Pathway to Japanese Literature

Prologue The Tannishō brought on my journey—the sound of insects— It is an old clumsy verse of mine. From around my youth when I indulged in such commonplaces, Shinran already existed faintly within my contemplations. Rather than savoring Shinran's doctrines—it was he himself—as a man who by his own admission remained until death an incorrigible fool of dull faculties—whom I immediately took to. For all our base foolishness and common idiocy—the kind we cannot honestly show others or present to the world—Shinran effortlessly said without pretense, "We're all in the same boat—even this Shinran here," and when I think that even he was like that, I cannot measure how much lighter I had since felt toward this troublesome self of mine, or toward life's complexities.

At that time, Shinran had temporarily become a major subject of intellectual currents in literary circles as well—what resonance would arise in modern hearts when young literary minds and young Shinran's spiritual quest, separated by centuries, vividly interacted across time, with reality as the bell and Shinran as its clapper? ——were frequently written about and adapted into plays. It was around the tenth year of Taishō. Undoubtedly, even someone like myself was drawn to that resonant literary bell. From among his famous writings—passages like "Even the good attain birth in the Pure Land; how much more so the wicked!" and "As for Shinran, he has never once uttered the Nenbutsu for filial piety toward his parents." Statements such as "The reason being that all sentient beings are none other than our parents and siblings through countless lifetimes," or again "Shinran has not a single disciple," do not strike us as utterances from an ancient sage seven centuries past. Rather, as the voice of modern humanity—most perceptively attuned, expansive, and lucid—they ceaselessly awaken fresh introspection and youthful contemplation.

And when I reflected on the suffering of Shinran’s era during his lifetime and considered humanity’s unchanging nature that persists even now, I could not help but recognize this truth—that the abode of peace he spoke of, calling himself a lowly commoner and this foolish bald one, still lies before anyone’s eyes if sought. Yet in my case, this understanding was always nurtured not through faith but through yearning. Perhaps this stems from how whenever I think of Shinran, the literary temple bell of my youth rings out in unison. Indeed, a religious figure possessing such poetic sensitivity as Shinran remains rare in this world.

There exists an indelible bond between my life as a writer and Shinran. Now that I think of it, it remains utterly embarrassing—the very first novel I ever wrote was Shinran. At that time, I was a rookie reporter in the cultural affairs department of T Newspaper Company. Mr. Mitsukami Otokichi had left and Mr. Ozaki Shiro had resigned from the company; I had just joined in their wake and could not even properly grasp the editing work. To me—for reasons unknown—came a company order to write Shinran’s biography as a serialized novel. As for the company that issued the order—well, it was quite a company—and as for me who accepted it—well, I was quite something myself. There is nothing as formidable as not knowing. Every morning, I would arrive at work two hours earlier than my colleagues and write that day’s installment in pencil on company scrap paper. When the deadline for typesetting approached, typesetters from the printing plant would come over, peer at my manuscript over my shoulder, and say things like "You should make that part dialogue," or when time grew desperately short, declare "This will do for today" before taking away what I was still writing from behind me.

During the serialization, people related to Honganji and devoted scholars would frequently come to the company, and I was often left speechless when confronted with their grand theories about Shinran used to rebut me. Because it concerned matters of faith, readers' letters proved scathing. Within the company too existed those strict about historical accuracy and literary theory who would harshly criticize me every time galley proofs emerged. After all, I couldn’t consult reference materials at the office, so midway through I began writing late at night at home after returning—yet despite this, there were countless instances where unexpected errors and oversights were pointed out, leaving me scrambling. In the end, going to work became akin to a sheep being led to slaughter. But somehow I finally managed to complete over a year and a half of serialization. Just as that work was about to be published by the company under the title Shinran-ki, the Great Kantō Earthquake struck. Thus my debut work burned down with the company building while still bound, never reaching the world. For my beginnings, it became a meaningful and even grateful karmic fire.

In middle age, I wrote about Shinran again. I wrote it specifically for serialization in five regional newspapers including the Tai-Nichi, Fukuoka, Nagoya, and Hokkai Times, and the Kodansha edition of Shinran published in Showa 13 (1938) is that very work. I believe the newspaper serialization lasted nearly three years. Though there was a foundation I had laid down over ten years prior, I continued it with the resolve to relearn my ABCs from scratch. This time, working within my life as a writer, I could freely select and consult reference books. And this time, it was published without mishap.

But in my heart, the painful criticisms from my T Newspaper days remained undimmed, persisting intact within my self-reflection. Afterwards, although the life I had led was by no means smooth, when I looked back and saw through this work just how much I had matured as a human being, I could not help but feel ashamed at myself. And so, in the preface to the first volume published by Kodansha, I wrote something to this effect.

The Shinran I wrote in my thirties was fearless as a blind man confronting snakes, but when I reached my forties—perhaps because my vision had begun to clarify through observing raw human lives—it became like stepping into deep mountains where bewilderment gripped me instead. To be honest, I still lacked the capacity to write Shinran properly—more crucially, had not yet ripened as a human being. I wanted to rewrite it anew when reaching my fifties.

Now that this book is being republished by Kodansha, I cannot possibly remain silent toward my own conscience—which I pledged in the preface to the first edition. This is because my age has already reached the time of that previous promise.

However, I have not yet written the third Shinran. My motivation to do so someday has not waned in the least, but the opportunity has yet to present itself. It is also because I know that my own growth has remained as immature as ever. Yet regarding the publisher’s suggestion—setting that aside as a future task—there remains ample significance in republishing this work for current readers. To those who have witnessed with their eyes, known in their flesh, and heard with their ears the severe vicissitudes of postwar society and its desolate nihilism—to the point of fearing mutual paralysis—and to those who still ceaselessly seek something even amidst it all, this represents a passionate hope that remains undimmed. As the author, while still harboring hesitation—unlike the vigor of a youthful hunter who has yet to see the mountain—despite my preface’s earlier promise and not being entirely... yet upon reconsidering postwar times when religious novels or spiritually oriented works that ought to emerge remain absent, if this republication could serve as even a single stone cast, perhaps it might hold some modest significance after all. As a result, I have finally decided to publish it with only minor revisions and edits.

I humbly beg your understanding and forgiveness.

Regarding the content as well, I would like to append a few words.

The emergence of Shinran was indeed the pioneering beacon that ignited epoch-making transformations not only in the religious sphere but also in philosophical thought and the lives of common people during that era. He shattered the long-standing ills of aristocratic religion and the harm wrought by hereditary religious sects. He brought down the ecstatic Pure Land from the mystique of temple halls to commoner society. Moreover, it was he who sought the seeds of enlightenment not in the grandeur of esoteric Buddhist statues but within naked humanity, attaching to this pursuit an unadorned doctrine free of falsehood. He was, so to speak, the herald of a new religion of democracy for commoners—an innovator who brandished a democratic doctrine unprecedented in Japan’s history.

Yet even in Shinran's case, when biographical materials are considered, they become interwoven with overly conventional miracles and legends—no different from idols' jeweled ornaments and gilded embellishments—rendering their scientific deconstruction and novelistic adaptation far from straightforward. In an era when people believed rabbits dwelled on the moon's surface, they truly saw rabbits there; thus those miracle legends undoubtedly held value once, but modern people cannot accept them as they stand. Naturally, I must state without reservation that in my novel's composition, such established structures have been substantially altered—parts deliberately disregarded and original ideas introduced. And what this author fears are solely the deficiencies of his earlier work, his untalented indolence, and the transgression of leaving a decade-old promise unfulfilled. I can only proffer profound apologies.

Showa 23, Early Winter at Yoshino Village Hermitage

Author

Chapter of the Turbulent Country

The First Voice

I

At Suzaku Crossing, there was a man who had been ringing a bell and shouting since morning. Whether stung by a bee or not, his sunburnt face was warped and pitted like a rotten pomegranate. He had a large nose and lips that seemed stubbornly set, while his wildly overgrown shaven head—resembling a chestnut husk—was caked in white dust. Given his disheveled state, estimating his age was impossible. He looked thirty, yet could just as well be forty. His frame was clad in a tattered robe with a single rope belt. And in bare feet sturdier than straw sandals, he stood rooted to the earth as if sprouted from it.

Clang! Clang! The sound of the ringing bell, too, was no ordinary strength.

The crowd surrounded him,

“What’s this?” “Where’s this mountain monk from?” they whispered among themselves. Through the lingering summer heat of the thoroughfare, an oxcart creaked, raising dust. A noble’s palanquin passed by. Moreover, Kiyomori-in’s eyes and ears—the Rokuhara youths feared by townspeople, fourteen- or fifteen-year-old boys clad in red hitatare robes—narrowed their shrewd eyes and darted them about, clutching whips in hand as they peered from behind the crowd, suspecting someone might be uttering slander against Chancellor Taira.

But the man, bellowing with unbridled volume until his own rasping voice consumed him, raised the bell in his right hand skyward as if possessed— "Your attention! Your attention—" he roared. "—I, Shami Mongaku, respectfully address the people gathered by this roadside." "Behold the state of our world: The moon above ceaselessly shrouded in clouds of power struggles and decadent pleasures, while below, warrior ambitions wrap the grasses in bowstrings and arrows." "The Dharma's stronghold burns in cursed flames! Farmers, merchants, craftsmen—all common folk—wander homeless, weeping from hunger's bite and winter's chill." "Such is this age we inhabit!" "In such times, people inevitably drown in self-interest, grow distrustful, turn kin against kin—never reflecting inward! Gain wealth only to court ruin! Fall into poverty and curse their neighbors!" "The rich become hungry ghosts!" "The poor become hungry ghosts!" "And thus they churn this mortal realm into a raging torrent—" Sweat glistening on his brow, he had hurled forth this condemnation in a single breath.

And then—clang! He rang the bell once more,

“Beggar monk, wait!” someone bellowed. A red hitatare robe parted the human wall and stepped forward. (Rokuhara youths) The people whispered among themselves, eye to eye. With uneasy expressions, they compared the monk’s bell and the youth’s whip. The monk stood haughtily,

“What?!” he said. Relying on the Taira clan’s authority, the brash young town spy struck the earth with his whip as he barked, “You just declared—‘The wealthy are hungry ghosts! The poor are hungry ghosts! And the heavens lie shrouded in power struggles and decadent miasmas!’” “Hahaha! Hear a man out to the end—that described yesterday’s Minamoto reign,” Mongaku retorted. “…Now I speak of today’s affairs. Stay silent there and listen!”

Putting the bell into his robe, Mongaku then took out from that pocket some scraps of kamiya paper covered in writing.

II

“This is the fundraising appeal.” Mongaku addressed the crowd, then slowly unfolded the document. From the corner of his eye, the Rokuhara youth—as if flung away—awkwardly retreated into the crowd. (As if saying, *Serves you right*,) the people sneered with their eyes at the rear of the red hitatare. Mongaku unfolded the fundraising appeal, straightened his chest, and once again raised his voice loudly.

“What I spoke of just now concerns yesterday’s affairs,” declared Mongaku, his voice carrying over the crowd. “Yet tomorrow’s world remains shrouded in impenetrable darkness. Even if they proclaim today peaceful—amid the ceaseless cycle of birth and death, this sea of suffering across three realms—those who remain unawakened from delusions of lust, wine, gold, and restless monkeys’ follies shall surely come to know their hour of reckoning. Did even Gio, the shirabyōshi dancer, not sing—” Though they sprout, Withering the same— Grasses of the field. Which among them In autumn’s grasp shall meet their end? “Take heed, O assembly! Which among them shall escape autumn’s grasp?” He drew himself taller, the fundraising scroll trembling in his grip. “Here stands this unworthy Mongaku, having reflected upon these truths, addressing our kin by the roadside for this sacred purpose. I beseech you—through the aid of nobles and commoners, clergy and laity alike—to establish a temple upon Mount Takao’s sacred ground and accomplish devotions securing peace in both this life and the next!” His blazing eyes lifted toward the distant peak.

They were blazing eyes. The blood of this troubled world—unable to overlook humanity's present anxieties—flowed deep within them. He cleared his throat, “Therefore, the fundraising appeal,” he declared, and began reading aloud from the document spread open in his hands with a thunderous voice.

When we reflect upon this,

Suchness is vast. Dharma-nature, obscured by clouds of delusion, thickly shrouding since having drifted across the peaks of the Twelve Nidānas—

Henceforth, The moon’s radiance upon the lotus of inherent enlightenment Faintly lingers— Yet within the boundless void of three poisons and four mandalas, It fails to shine forth. Alas! The Buddha-sun swiftly sinks, Leaving this realm of endless rebirth cloaked in darkness. They wallow in carnal desires and drown in wine, Pointlessly defaming others While further tainting the world. How could such ones evade Yama’s hellish jailers? Here stands Mongaku by chance— Though they cast off worldly bonds and don priestly robes,

Evil deeds still run rampant in their hearts. Virtuous teachings fall on deaf ears. Alas, They shall once more circle through the Three Paths' fiery pits And turn upon the wheel of suffering through Four Births. Therefore I, Weeping before impermanence's gate of contemplation, Urge high and low, clergy and laity alike,

To form karmic bonds with the bodhisattva’s fervent vow for enlightenment,

Therefore, I shall establish a sacred site.

Behold, Mount Takao rises lofty as the mountains, Vulture Peak manifests in the summit…

As he read on at the top of his voice, sweat streamed in thick rivulets down his ruddy face. The crowd dwindled—one person left, then two more—until none remained moved by his fervent voice.

(What, another fundraiser?) The crowd had grown weary of these solicitations for alms. Without hesitation, they left him behind and scattered away. Only one person remained,

“Hey, Lord Moritō,” called out a traveling merchant.

Three “Lord Moritō,” the traveling merchant called out again from beneath the willow tree at the crossroads, “There’s no one left around you listening anymore.” “Lord Moritō—” Startled, Mongaku lifted his face from the fundraising appeal and clicked his tongue at the deserted space—now devoid of even stray dogs—that had somehow materialized around him. And, with visible irritation, “Damn it all!” Muttering to himself, he rolled up the fundraising appeal tightly, thrust it into his robe, and started walking.

Then, the traveler whose face was bound with a sun hat briskly drew near to him and tapped Mongaku on the shoulder. Mongaku turned his eyes sharply. "Oh. Hori no Yata?" For the first time, he made a surprised face and reached out his hand. The traveling man called Yata—clasping hands with a nostalgic air—suddenly released them for some reason. "Hss—" they glared and parted to the roadside. The boy in the red hitatare from earlier, standing erect while wiping his nose with his hand, strutted through between the two of them. And turning a look of mild derision their way, he threw them a derisive snicker.

The traveling merchant, making a show of it for those eyes, took out a piece of paper from his robe and wrapped coins. And into Mongaku’s hand, “An offering—” he said, and handed it over. “Ah,” Mongaku received it with solemnity and pressed it to his forehead. “Even the humblest offering is most humbly received by Mongaku as he now stands.” “Even if I cry out by the roadside, people turn deaf ears. If I go to the imperial palace seeking alms, they toss me out like a stray dog...”

The traveling merchant Hori no Yata quickened his pace ahead while,

"To Seki," he motioned with a jerk of his chin.

Nodding, Mongaku trudged along after him. Cow dung and white soil baked bone-dry, making Kyoto’s great avenue scorch the soles of one’s feet.

But when they emerged onto Kamo Embankment, willows stood in rows like those from a Tang painting of Xianyang Palace, clear water flowed before them, and a damp-paper wind struck cool against their faces. “This should do.”

The two men sat down on the embankment. The yellow spikes of maidenflowers drooped onto Mongaku’s sweat-stained, tattered robe.

“It’s been a while.” When Yata said this,

“Are you unharmed?” Mongaku also said.

“No, this worldly body is far from unharmed, just as it has always been.” “Same goes for me.” Mongaku laughed dryly, “Haven’t you heard the recent rumors?”

“I just arrived in Kyoto today. I haven’t heard any rumors.” “I see... Truth be told—when I entered the Cloistered Emperor’s palace to fundraise for Shingon’s restoration, those ministers were feasting to biwa music and poetic recitations. So I gave them a proper lecture about reality—the curses of commoners’ hardships, the groans of those lost in society’s maze—and rebuked these fools. Then the Imperial Guards grabbed me by the collar and threw me out! These wounds and lumps from that day...” He stroked his chestnut-burr head and gestured to it with a laugh. The swellings and bumps across his face were also apparently from those stick wounds sustained at the time.

Four

Mongaku was what remained of Endō Moritō the warrior from days of yore—that same Moritō who at nineteen had cut off his youthful topknot and undergone the harsh disciplines of sacred mountains: Ōmine's peaks, Katsuragi's slopes, Kōya's valleys, Togakushi's shrines, Haguro's forests, and Nachi's thousand-day waterfall retreats. Some vestige of it lingered still. "No—there's too much left of him," thought Hori no Yata, the traveling merchant, even as he found himself drawn into the man's forthright manner of speaking and doubled over, clutching his sides.

“Hahaha! No wonder your face and head are swollen like a smallpox deity’s!” “It still hurts.” “Then learn your lesson.” “Nonsense! I’m not one to learn lessons.” “Even in priestly robes, that warrior spirit remains unchanged. That’s what makes you properly human.” “Until rebirth comes, that thing called the soul—whether you make it sit on ice or batter it with waterfalls—won’t change easily.” “Especially a spirit tempered by bow and arrow. “That we both remain unchanged since parting—now that’s worth celebrating!”

“No, your appearance has changed greatly, I tell you. At first, I mistook you for someone else.” “This is but a traveling gold dust merchant. Surely none would mistake me for a samurai now.” “How could Fujiwara no Hidehira’s retainer Hori no Yata have fallen so low as to become a gold dust merchant? You too are but leaves on the tree of impermanence—” “Lured from the treetops by some capricious wind, were you?” “What nonsense,” Yata waved his hand. “This is but a temporary guise to endure the world.”

“So you’ve come to Kyoto as a secret envoy?” “Something like that.” “You’ve done nothing but grill me about my affairs—now tell me what you’ve been up to since we last met. Or is this matter too weighty even for your old friend Mongaku?” “It’s... difficult to explain.” “Then I’ll stop asking.” “Are you angry?” “Hmph—furious.” Mongaku feigned indignation for a moment before baring his teeth in a grin. “Don’t be like that—out with it. “These priestly robes may cover my skin, but my soul remains Endō Moritō—not a word leaves these lips.”

“...” Yata stood up and looked around along the embankment. Ohara women carrying bundles on their heads passed by. At the river shallows, a woman in a woven hat had her female attendant carry something as she made her way up toward Toneri-chō in wet sandals. Otherwise, there was only the sound of cicadas, the murmur of water, and the shadow of a white waterfowl listlessly dozing in the stagnant air. “Moritō.” Having reseated himself,

“My name is Mongaku. Moritō is a name I cast aside over ten years ago—call me Mongaku.” “Old habits die hard, I suppose. Then while we’re at it, you’d better remember my alias too.” “Hmph. Changed your name, did you?” “A traveling merchant called Hori no Yata would raise eyebrows. The gold dust seller from Oshu named Kichiji who comes to Kyoto yearly—that’s actually this Yata’s second name.”

“Huh.” “Kichiji.” “Now that you’ve heard it—does nothing come to mind?” “I’ve recalled… You’ve been stealthily approaching Lord Shanaō of Kurama, have you not?”

Five

Shanaō of Kurama. He stated it point-blank. With eyes brimming with confidence—as though certain this golden target wouldn’t miss—Mongaku stared fixedly at the other man’s face.

“...Hmm.” Hori no Yata’s gold dust merchant Kichiji dimpled his cheeks and nodded. Huuuh— With a great breath, “I see.” Mongaku also nodded in return. Speaking of Shanaō—he was the legitimate heir of the Minamoto clan, youngest son of Yoshitomo, former Head of the Left Stable Bureau, a young lord whose childhood name was Ushiwaka. It had been over ten years since he was torn from his mother Tokiwa’s breast and taken up to Kurama Temple. “…………” Mongaku silently moved his fingers. Kichiji of Yata was also silently gazing at the clouds over Daimonji Mountain.

“This year is the third year of Jōan.”

“Indeed—” “Then how old has Lord Shanaō become?” “Fifteen,” Mongaku answered. “Oh….” “How time flies.” “So that milky-scented scion of the Minamoto clan has already reached fifteen years of age?”

“Mongaku—do you ever meet him yourself on occasion?” “No—two years ago when I made pilgrimage to Shosha Mountain and visited the Ajari of Tōkōbō, there was a young acolyte serving tea. Later, when I learned it was him, I wept at having drunk tea too precious for my station—they say he’d become such a rowdy lad that even the villagers of Shōjōga Valley and Kibune couldn’t handle him.” “In that case, it seems even the temple was having trouble with him.”

“To keep an eye on that troublemaker—making the annual pilgrimage all the way from Oshu Road to Kurama…” “Ah, I’ve figured it out.” He slapped his knee, “The powerful clans of Oshu Hiraizumi resent the extravagant reign of the Taira—what else could this be but groundwork for eventually siding with the Minamoto?” “This looks like the world’s about to get a bit interesting.” Without responding to that,

“Oh?” Kichiji looked up at the sky. A drop of rain struck his face.

At the waters of Kamo, to small ripples—ripples overlapped countless times. When the shoulders of the Higashiyama mountain range disgorged an ink-black rainbow, the azure sky narrowed in an instant, and the crossroads of the Heian capital—its bridges, willow trees, and stone-laden roofs of commoners’ homes—settled into a dimness like twilight’s murky depths. “A rain shower’s coming.” Mongaku also stood up, “Yata. “Well, Lord Kichiji of Oshu—what about lodgings?”

“I never have a fixed plan… For migratory birds—not settling on a roost tends to keep them out of harm’s way…”

“Why don’t we visit Jingo-ji Temple in Takao?”

“No—for now I must go to Hino Village.” “To Hino? What for?” “Lord Shanaō’s cousin resides there. I always go to hear messages bound for Kurama.” “Hmm—who could that be?” “Let us meet again—before long.”

“Right. Take care on your way now.” “You as well.” The two of them ran off in separate directions. Through the row of willow trees lashed by white rain and swaying violently.

Six

“Has the rain stopped?” “Seems it’s stopped!” Somewhere, someone muttered.

It was a massive temple complex that had been half-burned in the military conflagration and left to rot as it stood. Kichiji the gold dust seller, who had rushed into the mountain gate to take shelter from the rain, cautiously peeked out his head. The town was already steeped in twilight. The damp roof stones glistened with a fish-like blue under the evening star’s light. Somewhere came the crackling and popping sounds of a fire. Red firelight cast its glow from behind the temple gate. From there arose a clamor: “Hey woman! What’re you slurping down so greedily there? Hand over my share!”

“No way!” “Stingy wench! Hand it over already!” “There’s not even enough chicken bones to go around." “Right, Mr. Komusō?” "You stole a chicken and now you’re stuffing yourself alone!" “If you give me some miso cakes, I’ll give you a drumstick.” “Cut the crap!” “But I’ve got mouths to feed.” “It’s only natural I get hungrier than others.” “...Hey! I said no—Mr. Puppeteer, don’t you snatch that bone back!” they squabbled like hungry ghosts over scraps. Peering in, he saw them—women in straw cloaks, lepers begging, komusō monks clutching shakuhachi flutes like walking skeletons, puppeteers, an aged courtesan with white-powdered face—vagrants of unknowable sustenance who’d claimed the Nio Gate’s deity-less corner. They built fires, dried rags, sprawled chewing whatever they found, forming one teeming realm of starvation.

At the Imperial Palace, Rokuhara mansions, and residences of Taira clan branch families, they indulged feverishly in moments of peace between wars—moonlit nights with Saibara court music, daytime revelries amid blossoms and crimson leaves, women singing love ballads over fine wine as they chased Heian-era dreams. Yet beneath its veneer, Kyoto’s innards teemed with hunger-bound makeshift families and homeless vagrants who built nests in derelict temples, shrines, wayside chapels, stone walls—any structure with roof or walls where no master dwelled—living like insects, like beasts.

(Worse than the rumors)—Kichiji, grimacing at the foul stench, stood transfixed as he watched. (Even in Oshu—a land bereft of five grains, fertile soil, or the cultural legacy of Tang—such a scene does not exist.) Disapprovingly, Kichiji watched. Vividly, the festering sores of misgovernment were oozing pus here as well. Here, if one were to stand and look, even to the naked eye it would be clear—the true reality of the Taira clan’s aristocracy, which had no time to consider the people, seizing their clothing and food to burn as fuel for their pleasures, single-mindedly fixated on their own glory.

(Is this acceptable?) he felt compelled to ask heaven. (I must do something—neither divine power nor Buddhist power will suffice, for the military conflagration has burned even gods and buddhas, has it not? What governs the human world rightly is human power—it is true humans. Truly genuine humans are what this present age awaits.)

Having thought this, he felt both a grave duty and taut resolve in his mission that was drawing him closer to Shanaō of Kurama. “Hey! Who’s there?” Then a beggar spotted him and challenged him.

Seven

Just as he was about to leave once more,

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” Puppeteers and straw-mat monks began rising to their feet, so— “Here!” Kichiji turned back, “I am but a traveler taking shelter from the rain.” “A traveling crow, eh?” “Since the rain has stopped, I think I’d like to be on my way. Is Hino Village still quite a distance from here?” “Hino’s close enough, but where in Hino are you headed?”

“To Lord Fujiwara no Arinori’s residence. I’ve come on an errand.” “Oh! That’s where the merciful Lady Yoshimitsu Gozen lives!” The woman wrapped in straw mats stood up with a shrill cry. At once, the vagrants grew courteous. “If you’re bound for Lady Yoshimitsu Gozen’s house, someone ought guide you.” “I’ll do it.” A kappa-like boy clutching a bamboo stick sidled up to Kichiji. “Traveler, let me show you.” “Much obliged.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. We can’t even begin to tell how much Lady Yoshimitsu Gozen has saved us.” “That mansion—no offense meant—belongs to the down-and-out Fujiwara family, poor nobles who can’t even repair their crumbling earthen walls, not like the Taira clan in their prime. But even so, whenever we go begging at their kitchen, they’ve never once given us a sour look…” When one spoke up, so did the woman wrapped in her straw mat, “When winter comes and the cold bites, she doesn’t just give us old garments—she bestows them even upon the children dwelling beneath Tō-ji Temple and Yasaka’s floors.” The other vagrants also spoke in unison.

“There’s no shortage of vain women wasting themselves on finery or greedy hussies chasing comfort within those imposing plaster walls they call mansions—but where in this wretched age could you find a woman as kind as her? She’s the true Kannon Bodhisattva incarnate.” “Speaking of which, given Her Ladyship’s devotion to Nyoirin Kannon Bodhisattva, she would make monthly pilgrimages—but since around spring, we haven’t seen her. We’ve been worried she might be bedridden.”

While licking a chicken bone, the woman wrapped in a straw mat said this and accompanied him as far as the temple gate.

Kichiji felt happy within his heart. That very Lady Yoshimitsu Gozen was none other than the cousin of Shanaō, the young lord of Kurama, whom he had been striving under his lord’s command to bring into prominence at the earliest opportunity. “There’s a puddle here, old man.” The kappa-like boy walked ahead, tapping the pitch-dark ground with his bamboo stick. In the alley’s darkness—so thick you couldn’t tell if someone pinched your nose—a stray dog kept howling. Even the dog’s voice sounded hoarse, as though it too were starving.

There was a small river; they crossed an earthen bridge. When they had crossed a somewhat wide grassland, the kappa-like boy, with the tip of his bamboo stick— “You can see the great ginkgo tree over there,” he said, pointing. “…That earthen wall by the ginkgo tree is Lord Ōgimachi’s place. “Lord Fujiwara no Arinori’s residence—turn there, and it’s right away.” “Ah, thanks.” Proceeding along the road, the two began to turn by the landmark great ginkgo tree. Then the kappa-like boy, as if startled by something,

"Huh?!" he exclaimed, standing frozen.

Eight "What...? What is that...? That light—?" The kappa-like boy muttered fearfully, his eyes wide open.

“Ah—” Kichiji too had come to a halt before it.

Both held their breath. From the great ginkgo tree there, a short distance ahead in one quarter, the mansion's structure came into view - its aged palace-style roof sinking like ink brushed across paper amidst red pine treetops and plaster wall shadows. That much was certain.

That must be Lord Fujiwara no Arinori’s residence that the kappa-like boy had mentioned earlier. However, the two of them saw something else—something strange. The strange thing they saw was the light that pierced their eyes the moment they turned that corner.

Speaking of night—for humans dwelling in a world where light was scarce, there had been nothing as precious, as cherished, yet as eerily perceived as its radiance. It was that very light. A white rainbow—or perhaps a comet-tail-like gleam—flared from what seemed to be the roof ridge of Lord Fujiwara no Arinori’s residence. The instant the two gasped “Ah—?”, they rubbed their eyes only to find ordinary darkness restored, as if nothing had transpired. “Did you see it too?” “I saw it,” he answered, then suddenly—

“Old man, I’m turning back here.” He hesitated. “You’ve done well.” Kichiji gave him some coins and,

“—What do you think that light was?” “Dunno.” “I don’t know either. There are strange things in this world.” “I’m gonna tell everyone.” “Hey now—you mustn’t go spreading careless talk.” “Aah!” The kappa-like boy threw back a crow-like retort and dashed off at full speed down their original path. Kichiji the gold dust merchant stood outside the plastered wall. Every gate he surveyed stood shut like blind eyes. Weeds had nearly swallowed the gateposts whole. Sections of the wall had crumbled enough for any stray dog to leap over with ease. Above him in the vine-choked elm tree came chitter-chitter—the cry of a squirrel.

"How the world changes…" Profoundly, he thinks.

When speaking of the Fujiwara clan, they were those who had exhaustively depicted on earth the most luxurious lifestyle attainable by humans. That luxury became conflicts between samurai clans, turned into samurai governance, and now that the Taira clan had reached their zenith, they had become a shadow of their former selves—mocked as “the destitute Fujiwaras.” As for this ancient mansion’s deathly silence—it was as if foxes and badgers might take up residence here. No sign of light could be seen, and it appeared not even dogs remained there.

Tap, tap, tap… Tentatively, Kichiji gently knocked on what appeared to be the back gate. And then, in a low voice, “Good evening—” He tried several times. “No good.” He thought for a moment, then picked up a pebble and threw it toward what appeared to be the samurai quarters’ roof.

A sound of shutters being raised could be heard. Before long, a light flickered within the alcove, and the clack-clack of wooden clogs drew nearer.

Nine

“Who goes there?” The figure remained unseen. From beyond the gate, the samurai inside inquired. “This humble one is Kichiji the gold dust merchant. “Should you kindly inform His Lordship or Her Ladyship, they will assuredly recognize me.” “Kichiji?” The samurai appeared to deliberate. In the rain-drenched thicket, insects chirped with sodden voices. Kichiji pressed further, “If you would deign to convey ‘Hori no Yata of Ōshū,’ their understanding shall be complete. “I have long been charged with delivering this missive.” As he spoke, the gate groaned open with a clang,

“Lord Hori of Lord Hidehira’s household?” “Indeed.” “My apologies for the discourtesy—” immediately opened, “This humble one has always handled Her Ladyship’s correspondence and received honorable letters addressed to me from your side. I am Jijūnosuke, a retainer of our house,” said the young samurai, about twenty years old, showing his face. “Ah, so it’s you...” “For the first time, your esteemed will—” The two exchanged greetings as if they were old acquaintances. “As for Her Ladyship, I had occasion to glimpse her from afar during her recent journey to the capital near Kiyomizu Temple, but this marks my first visit to the mansion tonight.”

“Well met—come in,” said Jijūnosuke as he ushered him inside and closed the gate. Inside and outside the alcove, autumn leaves grew so thickly that there seemed to be no boundary between them. The bush clover was still early, and the bellflowers had yet to bloom, but the night air after the rain felt chillily like mid-autumn.

Servants too seemed exceedingly few. Led to the samurai room, Kichiji sat formally upright, but both carrying candles and preparing tea were all done by Jijūnosuke. Yet what he felt since entering here—contrary to its outward appearance—was something akin to a warm familial harmony enveloping him, truly befitting the residence of the cultured Fujiwara clan. To Kichiji, who had known only the crude households of warriors or else vagrant street urchins' lives,

"(Ah, there truly is an air of refinement here...)" he thought, sensing it equally in the furnishings about him and the faint fragrance of incense wood being burned somewhere.

“My apologies for the discourtesy.” Jijūnosuke sat down, “The truth is, there is somewhat of a commotion at His Lordship’s residence.” “Oh,” Kichiji recalled a rumor he had heard along the way,

“Is there someone ill?” “Not at all,” Jijūnosuke laughed. Kichiji felt rather surprised by the brightness of his countenance. “It is a joyous occasion. This spring, on the first day of the Third Month of Jōan 3, a child as radiant as a jewel was born. Because of this, it was as if a hundred-year spring had returned to the honorable house—His Lordship, Her Ladyship, Lord Wakasa-no-kami of the clan, and Lord Munenari all came visiting morning and night, resulting in those gatherings in the inner quarters. Coinciding with tonight, it happens to be something called the first meal ceremony—a private family celebration.”

When Kichiji heard this, he suddenly recalled the light on the roof ridge he had seen before coming here.

Ten “However… I’m afraid an audience cannot be arranged, but I have relayed your arrival,” Jijūnosuke said. However, rather than attending to Kichiji’s business, he himself became caught up in delighting over his lord’s auspicious event and promptly steered the conversation back to that subject. The child was most robust, noble in bearing—a boy like a jewel. Moreover, it is said his name was given as Jikakumaru because Her Ladyship had dreamed of a five-needle pine during her pregnancy. Moreover, it is said he remained in the womb for twelve months.

Furthermore—perhaps due to Her Ladyship Yoshimitsu Gozen’s extraordinary devotion—it is said that before conception she was granted a vision of Nyoirin Kannon, the Wish-Fulfilling Avalokiteśvara, in her dreams, and that there were various other miraculous signs besides.

Furthermore, as a certain holy man had specially come to declare: this year marked two thousand one hundred and twenty-two years since Shakyamuni Buddha's passing—or perhaps it signified a divine vision. The pine character combines 'eighteen' and 'duke,' resonating with the numerical symbolism of Amida's Original Vow. It was said he rubbed his prayer beads between his hands, bowed low at Her Ladyship's bedside, and departed with these words: "This infant embodies Amida Nyorai of the Western Pure Land—cherish him devoutly."

His tale was endless. Kichiji, too, was listening attentively, keeping this favorable talk in mind. Were this told to Lord Shanaō of Kurama, he would surely feel heartened, thinking that another ally for the Minamoto clan had been gained. Then, in the secluded eastern room,

“Someone called, ‘Jijūnosuke.’”

“Yes.” He nodded politely, stood up, and left. It was under a prior written arrangement from Her Ladyship Yoshimitsu Gozen that Kichiji had come—she wished for him to stop by when next meeting Lord Shanaō, as there was something she desired to have delivered. (To my cousin—what exactly is this thing she wants me to deliver?) Kichiji shifted his numb legs slightly and waited. And he softly imagined the beauty of Her Ladyship Yoshimitsu Gozen’s first childbirth behind closed eyelids. Once or twice near Kiyomizu, he had seen her figure from afar. She must still be quite young. Although she was a married woman, the impression of her as a truly pure and beautiful woman remained deeply etched. In terms of noble bearing, as the daughter of Yoshichika, Governor of Tsushima—legitimate son of Yoshiie, Chinjufu Shōgun and rightful heir of the Minamoto clan—there could be no room for dispute.

Sharing General Yoshiie as their grandfather, Minamoto no Yoshitomo was needless to say her cousin; yet this very Yoshitomo embodied Taira no Kiyomori’s hatred itself. Whether deemed fortunate or otherwise, she had wed into the destitute Fujiwara house at fifteen. Though being cousin to Yoshitomo—the Grand Minister’s sworn enemy—this very kinship led Kiyomori to neglect her existence, thereby permitting her to live undisturbed through the years.

From neglect, Jikakumaru was born. —he who would later become Saint Shinran. If her husband, Fujiwara no Arinori, had been a flourishing talent or a political figure involved in governance, Jikakumaru might never have been born. For prior to this—Yoshimitsu Gozen’s lineage had become detested by Rokuhara. Though not subjected to the severe exclusions endured by Yoshitomo’s sons—Yoritomo and Shanaō (Yoshitsune)—the household could not have remained untainted by some manner of surveillance and constraints.

“Ah.” “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

Jijūnosuke soon entered carrying something—a small lacquered box.

Eleven "This—Her Ladyship bids you present it to Lord Shanaō of Kurama." Before the small lacquered box, Jijūnosuke spoke.

It was a flat lacquered box. Having received permission, Kichiji gently lifted the lid to look inside. The fragrance of aloeswood enveloped his body like smoke. Wrapped in white silk and further encased in a protective wrapper, there lay a lovely single-volume sutra booklet. On indigo paper, fine characters in gold ink had been written—each one resembling an exquisitely crafted Buddha figure, imbued with solemn dignity and ascetic devotion. "Whose sutra transcription might this be?" Kichiji inquired. "In that case—" Jijūnosuke adopted a formal tone.

“Her Ladyship Yoshimitsu Gozen has privately grieved over her cousin Lord Shanaō’s solitude, deigning to hold him in her thoughts each day…… Pray relay this truth to Kurama.” Kichiji showed a faintly displeased expression but accepted it reverently, tucking the item into his robe as he asked, “Anything more?” “A verbal message suffices—but convey it earnestly: without neglecting memorial rites for the late Lord Yoshitomo and all the Minamoto house, may he himself too devote himself day and night to Buddhist practice, that he might become an exemplary scholar…” “There are further words from Her Ladyship and the master.”

“Understood.” “Well, that will be all...”

Kichiji took his leave and exited through the rear gate from which he had come.

The starlight grew clearer than at dusk. The night found Hino Village devoid of passersby.

“What is this…?” Having gone through the trouble of coming all this way only to have his expectations dashed, he was disappointed.

He now clearly understood that Her Ladyship Yoshimitsu Gozen’s compassion and the consideration held by himself and his master Hidehira—even as they were both forms of goodwill toward Lord Shanaō—were of entirely different natures.

His master Hidehira plotted to bring Shanaō down from the Buddhist realm and raise banners for the Minamoto clan’s restoration, while conversely, Yoshimitsu Gozen and Fujiwara no Arinori prayed fervently that Shanaō would remain at Kurama Temple until his dying day, frittering away with incense. Indeed, that was undoubtedly a safe path through life—both for Lord Shanaō himself and his cousin. But if what remained of the Minamoto bloodline only sought personal salvation—what then would become of the Minamoto clan? Were we to let the Taira clan persist like that indefinitely? And what became of the roadside famine victims?

He roused his innate Tōhoku warrior spirit and—with feigned nonchalance—seized the lacquered sutra box entrusted to him, spitting in disgust. “This trash! Delivering it to Lord Shanaō would only shackle his ambitions.”

He slammed it down toward the ditch beneath the plaster wall as if to shatter it. He smashed it into the filthy water, but in that instant suddenly saw Yoshimitsu Gozen’s gentle visage before his eyes. A fear seized him—as though trampling with muddy boots upon the warm soul of a radiant being. Drops from mulberry leaves spilled down his back. He shuddered and instinctively turned toward the roof ridge within the plaster-walled compound. Yet he could discern neither the earlier gleam nor detect anything amiss.

But at that moment, something struck his ears sharply. It was the cry of a newborn infant. Jikakumaru was crying. The cry was no ordinary occurrence—a force that could split the earth’s crust, propelling forth the sprouts of all creation toward spring; a radiant voice proclaiming to the world the birth of life.

“Ah…” Kichiji froze wordlessly. Covering his ears with both hands, he ran through the dark field without looking back.

A mute world.

One

The vicinity of Enju-in Temple in Rokujō—where vacant lots occupied more than half of its area—was properly called Chigusa-chō; however, Kyoto residents colloquially referred to it as Genji-machi while those among Taira faction’s lowly sorts would—

They never missed an opportunity to mock the fallen state of once-prosperous noble clans, even derisively naming the residential district itself “Cow Dung Town” and such. Noritsuna, Governor of Wakasa, lived there. Though he was not of the Minamoto clan, the government residences for the Retired Emperor's Poetry Bureau attendants had been in that area since ancient times, so there was no helping it. The reason this area came to be called Cow Dung Town was that within what should have been a human-inhabited area, “Rokujō Oushiba” (Sixth Ward Cattle Grounds) had encroached upon it, with filthy cowherd tenements and cow sheds scattered like a hamlet across the landscape. Moreover, in the vacant lots, unrestrained cattle—white ones, spotted ones, brown ones—grazed everywhere, so that if one walked carelessly, they would literally tread upon abundant cow dung.

Therefore, even when autumn arrived, the flies showed no sign of diminishing. Noritsuna Ason, being a poet, had long been accustomed to living in this residence, yet even so, at times— "How I wish I could live somewhere without flies—" he found himself thinking with profound intensity.

However, amid the continuous wars since the Hougen and Heiji eras, poets and such had been utterly forgotten as useless appendages—particularly in the eyes of those in power— (A poet? If he’s a poet, then letting him live in Cow Dung Town is precisely what he deserves)—such seemed to be how they were viewed. The impotent poets of the Poetry Bureau could not so much as whisper a syllable of discontent against this. “Tch.” Noritsuna pushed the desk aside. The autumn flies that had been swarming on the inkstone and paper rose noisily along with him.

“Dearest—” he called his wife, “I have long neglected to pay my respects to Venerable Jien of Awataguchi. I shall deliver these poetry drafts entrusted to me and inquire after his well-being.” “Might your honorable younger brother not grace us with his presence today?”

“He did say he’d stop by on his way back from the Imperial Palace, but…” “Very well. On my return journey, I shall stop by Arinori’s residence in Hino. We’ll meet there.” When he mentioned visiting Hino, his wife— She smiled wryly as if thinking, “Again?” Being childless, ever since his younger brother’s child had been born, he seemed unable to rest unless he visited their residence at least once every three days. “Safe travels.” With his wife’s voice at his back and his gaze lingering on the chrysanthemums by the hedge, he stepped through his residence’s gate—

“Ah, Brother,” The youngest brother, Muneaki Ason, happened to arrive at the gate,

“Where are you headed?” he asked, falling into step beside him.

Two “Ah, Brother—perfect timing,” said Noritsuna, having already decided unilaterally that Muneaki would accompany him as he began walking. “I intend to bring these edited poetry drafts to the archbishop in Awataguchi. Will you come along?” “Let us go.” “And then on our return, let us stop by Hino and behold Jikakumaru’s smiling face.” “Each time I see him, how much larger he has grown.”

“Hahaha.” “But it’s a baby—growing is only natural, after all.” “Yet when I don’t see him for ten days, he changes so utterly it astonishes me.” “Why don’t you make one yourself?”

“It’s not so simple,” Muneaki shook his head, “Speaking of the Taira clan—even their lowest members can secure brides. But for an impoverished Fujiwara like us, especially minor officials such as palace scribes—women these days won’t come to marry them at all,” he continued. “That said—even as a Junior Fourth Rank Fujiwara courtier,” Noritsuna countered, “no matter how reduced to skin and bones one may be, having such a court rank means one cannot take even a commoner or lowborn daughter as a wife…” The cows in the vacant lot lay basking in the tranquil late autumn sunlight, drawing out their leisurely voices as they lowed.

To his younger brother’s lamentations, Noritsuna nodded with sympathy. Yet having a wife and many children meant being caught between court rank and poverty while growing old in wretchedness—compared to any clansmen suffering such circumstances, remaining single still proved far more carefree. This had always been among his words to console his younger brother.

Noritsuna, Arinori, Muneaki. In this order, they were three brothers—all men: the eldest, Noritsuna, was a poet; the middle brother, Arinori, under the official title of Empress's Senior Secretary, had once occupied important positions in both the imperial palace and inner court but now smoldered in reclusive obscurity outside the capital; and the youngest, Muneaki, served as a clerk in the Bureau of Documents—each an unlucky courtier of their age, all lacking in vitality. Yet in their time, Fujiwara no Noritsuna was a poet so renowned in waka that he could be counted among the top five practitioners of the art, while even the youngest brother, Muneaki, possessed genius-level calligraphic skill—having passed the sutra transcriber’s examination at an early age and, by seventeen, copied the entire Man’yōshū in just ten days, an achievement that had earned him imperial admiration from Emperor Go-Shirakawa himself. Such was his brilliance.

But no matter how much of a genius or prodigy one might be—be they poet or calligrapher—today’s society neither praised nor utilized their innate talents. In the case of those from Fujiwara or Minamoto lineages, this held all the more true—indeed, one might say their talents became those that invited misfortune upon themselves. Yet even dwelling in such an unlivable world, the brothers’ spirits remained unimpoverished. Along Shichijō and Gojō Avenues within view, silk-tasseled palanquins and eight-petaled litters—ox-drawn carriages all—processed while decked in autumn foliage; from grand mansions at every crossroads seeped daytime melodies of Saibara flutes; while at Rokuhara’s rose garden overlooking Kamo River, it seemed either Komatsu-dono or Chancellor Taira hosted another gathering today—from swarming dignitaries’ conveyances spilled such dazzlements: golden greatswords, violet wide-legged hakama, gleaming leather shoes, and resplendent beauties overflowing through garden lawns and pavilions—all visible from Gojō Bridge, yet

They felt no envy whatsoever—nor did it even cross their minds to consider the Taira clan inconvenient.

To lack even the vigor to despise the Taira clan—this was the present state of the Fujiwara, and the extremity to which the Minamoto had been reduced.

“Oh… Here we are.” Before they knew it, the two had come to Awataguchi. When they came to Jūzenji's Crossroads, Noritsuna came to a halt,

“Brother, will you wait outside the gate, or will you come in?” Noritsuna asked Muneaki.

Three “I will wait outside,” said Muneaki.

“Alright.” Noritsuna paused to consider, then pushed the small gate of Shōren-in Temple before him with one hand. “Well then, today I’ll go pay my respects alone. “I’ll be back soon,” he said as he vanished inside. Muneaki wandered outside the wall for a while before making his way to Kaji-ga-ike Pond, where he settled onto a stone amidst weeds and stared vacantly at ripples from fish—perhaps crucian carp—disturbing the water’s surface. Occasionally he lifted his gaze,

As if to say, "Still not?" he turned toward Shōren-in. From that vantage point, Shōren-in’s long earthen wall and the dense grove of trees within sprawled like an entire castle, making it impossible to discern where the temple complex lay or where any human inhabitants might dwell. "When it comes to waka discussions, Brother is in his element, and the archbishop is particularly passionate about them—once they get going, they won’t be able to return right away." While searching for an outlet for his boredom, Muneaki envisioned the figures of his brother and Archbishop Jien, who had forgotten worldly affairs as they discussed matters of artistic refinement.

The archbishop was still young but held exceptional authority in both Tendai doctrine and matters concerning the Cloistered Emperor's court and Imperial Palace—being both the sixty-second head priest of Mount Hiei and third son of Fujiwara no Tadamichi, the Hōshō-ji Regent, while also sharing fraternal ties with Tsukinowa no Zenjō Kanezane—such was the stature commanded by Awataguchi's archbishop. True to expectations, his brother failed to reappear for some time after entering. Having tired of observing fish ripple patterns in the pond, Muneaki let his restless feet meander purposelessly through nearby grasslands. Clang-clank,

The sound of hammers resounded. Amidst the white pampas grass, a smithy with a roof weighted by stones came into view.

From within the pampas grass, a skinny dog ran off with a field mouse in its mouth. The dog dug under the floor of a smithy and barked— Woof! From afar, it barked at Muneaki. In this plains settlement, the renowned artisan Sanjō Kojishi had once lived for a time. Then, as it was said that this pond's water was reputed excellent for forging swords, smiths from various provinces gathered until before anyone knew it, they had formed an entire smithy settlement. And even the most incompetent laborers were inscribing signatures like "Awataguchi So-and-so" or "Sanjō Kojishi So-and-so" and peddling them to Rokuhara warriors.

"I see… In today's world, it seems those who forge swords are more sought after than those who write or compose poetry." Standing before a smithy, Muneaki absently watched the smiths at work. Inside the pitch-black hut, rugged men pumped bellows, burned charcoal, swung hammers— Clang! Claaang! —sending sparks flying from the anvil. In that hut and this workshop alike, countless swords were being crafted in this manner. When he considered what these blades might eventually be used for, the timid Muneaki grew so terrified he could no longer remain there.

