Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface Tannishō brought on my journey—the sound of insects— It was my old, clumsy verse. From my youth when I had been immersed in such commonplaces, Shinran had already existed vaguely in my thoughts. Rather than savoring Shinran’s doctrines—he who confessed himself to remain until death a man unable to shed his foolishness and dull-witted nature—I had immediately liked him. To us who could never honestly show others—or even the world—our own hidden foolishness and dull-wittedness, Shinran would say with utter naturalness, “We’re all the same—even this Shinran,” without any pretense or difficulty. Realizing that even he had been like this, I cannot measure how much lighter I thereafter felt toward my own burdensome self and what we call life.

At that time, Shinran had temporarily become a major subject of intellectual currents even in literary circles—how would the vivid interaction between young literary minds and young Shinran’s spiritual quest, separated by centuries, resonate in modern hearts, with reality as the bell and Shinran as its clapper? This was frequently written about and dramatized. It was around Taisho Year 10. Undoubtedly, I too was drawn to that literary bell, as evidenced by passages from his famous writings such as—“Even the good attain rebirth in the Pure Land—how much more so the wicked!” and “Though Shinran sought to perform filial devotion for his parents, he has never once chanted the nenbutsu for that purpose.” “The reason is that all sentient beings are parents and siblings through successive lives,” or “Shinran has not a single disciple”—such words do not feel to us like utterances from an ancient figure seven centuries past. Rather, as the most correctly, broadly, and purely sensuous voices of modern people, they continually evoke new reflections and youthful contemplation.

And recalling the hardships of Shinran’s era during his lifetime, and reflecting on how human nature remains unchanged even now, one could not help but observe that the abode of peace he called “the lowly ordinary being” and “foolish bald one” still lies before anyone’s eyes if sought even today. But in my case, it had always been nurtured not as a form of faith, but within yearning. Speaking of Shinran, perhaps it was because the literary temple bell of my youth immediately began to resonate in tandem. In truth, a religious figure with as poetic an essence as Shinran must be rare in this world.

There exists an indelible connection between my life as a writer and Shinran. Now that I think of it, it brings me profound embarrassment—the very first novel I ever wrote was about Shinran. At that time, I was a greenhorn reporter in the cultural section of T Newspaper Company. Mr. Mitsukami Otokichi had left, Mr. Ozaki Shiro had resigned from the company, and I—having just joined in their wake—had not even properly grasped editorial work. To my bewilderment, the company ordered me to write Shinran's biography as a serialized novel. The company was being a company in giving the order, and I was being myself in accepting it. There is nothing as willful as ignorance.

Every morning, I would arrive at work two hours earlier than my colleagues and write that day's installment in pencil on the company's rough paper. When the printing deadline approached, the typesetter from the plant would come peer over my shoulder at the manuscript and say things like "You should make that part dialogue," or when time grew desperately short, declare "This'll do for today" before taking away what I was still writing from behind me. During the serialization, people connected to Honen-ji and devoted scholars would frequently come to the company, overwhelming me with their grand theories about Shinran used to refute my work. As it concerned matters of faith, readers' letters proved equally scathing. Even within the company, there were those strict about historical accuracy and literary theory who harshly criticized me every time galley proofs emerged. Unable to consult reference books at the office, I began writing late into the night at home midway through—yet still found myself scrambling to correct unexpected errors and oversights pointed out time and again. In the end, going to work had become like being a sheep led to slaughter. Still, I somehow managed to complete the serialization after over a year and a half.

Just as it was about to be published by the company as *Shinran-ki*, the Great Kanto Earthquake struck. Thus my debut work burned down along with the company building while still bound, never reaching the world. For my beginnings, this was a meaningful and gratefully received karmic fire.

In middle age, I wrote about Shinran again. I wrote it anew for serialization in five regional newspapers including the Tai-Nichi, Fukuoka, Nagoya, and Hokkai Times, and the Kōdansha edition of *Shinran* published in Showa Year 13 (1938) became that work. The serialization in newspapers lasted nearly three years, I believe. Though there was a foundation I had written over a decade prior, I continued it with the resolve to relearn from the very basics. This time, since I was now working as an established writer, I could freely choose and consult reference books. And this time, it was published without incident. But in my heart, the painful criticisms from my time at T Newspaper Company remained unerased and persisted unchanged as objects of self-reflection. In the years that followed, though the life I had lived was by no means smooth, when I looked back and saw through this work how little I had matured as a human being, I could not help but feel ashamed of myself. And so, in the preface to the volume published by Kōdansha, I wrote something to this effect.

When I wrote *Shinran* in my thirties, I had been as fearless as a blind man confronting a serpent, but upon entering my forties—perhaps because my eyes had begun to perceive life and people with slightly clearer vision—it became like stepping into mountain depths where I often found myself entangled in doubt. To speak truthfully, I still lacked the capacity to write Shinran, and above all else, I had not yet reached that stage as a human being. When I reach my fifties, I intend to rewrite it once again.

Now that this book was being republished by Kōdansha, I could not remain silent toward the promise I had made to my own conscience in the preface of the first edition. For my age had already reached the time of that earlier promise. However, I had not yet written the third Shinran. My determination to do so someday had not waned in the slightest, but the opportune moment had yet to arrive. It was also because I remained aware that my growth still lingered in a state of immaturity. Yet following the publisher’s recommendation—setting that aside as a future task—there remained ample significance in reissuing this book for current readers. It was an undimmed hope—both toward the severe vicissitudes of postwar society and its desolate nihilism, which we had mutually come to see with our eyes, know in our flesh, and hear with our ears to the point of fearing paralysis in each other—and also toward those who still ceaselessly sought something even amidst it. As the author, I still harbored reservations—unable to muster even the vigor of a hunter who could no longer see the mountains of his youth—despite my earlier preface’s promise and though it hardly warranted such hesitation. Yet upon reconsidering that this reissue might serve as a single stone cast into postwar waters where religious novels or spiritually oriented works ought to have emerged but had not, I thought it might still hold some modest significance. As a result, I ultimately decided to publish it with only some additions and revisions. I humbly ask for your understanding, dear readers.

I would also like to add a brief note regarding the content.

The emergence of Shinran was indeed the very torch of a pioneer that sparked epoch-making transformations not only in the religious realm but also in intellectual thought and the lives of common people during that era. He shattered the long-entrenched abuses of aristocratic religion and the harm wrought by hereditary religious orders. He pulled down the ecstatic Pure Land from the mystical realm of temple halls to the society of common people. Moreover, it was he who sought the seeds of enlightenment within raw humanity rather than in the solemnity of esoteric Buddhas and attached to this a plain and unadorned doctrine. He was, so to speak, the herald of a populist new religion and an innovator who emerged bearing a democratic doctrine unprecedented in Japan's history.

However, even when it comes to biographical materials on Shinran himself, they were interwoven with overly conventional miracles and legends—akin to the jeweled ornaments and embellishments of idols—making their scientific dissection and novelistic adjustment by no means easy tasks. In an age when people believed rabbits inhabited the lunar world, they indeed saw rabbits there; thus, those miracle legends must have held singular value in their time, but modern people could not accept them as they were. Naturally, in composing my novel, I did not hesitate to significantly alter such preexisting structures, deliberately ignore certain aspects, and incorporate original creativity. And all the author feared were the deficiencies of the old work, my own lack of talent and indolence, and the guilt of not yet fulfilling that decade-long promise. I could only offer my deepest apologies.

Showa 23 (1948), Early Winter – At Yoshino Village Hermitage

Author

*Age of Turmoil*

*The First Voice*

*1*

At Suzaku-no-tsuji, there was a man who had been ringing a bell and shouting since this morning. Perhaps stung by a bee or something, his sunburned face was warped and pitted like a rotten pomegranate. He had a large nose and stubborn-looking lips; on his shaven head, which stuck out like a chestnut burr with its unkempt growth, white dust was caked. Given his disheveled state, his age was impossible to guess. He could be seen as thirty or thought to be forty. His frame was clad in tattered robes with a single rope belt. And with bare feet—sturdier than straw sandals—he stood rooted to the earth as if sprouting from it.

Clang! Clang! The force behind the ringing bell was no ordinary strength. The crowd surrounded,

“What’s this?” “What kind of mountain monk is this?” they whispered among themselves.

An oxcart creaked along the lingering summer thoroughfare, raising dust. A noble's palanquin passed through. Moreover, Kiyomori Nyūdō’s eyes and ears—youths of the Rokuhara Tandai, feared by the townsfolk and clad in red hitatare robes—darted their sharp eyes around, peering from the shadows of the crowd with whips in hand as they suspected someone might be voicing slander against Chancellor Taira. But the man, with an unabashedly loud voice, grew so fervent in his hoarse cries that he seemed to lose himself, raising the bell in his right hand high into the air,

“Listen! Listen!—” he bellowed. “I, Shami Mongaku, humbly address the people gathered here by the roadside.” “Behold! When observing the state of this world: the moon above the clouds ceaselessly entwines with struggles for power and sinister clouds of decadence, while the grasses below heaven are enveloped by the bows and arrows of ambitious warriors.” “The Dharma realm burns unspared by flames of curses; common folk—peasants, merchants, artisans—wander homeless and weep from hunger and cold.” “This—this is our world.” “Humans in such an age inevitably drown in self-interest; grow suspicion-deep; devour their own flesh and blood; never self-reflect; gain profit only to ruin themselves; fall to poverty and curse others alone.” “The wealthy are hungry ghosts!” “The poor are hungry ghosts!” “And together they churn this human world into a turbid torrent—” He delivered this up in one breath, sweat glistening on his brow.

And—clang! As he swung the bell once more, “Beggar monk—halt!” a voice barked. The red hitatare pushed through the crowd and stepped forward. (Rokuhara brats) People exchanged glances and whispered. With uneasy faces, they weighed the monk’s bell against the youth’s whip. The monk drew himself up haughtily. “What?!” he snapped. Leaning on the Taira clan’s authority, the insolent young informant struck the ground with his whip while—

“You just now said—‘The wealthy are hungry ghosts!—The poor are hungry ghosts!—And the realm above the clouds is shrouded in struggles for power and sinister clouds of decadence!’”

“Hahaha… You should listen to people’s words until the end—that was about the Genji’s world of yesterday.” “…Now, I will speak of today’s matters.” “Shut up, stay there, and listen!” Mongaku put the bell into his pocket and from there took out a series of waste papers written on kamiya paper.

*2* “This is the fundraising appeal.” Mongaku approached the crowd and slowly unfolded the document. From the corner of his eye—as if physically struck—the Rokuhara Tandai youth withdrew awkwardly into the throng. (Look at that disgrace.) The people’s eyes mocked the retreating red hitatare robes. Mongaku spread open the fundraising appeal, drew himself upright, and resumed bellowing his sermon.

“What I speak of now concerns yesterday’s matters. Yet tomorrow’s world remains shrouded in darkness. Even if you call today peaceful—those still trapped in samsara’s cycle, drowning in the bitter sea of three realms, intoxicated by lust, wine, and gold, unawakened from their simian restlessness—shall surely face their hour of reckoning. Did not Gio the shirabyōshi dancer herself sing— ‘Whether sprouting fresh Or withering dry—all the same Field grasses await: Which shall meet its destiny Without ever seeing autumn?’

“Take heed, O people! ‘Each shall meet their end ere autumn comes!’ Here stands the unworthy Mongaku—having given this matter due thought—by the roadside to address our brethren. ‘Through the aid of high and low, clergy and laity alike, I implore you: let us raise a temple upon Mount Takao’s sacred ground that its devotions may secure peace for this world and the next!’” he proclaimed, lifting his gaze. His eyes blazed like fire. Beneath them coursed the blood of this anguished age—blood that refused to ignore humanity’s shared distress. Having cleared his throat once,

“Therefore, the fundraising appeal,” he began reading aloud, holding the document high in his hands. Considering this, Suchness is vast and boundless. Dharma-nature clouded by delusion, thickly shrouding, Since the Twelve Links of Dependent Origination began drifting over the peaks,

Hereafter, The moonlight of the inherently existing heart-lotus Faintly, Still, in the great void of the Three Poisons and Four Mandalas, Does not appear

Alas, The sun of Buddha has swiftly set. The realm of cyclic existence lies shrouded in darkness, where they indulge in lust and drown themselves in wine, needlessly slander others, and poison the world. How could they possibly escape the torments of Yama’s hell guards? Here now stands Mongaku, who, though they cast off worldly affairs and don monastic robes, find evil deeds still festering in their hearts while virtuous teachings fall on deaf ears. Pitiful indeed! They will again fall into the fiery pits of the Three Tortuous Paths and cycle through the Wheel of Suffering in the Four Births. Therefore, we, shedding tears at the gate of contemplation on impermanence,

urging both high and low, sacred and secular,

to form karmic connections with the bodhisattva’s compassionate vow

we shall establish a sacred site

Now, Takao was a mountain high and manifested on the treetops of Vulture Peak Mountain... As he read on at the top of his voice, sweat poured profusely, tracing lines down his ruddy face. The crowd left one by one, then two by two; yet none were moved by his desperate voice.

(What’s this, another fundraising plea?) The crowd were weary of being solicited for coins. Without hesitation, they left him behind and scattered away. Only one person remained, “Hey, Lord Moritoo,” called out a traveling merchant.

Three “Lord Moritō,” the traveling merchant called out again from under the shade of a willow tree at the crossroads, “There’s no one left listening around you now.” “Lord Moritō—” Mongaku jolted his face away from the fundraising appeal and clicked his tongue at the vacant lot where not even a dog remained. And then, with visible irritation,

“Damn it all!” He muttered, rolled up the fundraising appeal tightly, thrust it into his breast pocket, and began walking.

Then, the traveler with a sun-hat bound tightly around his face abruptly approached him and tapped Mongaku on the shoulder. Mongaku turned his piercing gaze,

“Oh. Hori Yahta?” For the first time, he made a surprised-looking face and extended his hand.

The traveler called Yahta, with a nostalgic air, suddenly released their clasped hands for some reason,

(Shh...) he hissed, eyes widening as he moved to the roadside. The youngster in the red hitatare, sniffling properly as he wiped his nose with his hand, strutted right through between them. And, casting a mocking gaze, he let out a derisive laugh. The traveling merchant, as if deliberately showing it to those eyes, took out breast-pocket paper and wrapped coins. Then into Mongaku’s hand, “A donation—” he said, handing it over. “Ah.” Mongaku earnestly received and respectfully accepted.

“Even the smallest donation is deeply appreciated by Mongaku in his current state.” “Even if I shout by the roadside, people cover their ears. If I go to the Cloistered Emperor’s palace seeking alms, they toss me out like a stray dog…” The traveling merchant Hori Yahta quickened his pace as he moved ahead, “To Seki,” he jerked his chin to indicate. Nodding, Mongaku plodded along after him from behind. The cow dung and white soil had dried into parched clumps, making the main street of Kyoto feel as if scorching the soles of one’s feet.

But when they emerged onto the Kamo Embankment, rows of willow trees—something out of a Tang-dynasty painting of Xianyang Palace—framed clear, cool flowing water, and a chill wind like damp paper brushed their faces. “This should do.” The two men sat on the embankment. The yellow spikes of patrinia drooped over Mongaku’s sweat-stained, tattered robe. “Been a while,” Yahta said, “You in one piece?” Mongaku asked. “This mortal shell ain’t exactly thriving as things stand.”

“I’m no different.” Mongaku laughed dryly, “Haven’t you heard the recent rumors?” “I only just arrived in Kyoto today.” “I haven’t heard any rumors.” “I see… Well, truth be told—when I entered the Cloistered Emperor’s palace to fundraise for rebuilding Jingo-ji Temple, I gave those ministers carousing with biwa lute music and poetic recitations a proper lecture! Told them about the curses of the starving masses and the groans from life’s labyrinth—the real state of this world—and rebuked these fools. Next thing I knew, those Imperial Guard samurai grabbed me by the collar and tossed me out. These wounds and lumps from that day—doubt they’ve left this head yet…” He stroked his chestnut burr-like head and showed it with a laugh. The swollen bumps on his face also appeared to be from those stick wounds.

Four Mongaku was what remained of Endō Moritō—the warrior who, at nineteen years old, had cut off his youthful topknot and undertaken austerities across various mountains: Ōmine, Katsuragi, Kōkawa, Togakushi, Haguro, and even the thousand-day confinement at Nachi. Traces of him lingered somewhere.

No—if anything, there were far too many—thought the traveling merchant Hori Yahta as he found himself drawn into the man’s frank manner of speaking and clutched his stomach in laughter. “Hahaha! No wonder your face and head are swollen like the Smallpox Deity’s!” “It still hurts.” “Let that teach you.” “What nonsense! I’m not one to be taught lessons.”

“Even clad in monastic robes, your warrior spirit persists unchanged—that’s what makes you truly human.” “Until rebirth comes, that thing we call the soul—whether you seat it on ice or batter it beneath waterfalls—won’t change easily, I tell you.” “Especially a will tempered by bow and arrow—” “That we’ve both stayed unchanged since last parting—now that’s first cause for celebration.” “Nay—your very form’s changed beyond measure.” “At first glance, I took you for another man entirely.”

“As for this gold dust peddler—no one would take him for a samurai.” “Hori Yahta—a man once numbered among Mutsu no Kami Fujiwara no Hidehira’s retinue—reduced to hawking gold dust? So even you’ve become one of impermanence’s leaves—” “Lured down from the canopy by some passing breeze, were you?”

“Nonsense!” Yahta waved his hand. “This is but a temporary guise to endure the world.” “So—you’ve come to Kyoto as some sort of secret envoy, is that it?” “Well, something like that.” “You’ve done nothing but interrogate me about my circumstances—now, let’s hear your news. Or is this matter so grave that even an old friend like Mongaku cannot be told?” “It’s... hard to say.” “Then I won’t pry.” “Are you angry?” “Hmph, I’m angry.” Mongaku deliberately feigned a sulky expression but immediately bared his white teeth and,

“Don’t say that—just speak.” “Even clad in these robes, my soul remains Endō Moritō’s—I’ll never utter a word.”

“…………”

Yahta stood and surveyed the embankment. A woman from Ohara passed by with goods balanced on her head. At the river shallows, a woman wearing a sedge hat had her maidservant carry something as she ascended toward Toneri-chō in sodden straw sandals. Beyond these movements lingered only the drone of cicadas, the babble of water over stones, and the shadow of a white heron drowsing languidly in Yodo's currents.

“Moritō.” He sat up straight again, “My name is Mongaku.” “Moritō is the name I discarded over ten years ago—call me Mongaku.” “I couldn’t help letting my old habit slip out.” “In that case, while we’re at it—could you remember my alias too?”

“Hoh.” “Changed your name, have you?”

“For a traveling merchant to go by Hori Yahta would seem odd.” “The Yoshitsugu from Ōshu who comes to Kyoto once a year peddling gold dust—that’s actually this Yahta’s second name.”

“Eh? Yoshitsugu.” “Yoshitsugu.” “Now that you’ve heard that—doesn’t it make you recall something?”

“I’ve remembered…… You’ve been secretly approaching Lord Shanaō of Kurama, haven’t you?”

V

Lord Shanaō of Kurama. He stated it bluntly.

With eyes brimming with confidence as if to say, "This golden target probably hasn’t missed," Mongaku stared intently at the other’s face.

“...Hmm.” Hori Yahta, the gold dust seller Yoshitsugu, nodded, his dimples forming. A heavy—deep breath— “……I see.” Mongaku also nodded in return.

Speaking of Lord Shanaō—he was the legitimate heir of the Minamoto clan, the youngest son of Yoshitomo, former Master of the Left Horse Bureau, a young lord whose childhood name had been Ushiwaka. It had been over ten years since they had torn him from the breast of his mother Tokiwa and sent him off to Kurama-dera Temple.

“…………” Mongaku silently moved his fingers. Yoshitsugu of Hori was also silently gazing at the clouds over Daimonji-yama. “This year is Jōan Year 3 (1173), isn’t it?” “Indeed—” “Then—how old would Lord Shanaō be now?”

“Fifteen,” Yoshitsugu answered.

“Hah… “How time flies! “So that milk-scented young lord of Genji has already reached fifteen years?”

“Mongaku, do you ever deign to meet him on rare occasions?” “Well, two years ago when I made pilgrimage to Mount Shosha and visited the Ajari of Tōkōbō—there had been a young server attending us who later shed tears upon being told who I was, saying he’d wasted precious tea on me.—Rumor has it even Sōjōga Valley and Kibune villagers are at their wits’ end with that wild troublemaker.” “So even the temple seems troubled.”

“To think you’ve been keeping an eye on that troublemaker and making the annual pilgrimage all the way from Ōshu Road to Kurama…” “Aha! I’ve figured it out.” Mongaku slapped his knee,

“What else could it be but groundwork for the Ōshu Hiraizumi clan—who resent the Taira’s world of arrogant rule—to eventually side with the Minamoto?” “This world seems like it’s about to get a bit more interesting, I tell you.” Without answering that,

“Oh!” Yoshitsugu looked up at the sky. A drop of rain hit his face.

Upon the waters of Kamo, small ripples formed—ripples upon ripples, innumerably overlapping. When the shoulders of the Higashiyama mountain range spewed forth an ink-black rainbow, the azure sky swiftly narrowed, and the crossroads, bridges, willow trees, and stone-weighted roofs of commoners’ homes in the Heian capital settled into a dusky gloom as if twilight had descended.

“A rain’s coming.” Mongaku stood up, “Yahta. —No—Lord Yoshitsugu of Ōshu—where are you lodging?” “I never keep fixed lodgings. For migratory birds like me, staying roostless proves safer...” “Will you come to Jingo-ji Temple at Takao?” “Nay—for now I must go to Hino Village.” “To Hino. What for?” “Lord Shanaō’s cousin resides there graciously—I always hear messages bound for Kurama.” “Hmm—who might that be?”

“Let’s meet again—before long.”

“Hmm. Take care on your journey.” “You as well.”

The two started running in separate directions. Amidst the row of willow trees, beaten by white rain and swaying heavily.

Six

“Hasn’t the rain stopped?” “Looks like it’s stopped.” Somewhere, someone muttered. It was a massive temple complex that had been half-burned by warfare and now stood dilapidated.

Yoshitsugu the gold dust seller, who had run into the mountain gate there to take shelter from the rain, quietly peeked his head out.

The town was already steeped in twilight. The wet roof stones shone blue like fish under the evening star's light. Somewhere, the crackling sound of fire could be heard. Red firelight shone from behind the mountain gate. From there came a clamorous noise, “Hey, Ame! What’ve you been slurping away at so greedily since earlier? Hand over my share!” “I don’t want to!” “Stingy wench, won’t you hand it over?”

“There’s not even a chicken bone to split, you know. Hey, Straw-mat Monk.” “This Ame wench stole a chicken and is stuffing her belly all alone!” “Give me some miso rice cakes and I’ll hand over a chicken leg.” “Don’t mess with me!” “But I’ve got children! It’s only natural I’m hungrier than others. I said no! Puppeteer—don’t you dare snatch that bone back!” They fought like hungry ghosts.

Peering in, one could see a band of vagrants—women wrapped in straw mats, leprous beggars, straw-mat monks resembling skeletons holding shakuhachi, puppeteers, aged streetwalkers with white-painted faces—occupying a corner of the Nio Gate where the guardian statues once stood. Unclear how they ate or why they lived, they lit fires, dried clothes, sprawled about, and devoured scraps, haphazardly creating a realm of hungry ghosts. At the Imperial Palace, Rokuhara’s mansion, and the residences of Taira clan members, they indulged feverishly in moments between battles—moonlit nights, days adorned with blossoms and crimson leaves, melodies of Saibara music, fine wines, and women singing love poems—all chasing after Heian’s fading dream. Yet beneath Kyoto’s veneer lay this reality: families bound by hunger upon hunger, homeless vagrants nesting in abandoned temples, shrines, roadside chapels, and stone walls—anywhere with even the semblance of roof or walls, provided no master dwelled there—living like insects, like beasts.

(Worse than the rumors.) Yoshitsugu grimaced at the stench and gazed fixedly. (Even in Ōshu—a land bereft of fertile crops, hospitable climate, or the cultural legacy of Tang China—such a spectacle did not exist.) Yoshitsugu watched disapprovingly. Vividly, the skin disease of misgovernment oozed pus here as well. The reality of the Taira clan’s aristocracy—who, without a moment to consider the people, seized their food and clothing to fuel their indulgences while obsessively pursuing their own glory—became glaringly evident to anyone standing there.

(Is this really alright?) He felt like asking heaven. He had to act—neither divine power nor Buddha’s power would suffice. Hadn’t warfare burned away even gods and Buddhas? What governs the human world rightly is human strength—it is true humans. It is true humans who are what this age demands.)

Thinking so, he felt both the gravity of his mission and a growing strain toward the duty now approaching Shanaō of Kurama. “Hey! Who’s there?” Then a beggar spotted him and challenged him.

Seven

Just as he was about to leave again, “Hey! What’re you?” Because puppeteers and straw-mat monks began to rise up, “Yes,” Yoshitsugu returned and, “I am a traveler who was taking shelter from the rain.” “A traveling crow?”

“Since it has stopped raining, I wish to depart—but is Hino Village still far ahead?” “Hino’s close enough, but where in Hino d’ya mean?” “To Lord Fujiwara no Arinori’s residence.” “I’ve come on an errand.” “Ah! That’s where the merciful Lady Yoshimitsu Gozen lives!” The straw-mat woman stood up with a shrill cry.

Then the vagrants too abruptly became polite. "If you're going to Lady Yoshimitsu Gozen's place, someone should guide you there." "I'll go." A kappa-like boy holding a bamboo stick approached Yoshitsugu's side. "Traveler, I'll guide you." "Sorry for the trouble." "Why, we can't begin to know how much we've been saved by Lady Yoshimitsu Gozen. That mansion—it might be rude to say—belongs to an impoverished noble of the fallen Fujiwara house. Unlike the Heike in their prime, they can't even repair their crumbling plaster walls... Yet even when we go begging to their kitchen, they've never once made a sour face..."

When one person spoke, the straw-mat woman also joined in, “When winter comes and the cold bites, she bestows old garments not only to us but even to those living under Tō-ji’s eaves and Yasaka’s floorboards, I tell you.” The other vagrants chimed in unison as well. “Women who waste themselves on finery and those who think only of their own comfort fill those imposing mansions with their plastered walls—but where in this world does a gentle soul like her exist? That Lady must be the true Kannon herself.”

“Speaking of which, as she venerates Nyoirin Kannon, she used to come monthly on pilgrimages, but since around spring we haven’t caught sight of her.—Might she be laid up ill? That’s what we’ve been fretting over.”

While licking a chicken bone, the straw-mat woman said this and came to see him off as far as the temple gate. Yoshitsugu was inwardly happy. This Lady Yoshimitsu Gozen was none other than the cousin of the young lord Shanaō of Kurama—the very child whom he, having received his lord’s command, was working diligently to bring into prominence should the opportunity arise. “There’s a puddle here, old man.” The kappa-like boy walked ahead, tapping the pitch-black ground with his bamboo stick.

In the alley’s impenetrable darkness—where even having one’s nose grabbed would go unnoticed—a stray dog barked hoarsely. Even the dog sounded hoarse, as if it too were starving. There was a small river; they crossed an earthen bridge. When they crossed a somewhat wide grassland, the kappa-like boy, with the tip of his bamboo stick,

“You can see the large ginkgo tree over there,” he said, pointing. “...That earthen wall beside the ginkgo tree belongs to Lord Ōgimachi.” “Lord Fujiwara no Arinori’s residence is right there after turning that corner.”

“Oh， thanks.” They proceeded along the path and began turning at the landmark large ginkgo tree when— the kappa-like boy， as if startled by something— “Huh?!” he froze mid-step.

Eight “What’s that? … What could it be… What is that?” The kappa-like boy muttered fearfully, his eyes wide open.

“Ah——” Yoshitsugu also stopped in his tracks before it.

Both of them held their breath. From the large ginkgo tree, a short distance ahead in one direction, the mansion’s structure came into view, its aged palace-style roof—as if inked in black—nestled among the red pine treetops and the shadow of the plaster wall. That was good.

That must undoubtedly be Lord Arinori’s residence that the kappa-like boy had mentioned earlier. However, the two saw something else strange besides that. The "something strange" was a light that struck their eyes the moment they turned that corner. For humans living in a world where night meant a realm scarce in light, there was nothing as precious, as gratefully received, or as uncannily perceived as its radiance. It was that light. A white rainbow—or perhaps a comet’s tail—blazed from what appeared to be the roof ridge of Lord Arinori’s residence. In the instant they gasped “Ah?!” and wiped their eyes, everything had returned to darkness as though nothing had occurred.

“Did you see it too?”

“I saw it,” answered the kappa-like boy abruptly, “Old man, I’m headin’ back here.” He shrank back. “You’ve done well.” Yoshitsugu gave him coins and,

“What do you make of that light just now?” “I don’t know.”

“Even I don’t know.” “There are truly strange things in this world.”

“I’ll tell everyone.” “Hey now, don’t go blabberin’ ’bout this carelessly!”

“Ah!” The kappa-like boy hurled a crow-like retort and dashed off back the way he had come.

Yoshitsugu the gold dust seller stood outside the plaster wall. No matter where he looked, the gates were closed like a blind person. Weeds were nearly covering the base of the gate. In some places, the wall had crumbled in such a way that a stray dog could easily leap over it. In the Japanese elm tree entwined with vines, a squirrel chittered shrilly.

"How the world changes..." he mused deeply.

When speaking of the Fujiwara clan, they had embodied on earth the most extravagant splendor humans could achieve. This evolved into conflicts between samurai families, then samurai governance, and since reaching the current zenith of Taira dominance, they came to be derided as "Fallen Fujiwaras," becoming shadows bearing no resemblance to their former glory. Consider this ancient mansion's silent desolation—a place where even foxes and raccoon dogs might take residence. Not a glimmer of light could be discerned; not even a dog appeared to inhabit these grounds.

Knock, knock, knock... Tentatively, Yoshitsugu gently knocked on what seemed to be the back gate. Then, in a low voice, “Good evening——” He tried knocking several times.

"No good." He had been pondering, but soon scooped up a pebble and hurled it toward what seemed to be the samurai quarters' roof. There came the sound of a lattice shutter being raised. Before long, within the walled compound, a light wavered—and the clack-clack of wooden geta sandals approached.

Nine “Who goes there?” The figure remained unseen. From beyond the gate, the samurai within made inquiry.

“I am Yoshitsugu, a seller of gold dust. If you would kindly relay this to either the lord or the lady of the house, they will know.” “Yoshitsugu?” He seemed to consider.

In the rain-soaked grassy thicket, insects chirped damply. Yoshitsugu added more words,

“If you would kindly mention Hori Yahta of Ōshu, they should understand even better.” “For some time now, I have been in possession of your esteemed letter,” As he began to speak, the gate creaked into motion with a clank, “Lord Hori, retainer of Lord Hidehira?” “Indeed.” “That was rude of me—” he promptly opened it, “I am Jijūsuke, a retainer of this household who has always handled her correspondence and received letters addressed to me from your side,” said a young samurai around twenty years old as he showed his face.

“Oh, you there—” “At your esteemed command—” The two exchanged greetings like old acquaintances. “As for her ladyship, when I visited the capital some time ago, I had the humble honor of glimpsing her figure by Kiyomizu Temple from afar—but this is my first time at your lord’s residence tonight.” “Right this way,” said Jijūsuke as he let Yoshitsugu inside and closed the gate. Both inside and outside the enclosure, autumn leaves grew so thickly that the boundary between them seemed nonexistent. It was still early for bush clover, and the bellflowers had yet to bloom, yet the night air after the rain felt chill as mid-autumn.

Servants also seemed extremely few. Yoshitsugu was shown to the samurai quarters and sat formally, but bringing the candles and preparing the tea were all handled by Jijūsuke. However, what he felt upon entering here was different from its outward appearance—a certain warm and harmonious domesticity that, befitting a residence of the highly cultured Fujiwara clan, seemed to envelop him. For Yoshitsugu, who had known only the austere households of warriors or else the lives of vagrant urchins,

(Indeed, there was an air of refinement...) he felt, even in the furnishings there and the fragrance of incense wood wafting from somewhere. “Forgive my earlier discourtesy.” Jijūsuke sat down, “The truth is, there has been a bit of commotion at the residence.”

“Oh.” Yoshitsugu recalled a rumor he had heard along the way.

“Is there someone ill?” “What nonsense,” he laughed. Yoshitsugu felt unexpectedly taken aback by the radiance of Jijūsuke’s expression.

“It is a most joyous occasion. “In this spring of Jōan Year 3, on the first day of the Third Month, an esteemed young lord as precious as a jewel was born unto us. Because of this blessing, it was as if a century’s spring had returned to the household—the lord, her ladyship, Lord Wakasa-no-kami of the clan, and Lord Munenari had been coming morning and night, just as you witnessed, for gatherings in the inner quarters. “By fortunate timing, tonight marks what they call the first meal ceremony—a private celebration among kin.”

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

Ten “Well… I cannot grant you an audience, but I have relayed your arrival,” Jijūsuke said. However, rather than Yoshitsugu’s business, he himself—joining in and beaming with delight at his lord’s auspicious event—immediately returned the conversation to that topic. The child was exceedingly healthy, noble in bearing, and a boy like a jewel.

Moreover, regarding his esteemed name—it is said that because Her Ladyship Yoshimitsu Gozen, during her pregnancy, had dreamed of a five-needled pine, he was named Lord Jūhachi Kimimaro. “Moreover, it is said he remained in the womb for twelve full months.” Furthermore—perhaps due to her extraordinary devotion—before conceiving, Her Ladyship Yoshimitsu Gozen had dreamt of Nyoirin Kannon (the Bodhisattva of Compassionate Vows), and there had been various other miraculous signs as well.

“And further,” he continued, “as a certain holy man who had specially come to visit declared—this year corresponds to two thousand one hundred and twenty-two years since Śākyamuni Buddha’s parinirvāṇa, which might indeed signify a divine dream.” “The character for ‘pine’ is written as ‘eighteen’ and ‘duke,’ corresponding to the number of Amida’s Primal Vow of Right Cause.” “It is said he pressed his rosary to Her Ladyship Yoshimitsu Gozen’s bedside in prayer before departing—believing this infant to be none other than the incarnation of Amida Buddha of the Western Paradise—and urged that the child be cherished with utmost care.”

His tales were endless. Yoshitsugu too listened attentively, taking these favorable tales to heart. Were someone to inform Lord Shanaō of Kurama of this, he would surely feel emboldened, thinking the Genji clan had gained another ally. Then from the recessed eastern building,

“Jijūsuke,” someone called out.

“Yes.” He bowed politely and stood to leave. Yoshitsugu had come under the prior written agreement from Yoshimitsu Gozen, which stated: “The next time you meet Lord Shanaō, I have something I wish to pass along—please stop by.” (What on earth could it be—this thing she asked me to pass along to her cousin?) Yoshitsugu shifted his numb leg slightly as he waited. And he gently imagined in his mind’s eye the beauty of Yoshimitsu Gozen’s first childbirth. He had seen her figure once or twice near Kiyomizu, albeit from a distance. She must still be quite young. Though she was a married woman, the impression of her as an esteemed, pure and beautiful woman remained deeply etched in his mind. In nobility, as the legitimate heir of the Minamoto clan—daughter of Tsushima-no-kami Yoshiyuki, eldest son of Chinjufu Shōgun Yoshiie—there could be no disputing her claim.

Sharing General Yoshie as their grandfather, Minamoto no Yoshitomo was, needless to say, her cousin—and this very Yoshitomo embodied Chancellor Kiyomori’s hatred. Whether one would call it fortunate or unfortunate, she had been married into the utterly destitute Fujiwara household from the age of fifteen, and though she was indeed the cousin of Yoshitomo—the Chancellor’s sworn enemy—in Kiyomori’s eyes, this very fact led to her being overlooked, allowing her to live undisturbed.

From amidst this neglect, Jūhachi Kimimaro was born— the one who would later become Shinran Shōnin. Had her husband Arinori Ason been a celebrated talent or a political figure of his era, Jūhachi Kimimaro might never have drawn breath. For prior to this, Yoshimitsu Gozen’s lineage had fallen into Rokuhara’s disfavor—and though her household escaped the harsh exile inflicted upon Yoshitomo’s sons Yoritomo and Shanaō (Yoshitsune), it could not have remained free from surveillance and restraint.

“Ah.” “Thank you for waiting.”

Jijūsuke soon entered carrying something—a small box.

Eleven “Please deliver this to Lord Shanaō at Kurama—it is a request from Her Ladyship.” Jijūsuke spoke before the small box. It was a flat lacquered box. Having received permission, Yoshitsugu gently lifted its lid. The fragrance of agarwood enveloped him like smoke.

Wrapped in white silk and further protected by a cloth wrapper was a lovely single-volume sutra booklet. On indigo paper, delicate characters in gold pigment had been inscribed—each character resembling an exquisitely crafted Buddha figure, radiating solemn dignity and ascetic devotion. "Whose sutra copy might this be?" When Yoshitsugu asked, "In that case," Jijūsuke adopted a formal tone. "Her Ladyship Yoshimitsu Gozen has privately grieved over her cousin Lord Shanaō's solitude and daily held him in her thoughts.... Pray convey this sentiment to Kurama." Yoshitsugu briefly showed dissatisfaction but accepted it respectfully, tucking the item into his robe while—

“Is there anything else?” “Your words suffice—but ensure you never neglect memorial services for the late Lord Yoshitomo and the Genji clan, while devoting yourself day and night to Buddhist practice, that you may become an exemplary scholar...” “There are also messages from Her Ladyship and Lord Arinori.” “I humbly acknowledge.” “Then I shall take my leave...”

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

The starlight was sharper than at dusk. The night in Hino Village held no passersby.

“What the hell…” Having gone through all the trouble of coming here only to have his expectations dashed, he was bitterly disappointed. He now clearly understood that Yoshimitsu Gozen’s compassion differed fundamentally in nature from the consideration he and his master Hidehira held—though both were forms of goodwill toward Lord Shanaō. While his master Hidehira plotted to bring Shanaō down from the Buddhist realm and raise the banner for Genji restoration, Yoshimitsu Gozen and Arinori Ason conversely prayed that Shanaō would remain at Kurama-dera Temple, occupied with incense rituals until his dying day.

Indeed, that would undoubtedly be a safe path in life both for Shanaō himself and for his cousin. But if what remains of the Genji bloodline only seeks personal stability, what will become of Genji? Are we to let the Taira remain like that forever? Furthermore, what of the starving people by the roadside? Rousing his inherent Tōhoku samurai blood, he casually grabbed the lacquered sutra box he had taken charge of and spat.

“Such rubbish! Handing this over to Lord Shanaō would hinder his resolve.”

He slammed it toward the ditch beneath the tsuiji wall as if to shatter it. He smashed it into the filthy water, but at that instant Yoshimitsu Gozen’s gentle form flashed before his eyes. As though trampling with mud-caked feet upon the radiant soul of a luminous being, terror gripped him. Drops from the hackberry leaves trickled down his back. With an involuntary shudder, he glanced up at the roof ridge within the tsuiji enclosure. Yet he found neither trace of the earlier glow nor any sign of disturbance.

But at that moment, something struck his ear with force. It was the voice of a newborn infant. Jūhachi Kimimaro was crying. That voice was no ordinary thing—a voice with the power to split the earth’s crust, like myriad sprouts stretching toward spring, a resonant proclamation to the world announcing the birth of life.

“Ah…” Yoshitsugu stiffened without saying a word. Covering his ears with both hands, he ran through the dark field without looking back.

The Mute World

I

The area around Enju-in Temple in Rokujō, where vacant lots occupied more than half the space, was correctly called Chigusa-chō—but Kyoto residents colloquially referred to it as Genji-chō, while those among the Taira faction’s rabble did not forget to deride even the residential district’s name as “Cow Dung Town,” mocking the fallen remnants of unprosperous clans.

Wakasa no Kami Noritsuna lived there. Although he was not of Genji lineage, the government residences for the poets attached to the In's Poetry Bureau had been in that area since ancient times, so there was nothing to be done about it.

The reason this area came to be called Cow Dung Town was that within this human-inhabited district, the “Rokujō Cattle Market” had encroached upon the area, with filthy cowherd tenements and cow sheds scattered about like hamlets. Moreover, in the vacant lots, unleashed cows—white, spotted, and brown—grazed on grass everywhere, so that if one walked carelessly, they would literally step on plentiful cow dung. Therefore, even when autumn came, the flies did not decrease much.

Noritsuna Ason, being a poet, had long grown accustomed to living in his residence, but even so, there were times when— "(I wish I could live somewhere without flies—)" he often found himself thinking. However, since the Hōgen and Heiji rebellions, with wars continuing unabated, poets had been utterly forgotten as useless appendages—particularly in the eyes of those in power, (A poet? If they were poets, then letting them reside in Cow Dung Town seemed just right.)

The poets of the Poetry Bureau, lacking any vitality, could not even utter a single syllable of complaint against this. “Tch.” Noritsuna pushed his desk to the side. The autumn flies that had been swarming on the inkstone and paper noisily rose up along with him. “My lady—” He called his wife, “As it has been quite some time since I last paid my respects to Lord Jien of Awataguchi, I shall deliver the draft poems I have in my care and inquire after his well-being.”

