haru-chan with me, but if Mother ain’t here I can’t go out—Brother, you goin’ to the festival?”

For the first time she pulled her face from the mirror and looked toward Genkichi as she spoke. Having bathed in water heated out back for the first time in ages, Ofumi’s face appeared smooth, white, and clean. When Genkichi looked at Ofumi’s face, she flushed faintly and said awkwardly, “What should we do?” Genkichi turned his head back again—as if addressing someone else—and spoke for the first time: “You can go.” Ofumi went into the inner room. Then she changed her kimono and went outside.

“Hmph, son of a bitch!”

Genkichi stood up. But he himself didn't understand what he intended to do. He looked out the window. But it was pitch dark outside—with the interior being bright—he couldn’t see a thing. Genkichi went to the kitchen and drank about two cups of water. He had returned to the hearthside but couldn’t decide whether to sit down or not. Genkichi stood there vacantly for a while. The surroundings were quiet. The oil lamp would sometimes flare up bright, then dim as if being sucked into some void. Even the horse in the stable by the back door made no sound—no swish of its tail, no clop of hooves against the floor. Since the festival grounds were quite far off, nothing could be heard. Genkichi began feeling a vague, inexplicable irritation. Someone passed by outside. They were talking. At first, Genkichi couldn’t make sense of it.

“Lookee there, a shootin’ star!”

“There’s a hole here.”

“That star there—it turns to powder ‘n comes fallin’ down, see.—Sometimes they come crashin’ down with a thud, y’know.”

The other person said something in a spoiled, pouty voice with pursed lips. "We gotta hurry, or the dancin'll be over—ah," came the voice of an eleven- or twelve-year-old child. "Ah—there's another one—ah!" "Ma, you're takin' too long—ah!" The voice was half a sob. They grew distant and soon became inaudible. Once again, silence reclaimed its dominion.

When Genkichi became aware he could hear his own breathing, the strange silence began to feel eerie to him. He thought of sitting down. At that moment, he suddenly noticed a letter half-protruding from the small drawer of the mirror stand. He thought it must be from Yoshiko. That you want to go to Sapporo—considering what I went through back then—isn't unreasonable. ...But life here is completely different from what I imagined.... That's why I said those things—I didn't want to disappoint you—so please forgive me. The truth is, this wretched life feels more than enough for me alone.

Of course here, unlike there, there's no need to work year-round in dirty clothes like that. "...But in exchange, there are so many 'terrifying' things here that you could never understand if you stayed in a place like that...."

In any case, if you remain determined to come, then there's nothing to be done—I'll be waiting.…… When I spoke to the master about it, he said it was just right since we're short on help. (And finally,) Please give my regards to Mr. Genkichi. Words to that effect were written. Genkichi vacantly began rereading it from the start again.—"Please give my regards to Mr. Genkichi"— After reading, he remained motionless, still holding the letter.

Mother returned.

“Brother, what are you doing? “Go. Go see.—I just met Ofumi.” Genkichi put the letter back where it had been and went outside without replying to Mother. Mother stood in the dirt-floored entryway and snorted through her nose in quick, rasping bursts.

“On your way back, bring Yoshi with you,” she called after him.

When he stepped outside, a sharp chill gripped him. The sky stretched clear and high, a starry expanse as if scattered. Genkichi had no particular intention of going to the festival either. But he couldn’t bear to stay in the house. When he walked a short distance, tall trees stood lined up five or six ken apart on his left. Through the gaps between those trees, the surface of the Ishikari River came into view. Stars were out, but all around was pitch dark. There, only the river's surface glowed blue. The trunks of the nearby trees appeared black and distinct in contrast to that. When he looked closely, countless stars were reflected in the river. The air was piercingly cold. Genkichi shivered repeatedly. Whenever there was a festival, young men and women gathered on this riverbank rather than in front of the shrine. Genkichi recalled meeting Yoshiko there many times.—Genkichi spat resentfully toward the river.

The road curved. When he turned there, the festival lights came into view far off. Only the area with the lights remained clearly visible even from this distance. Suddenly, a commotion reached his ears. The beating of drums could be heard. From within the human voices came intermittent sudden shrills—the popping of rubber balloons and shrill notes of flutes. In front of a farmhouse along the way, the household elder stood gazing toward the festival.

“Good evening,” the elder said to Genkichi in the dimness.

“Good evening.” Genkichi returned the greeting. “Off to the festival?” “Ah...” As Genkichi started to pass by, the elder added, “Take your time.” The festival stage blazed with about ten oil lamps. Villagers sat watching on straw mats spread before it – mostly young women, children, and elders. The surrounding area lay nearly pitch-black. Beyond, four stalls lined the road’s edges: rubber balloon sellers and others, each hung with lamps. A cotton candy vendor pedaled his machine nonstop, twirling the spun sugar around chopsticks before thrusting it at children while barking unheard words.

Children stood in front of one stall, two or three at a time. Behind the shrine was a small sumo ring where young men wrestled. Genkichi had no interest in any of it. He stood apart, thrusting both hands into his obi, and watched. On stage unfolded a hand dance. With each stomp of their feet, the boards creaked. They danced by simply thudding their hands and clattering their feet about. But being some distance away, he couldn’t see the flaws in their faces or kimonos—under the glow of numerous lamps, the dancing appeared beautiful to Genkichi. Here and there, the dancing women called out “Hah—hah!” or joined voices in song: “Well I never knew that—ah!”

Genkichi felt a prickling tightness rise in his chest. After watching briefly, it all struck him as absurdly foolish. He slipped behind the balloon stall and moved toward the sumo ring at the shrine’s rear. Sumo drums throbbed through the air. But halfway there, Genkichi wheeled around and retreated beyond the shrine grounds. When he’d walked a short way, he veered toward the roadside grass to relieve himself. Then—right before his eyes (though too dark to see clearly)—a woman bent down, hitched up her kimono hem… having just finished her own business. Genkichi’s attention still wandered elsewhere when the ambush came. Both froze in shock; a strange impulse surged through him he couldn’t explain even to himself. His hand shot out and seized the fleeing woman’s obi. Genkichi’s throat clenched shut. She fought back silently in the dark—but strength favored him. In an instant he’d yanked her against his chest. Her nails scrabbled at his grip on her sash. “You idiot!” he rasped breathlessly before crushing her body against his with brutal force.

The woman winced as her swollen breasts were crushed against him. The pungent scent of fresh hair oil from her traditional chignon assaulted Genkichi's nostrils. His own heart hammered so violently he could feel each beat shaking his ribs. Now hers pulsed unmistakably against him through their damp clothes. Though pinned beneath Genkichi's weight, she twisted like a netted salmon. He felt every shift of her solid peasant's frame grinding against his own. Genkichi hoisted her effortlessly this time, carrying her from the roadside into a field-bordering path. At first she thrashed as if to scream. Her feet kicked wildly at his shins while fingernails raked his exposed chest. Then abruptly she stilled. Pressed her face into the hollow where his torn shirt revealed feverish skin. Her panting breaths scalded where they touched him.

Genkichi walked three hundred meters, panting heavily. Then he trudged deeper into the fields. Numerous corn stumps remained, and Genkichi scraped the skin off his feet many times on them. He stepped into a depression and stumbled. But Genkichi—now transformed into a demon-like figure—forged ahead heedlessly through the chaos. The woman resisted violently again, as if she had remembered something. But the more she resisted, the more Genkichi's spirits rose. And he felt his entire body begin to quiver violently.

IV

Once again, the rain came. The daylight steadily dimmed, ominous clouds hung low, and sleet began to mix in. This time, winter would truly come—so everyone thought.

When they woke in the morning, ice had formed over the surfaces of water-filled ditches.

When the peasants finished their winter preparations, they would crawl into their thatched houses, spread straw mats over the earthen floors, and braid ropes or make straw sandals. For an entire year they went out to the fields, bending their waists and clinging to the soil as they worked through it all—but even that still wasn't enough for the peasants. The young women shouldered the harvested crops and legumes and set out for the town with the train station. The peasants made various things without knowing who they were for. Yet more than half of those things were taken away without exception. For tenant farmers it went toward landlords' tenant fees; for owner farmers it went toward the Colonial Bank's annual installment payments. On top of that there were fertilizer shops and farm tool shops. The peasants who grew rice, beans, corn and eggplants had nothing to eat each day but dried vegetable leaves and potatoes. They had nothing more to eat than that. Moreover when eating meals, the peasants thought it wasteful to eat that alone. So they diluted the rice with several times the amount of water to make a thin gruel, adding potatoes and mixing in beans before eating it.

They ate through the winter the dozens of pumpkins they had dried under the eaves in summer. From eating them day after day, every peasant turned sallow yellow from their faces to their palms to their feet. Even the whites of their eyes had yellow streaks running through them.

When winter approached, mending the tabi socks that had been worn ragged from year-round use became the task of the elderly members in each household. They applied many patches to them and made them last another winter. Shirts, undergarments, and waist wraps were all treated the same way. Genkichi’s mother pulled out various rags from the closet, piled them like a mountain by the hearth, hooked her broken single-lensed glasses onto her ear with thread, and brought her face close beneath the oil lamp to work.

From the end of the harvest until winter arrived, peddlers came around multiple times a day, counting on the peasants' money. Beggars carrying toy-like tools also sometimes came. But when they considered the long winter waiting ahead, even a scrap of cloth was something the peasants couldn’t carelessly buy. Medicine peddlers from Etchu Toyama also came, carrying on their backs paulownia medicine boxes fitted with numerous small drawers. They gave the children medicinal-smelling flyers illustrated with horses and such, and no matter how much they were told they weren't needed, settled themselves at the entrance and wouldn’t budge. And left behind medicine bags. Yoshi carefully kept the horse flyers and, whenever he had time, would copy them.

The peasants nevertheless readied horses and went to the town with the train station to buy miso, soy sauce, and other necessities. At that time, several peasant carts were hitched to the utility pole before the hardware store near the station—mostly mares. When an occasional stallion passed by, they would whinny and thrash about. Then a red-faced drunken peasant would come bursting out from inside the hardware store and drag the mares aside. In the hardware store's earthen-floored area stood two or three chairs where peasants sat pouring cold sake into cups meant for ice water, drinking as they tore at dried fish.

Among the peasants, there were those who ended up completely drunk here. "No matter how drunk I get, that bastard knows every damn thing."

And, carried by the shop boy, he was loaded onto the cart alongside miso and soy sauce barrels, packed like any other piece of cargo. Left loaded as he was, singing a song learned in his youth and growing cheerful, the horse turned around and began retracing its path alone. Genkichi drank two or three cups of harsh liquor—whether because it had been so long—and ended up completely drunk. Swinging his massive frame about, he mindlessly mimicked dance gestures, squinted his eyes to emit strange laughs, and babbled incoherently.

Around eight o'clock when he left the hardware store, Genkichi went to the horse tethered nearby and—staggering—grabbed its neck for support. Stroking its muzzle, he muttered something to himself. Even as he did this, his body kept swaying unsteadily. After moving away from the horse, he stood still for a moment. But he started walking with an unsteady gait. The streets were already deserted. Genkichi stuffed both hands deep into his pockets—as often happened when drunk—shivering violently as he walked alone, muttering something under his breath.