“Hey!” When he turned around, he saw his brother Noritsuna running toward him from the direction of Shōren-in. Muneaki, as though delivered from his plight,

"Have you finished your business?" "No—I've finally managed to take my leave," said Noritsuna. "Since it's nearly noon, His Grace insisted I stay for a meal—left me quite at odds." Released from the stiffness of prostrating himself before the nobleman, he stretched freely as he surveyed the bright late-autumn fields.

Four “Is His Grace in good health?” “Hmm, unchanged.” “He must be progressing in waka composition.” “His Excellency has advanced remarkably. There are poems of his that even surpass ours at times.” “But unlike verses born from living among common folk like us—someone of noble birth made head priest in deep temple halls might comprehend blossoms and moonbeams, but could they truly fathom poetry of human anguish? Of tears? Of spiritual turmoil?”

“No.” Noritsuna shook his head. Turning along the wild path where bush clovers lay sleeping, they descended a narrow, gradual slope ahead while— “That’s not quite it.”

"Is that so?" "His Excellency knows worldly matters thoroughly. "The maneuvers of warrior houses, political stratagems, the Cloistered Emperor's movements... "...He simply maintains an air of ignorance." "Ah." "To keep up appearances of unknowing constitutes wise gentlemen's common sense in this age." "All the more for one born to an illustrious lineage."

“I see.” “His Excellency also said this—‘Lately at Yoshimizu below this slope, a peculiar monk around forty years of age has appeared, fervently preaching the doctrine of exclusive nenbutsu practice. Unlike the clichéd sermons of ordinary monks, his words at times contain true merit.’” “‘Regarding His Excellency’s visit to the palace—I had mentioned those rumors earlier—but in this unending age where warlords vie for power and samurai clans prosper, only the common people remain beyond salvation.’” “‘Unless a saint emerges who can truly save these people—save their very souls from within—then the Pure Land promised by Buddhist teachings becomes nothing but a falsehood.’” “‘In such times, the monk of Yoshimizu was like rain clouds awaited during drought.’” “‘On your return journey,’ he had said, ‘you should all go listen at least once.’”

“Oh… You even knew about such things?” “His Majesty must be going out in secret.”

"I have heard rumors that lately around Yoshimizu, a devoted nenbutsu practitioner has appeared—preaching even on rainy days and windy days." "Since we're passing by, shall we stop in?" "Indeed—" Though not particularly compelled, the two men stopped by with the mindset that since the Archbishop of Awataguchi had praised this monk so highly, it wouldn't hurt to at least glimpse what manner of priest he might be.

Embraced by Utano Nakayama, Kiyomizu Hill, and the peaks of Mount Kachō, there lay a quiet basin that looked down upon Kyoto.

“Oh... I see... What an enormous crowd.” When they approached Yoshimizu, the two exchanged glances at the streams of people flocking in from Gion’s woods, Gojō slope, and roads in all directions—none deterred by the distance.

Farmers who seemed to have rushed here between work, woodcutters, maidservants pulling along infants by the hand, vendors balancing loads on their heads, and travelers. Monks of other sects slipping in with faint resentment in their eyes, daughters of samurai families hiding their faces under veils, maidservants, warriors, and miscellaneous classes—all unified into a single hue—pressed in tightly as they gathered toward the small Zen quarters of about three bays.

“...What a tremendous throng.” Both Muneaki and Noritsuna stood dumbfounded, struck by this overwhelming surge of humanity. In their tattered sandals that kicked up dust, the people swarming toward this place had eyes that appeared desperately seeking—whether a single drop of water or anything else—a place of rest for the heart... a breath of life for the heart... anything that might become nourishment for their parched souls.

Five

Beyond one hill, the swordsmiths of the blacksmithing hamlet echoed with the clang of hammers as if celebrating the advent of warring states, while here, the lost people—

"Namu Amida Bu—"

“Namu Amida Butsu.” They crowded around a single nenbutsu practitioner like starving children, pressing close in their quest for salvation. “Brother, if you come over here, you might catch some of it.” Muneaki pressed toward the side of the Zen quarters as the crowd jostled him. Crowding was inevitable. The garden of the Zen quarters spanned no more than twenty tsubo—roughly sixty-six square meters. The brushwood fence had given way, and both within and beyond the garden’s bounds, people sat packed together, spreading out hats or unfurling straw mats. At the rear stood three or four layers of onlookers.

Eight-tatami, six-tatami, and one small room. The Zen quarters—barely three bays wide—had their paper screens removed so people sat packed into every available space: along the veranda and into the earthen floor’s corners. In that central room sat Hōnenbō Genkū, the rumored figure.

There was no high platform. There were no golden Buddhist implements either. There was only a single tatami dais pulled slightly toward the rear, an aged sutra desk placed before it, and seated before this arrangement was Hōnen. Clad in a russet robe over white cotton undergarments, Hōnen spoke in a voice neither particularly loud yet clearly carrying as he broke down the essence of the Nenbutsu Ōjōgi doctrine into terms comprehensible even to children and elders. “Hmm…” Noritsuna groaned near Muneaki’s ear, though what had moved him remained unclear. Before long, to Muneaki,

“That monk does indeed possess an extraordinary appearance.” “...Archbishop Jien truly has discerning eyes,” he whispered. Since his elder brother had expertise in physiognomy, Muneaki redirected his attention to Hōnen’s profile after this remark. The shape of his head—recessed at the center and rising high—differed from ordinary monks’, while his eyes, deeply recessed beneath their brows, glimmered with piercing intensity. Seated there, those eyes at times seemed like a fearsome light piercing through society’s underbelly to gaze upon humanity’s distant future; yet at other moments, they appeared as a gentle look that might endear him even to the infants nearby.

People, do not doubt! The Pure Land exists; the Pure Land is tranquil. Through nine years of arduous study, What Genkū attained resides solely In the single principle of nenbutsu ōjō— This truth abides. Hōnen’s voice rang clear as ceremonial chant. When the turbulent waves of countless souls finally stilled and inclined their ears to the Dharma’s voice, his tone grew fervent—becoming belief incarnate—as he pressed forward, seizing the people through his preaching.

“Do not doubt!” Hōnen proclaimed this as his first tenet. “First, chant the nenbutsu! Whether you possess wisdom or lack it, commit evil deeds or good, your occupation or family ties—none of these hindrances shall obstruct you. Single-mindedly turn toward the Buddha’s light! A single thought, ten thoughts—chanting the Name—this is your first step toward the Pure Land.”

—What happened? At that moment, there were those at the back who began clamoring noisily, “Huh? Mongaku?”

“What has become of Mongaku?”

“Go see! Go and see!” they began to disperse, ten or twenty people at a time swarming down toward Shijō.

Six

Like the moon reflected in water, the pristine dharma talk assembly was thrown into disarray as if a sudden wind had swept through. "What's that?" "What’s this?" They turned. They rose. And then, one after another, they began to disperse with cries of “Go see!” and ran off. By this point, Hōnen understood the psychology of the masses—minds that no longer reflected anything. “Let us conclude for today.”

He rested his fingers on the sutra desk and lowered his head slightly toward the people.

There were those with reluctant expressions. Also present was an elderly man still asking questions, while “Hmph…” monks of other sects left with sneers, but most swarmed down like windblown leaves scattering toward the foothills.

By the time Noritsuna and Muneaki had descended there, from Rokuhara Ōji to the tree-lined path toward Shiga Yamamichi,

“Whoa—” “That’s him!” It was a human wave. The dust swirled thick. Through it all, “Stay back!” “Rabble!” Straw-sandaled officials clutching bamboo poles and sticks, their faces streaked with sweat, pressed forward while berating the crowd. Looking—amidst the surging human tide that jostled and pressed, a lone cage cart creaked and jolted along the pitted road.

The one pulling was a spotted ox; those guarding were fierce-eyed jailers and foot soldiers. Even when chased and scolded with cries of “Mongaku! Mongaku!”, the crowd continued to follow. Engulfed in that dust and the surging tide, Noritsuna and Muneaki found themselves pressed close to the cage cart, walking alongside it. Upon an ordinary ox cart—the kind used to transport logs or stone—square pillars measuring roughly one shaku per side had been erected. Rough-hewn timbers formed a crude latticework cage, and within this structure sat Mongaku with bound arms, displayed like a bear in a sideshow.

Lurching unsteadily, he planted his feet and stood rigid. Whenever the officials spoke, “Shut up!” he roared, “I’ll smash this thing!” he bellowed, thrashing about inside the cage cart. Acting as though he were beyond control, the officials pretended not to notice and pressed onward. “Our brethren!” Mongaku called out from within the cage in his usual vigorous voice. “This cage cart heads east, I tell you! Toward the eastern edge where the sun rises—I am being exiled to Izu! But from there, without fail, the dawn of the destitute shall soon rise and dispel this world’s evil mists!”

“Shut up!” When the jailer struck the cage cart with a splayed bamboo rod, he bellowed in a thunderous voice, “I’m not mute!”

“Shut up!” “I won’t be silenced! Even should this world turn mute, you’ll never seal Mongaku’s mouth!”

Seven And then again, “Heaven has no mouth, yet makes people speak!” Mongaku raised his voice even louder and chanted resonantly to the crowd trailing behind: “Treasures are not eternal jewels, High ranks and splendid robes—what use are they? Feeding lamps with the people’s lifeblood, The flower of extravagance stands perilous! Let a storm descend upon tomorrow! Who can say it shall not be?” “Enough!” The bamboo rod struck the cage cart. “Stop singing, or we’ll douse you!” “Do it!” Mongaku did not flinch.

“Capturing me and exiling me to Izu is like releasing a tiger into the wild! Ah, pitiful! The downfall of the Taira clan is now clear!”

“Run!” The officials ordered the ox driver and urged the beast onward. The wheels raised a terrible rumble through the earth, and billowing yellow dust swirled over the crowd.

“—In this world, there is no infinite glory.” “How much less for the Taira clan!” “O people! O multitude! Do not lose heart—wait for the world to change!”

“Whoa!” The crowd roared.

“Change! Let there be reform!” he shouted as if gone mad. Crack! Crack! Driven on by the whip, the spotted ox pulling the cage cart wagged its tail and galloped madly onward.

Mongaku, to the receding people,

“Farewell!” The crowd too had tears in their eyes. “Farewell—” Through swirling dust,the sun darkened.

“Ah,” came feeble sighs here and there, like the wavering heat rising from summer grass. And as the people flowed toward town bearing the rumors they had heard and seen, among them moved those notorious Rokuhara youths, their cunning eyes ever watchful as they sniffed about for crimes. “Where have you gone?” “Doesn’t seem to be here either,” muttered three temple attendants. At one point, they returned to Torii Avenue with the crowd but turned back again and—

“This is why it’s troublesome.” “That young lord truly gives us endless trouble. Going out is forbidden.” They came running, glancing around restlessly in search of their quarry, “Pardon my abruptness, but—” they asked suddenly, slightly out of breath, having unexpectedly encountered the brothers Noritsuna and Muneie beneath the trees. “What is it?” Muneie stopped in his tracks. “Have you by any chance seen a young lord of about fourteen or fifteen years old in this area?”

“Huh?” Muneie turned to his brother, “Did you see him?” “No.” When Noritsuna shook his head, the three temple attendants looked at him and tried to supplement their lack of words. “Though we say ‘young lord,’ he is in truth a ward of Kurama Temple—his attire bears distinctive features, his frame smaller than his years would suggest, and at first glance his countenance appears rather unremarkable.”

“We don’t know,” both brothers answered.

Eight “Not at all,” With a perfunctory bow，the temple attendants ran off into the distance. Muneie watched them leave，

“Brother, those attendants earlier said they were from Kurama Temple.” “He did say that.”

“Could it be…” he said, tilting his head quizzically. “The young lord those people lost—could that be Shanaō?” “Shanaō, you say?” “The surviving child of Yoshitomo—a ward still known by his childhood name Ushiwaka.” “Ah,” “I really can’t shake that feeling.”

Blood ties cannot be denied—blood will tell. Muneie stood rooted in place, his gaze darting about intently.

Then, on Nakayamadō Hill behind them where Minamoto no Yorimasa’s monument stood, they caught a fleeting glimpse of a face—a child wearing a topknot, beaming as he sat amidst spread white pampas grass plumes.

“Ah! There he is…” When he tugged his brother’s sleeve, Noritsuna too looked up.

That was the spot where a great crowd of onlookers had gathered earlier when the prisoner transport cart carrying Mongaku passed by. The child, being short of stature, must have climbed up there to watch.

Immediately, in the pampas grass beside him, another figure was crouching. It was Kichiji, the traveling merchant and gold dust seller. He seemed to be whispering something. However, Shanaō did not turn his face toward Kichiji; with eyes that seemed utterly vacant, he was staring straight at the clouds. He would occasionally nod and smile. “You mustn’t be suspected. Return quickly, please.” Kichiji said. Shanaō shook his head.

“It’s fine.”

“But…” “I told you it’s fine!” “The time is not yet ripe. “For today, please return to the mountain.” “Got it.” “Well then,” “I’ve told you it’s fine. “Since those three are always annoyingly keeping watch over me, I’ll let them struggle a bit and search for me. Look at them—making fools of themselves, all flustered like that!” Having gone four or five blocks down the avenue, the temple attendants returned this way with weary faces. At that, Shanaō’s small chin twitched in amusement. Before long,

“Ah! There he is!” Having apparently spotted him, the temple attendants came swarming down the hill. And, “Lord Shanaō!” They waved their hands and shouted. Kichiji, in an instant, “See you later,” he said with a parting word, then vanished behind Nakayamadō like a wild fox.

With an utterly unperturbed expression, Shanaō stood there. Indeed, for fifteen years old, he was petite. His cheeks bore deep dimples, as if pressed by a finger. His teeth were finely spaced, with the characteristic discoloration of miso-stained teeth. His eyes—round as jujubes, darting restlessly—revealed a spirited will, burning passion, and the vigorous bloodline of his Minamoto heritage. Yet these traits, simplified through the lens of childhood innocence, made his gaze appear so guileless that ordinary onlookers would dismiss him as nothing more than a mischievous brat.

IX

“What were you doing in such a place?”

The temple retainers looked up at the hill reproachfully. The child Shanaō, “Nothing at all.” He shook his head, “I was looking for you all,” he retorted contrarily. The attendants below made exasperated faces.

“Come down quickly, please.” “I’m coming!” Shanaō spread both sleeves like a kite and took his stance atop the hill. “I warned you—if we collide, it’s not my fault!” He came running down from the hilltop like a rolling ball. “Ah—” Before the temple retainer could dodge, Shanaō deliberately collided with one of them—a heavy thud. The large body rolled onto its back. The small Shanaō stepped on it and leapt over to the other side.

“Ha ha ha ha. “Ha ha ha ha!” He clapped his hands and burst into uproarious laughter.

“You fool. “We warned you about that!” Without so much as a glance back, he was already striding briskly ahead—the swiftness of his feet. The temple retainers, gasping for breath, chased after that small yet gallant figure. Munetoki watched them depart,

“Brother, it is indeed Ushiwaka of Kurama Temple.”

“Hmm,” Noritsuna responded with equal exasperation. “He’s truly become a man now… Yet it feels like mere yesterday—those Hōgen days when all Kyoto wept at rumors of Tokiwa clutching him to her breast alongside her other babes, captured by Rokuhara’s men.”

“He takes after Lord Yoshitomo—quite the little hellion, I must say.” “Even the attendants must be at their wits’ end with him.” “No, those who’ll truly have their hands full aren’t the attendants—’twill be the Taira lords at Rokuhara ere long, mark my words.” "In Izu, his elder brother Yoritomo has already reached manhood." “Shh…”

Noritsuna shook his head reprovingly. For someone had passed behind the row of trees. “That is none of our concern. For poets and scribes—whether it be under Taira rule or Minamoto reign—spring remains unchanged from autumn unchanged; in any era one may find joy if they choose to seek it.” “But…” Munetoki whispered, “Somehow I cannot shake this dread that an ominous storm will come battering Kyoto’s blossoms black—be it Mongaku of Takao’s shouted prophecies or these stirrings among Minamoto clansmen everywhere…”

“Don’t say such things,” he admonished twice. “Become mute. Speaking will be deemed a crime!”

“Mongaku also said it,” Munetoki pressed on. “A mute world.” “...So,” said Noritsuna, as if recalling something else entirely,

“Speaking of mutes—Arinori’s child Jikakumaru has already reached six months since birth yet does not speak, which weighs on Yoshimitsu Gozen’s heart.” “That’s impossible—a six-month-old nursing infant shouldn’t be able to speak yet.” “But with willpower, he should at least be able to move his lips.” “Ha ha ha, that’s what we call borrowing trouble.” “It’s because Yoshimitsu Gozen and Lord Arinori of Hino both love him too much.”

Ten

There was nothing but dew and the sound of insects. Hino Village remained thick with grass.

Jijū no Suke—a retainer Fujiwara no Arinori had raised from childhood—was wielding a rake to clear the drainage channel outside the mud-plastered wall where grass had choked the waterflow, burning accumulated fallen leaves as he worked. “Hm?” Wondering what he had found, he thrust his hand into the water plants. “Oh! Isn’t this the sutra Her Ladyship transcribed with such care to present to Lord Shanaō of Kurama? That Kichiji left it discarded here—he never took it to Kurama after all.” He picked up the waterlogged lacquered box and scrolls. And then,

“Hateful wretch.” With visible irritation, he glared at the trampled grass where footprints lay.

At that moment, Noritsuna and Munetoki appeared together. When Jijū no Suke, with an agitated expression, complained about the sutra transcription,

“Hmm… So he threw it away and left.” The two men stared at it and were lost in thought for a while. However, neither Noritsuna nor Munetoki showed any particular displeasure on their faces. Those who cast things aside must have their own resolve; the bliss of the Pure Land should not be forced upon people, for in this world there are even those who would rather willingly embrace the flames of hell than pray for paradise. —for example, like Mongaku.

The two men thought this. And then, they pondered Shanaō’s future in their hearts. On Nakayama-dō Hill, they caught a fleeting glimpse of a man’s shadow resembling a wild fox—and in that same moment, it dawned on them that this might well have been Kichiji, who had visited Hino just the other night.

“Very well. Bury it quietly somewhere people won’t tread.” “What a waste! That beast!” Jijū no Suke was still cursing as if his anger remained unappeased.

“Is the master present?” “Yes, he is in attendance.” “Announce me.” “This way,” he said, dragging his rake as he took the lead.

Since this mansion was laid out similarly to our own residence, they deliberately avoided using the formal entrance and instead circled around the woven bamboo fence to enter the eastern garden’s grounds,

“Oh!” Suddenly, there on the sunny southern veranda, Yoshimitsu Gozen—holding her nursing infant—and Arinori sat together as a couple, affectionately soothing their child and relaxing. It is often said that a woman’s beauty peaks with her first childbirth, but Yoshimitsu Gozen’s recent haggard countenance and form—like autumn grasses that had endured midsummer’s heat—appeared supple and pure, her dignified beauty at times so dazzling even to Noritsuna and Munetoki who saw her daily.

“You honor us with your visit together… Now then, please come this way to the chamber.” “And Jikakumaru—” “Oh, he’s sleeping soundly.”

“Let me see.” As though taking precedence over all else, Noritsuna peered into Yoshimitsu Gozen’s arms. Is this not what they mean when they say a pearl begets a pearl? He had inherited his mother’s beauty in full. He was breathing peacefully through his small nostrils. The sweet scent of milk and an aroma reminiscent of maternal love softened the hearts of Noritsuna and Munetoki—men who had long since journeyed far from their homeland—and led them to ponder something mysterious about the very genesis of their own lives.

Eleven Here, even the demons of all evils found no shadow to lurk within. Light filled every corner. “Here—let me hold him awhile.” When Munetoki took the child into his arms, “My turn,” said Arinori, transferring the sleeping Jikakumaru onto his own lap. “He’s grown heavier.” Arinori, the father,

“That he is! Far healthier than ordinary children,” he declared proudly. At this, Yoshimitsu Gozen, “Shouldn’t he be saying something by now?” she said anxiously. “Ha ha ha! Even now—as I discussed with Elder Brother along the way—it’s still too early.” “Is it still too early?” “There’s no need to worry.” “But he should at least be saying a word or two by now.” “As long as he cries, that’s enough. When he needs to cry, he will cry.” “At times, he cries with such a deafening loudness.”

“That’s enough.” Arinori was not particularly concerned. Above all else, when placed on his lap—the considerable weight he felt allowed him to trust in this child’s robust health. To parental hearts anxious he might be mute, his tightly sealed lips—so firmly closed they seemed to confirm that fear—remained shut. Yet his eyes, round and clear, glimmered within whites like a cloudless sky as they began opening to this world’s light. When he slept, thick lashes lowered deeply over them.

“He’ll be fine,” the father himself had declared with finality.

But——eventually, the next year came. His first full-year birthday arrived. By the traditional count, he was now two years old. Summer had passed, and autumn had come.

However, despite that, Jikakumaru had yet to utter anything resembling meaningful words from his lips. The wet nurse finally furrowed her brows with apparent unease and turned to Jijū no Suke, “The young lord may indeed be mute.” It was said she had whispered this softly, and her husband Arinori too,

“It’s fine—as long as he has all his limbs,” he said with sad resignation, trying to keep his wife from losing heart. Before anyone realized, even among the laborers coming and going, “It’s rumored that the infant born at the Hino mansion is a mute child.” To maternal ears, those words struck coldly. She too had come to believe this, “What karmic retribution,” she lamented in sorrow—though she had once pleaded with Nyoirin Kannon over her childless misfortune— She thought it revealed profound greed to forget her earnest prayer (“Please grant us a child”) and then complain about a mere flaw in the pearl she had been given.

What’s more, her own bloodline came to be weighed in the balance. The warrior ancestors of the Minamoto clan must have forged untold realms of carnage in this world. The lives taken by her father Yoshichika and cousin Yoshitomo alone had surely amassed karmic transgressions too vast for even ten thousand pagodas to expiate. That a child born into this lineage’s final generation should emerge mute—ought one not rather accept this as merciful recompense to be received with gratitude, since no human offspring can escape the judgment of deeds and their inevitable retribution? She reconsidered this perspective.

But her maternal sorrow remained sorrow; she felt an indefinable sense of inferiority before both society and her husband, and she could not wipe away that grief.

Twelve

In any case, Yoshimitsu Gozen herself—and indeed Arinori’s household as a whole—maintained a life of modesty and purity, content without complaint. They placed their spiritual focus solely on faith, marital love, and the nurturing of their child, living in serene detachment from what the world calls fame and profit.

And so——both morning and evening, in the mansion’s household Buddhist altar room, for a brief hour each day, the joyful chanting of the nenbutsu by Arinori and his wife would spill forth.

Moreover, having grown accustomed to this, the young retainer Jijū no Suke would wash his face, rinse his mouth, and worship the sun,

………… He silently chanted the nenbutsu. The maidservant was also like that. The wet nurse was also like that. Even the page boys who fetched water and ran errands had come to emulate this practice, until this old mansion seemed wrapped in a radiant harmony that others looked upon with envy. In truth, the splendor of Rokuhara-dono and the opulence of Komatsu-dono, when compared to the life of this couple living humbly among the grasses, must have fallen far short in terms of peace and happiness.

Wild geese passed over—autumn deepened. It was a Mid-Autumn night.

“Brother, I have brought some fine wine in a flask.” Muneyoshi came.

Before long, Noritsuna also appeared. It being the Mid-Autumn night, with three brothers now gathered, they could hardly forgo sharing a toast. Yoshimitsu Gozen had the high-legged trays and meal items prepared, and holding Jikakumaru herself, she took her place at the harmonious moon-viewing gathering.

Intentionally, the candles remained unlit. The shadows of pampas grass plumes swayed across the veranda and surrounding areas. Moonlight streaming through the eaves far outshone any lamplight. As sake cups circulated, a faint flush of intoxication drifted across the guests' faces. Discussions of poetry and recitations of waka—their engrossment in these pleasures knew no end. Then, as if suddenly remembering, "Ah, right!" Muneyoshi turned to Yoshimitsu Gozen. "From the Rokuhara commissioner—have there been any troublesome inquisitions directed at you, Lady Yoshimitsu?"

“No...” Yoshimitsu Gozen shook her head sideways. “Not particularly—have they not come from Rokuhara officials to say such things? ...Could there be such rumors?” “Oh, it’s nothing—just my own needless fretting. The reason being—my cousin Lord Shanaō of Kurama has finally descended the mountain and gone into hiding in the Kantō region.”

“What—Lord Shanaō?” “The Taira were caught off guard and outmaneuvered—they’re stamping the earth in fury. Of course he wouldn’t have fled without rebellious intent. That child vanishing so abruptly—though still a boy—is plainly viewed as the Minamoto’s gauntlet thrown down.” “But how could a sixteen-year-old stripling possibly escape unscathed?... A grievous affair indeed.”

She suddenly looked up at the clouds drifting across the moon. She shuddered at the thought that yet more of those connected by blood might weep over the disappearance of the cousin for whom she had secretly prayed in her heart. And then, when she noticed, Jikakumaru—who had been playing on her lap—had somehow crawled innocently about in the moonlight and made his way out to the veranda.

Thirteen “Dangerous!” Arinori stood up before she could rise and scooped Jikakumaru into his arms, then placed him on his own knee. “Lately I can’t take my eyes off him anymore,” he laughed. Muneyoshi and Noritsuna took turns amusing Jikakumaru while he continued: “It’s still manageable now that we can’t take our eyes off him, but once he grows up like Shanaō, parents will have quite the ordeal.” “No—he won’t become like that youth. Because this child is mute.” Yoshimitsu Gozen’s voice carried both defiance and resignation. “In this mute world where words become crimes, that he was born mute—this too must be thanks to our devotion as his parents.” Arinori peered down at the child on his knee as he spoke.

Jikakumaru gazed fixedly at the round moon with eyes clearer than the Mid-Autumn moon.

(What will become of this child?)—both the mother and the uncles appeared to be thinking the same thing, precisely because rumors about the youth from Kurama had just surfaced. Everyone gazed into Jikakumaru’s guileless eyes with guileless hearts. Jikakumaru brought his two small palms together with a sharp clap, his smile forming dimples. The child’s palms were as round as a Bodhisattva’s sacred hands. The people found themselves smiling involuntarily. Then—

“Na... mu... a... mi... da Butsu.” Someone said. It had been uttered in a low voice—inaudible—but then immediately after, in broken speech, clearly: “—Namu Amida Butsu,” he continued to chant. Arinori, who had been holding Jikakumaru on his knee, at that moment—

“What?” Stunned, “Jikakumaru has spoken! Jikakumaru has spoken!” he screamed. Yoshimitsu Gozen also cried out. “It’s Jikakumaru. Truly, the one who just spoke was Jikakumaru!” With joy so intense it bordered on madness etched across her face, she informed Muneyoshi, then Noritsuna.

“?... …”

But the two stood there dazed and bewildered. For the voice that had emerged from Jikakumaru’s guileless heart was no ordinary infant’s first utterance. He had unmistakably chanted the six-character Name of the Buddha. Struck by the miracle before their eyes, they remained silent as if trembling—their bodies gone numb. “How strange…” “What Bodhisattva’s incarnation could he be?” The two continued tilting their heads in puzzlement long afterward as though it were an unsolvable mystery, but Arinori declared that it was neither a divine sign nor anything strange.

“That which reflects Suchness is Suchness itself. “The sincere heart of his wife had nurtured Jikakumaru’s spirit during his fetal nurturing. Moreover, since birth, it was only natural that even his young soul had been harmoniously blended—imperceptibly over time—with both the domestic peace of this household and its profound gratitude for the Dharma that permeated these walls. What miracle could it be?”

Having explained this, yet moved by its sacredness, both he and his wife pressed their palms together toward the vast sky of Suchness,

“Namu—” they involuntarily chanted loudly, and then broke into sobs.

Crimson Jewel Chapter

Kagerō Chronicle

I

Jōan Era Year 4 was an unforgettable spring and autumn for Buddhist Japan—particularly for the nenbutsu path.

Before the event of Jikakumaru of Hino—not yet two full years old since birth—opening his mind's eye to the harvest moon and innocently chanting the six syllables "Namu—" could spread as undisguised gossip, Master Hōnen had already begun propagating his new doctrine of exclusive nenbutsu practice at Kishū Zenbō in eastern Kyoto during that same year. In later reflection—it could be said that Master Hōnen’s first proclamation and the young Shinran’s first utterance had unexpectedly emerged into the world under a promise that was no promise—sharing the same autumn in the era they were destined to be born. It could be called a profound karmic bond.

To Hōnen’s hall, every day, people seeking the Dharma gathered like grass swaying in the wind.

From the imperial court too came an invitation. Regent Kanezane attended his lectures. While one could feel the Taira clan’s rampant dominance, their tyrannical rule, and the perilous subterranean heat that might erupt in flames at any moment, it flowed like a cool spring’s murmur—this teaching being eagerly drawn into the parched hearts and anxieties of the people. The Retired Emperor Rokujō passed away.

The era name was changed to An'gen, Year 2.

Yoshimitsu Gozen gave birth to another boy a year later—Jikakumaru’s younger brother, Asamaro. Asamaro turned two, and Jikakumaru turned four. His younger brother being held by the wet nurse, “Asa-dono, open your eyes…” he said, already showing the demeanor of a young elder brother.

The wet nurse who had been hired for the brothers, one time, “Lord Suké! Lord Suké!” Summoning Jijū no Suké, the two of them peered into the Buddhist altar room through a gap in the sliding doors.

And because they were laughing boisterously, Yoshimitsu Gozen stepped out from her sitting room, "What are you all looking at?" she inquired from behind them. The wet nurse,

“Oh, do look! There, Lord Jikakumaru is worshiping the statue, draping his little hands with prayer beads.” “No one taught him, yet how meekly he—” she reported, narrowing her eyes. “Truly…” A smile drifted involuntarily into Yoshimitsu Gozen’s eyes. The child was his mother’s mirror. Both black karma and white karma—the deeds we perform are instantly mirrored. She felt a chill of terror.

“Mother,” Jikakumaru called out. Noticing the presence of others, he turned around, discarded his prayer beads, and clung to her knees. In his demeanor as he sat worshiping before the altar, there shone an innocent, guileless light—as though the Buddha himself had been reborn—striking observers with sacred awe. Yet when he clung to his mother’s knees and playfully nuzzled at her breast, his appearance remained that of an ordinary child, no different from any other in the world.

It was in the spring of the following year when Jikakumaru—treasured like a jewel by the entire household—suddenly vanished from within the residence. The wet nurse, Jijū no Suké, and the servants all turned pale and began frantically searching everywhere.

II

“He isn’t here either.”

Jijū no Suké peered into the usual Buddhist altar room and scolded the wet nurse.

“This is your fault! If you’re holding Lord Asamaro, you focus only on him—that’s how this happened!” “But until just now, he was playing alone in that garden… I must’ve lowered my guard for a moment…” The wet nurse replied flusteredly, driven by self-reproach.

“—Maybe the bamboo grove out back,” he muttered as he ran off. Jijū no Suké frowned as he thrust his feet into his sandals and descended into the garden once more—then through the estate grounds, the fields, bamboo groves, hillocks, and such— “Lady Wako—” Calling out loudly while also being careful not to let Lady Yoshimitsu or Lord Arinori hear, he searched frantically for any sign of Jikakumaru. Just then—ill-timed.

In a room of the eastern wing, Fujiwara no Arinori, the master of the house, had been confined to bed with illness since the start of An'gen Era Year 2. Because of this, Yoshimitsu Gozen had not taken a single step out of her husband’s sickroom—a circumstance that itself became one cause for such mishaps. Thus while the servants—all the more distressed—had endeavored to keep this mishap from reaching the sickroom, as it was an incident within the estate itself and even the summoned maid’s demeanor betrayed suspicion, she, as his mother, could not have failed to notice.

“There’s no need to raise such a commotion merely because Jikakumaru cannot be seen.” Reprimanding the maid’s words, she quietly left her husband’s bedside—for she too, upon learning of this, had feared agitating the patient’s mind. Stepping out into the hallway, “He couldn’t possibly have crossed the earthen wall to run beyond the residence. Have you checked the bridge across the pond?” “Yes, my lady—that area too appears to have been searched.” “He does sometimes amuse himself with turtles along the shore, but surely there’s no indication he fell into the water?”

"That couldn’t…" The servant answered in a restless, uncertain tone. “Please bring me my footwear.” She said this with composure and in a quiet voice, but her heart ached with worry within. Standing on the corridor steps as she waited for the servant to bring her footwear, her brows betrayed her impatience. Thereupon, “Sister, where are you headed?” From the shade of the trees in the garden, someone—uttering those words—could be seen approaching.

A smiling figure in an oak-dyed court robe and black lacquered eboshi looked up at her from the railing,

“You look terribly pale… Not only are the attendants nowhere to be seen, but the back gate has been left wide open as well!”

“Lord Muneyoshi, you’ve come at an opportune moment... Right now, Jikakumaru cannot be seen—the attendant and wet nurse have just gone out to search.” “What? Are you saying Wako has gone missing?” “Lately, they say hordes of human traffickers or kidnappers from Mutsu have been prowling about Kyoto. If something were to happen... it would disturb my husband’s illness, and I—I couldn’t endure remaining among the living.” As she spoke, her eyes brimmed with tears.

III

Round hills rolled into one another. From beneath red pine trees on a slope, kiln smoke rose straight upward—the stillness making clear there was no wind. Butterflies came fluttering through. Somewhere came the creak-creak-creak and squeal of wheels. Looking, they saw a cow—wearied from a leisurely outing—dragging a palanquin as it lumbered past Hino Village. “Shichirō!—Shichirō!” A petulant boy’s voice rang from within the palanquin. The samurai’s son roughly flung aside the curtain and thrust his head out.

“Where has Shichirō gone?”

The cowherd stopped in his tracks and looked back at the road behind. Three young samurai retainers could be seen walking far behind, joking about something.

“Tsk,” clicked the boy on the palanquin, his tongue making an adult-like sound. With red cheeks and mischievous eyes, he complained, “They think I’m just a child—even my own retainers mock me!” Cupping both hands around his mouth, he shouted loudly, “Hey—!” At his voice, as if noticing it for the first time, the retainers came running to the palanquin.

“Fool! Fool! What are you doing?” The boy scolded him outright, then said: “Look—there’s a child crouching at the foot of that hill. He’s doing something suspicious. Go see what he’s doing right now!” “Huh? …Where is it?” The retainer called Shichirō glanced about where the boy was pointing. “Can’t you see? Are you blind? What a fool you are. ...Over there—under that tree with white flowers blooming, whether it’s a plum or an apricot.”

“Understood.” “Did you spot him?” “Ah, there is a child there.” “He’s been crouching there motionless like that for a while now. Freakish brat. Go find out what he’s doing!” “Yes, sir!” Shichirō ran off.

The white flowers were plum blossoms.

When he quietly approached from behind to look, there sat a child of about four or five years old beneath an old plum tree, engrossed in playing with the soil. Huh? Shichirō widened his eyes.

In front of the child stood three Buddha statues formed by his own hands. Undeniably, they took the form of Amitabha Buddha. Though not elaborate in craftsmanship, they embodied the truth that a child’s heart mirrors the Buddha’s heart. Within them dwelled something no master artisan’s skill could ever produce. Had this been all, Shichirō might not have been so astonished. But then—the child pressed his mud-stained palms together and began chanting.

His manner and bearing were entirely natural—and noble. Fluttering down—the white plum blossoms scattering upon the child's unkempt hair appeared to Shichirō's eyes as if radiant light itself were raining down. (No ordinary child.) Sensing this, he turned on his heel before being noticed and hastened back toward the palanquin where his impish master waited.

"Hey! What happened?" With his round eyes shining, the boy dangled one leg from atop the palanquin and demanded immediately.

IV “It’s nothing of particular interest,” Shichirō said. “But what is it?” persisted the mischievous boy. “Let us discuss this as we move the palanquin forward.”

“Wait, wait!” The boy shook his head, “Speak first!” “I was a bit startled, so I can’t speak properly until I collect myself. ...Even someone like me, Shichirō, who has known many children, has never seen one like that.” “There, see? You say it’s not interesting, but if something could startle a samurai like Shōji Shichirō, it must be interesting indeed—what on earth is that child?” “He must be a child from around here. Unaware that I had approached and was observing him, he was single-mindedly crafting three statues of Amida Buddha from clay.”

“What rubbish!” The boy sneered, his lips red.

“You fool. Were you really startled by something like that?” “No, no. Shōji Shichirō was not startled by such a thing...but then I was struck by the striking sight of him reciting. I felt as if my whole body had gone numb. The scattering plum blossoms, the sunlight filtering through the trees, and the heat haze rising from the earthy scent—all appeared like the halo enveloping the true Buddha.” “Hmm…” “He is no ordinary child. The extraordinary nature of the three venerated images being created and the modesty of their appearance.”

“Hmm…”

“To think such a child exists in this world—I was utterly astonished.” Noticing his mischievous master’s face had turned terribly sullen, Shichirō regretted having perhaps praised too much and fell silent. It unfolded exactly as feared. “Smart-aleck runt!” spat the boy from atop the palanquin, launching into curses. “Any brat who puts on airs like that can’t be decent!” “First off! This Judōmaru absolutely detests milk-stinking whelps who dare fiddle with Buddha statues!” Judōmaru glared around at his retainers’ faces, waiting as if demanding agreement. When none joined his tirade, his displeasure only deepened.

“Hey! Hey! Go take those clay idols that brat made or whatever, and kick them to pieces right in front of me!”

“That’s unthinkable!” When one of the retainers tried to stop him, “You refuse?” "But..." “It’s your lord’s command!” Though small in stature, this mischievous lad’s words seemed capable of outmatching any adult. Told it was their lord’s command, the retainers were at a loss. Shichirō, seemingly accustomed to handling such situations, tried to calm and reason with them, saying that even temporarily doing such a thing to a Buddha’s image would invite divine punishment, causing their legs to twist. “Punishment?” Judōmaru, on the contrary, seemed to burn with resentment at the word “punishment,”

“I am Judōmaru—son of Narita Hyōe Tamenari, renowned in bow and arrow under Lord Komatsu, the Great General of the Right! What do I care about punishment?” “If there’s punishment to be had, let it strike me then!” “If you lot are too cowed by cowardice to handle such trifles, I’ll go crush them myself!” he declared, hooking one foot on the palanquin’s shaft and leaping down with a thud.

5

Shichirō was startled,

“Wait, my lord!” Together with the other retainers, Shichirō tried to forcibly lift the tantrum-throwing Judōmaru and push him back onto the palanquin. “No! No!” The little tyrant braced his feet against the shaft, smacking his retainers’ heads and scratching Shichirō’s face with his nails.

“Let go! Damn it, you fools!” “Please wait, my lord. Should the young master of Narita Hyōe go about with muddied feet—people would laugh.” “Let them laugh! I’m a samurai’s son! Once I’ve declared something, I won’t back down! I’ll go kick that smart-aleck brat’s clay Buddhas to pieces! Whether divine punishment strikes or not—you lot just watch!” “Such foolishness is not worth engaging in.”

“What’s foolish about it?” Judōmaru, supported by his retainers’ shoulders and hands, flailed his legs in the air. Overwhelmed, “If you insist so much, I have no choice. I, Shichirō, will go.” “Going?” “Since it is my lord’s command—”

“There, you see? You had to go in the end anyway! Why didn’t you obey my orders sooner?” Finally, the little tyrant settled into the palanquin with an air of indifference. “—Hurry up and take them!” Though a foolish young lord, he excelled at such tactical maneuvering. Shichirō felt a flicker of resentment—he was merely his master’s child, after all—but between a crying brat and an implacable authority, resistance was futile. “Understood.”

He urged his reluctant feet forward and returned to the foot of the hill.

(Are they still here?) Praying they had already left instead, Shichirō peered into the plum tree's shade. When he looked, there sat the topknotted child—the three clay Buddha statues he himself had made still arranged before him—remaining with hands clasped in prayer and maintaining a posture unchanged by even an inch from earlier. It was a spring noon so still that even the faint buzz of a horsefly's wings resonated in the eardrums.

Shichirō stole his steps and approached the child from behind.—As he drew nearer, the soft chant of nenbutsu spilling from the child’s lips reached his ears. His knee joints trembled as though advancing upon a fearsome warrior. No matter what, his legs refused to carry him beyond a certain point. He wavered, wondering whether to abandon the task and turn back instead.

Judōmaru’s calling voice faintly reached his ears from afar. He closed his eyes, considering the divine retribution that would follow after returning to his master’s residence. (That’s it—while no one’s here!) Shichirō lunged.

Over the shoulder of the child who sat lost in meditation with hands clasped, he reached out forcefully. He tucked one statue under his left arm. As he reached for another Amitābha statue, the child startled awake and rose up. "Huh?—" came an adorable cry. Then like any young child would, he threw up his hands with a loud "Waa!" and burst into tears. Holding two statues, it was at that very moment Shichirō kicked the remaining one. "You bastard! You lowborn cur!" A fierce palm struck his earlobe with a leather-like crack.

“Ah—” While clutching his ear, Shichirō tumbled sideways. The Buddha statue slipped from his grasp once more, shattered into pieces, and returned to the earth from which it had been formed.

Six

“What a childish brute!”

A rebuke rang out overhead.

Shichirō got up and looked at the person who had struck him. He was a young samurai retainer of about nineteen or twenty years old—at most around that age. He had rolled up his sleeve, slightly raised his right shoulder, and with his left hand was pulling the weeping topknotted child close. "I don’t know where you hail from, young samurai, but at your age, why would you kick and shatter the Amida Buddha statue that Her Ladyship Yoshimitsu’s young child so lovingly made?" "To that—get down on your hands and knees and apologize!" When berated so directly, Shōji Shichirō—though but a vassal of a vassal—was still a retainer of the flourishing Taira clan. He could no longer slink away with his tail between his legs.

“You bastard! You dare strike me?”

“Struck!” Proudly, the young man declared without hesitation. “Of all people, you dared show disrespect to my master, the young lord—that’s why I struck you down. What of it?” “Where do you serve, you insolent cur?” “I am Jishū no Suke, who serves Lord Fujiwara no Arinori, former Senior Secretary to the Empress Dowager.” “A menial of the disgraced Fujiwara clan?” “Whatever others may say, to this one, he is the unparalleled lord under heaven and earth. There now, young lord, please cease your tears,” Jishū no Suke soothed the sobbing Jūhakumaru while brushing the mud from his hands and dust from his clothes,

“Her Ladyship your mother, His Lordship your uncle, and even your wet nurse—who knows how frantically they must be searching for you, young lord, with you nowhere to be seen.” “Please wipe your tear-streaked face, and let us return swiftly to the manor together with me.” As he tapped the boy’s shoulder and began walking away, Shichirō suddenly leaped forward,

“Wait! Our business isn’t finished,” he said, grabbing Suke’s sword hilt. Suke turned around. “Got something to say?” “Oh! Payback for that!” Suddenly clenching his fist, he lunged to smash Suke’s cheekbone. However, Suke—who had anticipated this—skillfully lowered his stance and pulled Shichirō’s forearm as if embracing it. “What do you think you’re doing—?!” With a thud, he threw him into the grass thicket. A narrow stream had been winding through the thicket, and from where Shichirō struck the ground with his hip, muddy water splashed up.

“Hey! Hey! That young retainer brat just threw Shichirō!” “Avenge Shichirō! Chase them down and beat them to a pulp!” From the palanquin approaching rapidly as retainers cracked whips, Judōmaru screamed. Suke assessed this situation, “Young Lord, quickly—cling to my back.” “...Tough opponents.” “Let’s flee.” Recognizing them as Taira vassals, he chose the prudent course.

And—already, pebbles came flying toward them. Judōmaru, who had leapt down from the palanquin, was picking up stones and hurling them. And then, “Those bastards—aren’t they from the Fujiwara clan?” “Don’t you know that if you so much as lay a finger on a member of the Taira clan, Lord Kiyomori’s wrath will be upon you?” “Don’t you dare let them escape!” “Catch them! Tie them to an ox’s back and haul them off to Rokuhara’s tribunal!” he bellowed from afar. And then, together with cowherds and samurai, they raced ahead to cut off Suke’s escape route and set up their formation. Suke, with Jūhakumaru on his back, seized the waist of the cowherd who had reached out his hand,

“Insolent wretch!” he snarled, kicking before breaking into a run again.

Seven

The maidservants and menservants, unable to focus on their work, left the kitchen empty and gone outside.

Yajirō was a menial laborer who cared for cows in the stable and drew water for the kitchen and bathhouse, but growing worried, he left his water bucket at the well's conduit and,

“Miss Okuri, have you found the young lord?” Okuri, the maidservant who had been wandering outside the earthen wall, shook her head, “Nowhere...” she replied with a sullen face. “Haven’t you found him?” “Yeah...” “How strange...”

Yajirō stood arms-crossed alongside Okuri.

Around this time, rumors that incessantly unsettled the desolate villages outside the capital began to stir unease deep within their hearts. These were rumors of "child abductions"—not merely occurring outside the capital, but sometimes even in broad daylight within the bustling streets of Genbu and Suzaku.

According to street rumors, child-abducting criminals would sell boys to Chinese ships at Murotsu port, while comely girls—from those eastern lands that Kyotoites imagined to be a thousand ri away—were trafficked far beyond Nasuno Field to Hiraizumi in Ōshū, where Mutsu's barbarians mimicked Kyoto's customs to forge their own culture. Recalling this,

“Could he have fallen into child abductors’ hands?” Yajirō murmured.

"That might be the case." Okuri's eyes also turned sorrowful. But immediately, the eyes of the two—

“Oh!” Their eyes sparkled. “It’s Suke!” As Yajirō suddenly shouted,

“Oh! Young Lord—!” Okuri stumbled toward the gate and rushed inside.

“The Young Lord has returned!” “Young Lord!”

“Young Lord!” The voice of wild delight that spread through the mansion could be heard even outside.

“Suke! Suke!” Yajirō called out, raising both hands. Carrying Jūhakumaru on his back, Jishū no Suke came running diagonally across the field, kicking through the grass. His face bore a smear of blood, and sweat streamed down to his collar as though he had plunged into water. “Yaji— “Close the rear!” He gasped out the words and leapt into the earthen-walled compound. Yajirō closed it there as Suke had instructed. While ordering them to firmly secure both the west gate and main entrance, Suke dashed toward the inner garden.

“Oh!” Yoshimitsu Gozen, who had appeared atop the stairs, did not wait for Suke to set Jūhakumaru down; she rushed down and embraced her child. She returned to the corridor and held him close, her tears flowing freely—a release of both joy and the tension that had gripped her heart. “Wako.”

At last separating her cheek from his, the mother—contrary to the emotions in her heart—assumed a slightly stern gaze,

“How worried your mother and your uncle have been! I’ve told you time and again, so why did you go out alone?” she scolded.

Eight

"Oh, wait!" Suke hurriedly interrupted Yoshimitsu Gozen's words.

“—Please do not scold him. “Young Lord Wako’s actions differ from the frolicking of ordinary mischievous children.” “But at a time like this—”

“You are absolutely right,” Suke replied. “However, in this humble one’s opinion, Young Lord Wako was likely tormenting his little heart over his father’s illness and praying for it.” “Oh… Why?” Yoshimitsu Gozen asked, her voice trembling. “When this humble one searched everywhere,” Suke explained, “I found Young Lord Wako sitting just like this in the shade of the hill where I once carried him to gather clay.” He sat in the garden, imitated Jūhakumaru’s actions exactly as he had done, and clasped his hands in prayer.

And he recounted in exact detail what he had witnessed: that [Shinran] had made three statues of Amida Buddha, that he had prayed with single-minded devotion, and that his bearing had been so solemn it seemed unimaginable for one so young. “Oh… Wako…”

Her eyes were filled with tears, and the moment they turned into a smile, a glistening streak traced her cheek. “So... you, with those small hands, were making statues of the Buddha so that your father’s illness would heal? ...Was that it?” “…Was that it, my child?” As she stroked his hair, Jūhakumaru looked up at his mother’s eyelashes and—with even his childish heart sensing something to apologize for—gave a small, quiet nod.