“Might your esteemed younger brother be gracing us with a visit today?”

“He did mention stopping by on his return from the palace, but…” “Very well then. On my way back, I shall stop by Hino no Arinori’s residence, and we shall meet there.”

When he mentioned stopping by Hino，his wife— She smiled as if to say “Again?” He，who had no children，seemed unable to rest unless he visited his younger brother and his wife’s residence at least once every three days since their child was born． “Please go safely．”

With his wife’s voice behind him, while casting his eyes on the chrysanthemums in the hedge, he exited the gate of his residence.

“Oh, Brother.” The youngest brother, Munenari Ason, had just arrived at the gate, “Where are you going?” Munenari asked, aligning his shoulders beside him.

II

“Ah, Brother—good timing,” said Noritsuna, having already unilaterally decided that Munenari would accompany him as he began walking. “I mean to take these draft poems for editing to Archbishop Jien of Awataguchi.” “Will you come?” “I’ll join you.” “Then on our return, let’s stop by Hino and see little Jūhachi Kimimaro’s smiling face.” “He grows noticeably bigger each time I see him.” “Hahaha. “He’s an infant—growing is what they do.” “But if ten days pass without seeing him, the transformation astonishes me.”

“Why don’t you have one too?” “Not so easily,” Munenari shook his head, “When it comes to the Taira, even their lowliest members might find brides, but for a destitute Fujiwara—and a minor official like a palace scribe at that—women these days won’t come as wives.” “Even if one is a Junior Fourth Rank Fujiwara no Ason—no matter how reduced—having court rank doesn’t mean one can take a commoner or low-born girl as a wife…” In the vacant lot, cows lay sprawled in the tranquil late autumn sunlight, letting out drawn-out lowing cries.

To his younger brother’s lament, Noritsuna nodded with sympathy. But then again, compared to those clansmen who had wives and many children, were caught between court rank and poverty, and were growing old and decrepit, remaining single was still far more carefree—this was one of the phrases he always used to console his younger brother.

Noritsuna, Arinori, Munenari. In this order, they were three brothers—all men—where the eldest, Noritsuna, was a poet; the middle brother, Arinori, under the court title of Empress’s Senior Secretary, had once occupied important positions in both the Imperial Palace and Inner Palace but now smoldered in seclusion outside the capital; and the youngest, Munenari, was an official in the Secretariat Bureau—each one a court noble unfavored by the times and lacking in vitality. Yet in their time, Fujiwara no Noritsuna was a figure so renowned in waka poetry that he could be counted among the top five masters, while his youngest brother Munenari was a prodigy—a genius calligrapher who had passed the sutra copyist examination early on and, at seventeen years old, copied the entire *Man’yōshū* in just ten days, an achievement that even earned Emperor Go-Shirakawa’s admiration.

But whether geniuses or prodigies, poets or calligraphers—today’s society neither praised their innate talents nor put them to use. For those of Fujiwara or Minamoto lineage, this was all the more true—indeed, one might even say their talents were those that brought misfortune upon themselves. However, even living in such an unlivable world, the brothers’ hearts remained unimpoverished. Along Shichijō and Gojō Avenues within view, silk-fringed palanquins, eight-petaled palanquins, litters, and ox-drawn carriages—all adorned with autumn leaves—were lined up. From the grand mansions at every intersection, the flutes of Saibara music leaked out even in daylight. At Rokuhara’s rose garden overlooking the Kamo River, it seemed Komatsu-dono or perhaps Taira no Shōkoku was hosting guests again today. From the swarming palanquins of high-ranking officials spilled such dazzling sights: golden swords, purple court trousers, gleaming shoes, and elegant beauties overflowing across the garden’s lawns and pavilions—all visible from Gojō Bridge. Yet,

They felt no envy—let alone thought of “those inconvenient Taira.” The Fujiwara clan now lacked even the vitality to hate the Taira, and such was the state of the Minamoto’s decline. “Oh… Here we are.” Before they knew it, the two had come to Awataguchi. When they reached Jūzenji’s crossroads, Noritsuna stopped in his tracks, “Brother, will you wait outside the gate or enter?” Noritsuna asked Munenari.

III “I will wait outside,” said Munenari Ason. “Okay,” said Wakasa no Kami Noritsuna.

Noritsuna had been thinking for a moment, but pushing the small gate of Shōren-in before him with one hand, “Well then, today I shall go alone to have my audience.” “I’ll be back soon,” he said, then disappeared inside. Munenari wandered aimlessly outside the wall for a while, then eventually went to the edge of Kajigaike Pond, sat down on a stone amidst the weeds, and gazed at the ripples caused by what seemed to be crucian carp or some other fish disturbing the water’s surface. Occasionally, he would raise his face,

As if thinking “Not yet?”, he turned toward Shōren-in.

From there, Shōren-in’s long earthen wall and the dense grove of trees within were as large as a castle ground, making it impossible to discern where the main temple buildings stood or where people lived. “When it comes to waka poetry,” he mused inwardly, “Elder Brother walks his cherished path—and with His Eminence being so particularly fervent about it too—once they’re entangled in discussion, they shan’t return anytime soon.” While seeking an outlet for his boredom, Munenari envisioned his brother and Archbishop Jien—their figures absorbed in elegant discourse and oblivious to worldly matters.

Though still young, Archbishop Jien was both the 62nd head of Enryaku-ji and the third son of Regent Motomichi of Hosshō-ji—making him a brother of Kanezane, Lord of Tsukinowa. Thus, when one spoke of “the Archbishop of Awataguchi,” his words carried exceptional weight in matters of Tendai doctrine as well as within the cloistered emperor’s court and Imperial Palace. As expected, once his elder brother entered, he did not return for quite some time. Having grown tired of watching the ripples’ aquatic play, Munenari let his bored feet wander aimlessly through the nearby grassland. Clang! Clank!

The sound of hammering could be heard. Amidst white pampas grass plumes, a blacksmith hut with stones weighing down its roof could be seen. From amidst the pampas grass, a thin dog dashed off with a field mouse in its mouth. The dog burrowed under one of the blacksmith's huts and let out a bark—Woof! Woof! From afar, the dog barked at Munenari. In this hamlet on the wild plain, there once lived a master swordsmith known as Sanjō Kojishi. Then, because the water from this pond was said to be excellent for forging blades, swordsmiths gathered from provinces far and wide—until before one knew it, a smithing settlement had taken shape. And even unskilled laborers forged inscriptions like "Awataguchi so-and-so" or "Sanjō Kojishi so-and-so," then hawked them to Rokuhara warriors.

“I see…” “In this world, it seems those who forge swords are more sought after than those who write books or compose poetry.” Standing before a blacksmith’s hut, Munenari absently watched the smiths at work. Inside the pitch-black hut, rough-hewn men were operating bellows, burning charcoal, swinging hammers, and— Clang! Claaang! Sparks flew from the anvil. Over there in those huts and here in these workshops, countless swords were being forged in this manner. When he thought of what these swords would eventually be used for, the timid Munenari grew so terrified that he could no longer stand there.

“Hey!” When he turned at the call, he saw his elder brother Noritsuna running toward him from the direction of Shōren-in. Munenari, as though saved,

“Has your business been concluded?”

“Well, I’ve finally managed to take my leave. Since it’s noon, His Lordship insisted I stay for a meal—quite the predicament,” said Noritsuna, free from the stiffness of prostrating before nobility as he gazed expansively at the bright late-autumn fields.

IV

“Is His Grace in good health?” “He remains unchanged.” “His waka composition must have advanced further.” “He has refined his craft. There are poems of His we cannot equal.”

“However, unlike the waka we compose while living among commoners—when one born into noble lineage becomes an abbot of some secluded temple—he may understand the heart of flowers, birds, wind, and moon, but could never truly grasp poems about human sorrows, tears, or confusions.”

“No—” Noritsuna shook his head. Turning onto a wild path where bush clover lay sprawled, they descended a narrow, gradual slope ahead while— “That’s not the case.” “Is that so?” “His Grace is truly well aware of worldly affairs.” “The actions of warriors, political schemes, the comings and goings of the Cloistered Emperor’s court.” “…His Grace is merely pretending not to know, that’s all.” “Ah.” “Not showing familiarity is the common sense of a wise gentleman in this age.” “All the more so for a child of noble birth.”

“I see.”

“He also shared this: ‘Lately at Yoshimizu below this slope, an unexpected monk around forty has appeared who fervently preaches exclusive nenbutsu practice. Though differing from ordinary monks’ hackneyed teachings, his words occasionally hold merit.’” “I had previously mentioned those rumors regarding court matters, but in this unending age of military power struggles and warrior clans’ prosperity, it’s only the common people who cannot be saved.” “For the sake of those common people, if a saint who can truly save their souls from the heart does not appear, then the Pure Land of Buddha’s teachings will prove false.” “In such times, the monk of Yoshimizu is the long-awaited rain cloud.” “‘On your way back,’ he said, ‘you should go listen once.’”

“Oh… You were aware of even that?”

“His Majesty must be going out incognito.” “I had heard rumors that recently, 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 stopped by with the mindset that if the Archbishop of Awataguchi had praised this monk so highly, it might be worth seeing at least what sort of figure he was.

Embraced by Utano Nakayama, Kiyomizu Hill, and the peaks of Kachōzan, there lay a quiet basin overlooking the capital of Kyoto. “Oh… I see… What an enormous crowd.” As they neared Yoshimizu, the two exchanged glances at the crowd streaming in—people from Gion’s woods, Gojō slope, and all directions, undeterred by distance. Farmers who seemed to have rushed here between work, woodcutters, maids pulling infants by the hand, peddlers with loads on their heads, and travelers. Monks from other sects who had sneaked in with faint resentment in their eyes, daughters of samurai families hiding their faces under veils, servant girls, warriors—people of assorted classes blended together as one, pressing in tightly as they gathered toward the small Zen hall of about three rooms there.

“...What momentum!” Munenari and Noritsuna stood dumbfounded, struck by this fearsome human tide. In their frayed straw sandals kicking up dust as they swarmed forward, the eyes of these gathering people bore expressions of desperate seeking—as if even a drop of water, anything at all that might bring respite to their hearts, breath to their spirits, sustenance to their parched souls—they appeared to be frantically searching for such salvation.

V

Beyond a single hill, the swordsmiths of the blacksmithing hamlet echoed with hammering sounds as if heralding an age of conflict, while here, the lost masses— “Namu Amida Bu—” “Namu Amida Butsu.” They pressed in like starving children around a solitary nenbutsu practitioner, seeking salvation. “Brother, if you come here, you might catch some of it.” Munenari edged sideways toward the Zen hall while being jostled by the crowd.

It must have been crowded. The Zen hall’s garden was only about twenty tsubo. The brushwood fence lay broken, and both inside and outside the garden, the crowd sat packed tightly, spreading out sedge hats or unrolling straw mats to claim spots. Even in the back, people stood three or four layers deep.

An eight-tatami room, a six-tatami room, and one small room. The Zen hall—which had only three bays—had removed its paper-paneled doors, and people sat packed wherever space allowed: on the veranda, in the corners of the earthen floor. In that central room sat Hōnenbō Genkū, the rumored monk.

There was no high platform. There were no golden Buddhist altar implements either. Only a single tatami platform was drawn slightly further back, an old sutra desk placed before it, and there Hōnen sat. Wearing a russet-colored robe over white cotton undergarments, he spoke in a voice not particularly loud but clear and carrying, breaking down the essence of the *Nenbutsu Ōjōgi*—the doctrine of rebirth through nenbutsu—into terms even children and elders could comprehend.

“Hmm…” Noritsuna groaned near Munenari’s ear, though what he perceived remained unclear. Then, turning to Munenari: “That monk indeed possesses an extraordinary countenance.” “…Archbishop Jien truly had a discerning eye,” he whispered.

Because his elder brother was versed in physiognomy, Munenari—having been told this—redirected his attention to Hōnen’s profile. Upon looking, indeed, his head—concave at the center and high-crowned—differed from that of ordinary monks, and his eyes, deeply recessed beneath his eyebrows, gleamed as if receiving piercing gazes. At times they seemed like a fearsome light that could see through society’s underbelly and a thousand years into humanity’s future even as he sat still; at other times they appeared as a gentle gaze that even an infant nearby might instinctively adore.

"Do not be doubted, O people. The Pure Land exists; the Pure Land is tranquil. Genkū endured nine years of arduous study, What I have attained lies in one thing alone— solely in the single principle of nenbutsu leading to rebirth in the Pure Land, it is." Hōnen’s voice was clear, as if reciting a poem. When the clamoring waves of countless souls finally fell silent and began listening to the voice of the Dharma, his voice took on heat, became belief itself, and gripped the people forcefully as he preached.

“Do not doubt!” Hōnen declared this foremost principle. “First, chant the nenbutsu before all else.” “Whether you possess wisdom or ignorance, commit evil deeds or good deeds, have an occupation or family ties—let none of these hindrances obstruct you! Single-mindedly turn toward the Buddha’s light. The act of invoking [the Name], be it through one thought or ten thoughts, constitutes your first step toward the Pure Land.”

――What had happened? At that moment, people in the back began clamoring. “Huh? Mongaku?” “What happened to Mongaku?”

“Go see! Go have a look!” they began to disperse, swarming in groups of ten or twenty as they ran down toward Shijō.

VI

The gathering for the Dharma talk—which had been as clear as the moon reflected in water—was thrown into disarray like a sudden wind stirring its surface. “What’s that?” “What’s happening?” They turned around. They rose. And one after another, they broke apart and ran off, shouting, “Go see!” By this point, Hōnen understood the psychology of the masses—a mirror that no longer reflected anything.

“Let us conclude for today.” He rested his fingers on the sutra desk and inclined his head slightly toward the people. Some faces showed lingering reluctance. An old man continued asking questions, “Hmph…” Though monks of other sects left with derisive smiles, most scattered like windblown leaves down to the foothills. When Noritsuna and Munenari descended to that place, stretching from Rokuhara Ōji to the tree-lined Shigayama Road—

“Whoa—” “That’s him!” It was a human wave. The dust was terrible. Through it, “Don’t come near!” “You lowly rabble!”

Officials in straw sandals, holding bamboo poles and sticks, their faces streaked with sweat, continued to berate the crowd. Looking—amidst being jostled by the human wave, a cage cart jolted and creaked its way along the pitted road.

The one pulling was a dappled ox; those guarding were fierce-eyed executioners and foot soldiers. “Mongaku! Mongaku!” Whether chased away or reprimanded, the crowd continued to follow. Caught up in the dust and the tide of people, Noritsuna and Munenari too found themselves pressed close to the cage cart, walking alongside it.

On an ordinary ox cart of the sort used to transport logs or stone materials, they had erected thick square pillars measuring about one shaku per side and laid rough wooden latticework, within which Mongaku, his arms bound, was displayed like a bear in a sideshow.

As the cart staggered, he planted his legs and stood firm. When the officials said something, “Shut up!” he roared, “I’ll smash this thing!” he bellowed, thrashing about inside the cage. Acting as though he were beyond control, the officials pretended not to notice and continued on their way.

“Our comrades!” From inside the cage, Mongaku called out in his usual vigorous voice.

“This cage cart heads east!” “To the eastern edge where the sun rises— I am being exiled to Izu. But from there, without fail, the dawn of the destitute masses will soon rise and dispel this world’s evil mists!” “You will not speak.” When the executioner struck the cage cart with a split bamboo pole, he bellowed in a thunderous voice: “I am not mute!” “Shut up!” “I won’t be silenced!—Even if this world were to turn mute, this Mongaku’s mouth will not be stopped!”

Seven And then,

“Heaven has no mouth; it makes people speak.” Mongaku raised his voice even higher and sang resoundingly for the crowd trailing behind: “The world’s treasures are no eternal jewels— What worth have crowns and silken robes? They kindle their lamps with the people’s lifeblood— The bloom of excess stands perilous! Let the storm rage come tomorrow! Who dares claim it shall not strike?”

“Hey!” The bamboo pole struck the cage cart, “If you don’t stop singing, I’ll douse you with water!” “Go ahead and pour!” Mongaku did not flinch. “To capture me and exile me to Izu—that’s like releasing a tiger into the wild. “Mark my words—the Taira’s downfall is nigh!”

“Run!” The official ordered the ox driver, making the ox break into a gallop.

The wheels raised a terrible rumble in the earth, and then sent billowing clouds of yellow dust swirling over the crowd. “In this world, there is no eternal glory.” “How much less for the Taira!” “People! Masses! Do not lose heart—wait for the world to change!” “Whoa!” The masses erupted in uproar, “Change! Be reformed!” they shouted as if gone mad. Crack! Crack! Driven by the whip, the spotted ox pulling the cage cart wagged its tail and charged forward in a wild frenzy.

Mongaku—to those growing distant— “Farewell!” The crowd, tears welling up in their eyes, “Farewell—” The sun grew dim with dust. “Ah,” came feeble sighs, like the stifling heat of grass, heard here and there. As the people flowed toward the town carrying the rumors they had heard, between them moved those Rokuhara Tandai agents, their cunning eyes ceaselessly sniffing out crimes. “Where have you been?” “Doesn’t seem to be here either,” said the three temple samurai.

Once, they had returned to Torii Avenue with the crowd but turned back again, “This is exactly why it’s so troublesome.” “We’re utterly at our wits’ end with that young lord.” “He must not go out.” Wondering who they were searching for, they came running while glancing around restlessly, “Ah—pardon my abruptness—” they asked breathlessly and suddenly of the Noritsuna and Munenari brothers, whom they had unexpectedly encountered beneath the trees. “What is it?” Munenari stopped in his tracks.

“Have you by any chance seen a young lord of fourteen or fifteen around here?” “Huh?” He looked back at his older brother, “Did you see him?” “No.” When Noritsuna shook his head, the three temple samurai looked at him and again found themselves at a loss for words. “Though we call him a young lord, he is actually a ward of Kurama Temple—his attire has distinctive features, his build is somewhat small for his age, and at first glance, his face appears rather unremarkable.”

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

Eight

“Well then.” With perfunctory bows, the temple samurai ran off into the distance. Munenari watched them go,

“Brother, those samurai just now said they were from Kurama Temple, didn’t they?” “They did say that.”

“Could it be…” He tilted his head slightly as he spoke. “Could it be that the young lord those men lost sight of is Shanaō?” “Shanaō?” “He is Yoshitomo’s surviving child—a ward known by the childhood name Ushiwaka.” “I see.” “I can’t help but feel that way.” Blood ties cannot be disputed—blood will tell. Munenari stopped in his tracks and intently scanned his surroundings. Then, on the hill of Nakayamadō behind them—where Minamoto no Yorimasa’s monument stood—the face of a boy with a child’s topknot flickered into view, sitting among clumps of white pampas grass and smiling broadly.

“Ah, there he is…” When he tugged on his brother’s sleeve, Noritsuna also looked up. That was the place where a large crowd had gathered earlier when the prisoner transport cart carrying Mongaku passed by. Because the child was short, it was thought he had climbed up there to look. Immediately, in the pampas grass beside him, another figure crouched down. It was Yoshitsugu, the itinerant merchant and gold dust seller. He seemed to be whispering something. However, Shanaō did not turn his face toward Yoshitsugu; appearing to have utterly vacant eyes, he gazed straight at the clouds. He merely smiled while nodding occasionally.

“You must not be suspected. Return at once,” Yoshitsugu said. Lord Shanaō shook his head. “Nah.” “But—” “I said it’s fine.” “The time hasn’t yet ripened. For today, you must return to the mountain.”

“Got it.”

“Well then.” “But I already said it’s fine. Since they’re always keeping such annoyingly close watch over me, I’ll let those three stew in their panic for a while—look at those fools scrambling about!” Having gone four or five *chō* down the tree-lined path, the temple samurai returned with exhausted expressions. At this sight, Shanaō’s small chin jutted forward as he laughed in amusement.

Before long,

“Ah! Over there!” Having apparently spotted him, the temple samurai came swarming down the hill. And then,

“Lord Shanaō!” Waving their hands, they called out. Yoshitsugu, in a flash—

“See you later,” he said, leaving just those words before hiding like a wild fox behind Nakayamadō.

With an unfazed expression, Shanaō stood there. Indeed, for a fifteen-year-old, he was small in build. As though pressed by a fingertip, deep dimples marked his cheeks. His teeth were small and fine, with the texture of miso-stained enamel. The eyes—round as jujubes and darting restlessly—revealed a spiritedness, passion, and indeed the bold blood of one born to the Minamoto lineage; yet simplified by childhood innocence into such guileless eyes that casual observers might see only a mischievous, spoiled brat.

Nine “What may I ask are you doing there?” The attendant temple samurai looked up at the hill as if scolding. The young Shanaō, “I’m not doing anything.” He shook his head, “I was searching for you all,” he said contrarily. The temple samurai below made exasperated faces,

“Come down at once.” “Here I go!” Shanaō spread both sleeves like a kite, assuming his stance atop the hill. “Even if I bump into you—don’t say I didn’t warn you—” He came barreling down from the heights like a tumbling ball.

“Ah—” As one temple samurai tried to leap aside, Shanaō—as if on purpose—crashed into him with a thud. The large body rolled onto its back. The small Shanaō stepped on it and leaped away into the distance.

“Ha ha ha ha. “Ha ha ha ha!”

He clapped his hands and laughed uproariously.

“What fools you are.” “Didn’t I warn you beforehand?”

Without even looking back, he walked briskly ahead—the swiftness of his feet. The temple samurai, catching their breath, chased after his small and dashing figure.

Muneyoshi saw them off. “Brother, as expected, he is Ushiwaka of Kurama Temple.”

“Hmm.” Noritsuna also wore an exasperated look. “My, how he has grown up… Yet the Hōgen-era days when Lady Tokiwa held him to her breast along with her other young children—when rumors spread of their capture by Rokuhara Tandai and all Kyoto wept—feel as though they were but yesterday.” “He takes after Lord Yoshitomo and is quite the unruly one.” “Even the attendants must be at their wits’ end with him.” “Rather, those who will be at their wits’ end are not the attendants but soon the Heike officials of Rokuhara, would it not?” “In Izu, his elder brother Yoritomo has already come of age.”

“Shh…” Noritsuna shook his head reproachfully. Because someone had passed behind the row of trees. “It’s none of our concern. For poets and documents—whether it be the Heike’s reign or the Genji’s—spring remains spring, autumn remains autumn. In any era, one can find joy if they so wish.”

“But,” Muneyoshi whispered, “Somehow, I cannot shake this feeling that an ominous storm will batter Kyoto’s blossoms black—whether it be Mongaku of Takao’s shouted prophecy or these signs of Genji members stirring here and there...” “Don’t speak of it,” he reproached twice,

“You must be silent. To speak is to invite punishment.” “Mongaku said it too—‘a mute world.’”

“...Yes,” said Noritsuna, as if recalling something else entirely, “Speaking of muteness—Yoshimitsu Gozen grieves over Arinori’s child Wakako, Jūhachi Kimimaro, who has reached six months since birth yet utters no words.”

"That’s impossible. A six-month-old nursing child shouldn’t be able to speak." "But you’d think he could at least move his lips through willpower." "Ha ha ha, this is what we call borrowed trouble." "Both Yoshimitsu Gozen and Lord Hino dote on him too much."

Ten

There was nothing but dew and the chirping of insects. Hino Village was, as ever, thick with grass.

Jijūsuke, a lifelong retainer of Fujiwara no Arinori, was rarely seen wielding a rake to clear leaves and burn debris—the drainage channel beyond the earthen wall had become so choked with weeds that wastewater could no longer flow. "Huh?" He soon thrust his hand into the waterlogged grass, having spotted something. "Oh! These must be the sutras Her Ladyship painstakingly transcribed to present to Lord Shanaō at Kurama Temple!" "That Yoshitsugu—the wretch dumped them here instead of delivering them!" He retrieved the sodden lacquered boxes and scrolls. And then—

“Damnable wretch.” Angrily, he glared at the footprints in the trampled grass.

At that moment, Noritsuna and Muneyoshi appeared together. With an agitated expression, Jijūsuke appealed about the copied sutras.

“Hmm… They left them discarded.” The two of them stared at it and were lost in thought for a while. However, neither Noritsuna nor Muneyoshi showed any particular look of displeasure. Those who discard must have their own resolve for discarding; the happiness of the Pure Land should not be forced upon people, and in this world, there are even those who would rather willingly bathe in the flames of hell than aspire to the Pure Land. —for example, like Mongaku.

The two of them thought this way. And in their hearts, they divined Shanaō’s future. The shadow of a wild fox-like man that had fleetingly appeared on Nakayama Hall’s hill—they simultaneously recalled that this might have been Yoshitsugu, who had visited Hino on that recent night. “Very well. Bury them quietly in some spot where people don’t tread.”

“What a waste! You beasts!”

Jijūsuke, as if his anger remained unappeased, was still cursing.

“Is the master present?” “Yes, he is graciously present.” “Announce me.” “Please,” he said, pulling the rake and taking the lead. Since this mansion followed the same layout as their own residence, they deliberately avoided the formal entrance and, circling around the woven bamboo fence, entered the garden of the eastern cottage— “Oh my,” came the soft exclamation—for there, in a sunlit spot on the southern veranda, Yoshimitsu Gozen cradling her nursing child and Arinori sat together as husband and wife, harmoniously soothing the infant and relaxing at ease.

It is often said that a woman’s beauty peaks with her first childbirth, yet Yoshimitsu Gozen’s recent worn features and form—like autumn grass flowers that had endured midsummer—appeared supple and pure, and even her dignified beauty at times seemed so radiant it dazzled the eyes of the two who were accustomed to seeing her daily.

“Welcome, both of you… Now, please come this way to the room.” “What about Jūhachi Kimimaro?”

“Oh, he is sleeping soundly.” “Let me see.” As if making it his foremost priority, Noritsuna peered into the crook of Yoshimitsu Gozen’s arm. Is this not what they mean when they say a pearl begets a pearl? He had inherited his mother’s beauty in its entirety. He breathed peacefully through his small nostrils. The sweet scent of milk and the aroma evoking maternal love softened the hearts of Noritsuna and Muneyoshi, who had long since journeyed far from this hometown through life—indeed leading them to ponder something profound about the very genesis of their own lives.

Eleven

Here, even the demons of all evils found no shadow to lurk in. It was filled with brightness. “Here, let me hold him for a moment.” Muneyoshi took him into his arms,

“Let me hold him too.” Transferring the sleeping Jūhachi Kimimaro from arm to arm, Arinori took the child onto his lap. “He’s gotten heavy.” “Indeed,” his father said proudly, “he’s far healthier than ordinary children.” Then Yoshimitsu Gozen asked with a worried look, “Is it not already about time for him to say something?” “Hahaha! I’ve been discussing this very matter with Elder Brother all along—but it’s still too soon.” “Still not yet?” “There’s no need to worry.”

“But at least he should be saying a word or two by now.” “If he cries, that’s enough. If he’s going to cry, he will cry.” “At times, he cries with an ear-splitting loud voice.” “That’s enough.” Arinori was not particularly concerned. Above all else, he could place trust in this child’s robust health—for when set upon his knee, he felt a substantial weight. To parental hearts anxious about muteness, the lips—sealed so tightly they might indeed appear mute—remained stubbornly closed, yet the eyes were round and clear, shining within whites like a blue sky as if striving to open wide to this world; and when sleeping, thick eyelashes lowered deeply.

“He’ll be fine,” father himself had stamped his seal of approval. Yet—before long came the new year. The first full-year birthday arrived. By counted years he turned two. Summer waned and autumn came.

However, despite that, Jūhachi Kimimaro had yet to let any meaningful words escape his lips.

The wet nurse finally furrowed her brows in apparent unease and turned to Jijūsuke, “Wako-sama may indeed be mute,” it was said that she had quietly let slip, and Father Arinori also,

“It’s fine—as long as all five limbs are intact,” he offered with sorrowful resignation, striving not to let his wife lose heart. Among the servants who came and went without any particular affiliation,

“The infant born at Hino mansion is said to be mute,” people whispered. To the woman of maternal nature, it sounded cold. She too came to believe this,

"What karma..." she sank into sorrow, but having lamented the misfortune of childlessness before Nyoirin Kannon, (Please grant us—husband and wife—a child)—she had forgotten how fervently she’d prayed those words, yet now to complain of a mere flaw in the pearl she’d been granted seemed to her the very depth of human desire. In particular, she began contemplating her bloodline. The warrior ancestors of the Minamoto clan might have forged countless asura realms in this world. The number slain by Father Yoshichika and Cousin Yoshitomo alone would amount to sins no thousand—no ten thousand pagodas could expiate. That at the end of such a lineage, bearing one mute child—as a human child who cannot escape retribution for all deeds—should rather be deemed merciful compensation, something to accept with gratitude. She came to see this differently.

But the sorrow of motherhood remained sorrow; she felt an inexpressible sense of defeat toward both society and husband, and that grief could not be wiped away.

Twelve

In any case, Yoshimitsu Gozen herself and Arinori’s household maintained a humble and pure life—one that knew contentment and harbored no discontent—placing their spiritual focus solely on faith, marital love, and the nurturing of their child, living in tranquil clarity far removed from what is called worldly fame and profit. And so—both morning and evening, from the household Buddhist hall of this mansion would drift, for a brief period, the joyous chanting of nenbutsu by Arinori and his wife.

Moreover, having grown accustomed to this, the young retainer Jijūsuke would wash his face, rinse his mouth, and worship the sun,

“……” He silently chanted the nenbutsu.

The maidservants were the same. The wet nurse was the same. When even the young servants who drew water and ran errands came to emulate this practice, the old mansion seemed enveloped in a kind of radiant harmony—so much so that even outsiders viewed it with envy. In truth, neither the splendor of Rokuhara-dono nor the opulence of Komatsu-dono could come close to matching this couple’s life hidden among the grasses in terms of peace or happiness.

Geese passed overhead—autumn deepened. It was a Mid-Autumn night. “Brother, I’ve brought some fine wine in a sake bottle.” Muneyoshi arrived.

Before long, Noritsuna also appeared. As it was the Mid-Autumn night and these three brothers had gathered, they simply had to share a ceremonial cup of sake. Yoshimitsu Gozen had the stands and trays prepared, and holding Jūhachi Kimimaro herself, she took her place at the serene moon-viewing gathering. Deliberately, the candles remained unlit. The shadows of pampas grass plumes moved on the veranda and here and there. The moon streaming in from the eaves was far brighter than the lamplight. As the cups made their rounds, a faint flush drifted across people’s faces. Their discussions of poetry, their recitations of waka—their enthusiasm for these pursuits knew no end. As if suddenly remembering,

“Ah, right,” Muneyoshi turned to Yoshimitsu Gozen and said. “From the Rokuhara Tandai—have there been any troublesome inquiries directed toward Your Ladyship?” “No…” Yoshimitsu Gozen shook her head sideways, “Not particularly—the Rokuhara officials have not made any such statements to me, but…?” “…Could there be such rumors?” “Ah, no—it’s just my own groundless worry. The reason being—your cousin Lord Shanaō of Kurama has finally descended the mountain and gone into hiding in Kantō.”

“Huh… Lord Shanaō?” “Due to their negligence, they were outwitted—the Heike people are stamping their feet in frustration.” “That’s right—if he hadn’t intended rebellion, he wouldn’t have fled.” “The sudden disappearance of that young boy—though he is still a youth—is clearly perceived as a challenge from the Genji clan.” “But how could a mere sixteen-year-old young nobleman possibly have escaped successfully?… It’s truly heartbreaking.”

She suddenly noticed clouds drifting across the moon. She shuddered at the thought that her cousin’s disappearance—the one for whom she had secretly prayed in her heart—might make yet more blood-bound kindred weep. Then, when she became aware, Jūhachi Kimimaro—who had been playing on her lap—had somehow crawled about guilelessly through the moonlight and reached the veranda.

Thirteen “Dangerous!” Arinori stood before she could rise and scooped up Jūhachi Kimimaro. And, placing him on his own lap, “Lately, I can’t take my eyes off him for a moment,” he laughed. Muneyoshi and Noritsuna took turns soothing Jūhachi Kimimaro,

“It’s still manageable that we can’t take our eyes off him now—but when he grows up like Shanaō, parents will face true hardship.” “No—this child will not become like that young nobleman, for he is born mute. “—In this mute world where speech becomes a crime, that he was born to us mute—this too must be due to our faith as husband and wife.” Arinori peered down at the child on his lap and spoke. Jūhachi Kimimaro, with eyes clearer than the Mid-Autumn moon, stared fixedly at the full orb.

(What will become of this child?)—both the mother and the uncles alike seemed to share the same thought, precisely now that talk of Kurama’s young nobleman had surfaced. Everyone gazed at Jūhachi Kimimaro’s guileless eyes with equal guilelessness. Jūhachi Kimimaro brought his two small palms together with a clap, dimples appearing as he smiled. The child’s hands were round like a bodhisattva’s sacred palms. People found themselves unwittingly drawn into smiles. Then—

“Na...mu...a...mi...da Buddha” Someone spoke. In a low voice, it was unintelligible—but immediately after, in broken speech, clearly—

"...Namu Amida Butsu," he continued chanting.

At that moment, Arinori, the father who had been holding Jūhachi Kimimaro on his lap,

“Ah?!” Stunned, “Jūhachi Kimimaro has spoken!” “Jūhachi Kimimaro has spoken!” he screamed. Yoshimitsu Gozen also screamed. “It’s Jūhachi Kimimaro! “Truly, the one who just spoke was Jūhachi Kimimaro!” Overcome with joy and wearing a nearly crazed expression, he announced to Muneyoshi and then to Noritsuna.

“?…” “…” But the two men stood blankly dumbfounded. For Jūhachi Kimimaro’s voice that had just emerged from innocence was not merely an infant’s first utterance. He had clearly chanted the six-character Name of the Buddha. Struck by the miracle before their eyes, they shuddered and remained silent, as if their bodies had gone numb.

“How strange…” “What bodhisattva’s divine incarnation could he be?” Muneyoshi and Noritsuna kept tilting their heads in puzzlement long afterward as if facing an insoluble riddle, but Arinori declared this was neither an auspicious sign nor anything extraordinary.

“That which reflects Suchness is Suchness itself.” “—My wife’s sincere devotion cultivated Jūhachi Kimimaro’s heart during her pregnancy.” “Moreover, after birth, it was only natural that even the young child’s soul had imperceptibly become harmoniously blended with this household’s harmonious joy and its overflowing gratitude for the Dharma.” “What miracle could this possibly be?” Having offered this explanation, both he and his wife pressed their palms together toward the vast sky of Suchness— “Namu—” they involuntarily chanted loudly, weeping profusely.

Crimson Jewel Chapter

Mayfly Chronicles

One

Jōan Year 4 was an unforgettable time for Buddhist Japan—and especially for the path of nenbutsu.

Before rumors could spread openly about how Jūhachi Kimimaro of Hino—not yet two full years old—had opened the pupil of his heart to the harvest moon and unconsciously chanted the six syllables of “Namu—” in his innocence, Hōnen Shōnin had already begun preaching his new doctrine of exclusive nenbutsu practice that same year at Yoshimizu Zenbō in eastern Kyoto. In retrospect—it could be said that Hōnen Shōnin’s first proclamation and young Shinran’s first utterance, unplanned yet inevitable, emerged into the world under a promise that was no promise—sharing the same autumn in the era they were destined to be born into. It could be called a profound karmic bond.

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

An invitation also came from the imperial court. Regent Kujō Kanezane attended the sermons. While people keenly felt the Heike clan's rampant dominance, their tyrannical rule, and the dangerous volcanic heat of a society that might erupt at any moment, [Hōnen's teachings] flowed like a softly murmuring cool spring, eagerly drawn into the parched hearts and anxieties of the masses. The Retired Emperor Rokujō passed away. The era name was changed to Angen 2. Yoshimitsu Gozen bore another son a year later—Asamaro, Jūhachi Kimimaro's younger brother.

Asamaro turned two, and Jūhachi Kimimaro turned four. His younger brother being held by the wet nurse— “Lord Asa, open your eyes...,” he said, already showing the demeanor of a young older brother. The wet nurse they had hired for the brothers, on one occasion, “Lord Suke! Lord Suke!” summoned Jijū no Suke, and 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 left her sitting room— “What are you all looking at?” she asked from behind them. The wet nurse replied: “Oh my lady, do look! There—Lord Jūhachi Kimimaro has draped a rosary over his little hands and is worshiping the sacred image.” “Though none taught him—such meek devotion—” she added, narrowing her eyes. “Truly…” An inadvertent smile drifted into Yoshimitsu Gozen’s eyes.

The child was his mother's mirror. Both black karma and white karma—their deeds were immediately reflected and shown through him. She felt terrified. "Mother," When Jūhachi Kimimaro noticed the others' presence, he turned around, dropped the rosary, and clung to her lap. In his posture as he sat worshiping before the altar—radiating an innocent and pure light that made him seem like the Buddha reborn—there was something awe-inspiring that struck at the heart. Yet when he clung to his mother's lap and played at her breast like this, Jūhachi Kimimaro remained a child no different from any other in the world.

It was in the spring of the following year when Jūhachi Kimimaro—cherished like a jewel by the entire household—suddenly disappeared from within the house, causing the wet nurse, Jijū no Suke, and the servants to pale and rush about in panic.

Two

“He isn’t here either.” Jijū no Suke peered into the usual Buddhist altar room and reprimanded the wet nurse. “This is your failing.” “If you were holding Lord Asamaro, this is what happens because you were solely focused on Lord Asamaro!”

“Until just now, he was playing alone there in the garden plantings—so during the moment I let my guard down…” The wet nurse said in a fluster, driven by self-reproach. “—Maybe to the bamboo thicket out back,” he muttered while running off. Jijū no Suke frowned, slipped into his straw sandals, and descended into the garden once more—then began searching through the estate’s fields, bamboo groves, and hills.

“Lady Wako—” he called out loudly while taking care to keep the news from reaching the ears of the mistress or the master, searching frantically for any sign of Jūhachi Kimimaro.

To make matters worse, In a room of the eastern building, the master Arinori had been confined to bed due to illness since the New Year of An'ei 2. Because of this, Yoshimitsu Gozen herself had not taken a single step out of her husband’s sickroom—a circumstance that also partly caused such an oversight to occur. Thus, the servants—their hearts all the more anguished—strove to keep this lapse from reaching the sickroom; yet as this was an incident within the mansion itself, and even the demeanor of the summoned maid showed signs of suspicion, she—the mother—could not possibly remain unaware.

“There’s no need to make such a commotion just because Jūhachi Kimimaro is out of sight.” Reprimanding the servants’ words, she quietly left her husband’s bedside. She too had feared causing the patient undue concern upon learning of it. She stepped out into the corridor, “Surely he would not have run beyond the earthen wall to outside the mansion. Have you checked the bridge in the pond?” “Yes, it seems we have searched there as well.”

“There are times when he amuses himself playing with the pond turtles by the shore—but surely there’s no sign he fell into the water?” “That’s not…” The servant answered in an unsettled and unconfident tone. “Please bring me the sandals.” She spoke with composure and quietness, though clearly so worried that it pained her heart. Standing on the corridor steps while waiting for the servant to bring the sandals, her brows furrowed impatiently. Then,

“Sister, where are you going?”

From the shade of the garden plantings, someone called out and approached—a figure now coming into view. A smiling figure in a dark brown formal robe and black-lacquered court hat looked up at her by the railing, "You look terribly pale." …… "Moreover, the attendant is nowhere to be seen, and the back gate has been left wide open, hasn’t it?" "Lord Muneie, you’ve come at an opportune moment." "...Right now, as Jūhachi Kimimaro cannot be seen, both the attendant and the wet nurse have gone out."

“What? You say Wako has gone missing?” “Lately, they say many human traffickers or kidnappers from Mutsu have been coming to Kyoto and lurking about. If something were to happen... it would aggravate my husband’s illness, and I myself couldn’t survive this.” As she spoke, her eyes had already filled with tears.

Three

Round hills overlapped one another. From beneath the red pines on the hill, smoke from a tile-baking kiln rose straight upward. Looking at that, one could tell there was no wind.

A swarm of butterflies came fleeing. Creak-creak-creak, creak—the sound of wheels came from somewhere. When they looked, an ox that seemed weary from its leisurely day-long outing was slowly pulling a single palanquin across Hino Village. “Shichirō! —Shichirō!” a boy’s voice called out from inside the palanquin. Likely the son of a samurai family, he roughly lifted the blind with a rustle and stuck his head out. “Where did Shichirō go?” The ox driver stopped in his tracks and looked back at the road behind. Three young samurai retainers could be seen walking far behind, joking about something as they lagged in the distance.

“Tsk,” the boy atop the palanquin clicked his tongue with grown-up affectation. With ruddy cheeks and mischief-glinting eyes, “You think I’m a child? Even my own damned retainers mock me!” He cupped both hands around his mouth and bellowed, “Hey—!” At that shout—as if only now noticing—the retainers came scrambling to the palanquin’s side. “Fools! Fools! What’re you lazing about for?!” The boy raged down at them before continuing.