“No matter how much I work, what’s the damn point?” “Fuck this.” He had repeated these same words countless times. A short distance ahead stood a low-eaved soba shop. Genkichi slammed his body heavily against the pillar at the entrance. Still leaning against it with eyes shut tight, he growled, “Who’s there, damn it? Who’s there?” Inside, a woman in white makeup called out, “Brother, come over here. Come up and have a drink.” She immediately stood and came out.

“Oh my, you’re in a foul mood.”

Genkichi thrust his face right up to the woman’s, forced his bleary eyes open wide despite the drunken haze, and stared at her. The thick stench of cheap face powder and her sweaty body odor washed over him. “Got yourself a right pretty face there, don’tcha.” “I’ll warm you up proper. C’mon up, just…” Staggering, Genkichi lurched into the dirt-floored entryway.

Genkichi’s horse, which had been tethered in front of the hardware store, remained there until the following morning, its head hanging low, still tied in place.

*

Through the long autumn nights—lowering oil lamps to the earthen floor, threshing straw, twisting rope—the peasants reflected on the lives they had lived. Autumn nights were such times for them. When the nasal humming they had kept murmuring under their breath suddenly ceased, before they knew it, they found themselves thinking of times long past. In the mainland, they had been able to eat nothing but potatoes. What they harvested from their fields sold cheaply, while fertilizers and farming tools cost twice as much. When tenant fees piled endlessly upon landlords' demands, their standing crops were seized and their land taken away.

“If we go to Hokkaido,” Thinking this and driven out, yet clinging to grand dreams, they came to Hokkaido—a land where bears roamed. They crossed the Tsugaru Strait, pushing ever northward. Carrying their bundles on their backs as families, they were dropped at a Hokkaido station—a preposterous place without even a platform, utterly exposed to the winds—and forced to trudge down snowbound roads that stretched beyond sight for miles. Wherever they went, there was snow—endless and flat. The wind blew so savagely it threatened to slice off their fingers and peel the skin from their faces. And when they finally settled, signposts stood everywhere. Not a scrap of decent land remained—not even enough to cover the lid of a tiered box. Even when they occasionally managed to claim land cheaply, they had no money to cultivate it. In the end, when they worked borrowed plots, two or three years would pass—just as that barren ground finally began resembling proper fields—and it would slip completely from their grasp. This place too proved no better to live in.

“How are things back home, I wonder.” For peasants like these, even after twenty years in Hokkaido—or thirty—they never forgot the mainland. When death came, it must be in the mainland—in villages that had never shown them even a shred of kindness—so they silently believed. They always nursed thoughts of someday returning home. When peasants paused from work to exchange words, they inevitably said: “How are things back home, I wonder.” Now, strangely, memories of the mainland began reviving in their hearts with peculiar allure. Somehow these recollections transformed into imagined visions—beautiful things, happy things—that drifted through their minds. How was the tofu shop owner faring? Did the money from ※—that shop with the triangle-in-a-frame emblem—still circulate? Had the corner lot’s daughter married? Was the stonemason’s master really in Karafuto?... Such fragments emerged haltingly, faded midway, then resumed—and through them all, they slowly spoke of their own past.

When they first left their homeland, the peasants had thought that if they went to Hokkaido, worked hard there, made a killing, and returned home, they could live in comfort. Everyone had thought the same way. Genkichi’s father had thought the same way. But among all the peasants, none had actually managed to do so. In the end, it was no different at all from their past life on the mainland. But the peasants made no effort to understand that fact. But in truth, every last peasant, while understanding full well that such a thing was utterly impossible in reality, still harbored somewhere in their hearts a vague longing to return to the mainland with money. Hokkaido’s peasants were all similarly unperturbed.

Occasionally, if someone went back to the mainland even for a month—though such cases were exceedingly rare—(limited to cases where, for example, a close relative had fallen critically ill or similar circumstances), people from the same homeland would gather to go together, entrusting various messages to their relatives or having things delivered for them. They would promise to have them bring back news about the village. When Genkichi’s father and mother first came to Hokkaido and were made to walk across the snow-covered wild plain—Genkichi had been riding on his father’s back at the time—they saw a single stake standing by the roadside just before entering the village where they now lived. It was near dusk, and on that vast plain stretching endlessly under the snow, only that stake stood solitary. Thinking it was a marker post, his father crouched before it to brush off the snow, wondering how many more miles remained. On it was written: “Echigo Province— — County — Village— — Died here.” His father told his mother about it. Both felt such helplessness in that moment that a chill ran down their spines—“No matter what,” they said, “we don’t want to end up like this.” Genkichi had heard this story repeated many times and knew it well.

In that way, the peasants were always bound to the soil of their “homeland.”

The autumn in the farming village deepened steadily.

Genkichi’s mother’s waist began to ache as winter drew near. She descended to the earthen-floored area and, while making rope, had Yoshi rub her waist and shoulders. Each time Yoshi resisted and tried to run away, “One sen for a full massage!” she’d say, and when he still wouldn’t come, “Then I’ll give two sen!” she said.

Yoshi circled behind his mother, massaged her shoulders two or three times, and then— “Do it properly!” “There, done!” “You did it half-assed.” “More.” “Cheater!” “Idiot! I shouldn’t even have to call you ‘Mother’!” “Cheater cheater!” “You little shit!” The two of them became dead serious. And then—suddenly, “Hey, Gen... I wanna go back to the homeland this winter... Gen.” While massaging his own throbbing waist, he said. And with a dark expression, he looked at Genkichi.

5

Genkichi’s mother had grown somehow weaker since Ofumi had run off to Sapporo on the night of the festival. While doing some work, she suddenly brought up Ofumi. And she kept talking about it endlessly, as if muttering to herself. Genkichi, whenever his mother began saying such things, would silently stand up and go outside.

It was a quiet evening in late autumn. Around the river flowing behind, birds occasionally sang. Genkichi and his mother lowered the lamp, spread a straw mat on the earthen floor, and were making straw sandals.

He thought someone had called from outside. “Haah—” Genkichi pricked up his ears toward the front and called out. “It’s me.” The Principal pushed open the creaking door with his body and entered. “I was bored, so I came to talk.”

By the hearth, Yoshi was taking a nap. The lamp had been brought over to the earthen-floored area, making it too dark to see there.

“How’s Ofumi doing?” The Principal had heard about it from some conversation. Mother repeated to him what she’d said countless times before, just as she always did. Genkichi kept silent. “Why don’t you bring her back?”

“No matter how much I say it, Gen won’t listen. He don’t wanna go—he’s got ties to Sapporo, see.”

“Genkichi-kun, what’s wrong?” “Ain’t no use.” Genkichi said. “Even if we drag her back, she’ll just run off again.” “What a damn mess.” Mother glared at the Principal like he’d lost his mind. That got the Principal started on his Sapporo stories. He leaned in like he was sharing secrets: “Taste city life once—just once—and you’ll choke on this backwater stink.” “They got telephones where you jaw with folks miles off like they’re right here.” “Automobiles thicker than flies.” “Streetcars clanging down every road.” “Women dolled up in powder-white faces and trailing-sleeve kimonos, prancing round like porcelain figures.” “Moving pictures every night—plays too—fancy music concerts.” “Parks with more trees than our whole damn village.” “And men strutting in foreign getups—shined shoes click-clacking like they’re walking on mirrors.”

“And even the men there walk through town in outfits no different from those you see in foreign photographs, wearing shoes polished until they gleam, going click-clack.” “Well, I never—” Mother looked astonished. “And what about the peasants—?” The Principal paused briefly. “They spend all year buried in manure, turned pitch-black until you can’t tell if they’re men or women. The skin on the women’s hands around here—it’s just like a rag, isn’t it? From morning while it’s still dark until night. But then after that comes night work—so if a whole lot of money actually stayed in their hands, that’d be fine. Well now, Mother.”

The Principal laughed in a strange tone. “The city’s wealthy—they just do their clean, refined work with a flick of the wrist in their fancy buildings, and that’s their whole day done.” “And then a hefty sum of money comes in.” “It’s beyond all reason.” Having said that,

“What do you think?” he said to Genkichi. Genkichi remained silent.

“That’s how it is, isn’t it!” Mother said admiringly. “They’re such splendid people in the city.” “Genkichi-kun, do you get it?—this logic…” “…………”

Genkichi looked at the Principal's face but gave no answer. He took water into his mouth, sprayed it as mist, and beat the straw with a wooden mallet. The Principal smoked his tobacco while remaining silent briefly. Then, as if suddenly recalling,

“Ah, did you hear Masaru got into the railway factory in Naebo?” “That true?” Genkichi’s attention snapped up. “Knew it. Just how things go.”

“They were saying that at Masaru’s house.” “Masaru’s having a rough time of it too.” “That Masaru put Ofumi up to it!” Mother said angrily. “Now, Genkichi-kun—if just one peasant works, they can feed their family, let landlords live in luxury, and even share crumbs with those surviving by landlords’ grace.” “Truly remarkable.” “The only ones who can decide whether people live or die on a whim are peasants and workers.” “Isn’t that amusing?” The Principal smiled a smile he had never shown before. “They’re magnificent,” he continued jovially. “The greatest in all the world must be peasants and workers.” “Ha ha ha ha.” “But here’s the joke, Genkichi-kun—it’s precisely because those same peasants and workers are the poorest, filthiest, most despised, and most overworked that it’s so damned funny.”

Genkichi found himself unwittingly caught up in the rhythm and laughed. Mother wore an expression that hovered between comprehension and bewilderment. “It’s amusing when you really think about it. Back in June, when the landlords gathered everyone—oh how they must’ve prattled on. ‘Your poverty comes from some sin within you all,’ they’d say. ‘Those who work never end up poor.’ And everyone nodded along—‘Quite right, quite right,’ they agreed.” He leaned forward, eyes glinting. “But here’s the joke—the landlords make you sweat like beasts, keep you grinding away, then slick as eels they snatch every last good morsel for themselves. Not a soul can match their cunning. Yet here’s the rub—none of you realize they’re fleecing you blind. So you keep muttering ‘Still not enough,’ driving yourselves to bone-break from four at dawn till eight at night. Work harder still? Why, you’d drop like flies within three days—draft horses worked gentler! Is there any creature works without rest like peasants? That lie about poverty coming from laziness—thick as thieves’ hides, that lie.”

“Principal, what in the world are you saying?” Mother exclaimed in shock.

“No, go ahead and work your hardest at your place too. Then the landlords’ storehouses’ll be stuffed full of rice bales, while your mouths go bone-dry.” The Principal laughed loudly. Genkichi wore a stiff, grim expression like someone shoved forward. Now and then, the wooden mallet would halt mid-swing. “What I can’t ever puzzle out is why nobody grasps why they’re so dirt-poor when everyone’s struggling like this. Now, Genkichi-kun. The landlords spout their nonsense, and the priests—those bastards—having gotten their fill from the landlords, go blathering about ‘Buddha’s will.’ What was murky to begin with just got more tangled till nobody could make heads or tails of it. But once you wash it clean—everything comes crystal clear. If peasants saw things clear as day, I wonder if they’d be stumped over what to do themselves.” He laughed again at that. “Yeah, they’re troubled. Because they’re troubled…they’ve settled on not understanding.”