Upon hearing the news, Munetada returned, and the wet nurse came running with her face brightening.

Even the maids and servant women gathered there, each voicing praise for Jūhakumaru’s filial piety. Moreover, the fact that he had been making clay statues of Buddha was a source of astonishment for the adults. Munetada alone did not voice such praise or adulation aloud, but he gazed intently at Jūhakumaru—passed from one family member’s arms to another, beaming with delight—as though completely entranced. And, (This child—) Feeling the dazzling brilliance of the future, he was struck by an urge to kneel and worship.

Then, outside the earthen wall, yellow sand and dust swirled up as a raucous clamor of foul-mouthed shouts could be heard. “So this is the mansion of that impoverished court noble Arinori.” It appeared to be Judōmaru and his retainers who had followed Suke. “Hey! You there, young retainer—get out here! You did well to throw down my men. If you don’t come out, we’ll storm in! Kicking through an old earthen wall—one layer or two—would be no trouble at all.” And then,

“Coward! Won’t you answer? Judōmaru appeared intimidated by their momentum and unable to utter a sound. ‘Everyone! Throw the stones! Throw the stones!’” As soon as the voice ceased, stones clattered down onto the mansion’s eaves and veranda. One struck Munetada’s shoulder. “What in blazes is this outrage?” Suke glared fiercely, “You!” he blurted out. And with a swing of his curved sword, “Hey! I’ll confront you right now—don’t move a muscle!”

Nine

At Suke’s pale-faced expression and attempt to rush out, Munetada, startled, seized the scabbard of his sword. “Where do you think you’re going?” “Can’t you hear their insults? At first, I endured it and retreated into the mansion to avoid letting Lord Jūhakumaru get hurt, but I can endure no longer. I’ll cut my way out and cut through them all!” “Have you lost your mind? They’re children of Taira samurai!”

"I detest the tyranny of the Taira clan that has even made that yellow-beaked brat so arrogant!" “If I cut off their heads and die cutting them down, it might serve as a warning and spare the common people some suffering!”

“Do not throw away your life for no purpose.” “Even if a fly irritates you, swatting one or two won’t stop ten thousand others from buzzing.” “And with our lord ill—endure it! Stay silent!” “Yes... Whatever it takes...” “You must not! Never cross this earthen wall!” “Become mute! Pretend you have no ears!” “Impossible for a man with ears, eyes, and blood in his veins! —You curs! Narita Hyōe’s whelp and your rabble—remember this day!” When he shouted across the wall, a roar of jeering laughter burst from outside. Cow dung and broken sticks clattered into the garden.

It was not just Suke. The kitchen servants also ground their teeth in frustration. But Munetada was trying to calm them down, and Yoshimitsu Gozen was trembling with fear, “Please endure this. Do not engage with them!” She pleaded with them, holding back tears while remaining as silent as a deaf person.

Then, a young servant from the inner quarters came hurrying down the corridor, "My Lady! Lord Munetada! Please come at once—immediately!" At the tremor in his voice, the two of them started in alarm.

“What’s happened?” “His Lordship’s condition has taken a sudden turn. The color of his lips and his eyes have suddenly changed...” “What? His Lordship has taken a turn for the worse?”

Munetada dashed in. Yoshimitsu Gozen slipped her skirts and hid in her husband’s sickroom, but soon Munetada emerged from there with a grave expression. And in a hurried voice, “Suke! Suke—” he called. Suke was at the foot of the stairs, his arms crossed in silent gloom, “Yes! Suke is right here, but…” “Oh, hurry to the doctor’s place, then immediately run to Lord Rokujō’s residence to inform him!”

“Then… his condition…?” “Hmm. There may be no hope left now. Go—quickly!”

“Right away! Right away!” He ran toward the gate,

“Suke—” Munetada called out once more. “Whatever you do, don’t pay any heed to those sons of the Rokuhara crowd. No matter how they revile you, cover your ears and keep running! Understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

“I’m counting on you—hurry!” Suke opened the earthen wall’s gate and sprang outside in a frenzy.

Chapter Ten

As Suke hurried toward the capital without glancing aside, Judōmaru and his retainers quickly spotted him,

“There goes the dog! The scrawny mutt slinks off with its tail between its legs!” “What became of all that bold talk from earlier?”

“Coward!” Once again, they pelted him with jeers and pebbles from behind, but Suke—remembering Munetada’s words—plugged his ears and... “Endure, endure, endure,” he chanted under his breath, racing toward the capital without a backward glance.

And so he hurried all the way to Noritsuna of Rokujō's residence, but unfortunately, Noritsuna had gone out to the Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa's palace and had yet to return. At the Retired Emperor's court, members of the Taira clan crowded around His Majesty, keeping outsiders at bay, so those like Noritsuna rarely had opportunities to attend. However, recently, the Retired Emperor's disposition had shifted somewhat; he often frowned upon the excessive influence of the Taira faction, and from time to time, even Noritsuna received summons. Naturally, as Noritsuna was not involved in political matters, his attendance was limited to things like accompanying His Majesty in waka poetry or occasionally taking a place at the periphery of imperial banquets.

“Is your return always so late?” When Suke asked, looking perplexed, “When his lordship goes out,” the retainer replied, “it is usually late when he returns.”

“That’s troublesome.” Suke thought of going to the Retired Emperor’s palace to request the palace guards relay a message. Having left that place and begun running again, he encountered Noritsuna along the way.

“Isn’t that Suke?” Having been called to a halt, “It was just in time, Lord Rokujō—this is terrible! “Lord Arinori’s condition has taken a sudden turn for the worse, and the doctors and pharmacists have declared it grave.” “Her Ladyship and Lord Munetada have been constantly at his bedside.” “Please come at once.”

“Ah… Arinori—”

As if anticipating this, Noritsuna immediately turned the ox-drawn carriage around and had it hasten to Hino Village.

The sickroom was hushed. Anxiety took precedence. But Arinori had obtained a favorable respite and settled somewhat. However, the doctor warned that since his condition remained grave, they must not let their guard down. Defying this prognosis, when April came, Arinori’s condition improved remarkably. With a brightness that made it sound almost like a jest, he declared that while he himself could die without regret, his sole concern lay in leaving defenseless women and young children behind in this merciless world. Noritsuna too responded playfully,

“There’s no need to worry about such things. Though my strength may be limited, am I not here?” he said. Arinori smiled faintly and nodded. It was no joke. That was the most significant statement of his life. When May came, his illness soon took a turn, and Fujiwara no Arinori left his beautiful wife and two children behind, becoming someone who would not return.

Abiding by his final wishes—(Women and children without means to survive... In this turbulent society of constant strife, that alone worries me)—Noritsuna soon took in the widow and two bereaved children at his Rokujō residence. As he himself had no heirs, he processed the formalities to adopt Jūhakumaru and Asamaro into the Retired Emperor’s court.

North-Facing Warriors Under Chaotic Stars

I

It was a rainy night nurturing the grass.

An evening of raindrops dripping like milk upon the latticed shutters— Noritsuna set down his slightly weary brush and trimmed the candle’s clove-shaped wick. A damp wind carrying the scent of young leaves drifted in from somewhere, evoking thoughts of the early summer that would follow this passing rain.

“How fast… It’s already been a year.” Resting his elbows on the desk, Noritsuna dwelled on his brother’s death. It had been last May when Fujiwara no Arinori left this world. Soon after, Noritsuna took in the two orphaned children and young widow at his Rokujō residence—though his own means had not grown to match this burden. Beyond the Retired Emperor’s stipend, he now needed other income. Writing verses on decorative papers proved futile, while covert sutra-copying jobs from temples became night labor scarcely better than a scribe’s toil.

But he grew weary of that as well. When weariness set in, at times, "If the times were different—" he would sometimes resent the Taira-ruled world, but in the end, dismissing it as the grumbling and self-mockery of a powerless man, he would think to go see the children’s faces to forget his troubles. Even now, "...Are they asleep already?" Exiting his room and crossing the covered corridor, he peered into one of the buildings.

“Oh, please do come in.” The young widow Yoshimitsu Gozen quietly rose from beside Asamaro—whom she had been lying next to behind the curtain to lull to sleep—and offered a floor mat. “These past two or three days, Asamaro’s crying has grown rather fretful and cranky...” “It must be a slight stomach ailment.”

“And Jūhakumaru?” “He is there.” “Is he still awake?” Peering into the next narrow room, there indeed sat Jūhakumaru—now five years old—before a small desk, practicing his letters under a dim lamp flame like a firefly’s glow. “Studying? Good.” “Good,” he praised him, stood up and went over, then peered at the ink-dampened paper. “Hmm, the Iroha song. ...Who created this model for you?” Jūhakumaru turned around,

“Uncle did,” he answered. “Did Munetoshi write this for you? ...A master of kana like this—even if you searched, there wouldn’t be many. You are fortunate to have such a good teacher.” “Father, please write a poem too.” “When it comes to calligraphy, I cannot match Munetoshi. I shall teach you the way of waka once you’ve grown a bit older. Waka is the melody of the Japanese heart. Whatever you become as an adult, it’s well to have some cultivation.”

Someone came walking down the corridor of the covered walkway with creaking steps at that moment.

“Who’s there?” “It is Yajirō.” The servants who had followed since the move from Hino were only this Yajirō and the young retainer Kai. Kai had recently returned to his hometown in the countryside due to news that his elderly mother, whom he had left behind, had fallen gravely ill, and had been absent for about two months. “A messenger came just now saying this is for Lady Yoshimitsu—someone threw it in—” said Yajirō, presenting before her a rain-stained letter.

Two

“Hmm?” She tilted her head.

Who could have sent this letter that had been thrown in without any name given? For now, she broke its seal so that no one who might come to mind would be implicated. Bringing the candle closer, she had been rereading it when Yoshimitsu Gozen finally let out a relieved sigh and murmured: “Ah… So he has finally left Kurama Temple.” “I prayed that at least that child would not be made to follow his father’s fate, but…”

Noritsuna peered in,

“Who is it from?” he asked. “Surprisingly, from Shanaō of Kurama—”

“What’s that?” “How did he manage to slip past those watchful Taira retainers? Fleeing to the eastern provinces to conceal himself—and now they say he’s become a retainer of Fujiwara no Hidehira in Ōshū...” “Then it seems the rumors held truth after all.” “For a time, there was great commotion about Shanaō having escaped Kurama Temple—” “I could scarcely believe it… But this letter states he’s come of age and taken the name Genkurō Yoshitsune.”

“Blood will tell.” “He will be exploited by ambitious warlords... Yet what troubles me most is Jūhakumaru’s future.” “Might Minamoto blood too flow hidden within Jūhakumaru’s veins?” “Do not trouble yourself with such forebodings.” “Not all who bear Minamoto blood are fated to tread cursed paths.” “White blossom or crimson—none can know until the flower opens.”

“May he become a tree of peace and stillness—unscattered by winds, bearing blossoms—” With maternal sorrow pooled in her eyes, she gazed at the corner of the adjacent room.

Under the lamplight, Jūhakumaru had forgotten to sleep and was still writing characters on the paper. “Get ready.” “Yes.” “It’s time to sleep.” “Yes.”

“Yes.” “It’s time for bed now.” “Yes.” “You can continue with that tomorrow.” The servant came and removed his clothes. And when Jūhakumaru obediently slipped beneath the curtained bedding, it was not long before— A young servant hurriedly—

“My lord,” he called out. “What is it?” “A messenger from Lord Naritsune has arrived and earnestly requests an audience with you.” “The messenger…” “Shall I show him in?” “A messenger from Lord Narishige at this late hour…” he mused dubiously, then— “Well, regardless—extend him every courtesy.” “Understood.” As soon as the young servant left, Noritsuna immediately stood and proceeded to the guest chamber.

In the guest room, two samurai waited with solemn dignity. Upon receiving their host’s salutation,

“This one is Tada no Kurando, stationed at the North-facing warriors’ guard post.” The samurai in the secondary seat then solemnly followed suit, “Likewise, North-facing warrior Kondō Uemon no Jō Morotaka,” he announced.

III

The visit of Tada no Kurando—his pallid, composed countenance hinting at a schemer’s nature—and Kondō Uemon no Jō Morotaka—known throughout the North-facing warriors’ guard post as a man of valor—was such that merely considering the combination of these two men made it clear, given the times, that their errand could not be a casual matter.

And at such a late hour. The two guests who had braved the late night and the rain sat there soaked through—from their hitatare robes down through their hakama trousers to the cords of their long swords, each sleeve thoroughly drenched. “Now then…” Kurando indeed lowered his voice. “There is a matter of some urgency I wish to discuss in confidence.”

“Do not worry,” said Noritsuna. “Here—without permission, even servants do not enter. As you can see, it’s a single plastered room—no voices will leak outside.”

“Hmm…” Noritsuna exchanged a nod with Kondō. “To come straight to the point—by Lord Naritsune’s initiative, around the thirteenth of this month at Shishigatani in Shunkan Sōzu’s hermitage, those of shared purpose shall gather to discuss matters of import. We have been instructed to convey that you must by all means attend.” “—How does this align with your schedule?” “Well…” Noritsuna hesitated in his reply.

Around the Retired Emperor, there had indeed been signs of scheming since some time ago. Rumors abounded that they burned with wrath against Chancellor Kiyomori. The reason lay in Chancellor Kiyomori’s heir Komatsu Shigemori being promoted to Left General and his second son Munemori to Right General—surpassing even senior nobles of the Tokudaiji and Kasan-in houses to sit above them—which seemed to have kindled in Lord Naritsune a gnawing resentment he could not suppress. The Retired Emperor's internal governance went without saying, but with even appointments and official posts being so freely manipulated by Kiyomori and his sons, paranoia grew that their own court ranks too might soon be stripped away and distributed to the lowest branches of the Taira clan.

Perceiving that even the Retired Emperor had come to abhor the Taira clan’s recent tyrannical conduct, Naritsune’s scheming heart was further inflamed. In the samurai guard post known as the North-facing warriors as well, there were many similar malcontents. Moreover, it was a season when even the common people yearned for the Taira clan's overthrow like parched earth awaiting rain clouds. If one were to devise a plan now, it would undoubtedly succeed. It was truly the arrival of the opportune moment.

People harboring such ideas had, before anyone knew it, formed a secret society within the cloistered emperor’s circle and seemed to be operating in the shadows—this Noritsuna perceived as one might watch children playing dangerously with fire. "(That must be it.)" he had already perceived, but deliberately put on an unknowing face. "The thirteenth…" he was deep in thought.

Kurando edged forward on his knees, “By all means, we must ask that you make the necessary arrangements.” “And those who will attend the gathering that day—” “Then,” said Uemon no Jō, searching his robe and unfolding a scroll bearing the list of names beneath the candlelight, “—Lord Renjō, Lieutenant General of Ōmi; Shunkan Sōzu, administrator of Hōshō-ji Temple; Lord Motokane, Governor of Yamashiro; Lord Masatsuna, Senior Assistant Minister of Ceremonial; Lord Yasuyori, Junior Secretary of the Taira; and Lord Sukeyuki, Junior Secretary of Shin—to begin with—as well as this Uemon no Jō and Kurando Yukitsuna,” he read aloud.

IV Imperial civil officials and North-facing warriors had solemnly affixed their joint seals.

Noritsuna averted his eyes. When he met Kurando’s gaze, the man stared unflinchingly back—those eyes now gleaming with lethal resolve that said having revealed their secrets, they would brook no refusal to join. Should he resist, the sword at Kurando’s left hand would speak without delay. “I see.” Noritsuna edged backward slightly. In that sliver of time, his decision crystallized. “So when you speak of gathering at the Sozu’s hermitage, it isn’t for composing verse or performing sarugaku to while away an afternoon in cultured pursuits—is it?”

“Of course, on the surface—it has been arranged to appear that way—but in truth…” Uemon no Jō looked around at the shadows cast by the candle as they deepened and advanced. “In truth, the North-facing warriors and those who have just affixed their seals intend to drink blood together in oath, revere His Majesty the Retired Emperor, take Lord Naritsune as their leader, and overthrow the wicked Taira clan in one fell swoop.” “Within the Capital, there are too many eyes—thus, on the day we gather at Shishigatani, we intend to finalize all plans. —Given that your house holds deep ties to the Minamoto clan, and above all, that you yourself enjoy His Majesty the Retired Emperor’s profound trust, you surely cannot refuse. Yet as envoys of our faction, we have come deliberately at this late hour to renew our urging for your formal alliance.” As Kurando said in one breath, Uemon no Jō also—

“Lord Noritsuna. Your answer—” he pressed.

………… The two men stared piercingly at Noritsuna’s brows from either side as he sat with closed eyes, deep in thought. Depending on his reply, their demeanor suggested they might let their swords do the talking. (What should I answer?) Noritsuna wondered. Regardless of what became of the Taira clan or how politics might shift, he was a poet—neither warrior nor politician, nor did he covet prestigious offices. He had always strived to avoid being swept into such maelstroms, content to keep to his place among poetry and literature. Yet now the world around him had finally become unforgiving of that stance.

When one hears even a single word of an important secret, they must choose between joining the secret or being killed by it—there are only these two options. Pressed by this ultimatum, Noritsuna keenly felt his own perilous position—and could not help considering everything from His Majesty the Retired Emperor’s perilous standing at the highest echelons down to the smallest matters: the two young children who must now be sleeping peacefully in the North Hall’s inner chambers, and the tragic circumstances of his ill-fated younger brother’s young widow. “……Might I ask you to wait a day or two for my reply?”

“You cannot give an immediate answer?” Kurando’s hand gripped his tachi. This was no ordinary grasp—even a faint tremor manifested in his hold. “As one who serves the Retired Emperor in humility—as a subject who understands His Majesty’s heart—” he began— “Ah, Lord Rokujō! If that troubles you, set your mind at ease. “Though I withheld the deepest secret—in truth, we’ve arranged for even the Cloistered Emperor himself to attend that day’s council in secrecy…” At that instant, outside the house, a sound like a snapping tree branch—a sharp crack!—tore through the silent night air, startling all three men.

“Huh…?!” Uemon no Jō gripped the scabbard’s end of his tachi and dropped into a half-crouch.

V

After a momentary pause,

"(A spy—)" Again, from somewhere in the distance, someone’s voice rang out.

Outside came a clattering sound—this time somewhat closer, near the window below—as fierce footsteps raced past. The dark rain’s sound swished, seeming to chase those footsteps along with the rustling of the garden’s trees.

(A spy—) Then,

(Intercept them—!) Someone had cornered and grappled another—a fierce clamor erupted. They shouted, struck, and— "(Don’t let them escape!)" a voice cracked.

Kurando, Uemon no Jō, and even their host Noritsuna all involuntarily rose to their feet. And then, they threw open the wooden shutters along the corridor,

“What’s happening?!” Noritsuna shouted into the rain. But there was no time to respond—around the tree-shaded pavilion, dark shadows of pursuers and pursued tangled in chaotic struggle. Among them mingled what appeared to be Kurando’s retainers.

Unnoticed, Uemon no Jō had tucked up his hakama. Like a true warrior, he leaped into the rain and captured the suspicious figure attempting to cross the earthen wall. Then before Noritsuna and Kurando, who stood aghast, he came dragging him along with a scraping sound.

The light in the room had been extinguished by the gusting wind. Noritsuna turned toward the inner chambers, “Torch! Torch—” he shouted.

From behind the sliding doors and screens came a small lamplight shielded by a palm. Beneath rain-lashed stairs, the suspicious figure lay pinned. Uemon no Jō had pulled the chest cord from his hitatare and was binding the figure’s wrists behind their back. “Lift your face,” came the command as a mud-stained leather tabi kicked the figure’s shoulder. The suspect toppled sideways but righted themselves with defiant composure. Still, they kept their face lowered, refusing to reveal it.

Kurando gazed at his own retainers, who had gathered under the eaves, and at the household servants. “Is this one from the estate?” “No, our household has no such person,” answered Yashirō, who was among them.

“Then it’s someone who sneaked in from outside.” “From what I observed, it seems someone followed you here, refused to leave, and crossed the earthen wall to enter.” “Were you eavesdropping?” “Indeed—he was standing right beneath the guest room’s window—” “You wretch!” Kurando glared hatefully at him, “So you’re a Taira spy. Uemon no Jō—beat him until he talks.” “A spy, eh?!” Uemon no Jō yanked the intruder’s ear. The man’s face contorted painfully, stretching diagonally as his head was pulled sideways. Though none recognized his features, his gallant attire and unflinching composure marked him as no common ruffian. Without doubt—a retainer from one of the Taira’s foremost houses.

“You! Who sent you?!” “No! You won’t talk?!” Uemon no Jō’s fist struck the spy’s skull three or four times.

Six

The spy was subjected to such severe torture that even those watching had to turn away their faces, but he stubbornly refused to open his mouth. “State your master’s name!” “…………” “Name who ordered you!” “…………” “For what purpose did you eavesdrop?! “We know you’re a Rokuhara spy, but under whose orders did you sneak in here?” “…………”

No matter how much they tortured him, it was like questioning a stone.

Before long, the spy lost consciousness with a groan. The night had deepened, and they needed to consider how their loud voices might carry to neighboring mansions. “Damnable wretch…” Uemon no Jō muttered, sounding at his wit’s end. He then instructed them to keep the spy confined in some makeshift cell within the estate until they could conduct a full interrogation.

“Understood.” Noritsuna was troubled. However, it was perfectly clear that the two envoys couldn’t drag such a bound prisoner around. In the capital’s streets, where the eyes of the Taira clan gleamed— “Yashirō, take this spy to the storehouse in the back garden and bind him there.” “Understood.”

As two or three men carried away the unconscious spy's body into the rainy darkness, Uemon no Jō washed his feet and returned to his seat. Together with Kurando, they once again fervently expounded on the New Major Counselor's audacious plot to rebel and pressed Noritsuna to join their cause, before finally taking their leave. Even after retiring to his bedchamber, Noritsuna found himself unable to sleep at all. I know my station. Never have I entertained ambitions of forming ties with disgruntled North-facing warriors or the Retired Emperor's politicians to chase after power and glory. Though I would hardly call this an enlightened age, as a poet living in harmony with nature, I find no deficiency in my current circumstances—and when considering the future of my late brother's two young children and his widow, my own decisions become all the more not mine alone to determine.

The decision had indeed been made. Noritsuna had indeed been resolved from the very beginning.

However, that even Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa’s heart seemed inclined toward the New Major Counselor’s plot—which resembled personal resentment—was, for him, a fear surpassing his own concerns. If, by any chance, the Retired Emperor were to lend his honorable support, it went without saying that he, as a subject, could not simply stand by and watch. Should His Majesty himself raise the sacred decree to chastise the Taira clan amid these flames of calamity, bringing about a situation where the Retired Emperor’s court became filled with warriors’ armor—that would truly be a terrifying prospect.

(Ah, what should I do?) In the midst of a nightmare, Noritsuna thrashed. He shuddered at the thought that the time might be approaching when once again the joyous voices of demons and rakshasas could be heard in the crimson sky over the capital.

Around dawn，from the depths of the northern sleeping quarters，the cries of an infant could be heard for some time—Asamaro must have been fussing． (That’s right…．Above all，the Retired Emperor’s will was paramount—as long as he himself did not take action—)

As he teetered on the edge of sleep, he had found a certain calmness in his heart. The moment he did so, he fell asleep.

As a result, he awoke later than usual. The rain-cleared sunlight pierced his eyes with intensity; the sky was a deep blue, and the young leaves of May were fresh with newness.

Seven

When he found the Retired Emperor’s presence, Noritsuna relaxed his brow slightly. Depending on His Majesty’s demeanor, he had been prepared to offer earnest remonstrance even at the risk of offense, but— (As expected of His Majesty’s seasoned and discerning gaze—) he thought, feeling somewhat reassured. Keeping what he had intended to say to mere hints, he withdrew from behind the imperial screen. The Retired Emperor, from his lofty seat, had indeed been observing the countless politicians scheming around him, warriors spreading rumors, and strategists leaping in the shadows—this realization filled Noritsuna with renewed awe. Indeed, during the turbulent eras of Heiji and Hōgen, there was none who had endured such hardships as His Majesty the Retired Emperor, nor any who had witnessed such human duplicity and fierce struggles for power.

Even if one were to rally around such an emperor and attempt to expel the still-unwavering Taira clan from the halls of power, in the end, such efforts would amount to nothing more than the self-destruction of those leaping into action themselves. Moreover, when such schemes were born from personal grudges and selfish discontent, they became treacherous plots of disloyalty beyond words. It must never be allowed for the Retired Emperor’s fate to be determined by such ambitious schemers. Noritsuna’s will had been decided there. But even without stating it so starkly, it seemed His Majesty the Retired Emperor had seen through completely both the atmosphere of ambitious schemers swirling within and beyond the court and their very nature.

(If this is the case—) he thought, rather feeling ashamed of his own needless anxiety,

After humbly advising, "I implore you to exercise caution," he then shifted to their usual discussions of waka poetry until even his heart felt unburdened. At the tachibana trees of the Southern Garden, sunlight after the rain—having washed away spring's grime—shone down with piercing intensity. Musicians tuned instruments at the Retired Emperor's Music Bureau while attendants clustered before the stables to water the white horse.

“Lord Rokujō,” someone called out from behind. At the bend in the corridor stood a man who seemed to have been waiting there.

“Ah! Well, well—” When he looked, it was Jōken Hōshi—son of the late Minor Counselor Shinzei—a man of talent, amiable demeanor, and reputed as a shrewd operator within the Retired Emperor’s circle. From time to time, this man would send over draft poems seeking critiques; each instance found Noritsuna reviewing them, yet he remained someone inhabiting a separate world from Noritsuna—a figure who, despite their long acquaintance, could never become a true confidant. With a sly grin, Jōken drew near. Without preamble, he guided him to the railing and leaned against a round pillar while—

“Have you come to make a private appeal… or perhaps to attend upon His Majesty?” he slyly probed. “No… As ever, a poet has no means of engagement beyond poetry…” Noritsuna evaded quietly while Jōken fixed him with a viscous gaze and impolite stare, “Hmm…. “Considering that, it was quite a lengthy conversation, wasn’t it?” “It seems His Majesty was in good spirits today—” “To go so far as to have people cleared away for a discussion of poetry—how meticulous of His Majesty.”

“……” “Now then,” Jōken said, sidling closer. Leaning near Noritsuna’s ear, “From Lord Shin-Dainagon… surely you too must have received some word…”

Eight “From last night’s messenger—I trust you’ve heard the general outline—” Jōken’s eyes darted incessantly between the corridor and the shadows moving in the Southern Garden. When he confirmed no one approached, he pressed on in a hushed, rapid tone: “What say you? How do you perceive the Taira clan’s atrocities—does it not chafe your spirit? Can you stomach this outrage? Appointing Komatsu Shigemori as Left Minister—well, one might endure that—but his second son Munemori? A crown on a wooden puppet! Sandals on an ape!” “To vault him over nobles like Tokudaiji and Kasan-in for Right Minister—what ludicrous folly!” A white horse whinnied faintly in the distance. Jōken swept his narrow eyes sharply across their surroundings.

“Through these means, Monk Kiyomori will keep arbitrarily conducting court appointments for his own ends.” “Though it pains me to say—even His Majesty behaves without restraint—how much more so must we beneath him!”

“...Well, today I have a guest waiting at my residence.” “Now, now,” said Jōken, seizing Noritsuna’s sleeve. “That and this are matters of entirely different scale. Are you not one of His Majesty’s trusted vassals, never lacking the Retired Emperor’s confidence?” “In a place like this...” “No—in formal settings, the Taira are quick to interfere. Then let me ask plainly: regarding Lord Shin-Dainagon’s proposal—do you mean to join or refuse?”

“At present, I cannot say.” “Are you of two minds?” “No.” “If not, even were you commanded otherwise, there would be no hindrance. But any man who does not seethe with rage after being trampled upon and ignored by the Taira clan’s lackeys to this extent must be either a fool or a beast!” “……”

“Even the Retired Emperor must share this sentiment. Though His Majesty does not let it color his countenance, imagine how vast must be the resentment festering within him. Even if Lord Shin-Dainagon and all of us were to grind our teeth in fury... we would still not move.”

“……” “To refuse joining would ultimately mean acting in defiance of His Majesty’s august will. …Even so, do you decline?”

“I shall give it thought.” “Last night as well, I hear you deigned to say the same.”

“A matter of great import must be considered with great care before one can respond.” “How clever… Lord Rokujō.” “Is that so?”

“Heh, heh, heh, heh.” Jōken Hōshi laughed mockingly and abruptly turned his back.

“Then, another time—” He strode briskly toward the interior, his robes swishing sharply. He breathed a sigh of relief, as if having escaped a tiger’s maw. Noritsuna, wishing to avoid encountering anyone, hurried out through the Retired Emperor’s gate. At the carriage porch, ox-drawn vehicles of various court nobles attending the palace created a clamorous commotion. Attendants and ox drivers traded vulgar shouts as they quarreled beneath the sun’s glare. “Yashirō! Yashirō!” After bellowing for his attendant, Noritsuna scrambled to conceal himself within an ox carriage. As the vehicle jolted forward, unease once more stirred within him. The crux lay in whether duplicity lurked within the Retired Emperor’s words. A suspicion took root—that directives were being tailored separately to manipulate both Jōken Hōshi and himself according to their dispositions.

For the Retired Emperor himself, though surrounded by schemers, was none other than a master strategist.

Nine

Since then, Noritsuna had secluded himself under the pretext of illness.

Even shut away in a room, the roaring sounds of the world still reached him. (Another armed protest by the warrior monks.) (The monks of Mount Haku carried a sacred palanquin and descended upon Enryaku-ji, he heard.)

Such rumors were nothing new anymore. Even the Retired Emperor, who loved politics, was at his wits' end with his policies toward the warrior monks—it was said he had lamented, "The dice of sugoroku and these mountain monks alone refuse to bend to Our will." With monks staging protests and Enryaku-ji's abbot consequently exiled—as both governance under the Retired Emperor's court and affairs within the capital descended into utter turmoil—the covert maneuvers of the Shin-Dainagon faction throughout May ultimately passed without ever finding an opportunity to influence His Majesty.

Noritsuna secretly— (These were all mere temporary gatherings of grievances—they might collapse on their own like this, which would actually benefit His Majesty the Retired Emperor.) Lately, he found himself praying that this vaguely coalescing resentment might erupt in flames from outside the Retired Emperor's circle. However, Tada no Kurando Yukitsuna—who had first come here as a secret envoy—continued to frequently visit alone and in secret amidst the disturbances in the capital.

“Though this weighs unpleasantly upon you, handle it with utmost care.” “No need to trouble yourselves seeing me off.” “This unworthy one will interrogate that Taira spy we’ve been holding and return.” With that, he had the household members lead him to the rear garden. The culprit captured during that rainy night’s commotion had been temporarily confined to a storehouse. But with household members constantly retrieving items, anxiety grew; should he escape and let slip something to Rokuhara, it would endanger our master’s fate—so Yashirō built a makeshift prison. In an empty stable, they assembled timber and threw him inside.

“You’ve got a stubborn face if ever I saw one. Today I’ll beat you bloody if that’s what it takes to make you talk!” Kurando declared from outside the cell, forcing the bound spy out into the open. He gripped a leather horsewhip. “Hey! Scum!”

“…………”

“We know you’re a Rokuhara spy—but who ordered you?!” “What were you ordered to find out?” “…………” “Won’t you talk?!” Crack—the whip lashed once. “Talk!” “…………” “You will talk!” The second strike cracked. With each crack of the whip, red welts rose one by one across the prisoner’s face. Then finally, it turned purple, blood flowing from his ears, lips, and everywhere. “Mmmph... mmph...” In the end, only groans and whip cracks remained locked in a battle of wills. Kurando, having exhausted his energy,

“Fine! I’ll leave it at that for today—but I’ll return! If you value your life, you’ll talk! Consider this carefully!”

He spat out those words and left.

The people of the mansion covered their eyes and blocked their ears. However, such treatment was commonplace within the capital these days. Those accustomed to such sights apparently deemed Kurando’s methods still too lenient as he departed.

X Stubbornly, Kurando kept returning thereafter, torturing the prisoner in the stable cell time and again. The prisoner's body had swollen as if stricken by some karmic disease, his torn wounds festering like burst pomegranates, white bone showing through from beneath. "Kill me," said the prisoner.

And again, the more he was beaten, the more he sneered, “What kind of man entrusted with an important mission by our master would spill his secrets under such feeble torture? Stop wasting your time on futile efforts and cut off my head in one stroke.” Rather than yield, he stood firm, almost flaunting his own self-restraint. In the end, it was Kurando who lost patience and grew unnerved, his visits gradually becoming less frequent.

June began.

In the shade of the leaf-covered cherry tree, coral-red fruits, backlit by the sun, appeared like blood. Fully ripe cherry fruits had also spilled onto the ground.

Jikakumaru was gathering them in his small palms. Then, deep in the backyard,

“Lord Wako—” someone called out. “Lord Wako…” After what must have been the umpteenth call, Jikakumaru finally seemed to notice. Casting his innocent eyes about, he looked around his surroundings.

There was no one—not a single human figure in sight. But the slightly frightened child, suddenly seeming to find the broad daylight expanse of the garden terrifying, hurriedly began heading back toward the mansion. And then—again,

“Here I am, Lord Wako.”

“?” “...”

Jikakumaru turned around and stared intently at the human shadow visible within the stable cell, then timidly approached— “Who are you?” “I am a spy who sneaked into the mansion and was caught, you see.” “Mr. Spy?” “It’s not a name—I’m what’s called a spy. But I won’t do anything bad to you, Lord Wako, so feel at ease and stay here to play a while longer.” “? …”

“I’m so unbearably lonely. Now that I’ve seen you, Lord Wako, my heart feels fit to burst. I too have a child just about your age, Lord Wako. And my master’s son—though a bit older than you—is likewise an innocent boy.” “Mr. Spy, why are you in such a place?” “For loyalty’s sake.” “If it’s loyalty, then everyone ought to praise you as a proper samurai.”

“It doesn’t work that way. A samurai loyal to his allies appears as a detestable demon in the eyes of the enemy.” “Then, Mr. Spy—are you a demon?” “While I am imprisoned here,” “If you were outside—” “I am a good person. At least, I am not a bad person. As proof of that, even as you speak with me like this, Lord Wako, there’s nothing frightening about it at all— I won’t harm you—” “At first I was scared, but now it doesn’t bother me at all.”

With those words, as if to prove them, Jikakumaru thrust his hand through the gaps in the cell bars and— “Mr. Spy, would you like some cherries?”

Eleven

smiled gently and, “—This looks sweet.” The spy put a single cherry into his mouth and bit into it with a quiet crunch. On his tongue—parched by long imprisonment’s hunger and scorching heat—the juice of that single cherry sent an indescribable flavor coursing through. Before he knew it—four berries, five berries— “This is delicious.” Greedily, he stuffed the ruby-red fruits from his palm into his mouth and spat out the pits. Seeing how the spy—starved both for food and human kindness—reveled in this small joy, Jikakumaru ran off somewhere. When he returned moments later, his hand held a wheat pastry wrapped in manuscript scrap paper.

“Eat.—The pastry.”

“Huh?” The spy’s eyes, peering through the gaps in the prison bars, gleamed as if leaping out.

“Are you giving me the pastry?” “Thank you!” “If you’re confined in a place like this for long, you start craving sweet things so badly it could drive you mad.” “Ah… Ah, thank you!” When he took it with trembling hands, like a beast wary of human footsteps, he looked around his surroundings, stuffed one into his mouth, and hid the rest in his robe.

Jikakumaru, as he was about to leave, squatted down in front of it and— “Mr. Spy, is it tasty?” “Yes, with this, I can die content. “In my usual state of being well-fed, I could never have imagined how precious food truly is.” “Ah, that was delicious!” He smacked his lips, “In my greed, I think with this I’d want to see my wife and children’s faces one last time before dying—but since those are what we call worldly attachments, I’ve given up.”

“…………” “Lord Wako, if I am beheaded, please cut a single strand of my hair and cast it outside the gate. On a day when the west wind blows, my hair will return to my home where my wife and children await.”

“Do you want to see your wife and children’s faces that badly?” “That, even you, Lord Wako, would understand. If your father were to go away and never return, how would you feel, Lord Wako?” “…………” Jikakumaru suddenly placed his hands on the prison bars and pushed. However, there was no way the cell would open. “Lord Wako, Lord Wako, what are you doing?”

“I thought I’d let you out of here—” “Don’t be absurd!” The spy shook his head.

“If I were to break out of this prison and flee, your father would be branded a traitor by the New Retired Emperor’s court and the North-facing warriors—he would lose his life.” “So you don’t want to leave here?” “I want nothing more than to escape… But when I think that if I were saved, it would bring trouble upon your father, I cannot bring myself to flee.” After saying this, the spy hung his head desolately—but then suddenly raised it and roared toward the outside of the cell as if he had gone mad.

“I request an audience with my lord! “Someone—anyone—please come here! “There is something urgent I must report! “Someone—anyone—please come here!”

Twelve

At the shouts from the stable prison, “What’s all this racket?!” Yashirō was the first to come running out and scolded the spy.

Wondering what was happening, Noritsuna also emerged from the rear. The spy clung to the prison bars, “I wish to report to my lord. Until today, even if my bones were crushed and flesh torn, I had sworn to keep this mouth shut—making my heart a demon’s—but moved by Lord Jikakumaru’s kindness, even this wretch has turned into a weak human parent. I cannot keep silent—this urgency compels me. Please listen. This one’s confession—” he shouted.

His voice carried truth. Tears were streaming down his face.

Noritsuna said.

“Yashi, release him from the cell.” “Huh? Are you certain there will be no repercussions if we release him?”

“Untie his ropes as well.” Yashirō did as he was told. He felt uneasy about untying the ropes, but the spy remained docile. With both hands pressed to Noritsuna’s feet, he wept openly for some time. When they pressed him for an explanation, the spy said Jikakumaru’s tender innocence had made his own vile self appear unbearably shameful in contrast. Though it was for duty’s sake, he explained that he felt ashamed of his wretched self—bound in prison while wearing a mask of curses and falsehoods—and could no longer endure his longing for the wife and children he had left at home.

“What more is there to hide? I am a retainer of Lord Komatsu.” “I am Shōji Shichirō, a retainer of Narita Hyōe.” “Some years ago, when Lord Wako was still in Hino Village, I acted rudely toward him on one occasion—so I vaguely recognized his face.” “So after all—just as Lord Kurando suspected—you are a spy from Rokuhara.”

“Exactly,” Shichirō said flatly. “The New Retired Emperor’s Major Counselor, harboring dissatisfaction toward the Chancellor, showed signs of some conspiracy—long ago, my master Narita Hyōe detected this and ordered us to shadow those people.” “Since Lord Komatsu has already become aware of it too, it’s clearer than seeing flames that even if they raise their banner, their scheme will never succeed.” “I beg you—my lord must never join such reckless deeds…” “What I wished to report is precisely this matter.”

“Ah, so Lord Komatsu and those at Rokuhara have already detected the New Major Counselor’s plot?” “If they so much as move a single soldier, we are lying in wait with weapons at the ready.” Noritsuna, in his heart,

(This is dangerous!) he muttered to himself with a heavy sigh. What caused immediate anxiety was the safety of the Retired Emperor. Given how emphatically His Majesty had instructed them, Noritsuna thought there was no chance they would be taken in by the New Major Counselor’s faction’s schemes—but

*Could it be...?* The thought lingered stubbornly in Noritsuna's mind. "Well done informing me—Yashirō, release this spy through the back gate." Having issued this command, Noritsuna retreated hastily to his chambers.

Thirteen

Soon, from the direction of the entrance,

“Yashi! Yashi!” a voice called out. Yashirō had just quietly let the spy Shichirō out through the back gate. “Yes!” He ran over to find Noritsuna standing at the entrance platform, his formal robes properly arranged. “The horses—!” “Hurry!” “Yes!” Yashirō led the horse out from the stable, but he privately worried—why had his master, who was feigning illness in seclusion, suddenly decided to go out? And wouldn’t this risk drawing public attention?

“Hurry!”

Once outside the gate, Noritsuna spoke again from his saddle. Approaching the stirrup and running alongside the horse, Yashirō— "My lord." "What?" "Would it not be a grave matter if your feigned illness becomes known to the world? Shall we take the back roads?" "There’s no need for that."

“And where are we headed?” “Sentō—” So it was an imperial summons after all, he realized for the first time.

Sentō was another name for In, the detached palace of Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa. From Rokujō, it was not that far. However, when crossing Gojō Bridge along the main road, there stood Lord Komatsu’s rose garden to the east of the bridge and Chancellor Nyūdō’s Rokuhara North Gate directly opposite it. Passing through that stretch always felt vaguely unsettling and oppressive.

All the more so today—with his master bearing some firm resolve etched between his brows as he appeared to be abruptly proceeding to the palace—Yashirō, even while being urged to hurry, detoured along the road: crossing from Sanjō no Isago over the temporary bridge, he ascended Jūzenji Slope. “Yashi.” “Yes.”

“Today is indeed the second.”

“It is June 2nd.” “……”

Noritsuna looked up at the sun as if gauging the hour. The sun had sunk far toward the lower reaches of the Kamo River. “Gallop!” With a crack of the whip, Yashirō found himself left behind on the slope. When he finally caught up and looked about, his master’s figure was nowhere to be seen at the East Gate of the Sentō Palace. Noritsuna had rushed toward the middle gate of the Retired Emperor’s Palace as though running for his life. And then— He stood frozen, a gasp escaping him… There at the north middle gate’s exterior sat the incognito phoenix carriage. The Retired Emperor meant to slip away unseen.

Where to? That was clear to Noritsuna. The fact of the June 2nd meeting was something he had heard about some time ago from Tada no Kurando Yukitsuna. He recalled this and hurried here, but until arriving at this point, he had believed eight or nine times out of ten that there was no possibility whatsoever of the Retired Emperor reversing his previous words—egged on by the New Major Counselor and disgruntled North-facing warriors—to dare undertake an incognito excursion to such a meeting.

However, the reality was the complete opposite of Noritsuna’s honest assumption. Before long, as dusk approached, the people of the Imperial Guard secretly made their preparations and urged the Retired Emperor to depart.

Noritsuna had concealed himself in the shade of a tree and was intently watching the movements there.

Fourteen A watery evening dusk, like squeezed indigo dye, enveloped the surroundings. The shadow of candlelight swayed from the depths of the inner palace. The saintly figure of the Retired Emperor, encircled by the black shadows of his attendants, was placing his foot into his footwear.

“Wait—!” He hadn’t meant to shout so loudly, but Noritsuna found himself crying out involuntarily, pushing through the startled crowd to prostrate himself before the Retired Emperor. “Who goes there?” The Retired Emperor withdrew his foot from the footwear and stood upon the veranda. “It appears to be Lord Rokujō no Ason,” an attendant whispered. “Noritsuna?” “Yes!” “I had heard you were ill…” “It was a feigned illness. For deceiving Your Majesty, I beg you to punish this crime most severely.” Having said this, Noritsuna changed his tone and pressed his remonstration further.

“As today is June 2nd, I humbly believe there must indeed be a gathering convened at Shunkan Sōzu’s hermitage in Shishigatani. Yet even Your Majesty in the palace depths must have heard the rumors—in these times of rampant gossip, how could an incognito midnight excursion to such an assembly be advisable? Regarding this matter, I have something of utmost urgency to impart to Your Majesty’s ears. I earnestly beg you to postpone your departure and dismiss your attendants.”

The Retired Emperor remained silent. Since His Majesty had previously given his word to Noritsuna, his complexion seemed to show he felt somewhat ill at ease. The attendants aligned with the New Major Counselor and the samurai officials glared with hatred at Noritsuna—a mere civil official and poet—wondering why he dared stick his beak into such grave matters. The Retired Emperor wore an expression of being trapped between conflicting pressures, appearing somewhat perplexed; yet when he saw Noritsuna sitting before his footwear staking his life on this appeal, he found himself unable to dismiss him outright.

“Withdraw for a time.” The attendants had no choice but to bow their heads silently at his command and withdraw. After waiting for those people to depart, Noritsuna meticulously reported in detail to His Majesty—using today’s words of Shōji Shichirō as evidence—that the Taira faction had already detected how the New Major Counselor harbored rebellious intentions. Even the Retired Emperor could not help but change countenance. Though His Majesty himself so detested the Taira clan that he would have wished for their destruction even were he the mastermind behind it, they were also a force fearsome enough to warrant such hatred. Especially, His Majesty knew all too well—through numerous instances that had struck him to the core—that Monk Kiyomori was a man who might do anything should his emotions erupt.

“Let us stop this,” His Majesty declared at once. Immediately, the imperial excursion to Shishigatani was rescinded.

The people of the Imperial Guard,

"Resented Noritsuna as that meddlesome poet making needless protests," "If things stay like this, our allies' fighting spirit will suffer," they declared, pushing forward the empty palanquin they had prepared, lighting pine torches, and hastening along the dark road toward the Shishigatani gathering. Yet among that procession, only Tada no Kurando Yukitsuna had melted into the shadows midway and vanished alone to parts unknown.

Fifteen

Though there had been no imperial procession, disgruntled civil and military officials—from the New Major Counselor downward—had already gathered at Shunkan’s mountain villa in Shishigatani before nightfall, each clad in incognito attire.

“That Noritsuna of Rokujō, sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong—” the conspirators angrily muttered, glaring at the empty palanquin. “What of it? The Retired Emperor’s changeable heart is like an autumn shower—when you think it will rain, it clears; when you expect sun, it pours.—” “Even tomorrow, if I attend court and bolster His Majesty’s resolve, he will undoubtedly grace our next gathering without fail.” Major Counselor Naritsune declared confidently to those assembled. Jōken Hōshi nodded in agreement, “Aptly put.” “Truly, His Majesty’s disposition shifts like sun and rain—so long as we retain our proximity to him.” “Let this not trouble you.”

At the gathering were Lay Monk Renshō of Ōmi, Governor of Yamashiro Motokane, Taira no Hangan Yasuyori, and others. Shunkan Sōzu, their host, observed how their painstakingly initiated discussion about overthrowing the Taira clan now showed signs of faltering momentum—like a blade blunted at first strike—due to the Retired Emperor’s conspicuous absence. “Let us postpone discussions of military mobilization to our next meeting and instead hold a ceremonial toast tonight to seal our pact. Any objections?” “Very well.” The New Major Counselor, putting on a bold front,

“Let us celebrate,” declared the New Major Counselor, taking the lead. Soon after the sake cups began circulating, “Master Host—entertain us,” Jōken Hōshi called out to Shunkan. “What manner of entertainment?” “A comic performance of sorts.” “Understood.” Shunkan rose and danced with exaggerated gestures. The conspirators played reed pipes and drums as they sang: At Sumiyoshi’s four shrines divine A fair-faced maiden does reside When asked “Who comes?” the man replies “The Suki man ’neath Matsugasaki skies” “Splendidly done!—Now Lord New Major Counselor must favor us next.”

“That matter! That very matter!” As his hand was pulled forward, “Then I shall dance,” declared the Major Counselor, stamping the floor once,

At this time, what was popular in Heian-kyō—

“Huzzah! Huzzah!”

What was popular— Shoulder guards, hip guards, fasteners for black lacquered court caps Standing-collar, partially tarnished black-lacquered court cap Cloth-lined hakama trousers Four-paneled sashinuki trousers

Things warriors favor Navy blue! Crimson! Golden yellow! Deep maroon! Madder red! Parasitic tree print! Fine bows, quivers, saddle-mounted swords.

Things courtesans favor

Miscellaneous arts，hand drums，small boats． Large sedge hats held aloft Boatwomen．

“Ah!” When the Major Counselor stumbled over a sake bottle, the people kept up the song’s rhythm, “He fell! “He fell! He fell!” “The sake bottle broke.”

“The sake bottle fell over.” “Bwa ha ha!” “Ha ha ha ha!” Then they excitedly called out to each other in celebration.