“Look—there’s a child crouching at the foot of that hill.” “He’s doing something suspicious!” “Go see what he’s up to—now!” “Huh? …Where would that be?” The retainer called Shichirō looked around restlessly where the boy pointed. “Can’t you see? Are you blind?” “What a dimwit.” “…Under that tree there—the one with white blossoms, whether plum or apricot—” “Understood.” “Did you spot him?” “Ah—there is a child.”

“He’s been crouching there motionless like that since earlier.” “What a freakish brat.” “Go see what he’s up to!” “Yes!” Shichirō hurried off.

The white flowers were plum. When he quietly approached from behind, there sat a child of about four or five years old under an old plum tree, absorbed in playing with soil. (Huh?) Shichirō's eyes widened. Before the child stood three Buddha statues made by his own hands. They were unmistakably shaped as Amitabha Buddha. Though not elaborate, they embodied how a child's heart is the Buddha's heart. Within them lay something no master craftsman's skill could ever produce.

If that were all, Shichirō would not have been so surprised. But soon, the child pressed his mud-covered palms together and began to chant something. Both his manner and his attitude were utterly natural—and dignified. Fluttering, fluttering—the white of the plum blossoms scattering onto the child’s unkempt hair appeared to Shichirō’s eyes as if some radiant light were showering down. (This is no ordinary child.) Having felt this, he turned on his heel and hurried back toward the palanquin where his mischievous master lay in wait.

“Hey, what did you find out?” With his round eyes gleaming, the boy dangled one leg from the palanquin and demanded at once.

IV “There is nothing of particular interest.” When Shichirō said this,

“But what?” The mischievous boy persisted.

“Let us talk while moving the palanquin forward.” “Wait, wait.” The boy shook his head and, “Get to the point.” “I was a bit startled, so unless I compose myself, I cannot properly speak.” “...Even someone like me has known many children, but I have never seen one like that.” “There, see?” “You say there’s nothing interesting, but if it could startle a samurai of your caliber, it must be fascinating indeed.—What in the world is that child?”

“He must be a child from somewhere around here. Without realizing I had approached and was watching, he was single-mindedly crafting three Amida Buddha statues from clay.” “What nonsense!” The boy sneered with crimson lips. “What a fool you are—to be startled by such trifles?”

“No, no—Shōji Shichirō was not startled by such a thing. ...But I was startled by the noble bearing of his chanting posture. It struck me through. Somehow, I felt my whole body go numb. The scattering plum blossoms, the sunlight filtering through trees, even the heat haze rising from the earth’s scent—all appeared as the radiant halo enveloping the true Buddha.” “Hmm...” “This is no ordinary child. The extraordinariness of these three sacred statues being shaped—the modesty in his bearing.”

“Hmm…” “To think such a child exists in this world—I was utterly impressed.”

Noticing his mischievous master’s face had turned terribly sullen, Shichirō—regretting he might have praised the child too much—clamped his mouth shut. It was just as expected.

“You smart-aleck little brat!” From atop the palanquin, the boy spat and began to curse. “Such a know-it-all act means he can’t be any proper child.” “First of all, I, Jutōmaru, absolutely despise milk-stinking brats who fiddle with Buddha statues while still reeking of their mother’s teat!”

Glaring around at his retainers’ faces as if demanding their approval, but when none of them echoed his sentiment, Jutōmaru grew increasingly displeased. “Hey! Hey! Go snatch that clay idol that damn brat made and kick it to pieces right before my eyes!” “That’s outrageous!” When one samurai tried to stop him,

“Don’t want to?” “But…” “This is your lord’s command!” This mischievous one, though small in stature, spoke with a force that could outmatch any adult’s. When told it was their lord’s command, the retainers were at a loss.

Shichirō, seeming accustomed to handling such situations, attempted to calm them down and reason that even temporarily performing such acts toward Buddha statues would invite divine punishment, causing their legs to bend. “Punishment?” Jutōmaru, on the contrary, seemed to burn with antipathy at the word “punishment,” “Even within the household of Lord Komatsu, the Right General, I am Jutōmaru—son of Narita Hyōe Tamenari, a father renowned in archery and military arts! What’s this ‘punishment’ you speak of?” “Then let it come!” “If you cowards—blown by the winds of cowardice—can’t even manage that much, I’ll go and crush them myself!” Planting one foot on the palanquin’s shaft, he leapt down with a thud.

Five

Shichirō was startled. "Now, wait!" Together with the other retainers, they tried to forcibly lift and push the spoiled child Jutōmaru back onto the palanquin. "I don’t want to! I don’t want to!" The little tyrant stiffened his legs against the shaft, pounding the retainers’ heads and clawing at Shichirō’s face with his nails.

“Let go! Stop it, you fools!”

“Kindly wait. Should you—the Young Master of Narita Hyōe—stoop to muddying your feet thus, people would laugh.”

“Let them laugh! I am a samurai’s child. Once I’ve said something, I hate to back down. I’ll go kick that smart-aleck brat’s clay Buddhas to pieces to show you! Whether divine punishment strikes or not—you lot just watch!” “Such trivial acts are not to be performed.” “What do you mean, ‘trivial’?” While being supported by his retainers’ shoulders and hands, Jutōmaru flailed his legs in midair. Finding themselves overwhelmed,

“If you insist that much, I have no choice—Shichirō will go.” “You’re going?” “Since it is the lord’s command—” “There, see?! Since you must go anyway, why won’t you obey my command quickly?” Finally, the little tyrant settled into the palanquin and acted nonchalantly. “Hurry up and take them!” He was a foolish young lord, but he excelled at such maneuvering. Although Shichirō found the young lord somewhat detestable for being the master’s child, he was caught between a crying brat and an unyielding magistrate.

“Understood.” He hurried his reluctant steps and returned to the foot of the hill.

(Is he still here?) Rather—praying that he had already left—Shichirō peered into the plum tree’s shade. There sat the three clay statues he himself had made, and the boy with cropped child’s hair remained in prayer, his posture unchanged from moments before—utterly still.

It was a spring noon when even the faint hum of horsefly wings reverberated through his eardrums. Shichirō stole his footsteps and approached behind the boy—as he drew near, the low chant of *nenbutsu* spilling from the child’s lips reached his ears. As though advancing upon a fearsome warrior, Shichirō’s knees quaked. No matter what he did, it felt as though his legs couldn’t move beyond a certain point. He wavered—should he abandon this and turn back?

In the distance, Jutōmaru’s voice called out urgently and insistently. He closed his eyes, dreading the divine punishment that would follow his return to his master’s estate.

(That’s it—while no one’s around!) Shichirō lunged. Over the shoulders of the boy deep in prayer with hands clasped, he abruptly reached out his hand. He tucked one statue under his left arm. As he grabbed for another Amida Buddha statue, the boy—startled—stood up, “Huh?!” he cried out adorably. Then like a small child, he released his hands and burst into tears. The instant Shichirō—clutching two statues—kicked another one.

“You brute!” With a sickening thud, a fierce palm roared like a leather whip as it struck his earlobe. “Ah—” Clutching his ear, Shichirō tumbled over sideways. The Buddha statue slipped from his hand once more, shattered into fragments, and returned to the earth.

Six “How childish!” A rebuke rang out above his head. Shichirō stood up and looked at the one who had struck him.

He was nineteen or twenty years old—no more than that age, a young samurai. He rolled up his sleeves, slightly raised his right shoulder, and with his left hand drew close the weeping boy with tied-up hair. "I don’t know which young samurai you are, but at your age, why did you kick and shatter the statues of Amida Buddha that Lady Yoshimitsu so carefully made? Now get down on your hands and knees and apologize!" When confronted so directly with insults, Shōji Shichirō—though he may be a vassal—was still a prosperous retainer of the Heike clan. He could no longer retreat with his tail between his legs.

“You struck me?” “I struck!”

Proudly, the young man declared without reservation. “Of all people—you dared show disrespect to my master Lady Yoshimitsu! That’s why I struck you down.” “So what?”

“You bastard—which clan’s young samurai are you?” “I am a servant-attendant who serves Lord Fujiwara no Arinori， former Senior Secretary to the Empress.” “A menial of the ruined Fujiwara house?” “No matter what others may say， to me， she is the one and only lord under heaven.” “There there—Lord Wako—please don’t cry anymore，” said the servant-attendant as he comforted the sobbing Jūhachi Kimimaro while brushing off mud from hands and dust from clothes， “Your mother， your uncle， and your wet nurse—who knows how desperately they must be searching for you， Lord Wako， unable to find you.” “Please wipe your tearful face， Lord Wako—let us return swiftly to the mansion with Kai.” As he patted [the boy’s] shoulder and began to walk away， Shichirō lunged forward.

“Wait! Our business isn’t finished!” he said, grabbing the pommel of Kai’s sword. Kai turned around. “Got a problem?” “Hey! Payback for earlier!” Suddenly clenching his fist, he lunged to strike Kai’s cheekbone. But Kai—anticipating this—skillfully lowered his torso in a half-crouch and pulled Shichirō’s forearm as if embracing it— “What’s this—” Thud—he flung him into the grass. In the grass where a narrow stream meandered, muddy water splashed up from where Shichirō had struck his waist.

“Wh—what?! That young samurai threw Shichirō! After him, retainers! Chase him down and beat him to a pulp!”

From the carriage racing forth with whip cracks, Jutōmaru shouted. Kai observed this, “Lady Yoshimitsu—quickly—hold fast to my back.” “...The opposition is dire.” “We must flee.”

Seeing they were Heike retainers, he chose a prudent course. And—already, pebbles came flying their way. Jutōmaru, who had leapt down from the carriage, was gathering stones to hurl. Then— "They're Fujiwara dogs!" "Don't you know? Harm one hair on a Heike kinsman, and the Chancellor himself will have your heads!" "Don't let them escape!" "Catch them! Truss them to oxen and haul them before Rokuhara's magistrates!" he bellowed from afar.

And then, moving ahead to intercept Kai’s fleeing path, they set up positions together with ox drivers and samurai. Kai—with Jūhachi Kimimaro on his back—reached for the waist of the ox driver who had extended his hand. "You brute!" he spat as he kicked him and ran again.

Seven Both the female and male servants, unable to focus on their work, had vacated the kitchen and gone outside.

Yashirō was a menial worker who tended to the cows in the cow shed and fetched water for the kitchen and bathhouse, but he too grew anxious and left the water bucket at the well's spout. "Miss Okuri, has Lady Yoshimitsu been found?"

The maidservant Okuri, who had been wandering outside the plaster wall, shook her head, “Nowhere—” she said with a shadowed expression. “Haven’t you found her?” “Yeah…”

“That’s strange…” Yashirō stood side by side with Okuri, arms crossed.

Lately, the unsettling rumors that had been plaguing the desolate villages outside the capital began to stir uneasily in the depths of his heart. These were rumors of "child-snatching"—occurring not just outside the capital, but sometimes even in broad daylight within the bustling streets of Genbu and Suzaku.

According to rumors in the streets, villains who made child-snatching their trade would sell boys to Chinese ships at Murotsu Port, while fair-faced girls—whom the people of Kyoto imagined came from eastern lands as distant as a thousand leagues—were said to be trafficked far beyond Nasuno Field into Mutsu Province, to the castle town of Hiraizumi in Ōshu where the barbaric Emishi people were creating a culture imitating Kyoto’s ways. Recalling that, “Could it be that she has fallen into the hands of child-snatchers?” As Yashirō muttered,

“That might be the case.” Okuri’s eyes too held sadness. But almost immediately, both pairs of eyes— “Oh!” Their eyes sparkled.

“Kai!” When Yashirō suddenly shouted,

“Oh! Lady Yoshimitsu—!” Okuri stumbled as if falling and rushed into the gate.

“Lady Yoshimitsu has returned!” “Lady Yoshimitsu!” “Lady Yoshimitsu!” The ecstatic voices spreading through the mansion could be heard even outside.

“Kai! Kai!” Yashirō called out, raising both hands. Carrying Jūhachi Kimimaro on his back, diagonally crossing the field and kicking up grass as he ran, Kai’s face bore a small amount of seeping blood, sweat streaming down to his collar as though he had plunged into water. “Yashi! Close the rear!” he gasped out, and dashed into the plaster wall enclosure.

Yashirō closed them as Kai had instructed. While ordering them to firmly secure both the west gate and main gate entrance, Kai dashed toward the inner garden. "Oh!" Yoshimitsu Gozen—who had appeared at the stairway's summit—Kai rushed down without even setting Jūhachi Kimimaro down first, seizing her child. Clutching him tightly as she returned to the corridor, she wept for some time—her tears soaking through from both joy and the release of her strained heart.

“Wako.” After a moment of pulling her cheek away, the mother—contrary to her inner feelings—assumed a slightly stern gaze. “This mother and your uncle have been so worried. Though I’ve taught you time and again, why did you go outside alone?” she scolded.

Eight

“Oh—but!” Kai hurriedly interrupted Lady Yoshimitsu’s words. “Pray do not scold him, your ladyship—Lady Wako’s circumstances differ entirely from those of common mischief-makers darting about.” “Yet at such moments—”

“You are quite right.” “However, in my humble opinion, it seems likely that Lady Wako—with her small heart troubled by your father’s illness—was offering prayers for him.” “But… why?” “When I went searching everywhere, I found Lady Wako sitting just like this in the shade of the hill where I once carried her to gather clay.” Kai went to the garden, sat down, and joined his hands in prayer, mimicking exactly what Jūhachi Kimimaro had been doing.

And he reported in detail everything he had witnessed: how he had made three statues of Amida Buddha, how he had been praying wholeheartedly to something, and how his dignified posture was such that it could hardly be thought to be the behavior of a young child. “Oh… Wako…” In her mother’s eyes were tears filled to the brim—the moment they turned into a smile，a white streak glistened on her cheek. “So… you were making statues of Buddha with those little hands，praying for your father’s illness to heal?” “…Is that it，hmm?” When she stroked his hair，Jūhachi Kimimaro looked up at her eyelashes and，even with his childish heart，seemed to feel something apologetic as he nodded gently.

Upon hearing the news, Munetoki returned, and the nursemaid came running with widened eyes.

Even the maids and servant girls gathered there, each in turn praising Jūhachi Kimimaro’s filial devotion. Moreover, the fact that he had been making clay statues of the Buddha was a source of wonder to the adults. Munetoki alone did not voice praise or shower him with compliments, but gazed as if utterly entranced at the sight of Jūhachi Kimimaro—giggling joyfully while being passed from one family member’s hands to another. And then, (This child—) he felt a dazzling future and was struck by a desire to kneel down in worship.

Then, outside the plaster wall enclosure, yellow sand swirled up, and with a clamor, vulgar shouts could be heard. “Here it is—the residence of that impoverished noble Arinori.” It seemed to be Jutōmaru and his retainers who had chased after Kai. “Hey! You young retainer—get out here!” “How dare you throw down my man?” “Come out now or we’ll storm in!” “Kicking through one or two layers of this crumbling earthen wall’s no trouble at all!” And then,

“Coward! Won’t you answer?” Jutōmaru, cowed by their fervor, seemed unable to utter a sound. “Everyone—hurl stones! Hurl stones!” As soon as the shouting ceased, gravel rained down upon the mansion’s eaves and veranda. One stone struck Munetoki’s shoulder. “What manner of outrage is this?” Kai glared fiercely,

“Damn you!” Kai blurted out. And with a sharp motion along his tachi’s curve, “Oi! I’ll meet you right now—don’t move a muscle there!”

Nine Seeing Kai’s livid expression as he tried to rush out, Munetoki grabbed the scabbard of his tachi in alarm. “Where do you think you’re going?” “Do those insults not reach your ears? At first, I endured it and retreated into the mansion to keep Lord Jūhachi Kimimaro from harm. But I can bear no more! Kai will cut through them and slash every last one!” “Have you gone mad? Those are Heike samurai’s children!”

“I detest the Heike clan’s tyranny that has even made that yellow-beaked brat so arrogant. If I cut off their heads and die fighting, it might serve as a warning and save the people of the world.” “Do not throw away your life needlessly. If you swat one or two flies that annoy you, would tens of thousands of flies stop their noisy antics? Moreover, our master is ill. Endure it! Stay silent!”

“Yes, fine, whatever.” “Absolutely not! You must never go beyond the plaster wall enclosure. Be mute! Consider your ears nonexistent!” “That’s asking too much of a man with ears, eyes, and blood in his veins! —Damn you! Narita Hyōe’s brat and your rabble—remember this day!” When he shouted over the plaster wall, mocking laughter erupted from outside. Cow dung and broken sticks clattered into the garden. It wasn’t just Kai. The kitchen servants too gnashed their teeth in frustration. But Munetoki kept calming them, and Yoshimitsu Gozen trembled in fear,

“Please endure this, I implore you. You must not engage with them.” She pleaded through words alone, tears pooling in her eyes, until the clamor fell silent as if rendered deaf.

Then, a young servant from the inner quarters came running down the corridor in haste, "My Lady! Lord Munetoki! Please come at once—immediately!" At the tremor in his voice, the two started in alarm. "What happened?" "His Lordship's condition has changed suddenly." "His lips' color and eyes have altered abruptly..." "What?! He's worsened?" Munetoki rushed into the room. Yoshimitsu Gozen slipped her skirts aside and concealed herself in her husband's sickroom, but soon Munetoki emerged from there with pained brows. Then in rapid speech,

“Kai— Kai—” he called out. Kai was at the foot of the stairs, silent and sullen with folded arms slumped in gloom, but— “Yes! Kai is here, but…” “Quickly! Hurry to the physician’s residence, then straightaway run to inform Lord Rokujō’s brother!” “Then… his condition…?”

"Hmm, there may be no hope left now. Hurry up and go!" "Yes! Yes!" he replied, then ran toward the gate.

“Kai—!” Munetoki called out once more. “Above all, don’t pay any mind to the sons of the Rokuhara Tandai or their ilk.” “No matter how they revile you, cover your ears and run!” “Understood?” “Yes!” “I’m counting on you—make haste!” Kai opened the plaster wall gate and desperately leaped outside.

Ten

As Kai hurried toward the capital without glancing aside, Jutōmaru and his retainers spotted him.

“A dog’s running off! That scrawny mutt’s slinking away with its tail down!” “What became of all your bold claims earlier?” “Coward!”

Once again, they showered him with jeers and pebbles from behind, but Kai, recalling Munetoki’s words, plugged his ears and...

“Endure, endure, endure,” he chanted inwardly, hurrying toward the capital without looking back.

And so he arrived without pause at Lord Rokujō Noritsuna's residence, but as ill luck would have it, Noritsuna had gone to the Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa's palace and had not yet returned, it was said. At the imperial court, members of the Heike clan surrounded His Majesty in such numbers that those outside their faction were kept at a distance—thus Noritsuna had seldom been able to attend in the past. Yet recently, the Retired Emperor's disposition had changed somewhat; he often frowned upon the Heike faction's excessive dominance, and from time to time Noritsuna now received summonses. Of course, this did not mean Noritsuna was involved in political affairs—his role remained confined to serving as a companion for waka poetry or occasionally joining the outermost edges of imperial banquets.

“Is his lordship’s return always so late?” When Kai asked, looking perplexed, the residence attendant answered, “When his lordship goes out, it is customary for him to return quite late.” “That’s a problem.” Kai thought of going to the imperial palace and trying to ask the imperial guards to relay a message. Having left there and started running again, he encountered Noritsuna along the way.

“Isn’t that Kai?” He was called out to, “I was just in the right place, Lord Rokujō! It’s urgent.” “Lord Arinori’s condition has taken a sudden turn for the worse, and even the physicians and apothecaries deem it grave.” “Her Ladyship and Lord Munetoki have been constantly at his bedside.” “Please come at once.” “Arinori...?” As if he had anticipated this, Noritsuna immediately turned his ox-drawn carriage around and hastened to Hino Village. The sickroom was deathly silent. Anxiety came first. But Arinori had obtained a temporary respite in good condition and had calmed down somewhat.

However, the physician said his condition was by no means good and warned them not to let their guard down. Contradicting those words, when April came, Arinori had greatly improved. "I have no regrets whenever I may die," he said with such a cheerful face it almost sounded like a joke, "but my only concern is leaving behind a woman and young children without means to survive in this turbulent society." Noritsuna too replied as if jesting,

“There’s no need to worry about such things. Even if my strength is meager, am I not here?” he said. Arinori nodded with a faint smile. It was no mere jest. It was the most significant utterance of his life. When May came, his illness took a turn for the worse, and Fujiwara no Arinori—leaving behind his beautiful wife and two children—became one who would not return. Honoring his final wish—“Women and children without means to survive... In this turbulent society of endless strife, that alone weighs on me”—Noritsuna soon took the widow and two children into his Rokujō residence. As he himself had no heirs, he completed the procedures to formally adopt Jūhachi Kimimaro and Asamaro into the imperial court.

Northern Guard in Turmoil

One It was a night rain that nurtured the grass. An evening of milky rain softly dripping from the lattice shutters— Noritsuna set down his slightly weary brush and trimmed the clove-shaped wick of the candle. A damp wind carrying the scent of young leaves drifted in from somewhere, hinting at the early summer that follows the passing rain. “How fast... It’s already been a year.” At the desk, resting his elbows, Noritsuna recalled his younger brother’s death. It was precisely last May that Fujiwara no Arinori had departed this world. Not long after that, he took in the two bereaved children and the young widow into this Rokujō household, but since his own means of livelihood had not suddenly increased, Noritsuna had to devise some income apart from the stipend from the Retired Emperor’s court. Writing poems on colored paper and poem cards brought in next to nothing, so he secretly took on sutra-copying work from large temples, engaging in nightly labor equivalent to that of a scribe.

But even that grew wearisome. When he grew weary, sometimes, "If only these were different times—" he would think, cursing the Heike-dominated world, but in the end, dismissing it as the grumbling and self-mockery of a powerless man, he would resolve to forget his troubles by looking at the children's faces. Even now,

"...Have they gone to sleep 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, who had been lying beside Asamaro under the canopy to lull him to sleep, quietly rose and offered a mat. “These past few days, Asamaro’s crying has been rather fretful and fussy…” “It may be a touch of worms.” “Jūhachi Kimimaro…” “He is over there.”

“Are you still awake?”

Peering into the next narrow room, he indeed found Jūhachi Kimimaro—now five years old—sitting at a small desk practicing his calligraphy under a dim, firefly-like lamp wick. “Studying?” “Great!” he praised as he stood up, went over, and peered at the ink-stained paper.

“Hmm, the Iroha song?” “…Who made this copybook?” Jūhachi Kimimaro turned around, “Uncle did,” he answered.

“Did Munetoshi write this for you?” “A kana master of this caliber is rare, even if you were to search far and wide.” “You have a good teacher—you’re a fortunate one.” “Father, please write a poem too.” “When it comes to calligraphy, I cannot match Munetoshi.” “I will teach you the way of waka once you’ve grown a bit more.” “Waka is the music of the Japanese heart.” “Whatever you become as an adult, it would be well to have at least some cultivation.”

Someone came walking down the watadono corridor with a creaking sound at that moment.

“Who goes there?” “It is Yajirō.” The servants who had followed them since their move from the Hino residence were only this Yajirō and the young retainer Sukesuke. Sukesuke had returned to his rural hometown some time ago upon receiving news that his elderly mother, whom he had left behind there, had fallen gravely ill, and had been absent for about two months. “A person came just now and threw in a letter addressed to Yoshimitsu-sama, so—” said Yajirō as he presented a rain-stained letter before her.

Two

“Hmm?” She tilted her head. Who could have sent this letter thrown in without leaving a name? Finding no likely sender coming to mind, she opened the seal. Holding the candle close as she read through it, Yoshimitsu Gozen at last released a soft sigh and whispered: “Ah, so he has finally descended from Kurama after all.” “I prayed that child at least might be spared his father’s fate...” Noritsuna leaned in to look.

“From whom?” he asked. “Surprisingly, from Shanaō of Kurama—” “What did you say?”

“How did he manage to evade the Heike’s watchful attendants’ eyes, flee to Kantō, conceal himself away, and now become one of Fujiwara no Hidehira’s retainers in Ōshu…”

“So it seems the rumors held truth after all,” “There was quite an uproar when Shanaō fled Mount Kurama some time ago.” “I had thought it mere hearsay… But this letter states he’s undergone genpuku and taken the name Minamoto no Yoshitsune.” “Blood will out.” “Ambitious warlords might exploit him… Yet this makes me fear all the more for Jūhachi Kimimaro’s fate.” “What if Genji blood flows secretly in his veins too?”

“You shouldn’t borrow trouble like that. Nor is it certain those of Minamoto blood must tread only cursed paths. Whether white or red—you won’t know until it blooms.”

“May he become a tree that is peaceful and quiet—unshaken by wind—and bears blossoms...” With maternal sorrow filling her eyes, she gazed at the corner of the adjacent room.

Under the light of the lampwick, Jūhachi Kimimaro forgot to sleep and was still writing characters on the manuscript. “Grind.” “Yes.”

“You should go to sleep now.” “Yes.” “Leave it for tomorrow.” The maid came and had him remove his clothes. And when Jūhachi Kimimaro obediently hid under the quilt in the shadow of the curtain, it was not long before... A young page approached briskly, “My lord,” he called. “What is it?”

“A messenger from Lord Shin Dainagon has arrived and states that he earnestly wishes to meet with you.” “A messenger?”

“Shall I show him in?” “A messenger from Lord Narichika at this hour…” She tilted her head suspiciously as she pondered, “Well, regardless, extend him every courtesy.” “Understood.”

When the young page left, Noritsuna immediately stood up and went to the guest room.

In the guest room, two samurai were waiting with proper decorum. Upon receiving the host’s greeting,

“I am Tada no Kuranodo, who serves at the North-facing Samurai guard post.” The second samurai also followed suit, solemnly, “Likewise, North-facing Samurai Kondō Uemon no Jō Morotaka,” he announced.

III

The visit of Tada no Kuranodo—with his pallid complexion bearing a scheming air—and Kondō Uemon no Jō Morotaka—renowned in the North-facing Samurai guard post as a man of valor—was such that merely considering the combination of these two men, given the current climate, made it clear their errand was no casual matter.

Especially at midnight. The two guests who had ventured out into that late hour and braved the rain sat there drenched through—from their hitatare formal robes down to their hakama trousers, even the cords of their swords sodden, each sleeve thoroughly soaked. “Now then…” Kuranodo lowered his voice. “If I may, I wish to discuss a matter of some urgency in confidence.” “Do not worry,” said Noritsuna. “Even the servants do not come here without permission. As you can see, it’s a single walled chamber—no voices will leak outside.”

“Hmm…” Exchanging nods with Kondō, “To put it plainly, by Lord Shin Dainagon’s initiative, around the thirteenth of this month, those of like mind shall gather at Prelate Shunkan’s hermitage in Shishigatani to discuss various matters. It has been conveyed that you too are earnestly requested to attend.” “—Would it be possible for you to attend?” “Well…” Noritsuna hesitated in his reply.

Lately, there had been matters concerning the Retired Emperor that gave one pause. It was widely rumored that wrath burned against Chancellor Kiyomori. The cause lay in Chancellor Kiyomori’s heir Kojima Shigemori being promoted to Left Major Captain and his second son Munemori to Right Major Captain—surpassing even nobles like those of Tokudaiji and Kasan’in and seating them above his own rank—which appeared to have left Lord Shin Dainagon Narichika with a resentment he could not swallow. The Retired Emperor’s internal governance went without saying—even matters of appointments and dismissals were now so freely controlled by the Kiyomori father and son that they feared their own ranks might soon be stripped away and distributed to even the lowliest branches of the Heike clan. Such suspicions fueled their growing paranoia.

When Narichika perceived that even the Retired Emperor had recently come to detest this tyranny of the Heike clan, his scheming heart was further inflamed. Among the samurai guard post known as the North-facing Samurai too existed many similarly discontented individuals. Moreover, it was an autumn when the people yearned for the Heike clan’s downfall like parched earth awaiting rain. Now, were they to devise a plan, it would surely succeed without fail—it was what one might call the arrival of the opportune moment. Noritsuna had discerned that these like-minded individuals had seemingly formed a secret society within the Retired Emperor’s circle and were operating covertly—like watching someone play with fire—so,

(Ah—that’s it) he had already discerned as much but deliberately feigned ignorance. "The thirteenth..." He sank into contemplation.

Kuranodo edged forward on his knees,

“I must insist you make the necessary arrangements.” “And who exactly will be attending this gathering?”

“In that case,” said Uemon no Jō as he rummaged in his breast pocket and unfurled a scroll of signatures beneath the candlelight, “Lord Renjō, Middle Captain of Ōmi; Prelate Shunkan, Administrator of Hōshō-ji Temple; Lord Motokane, Governor of Yamashiro; Lord Masatsuna, Senior Assistant Minister of Ceremonials; Lord Yasunori, Assistant Captain of the Heike; and Lord Sukeyuki, New Assistant Captain—as well as the aforementioned Uemon no Jō and Kuranodo Yukitsuna,” he read.

IV The Retired Emperor’s civil officials and the North-facing Samurai had solemnly appended their joint seals. Noritsuna averted his eyes. When he met Kuranodo’s gaze—the man staring unflinchingly back—those pupils blazed with lethal resolve: having laid bare these secrets, he would permit no refusal; rejection would mean letting the sword drawn close to his left hand decide matters. “I see.” Noritsuna retreated half a step. In that sliver of time, he had reached his decision.

“So even if you say we’re gathering at the prelate’s hermitage, it’s not truly to compose poetry or perform Sarugaku—to while away half a day in elegant pastimes, is it?”

“Of course, on the surface—it has been arranged in that manner, but the truth…” Uemon no Jō looked around at the deepening shadows cast by the advancing candlelight. “The truth is—the North-facing Samurai and those signatories I just read out have sworn in blood to revere the Retired Emperor, take Lord Shin Dainagon as their leader, and overthrow the tyrannical Heike clan in one stroke. Within the capital, prying eyes abound—thus, on the day we gather at Shishigatani, we intend to finalize all plans. Now then—given your house’s deep ties to the Genji clan and, above all, the Retired Emperor’s profound trust in you, there can be no refusal. Yet we have come at midnight as envoys of our faction to formally urge your allegiance.” When Kuranodo said all this in one breath, Uemon no Jō also—

“Lord Noritsuna.” “Your answer—” he pressed. “…………” The two men stared piercingly at Noritsuna’s eyebrows from both sides 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 say?) Noritsuna was perplexed. Regardless of what became of the Heike clan or how politics shifted, I had always strived to avoid being swept into such maelstroms—for I was a poet, not a warrior nor a politician, nor did I covet prestigious offices; it was enough to keep to my own path in poetry and literature. Yet now, those around me would no longer allow it.

When one hears even a single word of an important secret, one must choose between two options: either join the secret or be killed by it. Pressed by this dilemma, Noritsuna felt his own dire straits and could not help but think—from the highest level of the Retired Emperor’s perilous position down to the smallest concerns: the two young ones who must have already fallen peacefully asleep in the northern chamber of the inner quarters, and the circumstances surrounding his ill-fated younger brother’s young widow. “……Would it be possible to wait a day or two for your esteemed reply?”

“You say you cannot give an immediate answer?” Kuranodo’s hand gripped the tachi. It was no ordinary grip; even a faint tremor was visible.

“As one who serves the Retired Emperor, and as a subject privy to His Majesty’s will—” he began— “Ah, no—Lord Rokujō, if that is your concern, there is no need for worry.” “The most guarded of secrets—what I withheld until now—is that plans are laid for even the Retired Emperor himself to attend the day’s council in secrecy…” At that moment, outside the house, a sound like a snapping tree branch cracked sharply through the still night air, startling all three men.

“Huh?!...” Uemon no Jō raised the pommel of his tachi and crouched into a half-standing position.

V

After a moment’s pause, “Intruder—!” A voice cried out again from somewhere distant.

A rapid pattering erupted outside—this time closer near the window below—as fierce footsteps pounded through the night. The murky sound of rain whooshed through the air, swallowing those footfalls along with the rustling of trees in the garden thicket. "Intruder—!" came another cry, followed by, "Cut them off—!" A violent crash resounded—as if pursuers had tackled their quarry—then shouts, blows, and—"Don't let them escape!" a voice barked hoarsely. Kuranodo, Uemon no Jō, and even Noritsuna instinctively sprang to their feet. They flung open the corridor shutters,

“What is happening?!” Noritsuna shouted into the rain.

But before anyone could respond, dark figures of pursuers and fugitives swirled chaotically around the trees and pavilion. Among them, Kuranodo’s attendants also appeared to be mixed in.

Without anyone noticing, Uemon no Jō had tied up the legs of his hakama. With warrior-like swiftness, he leapt into the rain and caught an intruder trying to climb over the earthen wall. Then, dragging him roughly along, he brought the intruder before Noritsuna and Kuranodo, who stood there in astonishment.

The light in the room was extinguished by the blowing wind. Noritsuna headed toward the inner quarters,

“Paper candle, paper candle—!” he bellowed.

From behind the sliding doors and folding screens came a small lamplight, shielded by a palm. Beneath the rain-lashed stairs, the intruder lay pinned down. Uemon no Jō pulled out the chest cord from his hitatare and bound the intruder's wrists behind his back. "Look up," he said, a mud-stained leather tabi kicking the intruder's shoulder. The intruder fell sideways but immediately righted himself into a seated position, adopting a resolute demeanor. Yet he kept his face lowered, refusing to show it.

Kuranodo gazed at his retainers gathered under the eaves and the household servants of this residence. “Is this fellow one of the mansion’s people?” “No, there is no such person in this residence,” answered Yashirō, who stood among them. “Then this one must have sneaked in from outside.” “By my reckoning, he followed you here and—refusing to leave—climbed over the earthen wall to enter.” “Were you eavesdropping?” “Then he was standing right under the guest room’s window—”

“You—!” Kuranodo glared at him with hatred, “So you’re a Heike spy.” “Uemon no Jō, subdue him and make him talk.” “A spy—you?!” Uemon no Jō pulled the intruder by the ear and dragged him away. The intruder’s face, contorted in pain, stretched long and slantwise. No one recognized his face, but judging by his dignified attire and composed demeanor, he was no mere commoner or lowly individual. He must have been a retainer from a prominent house within the Heike clan.

“You bastard—who ordered you?! Speak! Won’t you speak?!” “Won’t you talk—?!” Uemon no Jō’s fist struck the intruder’s skull three or four times.

Six The intruder was subjected to such brutal torture that even those watching had to turn away their faces, yet he stubbornly refused to open his mouth. “Name your master!” “…………” “Name who hired you!” “…………” “For what purpose did you eavesdrop?!” “I know you’re a Rokuhara agent—but under whose orders did you infiltrate this place?” “…………”

No matter how much they tortured him, it was like questioning a stone. Before long, the intruder lost consciousness, still groaning. The night was growing late, and they had to consider the neighboring mansions regarding their loud voices. “Damned fool…” muttered Uemon no Jō helplessly. And he instructed them to keep this intruder detained in a makeshift cell within the mansion until they had thoroughly investigated him.

“Understood.”

Noritsuna was troubled. However, it was perfectly clear that two envoys could not drag around someone bound like this. In the capital’s streets where the Heike’s eyes gleamed— “Yashirō, take this intruder to the storehouse in the backyard and bind him there.” “Understood.” As two or three men carried off the unconscious intruder’s body into the rainy darkness, Uemon no Jō washed his feet and returned to his seat. Then, together with Kuranodo, they once more earnestly expounded on Shin Dainagon’s audacious plans for rebellion, urged Noritsuna to join their cause as well, and finally took their leave.

Even after entering his bedroom, Noritsuna could not sleep a wink. I know my place. I have never formed ties with disgruntled North-facing Samurai or the Retired Emperor's politicians, nor have I ever dreamed of positions of power and glory. Though I would not call this a bright age, as one living in communion with nature through poetry, I find no lack in my circumstances. Moreover, when I consider the futures of the two young children my late brother left behind and his widow, my own course cannot be decided by my fate alone.

His decision was already made. Noritsuna had been resolved so from the very beginning. However, the fact that even Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa seemed inclined toward Shin Dainagon’s scheme—which reeked of personal grudge—was for him a dread surpassing his own. If by any chance His Majesty were to lend his support, it went without saying that he as a subject could not simply stand by and observe. Should His Majesty personally raise an imperial decree for Heike chastisement amid these flames of karma—should His Cloistered Highness’s court become filled with warriors clad in armor—that would truly be a terrifying prospect.

(Ah, what should I do?) In the midst of a nightmare, Noritsuna writhed. He shuddered at the thought that the time might be approaching when the rejoicing voices of demons and rakshasas would once again resound through the crimson sky of the capital.

Around dawn, from the back of the northern bedroom, the sound of an infant’s crying could be heard for some time—likely Asamaro fussing.

(That’s right… What mattered most was the Retired Emperor’s will—if only His Majesty would not take action—)

On the verge of sleep, he found a certain peace of mind. The moment he did, he fell asleep.

As a result, he awoke later than usual. The post-rain sunlight stabbed intensely into his eyes; the sky was azure, and the young May leaves were fresh.

Seven

Having located the Retired Emperor's chambers, Noritsuna slightly relaxed his furrowed brow. Depending on His Majesty's disposition, he had resolved to risk offense by offering direct remonstrance—yet, (As expected of His Majesty's seasoned discernment—) With this partial reassurance, he confined his intended arguments to mere implications and withdrew from behind the imperial screen.

Noritsuna was struck with renewed awe at how the Retired Emperor observed from his lofty seat the countless politicians, warriors, and schemers who conspired, spread rumors, and maneuvered in the shadows around him. During the turbulent eras of Heiji and Hōgen, no one had endured greater hardships than His Majesty, nor witnessed human duplicity and fierce power struggles as he had. To serve such an Emperor while attempting to expel the still undiminished Heike clan from court would ultimately achieve nothing beyond the self-destruction of those who took action. Moreover, when such plots sprang from personal grudges and selfish discontent, they became unspeakably treacherous conspiracies. The Retired Emperor's fate could absolutely not be left to be determined by such ambitious individuals.

Noritsuna’s will was set on that resolve. But even without stating it explicitly, His Majesty the Retired Emperor seemed to have thoroughly discerned both the atmosphere of ambitious individuals seething within and beyond the court and the very nature of such opportunists. “(If this is the case—)” he thought, rather chagrined at his own needless anxiety, “(Please, take utmost care of yourself),” he urged, and then spoke of waka poetry as usual, until even his heart had become clear.

In the citrus trees of the South Garden, the post-rain sunlight that had washed away spring's stains shone intensely downward. The musicians were tuning their instruments at the Retired Emperor's music bureau, and the attendants had gathered before the stable to water a white horse.

“Lord Rokujō,” someone called from behind. It was a man standing at the corridor’s corner as if he had been waiting.

“Ah—well now…” When he looked, it was Jōken Hōshi—the son of the late Minor Counselor Shinzei—a man of talent, personable demeanor, and one known within the Retired Emperor’s circle as a sharp operator. From time to time he would send over draft poems seeking critiques; each instance found Noritsuna reviewing them for him. Yet this remained a man who inhabited a world apart from Noritsuna’s own—one who could never become a true confidant no matter how long their acquaintance persisted.

With a grin, Jōken approached. Without a word, he guided him to the railing and leaned his back against a round pillar, “Is there some matter of His Majesty’s private audience that brings you here?” he inquired cautiously.

“Ah… As ever, a poet has no means to engage beyond poetry…” Noritsuna quietly tried to withdraw, while Jōken fixed him with an insistent stare—those probing eyes delivering an unblinking challenge.

“Hmm…” “Yet for that, it was quite a lengthy talk.” “It seems His Majesty was in good spirits today—” “To go so far as clearing the room for mere poetry discussions—how meticulous of you.” “………”

“By the way,” Jōken said, sidling closer. And near Noritsuna’s ear,

“From Lord Shin Dainagon—surely you too must have received a confidential message by now…”

Eight

“I presume you’ve heard the general details from last night’s messenger—” Jōken’s eyes darted restlessly toward the figures in the corridor and South Garden.

When he saw that no one was approaching, he continued in a hushed tone, his words tumbling out rapidly. “How do you view the Heike clan’s tyranny? Doesn’t it churn your stomach? Don’t you find it utterly detestable? Appointing Komatsu Shigemori as Left General—well, that might be tolerable—but his second son Munemori? A puppet with a crown! A monkey in shoes! To leapfrog over nobles like Tokudaiji and Kazan-in and appoint him as Right General—how utterly foolish—”

A white horse neighed in the distance. Jōken’s small eyes glinted sharply as he scanned his surroundings. “With these methods, Kiyomori Nyūdō will continue to arbitrarily monopolize appointments and promotions as he pleases.” “This may be presumptuous, but even His Majesty’s conduct grows arbitrary—how much more so ours?” “……I have… a guest waiting at my residence today—one I’d arranged to meet.” “Now, now,” Jōken said, seizing Noritsuna’s sleeve. “That and this are matters of entirely different magnitude.” “Are you not one of His Majesty’s most trusted subjects?”

“In a place like this—” “No—in formal settings, the Heike members are quick to interfere.” “Then… I shall hear your brief statement.” “Regarding Lord Shin Dainagon’s proposal—will you join us, or have you resolved to refuse?” “I cannot say at this time.” “Do you harbor divided loyalties?” “Not at all.” “Otherwise, even if you were commanded, there should be no reason to refuse.” “Even after being trampled upon and ignored to this extent by the Heike clan’s members, any man whose belly doesn’t burn must be either a fool or a beast!”