The Principal looked toward Genkichi. The Principal assumed a posture as if waiting for Genkichi to say something. But Genkichi still wore a grim expression, his brows furrowed.

“Oh mercy, Principal—if such talk were to reach the landlords’ ears, there’d be hell to pay.” The Principal fell silent for a moment. But then he started speaking of other matters.

Yoshi, who had been sleeping by the hearth, jerked upright as if startled by something. He stood frozen in a daze. Everyone turned to look. “Yoshi! What’re you doin’ half-asleep?!” Yoshi glanced around nervously before shaking his body several times. His skin crawled with lice.

“Look, the Principal is here.”

When Yoshi saw the Principal, he bowed his head. But without saying anything, he immediately sat back down by the hearth. And with his knees and chin pressed tightly together, he curled up and fell fast asleep. He was having a nightmare. The Principal then, after a while, left for home while vigorously scratching his spiky chestnut-shaped head. While opening the door, he said, “Ugh, cold,” and tucked his hands into his sleeves. Right after the door closed, the sound of the Principal urinating beside the house could be heard.

“Good evening.” Someone called out as they passed by.

The Principal said, “Oh, good evening,” in his usual gravelly voice while urinating. After finishing work, the mother put the potatoes she had peeled into a large pot and boiled them. When they were completely boiled, she took them out with a bamboo colander and sprinkled salt on top. Mother and Genkichi sat by the hearth and ate them. The good potatoes produced a floury bloom when boiled that way. The two of them blew on the hot potatoes to cool them before eating. The mother sat facing Genkichi in a relaxed posture. But after a moment—even as she brought a potato toward her mouth—her hand stopped short of her lips... She had dozed off. When her hand jerked awake reflexively, she managed to stuff the potato into her cheek; mumbling it listlessly without swallowing, she began dozing off again.

The wood in the hearth occasionally crackled and popped. The sound occasionally brought Mother back to herself, if only a little. Genkichi ate the potatoes without saying a word. As if lost in thought, he moved his mouth with nothing but mechanical motions. The grandfather clock slowly struck four times. Mother, startled, this time truly opened her eyes. And she shook awake Yoshi, who was curled up tightly in sleep. When Yoshi woke up, he began to squirm unpleasantly with a scowl.

“Look, the Principal!” Mother shouted.

Yoshi looked around as if startled. “Liar, liar!” “Liar! Liar!!……” At last, Yoshi began crying in earnest. “You brat! “Go take a piss already!” “Go outside.” Yoshi wouldn’t get up. After being told three or four times, he finally stood up to go outside. But when he opened the door a crack, he stuck out just his penis and energetically relieved himself outside. “Don’t go outside again. “What a disgusting habit! —It reeks from over there! —You’re not some damn baby anymore!” “Listen up! If you don’t, your brother’s gonna give you a good whack later!”

“Don’t make me go outside. It’s cold.” “But it’s so cold!” Yoshi said in a half-crying voice. “Alright, alright! If that’s how you want it, then go ahead and do it properly!”

Mother spread out three futons. “Gen, that Principal—he’s definitely one of them.” “Says the damnedest things.” “Don’t you listen proper.” “Yeah.” She kept spreading bedding as she spoke.

Genkichi, having eaten his fill of potatoes, stared into the hearth while still holding the fire tongs. Using the fire tongs, he tried arranging the embers in various ways, then scattered them again, continuing like that for some time.

Yoshi and Mother had fallen asleep. Genkichi took the wood beside the hearth and fed it to the fire. After that, he sat like a tarnished bronze statue until it had burned out completely. The lamp’s oil was running out, and gradually the flame grew thinner. “Gen, you’re still up? The fuel’s running low—go to bed.”

Mother woke up, lifted her face slightly from the pillow, and spoke while looking this way. Genkichi noticed the fire had nearly burned out and that he had grown cold. "Yeah." Having said that, he stood up......

Genkichi's body was cast as a large shadow on the rear window.

“Namu Amida... Namu Amida... —” Genkichi heard his mother muttering brokenly.

6

The long winter came. The peasants had to compensate for this year’s poor harvest. Genkichi had decided that once snow fell, he would head into Asari’s mountain depths with five or six villagers to get hired peeling linden bark. Once that work finished by February’s end, they were supposed to go to Yoichi’s herring fishery. And around April’s end, they would return to the village. That was what most peasants did—and so their lives became harsh and unyielding.

Day after day, day after day, the blizzard raged relentlessly. The peasants spent that entire time without stepping outside their homes even once. Even when they peered out from the window, there was only pure white—nothing could be seen. At times, the house groaned and creaked as it shook. And finally, the blizzard stopped. When the door was opened, the snow piled up outside collapsed and came into the house.

The snowy Ishikari plain stretched out endlessly pure white in every direction this time. Peasant houses lay buried here and there, only their roofs visible. The neighboring house they had thought was far away now appeared close enough to call out to. The sky remained shrouded in low, dark clouds lingering after the blizzard, merging with the pure white ground at the horizon. That direction now seemed engulfed in a fresh blizzard, turned pitch black. The wind shrilled intermittently. Each time it blew, snow billowed up like smoke and came swirling in from afar—the whirls sometimes churning fiercely in place, sometimes racing across the plain with astonishing speed, sometimes veering abruptly sideways. A massive snowdrift had formed at the corner of the house.

When the cold grew severe, even in the silent depths of night inside the house, there would come a crack, crack, crack—a sound like something splitting apart. The elderly peasants, battered by the harsh conditions, found themselves immobilized by aching lower backs and shoulders. The peasants, confined to their homes and running out of food, headed to the town with the train station to buy provisions; the bells of their horses could be heard. The clear, ringing bells reverberated through the freezing air, lingering—audible even long after they had traveled a considerable distance. And then those horse-drawn sleds could be seen racing through the vast, snow-covered plain, winding their way.

After ten days since the snow began to fall, the peasants began to think, one by one, about how they would get through this winter. When the peasants saw the snow, it was as if they had suddenly hit upon an idea. Even when their food ran out, they could not lay a hand on what was meant for the landlords, and now they had no money left to go into town for supplies. When peasants met each other, they spoke in hushed tones about their lives and said they had to do something about it. Everyone was suffering. And before they knew it, the matter had spread far and wide.

When Masaru’s father returned from an errand in the village across the river and met Genkichi, he said similar discussions were arising over there too. The Ishikari River had frozen solid, allowing free passage to the opposite bank. Unable to pay tuition fees anymore, peasants saw elementary school attendance plummet abruptly. "Who'd waste money just to let them play all day?" they muttered. Every child everywhere wore vacant, listless expressions as they sat plastered by the hearth. The infant's belly alone bulged like a sand-stuffed sack, whimpering ceaselessly. Even this unknowing baby bore perpetual wrinkles between its brows. Its grotesquely enlarged head lolled limply on a feeble neck, remaining tilted whichever way the body settled. Before winter came, they'd made insipid miso soup—hot water with eaves-dried greens—eating it morning, noon, and night for three days, four days, five days straight. Pumpkins and potatoes followed. Rice became a once-daily luxury at best. Eventually the leafy soup lost all flavor, making their throats convulse in dry heaves.

The peasants grew increasingly resolute. As their discussions continued this way, things gradually coalesced. Genkichi heard from unnamed sources that the Principal was maneuvering behind the scenes. But when it emerged that a peasant in their own village was being forced off his land for the landlords' sake, these matters abruptly gained momentum.

A young man came from across the river. He said that having their side join in too would make things more advantageous when dealing with the landlords. They decided to fix a date, assemble once at the elementary school, and there work out what to do.

That day, a blizzard raged. The wind tore through the air in wild, swirling gusts. The snow fell parallel to the ground one moment, then surged upward from below the next, slanting diagonally—until everything before their eyes turned pure white and vanished. When they strayed from the path, they sank into snow up to their knees. Snow forced its way through every gap in their coats, making the backs of their hands and fingertips sting with sharp pain. For those coming from distant homes, the elementary school lay nearly a ri away.

Every peasant who entered was covered head to toe in white as if they had emerged from flour sacks. Pressing their numb hands to mouths, they blew haa-haa breaths onto them. Beards, eyebrows—even each eyelash—stood stiffly frozen white. Those without coats wore straw hats sewn with kimono thread over their heads. Some sported faded persimmon military coats from conscripted days decades past; others tattered double-layered hems or straight gun-sleeve coats—a motley array. The classroom held a lit stove that brought reluctant warmth. Meltwater from brows and beards formed droplets that traced paths down cheeks.

The peasants’ faces were all strangely puffy, as if from a lingering cold, and bore sooty, lifeless expressions. There were those with rounded backs, peasants whose sturdy builds bore uneven proportions somewhere in their frames, those with wild shocks of hair, others completely bald—their heads having baked year-round under the sun until they glowed red like gourds—all manner of them. Such men formed into groups of two or three, each discussing their own affairs among themselves. There was also an elderly peasant who sat alone, catching the ashes of his kiseru pipe in his thick palm while brooding over something. There was also someone standing before five or six people, speaking loudly while waving his hands.

Before long, the peasants' gathering took on a strange, stifling stench of crowded bodies that thickened the air. In a corner, five or six people clapped. Those who had gathered followed suit with applause. Yet some remained dazed, silently watching the clapping. When the applause subsided, a peasant called Ishiyama—a sturdy twenty-five- or twenty-six-year-old with thick eyebrows and short bristly cheek stubble—mounted the lectern. He was related to the Principal.

“I will explain the general situation on everyone’s behalf.” With that preface, Ishiyama spoke in an uncharacteristically clear manner for a peasant—though he inevitably used the stilted Chinese-derived terms peasants awkwardly adopt when being formal. “We live more wretchedly than dogs or pigs,” he declared. “Yet when have we ever neglected our work? So why—why does this happen?” He explained plainly that no matter how hard they worked, their poverty remained absolute—and this was truly the landlords’ doing. Paying tenant fees under these conditions meant “our own deaths.” Moreover, they peasants suffered under loan sharks’ exorbitant interest and the Colonial Bank’s installments, with taxes heaped on top. And what they produced couldn’t even cover fertilizer and tools. “How can we stay silent when reduced to this state?” “With that,” he concluded, stepping down from the podium, “we ask everyone to gather and decide our course of action.” The peasants looked at Ishiyama each time an unfamiliar term surfaced, adopting thoughtful expressions. But as he laid bare their harsh reality, they felt their own wretchedness dragged out and thrust before their eyes—as if realizing it anew. When Ishiyama descended from the podium, sudden clamor erupted. Now they discussed his words—here and there. As he stepped down, Ishiyama heard the elderly peasant at the front mutter, “Outrageous—spouting such frightening nonsense.”