Crossroads of Flames

I

The disturbances on Mount Hiei continued unabated thereafter. Neither the authority of the cloistered government nor the power of the Taira clan could match that of the masses within the Sammon temple complex—such was the state of affairs. The thousand-year Dharma fortress of Tendai, having grown accustomed to the exceptional treatment from the imperial household and the state, had led its Buddhist followers to arrogance. The Taira clan, forgetting their proper station as subjects, Just as with the hubris of those who declared, "This world is my world"—the Buddhist followers too, forgetting their proper station as disciples of Buddha, had taken up politics and even military force, arrogantly deluding themselves that society belonged to the Buddhists, becoming legalistic and dominated solely by a sense of privilege.

The opinion (Attack the Sammon!) had been a prevailing sentiment among the North-facing warriors since before that time. Lord New Major Counselor, Jōken Hōshi, and the people gathered at Shishigatani took advantage of that political opportunity to suddenly issue an order for military mobilization under the name of an imperial decree to subjugate the Sammon temple complex. The warriors clad in armor and weapons gathered around the imperial palace by evening—several thousand horsemen. Among the military officials, aside from a few key commanders, it seems most had taken the imperial decree at face value and believed they were to attack Mount Hiei.

“Tonight we’ll make those mountain monks regret…” they muttered, testing their bowstrings and wrapping their sword grips as they waited for nightfall. But in the hearts of those at the core of the Cloistered Government, the true enemy lay not on Mount Hiei—it was in Rokuhara. It was a secret strategy that, under the pretense of attacking the mountain monks, sought to ignite both personal grudges and public outrage against the Taira clan—and moment by moment, they waited for night to draw near. The Sentō Imperial Palace there and Kiyomori’s Nishihachijō residence were a stone’s throw apart. The ominous movements of archers and horsemen were immediately reported by Rokuhara’s retainers,

“Something is amiss—samurai within and around the Cloistered Government’s precincts were making unusual military preparations,” came the initial report. But then, one after another, arriving scouts corrected this: “That stems from the recent forceful appeal incident—the troops were dispatched under orders to apprehend and suppress Sammon followers defying the Cloistered Government’s judgment,” came the amended accounts, all consistent in their testimony.

When Kiyomori heard this, "That stands to reason," he nodded. Who would dare attempt such an audacious act as drawing bows against the Taira clan's present dominance right beneath his very feet? He remained utterly unconcerned. However, "I humbly beg an audience! Under urgent circumstances, I have raced here to meet with His Lordship the Chancellor and bring a grave matter to his attention!" gasped a man desperately appealing at the Nishihachijō residence. The samurai,

“Your name?” they demanded. “I am Tada no Kurando Yukitsuna, who serves in the North-facing Guards of the Cloistered Government,” he declared. Surprised, they relayed the message up to Shumyō no Hangan Morikuni, whereupon—

“What? A Kurando?” With a suspicious look on his face, Taira no Morikuni emerged from the inner chambers. Kurando, as soon as he saw him, “This is a matter of grave importance that cannot be conveyed through intermediaries. If you grant me a direct audience with the Lord Chancellor, I will disclose it; if not, I intend to depart as I am,” he declared in an agitated voice.

II

Kurando was taken around to the garden. In the garden, the samurai, their eyes severe, monitored his every move.

“Sit down!” At their thunderous command, Kurando— “Yes!” Involuntarily found himself kneeling on bare ground without even seeking a mat. When he suddenly looked up, Chancellor Kiyomori had come out to stand in the middle gate’s corridor. He stood at an average height—some five feet two or three inches—with a build leaning not toward corpulence but rather sharp shoulders and high, gaunt cheekbones that better captured his essence. Yet he appeared so grand as to fill the corridor’s very ceiling. This owed partly to the rows of close attendants bowing low at his feet, and partly to the radiant authority emanating from his person that created such an impression.

His complexion was pale, the bridge of his nose sharply defined. Like many of the Taira clan, he possessed an aristocratically handsome countenance; yet his defiant temperament manifested in his full lips, while a warrior’s piercing glare overflowed from his slightly sunken eyes and bushy, formidable eyebrows. “So you are Kurando?” Kiyomori said. “Yes!” “—An unusual visitor has flown in…” he muttered while laughing to himself,

“A general serving the Cloistered Government has come stealthily to this Nishihachijō—for what purpose?” “Then…” Kurando’s voice was parched. “How does Your Lordship perceive the Cloistered Emperor’s residence mobilizing troops in such haste within and around its precincts since midday today?” Kiyomori remarked casually,

“I hear it’s a mountain attack,” he remarked casually. “That is an outrageous falsehood!” “What? Lies, you say?”

“The truth is, they are preparing troops to surround this Nishihachijō residence, timed for around midnight.” “Ha ha ha!” Kiyomori struck his knee with his fan, shook his shoulders, and guffawed. “What’s this fool putting on airs to report? Just spouting some dream-induced nonsense.” “Let alone anyone who would dare draw a bow against this Kiyomori—is there even a soul in all the realm who could so much as toss a pebble at the Nishihachijō residence?”

“It is precisely your complacency that provides the opening those malcontents in the Retired Emperor’s circle lie in wait for.” “Who exactly do you mean by these malcontents in the Retired Emperor’s circle?” “Shin-Dainagon first among them, Jōken Hōshi, and all the North-facing Guards—they voice grievances against this world and curse Your Lordship’s entire clan.” “Is that truly so?” “Why would I concoct falsehoods in such a grave matter? This ‘mountain attack,’ I say with all respect, is but a ruse to deceive enemies at your very gates.”

“Is the Retired Emperor aware of this?” “I have heard His Majesty even made secret pilgrimage to Monk Shunkan’s Shishigatani villa, devoting particular vigor to this pact.” Kiyomori jerked his tonsured head aside. As though Kurando kneeling below no longer merited even peripheral vision, he strode toward the samurai quarters’ corridor. “Chikugo! Chikugo’s here!” he roared. The voice’s force crushed Kurando’s resolve to stay in the white-pebbled courtyard. He instinctively half-rose, scrambling toward the middle gate without formal leave—only for Kiyomori to snap open his fan and bark from behind:

“You there! Detain him!”

Three

The samurai leaped upon him and twisted his dominant arm,

“Ah! What crime has this humble one committed?” Kurando struggled. Kiyomori did not answer. He began issuing orders to Chikugo no Kami Sadanori. When Sadanori departed, Sakon no Shōgen Yukimori was summoned. By the time Yukimori hurried down the corridor, Udaishō Munemori and Chūjō Shigekado had already appeared in the garden and samurai quarters, shouting commands.

In an instant, the Nishihachijō residence became saturated with soldiers' bloodlust. Armor donned and bows at hand, their numbers multiplied in mere moments. This very air appeared to be what Kiyomori relished most. His eyes gleaming unnaturally, he sealed away the inner chambers.

There, Abe Sukenari, who had been summoned, hurried off to the Retired Emperor’s palace as an urgent envoy accompanied by about twenty horsemen. Moreover, to the Karasuma residence of the New Major Counselor as well, a low-ranking man in plain clothes went bearing a written document as messenger. The New Major Counselor maintained an air of innocence as he waited from his own residence for midnight’s flames to erupt. Thereupon arrived a messenger from the Chancellor,

since it said, "We humbly request your immediate presence," “Ah, so this is how it is. Having heard of the mountain attack’s success, it appears the Chancellor intends to placate the Retired Emperor.”

He had muttered to himself.

If he did not go, he would be suspected. The New Major Counselor, as was his custom, elegantly donned his plain court robes and cap, and stepped into the resplendent palanquin. He set out immediately for Nishihachijō, accompanied by attendants, ox handlers, and more than ten samurai. "What?!"

The nighttime streets were crimson. Watchfires blazed in every direction. In the dark alleyways, torches smoldered. On the road, he saw many discarded weapons, human heads, torsos, and the like. “They’ve appeared!” the New Major Counselor panicked. And then, “Turn back! Turn the palanquin back!” Suddenly he shouted. However, they were already near the Taira clan’s office at Gojō, and before they knew it, armored soldiers who had followed from every crossroads surrounded them front and back.

“Is His Excellency the New Major Counselor present?” From among the soldiers, a general used the shaft of his naginata to flip up the curtain. The New Major Counselor trembled, unable to even put up a front. The general barked, “Now, take him!”

“Ah—!” The soldiers clambered onto the palanquin, struck the ox, seized the shafts, and pushed from behind. “Ox-Head and Horse-Face demons!” “A hell cart!” “Push!” “Pull!” With a roar, they dragged the palanquin, still bearing its occupant, all the way to the middle gate of the Nishihachijō residence with a clamorous rumble. The warrior’s hands dragged the Major Counselor down to the ground. “Shall we bind him?!” When they asked, from the corridor above, “There will be no need for ropes.” It was Kiyomori’s voice.

The New Major Counselor’s complexion no longer resembled that of a living person.

Four

Throughout the streets, small skirmishes broke out. The Retired Emperor’s soldiers, who had launched a sudden counterattack, proved brittle. Group by group, some were disarmed and taken captive, while others who resisted had their heads struck off by large naginatas or were pinned down. "Cut me down! My head will fly through the air and bite that monk of Nishihachijō!" they screamed in curses, turning crimson with blood before collapsing as corpses by the roadside. Amidst this chaos, Jōken Hōshi, the ringleader, was thrust out from within the Retired Emperor’s palace, barefoot and bound with ropes.

Ōmi no Chūjō Renshō, Yamashiro no Kami Motokane, and other civil and military officials were stripped of their court robes and long swords one after another, then taken under arrest to Nishihachijō; meanwhile, Shunkan of Shishigatani too was bound by rough foot soldiers and dragged along while being whipped like a dog or ox. It was not difficult to imagine with what eyes of hatred and rage Kiyomori beheld those people.

To Jōken Hōshi, he roared: "Do not behead these beasts wantonly! Clamp their limbs in shackles, interrogate them thoroughly, then drag them to the riverbank and strike off their heads!" Driven to desperation, Jōken bellowed from the graveled interrogation grounds, his voice tearing through his throat: "Hear me, Kiyomori! You were Tadamori of the Justice Ministry's rightful heir, yet until fourteen or fifteen you held no court position—the Kyoto rabble mocked you as 'Squint-Eyed Koheita'! Even when made Junior Fourth Rank, Left Guards Lieutenant for capturing twenty pirates in Hōen times, men called it excessive! Yet you soared higher—gained court access, now sit as Chancellor! Does this miraculous fortune not strike even you as strange? "If you keep scheming only for your clan's glory without dispensing the slightest good governance, soon flames of resentment will consume Nishihachijō's mighty beams! Ha ha ha! I see clearly the day the Taira perish! The day crows peck at your monk's head on the gravel beds—I see it now!" Kiyomori's brow turned livid,

“You wretch! I’ll tear that mouth of yours into eight pieces! Samurai! Strip the skin from this subhuman beast and flay him with a red-hot metal whip!” He spat from the corridor and withdrew into the inner chambers. On the wooden floor of the vacant armory lay the Major Counselor, drenched in tears and collapsed like a broken doll, devoid of any human semblance. Kiyomori Nyūdō threw open the sliding door with thunderous footsteps and confronted him. “Major Counselor. Major Counselor. It is through gratitude that one merits being called human. Show none, and you’re no better than beasts.” “During the Heiji era, were you not already condemned to die—until Lord Komatsu, the Minister of the Center, staked his own life to spare your neck?” “Yet you forgot that mercy—sought to topple our house! Detestable treachery.” “Let this serve as warning.” He hiked up one leg of his wide ceremonial hakama and delivered a brutal kick. Then—

“Still, such measures will not appease my anger. “Is there no one here?!” “Make this ungrateful wretch scream more—more!” Armor-clad soldiers stepped onto the wooden floor and seized the Major Counselor’s limbs. Major Counselor Naritsune let out a shrill cry—“Hii—!”—and thrashed about in agony, precisely as Kiyomori had desired.

Five When it came to those he despised—even were their hair torn out and flesh rent asunder—Kiyomori’s wrath would not easily abate. This lingering fury now turned even upon the Retired Emperor himself, and as dawn approached, Nishihachijō’s martial fervor swelled ever fiercer. When Komatsu Shigemori—Kiyomori’s son dwelling at the Baraen estate—heard of this, he came to confront his father with grim resolve. Boldly facing that storm of rage, Shigemori admonished him by invoking Prince Shōtoku’s ancient admonition.

Those were the sacred words from Prince Shōtoku’s Seventeen-Article Constitution. All people possess hearts. Each heart harbors its own attachments. Praise others, Condemn oneself. Praise oneself, Condemn others. Who can definitively judge right and wrong? Together we are both wise and foolish. Like a ring, it has no end. "Though others may rage, Fear your own transgressions." Kiyomori hung his head as he listened to the Minister of the Center’s words. He seemed to have relinquished his plan to execute the Major Counselor. Yet his fury remained unquenched. Soon each day brought new exiles—figures loaded into prisoner carts and dispatched from the capital to remote provinces. The capital’s crossroads increasingly bustled with crowds gathering to watch these spectacles.

The New Major Counselor was sent to Kojima in Bizen.

Renjō of Ōmi, Yamashiro no Kami Motokane, Shikibu no Shōtsuna, and others—reduced to commoners—were sent off as living corpses in countless prisoner carts to distant provinces in all directions. Above all, the one who received punishment akin to capital punishment was Shunkan of Shishigatani. Merely hearing their destination was Kikaigashima made people's souls tremble in terror. Rokujō no Noritsuna felt he had rescued the Retired Emperor's actions from the brink of hellfire's abyss. Had they shot but one arrow toward Nishihachijō at that time—and had Kiyomori realized the Retired Emperor stood behind those forces—his reach would have extended even into the imperial residence. Who could tell what calamity might have befallen His Majesty's very person?

"What a terrifying world this is," he thought once more.

One could only endeavor to conduct oneself prudently, meticulously adapting to each step in navigating the world. “Yajirō! Is Yajirō here?” When he suddenly had the thought and called out, another servant appeared, “Yajirō-dono has just now gone carrying Lord Wakako on his back to see the prisoner carts of exiles.” Before long, when Yajirō returned bearing Jikakumaru on his back, Noritsuna...

"You must not show such things to Wakako," he scolded. However, Jikakumaru insisted on seeing.

Rokujō mansion, unlike the previous Hino Village, was located in the heart of the capital city. Even if he covered his eyes and stopped his ears, the roaring clamor of turbulent times and fearful whispers from anxious crowds could not help but imprint themselves upon the mirror-like sensitivity of his child's mind.

Due to his mother’s illness, Jijū no Suke, who had long been away in his hometown, eventually returned, but was astonished by the capital’s drastic transformation in such a short time and the vicissitudes of human fortunes.

"If three more years pass in this manner, how in the world will things change?" He murmured with deep solemnity about life’s impermanence.

The Pauper's Cart

I

The wall was stained with ink.

Along the desks lined up on all four sides, approximately twenty students sat forcing their postures straight as they listened to their teacher’s lecture. It was the *Classic of Filial Piety*. When Hino Minbu’s lecture concluded, “Teacher…” said the attendant who had been waiting in the next room as he approached. “I humbly report that a child seeking admission has arrived at the entrance hall accompanied by two attendants.” “I see. You may admit him—but which family’s child is he?” “I have not yet inquired.” While the attendant was leaving, the students had already begun hurriedly putting away the books on their desks and were making a commotion.

“Hey!” Minbu scolded. “Who told you to stand? You must not put away the books yet.” “Now, you shall recite in unison the passage this teacher has explicated for review.” They immediately fell silent.

The children held their books in both hands and read aloud a passage from the Classic of Filial Piety. “Good.” With a clatter, they began making a commotion again.

“Good—but your lessons are not yet concluded. Fill your inkstones with water and take out your practice paper.” As they were commanded, their writing practice began. Seeing that all was well, Minbu stood and went to another room.

There was nothing in that room. There was only a Chinese-style desk befitting a Confucian scholar’s household and a box of books in the corner.

With the wooden veranda behind him, a boy had been waiting there for some time. Minbu nonchalantly entered the room, but as soon as he stepped inside, he was startled. This school had enrolled children from influential families such as the Horikawa, Kyōgoku, Gojō, and Karasuma clans, ranging from those as young as six or seven to youths of fifteen or sixteen years old. Though Minbu had taken charge of many boys up until now, he had never received such an impression during a first meeting.

(No ordinary child)—he immediately sensed.

It was an intuition forged through years of experience as an educator, yet there was nothing particularly unusual about the boy’s appearance or attire. The boy, with his hands folded on his knees, glanced up at Minbu as he entered. And then he stepped back slightly and placed both hands on the floor. If they were children from good families, such etiquette would have been instilled in any of them. Yet even within those ordinary movements, Minbu could not help but feel something extraordinary.

(Hmm?) (…Which family’s child could this be?) (This is a phoenix chick...) So he thought to himself, “The one seeking admission would be you, I presume?” “Yes.” It was a clear reply. “How old are you?” “I am eight years old.” “And your name?” “My name is Jūhachi Kimimaro.” “Is your father a warrior?” “No.” “Who are you, then?” “I am the son of Fujiwara no Noritsuna from Rokujō Genji-chō.”

“Ah, so you are Lord Noritsuna’s adopted son.” “…Hmm, that explains it.”

2

Realizing that his own eyes had not been mistaken, Minbu slapped his knee,

“That explains it—” he nodded repeatedly.

“Rokujō-dono is among the foremost in Japanese studies and poetry of our time,” he said. “Since you are his adopted son, it is indeed beyond dispute.” “Though my father or uncle would have come together to make the request,” the boy replied, “I was taught that to become a scholar, one must come alone to ask for oneself—and so I have come.” “I understand your sentiment fully.” “Teacher, please accept me as your Confucian disciple from this day onward.”

“What did you study while at home?” “I was taught poetry by my father, and calligraphy and introductory Japanese studies by my uncle.”

“Very well. Starting tomorrow, you may come.” “I, Minbu, shall impart to you all the learning I have acquired.”

“Thank you very much.” On Jikakumaru’s cheeks, the color of hope shone crimson. He was, after all, still a boy. Hearing this, he eagerly dashed toward the entrance,

“Suke!” he called out cheerfully. Jijū no Suke and Yajirō were crouching at the corner of the entrance platform, but— “Oh! Lord Wako, what happened?” “I received permission!”

“That’s wonderful!” The two straightened up and rejoiced. “It went excellently. Quickly—you must inform Father of this as well.” They arranged the footwear and turned the shafts of the shabby carriage with peeling lacquer. When he boarded it, from the schoolhouse windows,

“Hey, where’s this kid from?” jeered the mischievous children who had been running wild during their teacher’s absence, poking their ink-smeared faces and prankish eyes outside. “Shabby carriage!” “Rattletrap!” “Spin those wheels all you like—” “A shabby carriage stays a broken carriage!” they chanted in mockery. Yajirō dashed to the window,

“Hey, brat! What’re you yappin’ about?!” “Whoa!” Laughing, all the heads at the window snapped back inside. “Yajirō, act your age. Let’s go.” Suke took hold of the ox’s reins. “I’ll handle this,” Yajirō growled, snatching the reins from him while still glaring resentfully at the window. “But sending our precious Lord Wako to a den of mischief like this school—is that truly wise?” “That’s part of his training too.”

“There is such a thing as ‘mingling with vermilion,’ you know—” “If his noble nature were the sort to be dyed by it, then that nature itself would be defective.” “Damn those brats.” “But when they sing of a ‘poverty carriage,’ those children aren’t lying. “Look at this wretched cart—who could claim we aren’t poor? …Ah, spin its wheels round and round all you like—a pauper’s carriage stays broken.” “Nothing will change until this world starts turning properly.” The ancient carriage—bereft of ox-driver or attendants—jolted along the rutted road, its wheels clattering like loose teeth.

Three

From the next day onward, Jikakumaru’s figure appeared at the schoolhouse without fail, whether rain or wind. Master Hino Minbu Tadayuki was a former Confucian scholar of the Nanke lineage who, in Confucian studies, had been spoken of at court alongside the onmyōji Abe no Yasuchika and in rural areas as Hino Minbu himself. Yet he possessed a magnanimous disposition, shunned fame and profit, secluded himself in the countryside, and devoted his innate talent to educating children.

Minbu loved Jikakumaru. As days passed, he had come to recognize that innate talent. (This was indeed a sandalwood sapling—fragrant from its first leaves.) Truly, Jikakumaru’s talent stood peerless among his peers. Rather, his talent was so far removed from that of the other children that it bordered on excess. And even among the children, there was jealousy. Clatter-clatter carriage Clatter-carriage Shabby carriage’s A sound is heard—— On the way to and from the schoolhouse, such songs were vigorously sung. Truly, there was not a single person who came in an old carriage like Jikakumaru’s. Those whose homes were nearby would have their servants hold parasols for them as they came and went, wearing resplendent shoes, while those from farther away would have lacquered carriages or mother-of-pearl inlaid carriages prepared, even having their ox drivers adorn their attire,

“My ox has such a glossy coat!” he boasted, even about his ox.

Amidst all this, there was one student who was the oldest in the schoolhouse. Jikakumaru had forgotten, but his attendant Suke had recognized him. He was the son of Narita Hyōe, a retainer of Lord Komatsu. It was Judōmaru—the little tyrant who had cunningly caused harm when Jikakumaru was still at the Hino residence. Judōmaru knew.

Was it that he found him repugnant? Or did he still nurse that grudge? Whatever the case, his malice was unmistakable. And, It later came to light that he had been the instigator who spread that mocking song about "the clatter of a pauper's carriage." "Suke! That brat's the mastermind! For Lord Wako's sake, we must take action." "I do wish to see him chastened, but..." "How about I serve him a helping of these knuckles?" "Stop this." Jijū no Suke grew uneasy as Yajirō kept pressing forward recklessly.

Suke naturally found him detestable, but Judōmaru was, after all, the favored son of a powerful Taira family—a samurai’s child. Moreover, even when coming to the schoolhouse, he arrived daily with five or six retainers in tow. If they were to strike him, Suke knew not only would his own head be in danger, but first and foremost, calamity would befall his master. Moreover, Judōmaru’s retainers were insolent. While waiting for their master’s child to finish his studies, they would tease village women nearby, knock down sparrows with pebbles to roast and devour them over the hearth in the retainer waiting room, and on more brazen occasions, sneak drinks of sake. And,

“Hey, Suke! Serving the nobility is all well and good, but why on earth would you choose to live in some rundown Fujiwara cow pasture? You must have peculiar tastes.” “Come to my master’s residence—even if you end up doing stable cleaning there, you could at least keep yourself a bit cleaner,” he said with insolence. (Stop. Don’t engage.) Each time, Suke restrained Yajirō with a look. Though Yajirō was the older of the two, Suke was always the one to hold him back. In terms of youthful vigor, Suke should have been the first to act rashly; yet having bitter past experiences, he kept his impulses firmly in check.

Wildfire

One

It was morning.

On an errand for the inner quarters, Yajirō had gone out to town for some shopping. “Suke, it’s terrible!” he said, returning without even the items he’d gone to buy. “What’s wrong?” “It’s war!” “Again?” Suke muttered as though it were nothing out of the ordinary. Yajirō, excitedly,

“No—this time’s flames are real,” Yajirō pressed on. “A Minamoto faction has finally risen up, unable to endure any longer.” “Hmm.” At these words, Suke’s youthful eyes gleamed. “Rumor or witness?” “Gojō and Shijō—you can’t pass through with Rokuhara’s warhorses deployed there! They say Prince Takakura leads them—that old Minamoto stalwart Yorimasa of the Third Rank has rallied the Watanabe faction and Miidera monks to fortify themselves at Byōdō-in Temple in Uji! Soon they’ll march on the capital—that’s what I heard!”

“Ah, then Rokuhara must be in a panic.” “Let them win!” “…………” Suke had been deep in thought, but soon ran to the north hall where Lady Yoshimitsu resided and conversed with her at length. Noritsuna too soon learned of this, “Given these circumstances, the disturbances in the capital can hardly be ordinary. “Since you mustn’t come to harm, Jikakumaru, you would do well to skip the schoolhouse today,” he declared. When Jikakumaru heard this,

"I will be careful on my way." "I will absolutely not go near any perilous places, so please allow me to go to the schoolhouse." he pleaded. He was so earnest he was on the verge of tears. Though he felt uneasy about it,

“Then be careful—if you find the path blocked by warhorses, you must turn back.” He cautioned him and permitted. Just as Yajirō had witnessed, the capital’s main streets and back alleys alike were filled with armored warriors, horses, bows, and naginatas.

The cart, its axle loose and tracks slackened, jolted unsteadily as it carried Jikakumaru through the throng, tilting precariously. Before the cart, naginata came crashing down, and rough warriors interrogated them, but amidst it all, Jikakumaru sat reading the Classic of Filial Piety. “Yajirō, did you see? Lord Wako’s... what boldness...!” Even Suke could only marvel. And before he knew it, he murmured, “It seems Lord Wako too carries somewhere within him the blood of Minamoto warriors.”

“After all, it seems there is some part of Lord Wako that carries the blood of a Minamoto warrior,” he murmured. Yajirō tugged on his sleeve,

“Shh!” he admonished. The streets were filled with the watchful eyes of Taira warriors. However, that day passed without incident. The next day also passed without incident.

The news that Minamoto no Yorimasa, the Third Rank, had raised his banner sent a powerful shock through the hearts of the people—not just within the capital but across the entire nation—

"They did it!"—the news struck like a thunderclap. Yet within days, the Taira clan's great army—surging like a tidal wave through Uji River and encircling Byōdō-in Temple—returned victorious, bearing aloft on their sword tips the severed heads of Yorimasa, Third Rank; his sons; and scores from the Watanabe faction and Miidera monks. The headcount was proclaimed to exceed two thousand, and warriors in blood-caked armor roamed the capital streets drunk on victory wine, their raucous laughter echoing through Kyoto.

Two

Defeated and bloodied, the army of Minamoto no Yorimasa, Third Rank, met a heroic death—and in their hearts, the people held both sympathy and disappointment. And within their hearts,

“How far does their evil fortune reach?” they came to loathe the arrogantly prospering Taira clan all the more. They lamented their stagnant lives—like weeds on a stone—resigned that no sunlight would reach them for some time to come.

But Yorimasa’s death was not in vain. His desperate battle was rather the crowning flower of his later years.

The realization—"If even that old Minamoto warrior could accomplish such a feat"—struck a powerful blow to Minamoto clansmen lurking in provinces across the land.

Stimulated by his uprising, the Minamoto bloodline began mobilizing troops from all directions as if awakening from a long hibernation. First, on August 7th, in Izu of the Kantō region, Yoritomo raised the white banner over the peninsula—a sight unseen in this land since the fall of Yoshitomo. This urgent report had startled Rokuhara in Kyoto when, before their military preparations were even complete, a second report arrived from the Kiso Kebiishi—a source they had never anticipated—

"It states: 'Kiso no Kanja Yoshinaka has rallied various Minamoto clans north of Ōmi and responded in support of Yoritomo in Izu.'" Aghast, the hearts of Rokuhara’s people were thrown into turmoil. Unfortunately, around this time, Kiyomori had become unwell and was filled with a gloomy mood from retiring to his chambers. Nightly, he seemed to have nightmares, making the night watchmen feel an eerie dread. Burning with high fever, even during the day he would ramble deliriously—seeing the head of Yorimasa, Third Rank, hanging in the great hall; Yoshitomo’s warhorses galloping across the roof; blue and red demons arriving outside the stable gate with their flaming chariot to summon Enma, the King of Hell—uttering nothing but these strange ravings.

However, beginning with Munemori, the Taira relatives firmly kept Kiyomori’s illness secret, “This must not be spoken of,” they instructed the night watchmen, court physicians, and even visiting generals. Yoritomo’s forces swept through Musashi like wildfire across a withered plain and pressed into Hitachi. It was heard that Yoshinaka was already advancing his warhorses along the Ōmi Road. Through this dizzying capital, where not a moment’s peace could be found, Jikakumaru continued to commute daily without fail in his rickety cart to the Hino schoolhouse.

Then, one day, Judōmaru of the bully gang and five or six other older students, seizing the opportunity when the Ministry of Popular Affairs was away,

“Hey, brat from Dungheap Alley!” they jeered, encircling Jikakumaru. “Your father isn’t Noritsuna of Rokujō. “In truth, you’re really Arinori of Hino’s child, aren’t you?”

Since even Jikakumaru knew that, he did not feel sorrow. Silently, with clear, round eyes, he gazed at the faces of those ruffians. Judōmaru threatened menacingly,

“Listen here. “There’s more you don’t know yet! “Shall I tell you? Your real father, Fujiwara no Arinori—though they say he died of illness—truth is, he slipped out of his mansion years ago and plotted illegal rebellion with Minamoto no Yorimasa, Third Rank, and his lot. “Then he got his head chopped off at Uji Riverbed alongside Yorimasa Nyūdō and the rest. “…How about that? Didn’t know, did you? “Only my father Narita Hyōe knows. “My old man took seven Minamoto warrior heads at Byōdō-in Temple in Uji!”

Three People said that the man he now called father was actually his adoptive parent. Why do I not have a real father? Even if he did not take Judōmaru’s words at face value, Jikakumaru found himself dwelling on them more and more. When he asked his mother,

“Your father passed away in the spring when Wako was four years old.”

Yoshimitsu Gozen added after clearly teaching him that. "But because of that, you were raised by this uncle in Rokujō and became his adopted child. As the saying goes, 'The parent who raises you matters more than the one who gave you life.' The grace of your adoptive father is great. You must never forget that!" "Yes." Jikakumaru nodded, but with his next question, he immediately startled his mother. "Did Father go off to war and die?" "No, he died of illness."

“But there were people who said he joined the army of Minamoto no Yorimasa, Third Rank, and died in battle.” “The world tends to speculate about people’s lives in all sorts of ways.” “There is no such thing.” “Mother, your uncle, and Suke were all present at his bedside at the time of his passing.” “Why does the world say such things?” “It’s not entirely without reason—for among my cousins there is Minamoto no Yoshitsune, who now hides under Fujiwara no Hidehira in Ōshū, and Yoritomo, who has recently been rumored to raise his banner in Izu. Thus people likely conjecture that your late father must have joined Yorimasa’s forces and met his end.” And she stroked Jikakumaru’s head.

"You must never consider taking up blades in bloodsoaked streets like Yoritomo and Yoshitsune to chase glory when you grow older." "Mother." "What troubles you?"

"When people die, where do they go?" “Well...?” Yoshimitsu Gozen found herself unable to immediately respond when her child posed a question about something that had always seemed so clear. “Even if one were to go, there is no visible form of going. One simply returns to nothingness. Only a person’s heart remains. Only the karma of the heart remains. Therefore, those who do good deeds in life leave behind a good name, while those who commit evil deeds carry the name of evil in their souls for a thousand years; after death, they cannot wipe it away or change it.”

To think of death was to think of life. From around that time, Jikakumaru's eyes had faintly begun opening to the realities of the world. To the figures of people starving by the roadside, wrapped in straw mats, and to the samurai generals parading down Rokuhara Avenue with their swords and spears glinting, he began opening new eyes that saw and contemplated the world.

And the various transient forms of these people all uniformly returned to the nothingness of death, leaving only the names of their souls to remain in the universe. Endlessly dying, endlessly being born—only the names of infinite souls existed in immortality.

"Strange…?" he would mutter, fixing his round eyes intently as he gazed endlessly at the deep blue, profoundly clear sky, as if he could never tire of looking. Even during such times, he never missed a day attending Hino Mimbu’s school.

Four

As they watched Jikakumaru’s studies in Mencius, Laozi, the Five Classics, and the Analects advance remarkably, the gang of schoolyard bullies who had made Judōmaru their brat king—

“That guy’s getting cheeky,” they declared, viewing him increasingly as their sworn enemy. “A rickety desk is good enough for that pauper’s cart!” They swapped his desk for one with warped legs, hid frogs in his paper box, dropped pine needles down his collar, concealed his ink and brushes—using every manner of mischief to launch their provocations. Yet Jikakumaru did not engage.

“Is this guy mute?” said Judōmaru. Jikakumaru, who had not spoken a word until age two, would still occasionally become mute as he had been back then. There were times when, no matter what voices surrounded him, he maintained an air of complete detachment as though perceiving nothing.

At last, the bullies resorted to outright ridicule. “Oi, today let’s go give that guy some consolation.” It was always Judōmaru who made such proposals. “What’ll we do?” “On the way back, it always gets dark at Tadasu Plain. We’ll lie in wait around there for the pauper’s cart to pass by, then set wildfire on it from all sides.”

“Brilliant!”

A dry wind swept down from Kitayama, its gusts occasionally striking the roof tiles with a hail-like clatter, while winter clouds raced alarmingly fast across the twilight sky.

“Young Lord Wakako, you mustn’t catch cold.” “Please keep yourself properly covered within the carriage.”

The attendants consisted of Suke alone. There was one ox driver. After departing from Hino’s school, they rumbled and creaked their way through the white grassland glistening with evening frost. Inside the carriage, with the blinds raised, the sound of reading could be heard. Both going and returning, Jikakumaru was reading a book. By now, the stars were pale, and the earth was dark. Yet he exposed his face to the cold wind and did not let go of the book from his hand. “Ah...!” The ox driver froze in place. In their path, a great flame, crimson, was scorching the earth. With this wind and the Kayahara field, the fire whirled around as though oil had been poured.

“Ox driver.”

“Right away!” “Turn to the side—it’s farther, but there should be a path,” Suke said, choking on smoke. The carriage retreated slightly and sped westward along a stony path through Kayahara field. Then again— “No good!” There was no need to ask why—even Suke saw it instantly. Flames engulfed every direction. If they turned back, fire awaited there too; fire everywhere. In moments, the carriage stood trapped within encircling flames.

“Bwahahaha!” “Ha ha ha ha!” A derisive laugh echoed through the smoke.

Jet-black smoke came smashing down from the whirlwind. Jikakumaru, inside the carriage, was coughing repeatedly and suffering.

"So it's Narita Hyōe's brat, then." Suke, as though he could no longer endure it, gripped the hilt of his long sword and leapt toward the undulating pampas grass from which the laughter had come.

Five

From that clump of pampas grass, about ten bullies fled like locusts.

Among them, Judōmaru could also be seen. Suke glared,

“You bastard! Today’s the day I’ll show you no mercy!” When he gave chase, Judōmaru—half-sobbing and shouting—swung the bamboo whip he carried and tried to strike Suke. "You insolent—!" Suke wrested the whip away and slapped Judōmaru across the face with his open hand. Judōmaru landed on his backside in the burning dry grass and shouted something. Then, from the surrounding grass thickets, “There! The young lord!”

“You bastard! How dare you!” Behind the child, men had been lying in ambush. Shouting together while brandishing tachi and naginatas, the Narita retainers—

“Don’t move!” they shouted, surrounding Suke and slashing at him.

Suke was surprised. He had not imagined their prank would be planned to such an extent. "What are you—?!" He drew his long sword from its scabbard. Crackling flames burning the dry grass and black smoke spewing from the pampas grass enveloped the blade. Though his master had admonished him time and again until his mouth went dry not to provoke conflicts with Taira retainers, in this situation, if he did not strike down his opponents, he would be struck down himself. To protect life was humanity's absolute imperative.

Suke fought fiercely, his eyes wide with fury. Yet the Narita retainers—warriors long accustomed to such villainous acts and superior in number—quickly overwhelmed him. His sleeves tore open, his forearm guards soaking crimson. A shallow gash ran from cheek to ear, blood streaking across his face until only his ghastly eyes remained visible, glowing like pits in the darkness. Gasping harshly through heaving shoulders, Suke retreated step by step.

(What had become of Young Lord Wakako?) That weighed on his mind. Jikakumaru’s carriage remained visible beyond the pampas thickets, unchanged in position, but even if he tried to reach it, the flames, smoke, and the enemy’s blades blocked the way, making it impossible to approach.

“Young Lord Wakako—!” Suke finally shouted. Then, a shriek was heard from the direction of the carriage. Without thinking, without looking at the flames, Suke started running.

“Don’t let him escape!” The blades pursued.

“Ah!” Suke was astonished. By now, Jikakumaru’s carriage was ablaze, its raging flames roaring skyward. The undercarriage and the canopy—both. Rooooar! As if the ground itself were begun to quake, the ox roared. The ox, hauling the burning carriage, suddenly began to stampede madly. The bullies who had been hiding in all directions screamed in terror and scattered in panic. In their panic, some children even ran toward the flames themselves, becoming trapped in the sea of fire and unable to escape.

“Help—!” Judōmaru screamed as he drowned in the flames he himself had kindled. Yet the enraged fire-ox knew no mercy. Kicking aside the bullies and trampling through the retainers’ blades, it charged into the darkened fields bearing a mass of roaring flames.

“Young Lord Wakako—! Young Lord Wakako—Ah!” Suke chased after it in a frenzy.

The ox, maddened by the flames, charged three or four hundred meters before suddenly collapsing sideways. When the ox collapsed, the burning canopy disintegrated with a growling groan, like a crimson festival float crumbling apart. And then, the canopy, the curtains, and the shafts—each one separated and traced beautiful streams of flickering flames upon the ground. Suke, as if gone mad, “Young Lord Wakako!” he cried, and rushed off.

And then, desperately, he tried to clear away the collapsed flaming planks and pillars, scattering them with his hands. He felt no heat at all. Of course, Jikakumaru inside should have been burned to death by now—or so he had imagined. But there was nothing beneath the carriage. “Ah…!” “Midway?” Suke stood torn between anxiety and joy as he muttered this. He must have been thrown off along the way or jumped down himself… Ah, thank goodness.

When he looked, the ox had already burned to death. Its massive flank swollen and legs still bent, it had turned completely black. It still showed faint breaths, with white foam boiling at its lips. Suke involuntarily averted his gaze. The wilderness was stained crimson. As long as no one came to extinguish it, this fire might continue burning until tomorrow morning. Even so, Jikakumaru remaining nowhere in sight still filled him with unease. It was too soon for relief. He couldn't possibly return to Rokujō alone - he must be somewhere weeping and searching for himself—

“Hey—!” Suke pressed both hands to the sides of his mouth and called out with all his might. “Young Lord Wakako—!” There was no reply; his voice merely became a storm across the desolate fields and faded away into the pitch darkness. …… As he tried to call out, tears welled up in his eyes. What if something had happened to him? Even if I were to slit my belly in apology, it would never suffice. His shadow—more panicked and maddened than the ox had been—then darted across the fields like a fleeing rabbit, but Jikakumaru was nowhere to be seen.

“Where have you gone off to, Lord Wakako? “Suke is right here! “Lord Jikakumaru!” His voice began to quaver uncontrollably.

Then, along the embankment by the riverbank, a man could be seen running with someone on his back. The flames had crawled all the way to the base of the embankment, and because the sky was red, the black figure appeared clearly in Suke’s eyes. “Ah! It’s Young Lord Wakako! That’s right—it must be Young Lord Wakako. Damn you, Narita retainers!” Like a demon, Suke charged toward the embankment, but with the marsh of dried reeds stretching out before him, he had to make a long detour to reach it.

His mind raced impatiently, yet his legs refused to obey. The marsh water was quite deep. Suke pulled back his legs, soaked up to the knees, and clambered up the embankment from about fifty meters behind. The figure he had seen earlier was already far away, and he could no longer make it out. Suke stamped his feet, “Damn it!” he shouted. And then he ran along the embankment like a demon, his hair streaming behind him. The eboshi had fallen to his back and bounced about.

Seven

“The sky is red again.”

“Bandits must’ve raided some mansion.”

Out on the streets, the townspeople were looking up at the sky.

The terror that followed battle was banditry. They did not skulk about stealthily. They would boldly storm any place with ten, twenty, or even fifty underlings at times. If there were retainers who showed even slight defiance, they would fight under the pretense of loyalty, and the mansion would immediately be set ablaze and burn down.

“At least the poor don’t have to worry about bandits.”

The townspeople gazed at the red sky and murmured to each other as if seeking some small comfort.

Through that thoroughfare, a man ran recklessly. It was Suke.

“Stop!!” he shouted at the Kyōgoku crossroads. The figure fleeing ahead moved with terrifying swiftness. From what he could glimpse up close, it appeared to be either a beggar or one of those itinerant monks who often slept in riverbeds and withered fields. At first, Suke had been certain it was one of the Narita retainers and had pursued accordingly—but now his confusion deepened. This time, he concluded it must surely be bandits or slavers who had abducted Lord Jikakumaru to sell him in some distant province.

“Stop! Stop!!” The more he shouted, the faster the man ahead became—even while carrying Jikakumaru on his back—moving with demonic speed.

And then, somehow managing to slip through, he dashed into Rokujō no Oushiba.

“Ah, here it is!”

The man looked up at the earthen wall and paused. And then he began pounding loudly on the back gate. Someone opened it. The moment it opened, the man passed Jikakumaru—still on his back—through the gate as if hurling him inside, then swiftly turned back the way he had come. "You beggar! Where have you taken Wakako-sama?!" The one who suddenly grabbed and clung to him was Suke.

“Ah!” He staggered, but the man said nothing. Twisting his body, he flung Suke away with tremendous force. Suke grabbed the man’s leg. The man lurched forward and fell. Seizing the opportunity, Suke pinned him down and pummeled him repeatedly with his fist. The initial momentum gone who knows where, the man resembling a straw-mat monk covered his face with both hands and did not even cry out in pain. Suke, his fury remaining unappeased, continued to strike and strike, pummeling relentlessly.

Then, Jikakumaru—who came running from near the earthen wall—saw this and let out a loud wail. Jikakumaru, who rarely ever cried, was weeping with such strange intensity that Suke was shocked.

“Lord Wakako, this man is a bandit, a human trafficker, or a villain! Why are you crying, my lord?”

Jikakumaru said this and looked resentfully at Suke, who stood breathing heavily through his shoulders.

“I remember that man—he’s no villain.” “What?! You know him?!” “He’d been bound in our estate’s stable before….” “Yes—he’s Shōji Shichirō, once a retainer of Narita Hyōe.”

“Gah!” Suke looked astonished,

“Is that man Shōji Shichirō, the former retainer of Narita Hyōe who served Judōmaru?” When he turned back to look, the straw-mat monk—still covering his face with both hands—suddenly rose and fled in apparent shame.

Chapter 8 Taking Jikakumaru by the hand and entering the mansion’s grounds, both his foster father Noritsuna and Yoshimitsu Gozen— “Oh, you’re unharmed!” “Were you hurt?” The entire family came tumbling out to the veranda. From the ox driver of the carriage who had fled back earlier, they had heard about the incident along the way and had been anxiously worrying. When they explained that the man who had rescued Jikakumaru from that perilous wildfire and carried him all the way here was none other than Shōji Shichirō, a former retainer of Narita Hyōe, Noritsuna—

“Ah, so that’s it…” he murmured in realization, nodding. “That warrior Shichirō whom we released from the stable prison here—I heard that afterward, his lord Hyōe denounced him as a useless troublemaker, stripped him of both home and stipend, reducing him to a ronin and then a destitute straw-mat monk…” “It seems he could not forget Wakako’s compassion from that time and the favors of our house, and thus acted during that perilous moment.” “One should always show compassion to others. He was a truly grateful soul.”

While he was speaking to Suke, Yajirō, and the others in this manner, Yoshimitsu Gozen took Jikakumaru to stand by the stone well in the grounds. Without involving the servants' hands, she drew water herself and washed his dirtied feet and hands.

Then, carrying him into the inner room, she brought out clothes to change him into, carefully inspected his scrapes, and applied medicine. “Oh, Wakako…” she said tearfully. “Today’s calamity passed without injury by fortune’s grace, but from now on, you must guard your person with utmost care.” “You must not let your guard down—not even in your heart!” “If something were to happen to you, what would this mother do?” Then, until late into the night, she worried about Jikakumaru’s future and imparted various words of caution.

That was the last night mother and child would embrace each other so profoundly in their hearts. Standing at the stone well while drawing water, she had murmured about feeling a chill. From that night onward, she remained secluded in her bedroom for days on end. Since parting from her husband, she—who had already been prone to illness—had lived without respite, burdened not only by her own ailments but by caring for their two orphaned children, contemplating Noritsuna’s strained household finances and the tribulations of the troubled world, leaving them no time to share peaceful days together.

In the span of a few days during which she had lightly thought it nothing more than a slight cold, her youth and skin were chiseled away by the plane of disease until she had wasted away to a degree that shocked the eye.

“Ohh... Something so beautiful... The fragrance of lotus blossoms... That strange sound—is it the music of a shō mouth organ, or the song of a kalavinka?” “...Lotus petals are falling... Dear ones, lotus petals are falling—they brush against my face.” A woman of deep faith, she uttered these delirious words as her fever rose, moving her slender hands that resembled candle wax.

(This won’t do—) Noritsuna thought darkly as he looked at Jikakumaru and Asamaru—two young children weeping by the pillow. “Lord Rokujō… please… bestow your compassion… upon those two.” “…upon those two.” Her weakened eyes gazed up steadily from the pillow with profound sorrow. Then, as though commanded by some unseen force, she pressed her pale palms together and smiled softly.

Flowers were carried on the night wind.

1

The black earth of the main road after the rain was patterned with white patches as if sprinkled with white powder. Creak, creak—the lonely creak of wheels passed through the quiet earthen walls, bamboo fences, and under the cherry blossoms of hedges in the desolate area around Awataguchi.

“Ah.” Walking alongside the ox, Jijū no Suke quietly wiped the tears at the tip of his nose with his fingertip. “It’s daytime, but somehow… I feel as though we’re walking through the night.” He muttered to himself, “That’s only natural,” replied the ox driver. “What a year this has been—right from the very start of the New Year.” “First, His Majesty Emperor Takakura passed away—and then, following that, Lord Chancellor Taira no Kiyomori, who since last year had been wracked by raging fevers, suddenly departed to the next world…” “Even so—for His Lordship and Lord Wakako, having lost Lady Yoshimitsu, they had to pass through such a lonely year.”

“Hollow… that’s His Lordship’s heart now—and ours too.” Quietly, not even a butterfly danced. In this spring of imperial mourning, where court nobles and commoners alike were sunk in sorrow, even insects seemed to understand the loneliness. “It’s night—no matter how I try, I can’t possibly think of it as daytime...” Suke turned the corner.

The road too was hushed, chilly, and devoid of human figures.

When spring arrived—it was mid-March of the year Jikakumaru turned nine. Inside the oxcart could be seen a shadowed figure dark as ink. It was Jikakumaru—cradled on his foster father Noritsuna’s lap. Since losing his mother, Jikakumaru had changed even more profoundly. His very countenance had begun to resemble Yoshimitsu’s before her passing—this newfound refined beauty being one aspect of his transformation—and what even Noritsuna and Suke found startling at times were his eyes. They were black—utterly black—and as limpid as a lake.

His eyes—gazing at stars, at clouds, lifting to the wind—always seemed to harbor doubt and ponder deeply upon the myriad phenomena of asura-like games played out by humans on earth.

His uncle Munenari, who had long been teaching him calligraphy, soon cast aside his brush, “It would be better not to teach Jikakumaru much anymore,” he had even declared. “He has a frightening talent,” some said. Also, “A child prodigy like this might well die young if things go ill,” cautioned an old man.

Either way, they were anxious. The adults around him found themselves unable to treat it lightly. Though still a young and immature nine-year-old child, when they held him—lightly though they might—they felt an indescribable presence about him, whether one called it magnitude, nobility, or authority—something irreplaceable. Yet even so, he still behaved affectionately toward Noritsuna alone, and Noritsuna himself did not regard it as gravely as others claimed. Yet for some reason, “May your features resemble your mother’s,” he would habitually say. “May your blood take after your father’s.”

He was extremely terrified that Minamoto blood from the maternal line was coursing through this child. Even without that particular concern, not only had the Taira clan’s watchfulness toward Jikakumaru’s maternal lineage and his person grown suddenly vigilant of late—it was impossible not to feel that given even the slightest opportunity, the claws of tigers and wolves would come leaping at him.

2 Looking up at the weathered bronze-tiled mountain gate, “Here will do,” Suke had the ox driver stop the cart. And drawing near, “My lord, we have arrived at Shōren-in Temple,” he whispered to the carriage curtain. A heron-legged footrest was placed on the shafts, and beneath the front curtain sat a shoe platform. “Please go ahead.” “Yes,” Jikakumaru replied, gently lowering one leg. His wisteria-purple hakama swayed as sleeves of pale plum-blossom pink hung down. Suke lifted him down and slipped the beautiful lacquered shoes onto his feet.