“…………” “The Retired Emperor too shares these sentiments.” “Though His Majesty may not show it outwardly, imagine how fiercely that resentment must have smoldered within him!” “Yet even so—no matter how Lord Shin Dainagon and the rest of us might gnash our teeth—we remain powerless to act……” “…………” “Should you refuse our alliance, it would ultimately constitute defiance of His Majesty’s divine will…… Do you still dare decline?” “I shall give it due consideration.”

“I hear you gave the same answer last night as well.” “A grave matter must be gravely considered before a proper reply can be given.” “How clever… Lord Rokujō.” “Is that so?” “Heh heh heh.” Jōken Hōshi laughed mockingly and abruptly turned his back. “Well then, another time—” He briskly walked toward the inner quarters with a sharp swish of his robes. He heaved a sigh of relief, as if he had escaped the jaws of death. Noritsuna, feeling like he didn’t want to meet anyone, hurriedly exited the imperial gate.

At the carriage porch, ox-drawn carriages of various court-attending nobles created a noisy clamor. Attendants and ox drivers exchanged vulgar insults as they quarreled beneath the sun. “Yashirō! Yashirō!” Calling out to his retinue in this manner, Noritsuna hastily concealed himself within an ox-drawn carriage. As the vehicle jolted forward, renewed unease washed over him. His mind fixated on whether duplicity lurked within the Retired Emperor’s words—a suspicion that Jōken Hōshi received tailored communications while he himself faced manipulative treatment.

For the Retired Emperor himself, though surrounded by schemers, was also quite the strategist.

Nine

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

Even shut away in a single room, the clamor of the world roared in. (Another militant protest by those mountain monks...) (The Hakusan monks carried a mikoshi and stormed Enryaku-ji, I hear.)

Such rumors were no longer unusual. Even the Retired Emperor, who relished politics, found himself confounded by policies toward Enryaku-ji— It is said he lamented: “The dice of sugoroku and the mountain monks alone do not bend to my will.” As monks staged protests, the abbot of Enryaku-ji was exiled over these disturbances, and both the Retired Emperor’s governance and the capital descended into utter chaos. Thus did the Shin Dainagon faction’s covert maneuvers throughout May pass without ever gaining an opportunity to sway His Majesty. Noritsuna, in secret,

(These are all just gatherings of temporary grievances—they might self-destruct on their own, and if they do, it would ironically serve the Retired Emperor's interests.) Lately, he found himself praying that this vaguely pent-up force might erupt in flames from outside the Retired Emperor's circle. However, Tada no Kuranodo Yukitsuna—who had first come there as a secret envoy—continued thereafter to visit frequently alone and in secret, blending into the capital's disturbances. "This may be unpleasant for you, but handle it with care." "No need to force yourself to meet me." "I shall interrogate the Heike spy we have in custody and take my leave." With that, he had the family retainers guide him to the rear garden.

The troublemaker captured during that rainy night’s commotion had been temporarily confined to the storehouse, but the family members grew uneasy each time they entered or exited with goods. Should he escape and let slip slanderous words to Rokuhara, it would imperil their lord’s fate—so Yashirō built a makeshift cell. They constructed a framework of lumber in an empty stable and threw him inside it. “You have such a stubborn-looking face. Today, even if I have to smash through your flesh, I’ll make you talk!” Kurando declared from outside the cell and had the rogue brought out still bound. holding a leather whip used for horses,

“Hey, you wretch!” “…………” “I know you’re a Rokuhara spy—but who sent you? What were you ordered to investigate?” “…………” “Won’t you talk?!” The whip cracked once with a sharp snap. “Spit it out!” “…………” “Still won’t talk?!” The second strike roared. Each time the whip roared, a red streak swelled up on the rogue’s face. And finally, they turned purple, and blood flowed from his ears, lips, and everywhere.

“Groan… groan…” In the end, only the loud groans and cracks of the whip remained locked in battle. Having exhausted his strength, Kurando declared: “Very well! I shall take my leave for today—but I will return. “If you value your life, you will speak.” “Consider carefully.” With that final threat, he departed. The mansion’s inhabitants covered their eyes and blocked their ears. Yet such scenes had become ordinary occurrences within the capital’s bounds. To seasoned officials like Kurando—inured to these brutalities—the methods still seemed woefully inadequate in severity.

Ten

Out of sheer stubbornness, Kurando continued to return frequently thereafter to torture the rogue in the stable prison. The rogue’s body swelled up like a karmic affliction from the torture, his torn wounds festered like burst pomegranates, and white bone showed through where flesh had rotted away.

“Kill me,” the rogue said. And again, the more they struck him, the more he sneered,

"What master would entrust an important task to a man who'd break under this much torture? Do not waste your time with futile efforts—strike off my head in one stroke." Rather than yield, he seemed to take pride in his own resolve. In the end, it was Kurando who first exhausted his patience and grew unsettled, his visits gradually dwindling.

June began. In the shade of the cherry tree's foliage, coral-colored red fruits glowed translucent under sunlight like blood. Fully ripe cherry fruits lay scattered across the ground. Jūhachi Kimimaro was collecting them into his small palms. Then from deep within the rear garden,

“Lady Wako—” someone called out. “Lady Wako…”

After several calls, Jūhachi Kimimaro finally seemed to notice, casting his innocent eyes about as he looked around.

There was no one—no sign of any human figure. But the slightly frightened child, suddenly seeming to find the broad daylight expanse of the garden terrifying, hastily began retreating toward the mansion. And then—again, “Lady Wako, over here!” “…? ...” Jūhachi Kimimaro turned around and fixed his gaze on the human shadow visible inside the stable prison, looking puzzled, but eventually timidly approached— “Who are you?” “I am a rogue who was caught sneaking into this mansion.”

“Mr. Rogue?” “It’s not a name—I’m what you call a rogue. But I won’t do anything bad to Lady Wako, so please rest assured and stay here to play for a while.” “…? …” “I am unbearably lonely. Now that I’ve seen Lady Wako’s figure, this heart of mine feels as though it would burst. I too have a child just about Lady Wako’s age. Also, my master’s son is slightly older than Lady Wako, but he too is an innocent boy.”

“Mr. Rogue, why are you in a place like this?” “For the sake of loyalty.” “If it’s for loyalty’s sake, then everyone will praise you as a good samurai.”

“It doesn’t work that way—a samurai loyal to his allies appears as a hateful demon to the enemy.” “Then are you a demon, Mr. Rogue?”

“While I am held captive here—” “If you go outside—” “I am a good person. At the very least, I am not a bad person. As proof—Lady Wako—you feel no fear even while speaking with me like this. I won’t harm you—” “At first I was frightened...but now it doesn’t matter at all.”

As if to substantiate his words, Jūhachi Kimimaro inserted his palm through a gap in the cell bars,

“Mr. Rogue, shall I give you some cherries?”

Eleven. With a chuckle, “—This looks sweet.” The rogue put a single cherry into his mouth and bit down with a quiet crunch. Upon his tongue—parched by the prison’s endless hunger and scorching heat—the juice of one cherry sent an indescribable flavor coursing through him. Four pieces. Then five. “This is delicious.” Greedily stuffing the ruby-red fruits from his palm into his mouth, he spat out the pits. Seeing how the rogue—starved for both food and human warmth—reveled in this joy, Jūhachi Kimimaro ran off somewhere. When he returned, his hand held wheat cakes wrapped in scrap paper from old manuscripts.

“Eat.—The sweets.” “Huh?” The rogue’s eyes gleamed as if leaping forward through the prison bars. “Are you giving me sweets?” “Thank you!” “When you’re locked up in a place like this for too long, you start craving sweets enough to drive you mad.” “Ah… thank you!” When he took it with trembling hands—like a beast wary of human footsteps—he looked around, stuffed one piece into his mouth, and hid the rest in his robe.

Jūhachi Kimimaro, about to leave, squatted down in front of it, “Mr. Rogue, is it delicious?” “Yes—with this, I can die content.” "When one’s mind is accustomed to being satiated with food, they cannot possibly comprehend its preciousness—yet now I understand it all too well." “Ah, that was delicious.” Clicking his tongue contentedly, “In my greed, I wish I could see the faces of my wife and children at home one last time before I die—but since that is what we call earthly desire, I have given up.”

…………

“Lady Wako, if they behead me, please cut off a single strand of my hair and discard it outside the imperial gate—on a day when the west wind blows, my hair will return to the house where my wife and children live.” “Do you want to see your wife and children’s faces that badly?” “That is something even you, Lady Wako, would understand. If your father were to go away and never return, how would you feel?”

“……” Jūhachi Kimimaro suddenly placed his hands on the prison bars and pushed. But the cell would not open. “Lady Wako, Lady Wako, what are you doing?” “I thought I’d get you out of here—” “Preposterous!” The rogue shook his head. “If I were to break out of this prison and flee, your father would be branded a traitor by the Shin Dainagon of the New Cloistered Emperor and the North-facing Samurai—he would lose his life.”

“So, you don’t want to leave here?” “I want to leave more than anything... But when I think that escaping would bring trouble upon your father, Lady Wako, I can’t bring myself to flee.” The rogue hung his head despondently after saying this, but then suddenly raised it and howled like a madman toward the outside of the cell. “I demand an audience with the lord’s residence! Someone—anyone—come here! I have urgent information to report! Will no one heed me?!”

Twelve

At the shouts from the stable prison, “What’s all this racket?!” Yajirō first ran out and scolded the rogue. Wondering what was happening, Noritsuna also emerged from the rear. The rogue clung to the prison bars, “I wish to report to the lord’s residence. Until today, even if my bones were crushed and my flesh torn, I had steeled my heart into a yasha and firmly vowed never to open this mouth. But moved by Lord Jūhachi Kimimaro’s kindness—alas—this yasha has reverted to a weak human parent.” “I cannot keep silent—this feeling is urgent.” “Please hear me out.” “This one’s confession—” he cried out. There was truth in that voice. Tears were streaming down that face. Noritsuna said.

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

“Untie the ropes as well.” Yajirō did as he was told. He felt uneasy about untying the ropes, but the rogue remained docile. He remained with both hands on Noritsuna’s feet and wept in a manly fashion for some time.

When asked for his reasons, it was said the rogue had grown unbearably ashamed of his own hideous form when faced with Jūhachi Kimimaro's innocent kindness. Though it had been for duty's sake, he felt humiliated by his wretched state—bound in prison while wearing a mask of curses and lies—and could no longer bear his longing for the wife and children left behind at home, so it was claimed. "There's nothing left to conceal. I am a retainer of Lord Komatsu." "I am Shōji Shichirō, a vassal of Narita Hyōe." "In years past when Lady Wako still resided in Hino Village, I committed discourtesies toward her as well—thus I faintly recognized her face."

“So, as Lord Kuranodo suspected, you are indeed a spy for the Rokuhara Tandai.”

“Indeed,” Shichirō said flatly. “The Shin Dainagon of the New Cloistered Emperor—dissatisfied with Sesshō—has shown signs of conspiracy for some time now. My master Narita Hyōe detected this long ago and ordered us to shadow those people.” “Since Lord Komatsu himself has already noticed these movements,” he continued gravely, “it’s clearer than flames at midnight—even if they act now, their rebellion cannot succeed.” “I beg you—” his voice dropped urgently— “do not let our lord become entangled in such reckless violence…” “This confession—this single truth—is what I needed to impart.”

“Ah, so Lord Komatsu and the Rokuhara Tandai have already detected the Shin Dainagon’s conspiracy?” “If they move even a single soldier—they have their weapons at the ready and are lying in wait.” Noritsuna, in his heart, "Danger!" he unintentionally muttered with a deep sigh. What was worrisome at present was the Retired Emperor’s safety. Given how emphatically he had been instructed, there should be no chance of him being drawn into the Shin Dainagon faction’s schemes—or so he thought,

(Could it be...?) Noritsuna couldn't entirely dismiss the feeling. "You've done well to inform me—Yajirō, release this rogue through the rear gate."

Noritsuna tossed out those words and hastily retreated to his chamber.

Thirteen

Before long, at the entrance,

A voice called out, “Yajirō! Yajirō!” Yajirō had just quietly released the rogue Shichirō through the rear gate.

“Yes!” When he ran over, Noritsuna stood on the entrance platform, having straightened his formal hitatare. “The horse—.” “Hurry!” “Yes!” Yajirō led the horse out from the stable, but privately feared why his master—who had been feigning illness while secluded—had suddenly decided to go out, and moreover, whether this would not invite public scrutiny.

“Hurry!” When they exited the gate, Noritsuna spoke again from atop the saddle. Approaching the stirrup and running alongside the horse, Yajirō,

“My lord.” “What is it?”

“Wouldn’t it be a grave matter should people learn of your feigned illness? Shall we take the back road?” “That won’t be necessary.”

“And where are we headed?” “The Sentō—” Yajirō realized for the first time that this was indeed an imperial visit. Sentō was another name for the detached palace of Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa. It wasn’t far from Rokujō. However, when crossing Gojō Bridge on the main road, Lord Komatsu’s rose garden lay to the east of the bridge, while across from it stood the Rokuhara North Gate of the Lay Priest Chancellor; passing through that area always felt somehow unsettling and made one feel ill at ease.

All the more so today—as his master seemed to be heading to the imperial palace with a firm resolve etched between his brows—Yajirō took a detour while being told to hurry, crossing from the Sandy Shallows of Sanjō over a temporary bridge and proceeding toward Jūzenji Slope. “Yajirō”

“Yes.” “Today is indeed the second day, isn’t it?” “It is June 2nd.” “……”

Noritsuna looked up at the sun as though gauging the hour. The fiery orb had sunk far toward the Kamo River's distant bends. "Gallop!" A whip crack left Yajirō stranded on the slope's incline. When at last he reached the summit, his master's form had vanished from Sentō Palace's eastern gate. Noritsuna raced toward the imperial cloister's middle gate like one pursued. And then—

"Ah…" he froze in his tracks. There outside the North Middle Gate—wasn't that the incognito phoenix carriage parked? The Retired Emperor was attempting to depart secretly. Where to? That much Noritsuna understood. The June second meeting—he had heard of it some time ago from Tada no Kuranodo's own lips. Though he had rushed here upon remembering this, until arriving he had believed eight or nine times out of ten there was no chance—no chance whatsoever—that His Majesty would reverse his previous decree and let himself be swayed by Shin Dainagon and those disgruntled North-facing warriors into daring such an incognito attendance at that gathering.

However, reality stood diametrically opposed to Noritsuna's upright convictions. When dusk deepened, members of the Imperial Guard stealthily readied themselves and pressed the Retired Emperor to depart. Noritsuna concealed himself beneath tree shadows and fixed his gaze on their activity.

Fourteen

A watery evening dusk, like squeezed indigo dye, enveloped the surroundings. The shadow of a candle swayed forth from the depths of the deep palace. The frail shadow of the Retired Emperor, surrounded by the black shadows of his attendants, placed his foot into his footwear. “Wait—” He hadn’t intended to raise his voice so loudly, but Noritsuna found himself shouting involuntarily as he pushed through the startled crowd to prostrate himself before the Retired Emperor. “Who goes there?” The Retired Emperor pulled back his foot from the footwear and stood upon the corridor.

“It appears to be the courtier from Rokujō.” When the attendant whispered, “Noritsuna?” “Yes!” “I had heard you were ill…” “It was a feigned illness.” “Your Majesty, I have committed the sin of deception. I beg you to punish me thoroughly.” Noritsuna said this, then changed his tone to formally remonstrate. “Since today is June 2nd, I must presume there is to be an assembly at Shunkan Sōzu’s hermitage in Shishigatani. Yet even Your Majesty in your profound wisdom must know how rife with hearsay these troubled times are. To venture out to such a gathering—and at midnight—strikes me as most unwise. Regarding this matter, I have something of grave import to relay privately. I humbly beseech you to delay your departure and grant me an audience with all others dismissed.”

The Retired Emperor remained silent. Since His Majesty had previously given Noritsuna his verbal commitment, his expression now appeared somewhat uneasy. The retainers aligned with Shin Dainagon and those from the Samurai-dokoro glared resentfully at Noritsuna—a mere civil official and poet—as if demanding what business he had meddling in such grave matters. The Retired Emperor wore a conflicted expression and seemed somewhat perplexed, but when he saw Noritsuna sitting before his footwear, staking his life, he could not bring himself to dismiss him outright.

“Withdraw for a time.” The attendants bowed wordlessly at this imperial command and could do nothing but retreat. Noritsuna waited until they had left before providing a detailed private report—using that day’s testimony from Shōji Shichirō as evidence—that the Taira clan had already discerned Shin Dainagon’s rebellious designs. Even the Retired Emperor’s countenance shifted at this. Though he detested the Heike clan enough to perish as their rebellion’s mastermind himself, they remained a force he found equally fearsome. This understanding came from bitter experience: he knew full well through numerous precedents that Kiyomori, when emotionally provoked, became a man capable of any extremity.

“We shall stop this at once,” he declared. Immediately, the imperial visit to Shishigatani was canceled. The military office guards, “That meddlesome poet and his needless protests,” they cursed Noritsuna, then declared, “Leaving things thus would dampen our allies’ spirits.” Advancing the prepared imperial palanquin—empty now—they lit torches and hastened along dark paths toward the Shishigatani gathering.

However, Tada no Kuranodo alone—the sole member of that procession—slipped into the darkness midway and vanished somewhere.

Fifteen

Though there had been no imperial procession, since before nightfall Shin Dainagon and his faction of disgruntled civil officials and military officers had gathered in secret attire at Shunkan’s mountain villa in Shishigatani. “That Noritsuna of Rokujō and his meddlesome tongue—” The conspirators glared at the empty imperial palanquin as they vented their anger, but... “Nonsense! The Retired Emperor’s changeable heart is like an autumn shower—clear skies when you expect rain, rain when you expect sun—.” “Should I present myself at court again tomorrow to steel His Majesty’s resolve, he will undoubtedly grace our next gathering without fail.”

Major Counselor Narichika declared confidently to those gathered. Jōken Hōshi added his agreement, “An apt analogy.” “Truly, the Retired Emperor’s temperament is like passing rain showers—so long as we remain by his side, it will shift again.” “Have no concerns.”

At the gathering were Lay Monk Renshō of Ōmi, Yamashiro no Kami Motokane, Taira no Hangan Yasunori, and others. Shunkan, the host, observed how the consultation on overthrowing the Heike clan—which had finally begun gaining momentum—now seemed somewhat deflated due to the Retired Emperor’s absence. “As for raising forces, we shall defer military planning to our next meeting. Tonight let us make our pledge through shared wine.” “Are there objections?” “Very well.” Shin Dainagon assumed an air of bravado, “Let us celebrate,” he proclaimed, taking initiative. When the wine cups began circulating,

“Lord Host—pray provide some diversion,” Jōken Hōshi called to Shunkan. “What manner of diversion?” “Sarugaku and the like.”

“I shall take charge of it.” Shunkan stood up and danced while making comical gestures. Playing reed pipes and drums, the people sang. In the presence of the four august deities of Sumiyoshi,

"A woman of fair countenance dwells in divine presence." When asked, "Who might this man be?" "A gallant from Matsugasaki." "Well performed, excellently performed!—Now Lord Shin Dainagon should grace us next." "That matter—precisely that matter." His hand was pulled forward,

“Well then, I shall dance,” said the Major Counselor as he stepped once on the floor.

At this time, the things popular in the capital—— “Huzzah! Huzzah!” The popular things—— Shoulder pads, hip pads, eboshi fastening cords Stiff-collared, partially tarnished black court hat Stiffened cloth under-hakama Four-paneled court trousers What warriors favor Navy blue! Crimson! Golden yellow, deep maroon Madder red, parasitic tree dye patterns Fine bows, quivers, saddle swords What courtesans favor Variety performances, hand drums, small boats Holding up a large sedge hat Boatwomen “Ah!” When the Major Counselor stumbled after stepping on a sake bottle, the people continued singing in the same rhythm,

“He fell! “He fell!” “The sake bottle broke.” “The sake bottle fell over.”

“Wahahaha!” “Hahaha! How auspicious!” they cried out to each other, caught up in their revelry.

The Crossroads of Flames

I

The disturbances on Mount Hiei had continued even after that. Neither the authority of the retired emperor's government nor the power of the Heike clan could match that of the monastic community of Mount Hiei.

The thousand-year Dharma fortress of Tendai, having grown accustomed to exceptional treatment from the imperial household and state, had made its Buddhist monks arrogant. The Heike clan forgot their station as subjects, and just as their hubris—epitomized by the delusion that "this world is ours"—so too did these monks forget their role as Buddha's disciples. Wielding political power and even military force, they arrogantly mistook society for a monastic domain—quarrelsome and consumed by nothing but a sense of privilege. The cry of "Attack Sammon!" had already been brewing as public opinion among the North-facing Samurai. Shin Dainagon, Jōken Hōshi, and those gathered at Shishigatani exploited this political moment to suddenly issue military orders under the name of an imperial decree for subduing Sammon.

The warriors clad in armor gathered around the imperial palace by evening—several thousand horsemen. Among the military officials, aside from a few key commanders, the rest seemed to believe it was exactly as the imperial decree stated—that they were to attack Mount Hiei.

“Tonight we’ll make those mountain monks panic—” they muttered, testing their bowstrings and wrapping their sword hilts as they waited for nightfall. But those at the heart of the Retired Emperor’s circle had no true quarrel with Mount Hiei—their enemy lay in Rokuhara. This was a secret plot to unleash both private grudges and public outrage against the Heike clan under the guise of attacking the mountain monks, and they counted each passing moment until night arrived. The Retired Emperor’s Palace stood barely a stone’s throw from Kiyomori’s Nishihachijō residence. The ominous movements of armed horsemen were promptly reported by Rokuhara retainers,

“Something is amiss! Samurai inside and outside the Retired Emperor’s palace are making unusual military preparations,” came the report. But immediately, one after another, scouts arrived with corrections: The amended accounts uniformly stated, “This concerns the recent petition incident—they have been ordered to apprehend and suppress the monks of Mount Hiei who defy the Retired Emperor’s judgment, hence the mobilization of forces.” When Kiyomori heard this, “That must be so,” he nodded. Who would dare challenge the Heike’s present supremacy from right beneath his feet? He remained utterly complacent. However,

"I humbly request an audience." "This one has come with grave urgency to beg an audience with the Chancellor and lay a critical matter before his ears!" gasped the man as he pleaded at the Nishihachijō residence. The samurai,

“What is your name?” they demanded. “I am Tada no Kuranodo Yukitsuna, who humbly serves in the Retired Emperor’s North-facing Samurai,” he said. Surprised, they relayed the matter up to Master of the Imperial Stables Morikuni, and— “What? The Kurando?” With a suspicious look on his face, Taira no Morikuni emerged from the inner quarters. As soon as the Kurando saw him, “This is too grave a matter to relay through intermediaries. If you grant me a direct audience with the Chancellor, I shall disclose it. If not, I intend to depart as I stand,” he said in an agitated voice.

II

The Kurando was taken around to the garden. In the garden, samurai with stern eyes monitored his every move. “Sit!” Barked at, the Kurando, “Hah!” Unintentionally, without even seeking a mat, he found himself kneeling on the bare ground. When he suddenly noticed, Chancellor Kiyomori had come out as far as the corridor of the middle gate and was standing there. He was a man of average height—around five shaku two or three sun—and his build was not particularly corpulent; rather, his shoulders were sharp, and he had high cheekbones with a lean face, one might say. Yet, he appeared so grand that he seemed to fill the corridor’s ceiling. This was partly due to the bowed heads of the numerous attendants lined up at his feet on both sides, and partly because of the radiant authority emanating from his very person that created such an impression.

His complexion was pale, his nose bridge piercingly sharp. Like many of the Heike clan, he possessed an aristocratic handsomeness in his features, yet his unyielding temperament manifested in the fullness of his lips, while a warrior-like glare overflowed from his slightly sunken eyes and bristling eyebrows. “So you are Kurando Yukitsuna,” Kiyomori said. “Hah!” “――A rare visitor has shown up…” he muttered with a laugh, as if talking to himself,

“What has a military commander serving the Retired Emperor come secretly to this Nishihachijō to do?” “Well then…” The Kurando’s voice was hoarse. “How does Your Excellency perceive the Retired Emperor’s court mobilizing troops both inside and outside the palace in such a flurry since this afternoon?” Kiyomori said nonchalantly, “I hear it’s an attack on the mountain.” “This is an outrageous falsehood!” “What? A lie, you say?” “The truth is, military forces are mobilizing to surround this Nishihachijō residence, timed for the dead of night.”

“Bwahahaha!” Kiyomori struck his knee with a folding fan, shook his shoulders, and burst into uproarious laughter. “This fool—I thought he was making some wise appeal, but it’s just delusional ramblings as if from a dream.” “Let alone those who would dare oppose this Kiyomori—is there anyone in all the realm who could even throw a single pebble at the Nishihachijō residence?” “It is precisely Your Excellency’s complacency that provides the opening for the discontented elements within the Retired Emperor’s court to exploit.”

“Who exactly are these malcontents in the Retired Emperor’s court that you speak of?” “Starting with Shin Dainagon, Monk Jōken, and the rest—all the North-facing samurai—they are united in their discontent with the world and curse Your Excellency’s clan.” “Is that so?”

“Why would I fabricate lies on such a grave matter? With all due respect, the so-called ‘mountain attack’ is a stratagem to feign nearby enemies.” “Does the Retired Emperor know of this?” “I have heard that His Majesty has even secretly made an imperial visit to Monk Shunkan’s Shishigatani villa and is redoubling his efforts in this current alliance.” Kiyomori sharply turned his monk’s head to the side. And as if the Kurando below him had already vanished from even the corner of his eye, he headed toward the corridor of the samurai quarters,

“Chikugo! Chikugo’s here!” he bellowed.

Intimidated by that voice, the Kurando could no longer remain in the white gravel courtyard. Unconsciously rising to his feet, he tried to make a furtive dash toward the middle gate to slip away without offering a greeting—but Kiyomori raised his folding fan and barked at him from behind. “You!” “Seize him!”

III

The samurai leapt at him and twisted his dominant arm up. “Ah! What crime have I committed—?” The Kurando struggled. Kiyomori did not answer. He was giving orders to Chikugo no Kami Sadaosa. When Sadaosa left, Sama no Kami Yukimori was summoned, and by the time Yukimori hurriedly rushed down the corridor, Right General Munemori and Middle Captain Shigehira had already appeared in the garden and samurai quarters, shouting something. In an instant, the Nishihachijō residence was filled with soldiers’ murderous aura. Donning armor and bows, in the blink of an eye, soldiers multiplied as their numbers swelled ever greater.

This kind of atmosphere seemed precisely what Kiyomori most favored. His eyes glittered like those of another man as he shut away the inner chamber. Abe Sukenari—summoned there—raced to the Sentō Imperial Palace as an urgent courier with some twenty horsemen in his train.

Also, to the residence of Shin Dainagon in Karasuma, a low-ranking person dressed in plain clothes went as a messenger bearing a written document. Shin Dainagon, with an air of feigned innocence, had been waiting in his residence for the outbreak of midnight flames. Thereupon arrived a messenger from the Chancellor, (It read: "Your immediate presence is requested.") "Ah, I see," he muttered. "Having heard of the mountain attack's success, it appears the Chancellor means to placate the Retired Emperor."

If I do not go, they will suspect me. Shin Dainagon, as was his custom, gracefully donned his plain court robes and crown, then boarded a resplendent palanquin. He immediately set out for Nishihachijō, accompanied by more than ten attendants—low-ranking servants, ox drivers, and samurai.

“Huh?” The night streets were crimson.

Bonfires stood in various places. Torches smoldered in the dark alleyways. On the road, he saw numerous discarded weapons, human heads, and torsos.

“Has it begun?” Shin Dainagon panicked. And then, “Turn back! Reverse the palanquin!” he suddenly shouted. However, they were already near the Heike office on Gojō, and before they knew it, armored soldiers who had been following from every intersection had surrounded both ends of the road. “Is the noble Lord Shin Dainagon present?” From among the soldiers, a general used the shaft of his naginata to flip up the palanquin’s curtain. Shin Dainagon trembled and could not even feign composure. The general,

“Now, take him!”

“Ah—!” The soldiers clambered onto the palanquin, struck the ox, grabbed the shafts, and pushed from behind. “Ox-Head! Horse-Face!” “A chariot of hell!” “Push!” “Pull!” With a roar, they dragged the palanquin—still as it was—up to the middle gate of the Nishihachijō residence with a clamor. The warriors’ hands dragged the Dainagon down to the ground. “Shall we bind him with ropes?!” When he asked, from the corridor above,

“There will be no need for ropes.” It was Kiyomori’s voice. Shin Dainagon’s complexion no longer looked like that of a living human.

IV

At every intersection, minor skirmishes broke out. The Retired Emperor’s soldiers, who had launched a sudden counterattack, proved brittle. Group by group, there were those who had their weapons seized and became captives; those who resisted and had their heads struck off with large naginatas; and those who were pinned down,

“Chop it off! Let my head fly through the air and sink its teeth into Nishihachijō’s lay priest!” he screamed in a curse, turning crimson before instantly collapsing as a roadside corpse. Amidst this, the ringleader Jōken Hōshi—barefoot and bound with ropes—was thrust out from within the Retired Emperor’s compound. Omi no Chujo Renjo, Yamashiro no Kami Motokane, and other civil and military officials were stripped of their court robes and long swords one after another, hauled off to Nishihachijō; meanwhile, Shunkan of Shishigatani too found himself bound by coarse soldiers and dragged away like a beast, lashed with whips all the while.

It was not hard to imagine with what eyes of hatred and rage Kiyomori beheld these people. To Jōken Hōshi, he barked: "Don't be hasty in lopping off these beasts' heads! First clamp their limbs in shackles! Interrogate them thoroughly! Then drag them to the riverbank and strike off their skulls!" Driven to utter desperation, Jōken roared from the white sand courtyard, his voice tearing through his throat: "Hear me, Kiyomori! You may have been Tadamori of Justice's legitimate heir, but until fourteen or fifteen you hadn't even entered court service - the capital's rabble called you 'One-Eyed Kōheita'! Even when they made you Left Guards Lieutenant of the Fourth Rank for capturing twenty pirates in Hōen times, men called it excessive! Yet you kept rising - mingling with court nobles, now sitting as Great Minister! Don't you find this divine favor strange? Keep chasing your clan's glory without good governance, and soon flames of resentment will consume Nishihachijō's very rafters! Ha! I see it clear - the Heike's fall! The day crows peck at your tonsured head on the riverbed - I see it plain!" Kiyomori's brow turned ashen.

“You cur! I’ll rip that mouth into eight pieces! Samurai! Strip the skin from this subhuman fiend and strike him down with red-hot metal whips!” He spat from the corridor and retreated deeper inside. On the wooden floor of the vacant armory storeroom, the Dainagon lay collapsed, drenched in tears and bereft of any semblance of human composure. The lay priest, with heavy footsteps, opened the shoji there and approached him.

“Lord Dainagon, Lord Dainagon.” “A person is called human precisely because they know gratitude—without it, they’re no better than beasts.” “Were you not already condemned to die during the Heiji era, when Komatsu Naifu offered his own neck in your stead?” “Yet you forgot that mercy and sought to topple our house—a vile deed!” “For all to witness, I shall bestow this upon you.” He raised one leg of his wide hakama trousers and delivered a brutal kick. Then— “Still this does nothing to soothe my wrath.” “Is there no one here?!” “Make this thankless cur scream louder! Louder!” Armored soldiers stomped across the wooden floorboards and gripped the Dainagon’s limbs. Shin Dainagon Narichika screamed—a shrill “Hiii!”—and thrashed wildly as Kiyomori desired.

V When it came to those he despised, even plucking out their hair and rending their flesh did nothing to ease Kiyomori’s fury. The residual fury turned even toward the Retired Emperor himself, and as dawn approached, the martial fervor at Nishihachijō grew ever more intense. When his son Shigemori—who was at the Baraen estate—heard of this, he visited his father Kiyomori with tragic resolve. Then, confronting him directly, Shigemori admonished his enraged father by invoking Prince Shōtoku’s ancient words. Those were words drawn from Prince Shōtoku’s Seventeen-Article Constitution.

Every person has a mind. Each heart holds its own attachments. Acknowledge others as right. Condemn oneself as wrong. Affirm oneself as right. Condemn others as wrong. Who can determine the principle of right and wrong? All alike possess wisdom and folly. Like a ring without end.

Even if others are angered, Fear your own transgressions

Kiyomori bowed his head and listened to the Naifu’s voice. It seemed he had abandoned the idea of killing the Dainagon. However，his anger did not subside.

Before long, exiles were being loaded into prisoner carts daily and dispatched from the capital to distant provinces. The crossroads of the capital grew increasingly clamorous each day with crowds gathering to watch them pass.

Shin Dainagon was exiled to Bizen no Kojima. Renjō of Ōmi, Yamashiro no Kami Motokane, Shikibu no Masatsuna, and others—reduced to mere commoners—were sent off as living corpses in countless prisoner carts to distant provinces in all directions.

But the one who received a punishment akin to execution was Shunkan of Shishigatani. Merely hearing that those being exiled were being sent to Kikaigashima was enough to terrify people to their very souls. Rokujō Noritsuna felt as though he had rescued His Majesty’s actions from the perilous abyss of raging flames. If, at that time, someone had loosed even a single arrow toward Nishihachijō and it had become known that the Retired Emperor was behind those forces, there was no telling how far Kiyomori’s reach might have extended—indeed, what calamity might have befallen even His Majesty’s own person.

“What a terrifying world,” he thought once again. He could do nothing but earnestly temper his conduct and devote himself to meticulous self-discipline at every step through life. “Yajirō! Is Yajirō here?” Suddenly calling out, another servant—

“Yajirō-dono has just now gone to view the exiles’ prisoner carts, carrying Lady Wako on his back.” When Yajirō returned carrying Jūhachi Kimimaro on his back, Noritsuna— “Do not show such things to Wako,” he scolded.

However, Jūhachi Kimimaro wanted to see. Rokujō’s residence, unlike their former home in Hino Village, was located in the heart of the capital city. Even if he covered his eyes and stopped his ears, the roaring din of the turbulent world and the fearful whispers of trembling people could not help but be reflected in the sensitive mirror of his childlike heart. Due to his mother’s illness, Shōzenbō—who had long been away in his hometown—eventually returned, but he was astonished by the capital’s drastic transformation in such a short time and the vicissitudes of human fortunes.

“If three years pass with the world like this, how could it possibly change?” He murmured earnestly about life’s impermanence.

Poverty Cart

One

The wall was stained with ink.

At the desks lined up on all four sides, approximately twenty schoolchildren were forcing themselves to sit up straight as they listened to the teacher’s lecture.

It was *The Classic of Filial Piety*. When Hino Minbu’s lecture concluded, “Master…” said the school attendant who had been waiting in the next room as he approached his side.

“At this moment, there is a child who wishes to enroll, accompanied by two retainers, waiting at the entrance.”

“I see. Let them through—but which family’s child is this?” “I have not yet inquired, sir.” While the school attendant was leaving, the children had already begun hurriedly putting away the books on their desks and making a commotion.

“Quiet!” Minbu scolded, “Who told you to stand? You must not put away your books yet. Now review in unison the passage I have read and explained.” 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 our studies are not yet concluded. Pour water into the inkstone and take out your paper.” As commanded, their writing practice began. Satisfied with this, Minbu rose and went to another room.

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

With the wooden veranda edge behind him, a single boy had been made to wait there for some time. Minbu entered casually, but froze in surprise the moment he stepped inside. This school had accepted children from influential families like Horikawa, Kyōgoku, Gojō, and Karasuma—students ranging from six or seven to fifteen or sixteen years old—and though Minbu had taught many boys over the years, he had never before felt such an impression upon first meeting someone.

(No ordinary child.) He sensed it immediately.

Though it was an intuition he had gained through years of experience as an educator, there was nothing particularly unusual about the boy’s appearance or attire. The boy, with his hands placed on his knees, glanced up at Minbu who had entered. And then he stepped back slightly and placed both hands on the floor. If he were a child from a good family, such manners would have been instilled in any child regardless of household. Yet even in those ordinary movements, Minbu still sensed it.

(Hmm? ...Which family’s child could this be? This must be a phoenix fledgling.) So thinking while,

“Are you the one seeking enrollment?” “Yes.” The reply rang clear. “Your age?” “I have reached eight years.” “Your name?” “I am called Jūhachi Kimimaro.” “Is your father of the warrior class?” “No.” “To what house do you belong? By what lineage?” “I am the son of Fujiwara no Noritsuna from Rokujō Genji-chō.”

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

II Realizing that his eyes had not been mistaken, Minbu struck his knee,

“That explains it...” he nodded repeatedly. “Lord Rokujō stands foremost in Japanese studies and poetic arts today. “Being his adopted child, there can be no doubt of your qualifications.” “Though my father and uncle both petitioned on my behalf, I was taught that to truly become a scholar, one must personally come alone to make this request—thus I have come.” “Your resolve is clear.” “Teacher, I beg you—accept me as your Confucian disciple from this day forth.”

“What did you study while you were at home?” “From my father I received instruction in waka poetry, and from my uncle I was taught calligraphy and introductory Japanese studies.” “Very well. Starting tomorrow, you may attend.” “Minbu shall impart unto you all the knowledge he has acquired.” “Thank you very much.” On Jūhachi Kimimaro’s cheeks, the color of hope shone crimson. He was, after all, still a boy. Upon hearing this, he briskly ran to the entrance,

“Kai!” he called out cheerfully. Attendant Kai and Yashirō were crouching at the corner of the reception area, "Oh, Lady Wako, what has happened?" “I received permission.”

“That’s—!” The two straightened their postures and rejoiced. “It went splendidly. “Quickly, let Father know about this as well.”

They arranged their footwear and turned the shafts of the shabby palanquin with peeling lacquer. When he climbed in, from the schoolhouse window,

“Hey, whose kid is that?” jeered the mischievous children who had been running wild while the teacher wasn’t looking, poking out ink-smeared faces and prankster eyes. “Poverty cart!” “Rattletrap!” “Spin all you want—” “A poverty cart’s a rattletrap!” they sang and taunted. Yashirō dashed to the window’s edge,

“You sparrows! What nonsense are you spouting?!” With a “Whoa!”, they laughed and all at once pulled their heads back from the window.

“Yashirō, don’t act childish. Let’s go.” Kai took hold of the ox’s reins. “I’ll pull it,” said Yashirō, taking the reins from his hand while still glancing back at the window with visible irritation. “Can it truly be wise to send our precious Lady Wako to a schoolhouse where such mischief thrives?” “That too is part of ascetic training.” “But there’s truth in the saying about being stained by what you touch—” “If her noble qualities could be tainted, then they were flawed from the start.”

“Damnable brats!” “But about this poverty cart—the children aren’t lying in their song.” “Look at this wretched carriage—who could say we aren’t poor? …Ah, spin round and round as it may, a poverty cart stays a broken cart.” “Until the world itself turns aright, there’s no mending it.”

The old cart, lacking even an ox driver or attendants, clattered along the uneven road, its wheels rattling with every bump.

Three

From the next day onward, Jūhachi Kimimaro's figure appeared at the schoolhouse without fail through rain and wind alike. The teacher Hino Minbu Tadatsune had been a Confucian scholar of the Nanke lineage in his past life—so accomplished in Confucian studies that people said, "At court stands Abe no Yasuchika the onmyōji; in rural lands stands Hino Minbu." Yet he possessed an expansive nature that spurned fame and profit, having withdrawn to this village to make children's education his natural vocation.

Minbu loved Jūhachi Kimimaro. As days passed, he had come to recognize the boy's innate talent. (This child is truly a sandalwood sapling!) Indeed, Jūhachi Kimimaro's abilities far surpassed those of his peers. Rather, they were so far removed from the other children's capabilities that it verged on excessiveness. And among those children too, jealousy festered. Clatter-clatter cart Clatter-cart The poverty cart's A sound rang out—

On the way to and from the schoolhouse, such songs were sung repeatedly. Truly, there was not a single other person who came to school in an old cart like Jūhachi Kimimaro. Those who lived nearby would have attendants hold Chinese-style umbrellas for them as they came or commute wearing resplendent shoes; those who lived far away would have lacquer-decorated or mother-of-pearl inlaid carriages prepared and even adorn their ox drivers’ attire, “My ox has such a glossy coat!” they would even boast about their oxen. Amidst all this, there was one student at the schoolhouse who was the oldest. Jūhachi Kimimaro had forgotten, but his attendant Kai recognized him. He was the child of Narita Hyōe, a retainer of Lord Komatsu. It was none other than Jutōmaru, the little tyrant who had cunningly tormented Jūhachi Kimimaro back when he was still at the Hino residence.

Jutōmaru knew. Was he inherently detestable? Did he still hold a grudge over that incident? Whatever the case, he remained spiteful by nature. And, It was later discovered he had been the instigator who popularized the song: “The poverty cart makes a sound—” “Kai, that brat’s the ringleader! For Lady Wako’s sake, we must act.” “True, I’d love to teach him a lesson, but...” “How about I serve him this fist?” “Enough now.”