When Ishiyama descended, another man immediately ascended the podium. He was a gangly youth of twenty-one or twenty-two, his hair slightly grown out at the front. Yet he spoke with unexpected force, each word sharp and concise. While generally agreeing with Ishiyama's points, he proposed they immediately draft a petition bearing all their signatures to formally request reduced tenant fees from the landlords. This was Saito—a young veteran returned from military service.

Next was a peasant around forty years old. Upon ascending the podium, he suddenly began waving his hands in circles, fixed his drunken eyes on everyone, and launched into fragments like "We..." and "Therefore, hence..." and "And it is imperative..." "...and it is imperative that we must." He kept spouting such phrases. He was dead drunk. Everyone laughed. Someone shouted, "Get that guy down!" and "Off with him!" The peasant struck a kabuki-style pose on the platform, then staggered down while swaying unsteadily. He was a man who had once been a traveling actor, and everyone knew he'd mimic old kabuki roles when plastered.

An elderly peasant ascended. “I’ve heard all manner of arguments,” he said, “but they’re naught but talk of ‘treachery and disloyalty.’” His words seeped through his teeth, each syllable punctuated by a wheezing hiss. “We and the Landlords are as parent and child. The young must never forget this.” He drew himself up. “Knowing your station,” he intoned, “you must never defy the Landlords.” Then, with a rhetorical flourish: “What’ll you do when they take your fields too?” “Da-ad,” came a mocking drawl from the rear, “we get it already!” When the old man stepped down, the room erupted anew—a cacophony of scraping chairs and jeers.

Just when everyone’s resolve had solidified considerably and they were advancing steadily and forcefully, the elderly peasant’s words made them all recoil abruptly, like cattle emerging from darkness. In such matters, peasants were cattle.

“What a damn old bastard!” “Yeah, bastard!” The same drunk peasant from before swayed unsteadily up to the podium again. “What’re you yammerin’ about? “Old bastard!” “If that’s how it is, what’re you gonna do ’bout our damn poverty?” There were murmurs of “Yeah… yeah…” “Get down!” “Yeah! Yeah!…”

Ishiyama then left. "What we've got to do's already decided. If we don't do that, we'll have no rice to eat tomorrow—then all that's left is for us to die. All those who'd rather die no matter what—raise your hand." he said. The clamor began to subside. For a while, Ishiyama stood motionless.

No one did. “Then we choose to live!” “Then we’ll carry out our own method!”

There could be no conclusion but this. The finality in his voice shoved their collective resolve forward once more.

Ishiyama brought out “Saito’s proposal” and resolved to advance discussions on it. He then said, “Those who have opinions on this matter—raise your hands and speak.” The peasants grew noisy again. Those who disparaged the landlords and those who halfheartedly defended them argued back and forth. Some, riled up by the heated exchanges, spoke with stiff tongues and stutters. Yet even as they debated, when it came to deciding “what to do,” the peasants seemed utterly clueless. Ishiyama kept standing on the podium, silently listening to their chatter. He noticed the Principal leaning against the wooden wall at the crowd’s rear. Then he became aware of Genkichi standing solidly by a distant window, arms crossed. In the midst of them all, a peasant named Kataoka waved his arms and jabbered incessantly—the same man who’d once leapt into the Ishikari River to rescue the landlord’s daughter when she fell in during a visit, nearly drowning himself in the process. But most peasants stood gaping with open mouths, enthralled by each successive speaker.

“Does anyone have any thoughts?”

Ishiyama asked in a loud voice. Then it became somewhat quiet.

Then, one person said, “Not paying the landlords a single thing would be best.” But that opinion was immediately met with opposition from everyone. Such a thing was completely impossible and should not be done—so every peasant thought. “Then,” Ishiyama asked, “is everyone’s opinion a reduction in the tenant fee rate? That petition?” At that, they erupted into an uproar again. The clamor continued for some time.

“Those opposed to this opinion, please raise your hands.” No one raised their hands.

“Are there none?” Silence. There was no one. “So we’ll be following Saito’s proposal then?” Everyone looked around at each other. Then seven or eight hands were raised uncertainly. “You think peasants’ll escape poverty that way?!”

Someone shouted from behind in a brazenly bold voice. In that instant, everyone turned to look—it was Genkichi.

“So, Mr. Genkichi—what do you propose we do?” Ishiyama asked. “You know damn well— “We’re taking back our fields from those landlords!”

It was a silence that had been abruptly stifled. The next instant, however, Genkichi’s opinion was crushed beneath a torrent of curses from everyone.

After that, Genkichi didn’t say another word. He kept his arms crossed the entire time.

First, the fundamental matter was decided. Then arose the question of how to carry it out. This was because the landlord's steward would make his annual rounds within two or three days; they resolved to explain their situation to him and immediately commence negotiations with the landlord. At this juncture, someone raised the issue of what to do with their tenant rice during these negotiations. As this too was a weighty matter, opinions failed to converge easily. Moreover, even after considering every possible outcome, the peasants found themselves unable to formulate a reliable—flawless—plan of action. At this impasse, they sought the Principal's counsel. The Principal declared they should first sell all their crops to town merchants and confront the landlords with their backs to the wall. He imposed two conditions: first, should initial negotiations collapse; second, should signs emerge of landlords forcibly seizing crops as retaliation. Keeping stores household by household would invite swift suppression and risk shattering their unity. The Principal emphasized this method's critical importance in preventing such outcomes. Though drastic by peasant standards, their desperation rendered this course utterly natural.

As for those needed to actually carry out these decided matters—such as personnel for implementation, bylaws, and concrete methods—it was determined by three or four leading figures (including the Principal among them) to settle these details and promptly notify everyone. With that, that day’s gathering concluded.

The peasants gathered in twos and threes and returned home, talking about the day’s events. Outside, the wind still had not died down. The peasants rounded their thick shoulders forward, tucked their necks into their coat collars, and went outside.

As Genkichi was about to leave and had just slipped his arms into his coat, the Principal’s child came out and, insisting he stay to play, tugged at the coat he was putting on and led him toward the living room. Reluctantly, Genkichi spent some time keeping the child company. Genkichi was well-liked because he always played innocently with the children. But not a trace of that indescribable rough innocence that made children fond of him could Genkichi muster now. Genkichi grew restless and couldn’t keep still. He had had enough and came out. When he tried to go outside and opened the classroom door, the remaining four or five people were deep in discussion.

“Mr. Genkichi, why don’t you stay and join us for a discussion?” said one of the young men. Genkichi mumbled a noncommittal reply in his mouth and went outside.

“Far from it!” Genkichi was thinking exactly that.

Genkichi thought his ideas were bound to be criticized by everyone. The peasants were like oxen digging their hooves backward. Even when they understood through reason, they couldn't readily move. Yet Genkichi wondered—what could such stingy, half-measure methods achieve? Why wouldn't they take one more step from there? he thought.

From a young age, Genkichi had held a certain thought—though he couldn’t articulate it clearly. Genkichi's father had brought his family to Hokkaido—a journey scarcely different from marching to their deaths in those days—and while being battered by blizzards across a snowy wilderness where all sense of direction vanished, they had found their hut with "the resolve to die" and entered it. At that time, bears roamed unconcerned through the neighborhood. Horses would often disappear, and fields would be trampled. There was an instance when Genkichi’s father, on his way to wash horses at a bend in the Ishikari River, saw a bear catching salmon and turned deathly pale before rushing home. When night fell, bears deprived of food would emerge, so each farmhouse kept roaring fires burning inside. Bears feared fire above all else.

In his childhood memories, Genkichi recalled trembling when night fell, convinced a bear was peering through the window.――For nearly twenty years since that time, his father and the others had worked and worked without cease.

From his mother, Genkichi had heard this—in those days, his father would sometimes open the storm shutters in the dead of night and go outside. At first, Mother thought he had gone to relieve himself, but he wouldn’t return for ages. There were times when he didn’t come back for an hour or two. Growing increasingly suspicious, Mother finally asked Father about it. Father laughed and said, “I went to check on the fields.” He offered nothing more. One night, Mother’s curiosity got the better of her and she trailed after him. She watched Father stride resolutely into the pitch-black field. A shiver ran through her then. Crouching low, she squinted through the darkness to see Father standing motionless at the field’s center. Ten minutes passed. Twenty. Then he moved to the neighboring field and stood there just as still. When he finally trudged to a third field some distance away, Mother could make no sense of it at all.

Later, when Mother haltingly spoke of that night, “What a fool I was,” he said with a laugh. “I just—my fields were so dear to me. So dear... I was worried they might catch a chill.” Then, earnestly he added: “You too—when you wake up, you check if Gen and Fumi aren’t catching cold. I’ll cover them up with their nightclothes.”

But before they knew it, the land—which had been like the very foundation of their lives—had passed into the hands of those called “landlords.” Father, especially before his death, did nothing but mutter about that matter incessantly. Every time he heard it, even as a child, Genkichi thought he understood his father’s feelings. That Genkichi clung to the landlords’ feet was not for some meaningless reason. “The fields must belong to the peasants.” Even if not articulated as clearly as those words suggested, Genkichi had been thinking about this matter alongside his father’s long experience since he was eleven or twelve.

However, Genkichi had been vaguely thinking about such things—just like the other peasants (though it could hardly be called thinking)—but that vague thought... But now, through Genkichi’s own experiences, it had gradually taken shape. And it was what the Principal had said that seemed to give that matter its decisive leap forward. Such a simple, obvious thing—yet the peasants took a lifetime to understand it, and there were even those who never understood at all. There were far more cases where they ended up never understanding at all.

“You get it, don’t ya? We’re takin’ back the fields from the landlords!” When Genkichi said this, it wasn’t born of logic. Genkichi had felt his father’s emotions driving those words from behind! As he walked, Genkichi grew genuinely furious at these peasants who couldn’t grasp such things and wouldn’t even try to go that far. Do whatever the hell you want! I’m doin’ things my way, he thought.

Seven

Genkichi had returned home drunk midway through the meeting. A letter had arrived from Masaru in Sapporo.

——Snow had fallen in Sapporo too. It was still cold. For us, winter was the hardest to endure. I went to the factory at six in the morning. At six in the morning in winter, it was so cold that even us young folks felt our joints aching. I put on the oil-chilled hat, hunched my back, and headed out with my lunchbox dangling. In front of and behind me too, those same sorts of people hurried along in a listless manner. At the factory, I couldn’t afford to dawdle around. From six in the morning until five in the evening, I had to keep my nerves taut like a bowstring. Since I’d come here, two young men from our group had already been gulped down by the machines. The man who came out of the roller emerged with flesh shredded like a large rag.

One of the men's wives was said to be raising her child through prostitution—that's what people were saying. The factory roared with the sound of massive machines churning. For that first week or so, even after getting home, my head and ears kept ringing just like in the factory—I couldn't so much as read a single newspaper page. I thought I'd go mad if this kept up. When five o'clock came (pitch black by then), the whistle would blow—meaning we could leave those man-eating machines behind—and my body and mind would go slack all at once. I'd get so bone-tired I came to dread heading back. Felt like just plopping down right there on the spot. Here's what struck me—even if peasants live lower, more pathetic lives than us factory rats, no matter how backbreaking their field work gets, leastways they've got good air out there. Air clean as spring water. Not a speck of dust floating in it. They can sing while they work if they please. Come noon, they can sprawl out right in the fields staring at the sky daydreaming, even catch a nap if they want. But this place! I want to show you what it's like inside here, but damned if I know how to put it across. Closest I can say is we're working in some godforsaken dustbin on the city's arse end. Dark as a coal hole, stinking to high heaven, trash flying everywhere—stuffy, deafening... words don't do it justice. When your shift ends and you stumble out, your face black as soot with only your eyes shining like some drunkard's—that's how we look staggering home.