Despite the financial strain on the household, his foster father Noritsuna had spared no expense for this day alone—having the oxcart decorated and Jikakumaru dressed in pure, new garments from head to toe, down to his small kosode robe and shoes. (Today would be this child’s final day in the secular world—) he had thought as he made these preparations. When Suke approached the gate and inquired whether the bishop was present, “His Excellency is present,” announced the temple attendant, running from the mountain gate toward the inner entrance. “What a fine temple——” Jikakumaru kept murmuring as he looked around with childlike wonder.

“The monastery will do.” “Yes,” he nodded. As he stood there, a wagtail alighted nearby, playing in the muddy water where blossoms had fallen. “Lord Rokujō, you may proceed.” On the steps of the corridor, temple monks and samurai stood to welcome them. Everyone—monks and samurai alike—could not help but smile at Jikakumaru’s adorable charm. “How old are you?” came a whispered voice. “Nine years old.”

The corridors of Shōren-in were long. From there, crossing the bridge corridor, there lay the secluded residence of the bishop. Clustered bamboo leaves cast a blue light from somewhere onto the railings and lattice shutters. The bush warblers sang incessantly. The tinkling sound of a spring reached his ears, and the soles of his feet grew cold as they touched the floor. The term “Bishop” referred to the 62nd head of the Tendai school, Venerable Jien. He was both the son of Lord Regent Tsukinowa and a scion of the imperial lineage. Suke sat at the edge of the corridor. Noritsuna and Jikakumaru passed through the main-pillared guest hall into yet another chamber, then proceeded to the east-facing parlor where audiences were customarily held, where they now lay prostrate. The spring of Awatayama filled the room with its fragrance, and a gentle breeze faintly rang a bell—perhaps from a shrine niche or a string of Buddhist ornaments.

“Lord Rokujō?” At the voice, timidly raising his head, he saw Bishop Jien sliding open the sliding door there. He was young—still a twenty-seven-year-old head priest at the time. When they offered their greetings, “Oh…” Immediately, he widened his eyes and said.

“Have you brought a child with you today?” “Please kindly take notice of my adopted son, Jikakumaru.” “Hmm...” He smiled cheerfully with his lips. Noritsuna gently tugged the sleeve of Jikakumaru’s hunting robe. “This is His Excellency the Bishop. Offer your greetings.” “Yes.” Jikakumaru placed his hands on the floor and raised his white, shell-like face. It was the first gaze between Jien and him that formed the bond of teacher and disciple.

Three "Splendid, such a youthful form." Bishop Jien had been gazing intently but reached out to the desk and quietly shook the bronze bell that lay there. Hearing the bell’s chime, “Are you summoning me?” The steward Takamatsu Emon came to the next room and clasped his hands. “Ah, Emon.” “Please give Wako some sweets (confectioneries).” When Jien said this,

“Understood.” Emon soon spread white paper over an elevated tray, then piled it high with red-and-white flower-shaped twisted pastries and confections called rice-flour cakes with sweet bean paste. “There you go, Wako. Partake of His Excellency the Bishop’s gift,” he urged Jikakumaru. And to Noritsuna, he served a green-hued beverage poured into an antiquated vessel.

The aroma rising from the vessel made Noritsuna feel parched, and he thought to try drinking it, but he could not discern what manner of beverage it was. Whenever he visited Shōren-in, he would occasionally be shown such unfamiliar flavors and artifacts, leaving him astonished by the bishop’s knowledge. “Forgive my impertinence for asking—what is this green-hued brew called? It has such a lovely fragrance...” When Noritsuna inquired, the bishop laughed,

“It’s called tea,” he explained.

“Ah, I see.” Noritsuna took the vessel in hand, certain that this too must have been brought over by ship from Tang China, “Should I partake of it as it is?” “That’s right.” “I humbly partake.” Bowing, Noritsuna took a sip into his mouth,

(Bitter...) he thought, but as a faint sweetness welled up on his tongue, he felt a refreshing sensation. “How do you find the flavor?” “I find it quite agreeable.” “It can’t be that good.” Unable to say “Yes,” Noritsuna answered that it had a refreshing quality. Jien said with a laugh, “Lately, along with Buddhist texts, I obtained a small quantity and have been sampling it—it has a rather lingering flavor.” “I hear tea plant seeds were imported to Japan long ago.” “What flowers they might bear—I should like to see their blossoms...”

He went on to explain that in China, tea had been cherished among gentlemen since the Wei and Jin dynasties, and that Lu Yu of the Tang had even authored a text called *The Classic of Tea*. It was good for dispelling melancholy and excellent for alleviating blood stagnation. Physicians had also been using it, and its cultivation had been progressing steadily. In Japan as well, he said he would certainly like to plant seeds and have both high and low among the populace try using them—such talk from the bishop, who was knowledgeable despite his youth, was quite erudite and worldly.

Moreover, though Jien resided deep within the monastery, he possessed keen insight into politics and social movements, and was well-versed in current affairs. Within his seemingly casual conversations that touched obliquely on worldly matters, there was a simmering intensity.

“Regarding that matter—today, I have come with a particularly earnest request for Your Excellency the Bishop,” Noritsuna finally found an opening in the conversation and began to say. From the fact that he had brought Jikakumaru, the boy’s formal attire, and their conversation itself, Jien had already discerned that today’s visit was not for their usual poetic diversions or idle chatter.

Four “Speak your mind,” Jien said. “If it lies within my power—being none other than Lord Rokujō’s request—what matter brings you here?”

“...In truth, might it be possible for you to grant Jikakumaru here the tonsure and permit him to remain at your esteemed disciple’s side for years to come?” “Oh...” Jien widened his eyes, “Do you mean to say you wish to shave off this comely youth’s locks and confine him to a monastery?”

“For as he has manifested a Buddha-nature since childhood, he constantly longs for the esteemed temple.”

“Well, that alone—” “Especially since losing his mother—even more so…” “Ah, Lord Rokujō, is that not merely a child’s innocent heart? If a mother possesses Buddha-mind, it is only natural for her child to reflect that Buddha-mind; if a household resounds with Buddhist chants, it is only natural for the child’s voice to carry Buddhist resonance.—All young children are clear water. To perceive this as some divine portent or prodigious child is already a distortion born of our mundane eyes.—All childlike minds are Buddha-nature itself—do you understand?”

“Ah…” “If mature individuals were to overinterpret this child’s supposed profound karmic connection to Buddhism and make him a temple novice, who knows how bitterly he might resent it once grown.” “There is no error in Your Excellency’s discernment.” “At least wait until he reaches an age when he can think for himself. Even speaking of ordination—he is still only nine.” “Thank you for your wise admonitions. Nevertheless... there remains a matter for which I must cling to your merciful sleeve and make this request.” Here, even while thinking that nothing divulged in this place could pose a problem, Noritsuna nonetheless glanced about his surroundings,

“For Jikakumaru’s very being, there can be no refuge save at the Buddha’s knee.”

“Why?”

“The Minamoto clansmen rising across provinces—voices crying ‘Destroy the Taira!’—make every alleyway tremble...” “These blood-maddened Taira hounds hate all Minamoto kin so fiercely they’ll truss up even women and babes who share a drop of that blood—then invent pretexts to lop off their heads.” “…………” Bishop Jien nodded silently without speaking. “Your Excellency may know this already—the boy’s mother was cousin to Yoshitomo, grandson of Minamoto no Yoshiie. Thus Yoritomo mustering armies in Kantō and Yoshitsune they all fear—they stand as his second cousins.”

“Hmm.” “I see.”

“Mother has passed away.” “The child is only nine years old and has become my adopted son—I believe even the most brutish Taira warriors would not dare harm him—yet there are those who bear grudges against me, spreading baseless rumors that Jikakumaru’s true father Arinori had joined Lord Minamoto no Yorimasa’s rebellion and perished at Uji River. The thought of what may come fills me with dread.”

The Bishop remained still, pondering deeply, but after a while, “Very well—I understand. I will grant your request.” He resolved himself and answered firmly.

Five

“Emon—” Again, the Bishop called. By the sliding door,

“Yes!” Takamatsu Emon immediately prostrated himself, “Are you summoning me?”

“I need you to dispatch a messenger with utmost urgency—to the Ministry of Central Affairs.” “—to the Ministry of Central Affairs.”

“I humbly comply.” “And regarding the wording—” “Former Wakasa Governor Lord Noritsuna’s adopted son, Lord Jikakumaru, shall undergo his ordination ceremony at this temple tonight in accordance with his wishes—” “What?” Emon looked as though he couldn’t believe his ears. “Might I inquire once more—who exactly is to be ordained…?” “……” “The one present here is Lord Jikakumaru.” “But—Lord Wakako…?” “And his age…?” “Nine years old,” answered Noritsuna.

“According to the regulations, he should still be in his youthful training period. If Your Excellency disregards our temple’s ancient traditions, I fear the entire monastic community might denounce this violation and stir up a great commotion.”

“Declare that Jien has taken personal responsibility.” “However, there may be inquiries from officials at the Ministry of Central Affairs.” “In that case, how should this humble one respond?” “Simply state thus: ‘Though unworthy, as Jien—the 62nd Head of Tendai who received the esoteric teachings of samādhi from Prince Kakukai and bears stewardship of Shōren-in Temple’s dharma transmission—this matter rests upon my own person.’”

“Ha!” “To the assembly of the Three Pagodas and One Mountain, I, Jien, shall personally elucidate the rationale anew.—Do you understand?” “Understood.” “Await the messenger’s return. Make haste.” “Haste!” “At once!” Takamatsu Emon retreated down the corridor with quick, clipped steps. Noritsuna repeatedly swallowed tears of gratitude for the Bishop’s benevolence. Then he stroked Jikakumaru’s head—

“Are you happy?” “Yes.” Jikakumaru replied with innocent simplicity. Yet Bishop Jien’s decisive declaration—that he would personally assume responsibility while seeking official approval from the authorities—had not been made on mere impulse. During their earlier exchange, his penetrating gaze had already assessed every nuance of the boy’s bearing. He must have recognized this child’s extraordinary nature from the first. A parallel tale would later be told of Hōnen Shōnin of Kurodani—the teacher whom Jikakumaru would come to revere as his spiritual guide.

When Hōnen—then called Seishi-maru in his childhood—had lost his father and was journeying alone from his native Mimasaka Province to the capital Kyoto, a certain nobleman spied him from atop his white horse. “That child appears no ordinary one,” he observed. “Go inquire where he travels and learn his circumstances,” he instructed his attendant. When the attendant asked why, the white-mounted nobleman replied: “Do you not see? “That boy’s eyes bear a brown hue—when turned toward the sun, they gleam like agate. “How could he be born of common stock?” he is said to have declared.

Indeed, Seishi-maru would later become the Venerable Hōnen. The nobleman on the white horse at that time was Lord Kujō Tadamichi, the Regent and Chancellor—whether by fate or some marvel, he was none other than Bishop Jien’s father.

Six

The messenger who had been dispatched to the Ministry of Central Affairs had yet to return—perhaps he was being delayed by the ministry officials’ difficult regulations and inquiries.

The broad inner hall of Shōren-in Temple was filled with the sound of water from some unseen bamboo pipe, creating a cold evening breeze, while from the plastered walls welled up the hues of twilight.

Jijū no Suke, who had accompanied them, had been sitting at the edge of the corridor all this time, his gaze fixed on the white cherry blossoms scattered across the garden surface. “This is taking too long,” Bishop Jien muttered sympathetically. The flickering light of a short lamp was brought in. “Many petty officials are bound by the letter of the law yet remain ignorant of its spirit… If it remains this delayed, I may have to go myself and persuade them.” “There’s nothing to find tedious about waiting. Do not concern yourself,” said Noritsuna.

“But this is excessively slow—” “What if we proceed thus?”

“Very well.” “If you come tomorrow or the day after, bring Jikakumaru with you. By then, I will have obtained all necessary official approvals from the authorities.” “Then, shall we proceed with that request?” Noritsuna answered and began to rise. “Father.” Jikakumaru said. “It is the Bishop’s command. Let’s go.”

"No," he shook his head— "Indefinitely, I shall humbly wait."

“Don’t throw such childish tantrums now…” When urged, Jikakumaru imitated the exact cadence his father used when reciting verses: “Though tomorrow may come— This heart that dwells on morrow’s bloom— Fleeting cherry blossoms… Does the tempest at midnight Not blow them away?…” With his adorable lips, he sang it like a nursery rhyme.

With his adorable lips, he sang like a nursery rhyme.

“Oh!” Bishop Jien felt a chill run down his spine as he was struck by that voice.

“Well said… Lord Rokujō, we must wait—even should the night dawn.” “Yes.” Noritsuna murmured softly.

It was joyful. The spark of this child's wisdom and talent. Yet at the same time, it was terrifying. How could the Taira clan leave such a shining gem unnoticed? They would wait. ——There was no limit to midnight storms that might arise. At the sound of the children's song just now, Suke—— "Ah, must even that adorable figure vanish after tonight?"——sniffed back his tears.

The flowers scattering in the twilight were like white insects—beautiful yet eerie—twinkling like light. And then—at that moment,

“The messenger has returned.”

Takamatsu Emon hurriedly came to report. Having waited impatiently, “What happened?” asked Bishop Jien. As he did so, the messenger prostrated himself in the next room, “The honorable approval from the Ministry of Central Affairs has been safely granted,” he reported.

Seven Joyful expressions lit up the faces of those present. "I see. Then we shall conduct the tonsure ceremony immediately. Emon, make the preparations." At the Bishop's single command, "Right away!" Emon stood. Before long, the sound of the temple bell reverberated along the ridgepole of the hall, now steeped in ink-black dusk.

In the corridor, the lamp in the niche glowed faintly. The figures of the monks in prayer appeared glowing red in the distant main hall.

“Please, this way—” A monk came forward to inform them the preparations were ready, whereupon Noritsuna took Jikakumaru’s hand and quietly crossed the bridge corridor. His attendant Jijū no Suke also followed timidly behind the two, keeping to their shadows as he went. In the temple complex, the monks of the mountain were seated in rows, solemn. Unlike during the informal discussion, Bishop Jien now wore a somewhat fearsome, solemn expression and sat facing forward with his seven-striped kesa impeccably arranged. Before him on the sutra desk were placed a censer and water jar. Slightly behind sat Ajari Shōhan’s seat, while to both sides, seven ritual monks each stared unblinkingly at the nine-year-old initiate approaching. A monk quietly came to his side,

“Wako, please change your garments,” instructed the monk. “Yes.” Jikakumaru smoothly removed his suhikan ceremonial robe.

A cold, plain white hemp robe was presented before him.—Noritsuna suddenly felt his chest tighten.

“This way.”

The monk took his hand and seated him before the platform. His small hands—without him consciously moving them, and without anyone instructing him—pressed together naturally in prayer as he bowed his head slightly. Within the transmigration through the three realms, Bonds of earthly affection cannot be severed... Like threads of purple rising, thin and continuous, the fragrance ascended from the censer, and at the same time, the voices of the assembled monks resounded sonorously in unison. Take refuge in the Great World-Honored One Who can liberate from the threefold suffering Jikakumaru’s lips were also faintly moving along. His figure, when seated beneath the high ceiling of this great temple complex, appeared all the more small.

“…………” Bishop Jien rose from his seat. Two monks approached from either side holding paper torches. One monk presented a razor upon the tray, while another drew near Jikakumaru and held out a water jar.

The sleeve of Bishop Jien's robe settled softly over Jikakumaru's shoulder. In his hand gleamed a razor. The blade, moistened in the water jar, flashed blue as it caught the light. "…………" Noritsuna instinctively twisted his body, shuffling sideways. (What expression is he making—) The sight of Jikakumaru obscured by the Bishop and other monks filled Noritsuna with unbearable frustration.

With a stifled sob—someone in the back let slip a muffled cry. Startled, Noritsuna turned around. It was Jijū no Suke, who had withdrawn to wait by the plank floor. For Suke, who had soothed Jikakumaru on his back, carried him in his arms, and cared for him since before the child had even suckled milk, unbearable emotions must have welled up.

8 (Ill-mannered fool!) Though he did not voice it aloud, Noritsuna glared sharply.

Startled, Suke sank his teeth into his own wrist and bowed his face downward. Though he had scolded Suke, it was Noritsuna himself whose eyelids threatened to spill over. (Common mortal—) he mocked himself, averting his eyes. Imagining that small head—he found it unbearable. If he were to see it, he thought he would surely weep. At that moment,

"The tonsure ceremony has been completed," announced the ritual monk. Jikakumaru’s head now lay shorn of its sapling-lush black hair, taking on a melon’s endearing bluish hue. “Wait! Your Excellency Bishop... I implore you!”

Suddenly, a man rushed out before the platform and flattened his hands against it. “Ah!” Noritsuna was startled.

The one who had come to the bishop’s feet and was weeping was Suke. “How presumptuous! Step back!” When Noritsuna rebuked him, “Ah, no—” Gently supporting him, the Bishop—

“What is it?” he asked Suke. Suke shook his shoulders,

"My request is nothing else but this—for many years, since his infancy when he still carried the scent of milk, I have served as Lord Wako’s attendant. How could I now merely stand by and watch as he undergoes his ordination, only to return to the secular world? ...Please—though I am but a lowly commoner—grant this humble one the honor of receiving the razor during tonight’s ceremony as well.” “Hmm... So you too wish to enter the priesthood and follow your lord?”

“Yes, Your Excellency.” “How humble of you.” Bishop Jien nodded lightly, “The bond between lord and retainer—it is only natural. Lord Rokujō, I wish to grant this one’s request, but with your consent—” “There is no objection.” “Then,” said the Bishop, taking up the razor once more.

Flowers swept into the temple corridor on the night wind like snow. Sonorous chants—the monks’ sutra recitations continued unabated. (A lord and retainer span three lifetimes—) Suke was overjoyed.

Jikakumaru was now gazing at his own head being shaved, like a seasoned ascetic. One stick, then another. The incense rose as if to proclaim the spring night and the mortal world were but dreams.

The ceremony was completed. For the two in white robes with shaved heads, the Bishop bestowed Dharma names. Jikakumaru was now Hannen Shōnagon. Suke was now Shōzenbō. “I am deeply grateful.”

The two of them placed their hands on the floor and lowered their chilly, shaved heads.

＊

That night—deep into the night.

Creak, creak—the ox-cart’s wheels carried Rokujō no Noritsuna, sitting alone in silence with his sleeves adjusted and head bowed low, as it departed from Shōren-in Temple through the desolate blizzard of petals in Awataguchi.

Chapter: The Mountain Ascent

Black hair.

I

The ginkgo leaves were beginning to turn yellow— When autumn came, the shrikes’ cries grew annoyingly loud. Thud, thud, thunk—scaffolding had been erected at Shōren-in Temple’s mountain gate. To repair the transom carvings damaged by summer storms had come two lacquerers and three sculptors, who were now carrying out repairs. “Hey, Shōun,” one of them paused his chisel and said. “What?” “What a cute kid.” “Hmm—that novice monk?” “I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere before…”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing.” The lacquerer,

“Let’s eat.” They descended from the scaffolding. “It’s already noon.” While brushing off wood chips, the sculptors too slid down. Autumn cicadas were singing. By the stone well, sitting down, the craftsmen began to open their lunchboxes. Then, the small novice monk they had been talking about scurried past along the corridor of the Retired Emperor’s palace. “Hey, hey.” On the corridor where Kōsai, the sculptor, had called out, Hannen Shōnagon laughed softly. “What is it, Mister?”

“How old are you?” “Nine.” “Oh! So you’re still quite young. When did you begin coming to this Shōren-in Temple?” “Since around spring.” “That makes it only half a year then.”

“Well, that makes it only half a year then.” “Uh, uh.” “You must want your mother’s milk, don’t you?” “Uh-uh…” Hannen shook his head. “Where is your home?”

“Rokujō.” “Then near Genji-machi.” “Huh?” “Did your parents go off to war and die in battle?” “No.” “Why did you become a monk then?” “I don’t know…” “You don’t know?” “Yes.”

“Who might your father be?” “Lord Noritsuna of Rokujō.” “Oh, Lord Rokujō… That explains it.” Kōsai was whispering something with his companion Shōun, but eventually, “Lord Hannen.” “Yes.” “So, you were born in Hino Village, weren’t you? We once had occasion to work at your family home in Hino for about half a month—and you’ve grown so big.” “So, you’re the ones who built the Buddhist altar room at Hino Mansion?”

“Indeed, we went to repair the Buddhist statues inside there.” “Is carving Buddhist statues your job?” “That’s right.” Kōsai gazed intently at Hannen leaning against the railing,

“If we carve that face just as it is, we could truly make a fine piece,” he muttered. “Then you can go ahead and carve it.” Hannen laughed as he said this, as though it could be done right away.

2 “Will you let us carve it?” Kōsai and Shōun exchanged glances. (We want to carve this.)

(We should carve this)—driven by the artistic impulse,

“Then, starting tomorrow, please come here every time you take a meal break,” they promised.

When noon came, the two descended from the scaffolding. Hannen stood on the railing.

For the material, they used a rather large tree. They seemed intent on finishing it as a seated statue about three shaku tall. The two sculptors would take up their chisels each day as they chewed their meals, gradually shaping Hannen’s features. After learning of this, Shōzenbō (formerly Jijū no Suke) came to watch by their side every day.

When white frost began to form on the scaffolding of the temple gate, the scaffolding was dismantled, and the sculptors and lacquerers no longer came.

Then, one day in early winter,

“Excuse me.”

Outside the monastery where Hannen was staying, an unfamiliar voice sounded. Shōzenbō, who had been in the adjacent chamber,

“Who’s there?” When he slid open the shoji, “Oh! It’s you, Suke!” “Yajirō?” “You’ve changed.” “Well, come in.”

“The temple grounds are so vast, with monks’ quarters everywhere—I got completely lost.” “Are you well?” “And you?” “Ever since Lord Wakako entered Shōren-in Temple, Rokujō Mansion has been as lonely as a house stripped bare by winter.” “I imagined as much.—And how fares Lord Arinori?” “Hmm... Let us say he remains unharmed for now.” “Well, today—” “Having come this way on an errand, I thought to slip in quietly—to hear how Lord Wakako does before returning…”

“Ah, you came by after all. Once you leave the world behind, you start to long for it.” The two took each other’s hands, tears welling in their eyes. Shōzenbō eventually stood up, “Lord Hannen.” “Here.”

Hannen was reading a book. “Who has come?” “Yajirō has come.” “Ah,” he exclaimed—and indeed, with evident nostalgia—he ran toward the veranda. “Lord Wakako?” At his changed appearance, Yajirō sniffled. “And your foster father?” “There has been no change.”

“And Asamaro?” “He is in good health, growing more each day, and has come of age.” “Will they ask about me?” “Yes… Lately… they seem to have finally begun forgetting you a bit.” “He must be lonely.” Hannen went down to the garden and cut a white chrysanthemum blooming on the hedge. “Please take this to Asamaro—as my gift.” Having said that, Shōzenbō interjected, “There is a fine memento. Lord Hannen, how about having Yajirō carry that and send it along?”

Three “Ah, of course!”

Hannen took Yajirō’s hand and,

"I have something good." "What might that be?" "Well, come and see." Hannen led him to his private quarters. "Ah…"

Yajirō plopped down in the middle of the room and stared wide-eyed at the wooden seated statue in the corner.

It was an exact likeness of Jikakumaru as he had appeared before undergoing his tonsure. On its head, even the black hair had been lushly implanted.

“What might this be?” “Well then,” said Shōzenbō from beside them, and proceeded to recount in detail how that seated statue had come to be. The two sculptors, Kōsai and Shōun, upon seeing Jikakumaru’s countenance, seemed to have been deeply impressed. They said he looked like a living bodhisattva and carved it without any desire for reward. And when they finished carving it, They declared, “This was an invaluable lesson,” and left the seated statue behind as a token of their gratitude.

“Ah...” Yajirō gazed in a daze,

“Now that you mention it, it truly is a lifelike image. And the black hair…” “The sculptors implanted Lord Wakako’s black hair exactly as it had been at his tonsure.”

“That explains it… Hmm, it’s well made.” “Yajirō,” “Yes.” “Could you take this back and tell your foster father and younger brother Asamaro that it serves as Jikakumaru’s memento?” “There could be no finer gesture. Were they to place this in their mansion, perhaps their loneliness might find some respite.” “This form shall never again dwell within me—pray convey that I shall never forget their kindness, pouring my soul into this statue each dawn and dusk.”

“You speak such modest words…”

Yajirō talked a little more after that, but when the sun began to set, he said, “Things feel ominous these days,” and hurriedly slung the seated statue onto his back using his obi before departing. And then, to the two who had come to see him off to the temple gate, “Staying here, you probably don’t see or hear much of the town’s affairs—but between this summer’s drought and Lord Munemori, who marched out to crush the Kiso forces only to suffer utter defeat and come fleeing back to the capital, Kyoto’s caught in a dreadful whirlpool of chaos.” As he walked, he kept chattering away, his words flowing without end.

“—Such’s the way o’ things…”

“In this world, there’s scarcely a place where hell’s winds don’t blow—not even the Imperial Palace, save perhaps temple courtyards. Last night when I went out on an errand near Gojō—there on the riverbank lay corpses whether slain or starved—and what a wretched sight! Two or three men—ronin or reed-mat monks I couldn’t tell—were stripping clothes from the bodies and ended up clawing at each other in a brawl! Truly, unless you cover your eyes, you can’t walk through that town.”

At the mountain gate, crows were cawing.

“Ah, night falls…” he murmured, emerging from the sleeve gate’s low passage before turning to look back once more.

“Well then—farewell, Lord Wakako—no, Lord Hannen. It’ll grow colder from here on, so take care of yourself… Brother Suke, goodbye.”

Snow a Thousand Jō Deep

I

The leaves of the miscellaneous trees in Awataguchi had completely fallen, and on the mountainside where the winter sun shone, the pagoda’s railing appeared red.

The frost grew whiter with each passing morning.

Hannen Shōnagon rose before dawn and, together with the other monks, wiped the ice-like corridors with water, swept the garden, and drew water. Then they took their seats for the Buddhist service. Finally, when sunlight reached the red berries of the Nandina shrubs, they were assigned a task in the temple kitchen. When that was done, they entered the study hall to listen to the master’s lectures and the monks’ debates, and finally, when they could have their bodies to themselves again and sit at their desks, it was already noon.

“How pitiful,” said Shōzenbō as he tried to draw water and clean in Hannen’s stead, but when spotted by other monks, “You fool! Why did we ever admit someone like you into this temple?” they rebuked. Bishop Jien too chastised him: “You must not shield him!” From then on, Shōzenbō pretended not to notice—yet whenever he glimpsed those chapped hands and thought “Ah… how swollen they’ve become,” his chest tightened. Such worldly compassion was mocked within temple walls as base sentiment. They demanded truer love instead.

"Is that so…" He himself had also been occupied with his own studies.

When December arrived, Hannen heard from a disciple monk on the third day of its first ten days that Bishop Jien would ascend Mount Hiei. This came about because Kakukai Hōshinnō—both head priest of Mount Hiei and Bishop Jien’s teacher—had passed from this world, leaving Jien to assume guidance of the entire monastic community there. Yet Jien sat alone in a chamber boiling tea leaves imported from Cathay, appearing wholly unaware that these imminent changes to his circumstances loomed just a day away.

“Master,” Hannen gently placed his hands together. “What is it?” “I have a request.”

“Hmm….” “Or do you want some sweets?”

“No, that’s not it. I heard you will be ascending Mount Hiei tomorrow, Master.” “Indeed.”

“Please take me with you.” Jien laughed. “Do you know Mount Hiei?” “Morning and evening, I gaze upon it.” “On sunny days, it appears gentle, like a loving mother. But what harsh austerities lie within that mountain’s embrace—you wouldn’t know of those.”

“I have heard,” “Everyone states that ascetic practice is a painful thing.”

“But do you truly intend to climb it?”

“Alone, I cannot go—but if I may accompany you, Master, I feel I could follow you anywhere, no matter how harsh.” “More grueling than a warrior’s battle—harsher still.” “I wish to test this very body against such hardships.” “So you’ve resolved yourself to that extent?” “Yes.” Hannen’s eyes snapped open wide. He stared intently at the bishop. The forgotten teapot lid clattered and danced. Gently, he removed it from the brazier,

“Very well.” Jien nodded. Until then, Hannen had been sitting rigidly as if before something fearsome,

"Is it true?" Rejoicing, he clapped his small hands with a sharp clap.

II

With a clatter of hurried footsteps, he came running down the hallway,

Hannen peeked into the room. "Yes." "Master has granted permission. We’re leaving early tomorrow! Prepare the gaiters and hats." “Where exactly are you departing to?”

“Don’t you know? Hasn’t Master become the head priest of Mount Hiei?” “I am aware of that, but—” “That’s why I’m going to climb Mount Hiei too and devote myself to ascetic practices and study.”

“Ha ha ha.”

“What are you laughing at?” “Even regarding your ordination, Master Bishop has been criticized by both society and officials of the Nakatsukasa Ministry for violating Tendai sect regulations and acting tyrannically. Therefore, there’s absolutely no possibility he would take you, Lord Hannen, to Mount Hiei or anywhere of the sort.” “But Master said he would permit it! A bishop who serves the Buddha would never speak falsely.” “It remains impossible. Would he truly allow a nine-year-old disciple to ascend the mountain?”

Shōzenbō truly would not allow it. He could not possibly endure the mountain's austerities; for its precepts, unlike those of town temples, were severe and inviolable—to break them would mean that as head priest, he could no longer maintain authority over the mountain community.

“I wonder...”

Hannen grew uneasy.

Even after getting into bed, Hannen kept blinking his eyes. From around midnight, the soft rustling sound of snow brushed against the small paper window.

Hannen got up and quietly walked toward the kitchen quarters. On the unroofed, wet veranda, snow had piled in round drifts.

Bishop Jien had finished preparing himself before dawn, having put on his gaiters. Those who would accompany him and those remaining to bid farewell stood lined up on both sides of the temple gate, forming orderly rows.

The snow that had fallen through the night intensified toward dawn, now driven by wind. Bishop Jien placed his hand on the edge of his sedge hat,

“Farewell—” he announced to all present. The three disciples busily prepared themselves and began walking in attendance on their master. Then, from the shade of a tree at the foot of the temple gate, an unexpected Hannen—wearing straw sandals and holding a bamboo staff—suddenly emerged from the side and began following at the very end of the accompanying monks’ procession. The disciple monks were startled, “Oh, you there—where do you think you’re going, hmm?” “I will accompany you to Mount Hiei.”

“This is no joke. Mount Hiei is no place for a young acolyte like you to go. Moreover, by our precepts, those who are underage or have only been in residence for six months or a year are not permitted to ascend the mountain.” “But I will come along.” “You’ll be scolded, I tell you.” “Even if I’m scolded, I’ll come along.”

“Go back.” As the disciple monks tried to stop him, muttering, “This stubborn brat,” Bishop Jien looked back at them with a troubled expression yet wore a wry smile as he watched.

Hannen slipped through the disciple monks, grabbed his teacher’s sleeve, and cast a pleading gaze.

Three

“Master,” “Were the words you spoke yesterday a lie?” Bishop Jien laughed and shook his head. Hannen pressed on,

"But yesterday, you said you would permit me to accompany you, yet this morning you pretend not to know and try to depart for the mountain?" “......” Jien shook his head again. "Then what do you mean?" “I’ve forgotten.” Reluctantly, the Bishop spoke these words and seemed to steel himself in his decision to take Hannen along.

After walking for some time, they found Shōzenbō standing in the snow. He had known since last evening what Hannen intended to do, but if he were to interject with careless words, he feared it might prevent Hannen’s resolve from being fully realized. Therefore, he deliberately feigned ignorance and had gone ahead to wait.

Since he had permitted Hannen's ascent to the mountain, he naturally could not refuse to allow Shōzenbō to accompany him. Thus, from that point onward, the number of disciple monks accompanying the Bishop became five in total.

The snow intensified as it blew fiercely, “Perhaps you could rest today at the foothills entrance and wait for the snow to clear before ascending tomorrow—” suggested one of the accompanying monks, but the Bishop—fiery-tempered and still young—

“What nonsense,” he said without breaking stride. The new head priest’s ascent had been formally announced to Mount Hiei a full half-month earlier as occurring this very day—to alter the schedule now would throw the Main Hall’s officials and the entire monastic community into disarray. “Very well,” the attendants conceded, making no further effort to dissuade him.

“Hey—” From behind came what sounded like a call, making the five turn around. Streaks of white light slanted across heaven and earth; through the distant haze, two figures wearing straw rain hats and cloaks resembled white herons in flight— “Hey—” their voices cried out as they drew nearer. “Who could that be?…” For some time, battered by the driving snow, the five stood waiting.

The two figures in straw rain hats and cloaks soon approached and,

“Is Lord Shōnagon among you?” they asked. “Yes.” Hannen answered and stepped forward.

“Ah!” One flipped up his straw rain cloak and stepped forward, while the other planted his hands in the snow to steady himself. The person who gripped his small hand was his Confucian teacher, Hino Tajima. The one bracing himself in the rear was Yajirō, the Rokujō servant whom Hannen had recently sent home with a seated statue containing implanted hair as a memento. “Teacher.” Hannen’s eyes reddened as if overwhelmed by surprise and joy. Tajima said emphatically,

“We just now paid a visit to Shōren-in, but upon hearing of this matter, we hurried after you. I also brought Yajirō along. Lord Rokujō has deliberately chosen not to come, but he earnestly asks that you take good care of yourself… This first step in your training—you too must rejoice in it. Swear that you will not fail in your studies!” “Yes.” What he had been holding back—Hannen let a single tear trickle down.

Four

Shōzenbō, from beside him, “Lord Hannen.” “Do not forget the Bishop’s intentions and your foster father’s heart.” Hannen nodded.

“Yes,” he said. And then, “I will not forget. I will surely study hard and meet you again.” “Lord Wakako,” Yajirō edged closer and looked up into his hat from amidst the snow. “Please take good care of yourself.” “Yes… Please look after Foster Father and my younger brother’s health… And yourself too.”

“…………”

Yajirō kept his face down, letting the falling snow pile on his back as he wept. “Let us proceed,” said Jien as he urged the disciple monks onward and strode ahead. Hannen hurriedly turned, “Goodbye.”

“Farewell,” said Hino Tajima as he departed.

“Lord Wakako!” Yajirō stood up and called out once more with all his might, but his voice was snatched away by the wind and snow, scattering into the void.

Without looking back, Hannen ran off in pursuit of his master’s quarters and the disciples moving ahead. Several times, he tumbled in the snow. And then, they approached the entrance to Mount Hiei. When they reached the mountain, the mountain was even more treacherous. Bishop Jien and his disciple monks began chanting sutras, though none could say who started first, their voices resounding clearly as they battled the snow and climbed upward. Hannen too mouthed the sutra along with them under his breath. At first, he couldn’t even produce a voice, but before he knew it, he had lost himself.

Even when he slipped, even when he fell, those nearby did not help him. Even Shōzenbō did not take his hand to help him up. That was the teacher’s compassion; that was the disciples’ friendship. “—Who could fathom snow a thousand fathoms deep?” Jien muttered. “Aren’t you weary?” When the disciple monks expressed their concern,

“Not at all,” was all Jien did as he shook his head.

Hannen tended to lag behind. Like snow tumbling through snow, he crawled over peaks and crossed valley paths. Shōzenbō followed from behind, "Almost there," he encouraged.

“I’m alright,” Hannen said. He fell so many times that blood seeped from between his fingers where they gripped the bamboo staff. Even so,

“I’m alright,” he said.

What strength of will! What stubbornness! What refusal to yield! And what passion!—Shōzenbō thought secretly behind Hannen's small form. Indeed, it seemed the blood of Yoshie flowed through every limb of Wakako—the same Minamoto warrior's pulse that beat fiercely in Yoshitsune and Yoritomo. Had circumstances and the course of his upbringing differed, this boy too might have stood at the vanguard as a general drawing bow against the Taira.

"The Buddha will save him. 'A mountain of karmic ties,' he thought, deeply moved as he trod the snow beneath his feet."

The Masses

1 Night cleared, morning cleared—Mount Hiei’s spring and autumn were quiet.

It was as if emptiness itself floated in the void, bearing a boundless form.

The long winter passed.

And when spring finally arrived, what appeared white among the faintly red trees of the budding season was not residual snow. It was the mountain cherry blossoms.

On a morning when mountain birds chirped with voices akin to those of Kalavinka—gazing down at the mist-shrouded capital of Kyoto from near the Main Hall, one could see only the eternal flow of the Kamo River shimmering like a sash below. Though nothing of humanity’s fleeting fortunes or culture’s transformations was visible there, rumors from those ascending the foothills spoke of how, over these past six months or so, changes in the world had become indescribable by brush or tongue—

First, it was said that the famine since last year had caused a dramatic surge in banditry. Whether in capital or countryside, bands of mountain brigands and sea pirates ran rampant, acting as if the government scarcely existed, spreading lawlessness that brought honest citizens to tears—so it was said. Moreover, though the Taira regime maintained its offices, it made no attempt at benevolent governance. The central authorities spent these years indulging in transient pleasures, while provincial officials mimicked the capital’s corrupt ways, tormenting common folk solely for their own gratification. Driven by pent-up grievances and exploiting this disorder, multitudes took up spears and transformed into outlaws.

Not only that—since last year, the innovative forces of the Genji that arose from the Kantō region grew into a momentum not to be underestimated with each passing day. To Yoritomo in Izu came the so-called Bandō warriors—local clans who scythed through like mown grass in response—and the Kumano monk-soldiers rallied as well. Even this alone had thrown the Taira into considerable disarray when— Reports surged of an unstoppable army led by the self-proclaimed "General Asahi, Minamoto no Yoshinaka (Kiso Yoshinaka)"—emerging unexpectedly from the northern regions they had never even dreamed of—now advancing along Lake Biwa’s northern shores, beating war drums and raising their voices in thunderous unison as they drew ever closer to the capital.

“Do not allow those young upstarts from Kiso to approach the capital!” The central government issued urgent directives to the various daimyo along the highways. Yet over these past two or three years, people’s hearts had changed as if flipping one’s palm. There was no one to stand against the Kiso army, There was not a single province that could declare “I shall block them!” and actually do so. In haste from the capital, Shiro Sukenaga, who had set out to subjugate them, fell in battle; now, Tadanori, the Governor of Satsuma, had organized new elite forces and departed for the northern provinces.

But what of this? Meanwhile, in the Tōkaidō region, the two commanders Taira no Tomomori and Kiyotsune had grandly marched forth, but upon encountering Yoritomo’s forces, they were swiftly defeated at the Sumida River, scattering in disarray to the point where even their own ranks could not be controlled—reports of this were kept secret by the government offices, but before long, it had become rumor. “Ah, the Taira warriors—truly flower warriors they are! They bloom in dew but wilt in wind, scattering away, scattering away.”

and even became the subject of satirical folk songs, to the point where even the citizens had begun to mock them.

The Taira clan began to panic. They began to falter. And so, they dispatched envoys to Mount Hiei and commanded all monks on the mountain to perform Genji-subjugation prayers. They always sought to prop up these turbulent times through the power of gods and buddhas that the defeated cling to.

2 The "Genji-subjugation" prayers thus became part of Mount Hiei’s daily routine, repeated day after day.

They spared no oil for the Buddhist lamps nor expense for the altar; the sounds of sutra chanting and temple bells echoed through the clouds and reverberated in the valleys. It seemed that no demonic forces could approach such single-minded human devotion. However, in the hearts of the monks seated in the ritual hall—while there were those dissatisfied with the current Taira regime and grievances aplenty—they held no resentment toward the new Genji forces calling for national reform. The lamps of subjugation filled the altar, and even as their throats grew hoarse from chanting sutras, it was nothing more than a job they performed.

It was an order from the authorities and a decree from Regent Konoe—they performed their duties with resignation, knowing it had to be done. A formal obligation. With the seventeen-day service concluded, young scholarly monks gathered at Sōji-in’s academic dormitory. “Ah,” they stretched, “My shoulders are stiff,” they said, massaging their own shoulders, muttering cravings like “I could really go for some barley cakes,” then formed a ring in a sunny spot to chat.

One of them had brought barley cakes from somewhere and piled them onto a platter. “Want some?” He took a piece first and crunched loudly into it. “If it had just a bit more saltiness, it’d be good—but this barley cake is nothing but wheat flour, isn’t it?” “Don’t be picky. Even salt’s been hard to come by lately.” “At the very least, we want a government that lets salt flow freely into our mouths.” “It’ll happen soon.” “When the Genji take control of the realm?”

“Mmm.” “The samurai clans’ rotation of power isn’t much to rely on either. Before seizing the realm, they make grand promises of benevolent governance to both people and clergy. But once they achieve their ambitions and assume positions of authority, those heroes become too preoccupied with their own glory—forgetting all the passion and conscience they had when first raising their banners.” “Even so, it’s better than leaving things as they are now.” “When you look down from this Mount Hiei, both glory and decline last but an instant—truly, the transience of this floating world becomes starkly clear.”

“Until just yesterday, all power was concentrated at Rokuhara’s government offices among the Taira clan—where it was declared that none but Taira retainers could be called true men! Yet today we must waste our very lives on Genji-subjugation prayers. What a pitiful spectacle!” “Preposterous! Preposterous!” The scholarly monks clapped their hands and laughed bitterly. “After burning Nanto’s grand temples and willfully setting the Great Buddha Hall aflame, now these Taira cling to Buddha’s mercy for their prayers? What shameless audacity!”

“Those very demons who even trampled upon Jūzenji’s sacred palanquin—what efficacy could their prayers possibly have?” If one listened to what the scholarly monks were saying, their voices were rather calling for the subjugation of the Taira clan. Then, a young temple attendant from Jissō-in named Shuōbō spoke. “Don’t belittle yourselves so much—it’s unpleasant to hear.” “What did you say, Shuōbō?” The scholarly monks’ eyes gathered on his face.

3

Arguments and brawls were everyday occurrences, and when something happened, the monks of that time would don armor, take up arms, and even wage battles.

The rough-tempered scholarly monks immediately narrowed their eyes sharply at Shuōbō’s words. “Who belittled themselves? When did that happen?” “You did!” Shuōbō was not backing down either. “Indeed, as you all say—samurai clans are self-serving creatures. Especially ones like the Taira: burning gods and Buddha in their prime yet clinging to them in decline—a truly audacious lot. But we monks, raised by those same samurai? Under Taira rule, we curse the Genji; under Genji rule, we pray for Taira’s downfall. However much it’s our duty, *we’re* the ones making fools of gods and Buddha! So when you revile the Taira, you’re really reviling yourselves.” “—Was that statement wrong?”

"…………"

“Where is the authority of the Three Pagodas now?” Since everyone had fallen silent, Shuōbō pressed on triumphantly. “Though three thousand monks cloister themselves on this mountain, practicing mantras and reciting sutras, its halls, pagodas, and eminent scholars mean as much to society as unconnected stones.” “Every time samurai clans seize or lose power, we perform hollow prayers and live devoid of skill or wisdom—this is what today’s monastic community has become.” “Is this not shameful?”

Then, a scholarly monk named Myōkōbō spoke up. “Exactly as Shuōbō argues—just because we are members of the monastic community doesn’t mean we should meekly submit to oppression by those in power and remain idle and incompetent!” he declared in agreement.

“No, that’s wrong,” someone else countered. “Why do you say that’s wrong?” “Monks have their own mission. Beyond the ever-changing affairs of politics and war—monks, and Mount Hiei itself, stand above society. When the Taira suffer, we will save them; when the Genji suffer, we will console them.” “I believe that is the mission of Buddhists.”

“Nonsense!” Shuōbō dismissed it with a single word,

“Are only rulers human?—You must not forget that beneath the Taira lie millions of people.” “Supporting what those people desire is the monastic community’s mission.” “So you’re saying we’re revolutionaries? … What preposterous nonsense!” “That’s not what I meant.” “But your words lead to that conclusion.” “I’m simply saying our duty isn’t to preach resignation and karma to people suffering under misrule—to act as mere mouthpieces for those in power.”

“Then what should the monastic community do—?” “Then let us hear it, shall we?”

“There are plenty of things to do.” “But first and foremost, what must be done is the rectification of the monastic community itself.” “If Mount Hiei itself is corrupt, it can accomplish nothing—they’re nothing but a gathering of idlers, useless to real society—mere caretakers ensuring the halls and pagodas don’t become crows’ nests.” “Don’t get cocky!” shouted one of the scholarly monks, tucking up his robe and striking Shuōbō’s cheek with his fist.

4

“Ah!” While pressing his struck cheek, “Who’s being impertinent here?!” Shuōbō also clenched his fist and stood up.

The fierce expressions on both their faces suggested they were on the verge of coming to blows. “Hold it!” “Settle debates through debate!” The scholarly monks pushed through, “Shuōbō’s words are also far too extreme. If you find Mount Hiei so spineless, then why don’t you just leave the mountain yourself?” “That’s right. No matter how incompetent Mount Hiei may be, it’s not proper to speak of this sacred mountain—the one you’ve entrusted your life to—in such a manner as you do now.”

“You’re young—so young! Anyone can spout passionate indignation with their mouth, but when told to act yourself, you’d be utterly incapable.” “Society is that way, and so is this mountain.” Against the numerous voices, even Shuōbō could not argue back. His struck cheek flushed red as he fell silent.

Then, Myōkōbō—who had earlier expressed agreement with his words—seemed to take responsibility,

“No, Shuōbō’s words were too blunt—his way of speaking was harsh.” “He must have had other grievances weighing on him, and that lingering resentment came spilling out.” “Well? Isn’t that right?”

“Yeah…” Shuōbō nodded. “The other day, they cornered me and vented their anger—so they must have been determined to bring up that matter.”

“That matter?”

“It’s about the new head priest.” “Hmm.”

The scholarly monks’ eyes glistened with curiosity at this new topic,

“Speaking of the new head priest—Bishop Jien who recently ascended from Shōren-in Monastery—is there some matter concerning him?” When urged, “Shuōbō, speak your mind,” “There may be…” Shuōbō lifted his face.

“What exactly?” “To put it plainly—” “Go on.” “For someone like me—a lowly junior—to speak up felt presumptuous, so I kept silent, but… Bishop Jien’s attitude not only ignores us three thousand members of the monastic community but—as head priest—he himself arbitrarily violates the eternal laws of esoteric Buddhism, I believe.” “With such sloppiness, there’s no way to maintain this mountain’s solemnity.” “That’s why our Dharma fortress has no real power left at all.” “A sigh escapes me—as if we’ve become mere crow keepers…” “Am I going too far?”

“What do you mean the Head Priest himself has disrupted the mountain’s laws?” “Does no one here know?” “Don’t know.”

“Well then, I’ll tell you… This winter, have none of you seen someone called Hannen Shōnagon, who ascended the mountain with the new head priest?”

“That little novice?” “That’s right.”

“As for him, we often see him around—he’s practically an infant! Bringing an underage boy to the mountain did stir debate among our scholars initially. But in the end, he’s just a mere child who’d been attending Bishop Jien since his days at Shōren-in Monastery… So it’s been tacitly allowed. That matter isn’t an issue at all.”

Five

“No, the issue isn’t merely that Hannen Shōnagon was permitted to ascend the mountain.” Shuōbō strengthened his tone, “Were that all, there would be nothing worth such uproar—but of late, through whispers I’ve caught, what could the Head Priest mean by this? They say he means to allow that mere ten-year-old novice to undergo the rites of tonsure and ordination.”

“Ha ha ha ha!” The scholarly monks dismissed it with a laugh, “How could there be such an absurd story?” “That must be your mishearing, Shuōbō.”

“What do you mean? It’s true!” “That’s a lie!” “It’s true!” To dismiss it with laughter would have been impossible—his expression remained deadly serious. “Who told you?” “From the Main Hall’s administration—”

“On what day—” “They say preparations were ordered because they’ll perform the tonsure and ordination ceremony soon.” “What now?” With puzzled expressions, the people tilted their heads slightly,

“Shuōbō, you wouldn’t be lying to us now, would you?” “Who would tell such a lie?” “If this is true, it’s utterly outrageous!” “This is an unconscionable act!” “It can only be called personal favoritism.” “It’s a trampling of the regulations!”