Kai cautioned Yashirō, who was being rash. Kai, of course, resented him bitterly. Yet after all, this was the child of a powerful family flourishing even among the Heike—a samurai’s son. Moreover, whenever he came to the schoolhouse, five or six retainers accompanied his carriage daily. If one were to strike him or such, not only would it put one’s own neck at risk, but above all, it was plain to see that disaster would befall their master as well. Moreover, Jutōmaru’s retainers acted with insolence. While waiting for their master’s child to finish his studies, they would tease village women nearby, throw stones to knock down sparrows and roast them over the hearth in the attendants’ waiting room to devour, or—in more extreme cases—secretly drink sake and such. And,

“Hey, Kai! Serving a noble household’s all well and good, but why settle in some rundown Fujiwara place by the ox pastures? What madness possessed you?” “Come to my master’s estate instead—you’d keep cleaner scrubbing stables there,” they jeered with insolence. (Stop it. Don’t react)—each time, Kai restrained Yashirō with a look. Though Yashirō was older, Kai remained the voice of restraint. By rights, the younger Kai should have been first to flare up in youthful fervor, but bitter experience taught him to leash his impulses.

Wildfire

One

It was morning. Yashirō, who had gone out to town on an errand for the inner quarters to do some shopping, “Kai! It’s terrible!” he said, coming back without even the shopping.

“What happened?” “It’s war!”

“Again?” Kai muttered as though it were nothing out of the ordinary. Yashirō, agitated, “No—this time, the flames are real.” “It seems a faction of the Genji clan has finally risen up, unable to endure any longer.” “Hmm.” Kai’s young eyes sparkled when he heard that. “Is it a rumor, or did you see it?” “Gojō and Shijō are completely blocked by Rokuhara’s warhorses heading to battle—they say Prince Takakura has been installed as their figurehead, and that Minamoto no Yorimasa, the aged Genji warrior of the Third Rank, has rallied the Watanabe faction and monks from Mii-dera to barricade themselves at Byōdō-in Temple in Uji. Soon, they’ll march on the capital.”

"Hoh, that must have thrown Rokuhara into a panic." "I want them to win." "…………" Kai was deep in thought, but soon ran to the northern hall where Yoshimitsu Gozen resided and talked with her for a while. Noritsuna also learned of this,

“Given how things look, the commotion in the capital can’t be ordinary. Since you mustn’t get hurt, Jūhachi Kimimaro, you should stay home from the schoolhouse today,” he said. When Jūhachi Kimimaro heard this, “I’ll be careful. I won’t go anywhere near dangerous places, so please let me go to the schoolhouse.” he pleaded. He was so earnest he seemed on the verge of tears. Though Noritsuna felt uneasy,

“Then be careful,” he cautioned. “If military horses block your path, you must return.” With these words, he granted permission. As Yashirō had witnessed earlier, both main avenues and narrow lanes of the capital were filled with armored warriors, horses, bows, and naginatas. The carriage with its loose axle swayed unsteadily through this throng while carrying Jūhachi Kimimaro. Though naginatas clattered before the vehicle and rough warriors challenged their passage, Jūhachi Kimimaro sat inside reading the Classic of Filial Piety.

“Yashirō, did you see? Lady Yoshimitsu’s—what boldness…” Even Kai could only marvel. And before he knew it, “Indeed, it seems even Lady Yoshimitsu has Genji warrior blood somewhere in her lineage,” he muttered. Yashirō pulled on a sleeve,

“Shh,” he scolded. The eyes of Heike warriors filled the road. However, that day passed without incident. The next day also passed without incident.

The news that Minamoto no Yorimasa of the Third Rank had raised the banner of revolt sent shockwaves not only through the capital but also through the hearts of people across the entire nation. The news delivered a powerful shock: "They did it!" However, like a tidal wave, the Heike’s great armies—having broken through the Uji River and surrounded Byōdō-in Temple—returned triumphantly within days, the heads of Minamoto no Yorimasa and his sons, along with those of the Watanabe faction and Mii-dera monks, impaled on their sword tips. The number of heads was proclaimed to be over two thousand, and warriors in bloodstained armor, drunk on victory wine, pranced about the capital.

Two

The hearts of the people held both sympathy and disappointment for the army of Minamoto no Yorimasa of the Third Rank, who had achieved a heroic death mired in the mud of defeat.

And in their hearts, “How far does their ill fortune stretch?” they wondered, hating the arrogantly flourishing Heike clan even more. They lamented their resigned acceptance that their stagnant lives—like weeds clinging to stone—would remain untouched by sunlight for some time to come. But Yorimasa’s death was not in vain. His desperate battle was rather a final bloom in his twilight years.

The fact that even that aged Genji warrior had accomplished such a feat struck those of the Genji clan lying hidden across the provinces with tremendous force. Stimulated by his uprising, the Genji lineage began mobilizing forces from all directions as if awakening from a long hibernation. First, on August 7th, in Izu of the Kantō region, Yoritomo unfurled a white banner across the peninsula—a sight unseen in this land since Yoshitomo's fall.

The urgent report shocked Rokuhara in the capital—and before they could even prepare their military—the second report came from the Kebiishi in Kiso, a source they had never anticipated.

“Young Lord Yoshinaka of Kiso has rallied the various Genji clans north of Ōmi and hereby pledges support to Yoritomo in Izu.” The hearts and minds of Rokuhara’s people swayed in shock.

Unfortunately, Kiyomori had been unwell since around this time, his seclusion steeped in a gloomy mood. Night after night, he seemed to have nightmares, unnerving the night watchmen with their eeriness. He developed a raging fever, and even during daylight hours would mutter bizarre ravings—how Minamoto no Yorimasa’s severed head hung in the great hall, how Yoshitomo’s warhorses galloped across rooftops, how blue and red demons arrived outside the stable gates riding a chariot of flames at Enma’s summons.

However, beginning with Munemori, the Heike relatives strictly kept Kiyomori’s illness concealed, “Do not speak of this to anyone,” they had instructed even the night watchmen, court physicians, and visiting generals. Yoritomo’s troops, like wildfire across parched fields, burned through Musashi and pressed into Hitachi. It was heard that Yoshinaka had already advanced his cavalry along the Ōmi Road. Through such a dizzying capital where not a moment’s respite could be found, Jūhachi Kimimaro continued commuting daily without fail to the Hino schoolhouse in his rickety cart.

Then, one day, Jutōmaru from the gang of troublemakers and five or six other older students, seizing the opportunity while Minbu was away,

“Hey, Cow Dung Town brat!” they surrounded Jūhachi Kimimaro. “Your father isn’t Rokujō Noritsuna. In truth, you’re the child of Arinori of Hino, aren’t you?”

Even Jūhachi Kimimaro knew that, so there was no sorrow. Silently, with clear, round eyes, he gazed at the faces of those ruffians. Jutōmaru spoke threateningly, “Listen. “There’s still something you don’t know.” “Shall I tell you? Here’s the truth—your real father, Fujiwara no Arinori, was said to have died of illness in public, but in reality, he secretly fled his mansion and had been plotting rebellion with Minamoto no Yorimasa of the Third Rank and his faction for several years now.” “And then—alongside Yorimasa Nyūdō and the rest—he had his head struck off at the Uji Riverbed.” “……Bet you didn’t know that.” “The only one who knows is my father, Narita Hyōe.” “My old man took seven Genji warrior heads at Byōdō-in Temple in Uji!”

Three

People said that his current father was actually his adoptive father who came later. "Why don't I have a real father?" Even without fully believing Jutōmaru's words, Jūhachi Kimimaro found himself constantly pondering them. When he asked his mother, "Your father passed away in the spring when Wako was four years old." After clearly explaining this, Yoshimitsu Gozen continued: "But because of that, Wako was raised by this uncle of yours—Lord Rokujō Noritsuna—and became his adopted child." "As the saying goes, 'The parent who rears surpasses the parent who bears.' The kindness of your adoptive father is immeasurable." "You must never forget this."

“Yes.” Jūhachi Kimimaro nodded, but with his next question immediately surprised Mother. “Did Father go to war and die?” “No—to illness.”

“But there were people who said he joined Lord Yorimasa of the Third Rank’s forces and died in battle.” “The world, you see, speculates in all sorts of ways about people’s lives.” “There is no such thing.” “I, Lord Uncle, and Kai were all present at his bedside during his final moments.” “Why does the world say such things?” “It is not entirely without reason—for among this mother’s cousins, there is Minamoto no Yoshitsune, who now hides under Fujiwara no Hidehira’s protection in Ōshu, and Yoritomo, who is rumored to have raised his banner in Izu of late. Thus they maliciously speculate that your late father must have joined Yorimasa’s forces and perished.” And she stroked Jūhachi Kimimaro’s head.

“You must never think—even when grown—to take up blades in bloodied streets and seek renown like Yoritomo and Yoshitsune.”

“Mother.” “What is it?” “Where do people go when they die?”

“Hmm…” Yoshimitsu Gozen found herself unable to immediately answer when her child posed such a question—something that would normally seem perfectly clear. “To speak of going—there is no form that departs.” “They simply return to nothingness.” “Only the human heart remains.” “Only the karma of the heart remains.” “Therefore, those who do good deeds during their lifetime leave behind a good name, while those who commit evil karma carry the name of evil in their soul even a thousand years later, and after death, they cannot wipe it away or change it.”

To think of death is to think of life. Jūhachi Kimimaro's eyes began faintly opening to real society's aspects around that time. To figures of people starving by roadsides beneath straw mats, and to military commanders parading down Rokuhara Avenue with gleaming blades—he opened new eyes to observe them and began contemplating the world. Thus did these people's myriad transient forms uniformly return to death's void, leaving only their souls' names enduring in the cosmos.

Infinitely dying, infinitely being reborn; only the names of infinite souls abide in immortality.

"How strange?..." he would sometimes murmur, his round eyes fixedly staring at the deep azure sky—profoundly clear and endlessly captivating—as though he could never drink his fill of gazing.

Even during such times, he never neglected his daily attendance at Hino Minbu’s academy.

Four With his studies in Mencius, Laozi, the Five Classics, and the Analects advancing remarkably, the gang of bullies at the academy—who had made Jutōmaru their ringleader—began targeting Jūhachi Kimimaro. “That brat’s getting cocky,” they declared, finally regarding him as an enemy. “A poverty cart’s desk should make do with this rickety one!” With that, they swapped his desk for a crooked-legged one, hid frogs in his stationery box, dropped pine needles down his collar, concealed his ink and brushes—attempting every manner of mischief to provoke him.

However, Jūhachi Kimimaro did not engage. "What, is this brat mute?" said Jutōmaru.

Jūhachi Kimimaro, who had not spoken until the age of two, would still sometimes become mute as he had been in those days. There were times when he maintained his composure as though completely unaware, no matter what voices surrounded him. Finally, the delinquents made a fool of him. “Hey, today let’s go tease that guy,” proposed Jutōmaru, as always. “What should we do?”

“On the way back, sunset always finds us at Tadasu no Hara. We’ll lie in wait around where the poverty cart passes and set wildfires from all sides.” “That’ll be fun!”

A dry wind whipped down from North Mountain, now and then pelting the roof stones with hail-like clatter, while winter clouds raced across the twilight sky with terrifying speed.

“Lady Wako, please do not catch a chill.” “Stay covered inside the carriage.” The attendants consisted of Kai alone. There was one ox driver.

Having left Hino’s academy, they rattled along through the white grassland of evening frost.

Inside the carriage with its curtain raised, the sound of book-reading could be heard. Both coming and going, Jūhachi Kimimaro had been reading books. Now the stars shone pale while the earth lay dark. Still he kept his face in the biting wind, never releasing his grip on the volume. “Ah—” The ox driver stood paralyzed. Before them blazed a great crimson flame searing the earth. With this wind across dry grasslands, the fire whirled as though oil had been poured.

“Ox driver!”

“Yes.” “Turn to the side.” “It might be a bit farther, but there should be a path.” Kai said, choking on the smoke.

The carriage pulled back slightly and raced west along the rocky pampas grassland path. Then again, “No good!”

There was no need to ask why; even to Kai’s eyes, it became immediately clear. The entire area around them was ablaze—if they turned back, fire there too; fire everywhere. In an instant, the carriage found itself surrounded by flames on all sides, brought to a standstill. “Bwahahaha!” “Ahahahaha!” Somewhere, mocking laughter rang out. Jet-black smoke slammed down from the whirlwind. Inside the carriage, Jūhachi Kimimaro coughed repeatedly, wracked with suffering. “So it’s Narita Hyōe’s brat.” Kai gripped his sword’s hilt as though past endurance and leapt toward the laughing pampas grass waves.

五

From the clump of pampas grass there, about ten delinquents fled like locusts.

Among them, Jutōmaru’s figure could also be seen. Shōzenbō glared fiercely, “You! Today I won’t show mercy!”

When Shōzenbō gave chase, Jutōmaru cried out in a half-sob while brandishing his bamboo whip to strike him. "You insolent brat!" Shōzenbō wrested away the whip and slapped Jutōmaru across the face with his bare palm. Jutōmaru fell backward into the burning dry grass and shouted something. Then from the nearby thicket came: "Protect the young lord!"

“Ugh, how dare you!” Behind the child, adults had been hiding. Shouting as they brandished tachi and naginata, the Narita family retainers—

“Don’t move!” they surrounded Kai and slashed at him. Shōzenbō was surprised. He had not imagined that the prank had been planned to this extent. “What the—” He also drew his tachi. Crackling flames burning dry grass and black smoke spewing from pampas grass enveloped the sword. He had been admonished time and again by his master until his master’s mouth ran dry not to pick fights with Heike retainers—but under these circumstances, if he did not strike them down, he would be struck down himself. To preserve life was humanity’s absolute imperative. Shōzenbō narrowed his eyes fiercely and fought.

However, the Narita retainers were samurai long accustomed to such violent deeds and superior in number, so Kai found himself overwhelmed in an instant. His sleeves tore open, his gauntlets soaked crimson with blood. When a shallow gash split his cheek toward the ear, scarlet streaks smeared across his face until only those two ghastly eyes remained visible—glistening like dark pits in his skull. Shoulders heaving with ragged breaths, he retreated one laborious step at a time. *What has become of Lady Wako?* The thought clawed at him.

Jūhachi Kimimaro’s carriage remained visible beyond the pampas thicket, unchanged in position, but even if he tried to go there, the flames and smoke and the enemy’s blades blocked his way, making it impossible to approach. “Lady Wako—!” Kai finally shouted. Then, a high-pitched scream was heard from the direction of the carriage. Without thinking, Kai dashed off without even looking at the flames.

“Don’t let him escape!” the blade pursued.

“Ah!” Kai was astonished.

Jūhachi Kimimaro’s carriage was already ablaze, raging with crimson flames. The axles, the canopy— Bellowing—! As if the ground itself began to tremble, the ox roared. The ox, carrying the flaming carriage, suddenly broke into a frenzied gallop. In all directions, the delinquents who had been hiding shrieked and scattered. Panicking children rushed toward the flames themselves, becoming trapped in the sea of fire. “Help me!” Engulfed in the flames he himself had set, Jutōmaru screamed. But the enraged fire ox showed no mercy. It kicked aside delinquents, crushed retainers’ blades beneath its hooves, and charged into the dark outskirts bearing a billowing mass of flames.

“Lady Wako! …Lady Wako—!” “Lady Wako—!” Shōzenbō frantically chased after it.

Six The fire-maddened ox ran three or four blocks before abruptly collapsing sideways. When the ox fell, the burning canopy—like a crimson festival float collapsing—groaned and creaked as it disintegrated. Then the canopy, the noble blinds, and the shafts each became separate entities, tracing beautiful streams of flame across the ground as they merrily burned. Kai, like one possessed,

“Lady Wako!” he shouted as he dashed off.

And then, desperately, he pushed aside the collapsed flaming planks and pillars with his hands, scattering them away. He felt no heat at all. Naturally, he assumed Jūhachi Kimimaro inside should have already burned to death. But there was nothing beneath the carriage. “Ah…,” “Did she… fall out midway?” Shōzenbō stood suspended between anxiety and joy as he murmured this.

“……Perhaps she was thrown off midway, or perhaps she herself jumped down—ah, thank goodness.” When he looked, the ox had already burned to death. With its massive flank distended and legs bent, it had turned completely black. It appeared to still have some breath left, and white foam bubbled from its lips. Shōzenbō inadvertently averted his eyes.

The wasteland was dyed crimson. Unless someone came to put it out, this fire might continue until tomorrow morning. Even so, the fact that Jūhachi Kimimaro was nowhere to be seen here was still unsettling. It was too soon to feel relieved. There was no way he could return to Rokujō alone, and he must certainly be somewhere crying and searching for himself— “Hey—!” Kai pressed both hands to the sides of his mouth and called out with every ounce of his voice.

“Lady Wakooo—!” There was no reply; his voice became a futile storm across the field’s edge, vanishing into utter darkness. “…………”

He tried to call out, but tears welled up in his eyes. What if something happened? Even if he were to cut open his belly in apology, it would not suffice. Even more than the ox from earlier, his shadow—panicked and maddened—darted across the fields like a fleeing rabbit, but Jūhachi Kimimaro was nowhere to be seen.

“Where have you gone off to, Lord Jūhachi Kimimaro? “I am here!” “Lord Jūhachi Kimimaro!” His voice began to quaver uncontrollably.

Then, on the embankment near the riverside, a man was seen running with someone on his back. The flames crawled all the way to the base of the embankment, and because the sky was red, the black figure stood out clearly to Kai's eyes.

“Ah! Isn’t that Lady Wako?” “That’s right—it must be Lady Wako.” “You Narita retainers, you curs!”

Like a demon, Kai dashed toward the embankment, but the marsh of withered reeds spread out before him, blocking his path and forcing a long detour to reach the top. His mind raced, but his legs refused to obey. The marsh water was quite deep. Kai pulled back his legs, soaked up to the knees, and climbed up the embankment from about half a block behind. By now, the figure he had seen earlier had gone far away, and he could no longer make it out. Kai stamped his feet, “Damn it!” he shouted.

And then, he ran along the top of the embankment like an oni, his hair streaming behind him. The court hat fell to his back and danced wildly.

Seven

“The sky is red again.”

“Could it be that bandits had broken into some mansion?” Coming out into the streets, the townspeople looked up at the sky. The terror following battle was bandits.

They did not skulk about furtively. They would bring ten, twenty, even fifty followers at times, and boldly barge into any place they pleased. If there were even a few disobedient retainers, they would fight under the pretense of loyalty, and the mansion would immediately be set ablaze and burned 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 in meager consolation.

Down that thoroughfare, a man ran recklessly. It was Kai.

“Wait!” he shouted at Kyōgoku no Tsuji. The figure running ahead was frighteningly fast. From what he glimpsed up close, it seemed to be the sort of person one often saw sleeping on riverbanks or withered fields—a beggar or an itinerant monk. At first, certain it was one of the Narita retainers, Kai had given chase—but now he grew increasingly bewildered. He now thought that this must surely be bandits or traffickers who had kidnapped Lord Jūhachi Kimimaro to sell him off to some distant province.

“Wait! Wait!” The more he shouted, the faster the man ahead became—demonically swift despite carrying Jūhachi Kimimaro on his back. And then, somehow managing to slip through, he dashed into the Rokujō Ox Pasture. “Oh, here!” The man looked up at the earthen wall and stood still. And then he began to bang loudly on the back door.

Someone opened it. The moment it opened, the man handed Jūhachi Kimimaro—whom he had been carrying on his back—over into the gate as if tossing him, then briskly turned back to the path he had come from. “You beggar! Where did you take Lady Wako?” The one who suddenly grappled him was Kai. “Ah!” The man staggered but said nothing. He twisted his body and forcefully flung Kai away.

Kai grabbed the man’s leg. The man lurched forward and fell. “Now!” Kai pounced on him and began pounding away with his fists.

The initial momentum had vanished; the straw-mat monk-like man covered his face with both hands and did not even cry out in pain. Kai, his fury unappeased, kept striking and striking, pounding relentlessly. Then, Jūhachi Kimimaro, who had come running from beside the earthen wall, saw this and burst out crying loudly. Jūhachi Kimimaro, who rarely ever cried, was now weeping with such strange intensity that Kai was startled.

“Lady Wako, this bastard’s either a bandit, trafficker, or villain.” “Why do you weep?” Jūhachi Kimimaro spoke these words and gazed resentfully at Kai as he heaved for breath. “I remember that man. He’s no villain.” “What? You know this person, Lady Wako?”

“He had been tied up in the mansion’s stable…” “That’s right—he’s called Shōji Shichirō, who once served Narita Hyōe.” “Gah!” Shōzenbō looked surprised, “Is that man Shōji Shichirō, a retainer of Narita Hyōe who served that Jutōmaru?” When he looked back, the straw-mat monk—still covering his face with both hands—suddenly stood up and fled in apparent shame.

Eight When Jūhachi Kimimaro was led by the hand into the mansion’s grounds, both his adoptive father Noritsuna and Yoshimitsu Gozen stood waiting. “Oh—you’re unharmed!” “Were you hurt?” The entire family came tumbling out onto the veranda. They had heard of the incident from the ox-cart driver who had fled back earlier and had been anxiously worrying. When it was explained that the man who rescued Jūhachi Kimimaro from that perilous wildfire and carried him here was none other than Shōji Shichirō—formerly a retainer of Narita Hyōe—Noritsuna...

“Ah, so that’s it…” he murmured in realization, nodding. “That samurai named Shichirō—whom I released from the stable prison here by untying his bonds—was later deemed a useless troublemaker by his master Hyōe, stripped of both home and stipend, reduced to a rōnin, and I hear he had fallen so low as to become an itinerant monk wrapped in straw mats…” “It appears he could not forget Lady Wako’s compassion from that time and our family’s benevolence, and thus acted at this perilous juncture.” “One must show compassion to others—what a truly grateful soul he is.”

While he was speaking those words to Kai, Yajirō, and the others, Yoshimitsu Gozen took Jūhachi Kimimaro to stand by the stone well in the courtyard. Without letting sleeves get in the way, she drew up water herself and washed his dirtied feet and hands. Then carrying him into the inner room, she brought out clothes and had him change, checked his abrasions anew, applied medicine— “Wako,” she said, her voice trembling with tears.

“Today’s calamity passed without injury by fortune, but hereafter you must guard yourself vigilantly.” “Let no carelessness dwell in your heart!” “If harm should befall you, what would become of this mother?” She then spent the deepening night anxiously contemplating Jūhachi Kimimaro’s future, imparting countless admonitions. That became the final night mother and child would hold each other most profoundly within their hearts.

Standing at the stone well while drawing water, she had muttered about feeling a chill; from that night onward, she secluded herself in her bedroom for days without emerging. Since parting from her husband, she—prone to illness as she was—had lived without respite, burdened not only by sickness but also by raising two bereaved children, gazing upon Rokujō Noritsuna’s strained household finances and the worries of worldly troubles, never finding time to taste peaceful days together. In the span of a few days during which she herself had lightly dismissed it as a mere cold, her youth and skin had been whittled away by the plane of disease until she grew shockingly emaciated, her gauntness startling to behold.

Oh… Something beautiful… The scent of lotus flowers… That strange sound—is it the shō’s music, or the kalaviṅka’s song? ...Lotus flowers are falling—dear ones—lotus flowers falling, they land on my face. Deeply devout, she would utter delirious words when her fever spiked and move her slender, wax-like hands.

(This won’t do—) Noritsuna thought darkly as he looked at Jūhachi Kimimaro and Asamaro—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, filled with sorrow. Then, as if commanded by some unseen force, she joined her pale palms together and smiled faintly.

Flowers rode upon the night wind.

One

The black soil of the main road after the rain was patterned with white patches like spilled white lead. Creak, creak—the lonely sound of wheels passed through the desolate earthen walls, bamboo fences, and dappled shade under hedges of cherry blossoms near Awataguchi.

“Ah.” Walking alongside the ox, Shōzenbō gently wiped the tears at the tip of his nose with his fingertip. “Even though it’s daytime… somehow I feel like I’m walking through night.” He muttered to himself, “That’s only natural,” the ox driver responded.

“What a New Year this has been—and right from its very start...” “First, His Cloistered Majesty Emperor Takakura passed away—and then Chancellor Lord Taira no Kiyomori, who had been wracked by a raging fever since last year, abruptly departed for the next world...” “And yet—for His Lordship and Lady Wako, having lost Her Ladyship Yoshimitsu Gozen—they’ve had to spend such a lonely year through all this...”

“The emptiness… is that of His Lordship’s heart—and ours.”

“It’s so quiet—not a single butterfly dances. In this spring mourning period, when both high and low are drowned in grief, even the tiniest bugs seem to grasp this loneliness.”

“It’s night—no matter how I try, I can’t believe it’s daytime—” Shōzenbō turned at the path.

The path was also hushed, coldly quiet, and devoid of human figures.

Then came—mid-March of the spring when Jūhachi Kimimaro turned nine years old. Inside the ox-drawn carriage, a sunken human figure could be seen, dark as ink. It was Jūhachi Kimimaro, cradled on his adoptive father Noritsuna’s lap. After losing his mother, Jūhachi Kimimaro had changed even more. Even his facial features had suddenly come to resemble Yoshimitsu Gozen’s before her passing, and this added refinement was one aspect of his transformation; furthermore, even Noritsuna and Kai were at times startled by his eyes. They were black—utterly black—and clear as a lake.

His eyes were such that they seemed to gaze at stars—gaze at clouds—look up at the wind—and always harbor doubt while pondering the various phenomena of the asura-like games that earthly humans depicted.

Uncle Muneie, who had long been teaching him calligraphy, soon threw down his brush, "It’s better not to teach Jūhachi Kimimaro too much anymore," he went so far as to say. "He has a frightening talent," some remarked. Also,

“A child prodigy like this may unfortunately die young,” cautioned an old man.

In any case, there was unease. The surrounding adults could hardly bring themselves to jest. Though he was still a naive nine-year-old child, when they lightly held him, they felt something irreplaceable—a grandeur, a grace, a presence—that defied substitution. Yet he still clung to Noritsuna alone, and Noritsuna himself did not feel it to the extent others claimed. However, for some reason, “Resemble your mother in appearance. Resemble your father in blood,” he would habitually say.

He was terrified to the extreme that Genji blood from the maternal line was coursing through this child. Even without this, the Heike's watchful eyes not only remained suddenly vigilant regarding Jūhachi Kimimaro's maternal lineage and his very person of late—it also seemed inevitable that given the slightest opportunity, the claws of tigers and wolves would pounce forth.

Two Looked up at the weathered bronze-tiled mountain gate, “Here is fine.” Shōzenbō had the ox driver stop the carriage. And then, drawing near, “My lord, we have arrived at Shōren-in Temple,” he whispered to the carriage curtain. At the carriage shafts, they placed a heron-legged stool; beneath the front curtain, they set a shoe stand. “Proceed.”

“Yes,” Jūhachi Kimimaro gently lowered one leg. His wisteria-purple hakama and pale red plum sleeves hung down. Shōzenbō helped him down and fastened the beautiful lacquered boots to his feet. Though his adoptive father Noritsuna’s household finances were strained, for this day alone he had ordered the carriage adorned and made Jūhachi Kimimaro wear entirely pure, new garments—from his underrobe down to his footwear. (Today would be this child’s final day in the secular world—) he thought. When Shōzenbō approached the gate to inquire whether the archbishop was present,

“His Eminence is coming,” announced a temple attendant as he ran from the mountain gate toward the inner entrance. “What a fine temple—” Jūhachi Kimimaro kept looking around innocently.

“The monastery is acceptable.” “Yes,” he nodded. As he stood there, a wagtail alighted nearby, playing in the muddy water where fallen blossoms floated. “Lord Rokujō, you may proceed.” On the corridor steps, temple monks and samurai stood welcoming. Every last one of them smiled at Jūhachi Kimimaro’s cherubic charm.

“How old are you?” whispered someone. “Nine years old.”

The corridor of Shōren-in Temple was long. Crossing the bridge corridor from there led to yet another serene residence of the archbishop. The leaves of clustered bamboo cast blue light from somewhere onto the railings and lattice shutters. A bush warbler sang incessantly. The gurgling sound of a spring could be heard as the cold floor chilled the soles of their feet. This archbishop was Monk Jien - sixty-second head priest of Tendai. He was both son of Regent Tsukinowa and scion of a collateral branch.

Shōzenbō sat at the edge of the corridor. Noritsuna and Jūhachi Kimimaro passed through another guest room with large pillars and proceeded to the east-facing small chamber where they always paid their respects, prostrating themselves. The spring of Awatayama filled the room with its fragrance, and a breeze faintly rang a bell—perhaps in a niche, among jeweled ornaments, or somewhere. “Lord Rokujō?” When they timidly raised their heads at the voice, Archbishop Jien was sliding open the sliding door there.

He was young—still only twenty-seven—and yet held the position of head priest. When they offered their greetings, "Oh…" Immediately widening his eyes, he said, "Have you brought a child with you today?" "Please take notice— This is my adopted son, Jūhachi Kimimaro."

“Hmm.” He smiled genially with his lips. Noritsuna gently tugged the sleeve of Jūhachi Kimimaro’s suikan robe, “This is Archbishop-sama. Offer your greetings.” “Yes.” Jūhachi Kimimaro placed his hands on the floor and raised his face—white as a shell’s inner surface. It was the first gaze that would bind Jien and him as master and disciple.

III "Splendid—a childlike form." Archbishop Jien had been gazing intently, but then reached out to the desk and quietly rang the bronze bell there. When the bell sounded, "Your Eminence, was that a summons?" The steward Takamatsu Emon came to the next room and clasped his hands.

“Emon,” “Please give sweets to this Wako.” When Jien said this, “Understood, Your Eminence.” Emon spread white paper across a high tray, piled it with red-and-white flower-shaped twisted rice cakes and sweets called mochidango, then— “Good Wako, please partake of His Eminence the Archbishop’s gift,” he urged Jūhachi Kimimaro. For Noritsuna, he prepared a green-hued drink in an antique vessel.

From the aroma rising from the vessel, Noritsuna felt thirsty and thought to try drinking it, but he did not know what kind of beverage it was. Whenever he visited Shōren-in Temple, he would often be shown such unfamiliar flavors and ceremonial utensils, leaving him in awe of the archbishop’s knowledge. “I beg your pardon for my impertinence, but what is this green-colored broth called? It has a delightful aroma, but…” When Noritsuna asked, the archbishop laughed and,

“It is called tea,” he informed. “Ah, I see.” This must also have been imported from Tang China, Noritsuna thought as he took the vessel in hand. “Should I partake of it as it is?”

“That it is.”

“I humbly partake.” Bowing, Noritsuna took a sip and— (It’s bitter…), he thought, but as a faint sweetness welled up on his tongue, he felt a refreshing sensation.

“How does it taste?” “I find it most agreeable.” “It cannot be particularly good.” Unable to simply say “Yes,” Noritsuna answered that it left one refreshed. Jien laughed as he continued, “Lately, along with Buddhist texts, I obtained a small quantity of this tea to sample. It possesses a flavor I find rather hard to relinquish.” “They say tea plant seeds were brought by ship long ago and reached our shores.” “What manner of flower might it bear... I should like to see the blossom...”

And so he began to speak—how in China, since the Wei-Jin period, it had come to be cherished among gentlemen of refinement, and how Lu Yu of the Tang had even composed a treatise called *The Classic of Tea*. It was also good for dispelling melancholy and excellent for relieving blood stagnation. Even in the medical field, they used it, and its cultivation was advancing. In Japan as well, he expressed his desire to plant these seeds and have all people, high and low, make use of them—the archbishop’s discourse, brimming with youthful erudition, proved remarkably comprehensive and worldly in its concerns.

Moreover, although Archbishop Jien resided deep within the monastery, he possessed considerable insight into politics and social movements, and was well-versed in current affairs. Within his seemingly casual anecdotes lay an undercurrent of fervor. “Regarding that… Today, I have come most earnestly to request a favor of Your Eminence,” Noritsuna finally found an opening in the conversation and spoke up. From Noritsuna having brought Jūhachi Kimimaro, the boy’s formal attire, and the course of their conversation, Archbishop Jien had already discerned that today’s visit was not for their usual poetic diversions or idle chatter.

IV “Go on, speak,” said Archbishop Jien. “If it lies within my power—being none other than your request, Lord Rokujō—what precisely is this matter?” “Well… In truth, might it be possible for you to grant ordination to this Jūhachi Kimimaro and take him as your disciple for years to come?” “Oh…” The archbishop opened his eyes wide. “Do you mean to say you wish to shave off this elegant boy’s locks and confine him to a monastery?” “Therefore, as he appears to have had an innate Buddhist nature since childhood, he always longs for the temple.”

“Well, that alone isn’t enough.” “Especially since losing his mother, he has become even more…” “Ah, no, Lord Rokujō—is that not simply a child’s innocent heart? If a mother has a Buddhist heart, it is natural for her child to reflect that Buddhist heart; if a household resonates with Buddhist chants, it is natural for the child’s voice to carry Buddhist tones.—All young children are like clear water. To perceive this as a divine portent or a prodigy is already an error in our mundane eyes.—All childlike hearts are indeed Buddha-nature—do you understand?”

“Well…” “If those of mature years were to overinterpret this child’s supposed profound karmic connection to Buddhism and make him a temple acolyte, he may grow to bitterly resent it in adulthood.” “There is no discrepancy in Your Eminence’s judgment.” “At least wait until he is old enough to think for himself. Even speaking of ordination—at just nine years old…” “I humbly thank you for your admonition… Yet clinging to your merciful sleeve, there remains a matter I must beg of you.” Though thinking no harm could come from divulging anything here, Noritsuna inadvertently glanced around.

“For Jūhachi Kimimaro’s very being, there exists no place to put him save at Buddha’s knee.”

“Why?” “The Genji clans are rising across the provinces—voices calling for the Heike’s destruction fill the streets with terror... The Heike forces, maddened by bloodlust in their hatred of the Genji, will seize even women and children upon hearing any connection to that lineage, fabricating pretexts to execute them without fail.” “…………” Archbishop Jien nodded silently. “You may already know this, but this child’s birth mother was cousin to Yoshitomo—grandson of Yoshiie of the Genji line—and those feared warriors Yoritomo and Yoshitsune, who now gather armies in Kantō to march against the capital, stand as second cousins to Jūhachi Kimimaro.”

“Hmm.” “I see.” “His mother has passed away.” “The child is still nine years old, and as he has become my adopted son, I believe even the most unruly Heike warriors would not dare—yet there are those who bear grudges against me. False rumors are being spread that Jūhachi Kimimaro’s real father Arinori joined Lord Minamoto no Yorimasa’s rebellion and died in battle at Uji River. I feel terrified for his future.”

The archbishop remained motionless, deep in thought—but after a moment,

“Very well, I understand. I shall grant your request.” Having made up his mind, he answered resolutely.

V “Emon—” Archbishop Jien called again. At the sliding door’s edge, “Yes!” Takamatsu Emon immediately placed his hands on the floor, “Do you require my service?” “I need you to dispatch a messenger with utmost urgency. To the Ministry of Central Affairs.” “Understood.” “And what message should I convey?”

“Convey that Jūhachi Kimimaro-dono, the honorable adopted son of Lord Noritsuna, former governor of Wakasa, will have his ordination ceremony performed at this temple tonight, in accordance with his wishes—” “What?” Emon, as if doubting his ears, “Once again, may I humbly inquire—the honorable one undergoing ordination is…?” ……

“The one who is here is Lord Jūhachi Kimimaro.”

“Ah! That Lord Wako…?” “And how old is he?” “Nine years old,” answered Noritsuna. “In that case, according to monastic regulations, he should still remain in his juvenile form undergoing training.” “If Your Eminence were to break the ancient traditions of our temple gates—with all due respect—might not the entire monastic community denounce this as unlawful and raise a clamorous uproar?” “Declare that Jien has assumed full responsibility.” “However, there may be some formal inquiry from the Ministry of Central Affairs officials.” “In that event, how should I respond?”

“Just say this: ‘Though unworthy, as Jien—who received the esoteric samadhi teachings from Prince Kakukai, the 62nd Tendai zasu, and who bears responsibility for Shōren-in Temple’s dharma transmission—I take personal charge of this matter.’” “Yes!” “To the community of Mount Hiei’s Three Pagodas, I, Jien, shall personally convey the rationale in clear terms once more.—Do you understand?” “Understood.” “Wait for the messenger’s return. Make haste.” “Make haste.” “Yes!” Takamatsu Emon retreated down the corridor with quick, light steps.

Noritsuna swallowed tears of gratitude countless times at the archbishop’s kindness. He then patted Jūhachi Kimimaro’s head,

“Are you happy?”

“Yes.” Jūhachi Kimimaro replied innocently. Yet Archbishop Jien’s decisive declaration that he would personally assume responsibility—and his dispatching of a messenger to secure official approval from the authorities—had not been a decision made in a single morning. During their earlier discussion, with his penetrating gaze, he had already observed Jūhachi Kimimaro’s demeanor, *(This child is no ordinary one,)* he must have concluded. A tale strikingly similar to this would later be told of Hōnen Shōnin of Kurodani—the master whom Jūhachi Kimimaro would come to revere.

When Hōnen-bō, then still a young child called Seishi-maru, was making his way alone from his homeland of Mimasaka Province to the capital after losing his father, a certain nobleman spotted him from atop a white horse. (That child does not appear to be an ordinary person.) “Find out where he is going and inquire about his circumstances,” he said to his retainer. When the retainer asked why, the nobleman on the white horse replied: “Do you not see? The boy’s eyes, tinged with brown, shine like agate when facing the sun. How could he be a commoner’s child?” he declared.

Indeed, Seishi-maru would later become Saint Hōnen. The nobleman on the white horse at that time was Chancellor Konoe Tadamichi—whether to call it fate or a marvel—he was Archbishop Jien’s father.

Six

The messenger who had been dispatched to the Ministry of Central Affairs had yet to return—perhaps delayed by the ministry officials’ rigorous regulations and inquiries. Within Shōren-in Temple’s vast inner hall, the sound of water from a bamboo pipe somewhere birthed a chill evening wind, while from the plastered walls, dusk’s hues welled forth.

Shōzenbō, the attendant, had remained seated at the edge of the corridor for some time now, gazing intently at the white cherry blossoms scattered across the garden surface. “How slow.” Archbishop Jien murmured with apparent sympathy. The flickering light of the short lamp came swaying in. “Among petty officials, there are many who are bound by the law yet do not comprehend its spirit….” “If it remains this delayed, I may have to go myself and explain.” “There could be no such thing as an interminable wait.” “Please do not concern yourself,” said Noritsuna.

“But this delay grows excessive—.” “What if we proceed thus?” “Yes.” “Should I depart tomorrow or the day after, bring Jūhachi Kimimaro with me.” “By then, I shall have secured all requisite official approvals from the authorities.” “Then let us formalize this petition.” As Noritsuna replied and made to rise,

“Father,” Jūhachi Kimimaro said. “It is Your Grace’s command,” Rokujō Noritsuna said. “Let us return home.”

“No,” he shook his head—— “I shall wait eternally.” “This is no time for childish stubbornness...” When pressed, Jūhachi Kimimaro mimicked the exact melodic cadence his father used in ceremonial chants: “Though we trust tomorrow’s dawn will come— these transient blossoms: might not midnight storms strip them bare?”

At midnight—would the storm not blow… With his adorable lips, he sang like a children’s song.

“Oh!” Archbishop Jien was struck by that voice as though a chill had run down his spine. “Well said… Lord Rokujō, we must wait—even if it means until daybreak.” “Yes.” Noritsuna spoke tearfully. He was happy— this child’s spark of wisdom. At the same time, it terrified him.

How could the Heike leave such a radiant gem unnoticed? I shall wait.

——There was no telling whether a storm might not come at midnight. At the sound of that children’s song just now, Shōzenbō sniffled—"Ah... Might even that adorable form last only through tonight?"

The flowers scattering in the twilight were like white insects—beautiful，uncanny，flickering like light.

And then—at that moment, “The messenger has returned.” Takamatsu Emon hurriedly reported. Unable to wait any longer,

“What happened?” asked the Archbishop. The messenger prostrated himself in the next room, “His Majesty’s official approval from the Ministry of Central Affairs has been safely granted,” he reported.

Seven

Joyful expressions shone on the people’s faces. “Very well. Then let us conduct the ordination ceremony immediately. Emon, make the preparations.” At the archbishop’s single command,

With a “Ha!”, Emon stood. Eventually, along the ridgepole of the temple hall steeped in ink-black dusk, the sound of the temple bell reverberated. In the corridor, the lamp in the niche glowed faintly. The figures of the practicing monks appeared glowing red in the distant main hall. “Please, this way—” A monk came over and announced that the preparations were ready. Then Noritsuna took Jūhachi Kimimaro’s hand and quietly crossed the bridge corridor. Kai, the attendant, also followed timidly behind the two, keeping to the shadows.