The people working here—even if they're poor like peasants—lacked any solidity, pale and sickly-looking, always coughing. I grew gloomy thinking about that. Lately, the same old complaints had started rising up—that it had been better being in the great plains of the Ishikari River. Truth be told, life there wasn't exactly good either.

Ever since I was in the village—unlike you—I could never settle down. That there was a life—not this one, but a better, real one—was something I always thought about. Without understanding what it was at all, I could think of nothing else. But now I realized this—no matter where we try to move, the place we can actually move to is fixed. I was made to realize. You’ll surely laugh at me for having come to say such things. I’m someone who can’t be helped even if laughed at. However, I came to know for the first time since arriving here—what we all truly are, what we are doing, and what role and treatment we receive in this society. Peasants too must come to understand this. Here there are people secretly researching such things. Since I started showing my face there a bit, things began coming into vague focus for me. And I am astonished. I learned for the first time that this world is built from an immense mechanism. And every single one of these things clicks into place in “our” heads with such clarity that they make perfect sense.

But I intend to write about that in detail eventually. How are you managing there? If possible, I’d be grateful if you could write me a letter. Your sister too has been complaining about coming to Sapporo; I don’t want her to end up as a café waitress—right now, I’m thinking of finding her a place in domestic service somewhere.

This was what the letter had meant. “Brother, Yoshiko’s come back—that’s what I heard.”

When Genkichi was drinking water in the kitchen, Yoshi, who had come in from outside, saw him and spoke. Genkichi halted the second ladleful at his lips and turned around with a "Huh?!" His eyes flashed.

“You should ask Mother.” “Huh?” Genkichi stopped the ladle at his lips and turned, still holding the water-filled dipper as he scanned the room with unfocused eyes. “Where’d she go?” Yoshi went out the back door. Snow burst in when he opened it. Genkichi stood motionless, the ladle frozen at mouth level, his gaze hollow. “Can’t find her anywhere.” Yoshi came back inside.

Genkichi, as if suddenly remembering, gulped audibly in his throat, drank the water, and went outside.

But in less than two minutes, he returned. Setting his drunken eyes, he stood in the dirt-floored entryway. He glanced briefly toward the front, then became lost in thought. But—Tch! He clicked his tongue and went up into the house. Genkichi immediately pulled out a grime-caked padded robe from the closet, dragged it over his head, and fell asleep. Yoshi, huddled in a corner, watched his brother with fearful intensity.

When night came, Mother said of Yoshiko, “I’m shocked.” Genkichi had reverted to his usual sullen self and listened in silence as he ate his meal. During her time in Sapporo, Yoshiko became involved with a wealthy student from Hokkaido Imperial University. When it became clear she was pregnant, that student neatly abandoned her. His family were landlords who owned vast tracts of land in mainland Japan. Yoshiko clung to him time and again. “Who knows whose child it is?” In the end, that’s what she was told. Before long, her situation at the café became untenable due to her condition, and she returned with a swollen ten-month belly.

In truth, she had returned ten days earlier, having sneaked back in secret. Yoshiko’s father said he wouldn’t let her into the house. To poor peasants, she was nothing but a burden who lay around eating rice; let things go a little longer, and that would bring yet another mouth to feed. She was an outrageous burden. And he insisted that they couldn’t keep such a slovenly “harlot” in the house. Yoshiko was kicked down into the dirt-floored entryway. “Even a corner of the storage shed would be fine.” Yoshiko, remaining slumped on the dirt floor, pleaded through her tears.—

When Yoshiko’s father met Seki, he said: “That girl—can’t do farm work no more, come back with a body gone all soft and useless… Hands white as rice cakes, shriveled up… A fine useless mouth to feed we’ve ended up with.—A parent’s curse, I tell you.” When Mother said, “Oh, come now…,” “Ain’t there any good comes from this?” he pressed. When Mother faltered, “Get rid of that belly-child.”

“You!” Mother was startled. Then Yoshiko’s father restlessly brushed it off and left, pressing a hand to his head and shaking it as he went. “I can’t make heads or tails of any of it anymore…” Mother said to Genkichi, “You shouldn’t push yourself too hard.” “If you keep going like that, it’s dangerous.” Genkichi neither replied nor offered any response, remaining silent. Mother then lowered her voice and,

“When I listened proper-like, turns out Yoshiko never did go to Sapporo at all—for all her ‘I wanna go, wanna go so bad’ talk.”

Genkichi looked at his mother’s face. “Hmm?” “Well, you see—if Yoshiko’s there, there’s more mouths to feed and no fields to work. So, you see, because of that… home must’ve been hard on her——.” “Is that true?” “Yoshiko—the neighbor’s, uh, what’s it—a stone—it was a stone, I think. That’s what they said about it.”

When Genkichi heard that, he let out a long, slow breath he’d been holding, then turned away and fell silent. “How pitiful! They ain’t got money for a midwife, and it’s too shameful to show her anyway.—Yoshiko’s brother says she’s been sending letters to Sapporo every day. So she’s always waitin’ at the entrance when the postman comes, but not once’s a reply come back.” Mother’s words, spoken in broken bursts, kept digging deeper into Genkichi’s chest like twisting screws.

At first, when Genkichi heard Yoshiko had returned, he jerked upright—! He tensed. He clenched his fists tightly and thought, "Damn it!" In a single decisive thought, he even made to rush out. But as Genkichi listened to his mother, he found himself unable to tell whether what he felt toward Yoshiko was hatred or pity. The image came to him of the emaciated Yoshiko with sunken cheeks standing at the entrance waiting for the mail delivery. Her feeble, pensive eyes—he couldn't shake them from his mind. With her large belly—but at that thought, Genkichi shook his head as if to dispel it and squeezed his eyes shut. His chest tightened strangely, pounded relentlessly, and he found it unbearably painful.

The next day, Genkichi heard a rumor that Yoshiko had finally taken the medicine she had at first stubbornly refused—refused and protested against taking. It was said that despite having sent letter after letter without receiving a single reply, she had started taking it after weighing her future. Genkichi felt flustered in his heart, as if it were happening to him. But he stayed silent and held it in.

“It’s a lie,” he said. “It’s true. Really true.” Mother spoke as though she’d witnessed it herself. “Pitiful thing—takes it with eyes full of tears.” “And when she drinks it down, buries her face in the futon and muffles her crying.” “Fuckin’ idiot!” Genkichi barked out roughly, then stood up violently from beside his mother.

During their evening meal,

“Did she abort the baby?” he asked abruptly.

Mother silently studied Genkichi’s face before saying, “Hmm?” Genkichi realized he’d blurted it out unprompted and flushed red. Flustered, he muttered, “Yoshiko.” “Yoshiko? — Oh, Yoshiko.” When Mother caught his meaning, she continued, “It still hasn’t happened yet. If her body holds up without worsening, maybe it’ll be for the best.” * The peasants had gathered and resolved on action, but when facing actual confrontation with landlords and their agents, their collective rhythm faltered. Unconsciously, they began sliding back toward resignation—a regression point emerging where enduring seemed easier. Yet even this reversal felt unremarkable to peasants long accustomed to poverty’s muddy depths, who might’ve simply kept enduring their lives without question. Genkichi sat wordlessly by the hearth, legs splayed wide, and sneered inwardly: See that?!

“The things you lot do are such a mess.”

A few days later, the steward finally came to Kawabuchi no Sawa—the field that was on the verge of being vacated because the tenant fees couldn’t be paid. He said that because they would dispose of Sawa’s field, he should vacate the house once the snow melted. When the women and children began wailing at him, Sawa became completely flustered and went to tell his comrades from the previous meeting about it. The "cadre" peasants suddenly started making a commotion over it. And then, gathering at the school right away, they started rehashing the same discussion as before, as though it were something new.

“Do we really have to go through with this…?” the old man muttered. But even when the other "cadres" heard such a thing being said now, they didn’t even think, "Stop joking around." Instead, they tilted their heads together and pondered. And then,

“Well, guess we’ve gotta do it that way then.” And so it was decided.

Then, after repeating the same things over and over, they decided: “We’ll stand firm and take ’em on!” And so, everyone finally parted ways. The steward had come to the village regarding this year’s tenant fees, and when it became known that he was staying at the house of Maruyama—the village’s wealthy man who hoarded money—the youngest and most spirited of the “cadres,” Ishiyama, set out carrying the “written statement” that had been drafted with the principal’s guidance. It was so crammed with kanji that even Ishiyama himself couldn’t fully grasp its wording or meaning.

The steward listened while eating his meal as Ishiyama, stammering and turning crimson, repeated the same points over and over. Then he took his glasses from his sleeve and, wiping each lens meticulously with his sleeve, said, “What’re you here for? Wanna get tossed to the cops?!” After taking five or even ten minutes to read through the written statement, he barked, “Idiot! Should’ve come two days back!” and hurled it onto Ishiyama’s lap.

“Since when did you peasants get so uppity?” Maruyama, who had been digging in his mouth to dislodge something stuck between his teeth, interjected from beside them. When addressed this way, Ishiyama suddenly—inexplicably—regained his usual bold energy. “Mark my words!” He whirled around and barked. Maruyama calmly stated, “Peasants shouldn’t act this way. Landlords are our parents—we’re like their children. To endure and labor dutifully—that’s true nobility.” “When you go back,” he added, “tell everyone that. I’ll personally plead properly with the steward for you.”

“Eat shit!” Ishiyama stormed out front just like that. After walking a short distance, he realized he’d forgotten his hat. Snorting angrily, he stopped in his tracks only momentarily before running to where the “cadres” awaited news. And so—the peasants at last seemed to grow murderous. Naturally, that fervor spread gradually from the cadres to each individual peasant. Though no one spoke openly, they began deliberately visiting Ishiyama’s house to learn developments. Even the taciturn ones muttered tersely now, their words edged with irritation.

Genkichi and the others were supposed to head into the mountains now that the snow had hardened, but they couldn’t go until this matter was settled. Moreover, everyone had grown so agitated they felt things were no longer in such a state. As they gathered at Ishiyama’s house discussing various matters, even the young peasants who’d been wavering began shouting things like “Those bastard landlords!” The logical underpinnings of their anger started taking concrete form. Those who’d initially wondered “Is that really how it is?” with uncertain hearts now cursed “You sons of bitches!” Whenever crowds assembled, the Principal would gesture emphatically while recounting tales of peasant martyrs like Sakura Sōgorō and Hara Mosaemon. Illogically, stubbornly, these stories seeped into the crevices between the peasants’ rock-hard hearts. Then he added jokingly, “Wouldn’t be so bad if our own ‘Sōgorō of Hokkaido’ popped up somewhere, eh?” At this, even the most guileless peasants fell into deep contemplation.