The scholarly monks grew heated with discontent and public outrage, their anger intensifying. “Even bringing a mere ten- or eleven-year-old child up the mountain was strange enough, yet if they’re going to permit that snot-nosed novice to undergo the solemn tonsure and ordination ceremony, it’s nothing short of sheer madness!”

“Must be the spring air.”

“This is no laughing matter!”

Indignantly, someone rose to their feet. The assembly seethed like a boiling cauldron. Agitated faces— “Gentlemen!” he declared, shaking his fist. “Did you hear Shuōbō’s words? If that is indeed fact, we cannot remain silent!” “Exactly!” The group responded. “As for this Hannen Shōnagon—whether he’s some genius or prodigy, I don’t know—but first of all, the tonsure and ordination ceremony is a solemn rite under the great precepts of the Perfect and Sudden Enlightenment of Bodhisattvas. Even after ten or twenty years of ascetic practice on this mountain, we would not easily be permitted such an honor.”

“Indeed! Look around at everyone here—not a single one has yet received ordination!” “And yet!” A furious hand struck the air. “What’s the meaning of suddenly granting this to a ten-year-old novice who just staggered up from the foothills last December? Even favoritism has its limits! If they accuse us of disrupting the Great Dharma through personal bias, there’s no defense for it. Yet should we let this pass simply because it’s the Head Priest’s doing?”

“We cannot allow it!”

“We must resolutely oppose this!” Then, from a corner of the assembly, another figure rose to their feet, “If we allow such a bad precedent to be set, it will have a detrimental effect even on the ordination platforms of Japan’s Four Great Mountains. Moreover, it would be a disgrace to Mount Hiei itself. Let us all unite to censure the Head Priest’s self-interest!” “Exactly! Each of you, return to your lodgings, inform the abbots and acaryas of this matter, and rouse the entire mountain!” they cried out before parting ways.

Six

The Main Hall was quiet. That fierce criticism had erupted among Mount Hiei’s young scholarly monks—directed at Bishop Jien regarding Hannen—was something none of them knew: not Bishop Jien himself, nor Hannen, nor Shōzenbō, all of whom had resided there since their ascent to the mountain. Before Yakushi Nyorai in the Main Hall, young Hannen Shōnagon vowed morning and evening to devote his entire life to ascetic practice. Since ascending to the summit of the Northern Peaks, he had felt as though he had drawn a step closer to the Buddha’s side compared to before, and it filled him with joy.

Just as Hannen served his master the bishop, it was Shōzenbō who accompanied him wherever he went, protecting him like a shadow.

That Shōzenbō was today on his way back from an errand to the southern valley of the East Pagoda.

"Oi!" Someone called out, so “Yes.” Shōzenbō turned around. A great monk thrust out his elbows and strode briskly over, “Are you the Shōzenbō staying in the Main Hall’s lodgings?”

“Yes.” “I’m Myōkōbō Jōga from Sōrin-ji Temple in the West Pagoda.”

“Yes.”

“Well, sit there,” Myōkōbō said, pointing at a rock. Obediently, he sat down, “The lad called Hannen Shōnagon—I hear he’s your master.”

“Our master-servant relationship stems from a former worldly bond.” “At present, for this Shōzenbō, he is the one and only reverend master in all of heaven and earth.”

“Ha ha ha ha!”

The great monk opened his mouth so wide that the backs of his teeth were visible, “Is that doll-like little monk your master? “Bwahahaha!...” He shook his shoulders, amused at himself. Shōzenbō, with utmost seriousness,

“Yes, my one and only master is Lord Hannen.” “There are some nosy folks about. Well…never mind that. What I want to ask isn’t anything special—there’s this rumor spreading that the little monk will soon undergo ordination and receive the great precepts. That’s a lie, isn’t it?” “Who’s to say?” “Is it true?” “I believe it may be possible.” “However, it might be a lie.” “Don’t speak ambiguously! There’s no way you wouldn’t know about your own master’s affairs!”

“This is a troublesome inquiry,” “The great ordination ceremony resides first in the Buddha’s will.” “I have heard it is bestowed only upon those deemed worthy by the learned scholar who conducts it.” “How could someone as lowly as I possibly know?” “You spout nonsense and dare mock me!” “Never.”

“Then tell me plainly—is it falsehood or truth?” “What cannot be spoken, cannot be spoken—is that not so?”

Having ascended the mountain less than half a year prior and being a newcomer, Shōzenbō answered as humbly as he could—but at his core, he was a samurai. Even while residing in a noble’s mansion, as someone who had once worn a sword and bore that samurai spirit at his core, whenever the other party acted too arrogantly or treated others with contempt, something indignant would well up inside him despite himself. Seven

“There’s no way you don’t know.” “If you don’t speak, I won’t let you pass,” Myōkōbō pressed obstinately. He stood blocking the way, berating Shōzenbō. Then down that slope came a temple attendant,

“Oh, Myōkōbō,” he called out. “Oh! Shuōbō!” “What are you doing?” “What? I just ran into Shōzenbō here—Hannen Shōnagon’s disciple—so I’m grilling him about that matter.” “That issue? To think you’re being so roundabout!” “Why?” “A notice just circulated from the Main Hall to every temple and quarter across the mountain. I saw it myself—it says they’ll hold Lord Shōnagon’s ordination ceremony on the twenty-eighth of this month, and all must take note.”

“Hmm,” Myōkōbō groaned.

“So it’s finally come to pass—is this truly happening?” “The Head Priest seems intent on forcing through his own will and petty spite, even if it means distorting the Founder’s sacred teachings! —But this mountain has its own laws. Even if *he* is pardoned, the laws will not bend—nor will Amida Buddha grant forgiveness!” Myōkōbō spat, flecks of saliva flying as he raged. Then he turned to Shōzenbō,

“Hey, novice!” “Huh?” “Don’t ‘huh’ me! When you return to the Main Hall’s quarters, make sure to report this to your master, Lord Shōnagon.”

“……” “A milk-smeared brat who hasn’t even the bones of a proper man dares disrupt sect regulations and receive this outrageous ordination—we won’t let it stand within Mount Hiei!” Shuōbō followed his words: “Tell them: we’ll bar their exit from the ordination site! We’ll rip off the brat’s head, impale it on the fork of a thousand-year plum yew, and let crows pluck out his eyeballs!” they threatened, squaring their shoulders before departing.

"Damn!" Shōzenbō ground his teeth as he stood behind them. A surge of fury—wanting to chase after them and hurl them into the valley—made his body burn, but upon hearing the bell tolling from the Main Hall,

"Ah, I'm late," he muttered, hurrying along the path as dusk fell. "This is training—all of it is training." "What use is letting such things unsettle one’s heart? —Lord Hannen would surely fret over it." He climbed onward as though refusing to look back.

Around the Main Hall，the evening lamps were lit. By now，it was already the time when the Bishop’s ritual service had ended.

After handing over the reply letter to the duty monk, Shōzenbō turned and headed toward the lodgings.

Hannen was standing there. “You’re back?”

“I have returned now.” “You’re late.” “I got a bit lost on the way.” Shōzenbō did not speak of what had happened along the way. If he told Hannen, Hannen, fearing trouble for his teacher the Bishop, would surely refuse the ordination. (But this is troubling,) he worried alone. Mount Hōtō was also quite troublesome.

Covert strife, jealousy, love and hatred, praise and blame—all the conflicts inherent to humanity existed here as well.

Eight (Should I quietly inform the Head Priest?) "No—the Head Priest must have had his own plans and resolve when making this decision," Shōzenbō agonized.

After preparing the morning kitchen work during the night, he wandered absentmindedly outside the temple complex. A pale spring moon hung somewhat low beneath the peaks, tinged with a yellowish hue.

"The mountain was one thing, but the world below must have been even worse," he reflected. The labored breath of human society seemed to tinge the moon yellow.

To think that the Dharma citadel on the high peaks—aloof and removed from human settlements—was blessed with an ideal life had been an utterly foolish notion. Here, just as in the world below, there was no difference. There is no land where humans dwell that is not part of the human world.

Judging from the words and demeanor of the militant monks who had threatened him on his way back from the West Pagoda, it seemed unlikely this matter would be resolved peacefully. If one misstep occurred, they might even storm Miidera Temple or bear portable shrines to stage forceful petitions at the Imperial Palace—such was the rabble of scholarly monks gathered here. (They might dare anything against even the Head Priest—they wouldn’t hesitate to seize and chastise Master Shōnagon.) Shōzenbō found himself unable to sleep. Perhaps I should inform the Head Priest after all—he wavered once more in his thoughts. Then, from behind a hazy silhouette,

“Pardon me, but might I ask something...” “Huh? ...Who’s there?” “I am but a humble traveler.” “A pilgrim?” “No, there is someone I wish to visit.” Though his identity remained unclear, he appeared to be a shabby monk clad in straw. On his back he carried a straw mat bundle, in his hand a bamboo flute called a shakuhachi, his feet bound with straw ropes. “And whom do you seek?” “Might I ask which chamber houses Lord Hannen Shōnagon, who came up from Awataguchi last year?”

“Oh—you’re looking for Lord Hannen?” “Yes.” When addressed thus, Shōzenbō thought the voice sounded somewhat familiar, but he could not recall who it belonged to. “Lord Hannen is at the lodgings of the Main Hall, but… and who might you be?” “I am Koun, a straw-mat monk residing at Higashiyama’s Midadō Temple.”

“What business brings you?” “Partly to make a small request… and also because I wished to see your face again.” “Have we met before?” “Yes, by a strange twist of fate, I was once detained at the Rokujō mansion, and we met once or twice afterward as well.”

“Ah!” Shōzenbō was startled,

“Aren’t you Lord Shōji Shichirō, retainer of Narita Hyōe?”

“Ah…!”

On the contrary, it was Shichirō who—as if startled—opened his shining eyes wide and stared fixedly at Shōzenbō’s face for a while before exclaiming, "Oh! You are Jijū no Suke, who once served at the Hino mansion long ago?" “That’s right.” “This is… unexpected.”

Now, Koun—the straw-mat monk once known as Shōji Shichirō—and Shōzenbō had forgotten their past conflicts and grudges. Grasping each other’s hands, they remained wordless for a time, struck by each other’s transformed appearances…….

Nine “What troubles you, Lord Shichirō? —No, Lord Koun.” “Now, please hear me out.”

Koun, formerly Shōji Shichirō, sat down on a rock. Shōzenbō also sat down in the grass.

Disconsolately, Koun was gazing at the evening moon. He seemed lost in reminiscence. Before long, he gently wiped his eyelids, “It’s been… how many years now? Since the year I infiltrated Lord Rokujō’s mansion as a spy and was captured.” “Hmm…” “My master Narita Hyōe dismissed me for my failures, so hunger immediately struck the elderly mother, wife, and children I had left at home.” “In time, during the night of the Great Fire of the Capital, my frail elderly mother perished in the smoke, my wife fell ill, and my child contracted an epidemic—such was the state of things.” “Amidst one misfortune after another, I alone survived, while all my remaining family members departed to the other world.”

“That is… dreadful misfortune…”

Shōzenbō felt there was nothing he could say to console him. That soldierly demeanor he once bore as a Taira retainer was nowhere to be seen in Koun’s present form. “There was a time I thought of ending my life—if it were in battle, I could have died—but for one who has partaken of the warrior’s fare to perish by the roadside, defeated by hunger or misfortune—it would be a most regrettable end.” “—Before long, misfortune came not only to me. My former master Lord Narita Hyōe also met with some disgrace after the Battle of Uji River, causing his entire clan to fall out of favor. Furthermore, his son Lord Judōmaru—though he had properly come of age and made his debut in the next Genji suppression army—either was incited by others or seized by cowardice, deserting from camp and vanishing without a trace.”

“Oh—that young lord was the one who shared a desk with Lord Hannen at the Hino academy too, wasn’t he?” “Yes… Because of this, Lord Hyōe shut his gates, unable to face others. But recently, by official decree, they say Lord Munemori granted him death—that he took his own life…” “Ah—how wretched.” “No matter whom I meet these days, such tales abound.” “Looking back—even I who served as Lord Judōmaru’s tutor until his teens bear grave responsibility. In truth, spoiling his every whim during upbringing proved my failing.” “Not only Lord Judōmaru—many among the Taira scions prove timid souls fleeing campaigns mid-march from battle-fear—but truly, my tutelage methods too held deep flaws.”

“However, the fault does not lie solely in that origin.” “The sins of his parents—and the sins of the world the Taira clan themselves created—” “Everything comes down to the currents of the age.”

“But I feel I must somehow find Lord Judōmaru’s whereabouts—if only once—to console my late master’s spirit, offer my counsel, and exert my meager strength to make him a proper person. Otherwise, I cannot rest.”

“Well spoken.” “To not forget your duty to the former master who dismissed you—that is truly commendable. Now, regarding your purpose in visiting Lord Hannen—” “By rumor, nobles who shun war often disguise themselves and hide among the scholarly monks at Mii, Hiei, Negoro, and such places.” “Relying on the statue’s guidance, I have come to request that the Head Priest of the Main Hall investigate whether someone resembling Lord Judōmaru has ascended the mountain.” Having finished speaking, Koun bowed his head. His legs seemed tired, and his stomach appeared parched.

The Unringing Bell

I

When the fog came, the world beyond the window was as blue as the sea.

When the fog cleared, the faint moon over the peaks cast its light upon the desk.

Hannen was sitting in one of the lodging’s rooms. On the desk lay Bai’s Collected Works, which he had studied under his Confucian teacher Hino Tajima. This was a book he had not parted with even after ascending the mountain. The light of the desk lamp did not waver even with the window open, so still was the night. From the direction of the Main Hall’s great kitchen—apparently preparing vast quantities of tofu for tomorrow morning’s congregation—the smell of simmering beans drifted in from nowhere in particular.

“Who is there?” Hannen turned from his desk toward the planked floor. There had been a clunking sound, but as there was no response, “A squirrel?” he murmured. Often, squirrels would dance about on their hind legs across the wooden flooring. At times, large birds would come, and from beneath the floorboards, wildcats with amber eyes would peer up at people’s faces.

Food disappearing was a frequent occurrence, and having the hem of one’s robes brushed by a fox’s tail was hardly rare in the evenings. (Terrifying.) In those early days unaccustomed to the mountain, Hannen had been so frightened that he often yearned for the capital’s lights. From the Head Priest came— (If that’s all.) Even when laughed at, he remained instinctively terrified. The Head Priest had also said— (If there is anything frightening in this world, it is humans. If there exists something frightening to humans, it is oneself. The foxes, eagles, and squirrels dwelling within oneself are truly frightening.) Hannen felt he could somewhat grasp its meaning.

When speaking to the young, Bishop Jien’s greatness lay in how he would chew over his words so even they could understand. When the topic of the capital came up, “Hannen—can you see it clearly?” he once asked, pointing from Mount Hiei’s peak toward Kyoto. Hannen nodded,

When he answered, “I can see it,” “What?” he asked.

(The town—the Kamo River—the Imperial Palace.) (The town—the Kamo River—the Imperial Palace—and then, all sorts of things.) (Look more closely.) (Because it’s so far away, I can’t see the people.) (The aspects of humans—living, perishing, conflicting, weeping, prospering, blood-soaked—.) (Can you see?) (There’s no way I could see such things.) (No good… Then nothing would come into view.) (You think that being in the world means you see the world clearly, don’t you?)

(Yes…) (That’s a big mistake.—A fish may dwell in a river, but it cannot see the river’s grand design. To discern the source and end of an eternal, great river, one must not use a fish’s eyes.) (Then, what kind of eyes should one have?) (Buddha’s eye.) (This place is not within the river.)

(Mount Hiei is outside the river.) Hannen had vaguely grasped this teaching. From then on, even when he saw the capital’s lights, he no longer felt any yearning.

II

After trimming the clove-shaped wick of the desk lamp, Hannen once again began focusing his eyes on the Collected Works of Bai Juyi atop his desk.

“Well… I’ve drawn water. Wash your feet,” came a voice from the entrance, accompanied once more by sounds of movement and a human presence. It was not a fox or badger after all. Hannen shifted the candle slightly and leaned back.

“Shōzenbō?” Then, clearly, “I have just returned.” It was his response. He immediately came up, “Lord Hannen. On my way back just now, I encountered a most peculiar person. As they have followed me here, please grant them an audience,” he said, "Just now, on my way back, I met a strange person." “Because they have followed me here, please grant them an audience,” he said, “Master Koun. Over here,” he called. "Over here," he called.

Trembling with fear, Koun, formerly Shōji Shichirō, came there and sat down with a downcast gaze. Hannen tilted his head slightly, "Hmm?"

“Hmm?” “Do you not understand?” “I don’t know this person.”

Koun quietly raised his face at that moment— “Ah, how splendidly you’ve grown into adulthood.” “Ah… Shichirō?” “So you did remember after all,” Koun said with a happy smile beneath his bushy beard. “How could I forget? Shōji Shichirō… who saved me from peril at Tadasu no Hara… Why did you flee back then?” “As for those details—” Shōzenbō interjected, “I’ve heard fragments along the way. Allow me to recount it instead.”

Hannen listened with wide, round eyes. And then, "Hmm... So Judōmaru, who once shared a desk with me at Hino Academy, has now disappeared without a trace?"

“According to village rumors, since he has acquaintances on Mount Hiei, they say he might be hiding there until the war subsides.” “I shall ask the Head Priest to make thorough inquiries.” “You have my deepest gratitude.”

“However—” interjected Shōzenbō from the side— “on this Mount Hiei, there are three thousand scholarly monks, not to mention unordained warrior monks, temple attendants, and those fleeing the secular world—many who have changed their identities through temporary expedience. I fear it will not be easily discovered…”

“Well…” “You may stay as long as you like,” Hannen comforted.

Koun instinctively bowed his face toward the candle. It had been five or six years now—Judōmaru’s mischief had led him to kick over the clay Buddha statues this young lord Jūhakumaru had made, to hurl stones at Hino Mansion while shouting abuse... Recalling these past deeds sent cold sweat streaming down his back. Yet both Hannen and Shōzenbō seemed to have casually dismissed such matters, “Master Koun, are you not hungry?” he asked with concern.

“Yes… Actually…” he answered truthfully. “Then I’ll cook some porridge for you,” Hannen said.

Indeed, just as a chrysanthemum root produces only chrysanthemums and a mugwort root only mugwort, Koun no Shichirō compared his former lord’s son with Hannen within his heart and felt a pang of loneliness.

III

The month was nearing its end. The ordination ceremony for Hannen Shōnagon drew near.

When it became widely known that this was finally going to be realized, it was no longer a commotion confined to the young scholarly monks.

“Very well, very well. Let us go admonish the young new Head Priest… Anyone who ascends to the seat governing this mountain’s authority will inevitably wish to exercise its power at least once… Stay calm. We shall persuade him and make him reconsider.”

Elders as aged as moss-covered stones and erudite scholars, leaning on their canes, ascended to the Main Hall.

And one after another, they sought an audience with the Head Priest and opposed Shōnagon’s ordination and tonsure.

Today was no different. The high-ranking monks of Shōin-in and Shidō-in led the way, followed by a group that included Myōkōbō of the younger faction and other young monks who seemed more confident in their physical prowess than scholarly knowledge. With soiled feet, they trooped into the ceremonial platform of the Main Hall’s chambers one after another. Head Priest Bishop Jien,

“Ah, you’ve all come together,” he said genially, having opened the study hall and waited. One-third of the spacious room was filled with people. The scholarly monks who had entered with creaking, rough footsteps also, upon entering here,

“Now, over here,” “Please,” they said, exchanging seats, and stiffly settled themselves along the wall.

The two elders of Shidō-in and Shōin-in, serving as representatives, naturally came forward before the assembly and took their seats. As this was a daily occurrence, Bishop Jien already knew what business had brought these people here without needing to ask. So, seizing the initiative, "I trust the circular regarding the 28th has reached each of you. As for the day’s ceremony, I must request that all matters be attended to without oversight." ………… No one answered.

Dissatisfaction and resentment glittered rebelliously in their eyes as they did nothing but stare at the Head Priest's countenance.

“Head Priest.” The acharya of Shidō-in—despite his advanced age—was the first to open his mouth, its color reminiscent of a pomegranate.

“What is it?” Jien’s eyes were calm. “Are you in your right mind when uttering these words?”

“Hmm... An unusual question.” “Does my desire for you all to gladly attend the grand ordination ceremony sound like the ramblings of a drunken man?” “You are beyond drunk—this is sheer madness!” Their opponent’s composure only fueled their raging anger. “We deemed it inconceivable and held our tongues until now, but since you yourself, Head Priest, have spoken such words, we cannot stay silent any longer.”

“Speak your mind freely,” said Bishop Jien. “Mount Hiei is not mine, nor does it belong to the scholarly monks, nor is it the elders’ domain.” “Of course not,” retorted the acharya of Shidō-in. “It belongs to sentient beings.” “No—it belongs to Buddha!” “Buddha descended from the heavens solely to benefit sentient beings,” Jien replied calmly. “Either interpretation suffices.”

IV Among the scholarly monks crowding at the back,

“Acharya! Do not speak of trivial matters! Quickly address the assembly’s doubts!” someone shouted. Shidō-in nodded, “Head Priest!” he scooted forward on his knees. “The reason we have come before you today is that there are certain matters regarding the Grand Ordination on the 28th that we do not comprehend.”

“If you have doubts, ask whatever you wish.” “It is nothing else.” Shōin-in’s monks too shifted forward on their knees in interrogation, “Not only Mount Hiei—throughout all four ordination platforms of Japan—we have never heard of a child monk like Hannen Shōnagon receiving Dharma transmission and full ordination! By what discernment do you, Head Priest, dare to shatter monastic law’s ironclad rule to confer precepts upon that mere boy…?” “That stands as our foremost concern—the very matter we cannot comprehend.”

A tense and ruthless air—one that would show no mercy, whether toward noble lineage or even the Head Priest himself—seethed behind the two elders of Shidō-in and Shōin-in, intensifying with each response. Jien smiled, “Well now. The Buddhist community is vast indeed. As each of you oversees your own temples and monasteries, I had assumed such matters would be well within your comprehension.” “We do not entertain notions that would violate Mount Hiei’s ironclad precepts.” “Hahaha! How narrow your perspective remains.” “As the proverb goes: those who make the law become bound by it.” “First and foremost, ordination need not take age as its immutable standard.” “Were mere accumulation of years sufficient to grant anyone the grand ordination, none would endure true ascetic practice.”

“Sophistry!” someone from among the monk leaders at the back declared forcefully. Shidō-in, encouraged by this, “Ah—with all due respect to your words—how many are there who, even after ten or twenty years of ascetic practice on this Mount Hiei, have not only failed to enter the ordination platform but have not even received Dharma transmission?” “That stems from one of two causes: either that person lacks innate talent or their studies are insufficient. Even if they appear outwardly rugged and devote themselves to austere practices, there are those whose hearts do not split open even as much as an autumn chestnut’s husk. If one is born an acorn, there is nothing to be done but accept it as such.”

“No! By what the valley folk have been whispering exclusively—we’ve heard that you, Bishop Jien, the Head Priest, show favoritism toward Shōnagon!” “That need not even be questioned,” another monk interjected. “What did you say? Then you openly admit this is nepotism?” The Acharya’s voice rose. “To pose such a question makes this no longer a debate! You blindly dote on Hannen! This confession proves you trample the Great Dharma for personal gain!” As he shouted,

“Hold your tongue!” For the first time, youthful vigor surged into the young Head Priest’s face. “I cherish Hannen’s innate talent.” “I cherish Hannen’s distinguished qualities.” “Look—he will become a man who either extinguishes the future Dharma torch or causes it to flourish.” “Though Mount Hiei has many people, is there any monk who surpasses even Hannen—who has just turned ten?” “In his talent, in his self-restraint, in his wisdom, in his stubborn pride—” “If any among you believe this to be false, summon him here and first have him engage in a doctrinal debate.” “If it be waka poetry, then waka poetry; if it be Confucianism, then Confucianism—Shōnagon would likely not refuse.” “Let those who wish to challenge him step forward and speak.”

V

No one stepped forward to respond.—Even if they were to engage in a doctrinal debate with a mere ten-year-old child monk before the entire assembly and defeat him, there would be no pride in it, and should they lose, the humiliation would be unbearable. Such calculations would immediately occur to anyone’s mind, and Jien—whom they had dismissively regarded as a naive young head priest, merely seated at Shōren-in due to his birth as a scion of an imperial branch raised in secluded halls—now flushed his pale face slightly red and adopted a severe demeanor,

(This is...) They could not help but feel slightly taken aback. Jien surveyed all the way to the faces of those along the wall,

“Is there truly no one who will step forward?”

“…………”

The assembly remained endlessly hushed. The two elders, it seemed, had not truly intended to argue to such an extent in the first place. With their scholarly monk backers falling silent, they now fidgeted awkwardly, as though having lost their footing. “All of you—could it be that you regard ordination and the conferring of precepts as if they were ranks and promotions for laypeople to climb? That is an outrageous misunderstanding.” By then, Jien had already returned to his usual gentle expression and tone. Above his thick eyebrows was a single, round mole about the size of a black bean. People would always look upon this countenance and imagine how elegant it would appear if granted the crown of the Second Rank.

“Needless to say, ordination must constitute an attainment of the bodhisattva mind,” Jien declared. “For those who have already attained a bodhisattva’s heart while yet living, we perform the rite of veneration—this is the Grand Ceremony of Tonsure and Ordination. Why should we grant this Grand Ceremony’s rites to those who have not reached that realm?” “…………” Though quiet, Jien’s voice carried a chill like water flowing deep beneath hinoki cedars—cold to the ear yet resonant with authority. “Moreover,” he continued, “those who attain the bodhisattva mind may enter the ordination platform at eight years of age, as did the Dragon Girl of lore. Was it not before reaching ten years that Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa received his grand ordination? Let any among you who sport white beards and clouded eyes yet remain distant from this spiritual realm first feel shame! And you young scholars—why waste time clamoring over others’ affairs when you should be tending your own practice?”

“…………”

"I say again: I deeply cherish Hannen Shōnagon’s innate gifts—and at the same time, I fear them. If I, as his teacher, fail to provide proper guidance, he may transform into a demon of Brahma; yet through the polishing of his jewel-like nature, he may become a famed gem that salvages the dark currents and turbid waves of this ruined Dharma realm." He took that responsibility gravely. "Once expelled from the mountain and thrust into this present age of ashura—should he hear that battle cry—he would likely become a man who draws his iron bow beneath the karmic flames alongside Minamoto no Yoshitomo’s legitimate heirs."

“…………” Silently, the people could only stare at Jien’s face. In Jien’s brows, one could clearly read the bearing of a mentor who—observing morning and evening every detail of Hannen’s future path as both disciple and individual human being, his character and talents down to the most trivial aspects—was deeply troubled over what lay ahead.

“Ah, we... understand now.” At first like a fleeing rabbit and then like a maiden in the end, when Shidō-in somewhat settled into his seat, the other young monks also awkwardly dispersed.

VI

The morning was still early.

In the peaks and valleys of the mountain soaked in mist, the temple bells, synchronized to the hour, began ringing all at once.

As if shaken, when the bell at Yokawa rang, in the valleys of Saitō and Tōtō as well, the booming, booming... sounds of bells answered one another. “Hmm, why isn’t our temple’s bell ringing?” At Saitō’s Nyohōdō Hall, the middle-aged head monk stuck his head out from the abbot’s quarters. “Has no one gone to the Bell Tower?” “Shuōbō is on duty this morning. He should certainly have gone there,” replied the many scholarly monks from their quarters across the courtyard, fastening their new kesa robes as they answered.

“Is it my ears? I can’t hear it…”

“Now that you mention it, it does seem not to be ringing.” “This is most troubling! Today is when Hannen Shōnagon’s Tonsure and Ordination Ceremony is to be solemnly conducted at the Main Hall.” “We too are to attend presently, following the Acharya.” “More gravely—should we neglect the synchronized bells ritual across Mount Hiei, our temple alone would show defiance against the Main Hall’s decree. This bell proclaims the flourishing of Tendai doctrine. Someone must investigate at once.” “At your command!” One of the scholarly monks ran off.

When looking up from below the bell tower, someone was standing there. With arms crossed, he was leaning vacantly against the bell tower's pillar. It was Shuōbō—a young man who had come up from Sakamoto just a couple of years prior. Initially working as a kitchen servant in the monks’ quarters, he possessed considerable scholarly talent and was not of lowly status. Though he had a somewhat overly clever air about him, his passionate nature and aversion to losing led the temple authorities to promote him; now he stood among the scholarly monks.

This morning, despite being the bell ringer, he went up there and stood with his arms crossed like a listless fool, so his friend who came to check on him, “Hey, Shuōbō!” shouted up from below. Shuōbō smirked down from above. But lacking vigor, “What’s wrong?” he asked with an expressionless face, “It’s nothing…” “Why aren’t you striking the ritual bell?” “…………” “You can’t possibly not know—about this morning’s synchronized bells of Mount Hiei.” “—this morning’s synchronized bells of Mount Hiei.”

“I know.” “Lazy bastard!” he snapped, clattering up the stone steps and—

“Move aside—I’ll ring it,” Shuōbō declared, shoving his companion’s shoulder away. “Very well then!” “What did you say?” “Even if you start now—it’s too late.” “So—you deliberately neglected to strike it.”

“That’s right,” Shuōbō declared clearly. Having released the bell hammer’s rope he had grabbed, his enraged friend seized Shuōbō by the collar and glared at him.

“You insolent bastard! Knowing full well your duty and neglecting it—I won’t allow this! Now, come with me!” He dragged him roughly toward the steps.

Seven

“Where are you taking me?—” With a defiant glare, Shuōbō braced his foot against the bell tower’s pillar and refused to budge. “I’m taking you before the Acharya. Now come!” “I won’t.” “You coward! You knew full well you should strike the ritual bell yet refused!—If you feared punishment, why didn’t you ring it?” “Stupid... So stupid... I can’t ring this bell...” Shuōbō bit his lip. “You there—are you serious about that?”

“You bet I am! This morning’s synchronized bells of Mount Hiei are falsehood—flattery! The Buddha must be laughing at us!” “…” He stared at his friend in stunned silence. Shuōbō, with eyes blazing, “Don’t you agree?” “Shuōbō—are *you* even in your right mind?” “Because I’m certain, I refuse to ring this bell! Listen—just think! Aren’t they forcing through this morning’s grand ordination of Hannen, who’s barely over ten years old? Overriding all public opinion and criticism solely due to the head priest’s favoritism? Is that truly the Buddha’s divine will?! Is this what the entire Mount Hiei community desires?!”

“You persistent bastard…. Are you still clinging to that old argument of yours?” “Of course I am! The Acharyas and learned scholars may grumble about it in private, but not a single one of them dares to uphold their assertions openly. Everyone’s been coaxed by Bishop Jien into backing down.” “The Head Priest has his own profound convictions for doing so.”

“Let’s have a look at these ‘profound convictions’ of his.” “That is currently a pointless debate. Whether Hannen truly possesses such innate talent cannot be determined without observing his growth.” “Look at that! How could the Bishop alone understand what even the gods and Buddhas do not? It’s a sham! It’s favoritism!” “Don’t raise your voice!” “I’ll do it—I’ll say it—those who destroy Buddhism are its own disciples!”

“Enough of this, you insolent brat! Know your place!” “Got a problem with that?” “Damn right!” “Then you’re a fraud too—a fraud who betrays the Buddha and sucks up to the mountain’s rulers!” “Don’t get cocky!” The monk grabbed Shuōbō by the collar and knocked him down. Then monks from the quarters,

“What’s going on? What’s going on…?” they came running up, “Hey, let go!”

“No, tie him up! Then take him before the Acharya! We must pass judgment on the words this greenhorn just spouted according to our strict precepts.” “What kind of abusive language did he spout?”

“He said, ‘Those who destroy Buddhism are its own disciples!’” “This bastard!” One of them kicked him in the side of the face, “What’s with you? Despite being a newcomer, you’ve been picking fights from the start and gotten arrogant over your meager talent.” “Bind him! Bind him! He’ll make a habit of this!” they jeered.

Judgment

1 In the Head Priest’s chamber, a bronze bell rang. One of the attendant monks rose from his desk in the administrative office, “Are you being summoned?” He kneeled beneath the curtained partition, “Summon Hannen,” came the command. “At once!”

“Not here—to the reception hall.”

“Understood.”

Even after saying this, Bishop Jien remained leaning against the desk beneath the curtain for some time, his eyes scanning through a draft of waka poetry bound together on five or six sheets of kamiya paper. When that was done, he wrote a letter of some kind,

"I kept you waiting," he said, looking toward the veranda.

A single messenger from the capital was sitting respectfully on the wooden veranda. “Not at all,” he said, bowing his head.

“Then please deliver this to Lord Tsukinowa and convey my regards—inform him that Jien has been living without incident since returning to the mountain, just as you see here.” “Understood.” Receiving the draft and letter, the Kyoto messenger departed.

Chancellor Kanezane of Tsukinowa was none other than the Head Priest’s blood brother. Thus, from time to time, they would send letters and request replies. Both Jien and the Regent—these brothers—were accomplished in the way of waka poetry. In particular, Jien’s poetry—rich with noble blood and talent within the Buddhist priesthood—was said to be that of a master of his time, and was regarded by those in the field as worthy of respect.

After dismissing the messenger, the Head Priest stood up from there and went out to the front study of the Main Hall. Being summoned to the private chambers would have been routine, but this command to wait in the formal reception hall—what could it mean? Hannen Shōnagon sat with his small frame clad in monastic robes perfectly centered in the vast grand hall, maintaining proper decorum as he waited.

“Come closer,” said Jien. With great reverence, Hannen stepped forward. Jien gazed at the boy’s form with a smile, as though wanting to imprint every detail in his eyes, “The matter of your ordination has now been settled.”

“Yes.”

“Are you happy?” “I don’t know.” “Is it difficult?” “No.”

“Nothing?” “There is, sir.” “Then, what do you feel?”

“As if I’ve been born into this mountain for the first time…”

“Hmm... However, since I have bestowed the precepts of ordination upon you, you must now stand as a full monk among this mountain’s esteemed monks and learned scholars.” “Yes…” “In the Buddha’s noble sight, both white-haired monks and ten-year-old novices are equally His disciples—equally humans wandering the maze.” “Yes…”

“Will you make yourself a jewel or a tile? Your training begins now." “As long as you remain by my side, you cannot taste that noble suffering. If even a trace of pity were to arise in me, it would do you no good.” “Leave your teacher behind and take refuge in the true one.” "The true teacher, needless to say, is none other than the Buddha." “At present, there are no people at Mudō-ji Temple in the Eastern Pagoda.” "The temple where Lord Biwa Dainagon once resided—a place of great historical significance." “I have decided to send you there as resident priest starting today.” “Is that clear? Prepare your things, and starting tomorrow, you will live there and train alone.”

Two

Hannen nodded while shedding a single tear. Seeing him wipe his eyes sideways with his small hand, Jien laughed. “Starting tomorrow, one who is to become the head priest of a temple must not shed tears. ……Go forth with vigor.”

“Yes.” After wiping his tears with his sleeve, Hannen raised reluctant eyes and looked up at his teacher’s face. “Then I will take my leave. I will not forget your teachings, Master, and strive diligently.” He bowed formally, stood up, and departed.

The one who had been waiting in the corridor for that figure—sitting on the wooden edge with a worried expression since earlier—was Shōzenbō.

Immediately taking his hand, they descended the temple steps. As they walked toward the quarters, Shōzenbō—with a bright face—asked questions while Hannen, having already forgotten his recent tears, gleefully grabbed the attendant’s hand to swing it, dangled from his shoulder, and continued onward in playful antics.

(After all, he's still a child.) Jien too came out to the railing and watched his retreating figure.

Yet for some reason, Jien could not help seeing Hannen—this child—as a figure of immense stature. Even when meeting those hailed as great scholars or virtuous masters, he rarely experienced that compulsion to look up in awe—and yet, even when objectively assessing his own critical judgments, there remained something about Hannen that differed fundamentally from ordinary children.

(Where exactly?) If pressed, he would be at a loss. There was no difference at all. A ten-year-old boy remained a ten-year-old boy. The venerable biographies of Kōbō Daishi and ancient saints often featured miraculous birth omens or superhuman feats from infancy—as if they were Tathāgata incarnates—with accounts of cloud-summoning and dragon-calling adorning their hagiographies. Yet Bishop Jien did not necessarily accept all such tales as truth. Rather, he saw these as floral wreaths and halos bestowed by the people, finding no issue in regarding both Shakyamuni and Kōbō Daishi as human beings.

In recent times, even Master Hōnen of Kurodani, as the people’s veneration grew,

(They said the Saint had two pairs of eyes both amber in color), (At his noble birth—so went the tales—purple clouds hung over the birthing chamber while celestial music resounded), (some claimed he was Manjushri incarnate), and yet others— ("No!" came rebuttals—"He’s Tang Sanzang reborn!")—all manner of rumors unknown to him swirled wildly until even skeptics found themselves swayed.

“What kind of person is he?” they wondered—it was said that even believers would gather half out of curiosity. However, Jien had met this Hōnen on several occasions. While he was undoubtedly what one would call a man of extraordinary features, he was by no means a rebirth of the Tathagata, nor did he possess two pairs of eyes. However, what differed was, (He seemed) somewhat elevated above ordinary people by a degree—that was what he thought. As for Hannen, what Jien perceived was, in essence, that very—

(What was it?) Yet Jien's conviction was anything but vague—not some semblance of certainty—but like the bedrock of a mountain, he kept his gaze unwaveringly fixed upon Hannen's future.

Three

It was the predawn of the following day.

In the lingering dimness of predawn, Hannen departed from his quarters. His attendants were Shōzenbō and the straw-mat monk Koun, the two of them. Shōzenbō pressed on earnestly— “Starting today, as Lord Shōnagon has become master of Mudō-ji Temple and resident priest of a temple, the monks of Mount Hiei will no longer behave in ways that look down on you for being young,” he said. To him, it was— It was a cheerful pride, as if retorting, “See?!” However, Hannen,

“Can I truly manage such weighty duties?” he had worried that morning. “The Head Priest would never assign you something beyond your capabilities. Though my skills are meager, I, Shōzenbō, shall serve you devotedly. At Mudō-ji Temple, the resident monks will handle all duties as officiants. You need not fret.” Hannen nodded. “The Head Priest may be testing me. If negligence takes root in me, you must take a whip and strike me down.”

“That would be wasteful,” said Shōzenbō. “With that resolve, you will surely complete your training—though I myself must face Master’s reprimand.” “Let us both devote ourselves to practice!” As he watched Hannen and Shōzenbō walk ahead—their bond neither that of master and servant nor teacher and disciple, but something warmly familiar—Koun trailed behind alone, his expression lonely. Sensing this mood,

“Koun—— What fine weather we’re having,” Shōzenbō called out, stopping and turning around. “Yes… I thought it might rain, but the fog cleared, and now I can see Yase Village and the foothills near Shirakawa.” Koun’s voice lacked energy. When he saw Hannen’s figure, he was likely reminded of his former master Judōmaru. From time to time, his demeanor—letting out envious sighs alone—could be seen.

"(No wonder——)" Shōzenbō perceived. The master-servant relationship between Koun and Judōmaru was just like his own relationship with Hannen. No doubt, whenever something reminded him [of his past], (I wonder how Judōmaru is doing now)—Shōzenbō imagined that his loyal heart must ache for his former master. As the sun rose higher, the calls of small birds grew louder in the valleys and mountain peaks. Descending south from Tōtō-in of the Main Hall, winding through several valley paths, and looking up at the southern peak of Mount Shimei—there lay Nanrei’s Mudō-ji Temple. Now, the roofs of buildings like Daijō-in and Fudō-dō could be glimpsed against the deep blue peaks of layered mountains in the young leaf season.

“Oh, Koun...” “He went down to the stream alone.” “He must have gone to fetch water into his bamboo tube—likely because he was thirsty.”

As the two of them stood at the cliff's edge searching for Koun's figure, somewhere—

“Hey, Jūhakumaru!” a sharp voice called out. The unexpected sharpness made them freeze mid-step and whirl around. In the shadows of distant peaks, they saw the mouth of an underground prison.

Four

At the entrance of the underground prison in the mountain’s shadow, weeds sprawled thickly. Clammy spring water dampened the surrounding area. The prison entrance had been constructed by felling nearby trees and assembling them just as they were into a sturdy framework. In the darkness, someone’s shadowy figure appeared to be moving. The one who had spoken in a beast-like voice, having lost their normal tone, was none other than the person within that underground prison— “The one who’s come there is Jūhakumaru, isn’t it? Hey! Are you deaf?!” shouted the voice.

Not only had they called out a childhood name he had nearly forgotten, but the malice-laden voice left both Hannen and Shōzenbō momentarily rooted in place, their courage drained. Then, the voice from within the prison grew all the more frantic, “Are you refusing to answer just because I used your secular name?” “But I don’t care if you’ve undergone ordination—a snot-nosed brat of ten or so still reeking of milk isn’t someone I’ll ever recognize as a proper monk!” “No matter how ceremoniously the Head Priest bestows the Great Precepts upon you—even if the entire mountain’s followers fawn over him and follow blindly—I alone will never acknowledge you!” Having said all that in one breath, he then,

“That’s why I’m calling you Jūhakumaru.—Son of an impoverished noble, why don’t you answer?” “Have you forgotten clattering through Hino’s academy gates in your oxcart?” “Put on airs all you want—it won’t work on me! Say something!” Trapped beyond reach, he strained desperately to drag those two figures in the light toward his cell. Even their ears prickled at the demonic force in that voice.

From a distance, Shōzenbō watched intently. When he saw those beast-like eyes pressed against the prison bars, he involuntarily— “Ah…!” he exclaimed in surprise. Hannen too remembered— “Oh!” As he tried to run toward the prison, Shōzenbō grabbed his sleeve and stopped him.

“Master! Do not approach! Do not approach!”

“Why? Why?” Hannen tried to wrench his sleeve free. “The one inside there is a demon,” said Shōzenbō. “Approaching a demon will bring you harm.” “A demon?…” Hannen murmured, gazing again at the two sharp eyes gleaming from the prison. “He’s no demon. That’s Judōmaru—the boy who shared a desk with me at Hino’s academy.” “No… That may have been true once,” countered Shōzenbō. “But now he’s Shuōbō—a demon among the West Pagoda’s hall monks. Look at the noticeboard beside it.” He pointed firmly.

This individual, formerly a low-ranking monk at Sakamoto, was promoted to hall monk in the scholarly monks’ quarters of the West Pagoda and is now known as Shuōbō. However, recently having grown arrogant in his shallow learning and petty talents, he persistently raised objections against every matter of the mountain edicts. Moreover, during the ordination ceremony of Hannen Shōnagon, he willfully neglected his duty to strike the ceremonial bell and ranted slanderous statements such as, “It is Buddhist disciples who destroy the Buddhist Law.” For these grave crimes deserving severe punishment, he has hereby been ordered to undergo one hundred days of confinement and humbly atone for his evil deeds before the mountain spirits.

West Pagoda Administrative Office of Temples and Halls

“You understand now.” “He is a terrifying demon.” “It would be better for you not to approach.”

Five

However, Hannen,

“How pitiful!” he said, shaking his head in refusal.

Shaking off Shōzenbō’s restraining hands, he ran up close to the prison cell. And, with a touch of nostalgia,

“Lord Judōmaru,” he called out. Shuōbō glared fiercely from within the darkness, “Jūhakumaru! Mark my words! How dare you throw me into this underground prison!” Shōzenbō could no longer bear to listen, “Shut up!” he snapped from beside him. “Your Master knows nothing of this. Being subjected to censure was your own doing!” “No—you’re no different! You’re the ones who laid hands on others!” “This grudge isn’t just about now! After what happened at Tadashi Plain too, you reported the wildfire to the Rokuhara Office, didn’t you?”

“That’s completely baseless!” “No, no! Ever since I threw that stone into the Hino residence as a child—and you’ve held a grudge over it—you all have surely been scheming at every turn to bring down my family.” “The rumors have reached my ears.”

“This is precisely why…” Shōzenbō said in utter exasperation, gazing at Hannen’s face. “...An irredeemable demon.”

“What?! You call me a demon?!” Shuōbō seized on the words and snarled back venomously. “You dare name me demon! Fine then—I’ll become one!” “Better to be a naked demon than wear this monk’s mask—this cloak of lies over Buddhist Law in a mountain of deceit! At least that’s more honorable as a human!” “It’s no wonder he’s been thrown in this dungeon—this is what happens when you spew such poison.” “To begin with, he’s been a troublemaker since childhood, but—”

“How kind of you to care!” “I’m not like Jūhakumaru—some bratty kid who acts all grown-up despite being a child.” “I love being stark naked; I hate lies.” “Just you wait—someone will strip away your masks and cloaks of deceit!” As if seeing that merely uttering such words was futile, Shōzenbō took Hannen’s hand and— “Come, Master, let us go…” he urged.

Ptui! From within the underground prison, a glob of white spit flew and struck Hannen’s sleeve. Hannen, lost in thought, would not move even as Shōzenbō took his hand, covering his eyes with both hands as he wept. “Let us go. Staying near such a demon will only expose us to his poisonous influence. Exchanging words is nothing but a foolish endeavor.”

“…………” Hannen remained motionless, weeping bitterly and frozen in place, “What are you sad about?” Shōzenbō asked, and Hannen raised his red-rimmed eyelids. “How pitiful,” was all he could repeat. Shōzenbō was well aware of Hannen’s deeply sensitive nature, but even so, he found himself struck speechless, moved by the childlike purity with which Hannen wept in pity for this enemy who was fated to despise him.

Then, from somewhere, came the sound of a clumsy shakuhachi. Carried by the wind rising from the green valley, it flowed into the void.

Six

To the sound of a shakuhachi flowing from nowhere in particular,

As if to say, “Hm?” the two exchanged glances. Shōzenbō recalled Koun, the wandering monk who was nowhere to be seen here, “It’s Koun… He must have gone to drink water in the valley below, started pondering something, and felt compelled to play the shakuhachi he carries.” Hannen immediately urged, “Call him quickly—the Judōmaru that Koun has been searching for all these years is right here.” “That is something Koun does not yet know.”

“That’s right—if Koun were to come, one can only imagine how overjoyed he would be.” “Let’s call him.” Shōzenbō ran a little distance away to the edge of the cliff, “Heeey!” he called out, peering into the valley. His figure was hidden by the fresh leaves and mountain wisteria flowers, but the sound of the shakuhachi ceased abruptly, like a snapped thread. At that moment, Koun had chosen a flat rock by the edge of the stream far below and was sitting there like an arhat. He had come down here to drink water—just as Shōzenbō had surmised—for his throat was parched. But standing amidst emerald peaks that spread like a peacock’s tail and the hushed, crystalline silence cradled between them, his wounded heart found fleeting solace as if resting in a mother’s bosom. A lingering reluctance to depart settled over him, and so he sat down upon the rock.

He knew not why, but tears streamed down endlessly. Daytime clouds drifted gently between the quiet ravines. He gazed fixedly at the clouds that resembled his own circumstances—without mother, wife, child, or home. Feelings he could not express to anyone soon poured forth from the shakuhachi’s mouthpiece as a thin, mournful sound, carrying all his sorrow. Within that sound, the transience of life, earthly desires, complaints, and lamentations all seemed to linger and entangle themselves inextricably.

“Heeey!” At the sound of someone calling from above, Koun released his hands from the shakuhachi, “Ah….” “Ah, it’s Shōzenbō.” Since he knew their destination, Koun had intended to lag behind and catch up later. But if Hannen and the other were waiting for him, he realized this was terribly inconsiderate. Suddenly, he stood up,

“Hey!” he called back from below, looking up toward the mountainside. As he climbed back up the cliff path to where he had been, Shōzenbō came running over, “Lord Koun. There’s joyful news!” “Eh?” Taken aback by the suddenness, he was still blinking rapidly when Shōzenbō swiftly declared that the young monk in the underground prison was none other than Judōmaru. “We’re going on ahead to Mudō-ji Temple, so take your time meeting your former master and properly admonish him for his misdeeds.” With that, he walked away.