In the temple complex, the entire monastic community sat in orderly rows, solemn and still. Unlike during the informal discussion, Archbishop Jien sat facing forward with a somewhat fearsome, solemn expression, his seven-striped kesa robe neatly arranged. Before him, the sutra desk held an incense burner and water vessel. Slightly set back was Ajari Shōhan's seat, while to both sides sat seven ritual monks each—all unblinkingly staring at the nine-year-old initiate approaching. A monk quietly approached his side,

“Wako, change your garments,” instructed the monk. “Yes.” Jūhachi Kimimaro smoothly removed his suikan. A chill cotton robe was laid before him—Noritsuna suddenly felt his chest constrict. “This way.” The monk guided him by hand to sit before the altar. His small hands—without conscious effort or instruction—came together in prayer as he bowed his head slightly. Amidst the ceaseless cycle through the three realms Unable to sever earthly attachments... Like threads of purple rising, slender trails of incense unfurled from the burner while the assembled monks’ voices swelled in solemn unison.

Take refuge in the Great World-Honored One Who can liberate [us] from the three realms of suffering Jūhachi Kimimaro’s lips were faintly moving in unison. His figure appeared even smaller seated at the base of this high-ceilinged great temple hall. “…………” Archbishop Jien rose from his seat. Two monks held up paper torches from either side. One monk presented a razor on a tray while another approached Jūhachi Kimimaro with a water vessel. The sleeve of the Archbishop’s ecclesiastical robe drifted over Jūhachi Kimimaro’s shoulder. In his hand was held a razor. The razor glinted blue when moistened with water from the vessel.

“…………”

Noritsuna involuntarily twisted his body and edged sideways. (What expression was he—) It was frustrating that Jūhachi Kimimaro’s figure remained hidden from view by the archbishop and other monks. Hic… From behind came the sound of someone stifling a sob. With a start, Noritsuna turned around. There at a distance from the plank floor stood Shōzenbō, the attendant. For Shōzenbō—who had soothed him on his back, carried him, and held him since infancy, before he had even been weaned—unbearable emotion must have surged up.

Eight (You ill-mannered fool!) Though unvoiced, Noritsuna glared sharply. Startled, Shōzenbō bit his own wrist and pressed his face downward.

Though he had scolded Shōzenbō, it was Noritsuna himself whose tears now threatened to spill from his eyelids. (Ordinary mortal—) While mocking himself, he averted his eyes. The thought of that small head was unbearable. If he saw it, he knew he would break down in tears. Then, “The ordination ceremony has concluded,” said the ritual monk. When he looked, Jūhachi Kimimaro’s head had already had its lush black hair—like that of a young sapling—shaved off, leaving a bluish tinge as smooth and endearing as a gourd.

“Your Excellency… I beg of you!” Suddenly, a man rushed out before the altar and slammed his hands down flat.

“Ah!” Noritsuna was shocked. The one who had come to the archbishop’s feet and was crying was Shōzenbō. “How insolent! Step back!” As Noritsuna rebuked him, “Ah, no—” Gently, the Archbishop supported him,

“What is it?” Archbishop Jien asked Shōzenbō. Shōzenbō’s shoulders trembled as he spoke: “I have no other request to make, but having served for many years as Lord Wako’s attendant since he was an infant still carrying the scent of milk—how could I now stand idly by watching him undergo ordination, only to return myself to the secular world? Please, though I am but a lowly commoner, grant me too the razor on this night’s auspicious occasion.”

“Hmm, so you too wish to follow your master and enter the priesthood?” “Yes.”

“How earnest of you.” The archbishop nodded firmly, “Such is the bond between lord and servant—Lord Rokujō, I would grant this one’s wish, but to you—” “I have no objection.”

“Then,” said the archbishop as he took up the razor once more.

Flowers, carried by the night wind, blew into the temple hall’s corridor like snow. Resonant and sonorous—the monks’ sutra chanting continued unabated. (Master and servant for three lifetimes—) Kai was happy. Jūhachi Kimimaro watched his own head being shaved with the composure of a seasoned ascetic. One stick, then another. The incense rose as if teaching that the spring night and this world were but a dream.

The ceremony was completed. For the two in white robes with shaven heads, Archbishop Jien bestowed dharma names. Jūhachi Kimimaro was Hannen Shōnagon. Kai was Shōzenbō. “I humbly thank you.” The two pressed their hands together and bowed their shaven heads.

*

That night—deep into the hours—. Creak, creak—the wheels of the oxcart carried Rokujō Noritsuna, sitting alone in silence with sleeves pulled tightly about his bowed head, away from Shōren-in Temple through the desolate flurry of blossoms in Awataguchi.

The Mountain Ascent Chapter

Black Hair

I

The ginkgo leaves were turning yellow—

When autumn arrived, the cries of shrikes became so incessant they bordered on nuisance.

Thud, thud, thunk—scaffolding had been erected at Shōren-in Temple’s main gate. To repair the transom carvings damaged by summer storms, two lacquerers and three sculptors had come and were working. “Hey, Shōun,” one of them said, pausing his chisel. “What?” “That’s an adorable child over there.” “Hmm—the new initiate?” “I swear I’ve seen him somewhere before…” “I’ve been thinking the same thing,” the lacquerer added. “Let’s eat.” They climbed down from the scaffolding.

“Already noon?” While brushing off wood shavings, the sculptors also slid down.

Autumn cicadas were singing.

The craftsmen sat down by the stone well and began to open their lunch boxes. Then, through the temple corridor, the small newly ordained monk they had been discussing scurried past. “Hey there.” On the corridor where Kōsai, the sculptor, had called out, Hannen Shōnagon gave a faint smile. “What is it, Mister?” “How old are you?” “Nine years old.” “Hmm, so you’re still quite young. When did you come to Shōren-in Temple?”

“Since around spring.” “Then it’s only been half a year.” “Uh, uh.” “You must still want your mother’s milk, don’t you?” “No…” Hannen shook his head. “Where is your residence?” “Rokujō.” “So you live near Genji Town?” “Huh?”

“Did your parents go off to war and get killed or something?” “No.” “Why did you become a monk?” “I don’t know…” “Don’t you know?”

“Yes.” “Who is your father?” “Rokujō no Ason Noritsuna.”

“Huh, Lord Rokujō… That explains it.” Kōsai was whispering something with his companion Shōun, but eventually called out, “Hannen.” “Yes.” “So you were born in Hino Village, weren’t you? We once went to your family home there for work—about half a month’s job. How you’ve grown.” “So you’re the ones who built the Buddhist altar room at Hino Mansion?” “We also repaired the statues inside there.”

“So your job is carving Buddhist statues?” “Yes.” Kōsai gazed intently at Hannen, who was leaning against the railing, “If I carve that face just as it is, I could truly make a fine piece,” he muttered. “Then you can go ahead and carve it.” Hannen laughed, saying it as though it could be done right away.

Two “Will you let me carve it?” Kōsai and Shōun exchanged glances. (They wanted to carve.)

"(Let’s carve it)," spurred by their creative impulse, “Then starting tomorrow, come here whenever you take meal breaks,” they promised. At noon, the two descended from the scaffolding. Hannen stood on the railing. They used a rather large timber. It appeared they meant to shape it into a seated statue roughly three feet tall. Each day at mealtimes, the two sculptors would take up their chisels and gradually etch Hannen’s features into the wood while chewing their rice. Once Shōzenbō—formerly Kai—learned of this, he came daily to watch beside him.

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 resided, an unfamiliar voice rang out. Shōzenbō, who was in the next room, “Who is there?” When he opened the sliding door, “Oh! It’s Kai, isn’t it!” “Yashirō?” “You’ve changed.” “Well, come in.” “The monastery grounds are quite vast—with monk quarters scattered everywhere—I got completely lost.” “Are you well?” “And you?” “Since Lady Wako entered Shōren-in Temple… Rokujō’s mansion has become as desolate as a winter-withered house.”

“I suppose so. —And is Lord Rokujō also well?” “Hmm... Well, I suppose I can say he’s well.” “And today—” “Since I had business nearby, I thought I’d stop by quietly to ask about Lady Wako’s condition before returning…” “Ah, it’s good you came by.” “When you leave the world behind, you begin to yearn for it.” The two clasped each other’s hands, tears welling in their eyes. Shōzenbō soon stood up, “Lord Hannen.” “Yes.” Hannen was reading a book.

“Who has come?”

“Yashirō has come.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed with evident nostalgia, running toward the veranda. “Lady Wako?” Yashirō sniffled at his transformed appearance. “And Foster Father?”

“There has been no change.” “And Asamaro?” “In good health, thriving day by day, and growing into adulthood.” “Do they ask about me?” “Yes….” “Lately, it seems they have finally begun to forget a little, but…”

“They must be feeling lonely.” Hannen went down to the garden and trimmed the white chrysanthemums blooming on the hedge. “Take this to Asamaro for me.” “—as my gift.” Having said that, Shōzenbō—

“I have an excellent gift. Lord Hannen, why don’t you have Yashirō take that with him?”

Three

“Oh, truly!” Hannen took Yashirō’s hand and, “There exists something good.”

“What might that be?” “Well, come and see.” He led him to his chambers. “Ah…” Yashirō plopped down at the room’s center and stared wide-eyed at the wooden seated statue in the corner. It perfectly resembled Jūhachi Kimimaro before his ordination. Even the black hair had been densely implanted upon its head. “What manner of thing is this?” “Now then,” said Shōzenbō from beside them, beginning to recount in full detail how this statue came to be.

The two sculptors, Kōsai and Shōun, upon seeing Jūhachi Kimimaro’s countenance, seemed deeply impressed. Saying it was like a living bodhisattva, they carved it without any thought of reward or personal gain. And then, when they finished carving, “This was an excellent lesson,” they said, and left the seated statue behind as a token of gratitude. “Ah...” Yashirō stared in a daze, “Now that you mention it, it truly is a living likeness. “And the black hair—” “The sculptors embedded all of Lady Wako’s black hair from her ordination into it, you see.”

“That explains it… Hmm, it’s well made.” “Yashirō.” “Yes.” “Could you take this back and tell my foster father and younger brother Asamaro that it is a memento of Jūhachi Kimimaro?” “It would be the greatest of gestures. If this were placed at your residence, perhaps their loneliness would be somewhat eased.”

“This form shall never again dwell within this body.—Pray convey well that I have not forgotten their kindness, having poured my soul into this statue morning and evening.” “How reverently you speak...” Yashirō spoke a while longer, but when the sun dipped low—claiming recent days felt ill-omened—he hastily bound the seated statue to his back with a sash and departed. To the two who accompanied him to the mountain gate, “Here you dwell seeing naught of town matters—nay, between this summer’s drought and Lord Munemori’s disastrous defeat by Kiso forces before fleeing back to the capital, Kyoto has become a churning maelstrom of chaos.” He chattered without cease as he walked.

“Hmm… So it’s come to that.” “In this world, there’s scarcely a place untouched by hell’s winds—not even the Imperial Palace. Only temple courtyards might offer respite.—Last night, when I went out on an errand near Gojō, oh, the horror! On the riverbank lay corpses—slain or starved—and two or three men, whether bandits or rogue monks I couldn’t tell, were tearing at their clothes and brawling over them!” “Truly, one cannot walk through the town without covering their eyes.”

At the mountain gate, crows were cawing. “Ah… It grows dark,” he murmured as he slipped through the sleeve gate’s low entrance. Yashirō turned one last time to look back. “Then—fare you well, Lady Wako—no, Lord Hannen. The cold season approaches—do take care of your… Lord Kai—goodbye.”

Snow a Thousand Feet Deep

One

The leaves of Awataguchi's miscellaneous trees had all fallen completely, and on the mountainside bathed in winter sunlight, the tower's railing appeared crimson. The frost grew whiter with each passing morning.

Hannen Shōnagon would rise before dawn and, together with the other monks, wipe the ice-like corridors with water, sweep the garden, and draw water.

Then he would take his seat for Buddhist services. Finally, when sunlight reached the red nanten berries, he would be assigned a task in the kitchen. When that was done, he would enter the study hall, listen to the master's lectures and the monks' debates, and by the time he finally settled at his desk, it was already noon.

“How pitiful,” said Shōzenbō, attempting to draw water and clean in Hannen’s stead, but when discovered by other monks, “You fool! Why was he ever admitted to this temple?” they would rebuke. Archbishop Jien likewise “You must not shield him,” admonished Archbishop Jien. From then on, he feigned ignorance, though occasionally glimpsing his own chapped hands—*Ah, how swollen they are…*—would constrict his chest. Such commonplace human compassion was derided in the temple as vulgar sentiment. They demanded one cultivate truer love.

*Hmm, is that really true?* He himself was also busy with his own studies.

On the third day of early December, Hannen heard from a disciple monk that Archbishop Jien would ascend Mount Hiei. It was because Prince Kakukai Hōshinnō—the head priest of Mount Hiei and Archbishop Jien’s teacher—had passed away, and thus Jien was now to guide the entire monastic community in his stead. Yet Jien, as though unaware these imminent changes to his circumstances loomed tomorrow, sat alone in a chamber boiling that particular tea imported from China.

“Master,” Hannen gently pressed his hands to the floor. “What is it?”

“I have a request.” “Hmm…” “Do you want some sweets?” “No, that’s not it.—I heard that you, Master, will be ascending Mount Hiei tomorrow.” “Hmm.”

“Please take me with you.” Jien laughed. “Do you know Mount Hiei?”

“I gaze upon it morning and evening.” “On bright days, it looks gentle—like a loving mother. But what austerities lie in that mountain’s embrace—you know nothing of them.” “I have heard. All the masters say ascetic practices are harsh.” “Yet you would climb it?” “Alone I cannot go—but if I may accompany you, Master, I feel I could follow wherever you lead, no matter how severe the trials.”

“The austerities there are more grueling than warriors’ battles.” “I wish to subject this body to such hardships.” “Are you truly resolved to that degree?” “Yes.” Hannen’s eyes flashed open.

He stared intently at the archbishop. The lid of the teakettle, carelessly left on, clattered and danced. Gently taking it down from the brazier, “Very well,” Jien nodded. Until then, Hannen had sat stiffly as if before something fearsome, “Is that true?” he asked joyfully, clapping his small hands together.

II

With a clatter he came running down the corridor— “Shōzenbō,” Hannen called out while peering into the room.

“Yes.” “Master’s permission has been granted. “We depart early tomorrow. “Prepare the leggings and hat.” “Where might you be going?” “Do you not know? “Has Master not become the head priest of Mount Hiei?” “I am aware of that, but—”

“Therefore, I too shall ascend Mount Hiei and undertake both austerities and study.” “Ha ha ha.” “What do you find amusing?” “Since your very ordination has drawn censure—from commoners to Ministry of Central Affairs officials alike—who accuse Master Archbishop of flouting Tendai sect regulations and acting despotically, it’s utterly inconceivable he would bring Lord Hannen to a place like Mount Hiei.” “But he did grant permission.” “A Master who serves the Buddha would never utter falsehoods.”

“But it’s impossible.” “How could he possibly grant permission for a nine-year-old disciple to ascend the mountain?” Shōzenbō remained unconvinced. He knew Hannen could never endure the mountain’s austerities; its rules differed starkly from town temples—strict and inviolable. To break them would mean the abbot could set no precedent for the entire monastic community. “Is that so?” Hannen grew uneasy.

Even after lying down in bed, Hannen kept fluttering his eyes open. Since around midnight, the rustling sound of snow had been brushing against the small paper-paned window. Hannen got up and quietly walked toward the priests’ quarters. On the wet veranda without storm shutters, snow had accumulated in round drifts. Archbishop Jien had completed his preparations, putting on his leggings before dawn. Those who would accompany him and those who would remain behind to see him off lined up on both sides of the temple gate, forming rows.

The snow that had fallen through the night intensified with wind as dawn approached, falling relentlessly. The archbishop placed his hand on the edge of his sedge hat,

“Farewell—” he announced to the assembly.

The three disciples diligently prepared themselves and began walking in their master’s retinue. Then, from the shade of a tree below 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 monks’ retinue. The disciple monks were startled,

“Oh, and where do you think you’re going?” “I will accompany you to Mount Hiei.”

“This is no joke. Mount Hiei is no place for a mere novice like you to go. Moreover, by regulation, those who have not yet come of age or who have been in residence for only six months or a year are not permitted to ascend the mountain.” “But I will go.”

“You’ll be reprimanded!” “Even if I’m reprimanded, I will go.”

“Go back!” Archbishop Jien glanced back at the disciple monks attempting to restrain Hannen—this stubborn one—and though his face showed distress, a wry smile surfaced as he watched them.

Hannen slipped through the disciple monks, grabbed his master’s sleeve, and fixed him with pleading eyes.

Three “Master. “Master, were the words you spoke yesterday a lie?” Jien shook his head with a laugh. Hannen pressed on, “But yesterday, while granting permission for me to accompany you, this morning are you not trying to depart for the mountain pretending not to know?” “…………” Jien shook his head again. “Then what do you mean?” “I’ve forgotten.” Reluctantly, the archbishop seemed to steel himself to take Hannen along after saying this.

After walking some distance through the snow, they found Shōzenbō standing ahead. He had known since the previous evening what Hannen intended to do, but fearing that interfering with half-hearted words might undermine Hannen’s resolve, he had deliberately feigned ignorance and gone ahead to wait. Since they had permitted Hannen’s ascent to the mountain, they naturally could not refuse Shōzenbō’s accompaniment. And so, from there, the number of disciple monks accompanying the Archbishop became five in total.

The snow raged on, “Perhaps you should rest at the base today and wait for the snow to clear before ascending tomorrow—” suggested one of the accompanying monks, but the archbishop—fierce-tempered and still young— “Nonsense,” he said, pressing on without stopping. Of course, since formal notice had been sent to Mount Hiei half a month prior that the new abbot’s ascent would take place today, were they to deviate from this plan, it would cause great inconvenience to the people of Konponchūdō Hall and the entire monastic community.

“Then,” said the attendants without attempting to forcefully restrain him further. “Hey there!”

Hearing what seemed like a call from behind, the five turned around. Streaks of white light slanted diagonally across heaven and earth; from afar, two figures wearing straw hats that resembled white herons in flight could be seen,

“Hey there!” They called out as they came.

“Who could it be? …” For a while, battered by the snow, the five stood waiting.

The two in straw hats and raincoats eventually approached,

“Is Lord Shōnagon among you here?” one of them said. “Yes.” Hannen answered and stepped forward. “Ah!” With that exclamation, one pushed up his straw raincoat and stepped forward, while the other braced his hands against the snow. The person who grasped his small hand was his Confucian teacher, Hino Minbu Tadatsune. The one bracing his hands behind was Yashirō, Rokujō’s servant, whom Hannen had recently sent home with a seated statue featuring implanted hair as a memento.

“Teacher.” Hannen reddened his eyelids as if taken by surprise and with joy welling up within him. Minbu infused his words with strength, “I have just come from Shōren-in Temple, but upon hearing of this matter, I hurried here.” “I brought Yashirō along as well.” “Lord Rokujō has intentionally refrained from coming, but he earnestly requests that you take good care of yourself…” “I too rejoice in this first step of your ascetic practice.” “I swear I will devote myself to my studies.”

“Yes.” What he had been holding back—Hannen let a single tear spill.

Four Shōzenbō, from beside him,

“Lord Hannen.” “Do not forget your teacher’s feelings and your adoptive father’s heart.” Hannen nodded,

“Yes,” he said. “And then—” “I will not forget. I will surely devote myself to my studies and meet you again.” “Lady Wako,” Yashirō edged closer and looked up into his hat from the snow. “Take good care of yourself, my lady.” “Yes… Please make sure your adoptive father and brother take care of themselves… And you too.” “……” Yashirō, keeping his face downcast, let the falling snow accumulate on his back as he wept.

“Let us proceed.” Jien urged the disciple monks onward and proceeded ahead. Hannen hurriedly,

“Farewell.”

“Farewell,” said Hino Minbu as he departed. “Lady Wako!” Yashirō stood up and called out once more, but his voice was snatched away by wind and snow, scattering into emptiness. Without looking back, Hannen ran after his master’s quarters and the disciples advancing ahead. Several times he tumbled in the snow.

And then, they proceeded toward the entrance to Mount Hiei. When they approached the mountain, the conditions grew even harsher. Archbishop Jien and his disciple monks began chanting sutras, their voices resonant and clear, as they battled the snow while ascending. Hannen too mimicked silently, reciting the sutras. At first, no sound emerged from his throat, but before he knew it, he had lost himself. Even when he slipped or fell, those around him did not help him up. Not even Shōzenbō reached out to take his hand. This was the master's compassion; this was the disciples' friendship.

“—Who can fathom snow a thousand fathoms deep?” Jien muttered. “Aren’t you weary?”

When the disciple monks showed concern,

“Not at all,” Jien merely shook his head. Hannen lagged behind. They climbed the peaks and crossed the valley paths like snow tumbling through snow. Shōzenbō followed from behind, “Just a little more,” he encouraged. “I’m all right,” Hannen said. Several times he fell, and blood oozed from between his fingers gripping the bamboo staff. Still, “I’m all right,” he said. What strength of will—what stubbornness—what competitive spirit—and what passion—Shōzenbō thought secretly behind Hannen’s small figure.

Indeed, within Wako's very body, the blood passed down from Yoshiie through his mother—the same warrior pulse that coursed through Yoshitsune and Yoritomo of the Genji clan—seemed to beat with formidable strength. Depending on the circumstances and where his upbringing had placed him, this boy too might have become a leading general drawing his bow against the Heike. "The Buddha will save him from that path," he thought, feeling moved by the snow he trod firmly upon. "This is a mountain of karmic bonds."

The monastic community

I

Night cleared, morning cleared—the springs and autumns of Mount Hiei were tranquil. It was like a void floating an infinite form in the firmament.

A long winter passed. And when spring came at last, what appeared white among the faintly red trees in their budding season was not lingering snow. It was the mountain cherry blossoms.

On a morning when countless mountain birds chirped crisply—their songs akin to a Kalavinka’s voice—someone shaded their eyes near Konponchūdō Hall and gazed down through the haze at the capital below. There, only the eternal flow of the Kamo River shone like a ribbon, revealing nothing of humanity’s individual rises and falls or cultural upheavals. Yet according to rumors from those ascending the foothills, the transformations in the world over these past six months were said to defy all description by brush or tongue—

First, it was said the famine since last year had led to a tremendous increase in bandits. Whether in capital or countryside, outlaws from mountain passes and pirates from coastal waters ran rampant, acting as if no government existed at all, plaguing the common folk—so the reports went. Moreover, though the Heike administration maintained its offices, it made no effort toward benevolent governance. The central authorities spent these years in fleeting pleasures while regional petty officials emulated the capital’s corrupt practices—tormenting villagers to pursue their own gratifications. Thus driven by pent-up grievances and exploiting these vulnerabilities, many now took up spears, transforming into brigands—such became the prevailing tide.

Not only that, but the newly risen Genji forces that had emerged from the Kantō region since last year grew increasingly formidable with each passing day. To Yoritomo in Izu came warriors of the eastern provinces—clans answering his call like scythed grass—while monk-soldiers of Kumano rallied to his banner. This alone had plunged the Heike into disarray when— Word spread of an unanticipated host—proclaiming itself “General Asahi Kiso Yoshinaka”—storming from northern skies none had foreseen. Beating war-drums and roaring battle cries, they swept down upon Lake Biwa’s northern shores, pressing ever closer to Kyoto.

“Do not let Kiso’s young commanders approach the capital!” The central government sent urgent edicts to regional lords along the highways. Yet people’s hearts had changed over these past two or three years as if flipping the palm of a hand. Who was there to oppose the Kiso army? There was not even a single province that could stand against them with a declaration of “I shall be the one!” In haste from the capital, Shiro Sukenaga—who had set out to subdue them—was slain; newly organizing elite forces, Tadamori, the Governor of Satsuma, now departed for the northern provinces.

But what of this? Meanwhile, in the Tōkaidō region, the two commanders Taira no Tomomori and Kiyotsune had advanced with great pomp, but upon encountering Yoritomo’s forces, they were swiftly defeated at the Sumida River, thrown into disarray so complete that even their own ranks could not be controlled. Though the government had kept this news secret, it had somehow spread as rumor, “Ah, the Heike warriors—for all their flowery show! They bloom with dew, yet wilt before the wind—scattering so easily, oh how they scatter!”

...and so on were even being sung in folk songs, and even the citizens began to look down on them. The Heike began to panic. They began to falter. And so, they dispatched envoys to Mount Hiei and commanded the monastic community to perform prayers for the subjugation of the Genji. At all times, they sought to prop up the current era through divine power that the defeated clung to.

II The prayers for the “subjugation of the Genji” thus became part of Mount Hiei’s daily routine, repeated day after day. They spared neither oil for the Buddhist lamps nor expenses for the altars; the sounds of sutra chanting and temple bells echoed against the clouds and reverberated through the valleys.

No demonic entity could draw near to such single-minded human ascetic practice—or so it was believed. However, in the hearts of the monks seated in the ritual rows—though some felt dissatisfaction with the current Heike regime and grievances lingered—there existed no resentment whatsoever toward this new force they called the Genji clan for national reform. The lamps of subjugation filled the altars, and even as their throats grew hoarse from chanting sutras, it remained merely occupational labor. It was both the Ruler’s command and a decree from the Regent of the Konoe family—thus they performed this duty with resignation, thinking “We must comply.” It was a ceremonial formality.

As the seventeen-day service had concluded, young scholar-monks gathered in the academic quarters of Sōji-in,

“Ah,” stretching, “My shoulders are stiff,” one of them said, pounding his own shoulders. Muttering things like “I want wheat cakes” to vent their hunger, they formed a circle in a sunny spot and chatted away. One monk had brought wheat cakes from somewhere and arranged them on a tray, “Want some?” He took one first, crunching loudly as he chewed. “It’d be tastier with a bit more salt, but these wheat cakes are nothing but flour!” “Don’t complain about luxuries. Even salt has become quite scarce these days.”

“At the very least, we want a government that would let salt reach our mouths in abundance.” “It’ll come soon enough.”

“If the Genji seize the realm, then…?” “Hmm.”

“The samurai taking turns ruling the realm isn’t something to count on either.” “They’ll spout all that talk about good governance for people and clergy until they seize power. But once those ‘heroes’ get what they want and sit on their thrones? Too busy basking in their own splendor to remember the fire they had when raising their banners.” “Still beats rotting under the current lot.”

“When observing from this Mount Hiei’s heights, both glory and decay prove fleeting instants—the transience of this floating world reveals itself with piercing clarity.” “Until yesterday, the realm’s vitality gathered at Rokuhara’s halls among the Taira clan, where none but their retainers were counted human! Yet today they must exhaust themselves praying to subjugate the Genji—what pitiful spectacle!” “Preposterous! Preposterous!” The scholar-monks clapped their hands and laughed together.

“The Heike, who burned down Nanto’s grand temple complexes and even dared to set the Great Buddha Hall ablaze, now cling to those very Buddhas to pray for subjugation—what audacity!”

“What efficacy could there be in prayers offered by those rakshasa fiends who even trampled upon Jūzenji’s sacred palanquin?” To hear the scholar-monks speak was to hear voices calling for the Heike’s subjugation. Then Shūōbō, a young monk from Jissō-in, spoke. “Do not belittle yourselves so—it grates on the ears.” “What did you say, Shūōbō?” The scholar-monks’ eyes converged on his face.

III

Arguments and brawls were daily occurrences, and when any incident arose, the monks of that time would don armor, take up weapons, and even wage battles.

The hot-tempered scholar-monks immediately narrowed their eyes sharply at Shūōbō’s words, “Who belittled ourselves, and when?” “You did, didn’t you?” Shūōbō, too, was not backing down. “Indeed, as you all say—samurai are self-serving creatures! Especially clans like the Heike: in their prime, they burn gods and Buddhas; in decline, they cling to them—a despicable breed! Yet we monks, nurtured by those samurai—under Heike rule, we curse the Genji; under Genji rule, we pray for Heike’s downfall! However much it’s our duty, we’re mocking the gods and Buddhas! Thus, to revile the Heike is to revile ourselves.” “Is what I just said wrong?”

“......” “Where does the authority of the Three Pagodas lie?” Since everyone had fallen silent, Shūōbō grew even more smug and pressed on. “Within this mountain dwell three thousand monks who practice mantras and recite sutras, yet its temple halls and learned scholars remain like unheeded stones to society." “Whenever samurai seize or lose the realm, today’s clergy mouth hollow prayers while living devoid of skill or wisdom.” “Is this not shameful?”

Then, a scholar-monk named Myōkōbō, “Indeed, it is exactly as Shūōbō argues—” “Just because we are clergy doesn’t mean we should let ourselves be crushed by the rulers of the time and remain idle and incompetent,” he declared in agreement. “No, that’s wrong,” another voice interjected. “Why wrong?” “Monks have their own mission.—Transcending worldly fluctuations like politics and war, it is we monks—Mount Hiei—who stand above society.—When the Heike suffer, we shall save even them; when the Genji anguish, we shall comfort even them.” “That is the duty of Buddhists.”

“Ridiculous!” Shūōbō dismissed it curtly and, “Are only the rulers human?—We must not forget that beneath Heike authority lie millions of people. It is the mission of monks to support the people in achieving what they desire.” “Then are monks revolutionaries?… What an outrageous thing to say.” “Do not speak such recklessness.”

“But what Shūōbō says leads to that conclusion.” “I’m only stating that it isn’t the monks’ duty to act as mere mouthpieces for those in power—preaching philosophies of resignation or karma to people crushed under misrule.” “Then what should monks do—?” “Let us hear your answer.” “There are many things. “But first, we must rectify ourselves. “If Mount Hiei remains corrupt, nothing can be achieved.—We’re just a pack of rice-devouring idlers useless to society—caretakers keeping crows from nesting in temple halls.”

“Don’t get cocky!” shouted one of the scholar-monks, hitching up his robe as he struck Shūōbō’s profile with his fist.

IV “Ah!” While pressing a hand to his struck cheek, “What do you mean ‘impertinent’?” Shūōbō clenched his fist and stood up. The fierce expressions on both their faces suggested they were on the verge of grappling, “Now, hold it!” “Handle debates through debate!” The scholar-monks drew back,

“Shūōbō’s words are far too extreme. If Mount Hiei is so spineless, why don’t you leave the mountain yourself?” “Exactly! However incompetent Mount Hiei may be, it’s wrong to speak this way of the sacred mountain where you’ve entrusted your life.” “Young fool! Anyone can rant with righteous indignation—but when told to act, they achieve nothing.” “Society is the same—the mountain no different.” Against the majority voices, even Shūōbō could not argue. He fell silent, one struck cheek reddening.

Then, as if Myōkōbō—who had earlier voiced agreement with his words—felt responsible, “No—ShūŌbŌ’s words are blunt and poorly phrased.” “He must have felt something else—some lingering resentment that inadvertently spilled out.” “Hey, isn’t that right?” “Yeah…” ShūŌbŌ nodded. “The other day, he grabbed me and was ranting—so he must’ve wanted to bring up that matter for sure.”

“What do you mean by ‘that matter’?” “It’s the issue of the new abbot.” “Hmm.” The scholar-monks turned their eyes—gleaming with curiosity toward the new topic—

“Speaking of the new abbot—Archbishop Jien, who recently assumed his position from Shōren-in—does this abbot present some issue?” When urged, “Shūōbō, speak your mind,” “It’s not that there aren’t—” Shūōbō lifted his face. “What do you mean?” “To put it bluntly—” “Hmm.” “Though someone as lowly as myself hesitated to speak out of reverence...” “I say Archbishop Jien’s conduct not only disregards us three thousand members of the order but shows the abbot himself willfully violating esoteric Buddhism’s eternal laws.” “With such negligence, how can Mount Hiei’s dignity endure?” “Thus our dharma citadel has lost all true power.” “One can’t help but sigh—are we merely crow wardens...” “Do I overstep?”

“What do you mean by ‘the abbot himself has violated the mountain’s laws’?” “Does no one know?”

“I don’t know.” “Then I’ll tell you… Have none of you seen Hannen Shōnagon—the one who ascended the mountain this winter with the new abbot?” “That little novice monk?” “That’s right.” “As for him, I often spot him about, but he’s practically an infant, isn’t he? Though bringing an underage person to the mountain did stir some debate among senior scholars, in the end he was just an insignificant child—and having served by the archbishop’s side since Shōren-in days… Well, it was tacitly approved. So that matter shouldn’t pose any problem now.”

Five “No—the issue isn’t merely that Hannen Shōnagon was permitted to ascend the mountain.” Shūōbō strengthened his tone, “If that were all, there’d be no need for such an uproar. But lately, rumors have reached me—what could the abbot be thinking? They say he intends to permit that mere ten-year-old novice monk to undergo the ordination and initiation ceremony.” “Ha ha ha ha!” The scholar-monks dismissed it with a laugh, “How could such an absurd story exist?” “That’s just Shūōbō mishearing things, isn’t it?”

“What? It’s true!”

“That’s a lie!”

“It’s true!” His expression was far too serious to simply laugh off. “Who told you this?” “From the administrative office of Konponchūdō Hall—” “When?” “They say preparations were ordered because the ordination and initiation will be conducted soon.”

“Hmm?” With puzzled expressions, the people tilted their heads slightly, but— “Shūōbō, surely this isn’t a lie?” “Who would tell such a lie?”

“If that’s indeed the case, it’s utterly outrageous!”

“This is an unconscionable act!” “It can only be called personal favoritism.” “This tramples upon the regulations!” The scholar-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, but to permit that sniveling novice monk to undergo such a solemn ordination ceremony—this borders on madness.” “It must be the spring air.” “This is no laughing matter!” Someone stood up indignantly. The assembly seethed like a boiling cauldron. Excited faces,

“Gentlemen!” he declared, shaking his fist. “Did you hear Shūōbō’s words? If that’s true, we cannot remain silent!” “That’s right!” the assembly responded. “As for this Hannen Shōnagon—whether he’s some genius or child prodigy matters not—the ordination ceremony belongs to the Great Precepts of Perfect and Sudden Bodhisattva Enlightenment. This is a rank we, even after decades of ascetic practice here, are never easily granted.”

“Indeed—look around you! Not one among us has received ordination!” “And yet!” he cried, striking the air with an indignant hand. “What madness is this—to suddenly grant it to some sniveling novice who barely staggered up from the foothills last December? This reeks of favoritism! Even if they accuse us of distorting the Dharma through personal bias, there’s no defending such an act. Shall we stay silent just because it’s our abbot’s doing?”

“We cannot!” “We must resolutely condemn this!” Then, from one corner of the assembly, someone stood up— “If such a vile precedent is established, it will taint even the ordination platforms of Japan’s Four Great Mountains.” “It would bring shame upon Mount Hiei itself.” “Let us unite to denounce the Abbot’s self-serving agenda!” “Exactly! All of you—return to your quarters, alert every temple head and master, and stir this mountain to action!” he cried before storming off.

Six

Konponchūdō Hall was quiet. That vehement criticism against Archbishop Jien had arisen among the young scholar-monks of the mountain over the issue of Hannen Shōnagon was something that neither the archbishop, nor Hannen Shōnagon, nor Shōzenbō—all of whom had resided there since their ascent to the mountain—had the slightest knowledge of. Before the Medicine Buddha Bhaiṣajyaguru in Konponchūdō Hall, young Hannen Shōnagon had pledged his lifelong devotion each morning and evening. Since ascending to this Northern Peak's summit, he felt as if he had drawn one step closer to the Buddha compared to before, and this brought him happiness.

Just as Hannen Shōnagon served his master, the archbishop, it was Shōzenbō who, accompanying Hannen wherever he went, protected him like a shadow.

Shōzenbō was on his way back today from an errand to the South Valley of the East Pagoda.

“Hey!” Since someone had called, “Yes.” Shōzenbō turned around. A large monk with elbows thrust out stomped over and approached, “Are you the one called Shōzenbō staying in the lodgings of Konponchūdō Hall?” “Yes.” “I am Myōkōbō Jōga from Sōrin-ji Temple in the West Pagoda.” “Yes.”

“Sit there,” said Myōkōbō, pointing at the rock. Obediently, he sat down, “So that brat Hannen Shōnagon is your master, I hear.” “The master-servant bond stems from our former secular ties.” “At present, for this Shōzenbō, he is the one and only Reverend Master in all creation.” “Ha ha ha!” Myōkōbō threw his head back and opened his mouth so wide one could see the backs of his teeth,

“So that doll-like little monk is your master? Uwahahaha…!” He shook his shoulders in amusement. Shōzenbō answered earnestly, “Yes, my master is Lord Hannen Shōnagon alone.” “What an eccentric fool you are. Well… never mind that. What I want to ask—and this is no trifling matter—is about those rumors swirling around that little monk supposedly undergoing ordination soon to receive the Great Precepts. That’s a lie, right?”

“Well…?” “Is it true?”

“It seems possible.” “Though it may be false.” “Stop speaking in riddles! You couldn’t possibly be ignorant about your own master.” “This is an impertinent inquiry.” “The great rite of ordination fundamentally resides within the Buddha’s heart.” “I understand it is bestowed upon those judged worthy by the learned masters who perform it.” “Why would someone of my lowly station possess such knowledge?” “Enough! Don’t feed me your evasive drivel!”

“Absolutely not.” “Then declare plainly—is it falsehood or truth?” “What cannot be spoken, cannot be spoken—is this not so?”

Having not yet spent half a year since ascending the mountain—being still a newcomer—Shōzenbō responded with all possible humility, yet at his core remained a samurai. Even when dwelling in nobles' residences, as one whose disposition had been tempered through wearing the tachi sword, whenever others behaved too arrogantly or condescended to people, an indignant surge would well up within him despite himself.

Seven

“There’s no way you don’t know. If you don’t speak, I can’t let you pass here,” Myōkōbō pressed obstinately. He stood blocking the path, continuing his reproach of Shōzenbō.

Then, a hall monk descended that slope. “Hey, Myōkōbō,” he called out.

“Oh, Shūōbō!”

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, I just happened to run into Shōzenbō—the disciple of Hannen Shōnagon—here right now, so I’m questioning him about that matter.” “That issue? On the contrary—you’re the one being far more roundabout!”

“Why?” “This very moment, an official notice circulated from Konponchūdō Hall to every temple and lodging across the mountain.” “I saw it myself—it declares they’ll hold Hannen Shōnagon’s ordination ceremony on the 28th of this month, commanding all to comply.” “Hmm,” Myōkōbō grunted, “So it’s true after all?” “The Abbot would twist our founder’s sacred Dharma to serve his own whims! But this mountain has its laws! Even if the Abbot’s forgiven, those laws won’t bend—Amida Buddha himself would never sanction this!” Myōkōbō spat, flecks of saliva flying as he raged. Then, turning to Shōzenbō,

“Hey, novice!” “Yes?” “Don’t ‘yes’ me! When you return to the Konponchūdō Hall lodgings, make certain to report this to your master Hannen Shōnagon.” “…” “A milk-scented brat without even proper bones dares disrupt our monastic laws and receive such insolent ordination—know this will not be tolerated within Mount Hiei!” Shūōbō added to his words, “—Tell him we’ll tear that whelp from the ordination platform, rip off his head, stake the skull on a thousand-year podocarpus fork, and let crows pluck out his eyes!” he threatened, squaring his shoulders before striding away.

"Damn!" Shōzenbō stood grinding his teeth behind them. A fury that made him want to chase after and hurl them into the valley heated his body, but hearing the bell toll from the Konponchūdō Hall, "Ah—I'm late," he muttered as he hurried along the dusk-dimmed path.

"All is ascetic practice. Everything is ascetic practice. "What am I doing getting worked up over this? Lord Hannen would surely be concerned." As if refusing to look back, he continued climbing.

Around the Konponchūdō Hall, the evening lamps had been lit. It was already the time when the archbishop’s ritual had concluded. After handing over the reply letter to the administrative monk, Shōzenbō turned toward the lodgings. Hannen Shōnagon stood waiting. “You’ve returned?” “I’m back.” “You were late.” “I got a bit lost on the way.” Shōzenbō did not speak of what had happened along the path. If told to Hannen, Hannen would surely refuse the initiation, fearing trouble for his teacher the archbishop.

"But this is troubling," he worried to himself. Even Mount Hiei, the mountain of the Dharma lamp, was far from tranquil. Power struggles, jealousy, love and hatred, praise and slander—every conflict inherent to humanity existed here as well.

Eight (Should I quietly inform the Abbot...? No—no—there’s no doubt that when he did this, the Abbot must have had some plan or resolve.) Shōzenbō agonized over his thoughts.

Having prepared the morning kitchen preparations during the night, he absentmindedly walked out of the temple.

A pale spring moon hung slightly lower than the peaks, tinged with a faint yellow hue.

"The mountain is as it is, but the world below must be even more so."

The breath of gasping human society seemed to tinge the moon yellow. To think that the Dharma citadel on these lofty peaks—aloofly detached from human settlements—might be blessed with an ideal life had been a profoundly foolish notion. Here and below, there was no difference. Where humans dwelled, no patch of earth remained untouched by their world. Judging from the words and demeanor of the violent monk who had accosted him after his return from the Western Pagoda, this matter showed no signs of peaceful resolution. Should but one misstep occur, they would march to assault Miidera Temple or bear portable shrines aloft to storm the Imperial Palace with forceful appeals—such was the nature of these militant scholar-monks.