They realized that negotiating with the steward would ultimately prove futile, and with that—fueled by his arrogant attitude—they snapped into action! With that burst of resolve, plans were immediately set to confront the landlords. The Principal’s “Hokkaido’s Sōgorō” had come to fruition—so much so that three peasants had now emerged from among them to take on that great role.

Thereupon, with two of the "cadres" joining them, they—now five in total—were to set out for the landlords' house in "the town with the train station." Then the remaining cadres, along with two or three peasants, decided to go around every peasant household in the village. They would explain the developments up to now, firmly join hands together with everyone, and declare as they made their rounds that they would press forward resolutely—so that not a single person would betray them to the landlords. When they got caught by old women, they were endlessly lectured about the hardships of life and their own past experiences. And they were entreated with things like, “Please don’t do anything violent to the Lord Landlords.” There were also instances where they were yelled at from the outset: “Tell our son not to go wasting time at those meetings and come home right away!” “It’s no use with them.” No matter what they said, it was useless with those types. Then, they were met with people fretting over what everyone was doing—saying things like, “Ain’t there nothin’ better we could be doin’?”—or being warned, “If we fail, we’ll end up with nothin’ to eat.”

However, when one of them went to the house of a girl they’d been eyeing and was suddenly yelled at—“You good-for-nothings!”—right in front of the girl, he returned utterly crushed. Conversely, there were also those who used such errands as an excuse to visit where those girls were, sitting down at the doorstep and happily chatting about unrelated matters at length.—But in any case, everyone ended up utterly spent and returned to Ishiyama’s house.

The ones who went to the landlords’ house were chased out like stray dogs—not even allowed to sit at the entranceway before being thrown back out into the cold. "You bastards! Like skewered dumplings, I’ll spear every last one of you and hand you over to the cops! Soon you’ll be crawling for scraps!" "I’ll bring officials to confiscate every damn thing you own—down to the last rag!" He roared abuse at their retreating backs as if swinging a log. All five men stood trembling, eyes brimming with furious tears.

The peasant cadres and the Principal immediately discussed how they had to inform all the villagers of this outcome as quickly as possible, drive everyone into a state of extreme agitation, and carry out their plan by riding on the momentum of this high tide. “Strike while the iron is hot!” And meanwhile, it was, of course, an urgent necessity for the Principal to go to town and complete the sale negotiations in advance.

“Solidarity!” “Solidarity!” “Solidarity—every last one of us!”

Two or three peasants used the word "solidarity"—a term they'd often heard the Principal use—and shouted.

VIII

That morning, while it was still dim, the village peasants (including those from across the river) loaded their horse-drawn sleds with grains.

Genkichi, his hands numb from the cold, blew warm breath into them as he led out the horse fitted with leather gear from the stable. The horse emerged clattering its gear while lightly swishing its tail against its flanks. But when it reached the outdoors—perhaps deterred by the chill—it kept backing away repeatedly. "Clatter, clatter, clatter..." Genkichi yanked the halter. The horse stretched its long face forward while dragging its body backward, hooves clattering against the wooden floorboards. "Clatter, clatter, clatter..." Then it flicked its tongue, making a *click, click...* sound.

After attaching the horse to the sled and completing all preparations, Genkichi went into the house until everyone arrived. His mother, wiping her red-rimmed eyes with the back of her hand, was cleaning up after breakfast in the kitchen. Yoshi stood by the hearth, watching outside through the open doorway. When Genkichi entered, his mother, “I think we oughta quit such things,” she said in a half-sobbing voice. This was something Mother had been saying daily, at every opportunity, since the matter had been decided. No matter how much anyone said, Mother repeated it as if it were something new. “Opposin’ the Lord Landlords—no good ever comes from somethin’ so terrible.”

The elderly peasants had always resigned themselves to *“It can’t be helped”*—no matter what happened, and they meant that literally *no matter what*. For years—decades even—this had been their way of thinking. Such audacious notions had therefore never even crossed their minds. Yet Genkichi neither retorted nor acted defiantly toward his mother’s words. He stewed in sullenness. Since this affair began, his usual brooding had grown far more severe—Mother understood this well. When Genkichi sank deep into his gloom, nothing good ever followed. Before any major undertaking, he would fall silent like a lump of iron.

Mother kept thinking only of how things would be if such a thing hadn’t happened. Therefore, Mother’s usual complaints spilled out. “Back in the day, there weren’t such goings-on—can we really stir up somethin’ so terrible now?” Genkichi sat down on the edge of the raised floor and roughly scratched his head. “Nothin’s gonna get better.” Yoshi kept his feet up to the fire and watched his mother and brother. He couldn’t understand what they were talking about.

“There’s never anything good.” Mother sniffled back her snot.

“That’s when the real trouble of not even being able to eat will start.”

“Best not to stick our necks out too far.” “Hmm, Gen.” Mother was still speaking intermittently, her words redundant.

Genkichi was watching his aged mother from behind. Beneath disheveled hair streaked with white and matted with grime hung sagging folds of lifeless skin at her neck. Her shoulders hunched forward completely; her spine curved like bent timber. She wore a rope where an obi should have been. Her whole body seemed no larger than a clenched fist. Genkichi realized she had grown old. That was what he thought.

Genkichi hadn’t felt any proactive enthusiasm about this matter from the start. On the contrary, he had even thought, “Just watch this half-hearted nonsense.”

Presently, the jingling of horse-drawn sled bells could be heard in the distance. “Look, Brother.” Yoshi strained his ears toward the front and said.

Genkichi heaved himself up with a grunt and went outside. Mother sighed and muttered something under her breath. Then, stretching her back, she looked toward the front. “Take care out there, y’hear.” Mother called after Genkichi.

Genkichi turned around slightly and looked at his mother, but then closed the door and went out. With a sharp click of the tongue came the sound of someone taking a horse’s reins. He was talking with comrades who had arrived behind him. The horse that had come galloping reared up, raising its head high as it neighed. Bells rang out one after another—there must have been twelve or thirteen sleds. Yoshi peered through the window, reporting to Mother each arrival’s number and identity. The commotion outside swelled steadily louder. Horses neighing, bells jingling, peasants calling to comrades ahead and behind—all merged into a roaring tumult. Yoshi pressed his face eagerly against the windowpane, watching intently. Mother muttered to herself—“Damned fool,” “Worthless wretch”— but did not step outside to look.

Before long, the carriages all began to move at once. The bells' sound resounded cheerfully yet so coldly it sent shivers through the frigid sky where even the air seemed frozen solid. To these were added peasants scolding their horses, the sharp cracks of leather being struck, and horses' neighs—all sounding as if something momentous, raw, and immense was about to unfold. Sled after sled went past. Someone called out to Genkichi's house as they passed. Mother finally opened the door and went outside to see. By then it seemed nearly over when Suzuki no Ishi spotted her and called out, "Hey there, Granny! We're off!"

When she looked, she saw a line of horse-drawn sleds charging vigorously along the winding path that cut through the boundless snowy plain stretching endlessly before her. From afar came the rhythmic jingle of sled bells. Every now and then, plumes of snow burst upward sharply. Just when those in the rear sleds thought the lead had vanished from view, upon reaching a bend where the path curved back around, the front sleds would appear as small as toys. Each time, the line resembled a black thread stretching out, contracting, and twisting. It stood out starkly against the snowy plain. The ringing of bells would sound distant one moment, then abruptly near the next. Mother stood motionless as if spellbound, watching it all. Suddenly snapping back to herself, she muttered, “Namu Amida Butsu... dabu dabu dabu.”

In the town with the train station, the leading peasants were supposed to be waiting. They came to where the snowy path narrowed ahead, revealing a line of snowbreak forest. Just beyond stood telegraph and electric poles like rows of planted pencils, with stove smoke rising as faint as cigarette wisps into the sky. They were almost there.

“How’s this for vigor!”

Boukou, who was in front of Genkichi, turned around and said. “Think it’ll work?” Genkichi gave an ambiguous reply. Every horse was foaming soap bubble-like sweat from their mouths and where the harnesses touched their bodies. Their tongues lolled out, nostrils flared wide, their emaciated legs moving like sticks. Not having been fed enough, Genkichi’s horse was utterly exhausted; when its legs plunged deeply into the snow-covered path, it would collapse listlessly right there. Genkichi was thinking that before long, he would have to dispose of the horse—whether by selling it off or some other means.

As twelve or thirteen horse-drawn sleds raced desperately across the snowy plain—jingling their bells in unison, drivers occasionally shouting to those ahead and behind—the procession strangely dragged the peasants’ timid hearts into a fiercely combative mood: a reckless “Come at us, anyone!” mentality. Even Boukou—a man well past forty who was usually quiet— “If those landlord bastards screw this up, we’ll thrash them good!” he bellowed to Genkichi. And that fervor silently bound everyone’s feelings side by side into a single, thick, unyielding bond. If some obstacle had appeared before them then, whatever it might have been, they might have charged at it all at once, like a cavalry unit plunging into enemy territory and trampling everything under their horses’ hooves. That was no exaggeration.

When they emerged from the snowbreak forest, there was a railroad crossing.

The peasant at the very front, pulling back with all his might on the reins of a rearing horse, asked the crossing guard about the train. "That's an awful lot of you. What's going on?" "The train hasn't come yet." "It's clear." The crossing guard they recognized came out holding a white flag wrapped around its handle. "Alright, let's do it!"

Because of this, the horse-drawn sleds that had temporarily stopped began to move forward again in order. Once they crossed the railroad crossing, if they proceeded seven or eight chō along the path running alongside the railway tracks, they could enter the town. “Now, let’s really get moving!” Such calls had been relayed from the front to everyone in turn. At the entrance to the town, seven or eight people standing there came into view. They couldn’t make out who the people were. But the one at the front called out loudly and waved his hat to signal. The seven or eight people at the entrance remained motionless and seemed to be watching this side. Could they not understand? There seemed to be no sign of any response to our signals.

In another moment, those people seemed to all start running toward them. Two or three peasants at the front let out a simultaneous shout: “Ah!!” And then, they suddenly stopped their horses. The horse from behind, carried by its momentum, struck the front sled with its forelegs. From behind came shouts of, “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” “Hey now!” The peasants lurched forward on their sleds or leaped into the snowbanks, all the while shouting as they stared ahead.

“It’s terrible! Police officers!!” “Police officers!!” “What?!” “Everyone froze!” As if turned into expressionless dolls in that instant, they froze and stared ahead. ――Police officers! They were indeed police officers. But police officers?! The peasants were not accustomed to police officers. Stiffening literally like boards, and while still unable to make sense of anything, they were effortlessly flanked by police officers on both sides—the thirteen peasants were led away by the police. The peasant leaders had also been brought to the police.

When the landlord saw everyone entering, he remained seated in his chair and burst into loud laughter. Until that night, they had been confined in a small room behind the police outpost, shivering violently. With three police officers present, they couldn’t exchange a single word with each other. From outside, the whinnies and hoofbeats of many horses could occasionally be heard. They had thrust their arms deep into their chests, buried their chins against themselves, stood alternately on one leg like herons—pressing one foot against the calf or thigh of the other—all to stave off the numbness creeping into their toes from the cold.