Koun stood there in a daze, watching until the figures of Hannen and Shōzenbō disappeared into the mountain's shadow. He was half-believing and half-doubting. That Judōmaru, whom he had been searching for all these years, was right there in that underground prison—it was something he simply could not believe.

When he suddenly looked, indeed, the entrance to the underground prison came into view. A notice board stood.—He cautiously approached it.

Seven

“Ah—” Koun threw himself at the entrance of the underground prison in a frenzy. “Young Master. —Lord Judōmaru.” Shuōbō, from the darkness within the prison, had been staring fixedly at Koun’s face when he suddenly sprang to his feet— “Ah! Aren’t you Shichirō?” “It’s Shichirō! Y-Young Master, it’s Shichirō!” “How nostalgic,” said Shuōbō, extending his emaciated hand through the prison bars,

“I’ve missed you…” “You’ve no idea how long I’ve searched for you.” “Ah!” Shuōbō exclaimed, as if suddenly remembering, and placed his hands on the prison bars. “You’ve come at the perfect moment. Lend me your dagger.” “What do you intend to do?” “It’s obvious—I’m breaking out of this prison. I’ll cut through! Quickly—before anyone comes!” "But…" Koun flusteredly hesitated before the stern notice board and glanced around the path but—finding no one nearby—felt driven by sudden resolve to commit this grave act.

Drawing his short sword, he began cutting through the vines binding the prison bars. Shuōbō strained against them with all his might. Four or five metal clamps clattered down, and the prison pillar toppled forward. As if leaping out of flames, Shuōbō emerged outside and raised both hands toward the blue sky. “Got it! My body is my own now! Hah! Watch me!” As he tried to run off,

“Ah! Young Master! Where are you—” Koun cried out in alarm, grabbing hold of him lest he had gone mad from sheer exhilaration.

“Let go!” “Where are you going, Young Master? If it’s where you’re headed, I’m resolved to follow you anywhere as Shichirō.” “Before leaving this mountain—you’ll wring off Hannen’s scrawny neck for me.” “That’s absurd! I owe Lord Hannen and Master Shōzenbō nothing but gratitude—there’s no cause for resentment.”

“No, I hate this.” “To take lives merely from dislike—Your Lordship’s heart is that of a demon!” “Even you... call me a demon? Then I’ll become that demon! I’ll fight Hannen Shōnagon, struggle against this mountain and all of society—wrestle them with every ounce of my strength!”

“Yes, Your Lordship—!” With all his strength, he pulled back the frenzied man and pinned him down onto the path. And then, “Will you not straighten that warped heart of yours—! Do you not know of your father’s passing? What will become of your family’s name? You! Ungrateful wretch!” he cried, forgetting this was his master’s son as he seized him by the collar. “Ah! I can’t breathe! Hey, Shichirō! Did you come here to attack me?” “I will strike you. I will beat you. In place of your late father, I shall strike you.”

“You bastard!” When Shuōbō tried to push back, Shichirō tightened his grip on his throat with even greater force. With a loud groan… Shuōbō collapsed unconscious.

Eight Gazing at Shuōbō's figure lying limp with limbs outstretched, Koun shed tears as he—

“Young Master, please forgive me. It’s only because I wish to make you into someone as admirable as Lord Hannen that I resort to such rough methods.”

He clung to him, apologizing, but then noticed—

"Oh no—if someone comes!" he suddenly grew alert and scanned his surroundings. Fortunately, there was a sedge hat that Shōzenbō had left behind. As he placed it on Shuōbō’s head and tried to hoist him onto his back, Shuōbō let out a groan—"Ugh..."—and began to breathe again.

But he no longer had the strength to struggle wildly. Perhaps the exhaustion from his long imprisonment in the underground cell had all come crashing down at once; clinging to Koun's shoulder, he lay limp with his head drooped. Koun descended into the valley, followed the water's course, and fled swiftly from Mount Hiei toward the village.

*

At Mudō-ji Temple in the East Pagoda, a young chief priest had recently come and begun presenting himself daily at the devotional services. Needless to say, this was Hannen. Ichijō-in within the temple grounds was designated as his cell. There he began his research into the Four Teachings Doctrine.

The person who lectured on the Four Teachings Doctrine was Jōgen Hōin, a devoted scholar renowned as the foremost of the East Pagoda.

Jōgen deeply cherished his talent. Calling him “Lord Shōnagon, Lord Shōnagon,” he looked after even temple affairs as though tending to his own child. Then one day, Jōgen was berating young monks who had come to report something.

“What? They still haven’t been found? That can’t be possible! It’s already been twenty days since we began this manhunt—today marks the twentieth!” “But even after searching under every tree root and crevice, we still cannot find them. Given how things stand, they must have fled downhill. The West Pagoda faction suggests we lift the manhunt and search the secular world instead...” “Let the West Pagoda faction act according to their own plans. We will absolutely not lift the siege until they’re driven by hunger to reveal themselves.” From Ichijō-in’s window, Hannen watched the monks—wearily descending into the valley after Jōgen’s rebuke—their figures dejected.

Hannen understood full well what the manhunt was for. And in his heart,

Please... don't let them be found— he prayed that they might escape safely to the village. When heavy rain fell,

(Are those two being pelted by this rain beneath some tree?) he worried in secret; even when picking up his chopsticks at morning and evening meals, he would suddenly—

(What are those two eating?) he wondered.

However, even after seven days passed, even after ten days passed, no rumors were heard of those who had broken out of the underground prison being captured.

On Mount Hiei, summer passed, autumn deepened, and at last, the snow-white winter arrived. From the snow-buried window of Ichijō-in, there was never a cold evening when the voice of Hannen reciting the Four Teachings Doctrine could not be heard.

Coming and Going

To Yamato Road

1

In nature's form, there was no visible change to speak of, yet the ten years that had passed over humanity brought transformations so startling as to inspire awe. The year Kenkyū 2 marked exactly the ninth year since Hannen Shōnagon had entered Mudō-ji Temple in the East Pagoda.

He turned nineteen years old. Clad in white robes with a black kesa draped over them, the handsome, fair-skinned youth had yet to be stained by any of the dust of the secular world. He was pure as a maiden. "How noble his bearing is!" Even Shōzenbō—who had served without a single day’s absence throughout those nine years—would sometimes gaze in admiration.

He was tall, and his shoulders were broad. Because he often secluded himself deep within Mudō-ji Temple, his complexion was pale, and his lips were like cinnabar. His eyebrows were thick and bushy, strikingly masculine. Moreover, the tightly drawn line of his lips seemed to conceal an unyielding will. Some would say, “When viewed from the front, Lord Hannen’s countenance strikes one as gentle, but when suddenly seen from the side, it is truly fearsome.” After hearing this, Shōzenbō too,

"Ah, I see," he realized. Fearsome if seen as fearsome. Gentle if seen as gentle.

In terms of health, both his bone structure and vitality were innately endowed with formidable robustness. He thought this too might be a blessing inherited from his maternal grandfather's lineage. Beneath his sturdy, rib-expanded chest breadth lay what seemed a heart so vast one could scarcely fathom its measure.

Shōzenbō had witnessed this concrete proof with his own eyes over these nine years, and secretly— (I could never do such a thing,) he thought in astonishment, clicking his tongue. That was the flourishing of Hannen’s intellectual curiosity and the strength of his scholarly drive to satisfy it. Even such abstruse works as the Yuishiki-ron and Hyakuhō Mondōshō, he had mastered by age twelve. At fifteen, he received the secret depths of esoteric teachings from Myōzen Hōin. Now, even the entire monastic community—who once denounced Bishop Jien’s unprecedented act of granting him full ordination as “favoritism”—had fallen silent.

(They had come to acknowledge that his qualities were indeed innate.) Yet Hannen himself showed not a trace of pride in this. He completed the Three Great Works of Tendai under Chikai of Rinsen-in, visited Keizon at Ninna-ji to study the Kegon teachings, and proactively sought instruction from eminent scholars in Nanto—those deemed his equals in stature. “Please do not strain yourself—” Shōzenbō had repeated like a mantra in response to his daily devotions, but it had all been needless worry.

When it became clear that Hannen’s constitution was not so fragile as to break from such things, "Truly an extraordinary person," he thought, bowing his head in genuine reverence, until he could no longer offer the kind of solicitous warnings one would give to an ordinary man. And even though he served in the same attendant role, the reverence he felt today was entirely different from what it had been nine years prior—he now called him "Master’s Reverence" and had fully become a disciple receiving teachings from Hannen.

2

It was the end of July.

At last, Hannen’s long-cherished wish to study at Hōryū-ji Temple in Yamato was granted by the Central Hall’s administrative office, and he set out on his journey in this early autumn.

“How many years has it been since your last descent from the mountain…” said Shōzenbō, who was of course accompanying him as his attendant. And each time he descended the mountain, seeing the changing world still seemed to bring him a faint pleasure. Even so, while Shōzenbō had gone down to the foothills and towns on errands several times a year, Hannen had hardly done so at all. “Everything has become like a past era.” When they entered the town of Kyoto, Hannen sensed transformation in everything his eyes beheld.

“Look,” said Shōzenbō, standing on Gojō Bridge as he pointed.

“Over in that vacant lot’s grassland—children and cattle must be playing there now.” “That is the site of the rose garden that belonged to Lord Komatsu’s mansion.” “Also, on the eastern end to the right stood Chancellor Kiyomori’s Nishihachijō mansion—but seeing how it lies in ruins now, I suppose it has become someone’s warrior gathering place.” “How it’s changed...” With deep emotion, Hannen murmured. Suddenly looking down from the bridge railing, he saw that only the waters of the Kamo River below flowed unchanged, their gurgling as constant as ever.

No, even water undergoes ceaseless change—it simply does not halt the fleeting hollow forms and appearances of humans. Into the river waters where the ladies of Nishihachijō and the rose garden once washed away their cosmetics, the Genji clansmen now filling the capital discharged their iron-gall ink solutions and the filthy runoff of warhorses and soldiers. “If it changes, it changes—” No matter how long he stood there, he never grew weary of the feeling—as though confronting an infinite truth—. And it was as though he were beholding a living sutra before his very eyes.

If seen as fleeting, it was merely fleeting. Progress if seen as progress. And if seen as nothingness—nothingness.

Society was too vast, and the essence of life proved difficult to grasp. The peddlers, craftsmen, samurai, and assorted townspeople passing through were merely hastening their steps busily, clinging to faint hopes that spanned from today to tomorrow. At Kurama’s peak, Yoshitsune—known as Lord Shanaō—who had fled to Ōshū, had ended his short and brilliant life some two years prior, cut down by none other than his own brother Yoritomo’s soldiers. And now that Yoritomo had established his seat of power in Kamakura and proclaimed dominion over the realm, it was only natural that Taira culture had transformed entirely—so thoroughly that even the waters of the Kamo River flowing through the capital had been dyed anew in Genji’s colors.

But the masses, having witnessed life’s phases change with such dizzying rapidity, Anxiety and nihilism—the sense that "even tomorrow" might bring disaster—showed no signs of abating, and upon the faces of every single townspeople passing through the streets, restless expressions could be seen. “Shall we go?” Hannen, observing this, set off northward along Gojō toward Kitagawa like any ordinary itinerant monk.

3 Then, when they stepped into Rokujō Ōji Avenue, the two of them proceeded further, He kept murmuring, "How it’s changed..." The crossroads market was conspicuously thriving, and the number of merchant houses lining both sides of the avenue had multiplied far beyond what existed during the Taira clan’s golden age. Even the vacant lots held men who might have been puppeteers or carnival barkers ringing gongs to draw crowds while shouting their wares, and women shrouded in veiled cloaks—their faces caked in thick powder—casting furtive glances as they scouted for men with long noses.

“Human society is just like a spring field burning—the more you scorch it, the more grass sprouts afterward…” Shōzenbō remarked with admiration. At first glance, war seemed to propel society forward with startling speed. Yet not one soul living here had cursed these conflicts. Instead, people had plunged headlong into hedonism. Though this tendency had existed under Taira rule, when power shifted abruptly to the Minamoto clan, women now draped themselves in extravagant silks as if perfecting this creed, while men wandered about with breath that perpetually reeked of wine.

“Monk,” “Reverend,” As the two looked around Rokujō’s cattle market area, the spotted cows that had once lain about in those vacant lots and the bluebottle flies that had swarmed over dung had completely vanished—everywhere now brimmed with stylish new huts and cottages at their entrances. There were houses enclosed by woven bamboo fences before their shops, and structures where rooms lay concealed behind cloths of withered-leaf brown or pale indigo hung from above. There were also those with plastered walls featuring peephole windows, from which women called out.

“Could this truly be the former cattle market…?” Both Hannen and Shōzenbō stood frozen in bewilderment. Where could the mansion of Noritsuna in Rokujō—which should have been right nearby—be? Searching in vain for his childhood home, of which no trace remained, Hannen was dismayed here once again. “Handsome monk and your attendant—” The voices of yellow-clad women called out incessantly from behind windows and hanging cloths of every house, yet neither realized they were the ones being summoned.

And yet, as they tried to enter even the narrow alleyway, from behind a low hinoki fence—

“Come in,” said a white hand that seized the sleeve of his monk’s robe. Hannen widened his eyes in surprise, “Is there something you require?” The woman stuck out two white necks from there, “What are you looking for?” “The mansion of Lord Sanmi Noritsuna of Rokujō.” “Oh ho ho. ……There’s not a single one of those houses left. This is a pleasure district, you see.” “Huh? —A pleasure district…” “Isn’t it obvious just from looking at the main street? Please come in.” From beside him, Shōzenbō—

"Idiot!" he scolded, striking the hand of the woman gripping Hannen's sleeve with a sharp smack.

4 “How dare you hit someone!” The courtesan grew angry. Shōzenbō retorted angrily, “It was only natural.”

“It’s what you deserved!” The courtesan, not yielding,

“If striking people is justified, then I’ll strike you too!” she declared, thrusting her hand toward Shōzenbō’s cheek in a mock blow, but he averted his face,

"Filthy," he said, brushing her hand away.

This time, truly enraged, the courtesan seized Shōzenbō by the collar.

“What the hell do you mean by ‘filthy’?”

“Let go! How dare you lay hands on a monk!” “Hmph… As if…” The courtesan pursed her mocking lips venomously, like a pomegranate flower,

“Because you’re a monk, you call women filthy… Hah! You’re a joke,” she said, glancing back at the other women inside. “That Hanaougi over there, and Kajiha next to her—they all keep monks as their lovers.” “Even my place gets visitors from Mount Hiei, and sometimes people sneak off from here to Temple Town in secret.” “People are watching.” “Let go!” As Shōzenbō vehemently insisted,

“Fine. If you say it’s wrong because people are watching, I get it. As long as no one sees you, it’s fine, right?… Come by tonight.” With that, the woman released his collar and gave Shōzenbō’s shoulder a light poke.

Shōzenbō stepped into the mud and soiled his gaiters with muddy water. "You wench!" As he chased after the woman who had swiftly fled into the house, cursing all the while, outside the alley—

“Shōzenbō—” The sound of Hannen calling could be heard.

“Yes!” Blushing with shame at his own childish behavior, he emerged onto the main street.

And then, to Hannen,

“I’ve done something terrible,” he apologized. “Let’s look elsewhere.” When Hannen began to walk,

“Please wait a moment,” said Shōzenbō, grabbing the sleeve of his teacher’s monk’s robes and leading him straight to a well by the roadside. (What is he doing?) Hannen silently allowed him to proceed as he did. Shōzenbō lifted the well bucket, then pinched the sleeve of his teacher’s monk’s robes and washed it vigorously,

“There… This should be acceptable now. I couldn’t leave your sleeve soiled by that impure frivolous woman’s touch,” he said, wringing out the water. Then he washed his own hands and finally wore a satisfied expression. From then on, they walked carefully to avoid being grabbed by courtesans’ hands again, but the scent of face powder seemed as though it would not fade even after washing the sleeve with water.

Not only that, but no matter how they searched, the Rokujō Mansion could not be found.

5 Giving up, the two once again turned back toward Gojō Gate. And as their figures crossed Gojō Bridge eastward this time, the pale mist of twilight was already drifting about them.

By the time they reached Shōren-in at Awataguchi, night's deep darkness had fully descended. This place alone—unscathed by war's flames, untainted by worldly changes—retained its ancient stillness. Standing before the tightly shut gate, they felt: (Truly, the Dharma gate alone is our sanctuary). Shōzenbō stood there...

“I humbly request,” he said, knocking persistently. Hannen stood behind, gazing at the rusted roof of the temple gate, the shape of the tower, and the pine tree stretching its branches from there. “Ten years...”

He closed his eyes nostalgically and pictured his own young figure from ten years ago behind his eyelids. With a creak, the small gate opened,

“Who goes there?” The gatekeeper monk’s voice sounded. “I am Hannen of Mudō-ji Temple. Having descended from Mount Hiei on this occasion for study at Hōryū-ji Temple in Nara, I humbly wished to pay my respects to His Eminence the Bishop. Though it is late at night, I have stopped by. I humbly request you to convey my presence.”

“Please wait a moment.” After a short while, the gatekeeper monk showed his face again, “Please,” he said, leading them inside.

After resigning from his position as head priest, Bishop Jien had returned from Mount Hiei to his former residence at Shōren-in Temple, where he now spent his days in tranquil seclusion, devoting himself to tea ceremonies and composing waka poetry. In a tidy cottage where he welcomed the two, Jien rejoiced wholeheartedly. "You've grown so much," he began, his voice carrying both affection and wonder. The words came naturally when comparing the figure before him - this nineteen-year-old Hannen - to the young novice monk who had received ordination years earlier.

However, though not yet what one would call middle-aged, Jien’s appearance—unseen for four or five years—had aged considerably. “Bishop, I see you remain unchanged.” When Hannen said this, “For those who dwell among the flowers, birds, wind, and moon on the Buddhist path, there is no such thing as age,” Jien replied with a youthful smile. And then,

“This time you go to Hōryū-ji Temple for study—but do not drive yourself so hard that you ruin your health.”

“Regarding Bishop Kakumon, I humbly wish to receive your esteemed guidance on certain doubts I have.” “As for his body, it remains robust as you can see, so please rest assured.” Shōzenbō, who had been waiting on the small veranda behind them, timidly inquired at that moment. “In connection with this, I took it upon myself to suggest that on this occasion, you might wish to meet with your foster father Lord Noritsuna and your younger brother Lord Asamaro for the first time in ten years. In fact, before coming here, we searched for the Rokujō mansion, but the town’s appearance had completely changed, and their whereabouts were unknown.” “So—thinking that if we inquired at Shōren-in, we would find out—we returned here. But where might Lord Noritsuna be residing now?”

“Since it concerns that matter, you need not worry. As previously agreed, if there are any changes, we will inform you from here—and until such notice comes, you should assume there has been no change. Just as I have said.”

6

Though it should have sufficed merely to know they were safe, Hannen still wished to see them even once. Seeing his expression, the Bishop said it would be well for him to visit them after so long, adding that he would have someone from the temple guide him come morning. “For now,” he continued, “you should remove your travel attire and rest at ease tonight.” “I am grateful,” Hannen replied.

Hannen withdrew and, after finishing his bath at the bathhouse, was being treated to the evening meal together with Shōzenbō. Just then, the steward came,

“At this moment,” reported the steward, “a guest whom His Eminence the Bishop wishes you to meet has arrived at his chambers. Once you have finished your meal, he requests that you return.” Who could it be? Hannen wondered. Whatever guest would warrant an introduction... He went to investigate. There sat a nobleman in relaxed robes, his wide-legged hakama trousers spread grandly around him, an oil lamp glowing at his side. The man appeared several years older than the Bishop—forty-four or forty-five at most. Beneath a straight-bridged nose grew a thin, elegant mustache. Its refined aspect owed less to facial hair than to the modest curve of his gentle lips.

"…………"

When he saw Hannen, the nobleman smiled with knowing eyes as if he had long been acquainted with him. Bishop Jien, from beside him,

“Brother, this is Hannen Shōnagon,” he introduced as if proudly presenting a treasured artifact.

“Hmm…” The nobleman nodded, “Indeed, a fine young man you are,” he said, staring with such intensity that the silence grew awkward. The Bishop then turned to Hannen and,

“This is Lord Chancellor Kujō Kanezane,” he informed. “Oh… You are Lord Kujō?” Hannen was surprised. And as Chancellor Kanezane began to adjust his posture in formal courtesy, “No, stay as you are,” he said, appearing to favor informality as he steered the conversation toward recent affairs of Mount Hiei and casual talk of worldly matters. Hannen had long known that Kujō Kanezane was the Bishop’s blood brother, but to exchange words knee-to-knee like this with a sitting Chancellor—a noble of such stature—in such a setting was beyond anything he had imagined.

“I’ve heard through rumors that in your research of the Kegon teachings, among Mount Hiei’s young monks, there is none who can rival you.” “It is most embarrassing.” “I remain but a student who has yet to open any eyes.” “Whenever my younger brother hears reports of your endeavors, he rejoices in your ascetic efforts as if they were his own.” “I intend to strive so as not to render your great kindness in vain.” “Please grace the Tsukinowa residence with a visit sometime.”

“I am grateful.”

"Since there are many young people devoted to seeking the Dharma, I would like Reverend Hannen to deliver a lecture on the Kegon Sutra someday—I myself would also wish to hear it," said Kanezane. Then the Bishop brewed his prized imported green tea, composed a couple of waka poems, and exchanged them inscribed on decorative paper sheets. Before long, Kanezane boarded the waiting ox-drawn carriage with his attendants and departed.

Seven

It was the first night of the tenth year since he had descended from the mountain of ascetic practice.

For the first time in years, Hannen slept wrapped in human warmth - that comforting sensation of slumbering among others. When he awoke and finished his morning devotions, the swept grounds of Shōren-in Temple lay before him. Sunlight dappled through conifers as early autumn clouds danced across Awata Hill's slopes like a white kitten at play. "Shōzenbō, we depart." Hannen had already donned his leg wraps and traveler's hat without anyone noticing, now bending to fasten his straw sandals.

"Oh! Are you departing already?" To his surprise, it was Shōzenbō who became flustered. "I already bid farewell to Bishop Jien after the morning service," Hannen said resolutely, quickening his pace as he exited the temple gate. Shōzenbō, shouldering the pack, caught up from behind. Then steward Takamatsu Emon was waiting outside the temple gate, "Lord Hannen, are you departing?" "I am indebted to you."

“By Bishop Jien’s orders, today I had intended to guide you to Lord Rokujō Noritsuna’s residence and have been waiting to do so—” “I am grateful.”

“Surely you do not intend to depart like this?” “No,” said Hannen, his brows—which had been furrowed since the previous night—twitching painfully. “...Yesterday, lost in foolish yearning to see my foster father’s face and meet my younger brother, I single-mindedly searched for his residence. But after sleeping last night and calmly reflecting, I have come to feel ashamed.” “Such conduct means I cannot yet be called a true monk.” “I believe even the Bishop must have scorned me inwardly as inadequate.” “All the more so—having barely taken my first steps in training and now standing at the threshold of my scholarly journey—to have already allowed such slackening of resolve is, even to myself, a mortifying display of incompetence.” “Though I deeply appreciate your kind offer, I have resolved in my heart to depart without meeting either foster father or brother. Please withdraw your proposal.”

“Truly, Reverend Hannen, you have spoken well.” “Well then, let me see you off as far as there.” Emon took the lead and started walking along Shōren-in’s long earthen wall. And after walking about twenty steps toward the rear gate through the cedar grove, they came upon a small thatched hut surrounded by a bamboo fence, where morning glory flowers bloomed thickly here and there in two or three clusters.

“Are they not beautiful?” Emon drew Hannen’s attention to the morning glories inside the fence, then silently turned and left.

Shōzenbō casually peered inside the fence and, aghast, tugged at Hannen’s sleeve. “Master… He is here!” “What?” “Look.”

“Look.” “Oh!”

Hannen, whose sleeve was tugged by Shōzenbō, peered into the hut—his eyes were filled with tears. Though his appearance had changed terribly, there at the edge of the sunlit thatched hut—facing a small desk and taking up a brush to copy something—was an old monk: none other than his foster father Noritsuna.

Eight “When did you take holy orders?” Tears clouded Hannen’s view of his foster father’s form. “...Not a trace remains of his former self,” he murmured, comparing this gaunt figure to memories from a decade past—pondering the hardships his foster father must have endured. Shōzenbō, unable to bear it any longer, pressed against the gate to enter. “You mustn’t approach.” Hannen rebuked him. Resolutely turning from the fence, he began walking away. “Master, I implore you—let him glimpse you! Even once!”

"…………" Hannen shook his head and quickened his pace without looking back.

Then, by Kajigaike Pond, a young man and woman were standing close together, their faces drawn near affectionately, but startled by Hannen’s footsteps,

“Oh!” The woman was first to pull away. She must have been a swordsmith’s daughter from the area—a young girl with rustic charm yet striking beauty. The man too was still a youth of high birth at seventeen or eighteen years old. As if ashamed their secret whispers might have been overheard, he flushed crimson and turned around.

“Oh…?” Hannen froze upon seeing that face. The young man also jerked his eyes wide open. Though childhood memories were vague and ten years had passed since their last meeting—making it impossible to clearly recall who he was—the blood of kin called out between their hearts. For a moment, as they stared intently at one another without either initiating, “Is that not Asamaro?” “Brother?”

No sooner had they drawn near than the two shadows embraced as if they were one entity, and Asamaro pressed his face against Hannen's chest, weeping.

“I wanted to see you so badly. Every day, I did nothing but gaze at the venerated image of you before your tonsure.” “You’ve grown so big.” “Brother, you too.” “As you can see, I am well. —And how about our foster father? Is he in good health as well?” “Have you still not met him?” “I just now caught a glimpse of his figure from outside the fence.” “Then, allow me to guide you. Foster Father would be astonished too, wouldn’t he?” “No, I shall not meet him this time.”

"Why?" “There will naturally come a time when we meet. I entrust his care to you.” Coldly walking past, “Brother—” "Why won’t you meet Foster Father?" Asamaro clung pleadingly to his brother’s hand.

The woman watched it intently from the edge of the pond. A maiden’s heart watched with the sorrow of having had the man’s love for her suddenly stolen away by another.

“…………” Shōzenbō had moved slightly aside, averting his eyes from the brothers’ figures as he busily wiped with the back of his hand the droplets streaming down his cheeks. Then—what had come over him?—Hannen suddenly shook off his younger brother’s hand and ran away without looking back.

River Mist I

I

A light flickered in the distance. It was the town’s light. The town, the lights, and the mountains blurred and spread out like ink dropped on raw paper.

“It’s Uji.”

Hannen came to a halt. The swift sound of water rushed beneath his feet. At last, as dusk approached, they reached the great bridge over the Uji River. “Indeed it is.—We cannot have much farther to go now.” As if in unison, Shōzenbō too, upon reaching the bridge’s midpoint, leaned against the railing and rested briefly. Through the wide twilight vista rushed the murmuring clarity of autumn waters. Hannen stood with his face buffeted by the river’s chill breath while,

“—Jishō 4,” he murmured. “I was still young back then… You remember well though—don’t you?” “Are you referring to the Battle of Uji?” “Then Lord Minamoto no Yorimasa of Third Rank fell in battle near here—did he not?” “Indeed… It was around May.” “For me—that was when my mother passed away… Though she was but a Minamoto daughter who lived humbly in obscurity—a chaste wife to her husband and gentle mother to her children—our clan came under Taira suspicion as if we Minamoto plotted rebellion.” “She must have endured hardships we children never knew.”

“At that time, various rumors surrounded your parents.” “Ah, in ten years’ time, all will vanish without a trace—like this murmuring water and its fleeting bubbles. Nothing remains of the battlefields where the Taira and Minamoto clans and their hate-filled followers once fought.” “Only autumn grasses bloom on the riverbank—Lord Third Rank has blossomed in his later years.” Hannen took out his rosary from the sleeve of his monk’s robes and placed it around his fingers. The plot of Prince Takakura had ended in vain, and as Shōzenbō imagined the restless spirits of unburied warriors wailing through the dark autumn sky, a chill ran down his spine.

Yoshimitsu Gozen, my mother, and Minamoto no Yorimasa, Third Rank, were of the same clan; moreover, upon this riverbank lay the corpses of many others who shared their blood. Hannen also recalled the figure of his second cousin Yoshitsune, who had died young. And standing there now, he felt with profound gratitude the intentions of his mother, foster father, and those around him—who, fearing their child might be toyed with by such cruel fate, had worried over his future and placed him in the monastery.

If it were not for that frost-protection enclosure—even I doubted whether I could have grown into who I am today. My life felt as though it was by no means my own. Could these years imposed upon my flesh belong instead to my mother and clan—burdened with some unknown mission? Such thoughts began swirling within him. ………… The rosary beads clattered. Shōzenbō too kept his eyes shut. Then came a young woman slipping past behind them—her lonely footsteps hushed as she went.

II

Suddenly turning back, he watched the woman’s retreating figure as she walked away, “If…” Shōzenbō gently pulled Hannen’s sleeve. “That woman—isn’t she crying?” “She must be from the town.” “She’s leaning against the railing, lost in thought. What a strange woman.” “Don’t look. Having one’s tearful face seen by others is a sorrowful thing.” “Let us be on our way.” The two, having said that, began to walk but still felt concerned. After moving five or six steps, they turned to look back again, but in that brief moment, the woman’s figure was already gone.

“What?!” Shōzenbō suddenly dropped his pack and dashed toward where the woman had been. Then, leaning over the railing to peer down at the riverbed below, he waved his hand and shouted, “Master! It’s a suicide jump!”

Hannen was startled. And while cursing his own carelessness, "Where—?" he cried, dashing toward the riverside. Shōzenbō pointed at the dark river surface,

“There—, over there!” he said. The water was forming an uncanny whirlpool. It must have been the woman’s obi. In the black ripples, it floated up, then sank from view. “Ah, dangerous…!” What surprised Shōzenbō was not that, but rather Hannen beside him—who had placed his foot on the bridge railing and was now trying to leap from its height of over ten feet. He grabbed and held him,

“Unthinkable!” he shouted. “I will save her! If something were to happen to your precious body—” he said hurriedly, beginning to remove his monk’s robes.

Then, from the direction of the riverbank,

“Oi...” A man’s voice called out.

Two or three figures called out to each other and came running. Perhaps they were fishermen engaged in river fishing; one of them was already making splashing noises in the water. The river current was swift, but fortunately, as they were near a shallow pool, she must have been rescued without difficulty; soon, they came ashore holding her body, which had become like seaweed. “Thank you.” Hannen expressed his thanks as he approached the men. The woman, apparently still conscious, was wailing as she wept. Covering her face with both hands, she shook her body and wept.

“How are you feeling?” When Shōzenbō gently placed his hand on the woman’s shoulder and peered in, she suddenly— “I don’t know! I don’t know!” Shaking off his hand, she dashed straight across Uji Bridge toward the town. “Ah! She’s going to jump in again!” The men said that, but they made no move to pursue her, instead clicking their tongues as they watched her go.

III

He couldn’t bring himself to abandon her. As Hannen started running, “Ah, you’re fast! Shōzenbō, go on ahead alone and catch that woman!”

“Understood.” Shōzenbō sprang into the air and gave chase to the figure of the woman who had already crossed Uji Bridge into the distance.

As expected, once the woman crossed the bridge, instead of heading toward the town, she continued running blindly upstream along the riverbank in a disheveled state. “Hey! Where do you think you’re going?” When Shōzenbō grabbed her from behind, the woman let out a shrill voice,

"Where I go is none of your business! Let me go!" "I can’t let go. You’re trying to die, aren’t you?" "Why is dying wrong?"

“Is it wrong to die?!” She turned her ashen face and snapped back. Seeing that gaze,

“This is—” Shōzenbō involuntarily turned his face away.

The woman’s narrowed eyes were sharp like panes of light. Her hair lay disheveled over her shoulders, her soaked kimono and skin leaving her so frenzied she didn’t even feel the cold. “Why is it wrong?” Seeing the monk’s appearance, the woman seemed to harbor even greater resentment and pressed him with questions. “It is undeniably wrong. Humans inherently have a predetermined lifespan. To discard one’s life in a fit of emotion is the act of a fool.”

“I’m a fool anyway.” “Because I am a fool—” With a hiccupping sob, “Men... Men...” She cried out senselessly, then— “Please let me die.” “I cannot allow that.”

"I'll die out of spite!" she struggled with terrifying strength. Shōzenbō, using his inherent strength, twisted her slender wrist upward as he waited for Hannen to arrive, but the woman acted as if he were a hated enemy and even tried to bite his fingers.

“Calm down... This is the work of blind passion’s making. Once it cools, your own heart will become so pitifully empty you won’t recognize yourself.” “Save your sermons for the temple! I hate monks.” “Is that so?” He could only manage a bitter smile. Hannen caught up. “What’s wrong, Shōzenbō?” “I restrained her.” “I won’t do anything harsh to you.” “What? You’re the one who’s been rampaging about and wailing!”

“Madam—” Hannen patted her back, “Let us go.” “Where exactly?” “I’ll escort you to your home. You mustn’t catch a cold—your kimono is soaked, and…” “You’re meddling unnecessarily with someone who’s about to die! Leave me alone!” Although he had long been told that women were difficult to save, Hannen gazed at her intently, thinking, “So this is what it means.”

Four

Whenever he saw this woman’s disgraceful madness, Hannen recalled his younger brother, whom he had met the day before yesterday by Kajigaike Pond.

At that time, the younger brother was standing by the edge of the pond side by side with a young woman of marriageable age. Surely, it wasn’t something that would invite public scrutiny, but unlike me, my younger brother was delicate, kind-hearted, and moreover, weak-willed.

Since descending from Mount Hiei this time, what impressed itself most deeply and frequently upon Hannen’s heart was “women.” When one descends from a mountain devoid of women, the world appears as a nation of women. It looks overrun with women. He thought of these troublesome matters yet also felt a sudden brightening of his mood, his age brewing within him a vague unease and warmth. “Master, I’m at my wit’s end.” Shōzenbō, who had been trying to coax and scold the woman into compliance, spoke as if at his wits’ end.

“She absolutely refuses to return home.” This time, Hannen asked, “Is your home in Uji, Omoto?”

“I don’t want to. If I have to go back, I’ll go back alone.” “Please don’t say that—we too are heading to Uji Town. I’ll escort you.” “You’re such a nagging monk.”

“Since it is our mission, please forgive us even if it displeases you. I want to make Omoto happy.”

“You make me laugh. Making people happy—do you think humans can perform such a deft trick?” “It’s beyond my power. It’s through the Buddha’s divine power—” “I hate that Buddha! When I want to die, you interfere, force things I despise upon me—you’re all so good at making people miserable.” “Anyway, let us walk.” “No—” “It would be best to grant Omoto’s wish as she desires.”

“My wish is to make my man my own.” “Is that not a gentle wish?” “Don’t say such outrageous things—the man already has another woman!”

“That man is your husband, isn’t he, Omoto?” “We haven’t… properly done anything yet, but…” “Very well. We will wholeheartedly appeal to the man. I won’t do you any harm…… Come, let us walk.”

Finally, after bringing her to Uji Town and inquiring about the woman’s house,

“There—” she said, pointing to one of the squalid tenement houses in the back alley. “Eboshi Maker Kunisuke” was nailed to an old board. Hannen knocked on the wooden door, “Good evening.” As he did so, the woman seized the moment to shake off Shōzenbō’s hand and tried to escape.

Five

“Yes, who is it?” It was the young man’s reply. Immediately opening the wooden door from inside, the person standing there looked surprised to find two monks, but when he saw the woman struggling to escape Shōzenbō’s grasp,

"You wretched woman!" he shouted, rushing out barefoot and grabbing the woman’s black hair.

“Where’d ya run off to?” “Look at ya—soaked through! Pulled another damn fool stunt again?”

Because he had dragged her into the house so roughly, Hannen—

“Please—do not resort to such roughness,” Hannen said as they entered the house together, but by then the woman had already turned suddenly enraged, “What are you doing?! Do you hate me that much?!” “Kill me!” “You lunatic!”

“Go on, kill me!” she shouted, lunging at the man to grab his collar. “In that case, I won’t die alone! You cheating man! You heartless wretch! How infuriating!” Hannen watched with a look that suggested he couldn’t bring himself to intervene. However, since leaving them be would lead to endless strife, “Stop them,” Hannen said to Shōzenbō. “Stop that!” He first separated the man, “Won’t you stop? You can’t possibly be sworn enemies!” “I hate you more than any enemy!” the woman screamed.

From then on, like oilpaper catching fire, she began ranting shamelessly about the man’s misdeeds—how he abused her, tried to bring in some prostitute he’d taken up with elsewhere, and how she’d sold off all her belongings to support this impoverished household—pouring out every vile emotion as fast as her tongue could move. Evidently finding the situation too awkward, the eboshi maker sat pale-faced and looking down.

And now, as if suddenly remembering, he turned to Hannen,

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “Is she your wife?” Shōzenbō interjected. “No—she’s a woman named Kano I’ve been cohabiting with, dragging through these wretched days. But I don’t think I’m as vile a man as she claims.” “Why not mend your bond?” “I find her utterly endearing, truly… yet you see how it is.” The woman’s eyes shot daggers, “Liar!”

Six

The woman regained her furious expression and lunged with a shrill cry—when at that moment, the gate door opened. "Daughter, must I come here yet again?" An elderly voice spoke. Hearing that voice, Kano flinched. "Ah—Father!" As if doused with water, she snapped out of her frenzy and suddenly froze rigidly in place, as though wishing to vanish into a hole.

Kunisuke the eboshi maker was also wandering about restlessly, looking utterly ashamed. Without waiting for an invitation, Kano’s father stepped into the house. Stiffening his stern face, he stood there rigidly, glaring down at the young man and woman with evident disgust—

"You disgrace!" he snarled, glaring as though he wanted to spit on her. He was an old man wearing a crude nodachi—likely a country samurai from Uji.

“Come on, get home. Go home. “If you think I’ll have my child raised just to squabble like lovesick fools with some layabout craftsman, know this—no parent raises their young for that!” “You insolent wretch!”

Grabbing Kano by the nape hair, scolding her all the while, he began dragging her away—

“No! No!”

The daughter clung to the straw mat,

“I won’t go home—” she desperately declared. “Why won’t you go home?” “But I want to endure any hardship with Kunisuke.” “With a man your parents haven’t approved of?” “Please forgive me.”

“Absolutely not!” the old man barked, “There’s no future with a man like this. “Entering a man’s house without your parents’ approval—do you think the townspeople are laughing at you trying to live in harmony?” “If you refuse, fine—I’ll just have to drag you back by parental authority!”

Enraged, the old man dragged his daughter’s body two or three feet toward the gate, her body scraping along the ground. Shōzenbō, who until then had been silently observing the old man’s face—its deeply wrinkled lips framed by a scruffy beard scattered like needles—and his manner of speech, now opened his mouth for the first time.

“Wait—aren’t you Yajirō, who served at the Rokujō Mansion?” he said.

“Gah?!” The old man kept his mouth hanging open for a moment, “…………” He focused his eyes within their fine wrinkles, staring endlessly, endlessly at Shōzenbō’s face, then turned abruptly to look at Hannen sitting properly beside him.

“Ah... ah... ah...” He released his grip on Kano’s collar and slumped down where he stood. “Oh—... You’re the former Jijū no Suke?” “Suke it is.” “Then... the one sitting here must be...” “Don’t recognize him? No wonder—he’s grown so splendidly you’d fail to know him.” “Lord Hino no Wako... It’s Lord Jūhakumaru.” “Ah! What have I done?”

Old Man Yajirō remained prostrate with both hands pressed to the ground and his forehead against the straw mat, showing no intention of lifting his face for some time.

Seven

At the whiteness of his temples,

“Your hair at the temples has turned white indeed,” Hannen observed solemnly. He gazed intently at Yajirō, deeply moved. According to Old Man Yajirō’s account, during Lord Kiso’s incursion years prior, the Taira clan had set fire to the capital they abandoned and slaughtered all who bore resentment toward them or showed even the slightest Minamoto affiliation before retreating westward. At that time, both the Rokujō Mansion and its surroundings had been uniformly razed. Noritsuna—his very life in peril—had narrowly escaped by hiding within Shōren-in with Asamaro in tow, while Yajirō accompanied them and observed the world’s shifting tides. Yet it seemed Noritsuna had reached some profound realization, for he never sought to reenter society. Instead, he shaved his head, cleared a patch of thicket behind the temple to build a hermitage, and took the name Kanjin.

So, when Yajirō was granted leave, he returned to his hometown relying on a daughter he had entrusted to relatives in Uji, intending to start a family and build a life together through shared effort. Yet for a daughter of marriageable age who had long been separated from her true father, a young lover seemed far preferable—she was scarcely ever settled at home, and whenever she vanished from sight, she would take up residence at the house of Kunisuke the eboshi maker. This left him thoroughly exasperated—and so he concluded his lengthy account with,

“What am I to do?” he said, ashamed yet unable to conceal it any longer, enduring his humiliation as he confessed. “I see.” With that, the details became clear—hearing it thus, Kano’s love struck them as both pitiable and endearing. That Kunisuke had another woman and was tormenting Kano so grievously was unacceptable. At this juncture, should they not compel Kunisuke to truthfully disclose the depth of his ties with this so-called courtesan—his other mistress? Taking this as a potential solution, Shōzenbō—though unversed in such matters—first attempted mediation. Kunisuke explained:

“It is true that I placed her in a brothel, but this was by no means a frivolous affair. To speak plainly, while wandering the eastern provinces, my sister was abducted by a bandit named Tokusa Shirō and sold into Uji’s pleasure district. However, if word spread that my sister is a courtesan, it would tarnish our family’s name. I could not bring myself to confess this to Kano from the start, and even now that I have told her, she refuses to believe me.” “But I do not hate Kano in the slightest.” “Somehow, my sister and I have been comforting each other as we try to earn just enough for her ransom. Whenever I managed to save even a little from our living expenses, I would give it to her, and she would show me however much she received from her clients. Together, we took joy in meeting two or three times a month.” “It is by no means the frivolous affair that Kano speaks of.” In his stammered words lay truth—indeed, the image of a brother devoted to his sister and a sister devoted to her brother pressed so vividly upon the eyelids of those listening with closed eyes that it felt almost tangible.

“I’m so sorry…!”

Suddenly, it was Kano who collapsed in tears. She writhed in agony and continued to sob.

Eight

Struck by remorse and shame, Kano— “—Everything was due to my jealousy. ...I’m sorry—to Mr. Kunisuke, and to Father,” was all she could repeat.

Jealousy turns a woman into flames, but when she breaks free from that delusion, she returns to her true form—purified to a pitiable degree. Shōzenbō addressed Yajirō,

“Do you disapprove of Kunisuke, whom your daughter so ardently loves?” he asked.

“No, it’s not that I disapprove—but since people in society speak ill of him, I simply thought he wasn’t a man worthy of entrusting my daughter’s future to.” “That misunderstanding must have been resolved by now.” “Hmm…” “Now that it’s been resolved, why not let your heart melt as well? “As their parent, grant your permission and let them wed.” “I too was at fault. “Since Kunisuke’s true nature has become clear tonight, let us leave the matter to the couple’s wishes. “And you, Kano—”

“Yes…” “Support your husband, work together to earn a living, and save Kunisuke’s sister from that den of courtesans as soon as you can.” “I’ll work hard—I promise.”

For the first time, a tranquil warmth permeated the house. Hannen too felt gladness. By the time night had deepened, everyone had grown hungry. Kano added firewood to the hearth and began preparing porridge.

While their conversation showed no sign of ending, the people merely dozed by the hearth through the brief hours until dawn.

When night broke,

“Then—farewell． Live well．” The two took up their traveling hats． Kano and Kunisuke， transformed as if reborn from yesterday， came to see them off partway with bright faces． Yajirō also followed along． “This is far enough． Craftsmen—time is money． From today onward， work together as you promised．” Hannen， having said that， stood on the banks of the Uji River． Reluctantly， “Then， saying， ‘To the ferry landing，’ they walked on．”

“Please look at that.” At the moment of parting, Hannen pointed at the eternally flowing great river and said to the young couple: “From the very creation of heaven and earth until their end, water flows with an aspect of infinity.” “We humans are no different—since humanity first emerged tens of thousands of years ago, and for however many hundreds of millions of years may pass until its vanishing.” “When seen from that boundless and endless flow of time, a human life is but an instant as fleeting as lightning.” “That we were born into the same age in such a fleeting moment—this brief flash—is itself a bond so miraculous it defies words.” “How much more profound then—to be born in the same land beneath the same sun, to become acquaintances, friends, parents and children, even husband and wife—this is truly a destiny of deepest significance.” “Yet for those bound by such rare karmic ties—ties so transient they may never reunite—to hate, curse, and revile one another... Is this not utterly lamentable? Behold—even as we speak, the waters flow endlessly onward, and those that have passed will never again meet these mountains and rivers of Uji...”

Nine “We understand.” The young couple nodded solemnly, absorbing Hannen’s words into their very hearts.

The ferry departed. Hannen stood at the ship’s side together with Shōzenbō.

The morning mist began to clear.

Old Man Yajirō called out repeatedly, “Lord Wako—please take good care of yourself—apply yourself wholeheartedly to your training.” To his eyes, Hannen still appeared as youthful and innocent as Jūhakumaru had been in days past. Even now, he persisted in using the childhood address of “Lord Wako.” “Stay well yourself, old man,” Hannen replied, “Farewell, my lord.” Kano and Kunisuke stood watching with glistening eyes, their gazes fixed until the last.

The ferry was heading into the rapids. Downstream, ever downstream, the ferry was carried along. Yajirō’s figure gradually grew smaller.

The morning sun was shining on the figures of the young couple.

"May that couple have lasting happiness," Hannen prayed to Buddha. On the riverbank, small birds were singing in full chorus. He felt an indescribable freshness seeping into his skin. But since descending the mountain, Hannen found himself pondering over each and every matter. That is, (Scholarship for scholarship’s sake is futile.) That was his conclusion. My own striving through the mist until today—in short, that was what it all came to. It had been a consuming passion for classical texts, one that took no account of humanity. No matter how fiercely one burned oneself in scholarly pursuit, if it merely connected to classical texts, its significance remained meager.

It could not be called living scholarship. It was not learning that became a lamp illuminating the hearts of sentient beings. It amounted to nothing more than a narrow illumination kindled within one's own breast, enlightening only oneself. Know humanity. Know society—that itself constituted the vital scripture of the Tripitaka. Only through this could true Buddhism first manifest its power.

As he trod upon the white soil of Kawachi Road, Hannen found himself thinking such thoughts. (But...?) he found himself wavering once more. (Such thoughts might still be presumptuous.) Life and society are not such simple things. Moreover... even regarding classical studies, am I not still but a green youth who has learned merely a drop in the ocean—a single hair from nine oxen? First, for a time, it was necessary to enter into non-thought and ignorance, to devote himself to study.—With that single-minded devotion—he hurried toward Yamato, anchoring his hopes in the Hōryū-ji Temple that lay ahead, feeling strength flow naturally into his steps as he went.

Persimmon-colored group

One

“What in the world?”

Shōzenbō stood at the bustling crossroads of the post road, restlessly looking around.

It was the Kizu post town, immediately after crossing the Kizu River. A large official notice board promulgated by the Minamoto clan’s administrative office stood there. Even before that official proclamation, Hannen was nowhere to be seen. Dirty cheap lodgings, stables for horse grooms, samurai standing before them hurling abuse, women displaying river fish in buckets for sale, and a motley crowd of travelers—all were making a racket together with the autumn flies. “You idiot! If you want to climb high places, turn into a crow!” shouted the persimmon seller as he dragged down the child playing on the roof and began berating his backside right in the middle of the road—whereupon the child’s mother came running barefoot,

“Why are you beating someone else’s child?” she demanded, shoving the persimmon seller from the side. “Is this brat yours? Because of his mischief, my roof leaks something awful—so I gave him a thrashing! What’s wrong with that?” “If your roof leaks, that’s because your house is old—go beat your own child!” “So what if I hit him?” he shouted, striking again. The child wailed.