(They might do something even to the Abbot...and wouldn't hesitate to seize and discipline Master Shōnagon.) Shōzenbō felt unable to sleep. (Perhaps I should inform His Eminence after all...) he wavered once more. Then from shadows tinged by hazy moonlight, "Pardon me—might I trouble you?" "Hm? Who goes there?" "A traveler." "A pilgrim?" "No—there's someone I wish to meet." Though uncertain why, his shabby appearance suggested an itinerant monk. A woven rush mat hung from his back while bamboo shakuhachi filled his hands; straw bindings wrapped his feet.

“Who might you be seeking?” “Around last year, Lord Hannen Shōnagon ascended from Awataguchi—in which quarters might he reside?”

“Oh—you’re looking for Lord Hannen?” “Yes.” When addressed thus, Shōzenbō thought the voice sounded somewhat familiar, but he couldn’t recall anyone it might belong to. “Lord Hannen resides at the lodgings of Konponchūdō Hall, but may I ask who you are?” “I am an itinerant monk called Koun from the Midadō in Higashiyama.” “What business brings you?” “A small request or something… and I also wished to see your face again.” “Have we met before?”

“Yes—through a strange karmic bond, I was once detained at the Rokujō Mansion, and afterward, we met once or twice more.”

“Ah!” Shōzenbō started, “Aren’t you Narita Hyōe’s retainer, Lord Shōji Shichirō?” “Ah…” Contrarily, it was Shichirō who seemed startled, widening his gleaming eyes to stare fixedly at Shōzenbō’s face for a long moment before exclaiming, “Oh! You are Lord Jijūkai, who once served at the Hino Mansion in days of old?” “That’s right.” “This is… unexpected.” Now known as Koun—the itinerant monk who had once been Shōji Shichirō—and Shōzenbō clasped hands, all past conflicts and grudges forgotten. For a time, they stood wordless before each other’s transformed appearances…….

Nine “What troubles you, Lord Shichirō—or rather, Lord Koun.”

“Please, hear me out.”

Koun, formerly known as Shōji Shichirō, sat down on a rock. Shōzenbō also sat in the grass. With a resigned air, Koun gazed at the evening moon. He seemed to be reminiscing. Before long, he gently wiped his eyelids— “—It’s been…how many years now? Since that year I infiltrated Lord Rokujō’s mansion as a spy and was captured.”

"Hmm…"

“Because I was dismissed by my master Narita Hyōe for poor performance, hunger soon came upon the elderly mother, wife, and children at home.” “Then on the night of Kyoto’s great fire, my frail old mother perished in the smoke; my wife fell ill; my child caught an epidemic—such was our fate.” “Amidst this unrelenting chain of misfortunes, I alone survived while all remaining members of my family became dwellers of the next world.”

“That is… most unfortunate…” Shōzenbō felt a sense of helplessness. That soldierly demeanor he once had as a Heike retainer was nowhere to be seen in Koun’s present shadow. “I once thought of ending my life, but while death in battle might be acceptable, for a man who has eaten the warrior’s rice to succumb to hunger or misfortune and die by the roadside—it would be too regrettable.” “—Before long, misfortune did not strike me alone. My former master, Lord Narita Hyōe, after some mishap occurred at the Battle of Uji River, fell out of favor with his clan. Furthermore, his son, Lord Jutōmaru—though he had his coming-of-age and first battle in the subsequent Genji suppression campaign—whether he was persuaded by others or struck by cowardice, deserted from the ranks and vanished without a trace.”

“Ah—that was the young lord who once shared a desk with Lord Hannen at Hino Academy too.” “Yes… Because of this, Lord Hyōe—unable to face others—kept his gates shut. But recently, by what I’ve heard told, they say Lord Munemori granted him death, and he took his own life…”

“Ah, how tragic.” “No matter who I meet—it’s all such stories.” “Looking back, even I—who served as tutor by Lord Jutōmaru’s side until he was over ten years old—bear great responsibility. The very act of indulging him so thoroughly in his upbringing was my mistake.” “Not only Lord Jutōmaru alone—among the Heike’s young nobles, there are quite numerous weaklings who fear battle and flee midway through deployment. Yet truly, my own methods as a tutor were gravely flawed.”

“However, it is not solely the fault of your upbringing.” “Your parents’ sin—and the sin of the world the Heike themselves have created—” “Everything is a matter of these times.” “But I feel I must somehow find Lord Jutōmaru’s whereabouts—to console my former master’s spirit, offer counsel, and with my meager strength make him a proper person—or else I cannot rest.” “Well spoken.” “To go so far in remembering duty toward a master who dismissed you—that is most commendable. Now—what brings you to visit Lord Hannen?”

“According to people’s rumors, young nobles who detest war often change their appearance and hide among scholar-monks at places like Mii, Mount Hiei, and Negoro.” “Clasping the sacred image, I have come here to request the abbot of Konponchūdō Hall to investigate whether someone resembling Lord Jutōmaru has ascended the Mountain or not.” Having finished speaking, Koun hung his head. His legs seemed tired; his stomach appeared parched.

The Bell That Does Not Ring

I

When the fog came, the world beyond the window was blue like the sea. When the fog cleared, the faint mountain moon cast its light upon the desk.

Hannen Shōnagon sat in a single room of the monastic quarters. On the desk lay *Bai Juyi’s Collected Works*, which he had studied under his Confucian teacher Hino Minbu. This was a book he had not parted with even after ascending Mount Hiei. The study lamp’s flame did not waver despite the open window—so still was the night. From Konponchūdō Hall’s main kitchen—apparently preparing large quantities of tofu for tomorrow morning’s monastic community—the scent of boiling beans drifted everywhere.

“Who’s there?” Hannen Shōnagon turned from his desk toward the wooden floor. There had been a clattering sound, but when no reply came, “A squirrel?” he murmured. Squirrels often danced on their hind legs across the wooden floor. At times large birds would come, or a wildcat from beneath the floorboards would peer up at human faces with amber eyes. It was not uncommon for food to disappear, nor was it rare for robe hems to be brushed by fox tails in the evening.

(How frightening.) In the days before growing accustomed to the mountain, Hannen Shōnagon had longed countless times for the capital’s lights, so terrified was he. From the abbot— (Such things—) Even if laughed at, instinctively he feared. The abbot had also said: If anything frightens in this world, it is humans. If anything frightens humans, it is oneself— The fox, eagle, and squirrel dwelling within are truly fearsome. Hannen Shōnagon felt he was beginning to grasp some of its meaning.

When speaking to young disciples, Archbishop Jien's greatness lay in explaining things thoroughly—chewing them over—in ways even they could understand. When talk turned to the capital,

“Hannen—can you see it?” he once said, pointing from Mount Hiei’s peak toward the town of Kyoto. Hannen nodded, “I can see,” he answered.

“What?” he asked. “The town…the Kamo River…the Imperial Palace. —and then…all sorts of things.” “Look more closely.” “Because it’s too far away…the people aren’t visible.” “The aspects of humans—the aspect of living…the aspect of perishing…the aspect of conflict…the aspect of weeping…the aspect of flourishing…the blood-soaked aspect— Can you see them?” (There’s no way I could see such things.)

(No good... Then nothing will become visible. You think that if you're in the world, you can see the world.) (Yes) (That's completely wrong—though fish dwell in the river, they cannot see its greater aspect. To discern the source and end of an eternal great river—a fish's eyes will not do.) (Then what eyes?) (Buddha's eye) (This is not within the river.) "Mount Hiei lies outside the river." Hannen Shōnagon dimly grasped this teaching. From then on, even when he saw the capital's lights, he no longer felt any longing.

Two

When Hannen Shōnagon trimmed the study lamp’s wick and once again began to fix his gaze upon Bai Juyi’s Collected Works on the desk, “Well… I’ve drawn water. Wash your feet,” came a voice from the entrance, accompanied again by sounds of movement and human presence. After all, it was not foxes or badgers.

Hannen Shōnagon adjusted the candle’s position slightly and leaned back. “Shōzenbō?” Then came a clear reply: “I have just returned.” It was his response. He immediately approached and said, “Lord Hannen. On my way back just now, I met a strange person. Since I’ve brought him along with me, please grant him an audience.” “Lord Koun,” he called. “This way.” Timidly, Koun—formerly Shōji Shichirō—came forward and sat with bowed head. Hannen tilted his head slightly,

“Hmm?” “Do you not recognize him?” “I do not know this person.”

Koun quietly raised his face at that moment— “Ah, how you’ve grown up.” “Ah… Shichirō.” “So you did remember me after all,” Koun said with a happy smile within his bushy beard. “Would I forget? “At Tadasu Plain, when I was in peril… you saved me, Shōji Shichirō. Why did you run away back then?” “As for those details—” Shōzenbō interjected, “I have heard about such matters along the way. Allow me to take over and explain.”

Hannen Shōnagon listened with rounded eyes. And then, "Hmm... So Jutōmaru, who once shared a desk with me at Hino Academy—his whereabouts are now unknown?" "According to village rumors," came the reply, "they say he might be hiding around Mount Hiei since he has acquaintances there, waiting out the war." "I shall request the Abbot to make thorough inquiries." "Thank you." "But—" Shōzenbō interjected from the side—"on Mount Hiei there are three thousand scholar-monks, not to mention unordained warrior monks and temple workers—many who've changed identities as temporary expedients. I doubt he'll be easily found..."

“Well….” “You may remain here indefinitely,” Hannen Shōnagon consoled.

Koun inadvertently bowed his face toward the candle. —It had been five or six years since Jutōmaru’s mischief—back when this lord was still called Jūhachi Kimimaro—such as kicking over the clay Buddha statues he had made or hurling stones at the Hino residence while hurling insults…… Remembering the past sent cold sweat streaming down his back.

However, both Hannen and Shōzenbō seemed to have nonchalantly forgotten such matters, “Lord Koun, you must be hungry,” he asked with concern. “Yes… actually…,” he answered truthfully. “Then, let me cook you some gruel.” Hannen Shōnagon said. Indeed, from a chrysanthemum root only chrysanthemums bloom, and from a mugwort root only mugwort sprouts—so thought Koun no Shichirō as he compared his former master’s son to Hannen in his heart, feeling a pang of loneliness.

III

The end of the month drew near.

The ordination ceremony for Hannen Shōnagon drew near.

When it became clearly known that this would finally be realized, it was no longer just a commotion among the young scholar-monks. “Very well, very well. We shall go and admonish this young new abbot… Anyone who assumes the seat of authority over the entire mountain inevitably wishes to wield its power at least once… Don’t make a fuss—we’ll persuade him and have him reconsider.” Elders with moss-like antiquity and eminent scholars, leaning on their canes, ascended to Konponchūdō Hall.

And then they came in succession to request audiences with the Abbot-Archbishop, opposing Hannen Shōnagon's ordination and initiation into the precepts. Today was no exception. With the Ajari of Jōryo-in and Shiō-in at their head—among them young monks like Myōkōbō of the reformist faction who seemed more confident in their physical strength than scholarly knowledge—they filed haphazardly onto the reception platform of the central hall's chambers with soiled feet. Abbot-Archbishop Jien "Well now—all together," he said amiably, opening the study hall as he waited.

A third of the spacious room was filled with people. The scholar-monks who had entered with rough, creaking footsteps also, upon entering there, urging each other with phrases like, "Come now, over there," “Please,” they said, yielding seats to each other, and stiffly sat down by the wall. The two elders of Shiō-in and Jōryo-in, as representatives, naturally came forward before everyone and took their seats. Since this was a daily occurrence, Archbishop Jien knew without needing to ask what these people had come for. And then, seizing the initiative,

“I trust the notice regarding the twenty-eighth has already reached each of your hands, but concerning the day’s ceremony, I must request that all matters be carried out without oversight.” “…………” No one answered.

Dissatisfaction and discontent alone stared back at the Abbot’s face, their eyes glinting with rebellion. “Abbot.” The Ajari of Shiō-in—despite being an old man—first opened his mouth, which bore the color of a pomegranate.

“What is it?” Archbishop Jien’s eyes remained calm. “Are you in your right mind to speak such words?” “Ho… What an unusual question.” “Does my wish for each of you to gladly take your seats at the Grand Ordination sound as if I were drunk on wine?” “Far from drunkenness—this is sheer madness!” The opponent’s calm demeanor only further ignited their blazing anger. “We had refrained until today, deeming such a thing unthinkable—but since you yourself, Abbot, have spoken thus from your own lips, we can no longer remain silent.”

“Please state your concerns without reserve.” “Mount Hiei does not belong to Jien, nor does it belong to the scholar-monks, nor even to the elders.” “Of course.” “It belongs to sentient beings.”

“No—it belongs to the Buddha.” “The Buddha has descended to this world solely to benefit sentient beings.” “Either is acceptable.”

IV

Among the scholar-monks crowding at the back,

“Ajari! Cease your digressions and quickly clarify the assembly’s doubts!” someone shouted. Shiō-in nodded, “Abbot!” he pressed forward on his knees. “We have come today because there are aspects of the Grand Ordination on the twenty-eighth that we cannot comprehend.”

“If you have doubts, then ask whatever you wish!” “It is nothing else.” The Ajari of Jōryo-in likewise turned their knees forward in interrogation, “Not only on Mount Hiei, but across all four ordination platforms in Japan, we have never heard of a child monk like Hannen Shōnagon receiving ordination into the Dharma’s transmission. By what justification do you, Abbot, dare to break the ironclad laws of this Dharma fortress and bestow precepts upon that stripling…?” “That is the foremost matter we cannot comprehend.”

Depending on his response, a murderous atmosphere—one that seemed intent on sparing neither noble lineage nor even the Abbot himself—was whipping up the two elders of Shiō-in and Jōryo-in from behind.

Jien smiled. “Well now—the fellowship among Buddhist followers is vast. As each of you oversees at least one temple or hall, I had assumed such fundamentals would already reside within your understanding.”

“Such an understanding that would disrupt the mountain’s ironclad rules—we shall not abide by it.”

“Hahaha! Your perspective remains woefully narrow,” Archbishop Jien countered, his voice carrying through the hall. “This is what we call the paradox of lawmakers shackled by their own statutes.” He leaned forward slightly, his ceremonial robes rustling. “Ordination has never taken age as its sole measure. Were we to grant the Grand Precepts to any who simply accumulate years, what incentive would remain for true spiritual exertion?” “Sophistry!” barked a voice from among the hooded figures massed behind the elders. Bolstered by this support, the Shiō-in elder pressed his attack: “With due respect for your words—how many now dwell on Mount Hiei who’ve endured ten or twenty years of ascetic practice yet remain unworthy of ordination, let alone Dharma transmission?”

“That comes down to two things—either they lack innate talent or their studies fall short. Even if one’s appearance and bearing seem perfectly suited to rigorous ascetic devotion, there are those whose hearts remain as tightly closed as autumn chestnut husks.” “If one is born an acorn from the start, we can only consider it an inevitability beyond remedy.”

“No—! According to what the valley people discuss exclusively, we have heard that Abbot Jien shows partiality toward Hannen Shōnagon!” “That need not even be questioned.” “What did you say? Then are you clearly declaring this to be favoritism? If you all hear it thus—this transcends mere debate! Abbot Jien blindly dotes on Hannen Shōnagon! This confession reveals you trample upon the great Dharma for private motives!” As he shouted,

“Hold your tongues!” Youthful vigor surged into the young abbot’s face for the first time. “I love Hannen Shōnagon’s innate talent. I love Hannen Shōnagon’s exceptional disposition. Behold—he will become a man who either extinguishes or elevates the future Dharma torch. Though Mount Hiei teems with monks, is there any who surpasses Hannen Shōnagon, barely past ten winters? —In his genius, in his self-mastery, in his clarity of mind, in his unyielding fortitude. ...Should any doubt this truth, summon him here and test him in doctrinal debate—you may try. Whether through waka poetry or Confucian discourse, Hannen Shōnagon would not refuse. Let those who wish to challenge him come forth and speak!”

V No one stepped forward to answer.—To engage in doctrinal debate with a mere ten-year-old acolyte before the assembly—even if they thoroughly defeated him, it would bring no honor; but to be defeated would bring utter disgrace. Such calculations rose instantly in every breast. Jien—whom they had naively underestimated as a young abbot ignorant of worldly matters, having only moved from the sheltered depths of noble lineage to Shōren-in—now flushed his pale face faintly crimson and assumed a severe bearing,

(This is...) they couldn't help thinking with some surprise. Jien gazed across every face along the walls, "Is there none who would come forth?"

“…………” The assembly remained utterly silent. The two elders, it seemed, had not truly intended to argue to such an extent in the first place; once their scholar-monk supporters fell silent, they fidgeted as though they had lost their footing. “Now then—are all of you thinking that ordination and initiation into precepts are like laypeople climbing the ladder of rank and promotion? That is an outrageous mistake.” By that point, Jien had already returned to his usual gentle expression and tone. Above his thick eyebrows was a solitary mole, about the size of a black bean. People would always imagine while looking at him how elegant he would be if the Second Rank cap were bestowed upon this countenance.

“Needless to say, the ritual called ordination must be the attainment of the bodhisattva mind.” “To those who, while living, have already attained a mind equal to a bodhisattva’s, we perform the ceremony of reverence—that is the grand ceremony of ordination and initiation into precepts.” “Why would we needlessly grant this Grand Ordination Ceremony to those who have not reached that realm?” ………… Though quiet, Archbishop Jien’s voice chilled the ears like the sound of water flowing deep through cypress shade.

“Furthermore, those who have attained the bodhisattva mind—like the Dragon Girl of lore—were permitted to enter the ordination platform even at the age of eight. Emperor Go-Shirakawa received the Grand Ordination, indeed before he had reached the age of ten. If there are those among you who, though they have grown white beards and their eyes grown dim with age, have still failed to reach that realm of the heart—let them first feel shame for themselves! And as for you younger scholar-monks—why do you not devote yourselves to your own practice instead of wasting precious time raising a fuss over such trivial matters?”

“…………” “I say again—I deeply love Hannen Shōnagon’s innate talent, yet at the same time, I fear it. As his teacher, should I fail to provide proper guidance, he may transform into Brahma’s demon; yet through polishing his jewel-like nature, he may become a renowned gem that salvages the dark currents and turbid waves of this ruined Dharma realm. I take this responsibility most gravely. Once driven from this mountain and thrust into the present age of carnage—should he hear that battle cry—he would likely become a man drawing an iron bow beneath karmic flames alongside Minamoto no Yoshitomo’s legitimate sons.”

“…………” The assembly kept staring silently at Jien’s face. In his furrowed brows lay clear evidence of his profound concern for Hannen Shōnagon’s future—as both disciple and individual—having observed through daily scrutiny every aspect of the youth’s character, talents, and even trivial details. “Very well, we understand.” First darting like a startled hare before settling into maidenly composure, the Shiō-in elder slid from his seat with measured dignity. The other young monks too dispersed in palpable discomfort.

VI

The morning was still early.

Across the mist-drenched peaks and valleys of Mount Hiei, the temple bells began to ring in unison, marking the hour. As if reverberating through the earth, when the bell rang at Yokawa, the valleys of West Pagoda and East Pagoda responded with deep, booming echoes—gooon, gooon... “Oh my, what is the matter with our temple’s bell?” At Nyohōdō Hall in West Pagoda, the middle-aged monk in charge of studies stuck his head out from the abbot’s quarters. “Has no one gone to the bell tower?”

“This morning’s duty belongs to Shūōbō. He should have already gone there,” replied the numerous scholar-monks from their quarters across the courtyard as they fastened their new kesa. “Is it my ears? I cannot hear it…” “Now that you mention it, it does not seem to be ringing.” “This is unacceptable. Today is when Hannen Shōnagon’s ordination and initiation ceremony will be solemnly held at Konponchūdō Hall.” “We too are to follow the Acharya and attend.”

“Rather than that, should we neglect the ritual courtesy of synchronized bells across the mountain, our temple alone would demonstrate intent to defy Konponchūdō Hall’s decree. This bell celebrates Tendai’s flourishing. Someone must investigate.” “At once!” One of the scholar-monks dashed off.

When one looked up from below the bell tower, someone was standing there. He stood with his arms crossed, absentmindedly leaning against the bell tower’s pillar. He was Shūōbō—a young man who had come up from Sakamoto around two years prior. Initially working as a kitchen servant in the quarters, he possessed notable academic talent and was not of lowly birth. Though somewhat brashly clever and prone to emotional competitiveness, these very traits had led the temple attendants to promote him; now he ranked among the scholar-monks.

This morning, even though he was the one assigned to the bell tower, he had climbed up and remained standing there with his arms crossed like a listless fool, so his friend who had come to check on him— “Hey, isn’t that you, Shūōbō?” [He] shouted from below. Shūōbō smirked down from above. However, since he lacked vigor, “What’s the matter?” When questioned, with a vacant expression, “It’s nothing…”

“Why aren’t you striking the courtesy bell?” “…………” “You can’t possibly be unaware—of this morning’s mountain-wide synchronized bells.” “I know.” “Lazy good-for-nothing!” he clattered up the stone steps and—

“Move aside—I’ll ring it,” he said, shoving Shūōbō’s shoulder. “Then do so.” “What did you say?” “Even if you ring it now, it’ll be too late.” “So you deliberately didn’t strike it.” “That’s right,” Shūōbō declared. Releasing the bell hammer’s rope he had gripped moments before, his enraged friend seized Shūōbō by the collar and glared.

“Insolent wretch! To hear you knowingly neglected your duty—this cannot be forgiven! Come now!” With a scraping drag, he hauled him toward the steps.

Seven “Where to?—” With defiant eyes, Shūōbō planted his feet against the bell tower’s pillar and refused to budge. “I’m taking you before the Acharya! Come now!” “I won’t.” “You coward! You knew full well yet refused to strike the courtesy bell—if you fear punishment, why didn’t you ring it?” “Stupid... so damn stupid... I can’t ring this bell...” Shūōbō bit his lip. “You—do you truly mean this?”

“You bet I do. The sound of this morning’s synchronized bells across the mountain is false—hypocritical flattery! Buddha must be laughing at us.”

“……” He stared at his friend’s face in utter disbelief. Shūōbō, with fervent eyes, “Don’t you agree?” “Shūōbō, are you in your right mind?” “Because I know better, I refuse to ring this bell.” “Just think—isn’t the abbot forcibly conducting this morning’s grand ordination for Hannen, who’s barely past ten years old? Overriding all public opinion and condemnation through sheer favoritism?” “Is that Buddha’s divine will?!” “Is that what the entire mountain desires?!”

“You’re one stubborn bastard…” “Still clinging to that old argument of yours?” “What do you expect? The Acharyas and senior scholars—they’ll mutter complaints in shadowed corners, but not one dares defend their stance openly. They’ve all been coerced into silence by Archbishop Jien.” “The Abbot acts through deep spiritual conviction.” “Then show me this ‘conviction’ of his!”

“That’s currently a moot point. Whether Hannen Shōnagon truly possesses such innate qualities cannot be determined until we observe his growth.” “See there—how could the archbishop alone understand what even the gods and Buddhas cannot? It’s a sham! Favoritism!” “Don’t raise your voice!” “I’ll do it—I’ll say it! Those destroying Buddhism are the Buddhist disciples themselves!” “Enough! For a young upstart like you, this insolence goes too far!”

“Got a problem with me saying it?” “You bet it is!” “Then you’re also a fraud—a fraud who betrays Buddha while currying favor with the mountain’s rulers!” “Don’t act so impertinent!” He grabbed Shūōbō by the collar and threw him to the ground. Then, the monks from the quarters,

“What’s happening? What’s happening…?” they shouted as they came running up. “Hey—let go!” “No—bind him.” “Then drag him before the Acharya! Under strict precepts, we must judge the words this greenhorn just spewed.” “What outrageous remarks did he utter?” “He said, ‘Those destroying Buddhism are none other than Buddhist disciples themselves!’” “This bastard,” one spat, kicking him in the side of the face, “What madness—a newcomer picking fights from day one, growing arrogant over his paltry talent.” “Bind him! Bind him! Lest it become habit!” he snarled.

Judgment

One In the Abbot’s chamber, a bronze bell rang. One of the acolyte monks left his desk in the office, “Do you require my service?” and knelt in the shadow of the curtain,

“Summon Hannen,” he said. “Yes!” “Not here—to the front.” “Understood.” Archbishop Jien remained leaning against the desk in the curtain’s shadow afterward, his eyes tracing through a waka manuscript bound with five or six sheets of kamiya paper. When finished, he composed a letter, “I kept you waiting,” he said, glancing toward the veranda. A lone young messenger from Kyoto sat formally on the plank flooring, “Not at all,” he replied, bowing his head.

“Then please deliver this to Lord Tsukinowa and convey my regards.—As for Jien since returning to the mountain he has been living without incident as you can see.”

“Yes,” replied the Kyoto messenger as he received the draft and letter before departing.

Lord Tsukinowa Kanezane, the Kampaku, was none other than the blood brother of the Abbot. Thus, they would occasionally send each other correspondence and request updates from one another.

Both Jien and the Kampaku—these brothers—excelled in the art of waka poetry. In particular, Jien’s poetry—rich in noble lineage and talent despite his monastic vows—was hailed as that of a master of the age, esteemed by practitioners of the art as truly worthy of reverence. The Abbot dismissed the messenger, then rose and proceeded to the front study chamber of the Konponchūdō Hall. Being summoned to the living quarters was routine, but being told to wait in the front chamber—what could this mean? Hannen sat formally in his small monastic form at the center of the vast study hall, waiting.

“Come closer,” said Jien. Timidly, timidly, Hannen stepped forward. Jien gazed at the figure with a smile that seemed to drink in every detail, “Your ordination has now been properly concluded.” “Yes.” “Are you glad?” “I cannot say.” “Does it pain you?” “No.” “Is there emptiness?” “There is fullness.” “Then what manner of feeling dwells within?”

“As if I’ve been born anew into this mountain for the first time…” “Hmm… But since I have bestowed the precepts of ordination upon you, you must now stand as an equal among the virtuous elders and erudite scholars of this mountain—as a monk in your own right.”

“Yes…” “Whether a white-haired monk or a ten-year-old acolyte—viewed through Buddha’s eyes—they stand equal as His disciples and equal as humans lost in delusion’s maze.” “Yes…” “To make yourself jewel or tile—your training begins now.” “So long as you linger by my side, you cannot taste that noble suffering. Should even a wisp of pity stir within me, it would do you no good.” “Leave this teacher and cleave to your true teacher.” “Your true teacher needs no naming—it is Buddha Himself.” “At this hour, Mudō-ji Temple in the East Pagoda lies empty.” “The hallowed temple where Lord Biwa Dainagon once dwelled.” “There I shall send you today—as resident priest.” “Mark this well: prepare yourself. From tomorrow, you live there—practicing alone.”

II

Hannen Shōnagon nodded, tears spilling forth. Seeing him wipe his eyes sideways with small hands, Jien laughed. “From tomorrow onward, you who are to become a temple’s chief priest must not shed tears.” “...Go forth with vigor.” “Yes.” After wiping his tears with his sleeve, Hannen raised eyes filled with reluctance to part and looked up at his teacher’s face. “Well then, I will take my leave.” “I will not forget your teachings and will strive diligently.” He bowed and stood up to leave. The one who had been awaiting him in the corridor was Shōzenbō, who had been sitting on the planked edge with a worried expression all this time.

Immediately taking his hand, they descended the temple steps. As they walked toward the quarters, Shōzenbō, with a bright expression, was asking something, and Hannen, having already forgotten his recent tears, frolicked along—grabbing his hand to swing it, hanging from his shoulder—as they went.

(After all, he’s still a child.) Jien as well came out to the railing and watched his departing figure. But for some reason, to Jien, that child—Hannen—appeared as an immense figure he could not help but see. Even when meeting those hailed as erudite scholars or venerable elders of an era, he rarely felt such awe—and yet, even when objectively analyzing his own criticism, there was something about Hannen that set him apart from an ordinary human child.

(Where?) If someone were to ask me that, this too would be troubling. There was nothing different about him. A ten-year-old boy is, after all, a ten-year-old boy. The biographies of Kōbō Daishi and ancient saints often record miraculous signs at their births or superhuman feats from childhood—as if they were reincarnations of the Tathāgata—such as summoning clouds and calling forth dragons, glorifying their legends with divine splendor. Yet even Archbishop Jien did not wholly believe all such accounts to be true. Rather, those were floral garlands and halos offered by the people, and he saw no issue in considering that even Shakyamuni was human and Kōbō Daishi was human.

Recently, even someone like Venerable Hōnen of Kurodani saw—as the people’s veneration intensified—rumors spread about him without his knowledge: (that he possessed two amber-colored eyes), (that purple clouds had hovered over his birth chamber while celestial music played), (that he was an incarnation of Monju Bodhisattva), or even (No—some claimed he was Tang Sanzang reborn). Drawn by such tales, followers would gather half out of curiosity, wondering, “What manner of man is this?” Yet Archbishop Jien, having met Hōnen multiple times, recognized him as undeniably extraordinary in appearance—but neither a Tathāgata reborn nor a being with dual eyes. What set him apart was—

(He was a personage who seemed, somehow, a step above ordinary people.)

What Archbishop Jien felt toward Hannen Shōnagon was, in essence, that very— (Something?) it was. Yet his conviction was by no means vague—not a mere semblance of belief—but rather, like bedrock unyielding, it stood steadfastly focused on Hannen Shōnagon’s future.

III

It was the predawn of the following day.

In the faint light before dawn, Hannen Shōnagon left his quarters. His attendants were two: Shōzenbō and Koun, the straw-mat monk. Shōzenbō kept repeating, “From this day forth, Lord Hannen Shōnagon—as master of Mudō-ji Temple and resident priest of an entire sanctuary—the mountain monks will surely cease their contemptuous behavior toward your youth.” For him, this declaration carried,

It was a bright vindication and pride, as if declaring, “See this!” However, Hannen Shōnagon, “Can I manage such weighty duties?” he worried this morning. “The abbot would never order you to do something you cannot do.” “Though my efforts are meager, I, Shōzenbō, shall serve you, and at Mudō-ji Temple, the caretaker monks will attend to all matters as attendant monks. Thus, you need not worry in the slightest.” Hannen Shōnagon nodded,

“The abbot must surely intend to test me.” “If I show negligence, you must take up a whip and strike me.”

“That would be improper,” said Shōzenbō. “With that resolve guiding you, your ascetic practice will surely bear fruit—while I must face our master’s reprimand.” “Let us train together.” As they walked—neither in formal hierarchy nor strict discipleship, but with easy camaraderie—Koun trailed behind alone, his solitary figure steeped in melancholy. Sensing this mood,

“Lord Koun.—Fine weather we’ve been granted,” Shōzenbō said, halting and turning around. “So it seems... Just when I thought rain might come, the fog cleared—revealing Yase’s clustered dwellings and Shirakawa’s foothills.” Koun’s voice carried an uncharacteristic listlessness. At the sight of Hannen’s figure walking ahead, he likely found himself recalling his former master Jutōmaru. From time to time, one could glimpse him releasing solitary sighs tinged with envy.

"No wonder——" Shōzenbō perceived. The master-servant bond between Koun and Jutōmaru closely resembled his own relationship with Hannen Shōnagon. Doubtless, in every circumstance—

(How is Jutōmaru faring now?) he imagined—the heart of this man, so devoted to his former master, must be aching. As the sun rose higher, the calls of small birds grew louder in the valleys and peaks. Descending south from the Tōtō-in of Konponchūdō Hall, winding through several valley paths, and gazing up at the southern peak of Mount Shimei-ga-take—there lies Mudō-ji Temple of the Southern Ridge. Now, the edges of roofs from Daijō-in and Fudō-dō could be glimpsed fleetingly atop the deep blue, layered peaks adorned with young leaves.

“Oh, Koun…” “He went down to the stream alone. He likely went to fill a bamboo tube with water because he was thirsty.” As the two stood at the cliff’s edge searching for Koun’s figure, somewhere— “Hey, Jūhachi Kimimaro!” called a shrill voice.

The unexpected sharpness made them instinctively freeze mid-step and turn—there, in the mountain shadows beyond, gaped the mouth of an earthen cell.

IV

At the mouth of the earthen cell in the mountain shadows, weeds grew thickly. Clammy spring water dampened the surroundings. The entrance had been constructed by felling nearby trees and crudely lashing them into a sturdy framework. In the darkness, a shadowy figure seemed to stir. The one who had lost all normal tone in their voice and spoken with bestial ferocity was none other than the occupant of that earthen cell— "Isn't that Jūhachi Kimimaro there? Hey! Are you deaf?!" he shouted.

Not only were they called by a long-forgotten childhood name, but at the maliciously charged insults, both Hannen Shōnagon and Shōzenbō stood frozen mid-step. Then, the voice from within the cell grew more frantic: “Are you refusing to answer because I used your secular name? No matter how they ordained you, I won’t recognize a milk-stinking brat of barely ten—a snot-dripping child—as a true monk!” “Even if the Abbot pompously grants you precepts, even if this whole mountain fawns and follows blindly—I alone refuse!” Having hurled this in one breath, he—

“That’s why I call you Jūhachi Kimimaro! —Son of some impoverished noble, why won’t you answer?” “Have you forgotten how you used to rattle your way to Hino’s school in that creaking oxcart?” “No matter how you try to act dignified, it’s useless before me! Say something!” Unable to approach them himself, he grew desperate to draw the two figures standing in the light toward his cell. They sensed something demonic in that voice.

Shōzenbō, who had been watching intently from afar, saw the beast-like eyes pressed against the cell’s opening and involuntarily— "Ah!…" he exclaimed in surprise. Hannen, too, recalled— "Oh!" As he tried to run toward the front of the cell, Shōzenbō grabbed his sleeve and stopped him. "Master." "Do not approach!" "Do not approach!"

"Why? Why?" Hannen was even trying to tear himself free from that sleeve.

“The one inside there is a demon.” “You must not approach the demon—it would be harmful to your well-being.”

“A demon?…” Hannen Shōnagon murmured, his gaze fixed on the two sharp eyes gleaming from within the cell. “He is not a demon. That is Jutōmaru—the one who shared a desk with me at Hino’s school.”

“No… That may be true, but now he is a hall monk of the West Pagoda—a demon called Shūōbō.” “Look at the placard standing beside it,” Shōzenbō said, pointing. This person, formerly a servant monk at Sakamoto, was promoted to hall monk in the West Pagoda’s scholar-monk quarters and is one who is called Shūōbō. However, he recently grew arrogant in his shallow learning and petty talents, persistently criticizing every mountain edict. Moreover, during the ordination ceremony of Hannen Shōnagon, he willfully neglected his duty to strike the ritual bell and raved wildly with violent speech—claiming “those who destroy Buddhist Law are none other than Buddhist practitioners”—acts that constitute grave offenses. Therefore, he has been ordered to endure a hundred days of confinement here, humbly repenting for his evil deeds before the mountain spirits.

West Pagoda Magistrate of Various Halls

“You must realize.” “He is a terrifying demon.” “It would be better for your well-being not to approach.”

V

However, Hannen Shōnagon, “How pitiful,” he said, shaking his head in refusal. Brushing aside Shōzenbō’s restraining hand, he ran up to the cell. And with nostalgia, “Lord Jutōmaru,” he called out. Shūōbō flared up, glaring fiercely from the darkness, “Jūhachi Kimimaro! Mark my words—how dare you cast me into this earthen cell!” Shōzenbō found it unbearable to listen any longer, “Shut up!” he snapped from beside him. “The Master knows nothing of this.” “Being punished is nothing but your own doing, is it not?”

“No—your own hands are just as guilty! Your grudge isn’t limited to this occasion—did you not report the wildfire at Tadasu Plain to the Rokuhara Office afterward as well?” “That’s completely baseless!” “No, no—ever since I threw stones at Hino Manor in my youth, you’ve held a grudge and schemed at every turn to bring down my family. I’ve heard the rumors.”

“This is why…” Shōzenbō muttered in utter exasperation, looking at Hannen’s face.

“…An unsavable demon.” “What?! You dare call me a demon?!” Shūōbō, hearing this, snapped like a rabid dog and cursed. “You dare call me a demon? Fine—I’ll become one then.” “Rather than wearing these robes of falsehood and the mask of a monk in this mountain of hypocrisy under Buddhist Law, it’s better to become a naked demon—at least as a human, that’s more honorable!” “Because you spew such venomous words, it’s only natural you’ve been thrown into an earthen cell.” “In truth, he was a troublemaker even from childhood, but…”

“What a grand favor.” “I am not like Jūhachi Kimimaro—some bratty child who acts like an adult.” “I prefer being stark naked; I detest lies.” “Just wait—I’ll strip away your masks and cloaks of pretense!” As if deeming such words futile, Shōzenbō took Hannen’s hand, “Come, Master, let us go…” he urged. Splat! A glob of white spit flew from the earthen cell and struck Hannen’s sleeve. Hannen Shōnagon—perhaps struck by some thought—refused to walk even as Shōzenbō took his hand, pressing both hands to his eyes as he wept.

“Let us go. Staying near such a demon will only poison us with his malice,” he urged. “Exchanging words is nothing but a foolish act.” “…………” Without moving at all, Hannen Shōnagon stood weeping bitterly, frozen in place. “What grieves you so?” Shōzenbō asked. Hannen raised eyelids reddened from tears. “How pitiful,” he repeated, nothing more. Though Shōzenbō knew well Hannen’s sensitive nature, even he found himself struck speechless by this childlike purity—that his master could weep with compassion for an enemy fated to hate him so utterly.

Then, from somewhere, the crude notes of a shakuhachi began to sound.—Carried by the wind rising from the verdant valley, they flowed into the void.

VI

From somewhere indeterminate drifted the sound of a shakuhachi,

“Oh?” they seemed to say as their eyes met. Shōzenbō recalled Koun, the rush-clad monk who was nowhere to be seen here, “It’s Koun… He must have gone to drink water in the valley below here, started pondering something, and felt like playing the shakuhachi he carries,” he said. Hannen immediately— “Quickly, call him.—The Jutōmaru that Koun has sought for years is here.” “That, Koun does not yet know.” “That’s right—when Koun comes, there’s no telling how overjoyed he’ll be.” “Let me call him.” Shōzenbō ran to the edge of a slightly distant cliff,

“Heeey!” he called out, peering into the valley. Though his figure remained hidden among fresh leaves and mountain wisteria blossoms, the shakuhachi’s notes ceased abruptly, like a snapped thread. At that moment, Koun had chosen a flat boulder by the stream far below and was sitting like an arhat. He had come there—just as Shōzenbō had surmised—because his throat was parched and he had descended to drink water. Yet standing amid emerald peaks like peacock tails and the crystal-clear silence they cradled, his scar-riddled heart felt as though it were resting in a mother’s embrace. A lingering reluctance to depart settled over him, and so he sat down upon the rock.

Not knowing why, his tears overflowed without end. Daytime clouds drifted softly through the quiet ravines. He stared intently at the clouds that resembled his own circumstances—having no mother, wife, child, or home. Unable to express his feelings to anyone, he eventually blew a thin, mournful sound from the shakuhachi's mouthpiece with all the sorrow he could muster. Within that sound, the transience of life, earthly desires, petty complaints, and laments seemed to coil and tangle inextricably.

“Heeey!” Hearing a voice calling from above, Koun let go of the shakuhachi. “Ah...” “Ah, Lord Shōzenbō.” Since he knew their destination, he had intended to lag behind and catch up later. But if Hannen and Shōzenbō were waiting for him, he thought, this was truly thoughtless of him. Suddenly, he stood up, “Heeey!” he responded from below, looking up at the mountainside.

And as he climbed back up the cliff path to where they had been, Shōzenbō came running over,

“Lord Koun.” “There’s joyous news!” “Huh?” Blinking at the abruptness, Koun stood frozen as Shōzenbō declared, “The young monk in that earthen cell is Jutōmaru,” then added: “We’ll go ahead to Mudō-ji Temple. Take your time meeting your former master—give him a proper scolding for his misdeeds.” With that, he left. Koun stood blankly watching until Hannen and Shōzenbō disappeared into the mountain’s shadow. He hovered between belief and doubt. That Jutōmaru—the one he’d sought for years—lay imprisoned mere steps away? The thought defied all reason.

When he suddenly looked, sure enough, the entrance of the earthen cell came into view. A notice board stood.—He fearfully approached it.

VII “Oh—” Koun flew at the entrance of the earthen cell, forgetting himself. “Young Lord. —Lord Jutōmaru.” Shūōbō, from the cell’s darkness, had been staring fixedly at Koun’s face when he sprang upright. “Ah! Shichirō, isn’t it?” “I am Shichirō! Y-young Lord—it’s Shichirō!” “How nostalgic,” said Shūōbō, stretching his emaciated hand through the prison bars. “I wanted to see you…” “You—Shichirō—I can’t fathom how long you’ve searched for me.”

“Oh,” said Shūōbō, as if suddenly recalling, and gripped the prison bars. “You’ve come at the perfect moment.” “Hand me that sword at your waist.” “What do you mean to do?” “Need you ask? I’ll smash this cell.” “Cut my way out!” “Quick—before others arrive.” “But…” Koun wavered, daunted by the official edict posted nearby as he scanned the path ahead and behind. Finding no witnesses in that instant, a fierce determination seized him to carry out this desperate deed.