One by one, they were called out from there and interrogated.

Through the door came the sharp cracks of open-handed blows and the heavy thud of a large body being thrown—the unnervingly dull thud of flesh striking directly. Low groans and screams akin to a mouse being crushed could also be heard. Each time, they involuntarily held their breath. But they could do nothing but exchange anxious glances with one another. The door was flung open violently, and a reeling peasant came stumbling in as if hurled forward.

There were some with nosebleeds, their faces smeared with blood, looking as if someone who had been run over on the railway tracks had gotten up. There were those with faces swollen purple, their eyes unnervingly rolled up, and lips twitching in convulsions as they entered. They waited for their turn to come, their bodies rigid, yet with a strangely hollow feeling. Genkichi suddenly—suddenly thought his face had been struck. He felt his body shrink like a rubber ball in an instant.

“You bastard! You’re the one who incited everyone!” Genkichi reflexively pressed both hands to his cheeks. Then the next blow came. When his nose rang with a sharp, metallic sensation—as if he’d inhaled strong medicine—he… plopped down onto his backside. His vision went dark. He placed both hands on the floor and supported his body. The lukewarm nosebleed fell onto the back of his hand resting on the floor.

“You bastards are all surprisingly stubborn! Dirt-poor peasants acting high and mighty—” The police officer standing nearby said this while striking Genkichi repeatedly with the still-sheathed sword at his waist. Then two or three other officers came over and stomped and kicked him. Genkichi had been thrown into a “frenzy.” Then they eased up slightly. “Well?”

Genkichi didn’t understand it himself, but somehow his eyelids had grown so heavy he couldn’t open them properly. His whole face felt like it had been smeared with clay—even when he pressed it with his own hand, no sensation came through. It was as if he were grasping something entirely foreign. “Confess you stirred them all up!” The police officer’s voice seemed to reach him from beyond a thin membrane.

“Think you’re tough with that big frame, you bastard!” At that instant, Genkichi’s body jerked upward. “What?!” It had been a shout—when they threw him against the floorboards, he grunted “Ugh.” His lungs suddenly tightened like fists, air crushed from his chest. He felt himself sinking through the floor—a wet, heavy sinking—and then... nothing.

After being held at the police outpost for three days, when evening came and it was decided twelve or thirteen could return, they were brought outside. The leaders had been designated for transfer to Sapporo, so they remained behind. They boarded the emptied horse-drawn sleds—to which they had been tied at the police outpost’s corner—and set off with their backs rounded. Wherever the cold wind struck their beaten bodies, it stung sharply.

A blizzard raged. When they reached the outskirts of town, it blew without restraint. They covered themselves with straw mats or reed sheets over their coats and hunched their bodies as much as they could. One by one, through the dusk and the cold that grew increasingly severe, they made their way back, bells jingling. No one said anything. They did not look at each other's faces. They did not try to look. When they crossed the railroad crossing, the entire area ahead was a blizzard—as if a great white curtain had been lowered—and nothing could be seen. Darkness gradually crept in from the east. The single road across the plain had been completely obliterated. As they passed by the snowbreak forest, powder snow and gale-force winds striking it sent a menacing howl echoing from there. And there, where heaven and earth were pure white, the snowbreak forest could be seen—like a blurred painting in varying shades—uniformly shaking their heads and swaying their bodies. By the time they had emerged onto a completely obstacle-free plain, Genkichi’s horse-drawn sled lagged far behind at the very rear. Even that, however, Genkichi seemed not to understand.

Genkichi gritted his teeth. He seethed. I'll kill them! Nothing but bitter rage remained! He burned with hatred—a hatred so vicious it choked him. Genkichi understood for the first time what they—the “peasants”—truly were. —“Bastards! I'll die fighting!” he roared inside— Genkichi saw their “enemy” clear as ice. The enemy! He saw them sharp—these foes who’d still hunger even if bitten apart, even if their skulls split under hatchets, even if sickles shredded their faces to pulp. This whole damn machine working with the cops! Ugh! Damn them! Landlord shits! Genkichi ground his teeth.

You’ll pay for this! The snow would blow head-on one moment, then suddenly shift leftward before lashing from behind. The horse—now entirely white—moved its legs as its gaunt hindquarters bounced up like those of an aged peasant. The tailhair occasionally cracked sharply against its body. But depending on wind direction, it sometimes bent accordingly. The mane—turned pure white—swayed along wind currents. Only two or three horse-drawn sleds ahead remained visible through the blizzard. Those further ahead would flicker into view through snowdrifts only to vanish again while watched. At times wind drowned out the bells completely; other moments made them sound deceptively near. Nowhere and everywhere across the plain came a terrifying roar. Darkness steadily deepened.

“You’ll pay for this!”

The bitter cold pierced through the straw mat above, then through the coat beneath it, through the clothes, through the shirt, and straight into the skin. The fine powdery snow clinging to his coat sparkled, each tiny crystal forming distinctively despite its small size. His fingertips and toes grew so cold they ached. His nostrils stung sharply; his mouth, ears and nose had stiffened so completely that even the slightest movement threatened to crack them or send a piercing sting—it was unbearable. Their horse-drawn sleds emerged where a row of mixed-tree groves continued. It was a grove running along the banks of the Ishikari River. Only then did they realize they hadn’t lost their way. Occasionally those caught in blizzards while returning from town would be discovered half-dead come morning, having wandered off in entirely the wrong direction. With the land uniformly flat, they couldn’t get their bearings.

The mixed-tree grove shrieked with a shrill cry, as though deliberately provoked, and swayed. When it subsided, the snow-laden wind howled and shifted toward the plain's center with battering force. But right behind it came an even fiercer gust. Beside the horse-drawn sled moving ahead of Genkichi, the blizzard formed a massive whirlwind like a tornado. As he watched, maintaining its cylindrical marble-like form, it merged with another gale from a different direction and surged over the sled. Then the straw mat worn by the peasant was suddenly torn away and sent soaring skyward. The wind raged unchecked, growing ever more violent.

"You’ll pay for this, bastards!" Genkichi’s heart raged as fiercely as the blizzard itself. He cast his eyes forward. Seeing the peasants huddled on the horse-drawn sled like a cloth-wrapped bundle struck him as laying bare their entire existence. With clarity he saw them—these peasants who neither understood nor sought to understand this mantis-like enemy, living wretchedly as ants and mole crickets. They too must have realized by now what beasts their enemies were. But could these good-hearted peasants, so thoroughly beaten down, rise up once more—yes, this time—gripping sickles and hoes to dig in their heels? Could they drive their tools with a thud into those enemy skulls?

"No good—no good at all. It might be hopeless," Genkichi thought. But damn! How infuriating. "You’ll pay for this!" Genkichi gritted his teeth. He was consumed as if drunk on rage itself.

9

Genkichi slept for two days after returning to the village.

The village looked as listlessly desolate as discarded trash cans left here and there in the snow. Everyone stood dumbfounded, like crows robbed of their morsel.

Genkichi lay in bed yet couldn't sleep, his agitation growing. His mother brought rice to his bedside, droning on with her usual tearful complaints mixed with grumbling until suddenly remembering: "Yoshiko came by," she said. "If that bastard's around, we oughta just kill 'im," he shot back bluntly, not moving a muscle in his face. "Said she had somethin' to tell you." "She's all worn out." "Swollen up blue-like." "Shakin' like a leaf."

“That pale rich bastard’s son who knocked her up—!”

“Even coming here to talk, she has to support herself at the doorway with her hands—that’s how bad it is.” Mother then spoke in fragments about Yoshiko.—Yet Yoshiko still hadn’t completely given up on letters from that university student. There were times when a letter would arrive in her dreams—she’d cry out without meaning to and wake herself with her own voice. But now, her feelings as she waited for those letters had gradually changed from before. Earlier, she had still yearned for the man. That had mattered most of all. And so she had waited for those letters. But when she realized no letters would ever come from him, she began waiting again—this time for the child that refused to be aborted no matter how much medicine she took or spells she tried.

Yoshiko worked desperately with that body of hers. Whenever labor pains struck, she would run to the storage shed and there curl up like a shrimp into a perfect circle to groan. This was because once before, when labor pains had suddenly seized her at home and she lay facedown clutching her stomach while moaning, her sister-in-law had called her "this disgrace." Even while working, dizzy spells would sometimes overcome her. The house interior would suddenly warp before her eyes, lurching upward as if suspended by wires. Then came a heavy thud. After preparing the meal herself and laying everything out completely, Yoshiko would sit in a corner of the house and remain utterly still. And after everyone had eaten their fill—if there were leftovers—if any remained—she would secretly eat them herself this time.

It was a cold day.

Yoshiko suddenly stopped working and stared blankly into space, lost in thought. At that moment, the sister-in-law came in from the front, carrying a bucket full of water. Fetching water in midwinter was a grueling task. However, when she entered, the sister-in-law saw Yoshiko sitting there dazed. “Ugh, you good-for-nothing harlot!” Suddenly, she splashed water from a ladle onto Yoshiko’s body. “What the hell are you doing?!” Yoshiko jerked upright and turned to face her.

“With that limp body of yours, you think you can be any help with work? Waste of food.” ...As Genkichi listened to Yoshiko’s account, hatred welled up within him—this was nowhere near enough! he thought. Every feeling he’d ever harbored toward Yoshiko had vanished completely. “And? Me?” “She said somethin’ ’bout when she’d come,” Seki replied. “When I told her I didn’t understand, she just left without another word.” Yoshiko comes first! Genkichi thought single-mindedly, still feeling his swollen face’s throbbing pain as though it belonged to someone else. That traitor sold herself to our enemies! That whore—strip her naked, hang her upside down, twist her to death like candy till she snaps! Starting with her!

Two or three days passed.

With this recent incident, rumors began spreading throughout the village that the landlords would confiscate the fields of peasants who typically acted uppity. The steward had apparently been making rounds to spread this. The peasants—once thoroughly beaten down and now wandering aimlessly—had to spend each day trembling in fear. Of course, having their land seized meant life or death for them. Against this threat, they truly needed to strengthen their solidarity and face the landlords. Yet with their leaders taken and brutalized, the peasants found themselves completely powerless.

Yoshiko stood in the dimly lit kitchen washing bowls. At home some had gone out to town or to a nearby wake leaving no one there. "If you go to the wake the talk about you will make us lose face." Yoshiko was thinking about what her father had abruptly said.

"Ah... it hurts." Yoshiko involuntarily held her breath, strained her face, and twisted her mouth. Again, she thought—and felt utterly wretched. Yoshiko stopped washing the dishes, grabbed the edge of the kitchen, contorted her waist, and groaned unh-unh as she endured. Each time the pain struck after a pause, she felt a dizzying vertigo. Her forehead grew slick with greasy sweat. Yoshiko rested her forehead on her arm. She remained like that for a while. The pain showed no sign of stopping at all, and each time its ebb and swell overlapped, it grew more severe with every wave.