“Do you think you can mock me because I’m a woman?!” the child’s mother shouted as she lunged at the persimmon seller. The parents’ quarrel escalated into a brawl, onlookers swarmed like flies, post road horses whinnied, and dogs barked furiously. Shōzenbō, having searched in vain, called out, “Master!” but there was no sign of him resting in any nearby house. At the Kizu ferry, there had been some commotion earlier; he had hurried to catch up afterward, intending to meet at the crossroads of the post town—but—

If he wasn't here... Well, since Nara was already near, perhaps he intended to walk ahead freely and wait at Nara's entrance?

That might be the case, he thought.

Shōzenbō raised his eyes to the road ahead and quickened his pace. His feet were tripped by a chicken’s kick. Kicking up dust, the chicken clamorously flew sideways across the road. Upon leaving the post town, he soon reached Fukurozaka from Sagaraka’s tree-lined path. In the dust-white clump of grass, West, the Kawachi Ikoma Road; east, the Iga Ueno Road.

A stone guidepost stood there.

For some time now, a mountain ascetic had been sitting silently beside that stone monument, having set down his pilgrim's pack. "...Thirsty," he muttered, looking around. He seemed to want fresh water, but finding none, resigned himself and resumed noisily munching on rice wrapped in oak leaves. As Shōzenbō hurried past before him, the mountain ascetic suddenly looked up—then jolted upright as if yanked by strings.

“Hey, hey!” He grabbed his staff and called out to stop him.

Two Just as he passed by, the mountain ascetic called out again— “Monk! Are you deaf?” Shōzenbō halted at the voice. “What?!” He turned back involuntarily, his face darkening.

The mountain ascetic who arrogantly raised his hand toward him was a sun-burned, dark-complexioned man of about twenty-seven or twenty-eight.

He wore a rain-and-dew-stained persimmon-colored hempen robe, stood his vajra staff upright, and had placed that distinctive tokin headgear upon his forehead. “Is there something you need?” Shōzenbō said, “Of course I called you—because I have business!” “As I’m in a hurry, I must decline if this concerns sectarian matters.” “I’m not trying to start a sectarian debate. Come back here.” Though greatly annoyed, Shōzenbō knew this was inevitable—for while mountain ascetics and monks both stood upon the same foundation of Buddhism, their appearances differed starkly: their temperaments diverged, their etiquette clashed, their scriptural interpretations and ascetic practices were wholly distinct. Thus they antagonized each other at every turn—monks viewing ascetics as heretics, ascetics regarding monks as those who used the Buddha for their daily bread—and their relations had always been fraught.

In particular, the mountain ascetics' factions were far more violent than those of the mountain monks. Moreover, being a convenient group for those who wished to vanish from society, they carried at their waists what they called a ritual dagger—or sometimes a demon-quelling sword—a sharp blade ever ready to let steel speak for them at the slightest provocation. ("If I get entangled [with him], it'll be a hassle...") Shōzenbō thought, and so he composed his expression and—

“Then state your business,” Shōzenbō replied meekly, walking back toward him. The mountain ascetic seemed to gain a sense of superiority at having his point accepted, “Hmm,” he nodded smugly.

And then, he turned arrogantly toward the approaching Shōzenbō, "You alone?" he demanded. "What do you mean by that?" "I'm asking if you're traveling alone, you clueless fool!" "I have a companion. I lost sight of my companion, so I am hurrying to catch up. Is that all your business?"

“Wait! Wait!” “I wouldn’t stop you over something so trivial.” “...Then that companion of yours must be Hannen Shōnagon.”

“How do you know that?” “Don’t you know? You’re quite the ignorant one yourself. Have you forgotten this face of Shuōbō? I am the son of Narita Hyōe, who escaped from Enryaku-ji’s dungeon—Judōmaru reduced to this wretched state—now Benkai of Harima, a mountain ascetic.” “Huh?!—” He involuntarily jumped back. “Judōmaru, you…!” Shōzenbō reassessed him. The mountain ascetic Benkai opened his red mouth and bellowed with laughter. “What a coincidence, what a coincidence... But it’s a pity Hannen isn’t here.” “Where is Hannen?”

III

Even though his name had changed to Benkai, a rascal remained a rascal—traces of the boy once known as Judōmaru still lingered in some aspect of his appearance. “Hey, where’s Hannen? Where is he—?” he pressed again. Shōzenbō found himself overcome by a surge of irritation whenever his eyes met this man’s. They were eyes that clung like the flames of a curse—eyes that always seemed to challenge others. Shōzenbō feared his own blood—lured by those eyes—threatening to flare up violently.

“I do not know.” When Shōzenbō shook his head calmly, Benkai took a menacing step forward, “You must know. Is he not your teacher?” “But today, I am alone.” “You lie. Didn’t that mouth of yours just say you were hurrying ahead because you have a companion? Hannen is my lifelong enemy—it’s been too long since I last met him. Take me to him,” he demanded, his voice sharp as a blade. Shōzenbō curled a pitying smile at the corner of his lips.

“Lord Judōmaru—no, Lord Benkai.” “What?” “Why do you harbor such resentment toward Lord Hannen?” “Now, more than reasons—if I can make him kneel at my feet within my lifetime, that’s enough. That is my wish!” “Ah, how utterly pitiable. They say those who curse others will never be saved from the suffering of that curse in their lifetime.” “You’ve picked up some priest-ridden phrases without me noticing. Well, whatever. Just take me to where Hannen is.”

“First, I refuse.” “What was that?” "My teacher has no time to quarrel with idlers like you." "He is immersed in single-minded practice." "Unworthy though I am, I shall become a living shield against intruders." “State your business to me instead.” “Cheeky brat!” Benkai spat sideways, “You’d deny me a meeting?” “Indeed.”

“Are you that afraid of Benkai?... No, you must be. That man excelled at currying favor with teachers and flattering superiors to advance himself—whether at Hino Academy or Mount Hiei.” “You dread meeting me because it’ll rip off that false mask of yours—but I swear on my life: I’ll tear away Hannen’s crafty disguise, rise above him, and make him grovel on the ground with both hands!” “With such resolve, you’d do well to apply yourself to study. How fares Koun these days?” “Is Venerable Koun in good health?”

“I don’t need to ask about that… Bring out Hannen! Tell me where he is! If you make me talk any longer, it’ll be trouble—I’ll let this do the talking!”

As he twisted his waist deliberately to the left, the ritual dagger at his hip slipped from its sheath, its white gleam extending straight toward Shōzenbō’s chest.

IV

Since Shōzenbō had once carried a sword and served as a samurai up until his twenties, he was not so cowardly as to suddenly lose color in his face when threatened with a blade.

“You said you’d become Hannen’s shield with your own flesh, didn’t you?” “Yes.” “Drop the pathetic bravado. Instead, make Hannen meet me. …You refuse? If you refuse, this drawn blade won’t return to its sheath for nothing. Are you ready?”

“……” “Are you prepared, huh?” When the second shout came, Benkai’s hand swung the blade overhead in a swift arc as he glared fiercely.

As the white light cut through the wind and raced diagonally across his opponent's figure, a small cloud of dust rose, and Shōzenbō's form leapt into the distant grass. "Benkai, if you find your own dullness so mortifying, then hone your mind and reapply yourself to your studies." "Once you've become a full-fledged person through this, I'll let you meet the master—and more importantly, that way you too shall be saved." As Shōzenbō spoke these words,

"What?!" With his persimmon-colored robes flaring, "You bastard—don't move!" Benkai snarled, eyes blazing as he lunged forward.

“Ah—!”

Staggering, Shōzenbō began to flee. “Wait!” While listening to the furious shouts closing in from behind, he reached the top of the slope without pausing for breath. When he climbed that far, beyond the expansive cultivated fields now lay Nara’s hills, the pagoda of Tōdai-ji, and the autumn of the old capital adorned with crimson leaves, all visible in the distance—but then it occurred to him: if he were to enter Nara Town as things stood and Hannen happened to be waiting there for him, it would prove most troublesome.

Just what kind of karmic bond existed between Benkai and Master Hannen? Master Hannen had never hated him nor led him astray, yet from childhood to this very day, Benkai had detested Hannen as if he were a sworn enemy. Was it that at Hino Academy, constantly lagging behind even those younger than himself in both academics and conduct had seeped into his childhood soul, leaving him bitterly frustrated and unable to forget?

At Tadasu Plain, did the prank of trying to push another into a wildfire—which instead became a fire that burned him, causing bitter suffering—leave a grudge that remains unextinguished even now? No, it was unlikely to be something so straightforward. In short, while I knew nothing of Narita Hyōe’s household, it must have been the family’s sin. In times of prosperity, they had raised their children to arrogance; in decline, they twisted them into resentful beings. And could it be that this person—who saw every adversity as another’s fault rather than his own—had unwittingly become today’s Benkai?

(If I let Lord Hannen meet such a twisted man and have him suffer injury, it would be troublesome. The best course was to flee.) Shōzenbō veered off the path sideways, closed his eyes, and fled as far as he could.

Chronicle of Youth

I

Where they had parted ways, Hannen found himself separated from Shōzenbō and stood alone near Nara's cedar grove.

And he kept a meticulous watch for figures approaching from the town until dusk, but no one resembling Shōzenbō appeared. Now that he had come this far, Hōryū-ji Temple—his destination—was near, and if he were to go ahead there first, he knew the other would follow afterward, but— Wondering "What could have happened?" he grew concerned for Shōzenbō's safety, nor could he bring himself to abandon his long-awaited companion and proceed ahead.

The centuries-old cedar treetops towered majestically, covering the evening sky. The sky, clarified by the moon's brilliance, was a lucid pale azure—clearer than at twilight—with the dark areas beneath the trees and the moonlit spots as bright as day forming sharply defined stripes and patches.

Hoo, hoo—the cries of deer rang out. Noticing this, he peered intently and saw does and stags wandering through the moonlit night, frolicking as they went. Around the cedar root where Hannen sat, one or two deer lay sprawled. When he reached out his hand, they turned their accustomed eyes toward him and slid their bodies closer. “Oh.” While stroking the deer’s back, Hannen drew it close to his lap. The young doe’s coat was glossy, and her skin was warm.

"The deer seem hungry for food, but..." "Hmm... I have nothing to give," Hannen muttered, "If we speak of hunger—I too feel a certain emptiness. Not for food. Neither sleep nor ease... This hunger is a blood-steeped loneliness like yearning for a mother's touch. Having chanced to descend the mountain, seen the secular world's lights and glimpsed its pleasures—my young blood must be stirring restlessly."

As if wary of the doe’s body warmth, he tried to push her away from his lap. Yet the deer made no move to budge.

The adolescent young deer, guided by the calls of does, were chasing and being chased, oblivious to the night. Hannen stood up and tried once more to return toward Sarusawa Pond.

Here again, townsmen and women were out for a moonlit stroll. Couples walking shoulder to shoulder while exchanging sweet nothings turned to look back at Hannen’s dejectedly wandering figure and cast pitying glances. They must be happy now. But it was akin to drinking poison that would soon corrode their lives. From the perspective of a pure monk, would it not rather be those many men and women—frantically chasing meaning within such fleeting dreams—who were truly pitiable?

Hannen thought this and passed them by with pity—yet he could not deny that within himself lingered something that made him feel lonely. Only his ideals and training coldly suppressed it like stone, leaving him merely to smile faintly.

With a clattering of hurried footsteps, someone came running up,

“Master!” he called out.

It was the voice of Shōzenbō, who had been searching in vain.

II

Hannen had been searching for Shōzenbō, and Shōzenbō had been searching for Hannen—they spent half a day in fruitless pursuit. Yet even so, being able to meet here still felt like a stroke of fortune,

“I was worried about what might have happened to you,” said Shōzenbō, relieved to see his master unharmed. “Even if we missed each other in Kizu, you were unreasonably late.” When Hannen said this, Shōzenbō found himself at a loss for words. He could have explained how he had encountered Benkai the mountain ascetic along the way and been relentlessly pursued by him, forcing him to take numerous detours to shake him off—but when considering whether to mention that such a curse-like man was shadowing his master’s every move, he reasoned privately: *Of course this news would bring no joy. If ignorance could be maintained, silence was best.* Thus he resolved not to speak of it.

“No, I was also acting rather oddly,” Shōzenbō replied. “At the Kizu post town, I heard that someone resembling your quarters had turned onto Kawachi Road—that’s how I lost my way.” Having thus evasively explained himself despite their weariness, they resolved to press onward through the moonlit night toward Hōryū-ji Temple, now less than two ri distant. Then along the dew-dampened path gleaming white under the moon, they reached Hōryū-ji’s gates late into the night. They knocked at Saiō-in within the temple precincts, slept there exactly as they were, and come morning formally presented themselves to Bishop Kakumon.

For the Bishop, they had already sent a letter in advance from Mount Hiei, and since Bishop Jien had also put in a word on their behalf, “You may stay for as many years as you wish,” said Kakumon graciously, having granted permission for the study stay,

“However, I remain but a lowly scholar-monk. I cannot say whether I possess the depth of learning you seek, Lord Hannen,” he said with humility. Yet it was widely acknowledged—and Bishop Jien himself often affirmed—that among the era’s great scholars, none surpassed this man in grasping the essence of the Kegon doctrine. Hannen resolved that he must receive every shred of knowledge this man could impart,

“Though I am of dull disposition—I who wish to devote my life to Buddhist studies and find purpose therein—I humbly beseech you to wield your whip and grant me your teachings.” With this declaration, he prostrated himself on the wooden floor of the great hall, performing the ritual for entering the school. Mingling among ordinary students, Hannen exerted both body and mind in rituals, labor, and study from before dawn until late at night, with scarcely any time for sleep. “That is Hannen Shōnagon of Mount Hiei—the one who entered the priesthood at nine and received the major precepts,” whispered his fellow students in the dormitory, who had some inkling of his background. Though they imposed no excessive labor upon him, Hannen voluntarily chopped firewood, drew water, and for over a year now had lived entirely apart from Shōzenbō.

On winter mornings—Hannen's figure, shouldering a carrying pole with water buckets as he trod the frost-whitened ground from the kitchen to Hōrinji River three chō away, was often seen at the riverbank.

Then, one morning,

“Excuse me, but could you be Lord Hannen?” A young traveling girl came near and inquired.

III “Yes, I am the Hannen you are inquiring about…” As he answered, he felt a memory stir of having seen the girl standing before him somewhere before, but he couldn’t recall where. The girl showed an expression of relief as if to say “Ah, thank goodness,” while also appearing somewhat bashful.

She appeared to be around seventeen or eighteen years old. However, her eyes held a maturity beyond her years, and the scent of her skin and hair suggested she was not entirely an innocent maiden. This very quality made her bewitching to men—her features, her figure, her entire being so beautiful that none who saw her would dispute being called such. “Um... actually... I am from Awataguchi in Kyoto.” “Hmm.” Hannen set down the water buckets and regarded the passing traveler girl with a suspicious look, wondering how she knew his name.

“Was it the autumn before last? When you passed by Kajigaike, I caught sight of your figure from afar.”

“Ah... Do you know me?” “Later, I heard from Lord Asamaro that that person was your biological brother.” “From my brother?” “I am Kozue, who was with Lord Asamaro at that time... My father is Awataguchi Muneji, a swordsmith who makes his living nearby.” “I see...” Hannen said, widening his eyes in surprise as an ominous premonition—something concerning his brother—stirred restlessly in his chest.

“Are you referring to Lady Kozue? —I did think I had seen you somewhere before.”

“I’ve been walking around Hōryū-ji since the day before yesterday—with so many monks around my age here—and had trouble finding you… Though I thought it improper to inquire within the temple grounds.” “Is there some business that brings you here to Lord Hannen?”

“Huh…”

Kozue lowered her eyes to her feet and fiddled with the winter grass at the riverbank using her toes. "There's something I need to discuss with you." "With me?"

“Um... actually...” A faint crimson hue rose from the base of her ears to her cheeks as Kozue fidgeted nervously. “A discussion, you say?” “Regarding your esteemed brother and myself.” Hannen felt his heart lurch as though a pebble had struck it. “Has something happened to my brother?”

“Um… It’s all my fault…” Collapsing in tears at Hannen’s feet, Kozue pleaded haltingly as follows. Asamaro and Kozue were both nineteen this year. About two years prior, they had fallen in love and begun discussing their future together. But when their relationship became known to society and to their respective families, they were ultimately placed under strict surveillance and separated. Thus, the young pair had plotted together and eloped from their homes without permission.

“That brother of mine,” Hannen murmured, standing frozen on the frost-covered ground, his lips drained of color as he listened to Kozue’s words.

IV Upon inquiring further into the details, it emerged that her younger brother Asamaro—having caught a severe cold during their flight with Kozue—had grown unable to eat, become bedridden at a cheap roadside inn nearby, and now found himself with his meager funds exhausted and utterly at a loss. "So... my brother wished to see me and sent you as his messenger?" "Yes..." Kozue remained despondent, "How many times we took blades in hand, thinking we should die together—yet in the end, we couldn't bring ourselves to do it," she wept, shoulders trembling.

The thoughtless young man and woman must have been at a loss, but even more perplexed was Hannen. The first thing that came to mind was his foster father’s feelings—the man who had shaved his head and finally found peace in his later years. Next, he could vividly imagine his younger brother—born with a sickly constitution and frail body—on this journey, penniless and without any place to settle, must surely be suffering in anguish. He also worried about how severe the illness might be. “Where is this inn?”

“It’s close from here—at Koizumi no Yadohazure. Next to a house that sells sutra texts, there’s a wooden sign neatly affixed under the eaves.”

"As you can see, I am now in the midst of morning devotions. From this moment I must sit in the liturgical seat and complete the cloister's daily observances—otherwise this body cannot attend to personal matters." "...Once I have fulfilled those duties, I shall come. Until then, please tend to my brother."

“Then… will you come?” Kozue replied with a relieved expression. It seemed his younger brother had told her he would surely be angry—but upon hearing Hannen’s answer—she rejoiced like one spotting a lone lamp in a maze. “I will come.” “How could I abandon him?” “Tell my brother—when I surely go—to keep his heart resolute.” “Yes… Even that alone will give him strength.”

“Then…” Hannen said, suddenly reminded of the morning bustle in the study hall, and shouldered the water bucket.

The soles of his feet, bound with straw to prevent slipping, had lost all sensation of cold or pain, yet blood was oozing out.

Under a pitch-black ceiling stood three large earthen stoves in a row. In that kitchen worked those splitting firewood and those chopping vegetables with sashes through the morning hours—exchanging rough words unbefitting monks and chanting songs as they labored.

When they saw Hannen shouldering the water bucket and entering, the head student—who was holding metal fire tongs in front of the earthen stove—lowered the heated tongs and walked toward him. “Hannen! What were you doing?” he said.

V “Where the hell did you go to fetch water?” The head student glared at him. “Yes.” When Hannen apologized, “Don’t ‘yes’ me!” he jabbed the metal fire tongs against his chest— “Did you come to Hōryū-ji Temple to play around or to train?”

…… “I’ll discipline that lazy streak of yours.” The head student raised the metal fire tongs and brought them down hard on his shoulder. Hannen dropped to his knees in the kitchen’s wet soil, planting both hands and knees on the ground. "My deepest apologies." “Insolent!” The colleagues holding kitchen knives and wearing work sashes crowded around noisily, “Here we are slaving away, and this shameless brat—!” some scholarly monks joined in, hurling abuse alongside him.

"It’s only natural—he’s not accustomed to rough work," came a voice in his defense.

However, in response to these words of defense, the head student shouted all the louder.

“What do you mean by ‘rough work’? If you reside in a monastery, these are standard duties! At Enryaku-ji and such places, they might exploit attendant monks and hall servants to have their meals served morning and night—but in this temple’s student dormitory, we permit no such weak-willed living! Moreover—be they noblemen’s sons or paupers’ brats—we show no mercy regarding status! This stands as both Bishop Kakumon’s decree and Hōryū-ji Temple’s law! Understood?!”

“Yes.”

“Remember this!” The monk’s robes showed no damage, but the skin on his struck shoulder must have torn. To the back of his hand pressed against the earth, crimson blood crept like an earthworm from deep within his sleeve. Seeing the blood, the head student fell silent. Hannen emptied the bucket’s water into the large jar and went toward the river to fetch more water.

Kozue was nowhere to be seen.

From the morning mist over the white withered fields, a crow rose and flew away.

"If it’s a mild condition, that would be fine… His younger brother’s illness kept voicing unease in his chest. While praying for the Buddha’s protection, Hannen trod the same earth again and again."

When his half-day's duties were completed and he finally regained control of his body, Hannen left Hōryū-ji Temple alone for the town without informing even Shōzenbō.

At Kizu Inn, households that conducted business with nearby temples, packhorse drivers from Kōchi, woodcutters, and masterless samurai had gathered in considerable numbers, lining their eaves in rows.

Ah…. Here? Hannen stopped and peered into a dim, ramshackle house. A large old sedge hat hung under the eaves,

“Kichin” was written there. It seemed they were simmering a stew, for the house interior was filled with smoke from the hearth fire. With infants wailing and the landlord shouting, it was so cramped that one doubted there could be space to lodge other travelers.

VI

In any case, since this was undoubtedly the inn, Hannen approached the entrance and inquired.

“Ah, if you’re asking about the sick travelers, they’re holed up in the detached room out back.” Kichin no Teishu barked from within the smoke-filled house. “Take this alley around to the rear.” “I would like to meet with them briefly, so I shall proceed to the back as instructed,” Hannen formally announced before circling around. The inn likely doubled as a farmstead—oxen stood tethered behind Kichin no Yadoya, with farm tools and straw mats strewn about the yard.

While looking around for the detached room the landlord had mentioned, he noticed a ramshackle plank shed—likely a repurposed silkworm shed—divided into two bays, with someone sleeping in one of them.

(Sleeping in a place like this...) His younger brother’s circumstances became clear just from seeing that crude plank shed. The aching heart of falling ill under the open sky of travel, the despair of being crushed by society for love—unable to even savor that love, contemplating death—. Vividly laid bare before his eyes, he felt a pain in his chest.

Thinking he must not startle them, he approached the entrance of the plank shed on tiptoe and peered into the dim interior reeking of foul odors. "Asamaro," he called out. Then, the sleeper flung off the thin futon that had been visible there and abruptly sat up.

“Oh... this is—” Hannen hurriedly bowed his head in apology. The man sitting on the futon and staring this way bore no resemblance to his brother.

He was a man around twenty-four or twenty-five years old, with a sallow complexion and an intense demeanor. With hawk-like piercing eyes, the instant he rose, his right hand pulled the leather-wrapped greatsword from his bedside onto his knee. He wore a sleeveless animal-skin vest of the sort favored by mountain bandits, while an emptied sake jug lay shoved into the corner.

“I beg your pardon for disturbing your rest with my mistake,” Hannen apologized. The man muttered under his breath, “What—a monk?”—

“Who’ve you come looking for?” “I heard a relative of mine was suffering at this Kichin Inn, so…” “Then it’s the brat traveling with some girl.” “Yes.” “Next door.” Casually indicating the plank wall with his chin, the man pulled the futon over himself and rolled back down.

“Thank you very much.” Immediately shifting his feet to look at the neighboring room, he found a torn paper screen shut over it. “Excuse me…” This time with care, Hannen whispered his approach.

VII

This morning, Kozue, whom he had met by the Hōrinji River, upon hearing his voice, immediately opened it.

“Your brother has come,” she whispered, leaning close to the sick man’s pillow. “Huh?... Brother?” He must have been waiting impatiently. Asamaro crawled out of the futon the moment he heard this. “Asamaro, stay as you are. Don’t expose yourself to the cold wind.” “Brother—” When Hannen saw his younger brother’s eyes brimming with tears, he felt something hot prickling behind his own eyelids. “I... I’ve disgraced myself completely...” “In... in a place like this.”

“Well, all right. Now... Miss Kozue, please get him back under the covers,” he urged, but Asamaro remained prostrated before his brother, simply weeping. Hannen took his hand. “How many years has it been? When I met Omoto by Kajii Pond, I had already sensed something like this might happen.” “I had been anxious that today’s situation might come to pass.” “Forgive me.” “At this point, no words will change what’s done.—What matters now is your health and planning for the future.” “Stay under the futon—let us speak calmly.” Forcing them back beneath the bedding, he mustered an encouraging smile for both his brother and Kozue before inquiring about their resolve—of course, the young lovers who had come this far declared they would never part even in death, nor did they wish to return to the capital where their parents resided.

And the shadow of being ceaselessly tempted by death was visible upon both Asamaro and Kozue.

Hannen perceived the hearts of the two teetering on the brink of peril and grew troubled. Were he not a monk, some immediate solution might have presented itself, but he could not bring them through the temple's austere gates; leaving them in this drafty, filthy shack would only worsen his brother's visible decline, and there was no telling when their bodily and spiritual afflictions might drive them to chase death like some sweet dream—leaving naught but irreparable regret to gnaw upon in its wake.

Then came the sound of footsteps from outside. It was the innkeeper of this cheap lodging. He rudely pushed open the entrance, “Mr. Monk—you’re that student studyin’ at Hōryū-ji Temple, ain’t ya?” he demanded. Hannen, addressed while studying his own reflection, “Yes, that is correct,” Hannen replied. The innkeeper pressed on, “And this bit about bein’ the sick man’s brother—that true?”

“Yes.” “Then you’ll be payin’ for the lodgin’ fees, medicine costs, and all the patient’s debts, o’ course.” Before Hannen could answer, the innkeeper took out something he had written down from his pocket and placed it before him.

VIII Though he naturally had no money on hand, if his younger brother had incurred debts, he would need to consult Shōzenbō and find a way—so he requested a four- or five-day grace period. But the innkeeper shook his head. “Quit jokin’ around!” He flared up obstinately. “Think I can let ya keep a sick man here for days on end? Every night there’re other guests wantin’ rooms—if I keep turnin’ ’em away for this lot, my wife an’ brats’ll be left to starve!”

“It must be a nuisance.” “A huge nuisance it is! I’ve wanted to kick ’em out ages ago—but there’s medicine costs to cover! So I held off, banking on that excuse ’bout you havin’ kin at Hōryū-ji Temple. Now hand over their stuff—clothes or whatever—as collateral and get ’em outta here right now!” “You are quite right.” “However, as I do not ask for a lengthy extension—” “…………”

“Even two or three days…”

“Don’t talk nonsense! It’s precisely because they’re sick that I’ve put up with them even until today!” “As a monk, I cannot take this sick man and woman back to the temple gates.” “—So you’re saying you don’t know? Planning to skip out on the debt?”

“Never.” “Then strip off that monk’s robe and hand it over! I’ll take the woman’s obi too—no, that still won’t cover it. Ah, you’ve got a fine rosary there—crystal, isn’t it? Hand that over too.” Then—before anyone realized—a young man who looked like a rogue samurai from next door entered from behind him. Looming there silently, he thwacked the shouting innkeeper’s cheek with the leather-wrapped scabbard of the sword he carried in his left hand. “Agh, that hurts!” The innkeeper pressed a hand to his face and turned around to look up at the rogue samurai standing there.

“You’re the guest staying next door, aren’t you?” “Indeed.” “What’s this nonsense? Why did you hit me?” “Shut up!” The rogue samurai-like man extended his burly arm toward the innkeeper’s collar and, as if grabbing and discarding a locust, “In your dreams!” He hoisted him up and kicked his feeble waist. “Agh!” The innkeeper somersaulted outside and, with hands muddied from plunging into the thawing mire, “Me.” “Damn you! How dare you treat me like—” Brushing off the hands lunging at him, the rogue samurai-like man glared intensely with his hawk-like eyes that gleamed from within.

“If you’d kept quiet and listened next door this whole time, you heartless bastard—try spouting that talk one more time.”

“What’s wrong with collecting debts?! You want us to starve to death?!” “Shut up! Who said anything about defaulting on your debt? You miserly wretch! Here—I’ll cover it for now, so take this and get lost. But in return, you’d better treat both the patients and me with proper respect as guests—or I won’t stand for it. ……What are you trembling for? Put out your hand!” The rogue samurai-like man took out a purse from his robe and thrust the money right before the eyes of the still-suspicious innkeeper.

IX When he saw the money, the innkeeper prostrated himself like a flattened spider, then—as if flipping his palm—began peddling his cheap kindness with annoying persistence: bringing firewood they hadn’t asked for, talking of cooking porridge, asking if they needed medicine. “……What a mercenary fellow.” The rogue samurai-like man said to Kozue with a wry smile, “Lady. How’s the patient doing? Any improvement?” “I am always grateful… Thanks to your kindness, today seems…” Kozue turned to Hannen and,

“Brother.” “We owe our neighbor here an immeasurable debt for their daily kindness in all matters.” “Please offer our thanks.” Even before being urged, Hannen had already been contemplating how to express his gratitude, his heart brimming with appreciation. The world indeed holds extraordinary souls; to perceive society merely as a den where the strong devour the weak is prejudice born of narrow vision. For it is precisely through such neighbors that a paradise may bloom even amidst the flaming torment of asura realms. Even within lives choked by ceaseless struggles, one might yet sense a pure spring’s breath rising within—such was the truth he now grasped.

Such a person is precisely one who should be called a remarkable individual—unconsciously embodying the Buddha-mind without any awareness of it. Regardless of what his profession may be, he must be called a blessed presence. Hannen, placing both hands firmly on the floor, expressed his sincere gratitude, then explained that as a monk, he could not immediately procure the gold coins advanced to them but would assuredly bring repayment within two or three days. At this, the man laughed with open-hearted mirth, “There’s no need for such formal obligations. If I were to spend a single night carousing in Nara’s Chayamachi, that much money would vanish in an instant. Consider it an offering to you, monk. Ha ha ha ha!”

“In that case, I would be most humbled,” “Might I presume to ask your honorable name?” “My name? —Not that I’m worth naming, but my forebears hailed from Izu.” “Nowadays I’m a ronin—took my home province’s name. Just a country samurai called Amagi Shirō.” “Then you’re currently traveling? “If so, how could we allow you to divert part of your journey funds for our troubles? It must burden you greatly.”

“Nonsense—I may not be a magnate, but travel expenses won’t leave me wanting.” “Don’t trouble yourself over it.” “If you keep fretting like this, all my goodwill goes to waste... Ah, I meddled without thinking.” “Well then—time to retreat to my perch.” Having said that, the man withdrew into the adjacent room and never showed his face again.

Eventually, listening to the cries of wintry crows in the twilight, Hannen made his way back to Hōryū-ji Temple. From outside the temple gate, he bowed toward the sacred doors of the main hall and focused his prayers for his younger brother. That night—wielding a brush stiff with cold—he wrote an agonizing letter to his foster father Noritsuna, who now dwelled in a hermitage at Awataguchi under the monastic name Kanzen, having abandoned his secular identity. At dawn, he entrusted it to a stationed courier bound for the capital.

Phantom Thief

I

Whenever he obtained food, clothing, or medicines he had managed to acquire, Shōzenbō, acting on Hannen’s orders, would carry them to the town’s cheap lodgings.

“He was in very good spirits today,” reported Shōzenbō, who had returned from town and come to his room as usual. “Given his condition, he should be able to leave his sickbed by tomorrow.” Hannen’s brows relaxed slightly. “I see,” he said. “That eases my foremost concern regarding my brother’s illness, but...”

“What comes next will be another hardship.” “What should be done about the issue with that girl? …It must be about time someone comes to fetch us from Foster Father.” “Lord Kanzen must surely be deeply distressed as well.” “Don’t speak of that. We brothers, along with our birth mother, were taken in by our Foster Father, and through these turbulent times, through poverty—how much hardship have we caused him? …Just thinking of it makes my chest tighten.”

“It is unavoidable, my lord…” Just as the world had somewhat settled and Foster Father had retired from his position—when Hannen thought he might at least spend his remaining years in peace without worry—yet another such incident had arisen. ...He could not blame Asamaro alone for his sins—when had he himself ever brought peace of mind to Foster Father? He had to strive harder. His younger brother being frail, Hannen resolved that he alone must repay Foster Father’s decades of hardship. Would this not be the sole offering he could make to his deceased mother? Shōzenbō’s chest tightened with emotion, rendering him speechless. Even as he found reassurance in the fiery hope blazing through Hannen’s body, the immediate perplexity before him drew out a faint, involuntary sigh.

“Lord Hannen. “An express letter from the capital has arrived!” “Please come to the dormitory office to retrieve it.” In the courtyard, someone called out. So it’s come—Hannen immediately went to retrieve the document and cut open the seal. It was the long-awaited reply from his foster father. Given that a reply had come, it appeared no envoys would be sent to retrieve the young couple. What was Foster Father thinking? What instructions was he giving? As he read on, he could vividly see his foster father’s expressions and state of mind through the brushstrokes left behind. The very notion of parental love struck his heart with piercing intensity.

However, the main point that his foster father stated in the letter was, contrary to that affection, the following strict opinion: "I consulted with the girl’s parents, but they are beyond words in their impropriety. Since they have abandoned their home and left, I have decided not to interfere. You should not involve yourself with unscrupulous runaways and instead devote yourself wholeheartedly to your studies. Whether they suffer or starve, it is their own doing; rather, let it become a living lesson. It would be more compassionate to let them learn from actual society than from their parents’ words. I will absolutely not send envoys to retrieve them."

II To Hannen, each character of the letter felt like the very expression and voice of his foster father. The stern father’s heart—concealing compassion while severely rebuking his unworthy child yet anguishing somewhere within—had declared with painful intensity: “Do not interfere!” But if he were to interpret his foster father’s words literally and adopt that same strict attitude himself, he wondered where his younger brother might end up. He thought there might be no path left for him but to choose death.

That was precisely what Shōzenbō had been concerned about.

Love is akin to a fever. When healthy people attempt to apply drastic remedies based on their own robust sensibilities as the standard, young men and women—like flowers hastening spring—will chase dreams and scatter themselves without a trace of regret. To shake that fragile tree and take such callous measures from the sidelines, hurrying the flowers' fall, would accomplish nothing. All the more must one meet human suffering with absolute compassion. All the more so for those who are disciples of the Buddha.

What should I do? Hannen spent that night awake, pondering. However, he could not find a good solution. This was because Hannen himself, being both a disciple of the Buddha and a student of the rigorous monastic community, found his thinking naturally constrained by the moral precepts of the Dharma fortress and the limitations on his freedom of action. Suddenly, he—

(If their mother were still alive here, what would she do?) he thought. Then, at once, Hannen reached a resolution. (—He himself should become their mother) was the conclusion he reached. After all, both Asamaro and I lost our mother in childhood—it was indeed true that we hungered for a mother’s sweet love. Though Foster Father’s kindness stood above all else, the truth remained—they had yearned for maternal warmth, for things to cling to, for caresses tender to the point of foolishness—all that male parents inherently lacked.

Since even I occasionally felt this, that sickly, timid younger brother of mine must have felt it all the more.

That such long-standing loneliness would ignite with a youthful maiden was, from the perspective of human physiology and psychology, only natural. But when viewed through the lens of human-made societal morals, their actions became those of an unforgivable delinquent—naturally cast out by both family and society, with no one to blame. If maternal love still existed in this world, then surely at such a time as this, it would save this wayward child even at the cost of itself. Even if all the world were her enemy, a mother would have fought resolutely for her child.

In the morning, Hannen muttered once more within his heart.

"That’s right! I shall become a mother—as a mother would—and consider my brother’s plight, think through it together with him!"

III

As was his custom, after finishing his lecture on the Kegon and Hossō teachings to the students, Kakumyō of Hōryū-ji was returning along the bridge corridor when— "Your Excellency, the Bishop," a voice called out from below.

Kakumyō cast a sharp glance down from the bridge corridor toward Hannen, who knelt on the ground with his hands pressed against it. “What is it?” “I have a request,” Hannen said, lifting his face. When he saw Kakumyō nod with his eyes and requested a ten-day leave to visit Kyoto, the bishop asked: “Is Lord Kanzen ill as well?” “No—it concerns my younger brother.” Hannen replied, fearing the bishop might rebuke him for being entangled in such worldly matters.

"You may go then," was the unexpected permission.

Not only that, but Kakumyō also said: "It has already been over a year since Your Reverence first came here." "The essence of the Kegon teachings that I possess has already been mostly imparted to Your Reverence through my lectures, and I believe Your Reverence has come to grasp them." "The learning beyond this lies solely in self-discovery." "This is also a good opportunity." "When you go up to the capital, you should inform Bishop Jien of this and plan your next course of training."

When told this, Hannen felt all the more reluctant to leave and even said he wished to remain for another year of study, but the Bishop— "No, there is no need for you to stay on at Hōryū-ji any longer," he said. The parting with Kakumyō came at an unplanned time. Hannen expressed his heartfelt thanks and withdrew. He informed Shōzenbō and notified those in the monastic quarters of his departure, then passed through the temple gate the following day. The students of the same dormitory,

“Farewell.” “Take care.” With words like “May your devotions prosper!” they blessed him and saw him off, but in their hearts, He must have buckled under the harsh studies here and finally begged the Bishop for leave, they mocked. Hannen, having parted from the academic halls after over a year, had only taken a few steps beyond the temple gate when— I can’t shake the feeling I’ve left something behind, he thought, looking back. And then, Is this truly right? he wondered, doubting his own endeavors. He somehow lacked confidence.

And after parting from the Hōrinji River—from whose waters they had drawn hardship morning and night—when they entered the post town of Koirami, his mind was immediately filled with thoughts of his younger brother.

IV

Asamaro had recovered to the point of being unrecognizable and had left his sickbed. When his brother and Shōzenbō, dressed in travel attire, suddenly visited, he and Kozue opened their eyes wide in surprise, "Where are you going on your journey?" he asked, already wearing a lonely look. Shōzenbō, "No, as our master has already completed his studies in the Kegon teachings, and since there is no longer any need to remain in Nanto—having received permission from the Bishop of Hōryū-ji Temple—we have come to bid farewell."

“So… are you returning to Mount Hiei?” he asked, still sounding apprehensive. “In that case… I think I shall return.” Hannen said this and, “Then… won’t you return to Kyoto together with me?” “…………” “I will go with you. Wouldn’t it be the way of dutiful children for us to apologize together to our foster father?” “Elder Brother. I have caused you such worry, and for that I am deeply ashamed. But I cannot return to my foster father’s house now.”

“Why?” “Please understand… How could I show my face…” “For that very reason, your older brother will accompany you.” “Leave everything to me.” Kozue, who had been listening nearby with an uneasy expression, took Asamaro behind the hut when he stood up from there, “Are you planning to go back?” she reproached him.

“I hate this—I’d rather die than comply! Your older brother must have received your foster father’s orders—he’s surely been told to cleverly bring us back to Kyoto.” Caught between the woman’s reproaches and his own reluctance to defy his brother, Asamaro hung his head in perplexity. Then Shōzenbō came to check on them. “Lady Kozue, that is your groundless suspicion. Our master has no intention of ignoring your feelings or acting so cruelly as to tear living wood apart. Rather, his wish is for you both to return to the path of filial duty—to apologize for your transgressions to your father and Lord Asamaro’s foster father, and to entreat them for hope.” When he earnestly explained and persuaded her, Kozue finally relented, so they abruptly decided to depart for the capital.

By the way, he thought to offer a word of thanks to the kind fellow lodger—the ronin who had helped settle the inn’s debts earlier—but when he peered into the neighboring sleeping hut, there was no sign of anyone. When he asked the innkeeper,

“Yes, he departed early this morning.” “He left a message saying, ‘Please give my regards to everyone’—” “Oh… Has he left already?” “...I had been meaning to properly express my gratitude today...” “This was remiss of me.”

Hannen felt as though some borrowed thing had been left lingering in his chest, and he regretted his own negligence.

V The young man and woman walked ahead, while Hannen and Shōzenbō followed at a considerable distance. Although it was a winter day, the sun seeped warmly into the withered grass, and the mountain’s shadow was warm.

“――I want to make them happy.”

Hannen watched his younger brother and his lover walking ahead of him and felt his heart swell with emotion. “Hey, Shōzenbō.”

“Yes.” “If we meet my foster father at Awataguchi, you too must join me in pleading with him.”

“Yes.” “If they should refuse to hear us out entirely... I think we must then plead with the master at Shōren-in...” “Look at their blissful forms—those two have forgotten the world and all else, simply figures reveling in their youth.”

Dusk fell. As they had women with them and the night had turned bitterly cold, they sought lodging, but having already passed the village of Komada, they had to press on to Tomino Manor before finding anything resembling a house. But if they crossed just one more hill—the very one they were now climbing—there would likely be cheap lodgings and farmhouses on the western foothills. When they stood atop the hill,

"Ah..." Hannen raised his hat. For across the Kawachi Plain's fields, the controlled burning fires appeared beautifully within the expansive darkness. The light of wildfires consuming the plain's darkness somehow felt as if it were kindling within his youthful heart as well.

Hannen watched it as if it were the fire of Dharma illuminating his path ahead. The hollows of his cheeks were stained crimson. He stood wordless before the flames, binding prayers and vows. Then—

“No, Lord Younger Brother—” Shōzenbō exclaimed in alarm. “They must have gone ahead.” “That may be so.”

When they quickened their pace, somewhere came a girl's shrill scream—"Hiiiii—"—that reached their ears. It wasn't a trick of hearing. This was unmistakably Kozue's voice. They had reached a downward slope where a pitch-black road plunged over a cliffside thicket when viewed from above.

“――Someone help...!” The second cry struck their ears like tearing silk. Even so, Asamaro’s voice was nowhere to be heard—what in the world could have happened? “Ah, Master!” Shōzenbō, who had run ahead, seemed to trip over something and went tumbling head over heels down the slope. Hannen also kept running— “What has happened?” “Lord Asamaro is over there!” “What? My brother?” Startled, he peered down at the ground—there indeed lay what appeared to be a human figure, face turned sideways, collapsed.

VI From that moment onward, a woman’s wailing voice sounded from beyond the field, flowing like a thread past Hannen and Shōzenbō’s ears. "Ah! Isn't that Kozue's voice?" Here lay Asamaro unconscious—as if struck by some assailant with a club—while from beyond came Kozue’s shrill cries for help. The situation could not be ordinary. When his brother lifted him up and he regained consciousness, Asamaro— “Kozue…! Kozue…!” he cried desperately, tumbling into the pathless field of pampas grass.

The flames of distant wildfires dyed the rain-laden, low clouds crimson.

Illuminated through the firelight, about ten dark figures could be seen dashing and leaping through the pampas grass.

“Kozue—” As Asamaro cried out, a torrent of curses erupted from somewhere, and there—struck by one of their blows—he staggered again.

Shōzenbō and Hannen, worried about Asamaro’s safety, rushed to the scene immediately after. When they drew near, the figures of about ten people that their eyes had clearly seen were undoubtedly a band of bandits roaming like wild beasts, whether in villages or mountain wilds.

That was all well and good, but among them, a conspicuously burly man was holding Kozue's body sideways. Hannen—

“Ah! You are Lord Amagi Shirō, whom I met at Kozumi Inn, are you not?” When he said this, Shirō laughed—a dry, hollow sound that echoed through the surrounding darkness. “Exactly. From the time we stayed at those cheap lodgings in Kozumi, I’d made a pact with this woman—I’m taking her. I’m a bandit who goes by both Amagi Shirō and Tokusa Shirō, though Amagi was a lie.” “If you’ve got objections, go ahead and spout them here!” When Hannen heard this terrifying demon’s voice, everything in the world turned dark and unfathomable. Until this moment, he had remembered this man as an extraordinarily virtuous figure, cherishing gratitude from their previous encounter. That this very person now tore off his mask and spoke thus left him utterly dumbfounded, bereft of any words to respond for some time.

VII "Ah..." “Then you are not a man of honest profession but a resident of Amagi—the bandit leader called Tokusa Shirō?” “But even so... I still cannot believe it.” When Hannen spoke these words, Shirō— “What can’t you believe?” He demanded, glaring at him with vicious eyes. “—Because... “That noble figure who once saved my brother and me from peril at Kozumi Inn—your gracious form from that day still remains vivid before my eyes. “No matter how I try... I cannot reconcile this image of you as a neighbor of good roots with one who dwells in the demon realm.”

“Fool!” Shirō bared his gums in a sneer, “That’s just the stock-in-trade of evildoers—a villain’s schemes." "A man like me—far from planting good roots—has been sowing nothing but evil roots throughout this society; I am the chieftain of the demon realm." “Remember this face well, so you don’t get snared by such tricks again!” Shōzenbō, who had been shielding Hannen with his staff held sideways, finally snapped, “We’ve seen through your swindling ways—how you deceive folk and poison the world." "No need to nock words like arrows." "Just leave the woman here and begone.”

“Don’t talk nonsense. To acquire this beauty, I’ve spent over twenty days and invested considerable capital—inn fees and such. From now on, I’ll enjoy her as my property for a while before selling her to port brothels or handing her over at a good price to Mutsu slavers to recover my investment. Why should I return her to scum like you?” “If you refuse to hand her over—” “What do you think you’re doing, monk?”

“Like this!” As Shōzenbō swung down his staff, Amagi Shirō nimbly sidestepped and caught it mid-air with his right hand. “Keep up these clumsy antics, and I’ll have you pilgrims touring hell itself!” “Silence!” While wrestling over the staff, Shōzenbō’s body coiled like a gnarled root, trembling with rage.

“You’re mistaken if you think we’re mere monks! The honorable one who stands here is none other than Lord Shōnagon Hannen, foster son of Rokujō Sanmi Noritsuna Ason! Moreover, I myself was once a warrior who wielded weapons—a scion of a samurai house!” “Hahaha! If you’re so eager to flex your muscles,” he said, glancing back at the eight or nine subordinates behind him, “I’ve got plenty of men under me who love seeing blood. Why don’t you start by tangling with those fellows over there? —Hey!”

“Take these two monks, strip them naked, and tie them to one of those trees over there,” he ordered. The men, who until then had been silent as mutes with gleaming eyes, let out a roar and transformed into ferocious starving wolves, encircling Hannen and Shōzenbō before lunging at them from all directions.

VIII

Because Hannen, disregarding attempts to stop him, charged at the crowd, Shōzenbō was mercilessly beaten down.

And after binding him—now in a half-dead state—to the trunk of a withered tree in the miscanthus field, the bandits soon restrained Hannen and Asamaro alike with their hands tied behind their backs, “Serves you right, meddling where you shouldn’t have!” they crowed in triumph. And then, as if demanding their due payment, the bandit subordinates seized the travel expenses from Shōzenbō’s bosom, “We’ll mercifully spare your lives.”

Even after suffering such treatment, Shōzenbō still did not stop hurling abuse at the bandits. “You devils! You’re gravely mistaken if you think that by stealing others’ property and causing them suffering, you’ve gained profit or won some victory! You may think you can get away with such underhanded deeds, but all those sins will inevitably return to plague you. You yourselves are robbing yourselves of heavenly blessings and plunging your own flesh into suffering. Just wait and see—before you lies Needle Mountain and the Blood Pond, awaiting your arrival!”

“Hahaha!” The bandit subordinates found amusement as if watching a buffoon’s antics. “This monk dares preach his infantile sermons to us.” “If hell exists, I’d pay to see it myself!” As soon as one finished, another chimed in, “Hell’s what you’re living right now.” “With all your empty prattle and sins of deceiving fools, every last monk’s bound for damnation—that’s the truth!” They hurled curses,

“Boss, shall we go?” one urged Amagi Shirō. Shirō took Kozue’s hand,

“I’ll be taking this woman with me to the capital for a while—planning to live in townhouses about half a year. You lot can scatter wherever you please,” declared Amagi Shirō as he distributed both the money seized from Shōzenbō’s bosom and his own funds among his subordinates, then strode off briskly ahead. Whether she had lost all strength to resist, Kozue—one arm held under Shirō’s side—followed him like a sheep wherever he led.

“See ya!” With those words, the bandit subordinates sneered at Shōzenbō and Asamaro’s bitter expressions, then scattered like night crows, each disappearing into their own chosen direction. Hannen remained bound to the tree trunk—his ears deaf to their voices, his mouth voicing no anger, his heart reciting only the Buddha’s sacred name—and kept his eyes firmly closed.

Midnight frost descended pure white upon the bleak field, and a lone moon hung in the sky, honed by the harsh wind’s breath.