“Ah… ugh… ugh…” Yoshiko’s lower body went numb, and she collapsed into a sitting position. She could clearly feel the fetus moving inside her belly. A premonition struck. Yoshiko jolted awake and frantically crawled through the kitchen like a desperate creature. The excruciating pain made her pupils twitch unnaturally, blurring everything around her. “Ah… it hurts—ugh—ah… it hurts,” Yoshiko gritted her teeth as her body convulsed in spasms. She crawled from the kitchen’s dirt floor into the adjoining storehouse.

The storehouse was dark. The sweet-sour stench of piled straw blended with potato odors, bean smells, and the sewage-like rot of pickled daikon and herring until Yoshiko grew nauseous. Somewhere in her receding awareness, Yoshiko faintly perceived a mouse scurrying through straw beside her with dry rustles. Curled like a discarded caterpillar into a perfect sphere, Yoshiko waited for the pain to subside. Memories of everything that had brought her here flooded back. They whirled violently through her mind.

After some time had passed, Yoshiko’s brother and sister-in-law returned from town along the snow-covered night road carrying a lantern. The house entrance remained half-open with no one inside. They knew their father had been attending the wake. Yoshiko should have been there. The sister-in-law clicked her tongue sharply and made a face of exasperation. Around nine o’clock, the father came home. “Where’s Yoshiko?” “She wasn’t here when we got back around seven.” “Around seven o’clock—”

The three of them were suddenly overcome with unease. They scoured every corner of the house. Then they kindled a flame in the lantern and searched both the outhouse and stable together. She wasn't there. The sister-in-law pressed herself against the two men's backs, teeth chattering from cold and uncanny dread. When they opened the storehouse door—the last remaining place—an icy chill gripped their hearts. They thrust the lantern forward to illuminate the earthen floor. The ring of light spilled across wooden planks. No one. Pickling barrels and straw lay heaped together in disarray.

“Maybe a bit further in?” When the father said this and entered the storehouse, his head struck something heavy—a suspended object that swayed with soft resistance.

“Agh!” He stood rigid as if struck across the cheek by an unseen hand. Since they had been shining the lantern solely on the earthen floor, everything above waist-height remained shrouded. Still clustered together like bundled firewood shoved by invisible force, all three staggered backward through the doorway.

The brother and sister-in-law ran breathlessly to a neighboring house. And then they had the people of that house notify other households. After a short while, twelve or thirteen villagers gathered.

Genkichi had also come. While everyone talked all at once, they lit many lanterns and entered the storehouse.

Yoshiko was hanging by the neck a short way inside the entrance. Perhaps because her father had collided with it earlier, the suspended body—bearing its full weight—swayed gently through the air, tracing imperceptible circles around its vertical axis as it shifted right and left.

The peasants, each covering their mouths and holding out only their lanterns to look, found the faint movement unnervingly eerie. Yoshiko's complexion had turned purple, her face strangely contorted. Her body was covered in countless straw fragments.

When they later searched the house, two suicide notes that she had apparently written and prepared beforehand were found. One was addressed to her parents, and one to Genkichi. It was surprising that no matter how much they searched beyond those, there was nothing else. Yoshiko had not left any suicide note for the college student she had been involved with. When he heard this, Genkichi felt as though something had gripped his heart.

I will die hating—hating—hating the rich people. ……There were times I thought that if I were to live on, I’d have to take revenge on those rich people until I was sick of it—otherwise I couldn’t bring myself to die. And I believe that is the truth. But I am a woman—(that alone would be no problem)—but among women, I am the most worthless traitor. That seems impossible to achieve. I reproach myself now for my mistaken, wretched nature—thinking how happy I might have been had I stayed with you. ――And in the end, I will die spitting in the face of that Sapporo student. It was written.

Yoshiko was just like us after all—when it comes to being deceived, it's always us—always us without fail! When Genkichi thought this, he felt a prickling excitement creep through his entire body.

10 Genkichi steeled himself—now was the time; he would do it. That resolve—forged through the police incident and now Yoshiko’s hanging death—had taken deeper root than he had previously imagined. No matter how violently the peasants trembled under police torture, the truth of how those very authorities tormented them had seeped into their bones’ marrow. That much was undeniable. Therefore, if someone iron-willed were to drive that conviction forward relentlessly—relentlessly—then this time, with the peasants cornered over their life-sustaining fields, it seemed possible they might rise again—and rise even fiercer than before. Now that the “cadres” were gone, Genkichi had resolved from the start to take this burden upon himself. If executed well, it would be magnificent. Were that to happen, Genkichi swore—if it were him—he’d never bungle things so pathetically or show such half-heartedness! This determination had crystallized when he’d made his prior decision. “I’ll torch the landlords’ house and slaughter those bloodsucking lice fattened on others’ misery—no, not just lice-like—lice through and through!”

Genkichi wanted to make it so—but he couldn't wait until then. Of course he understood that if things reached that point, it would have more impact than acting alone. But in this situation, even having to do so chafed at Genkichi. Strictly speaking, Genkichi hadn't considered what might happen next or anything of that sort. More than that—he was trying to carry it out without even knowing whether what he intended to do was possible. It was just like when they'd poached salmon before—when everyone had moped around for two or three months without eating any fish, Genkichi had brushed it all aside and briskly gotten the job done himself. "With Father's will, Yoshiko's last words, and my resolve—these three things will make it happen."

However, on the other hand, Genkichi didn't consider his actions so futile. Rather, his resolute act would strike those sluggish peasants lurking in the darkness like oxen—and then ignite them! To his surprise, they'd swiftly unite, brandishing hoes and sickles with cries of "Charge! Charge!" and rise up! If that happened, then perhaps we peasants could successfully wrest back the fields for ourselves.—Genkichi even imagined such things. But more than anything—how hateful! "You bastards, just you wait!" Genkichi shouted while rubbing his cheeks and body where the lingering pain from swelling hadn't fully subsided.

That night, Genkichi filled an oil can—about the size of a drop can—with kerosene, wrapped it in a tattered zabuton cushion, and went outside. To his mother, he had told her in advance that this time he was going into the Asari mountains for bark-stripping and that he was going to consult with Ishida about the spring herring grounds.

Outside was a starless, pitch-black night. The snow-covered road was frozen rock-hard. Genkichi's body trembled in small, rapid shivers despite his efforts to keep it still. Suddenly, his teeth began clattering on their own. Genkichi hurried along the road. However, as he walked, the area around his groin grew strangely ticklish, making it unbearably frustrating to stay still. Finally, Genkichi broke into a jog. The frozen air parted to either side and flowed backward. He had emerged into a place where no matter which way he turned, there was nothing. Before he knew it, Genkichi had returned to his usual speed. When he looked back, two or three lights flickered feebly in the dark field, seeming on the verge of extinction. Genkichi started running again as if struck by a sudden thought. As his breathing grew ragged, the cold air stung sharply in his nostrils. After a moment, Genkichi was walking again.

He encountered no one on the night road.

When he had come to where the lights of "the town with the train station" were literally dotted in the distant front—like a black curtain of darkness—Genkichi suddenly stopped. He felt a taut resolve, as if confronting something head-on.

When he entered the town, Genkichi cautiously walked not along the main street but through the backs of houses, one after another. The town’s streets had no one walking them anymore. Most houses had turned off their lights. Along the narrow, uneven path where snow had piled up like a horse’s back, Genkichi walked carefully. Occasionally, doors clattered open. It echoed back higher than expected through the hushed town in the plain. Genkichi flinched each time at the sound.

Someone ran frantically down the town's main street, shouting at the top of their voice. The front doors of two or three houses clattered open. "What's happening?" neighbors asked each other, clutching the fronts of their winter coats. The town suddenly erupted into commotion. No sooner had this happened than

“Fire! Fire!” they shouted as two or three people ran toward the station.

The townspeople who had been standing out front all turned to look in that direction. The dark sky felt somewhat brighter. But in the blink of an eye, a pillar of fire ten feet high shot up. The crackling sound of the roaring fire reached their ears. As they watched, every house and tree in town—only on one side—bathed in the flickering light, turned crimson, and the contrast between light and dark became stark. Each murderous-looking face of the people running through the town appeared as if splashed with red ink.

All the people in the town rushed out of their houses. The women and children stood watching, their teeth chattering, pressing their shoulders together. “Where could it be?” “Hmm... Could it be the train station?” “If it were the station, the direction would be off.” “It’s a bit more to the right.” “Where’s it at?” Someone called out to the person from the house across the way. “Couldn’t it be the landlord’s?” “Might be...” “Well, well…” When someone asked a person running past,

“It’s the landlord’s! The landlord’s!!” he bellowed as he ran past. “If it’s the landlord’s, let it burn,” someone said in a low voice. “He was beaten.” “Must be.” “—Couldn’t it be arson?” someone had involuntarily exclaimed in a loud voice.

There was a brief silence. "Well now, this’ll turn into a proper calamity."

Suddenly, above everyone’s heads, the fire alarm bell began ringing with a cracked sound. It reverberated through the air with an eerie dreadfulness, sending chills down the people’s spines.

The landlord’s house was located away from the train station. However, the area around it had become searingly hot, burning with a white glare, so that even every single wrinkle and strand of beard on the faces of the firefighters and bystanders could be clearly distinguished. Every time a train entered the station grounds, it sounded its whistle at length. It resonated like the ominous death scream of some living creature. Because the landlord’s house was an imposing structure built with considerable expense—and because its owner disdained aligning its eaves with those of vulgar, decaying townhouses, having it constructed apart from the town’s rows of buildings—coupled with the absence of wind, there was no concern that flames might spread elsewhere.

The firefighters said the flames had spread too quickly—that perhaps everyone in the house had burned to death—and reported finding no signs of survivors. When the granary—stuffed to bursting with miscellaneous grains seized from Kitahama Village's tenant farmers just days prior—burned down, everyone involuntarily cried out. With a terrible roar, it collapsed, and from there swelled up sparks and demonic smoke that swirled thickly into the sky.

The water they drew from the frozen river was utterly useless. The firefighters and youth group members bellowed as they ran back and forth, swinging their lanterns. “By the time more than half had burned beyond saving—from inside came a scream! Just hearing it made you shudder—something unspeakable!” “That person said it lingered in her ears—lingered till she couldn’t bear it.” “Like a chicken being wrung—throat spurting blood as it thrashed—that’s what it sounded like.”

A woman was whispering to someone who seemed like an acquaintance standing beside her in hushed tones. "He was beaten for sure."

The acquaintance said this in an even lower voice. Then both fell silent.

Genkichi ran all the way to where the snowbreak forest lined the railway tracks without anyone noticing. One side of the snowbreak forest was lit up, reflecting the fire’s light. When he looked back, the entire sky was dyed red. The houses before the scene, people standing on their roofs waving something, and utility poles each stood out black and clear. At certain moments, the shouts of the people causing a commotion there would suddenly sound startlingly near, as if he could reach out and grab them. The fire alarm bell faintly moaned, "Boo-oon, boo-oon..."

Still not enough. When Genkichi muttered to himself，he started walking with steady strides along the dark Ishikari Plain’s snow-covered road． Still not enough，damn beasts! (April 26，1928)