He drew his short sword and began cutting through the wisteria vines entangling the prison bars. Shūōbō, with all his might, shook it. As four or five clasps clattered down, the prison pillar collapsed forward. As if leaping from flames, Shūōbō emerged outside and raised both hands toward the blue sky.

“Got you! “My body is now my own!” “You—watch me!” As he tried to run off,

“Ah! Young Lord—where are you—!?” exclaimed Koun as he grabbed him in shock, fearing he might have gone mad from sheer elation. “Let go!” “Where are you going? If it is where you are going, Young Lord, I, Shichirō, am prepared to accompany you anywhere.” “Before leaving this mountain, you’ll wring off Hannen’s scrawny neck for me.” “Preposterous! Lord Hannen and Lord Shōzenbō have only shown me kindness—I have no cause to resent them.”

“No—I hate [him].” “To say you’ll take someone’s life simply because you hate them—Your Lordship’s heart is that of an oni or akuma!” “Even you—you call me an akuma? I’ll become that akuma! I’ll fight Hannen, battle this mountain itself, and clash with all of society—I’ll struggle against them with every ounce of my strength!” “Yes—Your Lordship!” With all his strength, he pulled back the frenzied man and twisted him down onto the path. And, “Hasn’t that warped heart of yours straightened itself yet? Do you not know of your father’s death? What will become of your family’s name? You unfilial wretch!” he cried, forgetting this was his master’s child as he seized him by the collar.

“Agh—I can’t breathe…! Hey, Shichirō! You bastard—did you come here to kill me?!” “I’ll strike you—I’ll beat you. Allow me to strike you in place of your late father.” “You bastard!” When Shūōbō tried to push back, Shichirō tightened his grip on his throat with even greater force. With a loud groan… Shūōbō fell unconscious.

Eight

Gazing at Shūōbō lying limp with his limbs stretched out, Koun shed tears as he pleaded, “Young Lord, please forgive me. It is only because I wish to make you into someone as splendid as Lord Hannen that I resort to such rough methods.” Clinging and apologizing, he suddenly noticed—

“Oh no—if someone comes!” he suddenly grew sharply alert and scanned his surroundings. Fortunately, there was a sedge hat that Shōzenbō had left behind. As he tried to place it on Shūōbō’s head and hoist him onto his back, Shūōbō groaned “Ugh…” and began breathing again. But he no longer had the strength to struggle wildly. The exhaustion from his long imprisonment in the earthen cell must have overwhelmed him all at once, for he lay limp with his neck drooped against Koun’s shoulder. Koun descended into the valley and, following the water’s course, fled in haste from Mount Hiei toward the village.

＊

At Mudō-ji Temple in the East Pagoda, a young head priest had recently come and begun appearing daily at the place of ascetic practice. Needless to say, it was Hannen.

The Ichijō-in within the temple grounds was designated as his quarters. There, he set his finger to research into the Four Doctrines.

The person who lectured on the Four Doctrines was Master Jōgon, an esteemed scholar renowned as the foremost in the East Pagoda.

Master Jōgon greatly cherished his talent. Calling him "Shōnagon, Shōnagon," he tended to even the temple's administrative tasks for him as though he were his own child.

Then one day, Master Jōgon was berating the young monks who had come to report something.

“What? Still not found?” “Impossible! It’s been twenty days since we began this manhunt!” “We’ve searched under every tree root, yet found nothing.” “Given this situation, they must have fled to the foothills. The monks of the West Pagoda propose we call off the mountain search and investigate the secular world instead.” “Let the West Pagoda monks proceed as they see fit.” “We shall maintain our blockade until starvation forces those fugitives to show themselves.”

Hannen watched from the window of Ichijō-in as the monks, having been sharply rebuked by Master Jōgon, retreated wearily down toward the valley. He understood well the purpose of the manhunt, and within his heart—

(Please don't let them be found... Let them escape safely to the village,) he prayed. When heavy rains fell, he secretly worried, (Could they be sheltering under some tree, drenched by this downpour?) Even when picking up his chopsticks at meals, he would suddenly wonder, (What might that master and servant be eating?) Yet after seven days passed, then ten, no rumors came of those who had broken from the earthen cell being captured.

At Mount Hiei, summer passed, autumn deepened, and at last winter arrived, white with snow. From the snow-buried window of Ichijō-in, there was not a single cold evening when the voice of Hannen reciting the Four Doctrines aloud was not heard.

Chapter of Transience

To Yamato Road

One

In nature’s appearance, there was no visible change to speak of, but the ten years that passed over humanity brought astonishing transformations. The second year of Kenkyū (1191 CE) marked exactly the ninth year since Hannen Shōnagon had entered Mudō-ji Temple in the East Pagoda.

He turned nineteen. Clad in a white robe and draped with a black kesa, the handsome, fair-skinned youth had still not been stained by anything of the dust of the secular world. He was as pure as a virgin.

“How noble his appearance is,” even Shōzenbō—who had attended him without missing a single day in those nine years—would sometimes find himself captivated. He was tall, with broad shoulders. As was common among those who secluded themselves deep within Mudō-ji Temple, his complexion was pale and his lips vermilion. His eyebrows were thick and bushy, strikingly masculine. Especially around his mouth—drawn taut in a straight line—there seemed to lie an indestructible will. Some people,

“When viewed from the front, Lord Hannen Shōnagon’s countenance appears gentle, but glimpsed suddenly from the side, it becomes truly fearsome,” some remarked. Hearing this, Shōzenbō too came to realize: “Ah, indeed.” Fearsome when perceived as fearsome. Gentle when seen as gentle.

In terms of health, both his bone structure and vigor were innately endowed with a robust sturdiness. He thought that this too might be a blessing from his maternal grandfather’s lineage. Beneath his sturdy ribcage and broad chest, one might wonder what kind of large heart resided—so robust it seemed almost unimaginable. That proof, Shōzenbō had witnessed firsthand over these nine years, and in secret— "(I could never do that myself)," he clicked his tongue in amazement. That was the vigor of Hannen’s thirst for knowledge and the strength of his scholarly zeal to fulfill it.

Even abstruse works such as the *Treatise on Consciousness-Only* and *Notes on One Hundred Dharmas* he had mastered by age twelve; and at fifteen, having received the secret teachings of esoteric Buddhism from Master Myōzen, even the entire monastic community of Mount Hiei—who once denounced Archbishop Jien’s unprecedented conferral of the major precepts as “favoritism”—now fell silent, having come to acknowledge that indeed his nature was divinely endowed. Yet Hannen himself showed not the slightest hint of pride in this. He followed Chikai of Rinsen-in Temple to complete the Three Great Texts of Tendai Buddhism, visited Keizon at Ninna-ji Temple to receive teachings on the Kegon Sutra, and actively sought instruction from those eminent scholars of Nanto considered his intellectual equals.

“Please do not overexert yourself—” Shōzenbō had made it his constant refrain regarding Hannen’s day-and-night austerities, but this concern proved needless worry. When it became clear that Hannen’s constitution was not so fragile as to break from such rigors, “Truly, he surpasses ordinary men,” Shōzenbō found himself bowing in genuine reverence, until he could no longer voice the solicitous warnings meant for common folk. And though serving in the same capacity as before, he now did so with a reverence wholly transformed from nine years prior—

He now addressed him as "his revered master" and had fully become a sole disciple who received teachings from Hannen.

Two

It was the end of July.

At long 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 accompanying him as part of the retinue. And each time they descended the mountain, seeing the ever-changing world seemed to be a slight pleasure for him. Still, although Shōzenbō had gone down to the foot of the mountain and towns on errands several times a year, Hannen had hardly done so at all.

“Everything has become part of a bygone era.”

When he entered the city of Kyoto, Hannen sensed transience in everything his eyes beheld.

“Look,” said Shōzenbō, standing on Gojō Bridge as he pointed. “Over there in that vacant lot’s grassland—children and cows must be playing.” “That marks where Lord Komatsu’s mansion and its rose garden once stood.” “Also, on the eastern end to your right stood Lord Taira no Kiyomori’s Nishihachijō mansion, but seeing how it lies in ruins now, one wonders whose warriors’ gathering place it has become.” “It has changed,” Hannen murmured. He spoke with deep feeling, and suddenly looking down from the bridge railing, saw that only the waters of Kamo flowing below remained unchanged—murmuring as ever.

Ah, but even water undergoes ceaseless change—it simply does not arrest such fleeting hollow forms and appearances as those of humans. The river water where the ladies of Nishihachijō and the Rose Garden once washed away their makeup now received the Genji clansmen’s tooth-blackening dye and the sullied waters of their military steeds throughout Kyoto. “What changes will change—” He felt a sensation of never growing weary no matter how long he stood there, as if confronting infinite truth— And as if seeing a living sutra before his eyes.

Fleeting if perceived as fleeting. Progress if perceived as progress. Emptiness if perceived as emptiness— Society was far too vast for life’s truth to be grasped. The peddlers, artisans, samurai, and assorted townsfolk passing through those streets merely strung together brief hopes from today to tomorrow, hurrying their steps in ceaseless bustle—nothing more. At Kurama’s peak, Shanaō—Yoshitsune who had fled to Ōshu—had closed his brief and brilliant life some two years prior, struck down by none other than his brother Yoritomo’s soldiers. Now that Yoritomo had established his stronghold in Kamakura and proclaimed hegemony over the realm, Taira culture had undergone complete transformation—society itself, Kyoto’s capital, even Kamo River’s waters had been re-dyed in Genji hues through inevitable change.

But the masses, having witnessed life’s currents whirl by too dizzyingly, It seemed their anxiety—the sense that “tomorrow as well” might bring calamity—and their nihilism had not vanished, for on the faces of every townsfolk passing through the streets, there showed a restless unease.

“Shall we go?” Hannen began walking north along Gojō toward Kitagawa like an ordinary wandering monk, surveying the scene before him.

Three

Then, when they set foot onto Rokujō Avenue, the two found themselves repeating murmured observations of change. The crossroads market prospered conspicuously before them, merchant houses lining both sides of the avenue having multiplied far beyond their numbers during the Taira clan's golden age. Even vacant lots teemed with activity—men who might be puppeteers or carnival barkers rang gathering gongs while shouting their wares, women shrouded in hooded cloaks and thick makeup casting furtive glances as they scrutinized men with conspicuously long philtrums.

“Human society resembles spring field burning—the more you scorch it, the more fiercely new grass sprouts afterward…” mused Shōzenbō. At first glance, war seemed to propel society forward with startling speed. Yet none who lived through it cursed this war. Instead, people had plunged headlong into alarming hedonism. While this tendency had already taken root under Taira rule, the sudden shift to Genji governance saw it intensify—women lavished themselves in extravagant silks while men moved through life perpetually steeped in wine’s fragrance.

“Monk!” “Reverend Monk.” As the two looked around Rokujō’s cattle market area, the spotted cattle that once lay sprawled in vacant lots and bluebottles swarming around cow dung had vanished completely—everywhere now filled with stylish new huts and small houses at their entrances. There were houses surrounded by woven bamboo fences before shops, and structures hung with decaying-leaf-colored or pale yellow cloth to conceal their rooms. There were also those who had fashioned peephole windows into plastered walls, from which women called out.

“Could this truly be the former cattle market…?” Both Hannen and Shōzenbō stood frozen in bewilderment. Where could Rokujō Noritsuna’s residence be—the one that should have stood right here nearby? Having searched in vain for any trace of his childhood home, Hannen found himself dismayed once more. “A handsome monk and his companion—”

The voices of yellow-clad women called out incessantly from the windows and behind hanging cloths of the houses, but neither of them realized it was they who were being summoned.

And yet, when they tried to enter even the narrow alley, from the shadow of a low hinoki fence—

“Come on in,” said a voice as a white hand grabbed the sleeve of his monk’s robe. Hannen widened his eyes, “Is there some business you require?” The woman stuck out her white neck from there, “What are you searching for?” “Lord Rokujō Noritsuna’s residence.” “Oh ho ho ho. ……Such a house—there isn’t a single one left. This is the red-light district.” “Huh? ……The red-light district.” “……The red-light district.” “Isn’t it obvious from the main street? Just come in already.” Shōzenbō intervened from beside him,

“You fool!” he scolded, sharply striking the hand of the woman who was grabbing Hannen’s sleeve.

Four “How dare you strike someone!” The courtesan grew furious. Shōzenbō likewise flared with anger.

“Of course it is.” The courtesan refused to back down, “If hitting people counts as normal, then I’ll hit you too,” she said, thrusting out her hand in mock strike toward Shōzenbō’s profile, but he turned his face away. “Disgusting,” he snapped, batting her hand aside. Now truly enraged, the courtesan seized Shōzenbō by the collar. “What’s so disgusting about it?” “Unhand me! How dare you behave so shamelessly toward a monk!” “Hmph… So…” The courtesan pursed her mocking lips venomously like a pomegranate blossom,

“You monks say women are defiling… Hah! You’re a riot,” she said, glancing back at her fellow courtesans inside the house. “Hanagasa-san over there, Kajiha-san next to her—they’ve all got monks as their lovers. To my place, there are people who come from Mount Hiei, and there are even times when we sneak over to Temple Town from here.” “People are watching. Let go.” When Shōzenbō said earnestly,

“Oh, I get it. If you say it’s wrong because people might see, I understand,” said the woman, releasing his collar and giving Shōzenbō’s shoulder a quick poke. “As long as no one’s watching, it’s fine, right?… Come tonight.” Shōzenbō stepped into the mud, staining his gaiters with filth. “Damn you!” he shouted, chasing after the woman who had darted into the house—cursing all the while—when outside the alley—

“Shōzenbō—” Hannen’s call was heard. “Here!” He, ashamed of his immature actions and blushing deeply, emerged onto the main street. And, to Hannen, “I’ve done something terrible,” he apologized.

“Let us search elsewhere.” When Hannen began to walk, “Please wait a moment,” said Shōzenbō, grabbing the sleeve of his teacher’s monastic robe and leading him straight to a roadside well.

"(What are you doing?)" Hannen silently allowed him to proceed as he did. Shōzenbō raised the bucket from the well, then pinched the sleeve of his teacher’s monastic robe and began washing it vigorously. “There… This should be acceptable now.” “I couldn’t leave your sleeve soiled by the hands of an impure courtesan,” he said, wringing out the water, then washing his own hands before finally making a satisfied expression.

After that, the two walked carefully to avoid being grabbed by courtesans’ hands again, but the scent of makeup seemed to linger even after washing the sleeve with water.

Not only that, but no matter how they searched, they could not find the Rokujō Mansion.

Five Giving up, they once again turned back toward Gojō-guchi. As their figures crossed Gojō Ōhashi eastward this time, the pale mist of dusk already drifted white around them. By the time they reached Shōren-in Temple in Awataguchi, night had fully fallen into deep darkness. There alone—untouched by war’s ravages or worldly changes—it remained as ever in quiet desolation, so they felt: (Truly, the Dharma gate was their place of refuge.)

Standing outside the tightly closed gate, Shōzenbō,

“I humbly beseech you,” he said, knocking persistently. Hannen stood behind, gazing at the rusted temple gate roof, the form of the tower, and the manner of the pine tree stretching its branches from there.

"Ten years..." He closed his eyes nostalgically and pictured his own youthful form from a decade past upon his eyelids. With a creak, the small gate opened,

“Who goes there?” The gatekeeper monk called out. “I am Hannen of Mudō-ji Temple. Having descended the mountain this time to study at Hōryū-ji Temple in Nara, I wished to pay my respects to Archbishop Jien, and so I have stopped by, though it is late at night.” “I humbly request your kind mediation.”

“Please wait.” After a short while, the gatekeeper monk showed his face again,

“Please,” he said, leading the way ahead. Archbishop Jien had since resigned from his position as head priest, returned from Mount Hiei to his original residence at Shōren-in Temple, and now spent his days enjoying tea, waka poetry, and similar pursuits in a deeply carefree private life. In a modest cottage, Jien welcomed the two and rejoiced wholeheartedly. “You’ve grown so much.” That was his first remark. When comparing the figure of the small child monk at his ordination to the nineteen-year-old Hannen Shōnagon before him now, such words naturally arose.

However, Jien’s appearance—unseen for four or five years—had not yet reached what one might call middle age but had aged considerably. “You remain unchanged as well, Archbishop,” Hannen said. “For those who dwell among flowers, birds, wind, and moon on the Buddhist path,” Archbishop Jien replied with a youthful smile, “age holds no meaning.” Then he continued: “Though you go to Hōryū-ji Temple for study this time, take care not to strain yourself beyond health.” “I came hoping to receive your guidance regarding doubts about Master Kakumon’s teachings,” Hannen responded. “My body remains sturdy as you see—please set your mind at ease.” At that moment, Shōzenbō—who had been waiting deferentially on the rear veranda—timidly spoke up.

“Therefore, I took the liberty of suggesting you might meet your adoptive father, Lord Noritsuna, and your brother, Lord Asamaru—whom you haven’t seen these ten years. In truth, before coming here, we searched for the Rokujō Mansion, but the town’s aspect had so changed we could not discern his whereabouts.” “And so—thinking inquiries at Shōren-in Temple might enlighten us—we returned here. But where might Lord Noritsuna be dwelling now?”

“Since that is the case, you need not worry. As I promised beforehand: if there are changes, we shall inform you from this temple; while no word reaches you, you are to consider matters unchanged—precisely as I have said.”

Six

Even though merely knowing they were safe should have sufficed, Hannen still wished to see them at least once. The Archbishop, observing his expression, remarked that it would be good for him to visit them after so long, adding that he would have a temple attendant guide him there come morning. “For now,” he said, “remove your traveling attire and rest at ease tonight.” “My humble thanks,” Hannen replied.

Hannen withdrew and, after finishing his bath at the bathhouse, was treated to the evening meal together with Shōzenbō. Just then, the steward arrived there.

“A guest whom His Grace wishes you to meet has now arrived at his chambers. Once you have finished your meal, he requests that you kindly come again,” the steward announced. (Who could it be?...The guest he wants me to meet—) Hannen went to investigate regardless. There sat a nobleman in informal robes, his wide hakama trousers spread majestically, an oil lamp at his side. He appeared several years older than the Archbishop—likely forty-four or forty-five by estimation. A thin, elegant beard grew beneath his straight nose ridge. What lent refinement to that beard were his restrained, gentle lips.

... When he saw Hannen, the nobleman smiled with a knowing glint in his eyes, as though he had long been acquainted with him. Archbishop Jien, from beside,

“Brother, this is Hannen Shōnagon,” he introduced as if proudly presenting a cherished treasure.

“Hmm…” The nobleman nodded, “Indeed, a fine young man,” he said, staring at him with an intensity that verged on awkwardness. The archbishop then turned to Hannen and “This is Lord Tsukinowa, the Regent,” he informed him.

“Oh… Lord Tsukinowa?” Hannen was surprised. Then, as he began to adjust his posture formally, Regent Kanezane— “No, remain as you are,” the regent said, clearly favoring informality, and began discussing Mount Hiei’s recent affairs and worldly matters. Hannen had long known that Tsukinowa Kanezane was the blood brother of his teacher the Archbishop, but as the regent was a nobleman currently holding office, exchanging words with him so intimately in such a place felt utterly unexpected.

“I have heard rumors that in your research of the Kegon teachings, there is no equal among the young monks of Mount Hiei.” “I am humbled.” “I remain but an untested student.” “Whenever my younger brother hears word of you, he rejoices in your ascetic dedication as if it were his own.”

“I shall endeavor not to squander this great kindness.” “You must visit Tsukinowa Manor for leisure at least once.” “My deepest gratitude.” “There are many youths devoted to Dharma-seeking who would benefit from your lecture on the Kegon Sutra, Lord Hannen Shōnagon. This humble self would also hear it,” said Kanezane.

Then Archbishop Jien brewed his prized imported green tea, composed a couple of waka poems, and exchanged them inscribed on kaishi paper. Before long, Kanezane boarded the waiting ox-drawn carriage with his retainers 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 a long while, Hannen slept while embracing a warmth as if he had been nestled among fellow humans.

Upon waking and completing his morning prayers, Hannen found Shōren-in Temple’s swept precincts bathed in dappled sunlight filtering through conifers, while early autumn clouds played like a white kitten upon Awata Hill’s shoulder. “Shōzenbō, let us depart.” Hannen had already prepared his gaiters and sedge hat for travel without others noticing and was about to put on his straw sandals.

“Oh, are you departing already?”—if anything, it was Shōzenbō who appeared flustered. “I already bade farewell to the Archbishop after the morning service,” said Hannen, quickening his steps as though steeling himself and exiting through the temple gate.

Shōzenbō shouldered the travel pack and caught up from behind. Then Takamatsu Emon, the steward, who had been waiting outside the temple gate, “Lord Hannen, are you departing?” “I am grateful for your care.”

“By His Grace’s instructions, today I had intended to guide you to Lord Rokujō Noritsuna’s residence and have been waiting to receive you—” “I humbly thank you.” “Surely you do not intend to depart just like this?” "No," Hannen said, his brows—which had been furrowed since the previous night—twisting with anguish. “...Yesterday, driven by foolish longing to see my adoptive father’s face and meet my younger brother, I single-mindedly searched for his residence. But last night, after sleeping and calmly reflecting upon it, I have come to feel deeply ashamed.” “Such conduct does not yet make one a true monk.” “I believe that even His Grace must, in his heart, scorn me as an inadequate one.” “Let alone that—having barely taken the first steps of training and now about to embark on the second step of my scholarly journey—to have already allowed such a lapse in resolve is, I myself find, regrettable and inexcusable.” “I deeply appreciate your thoughtful consideration, but as I have resolved in my heart to depart without meeting my adoptive father or younger brother, please withdraw your kind offer.”

“As expected of Lord Hannen Shōnagon—well spoken.” “Then allow me to escort you at least part of the way.”

Emon walked ahead along the long earthen wall of Shōren-in. After walking about twenty steps toward the rear gate through the cedar grove, they came upon a small hermitage enclosed by a bamboo fence, where two or three clusters of morning glories bloomed thickly here and there. “Are they not beautiful?” Emon called Hannen’s attention to the morning glories within the fence, then silently departed from there. Shōzenbō nonchalantly peeked inside the fence and, while aghast, pulled Hannen’s sleeve.

“Master.” “…He is here.”

“What?” “Look.” “Oh!”

Hannen’s eyes—as Shōzenbō pulled his sleeve and he peered into the hermitage—were filled with tears.

Though his appearance had changed drastically, the old monk sitting at a small desk on the sunny veranda of the thatched hut, brush in hand copying something, was none other than his adoptive father Noritsuna.

Eight “When did he take monastic vows?” Hannen’s tears blurred his adoptive father’s figure from view.

"...No trace remains of what he once was," he thought, comparing this figure to memories from the past and contemplating the hardships his adoptive father had borne over ten years.

Shōzenbō, as though unable to bear it any longer, pushed against the gate there and tried to enter.

“Stop—you must not go in there!” Hannen chided. And then, resolutely leaving the side of the fence, he started walking. “Please meet him, Master—do grant him even a glimpse of that figure.” “…………” Hannen shook his head and quickened his pace without looking back. Then, by Kajiga-ike Pond, a young man and woman were leaning their faces close together affectionately, but startled by Hannen’s footsteps,

“Oh!” The woman was the first to pull away. She must have been the daughter of a swordsmith from around here—a young girl with rustic charm and beauty. The young man, too, was still a youth of seventeen or eighteen—a fledgling noble. As if ashamed that someone might have overheard their secret whispers, he blushed and turned around. “Oh…?” “Oh…?” Hannen stood frozen upon seeing those features. The young man also flinched, his eyes widening.

Their childhood memories were hazy, and having not seen each other for ten years, they could not clearly remember one another—yet the blood of kinship resonated between their hearts.

For a little while, as they stared intently at each other, without either one initiating— “It’s Asamaru, isn’t it?” “Brother?”

No sooner had they drawn near than the two shadows embraced as one, and Asamaru pressed his face against Hannen’s chest, weeping. “—I’ve longed to see you.” “Every day I did nothing but gaze at your statue with its tied-up hair, Brother.” “You’ve grown so much.” “You have too, Brother.” “As you see, I’m well.—And your adoptive father—has he kept his health since?” “Have you still not consented to meet him?”

“I have just now glimpsed his figure from outside the fence.” “Then I shall guide you. Father will surely be surprised.” “No—I will not meet him this time.” “Why?” “There will naturally come a time when we meet. I entrust his care to you.” Curtly moving past him, “Brother—why won’t you meet Father?” Asamaru clung resentfully to his brother’s hand. The woman watched intently from the pond’s edge. A maiden’s heart observed with sorrow, as though the man’s affection had been stolen away by another.

“…………” Shōzenbō stepped slightly aside, averting his gaze from the brothers’ figures as he busily wiped with the back of his hand the tears streaming down his cheeks. But then Hannen—whether prompted by some thought—suddenly shook off his younger brother’s hand and ran away without looking back.

River mist.

I

A flicker of light appeared in the distance. It was the town’s lights. The town, the lights, the mountains—all bled like ink dropped on unprocessed paper. "Uji, then." Hannen stopped. The swift sound of water could be heard underfoot. Finally, as dusk approached, they reached the great bridge of Uji River. “Indeed.—There cannot be much left now.” As if in unison, Shōzenbō, upon reaching the middle of the bridge, leaned against the railing and rested for a moment.

Through the wide twilight field of vision rushed the clear, cold autumn water with a murmuring flow. Hannen stood with his face buffeted by the chilly river air,

"...the fourth year of Jishō," he muttered.

“I was still young. You must remember the essence well.” “Would that be the Battle of Uji?”

“Therefore, would it not be around here that Lord Minamoto no Yorimasa met his end?” “Indeed. …The month was around May.” For him, it had been the year his mother passed away.... Because she was a daughter of the Minamoto clan, she had been nothing more than a chaste wife to her husband and a tender mother to her children, living humbly—yet for some reason, their clan seemed to be under suspicion by the Taira as if they Minamoto harbored rebellious intentions. She must have endured hardships unknown to her children.

“There were various rumors that surrounded your honorable parents at that time.” “Ah, but once ten years pass, all will vanish without a trace like this murmuring water.—Nothing remains of the battlefields where people of the Taira and Minamoto clans once harbored their hatred.” “Only the autumn grasses are blooming on the riverbank.—Lord Sanmi has bloomed a late-blooming flower.” Hannen took out his prayer beads from the sleeve of his monastic robe and placed them on his finger. The plot of Prince Takakura had come to naught, and as Shōzenbō imagined the unquiet spirits of warriors who had found no rest racing through the dark autumn sky with mournful cries, a chill ran down his spine.

Mother Yoshimitsu Gozen and Lord Minamoto no Yorimasa of the Third Rank were of the same clan, and beyond that, countless others of their bloodline had become corpses upon this riverbank. Hannen also recalled the figure of his second cousin Yoshitsune, who had died young. And standing there, he came to feel with profound gratitude the intentions of his mother, adoptive father, and those around him—who had entered him into the monastery out of concern that his future must not be toyed with by such ill-fated circumstances.

Had it not been for that frost-protection fence, even I would doubt whether I could have attained this growth today. I felt my life was not my own life. It came to seem these years—which belonged to my mother and clan, bearing some mission imposed upon my own flesh—were not truly mine. “…………”

The prayer beads clicked. Shōzenbō, too, had his eyes closed in meditation. Then behind them both passed a young woman with hushed footsteps that carried loneliness.

II

Suddenly turning back, he watched the woman’s retreating figure.

“If…” Shōzenbō gently pulled Hannen’s sleeve. “That woman—isn’t she crying?” “She must be a townsperson.” “She’s approached the railing and is lost in thought.” “Strange woman.” “Do not look. For one to have their tearful face seen by others is a sorrowful thing.” “Let us proceed.” The two started walking as suggested—yet remained uneasy. After taking five or six steps forward, they turned to look back—but in that brief moment, the woman’s figure had already vanished.

“Huh? Wha—?” Shōzenbō suddenly set down his pack and ran toward where the woman had been. Then, leaning over the railing as if to plunge in, he peered down into the riverbed and waved his hand, shouting, “Master! She’s thrown herself in!” Hannen was surprised. And while regretting his own carelessness, “Where to?” he said and ran to the side. Shōzenbō pointed at the dark river surface,

“There—over there,” Shōzenbō said. The water was forming an unusual whirlpool. It must have been a woman’s obi. Within the black ripples, it floated up only to sink back down. “Ah, that’s dangerous…!” What truly startled Shōzenbō was not this but Hannen beside him—hooking his foot on the bridge railing and preparing to leap from its ten-foot height. He grabbed him and shouted, “Unthinkable!” “I will save her. If something were to happen to your precious body—” Hannen hastily began to undo his monastic robe.

Then, from the direction of the riverbank,

“Oi…” came a man’s voice. Two or three shadowy figures called to each other as they rushed over. They were likely fishermen who had been working the river—one was already making loud splashing noises in the water. Though the current ran swift, they must have found rescue easy near the shallow pool’s edge, for soon they came ashore cradling the woman’s body now limp as seaweed. “Thank you,” Hannen said while moving toward the men.

The woman, seemingly still conscious, was wailing loudly. She wept, covering her face with both hands and shaking her body. “How are you faring?” Shōzenbō gently placed his hand on the woman’s shoulder and peered at her, when suddenly she— “I don’t know! I don’t know!” Shaking off that hand, she dashed straight across Uji Bridge toward the town. “Ah! She’s going to jump in again!” The men said that, but they did not even try to chase her, clicking their tongues as they watched her go.

III

He couldn't bring himself to abandon her. Hannen was dashing off, "Ah, those swift legs! Shōzenbō, go ahead alone and seize that woman!" "Understood." Shōzenbō sprang through the air and gave chase to the figure of the woman who had already crossed beyond Uji Bridge in the distance.

As expected, once the woman crossed the bridge, she did not head toward the town but continued running blindly and disheveled along the riverbank upstream. “Now! 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 concern! Let me go.” “I can’t let you go.” “You intend to die, don’t you?” “Is it wrong to die?” Turning her pale face toward him, the woman snapped back. Seeing that gaze,

“(This is...)” Shōzenbō involuntarily turned his face away. The woman’s upturned eyes were sharp like windows of light. Her hair was disheveled over her shoulders; her soaked kimono and skin clung to her, and she was so frenzied she didn’t even feel the cold. “What’s so wrong about that?” The woman, seeing the monk’s appearance, seemed to harbor even greater resentment and instead began to press him with questions. “It’s obviously wrong.” “Humans are born with a predetermined lifespan.” “To discard your life on a momentary impulse is the act of a fool.”

“After all, I am a fool. That’s exactly why—” She choked back a sob,

“Men… men…” She shrieked heedlessly and then— “Please let me die.” “I can’t allow that.”

“I’ll die just to spite you!” she screamed, writhing with terrifying strength. Shōzenbō twisted up her slender wrist with his inherent strength while waiting for Hannen to arrive, but the woman acted as though he were a hated enemy, even attempting to sink her teeth into his fingers. “Calm down.” “...This is the work of passionate delusion. Once you sober up, your own heart will become so pitifully empty that even you won’t recognize it.”

“If you want to preach, do it at the temple.” “I hate monks.”

“Is that so?” He could only manage a bitter smile. Hannen caught up. “What happened, Shōzenbō?” “I restrained her.” “Don’t do anything rash.” “What? You’re the one who’s been running around mad and wailing.” “My lady—” Hannen stroked her back and, “Let’s go.” “And where exactly?”

“I will take you to your home. You mustn’t catch a cold—your kimono is soaked…” “You needn’t meddle with someone who’s going to die. Please don’t interfere.” He had long been taught that women were difficult to save, but Hannen gazed intently at her pale face and disheveled hair—at this living proof of doctrine—thinking this must be what they meant.

Four Whenever he witnessed this woman's wretched derangement, Hannen recalled the brother he had met two days earlier by Kaji-ga Pond.

At that time, the younger brother had been standing side by side with a young woman of marriageable age at the edge of the pond.

Surely it wasn’t something that would draw public scrutiny, but his younger brother, unlike himself, was delicate like a willow, kind-hearted, and moreover weak-willed.

Since descending Mount Hiei this time, what had imprinted itself most deeply and frequently upon Hannen’s heart was "women." When he descended from a mountain devoid of women, the world appeared as a country of women. It seemed overrun with women. He found it troublesome to dwell on, yet also felt a sudden brightness; at his age, it was giving rise to a vague unease and warmth within him.

“Master, I’m at my wit’s end.” Shōzenbō spoke as if at a loss while still trying to placate her. “She absolutely refuses to return home.” Hannen now turned his attention directly toward her: “What about your family residence in Uji District?” he inquired. “I refuse.” Her voice hardened like river stones grinding together. “If returning were possible at all—I would do so alone.” Shōzenbō stepped closer until his shadow enveloped hers. “We too journey toward Uji Town,” he insisted. “Let us accompany you.”

“You’re such a persistent monk.” “Since this is our mission, even if it displeases you, please forgive us. I want to make Omo[to] happy.” “You make me laugh. Do you really think humans can perform such a deft trick as making others happy?” “I cannot do it through my own power. Through the Buddha’s divine power—” “I absolutely hate that Buddha. He interferes when I want to die, forces things I hate upon me—you all are so good at making people miserable.”

“Anyway, let us walk.” “I refuse—!”

“If we grant Omo[to]’s wish as she desires, wouldn’t that be fine?” “My wish is to make my man mine.” “Isn’t that a simple wish?” “Don’t be ridiculous! That man already has another woman.”

“That man must be your husband, Omo[to].” “He hasn’t... properly done anything yet, but...”

“Very well. “With all sincerity, we shall entreat the man. No harm will come… Now walk.” When they finally brought her to Uji Town and sought out the woman’s dwelling,

“There—” she pointed to one of the squalid wooden tenements in the backstreets. The name “Oeboshi Saku Kunisuke” was nailed to an aged board. Hannen knocked on the wooden door,

“Good evening.” When he called out, seizing that moment, the woman wrenched free from Shōzenbō’s grasp and tried to flee.

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 turned even more startled upon seeing the woman struggling to break free from Shōzenbō’s grasp— “You hussy!” he shouted, rushing out barefoot and seizing the woman by her black hair. “Where’ve you been skulking off to? Oh look at you—soaked through again! What stupid nonsense have you pulled now?” The man had dragged her into the house so carelessly that Hannen—

“Please, do not resort to such violence!” they said as they entered the house together, but by then the woman’s countenance had already turned fiercely livid. “What are you doing?! Do you hate me this much?! Kill me!” “Kill me!” “You lunatic!” “Go on, kill me!” she cried, lunging at the man’s collar. “In return—I won’t die alone.” “You philandering cheat! You heartless wretch!” “How vexing!”

Hannen watched with an expression of being unable to intervene. However, leaving them be would lead to endless trouble, so he said to Shōzenbō, “Make them stop.” “Hey!” Shōzenbō first intervened between the man,

“Won’t you stop this? Surely you aren’t sworn enemies.” “I hate you more than an enemy!” screamed the woman. From then on, like oiled paper catching fire, she shamelessly ranted about the man’s cruelty—how he abused her, how he tried to bring in some harlot he’d taken up with elsewhere, how she’d sold off all her belongings to support this impoverished household—pouring out every vile emotion in a rapid stream for as long as her tongue could move.

Finally seeming to realize the awkwardness of the situation, the Eboshi Maker Kunisuke hung his head, his face pale. And then, as if only now noticing, he turned to Hannen, "I deeply apologize," he said. "Is she your wife?" Shōzenbō interjected. "No, she's a woman named Kayano whom I ended up with, dragging out our days." "But I don't think I'm such a bad man as Kayano makes me out to be." "Why don't you make up?"

“I can’t help but find her adorable, but… as you can see.” The woman’s eyes shot daggers, “You liar!”

Six

The woman, her face twisted in renewed fury, let out a piercing shriek and lunged—just as the gate creaked open. "Daughter, must I come fetch you here again?" An aged voice rang out. At that voice, Kayano jolted upright, "Father!" As if doused with icy water, she snapped from her frenzy; suddenly wishing to vanish into the earth, she froze motionless. Kunisuke the eboshi maker shuffled about shamefacedly. Without awaiting permission, Kayano's father stood rigidly at the threshold—his stern features hardened—glowering down at the young couple with palpable disgust.

“You disgrace!” he glared, as though wanting to spit on her. He was likely a country samurai from Uji—an old man wearing a crude nodachi.

“Come on, get home. Go home!” “Parents do not raise a child just to let them engage in a love-crazed affair with a lazy artisan like this!” “You insolent wretch!”

Grabbing Kayano by the collar, he scolded her and began to drag her away.

“No! No!” The girl clung desperately to the straw mat, “—I won’t go home,” she said desperately. “Why won’t you go home?” “But I want to endure any hardship with Mr. Kunisuke.” “A man your parents haven’t permitted?”

“Please forgive me.” “I won’t allow it!” barked the old man, “There’s no future with a man like this. She forced her way into the home of someone her parents hadn’t approved of and tried to live with him in harmony—and the townsfolk were laughing at her. If you refuse, fine—I’ll drag you back by parental authority if I must!”

Enraged, the old man dragged his daughter's body two or three feet toward the gate with a scraping sound.

The old man’s face—with deep wrinkles around his lips and a beard like needles sprouting haphazardly around them—and his manner of speech had been silently observed by Shōzenbō until that moment, when he finally opened his mouth. “Wait.—You’re Yajirō, who served at the Rokujō mansion, aren’t you?” “Huh?!” The old man kept his mouth hanging open for a while, “…………” Squinting his eyes within their fine wrinkles, he stared fixedly at Shōzenbō’s face for what felt like an eternity, then turned to look at Hannen sitting properly beside him.

“Y-y-you…” Kayano’s father released his grip on her collar and collapsed into a seat right there. “Y-you… Are you the former Chamberlain’s Attendant?” “That’s me—Kai.” “Then… the one who is here…” “Don’t you recognize him? Given how much he’s grown, it’s no wonder you didn’t. This is Lady Wako of Hino… Lord Jūhachi Kimimaro.” “Oh no, what have I done?” Old Man Yajirō pressed both hands to the ground and kept his forehead against the straw mat, making no move to raise his face for some time.

Seven At the whiteness of his temples, “You’ve changed quite a bit.” Hannen, too, was gazing intently. According to Old Man Yajirō’s account, during Lord Yoshinaka’s invasion years earlier, the Heike had set fire to the capital they were abandoning and slaughtered anyone they resented or who had even the slightest connection to the Genji clan on sight, then fled westward to the provinces.

At that time, when the Rokujō mansion and its surrounding areas had been uniformly burned down, Noritsuna—his very life in peril—managed to hide within Shōren-in Temple while holding Asamaru’s hand, with Yajirō accompanying them as they observed how the world unfolded for a time. Yet Noritsuna, having deeply contemplated matters it seemed, did not attempt to return to society; instead he shaved his head, cleared a small patch of thicket behind the temple to build a hermitage, and changed his name to Kanzen.

Now, since Yajirō had been dismissed, he returned to his hometown—relying on a daughter who had been entrusted to relatives in Uji—and started a family with the intention of working hard together to build a life. However, for a daughter of marriageable age, a young man she was in love with seemed far preferable to a biological father she had long been separated from; she hardly ever stayed settled at home, and whenever her absence was noticed, she would be found holed up at the home of Kunisuke the eboshi maker—a situation that left him utterly at his wits’ end—so concluded his lengthy tale.

“What am I to do?” he said, ashamed yet unable to conceal anything, bracing his shame as he confessed. “I see.” Now that the circumstances were understood, hearing this made Kayano’s love seem all the more heartrending. As for Kunisuke having another woman and causing Kayano such suffering—this was not right. Now was precisely the time to have him honestly disclose just how deep his relationship with this courtesan—one of his mistresses—truly was. That this was one possible solution—Shōzenbō, though unaccustomed to such matters, first attempted to act as a mediator—Kunisuke explained:

“As for my involvement with the brothel—it is true, but let me clarify it was no licentious affair. To speak plainly, while wandering the eastern provinces, my sister was abducted by a bandit named Kizoku Shirō and sold into Uji’s pleasure district. Yet if word spread that she is a courtesan, it would disgrace our name—and though I could not bring myself to confess this to Kayano from the start, even now when I tell her, she refuses to believe me.” “But I do not hate Kayano in the slightest.” “We siblings have been comforting each other by striving to earn just enough for my sister’s ransom—whenever there was even a small surplus from our living expenses, I would give it to her, while she would show me whatever she could earn from her clients—and together, we would take joy in meeting two or three times a month.” “By no means is it a frivolous affair as Kayano claims.” In his stammered words lay truth—so much so that the image of a brother who cares for his sister and a sister who cares for her brother pressed vividly upon the eyelids of those listening with closed eyes.

“I’m so sorry……” Suddenly, it was Kayano who collapsed in tears. She writhed in agony and continued to sob chokingly.

Eight Battered by regret and shame, Kayano—

“Everything… it all came from my jealousy.” “...I’m sorry—to Mr. Kunisuke and to Father,” she kept repeating.

Jealousy turns a woman into flames, but once free from that delusion, she reverts to her true form—purified to the point of pathos. Shōzenbō addressed Yajirō,

“Do you disapprove of Kunisuke, whom your daughter so ardently admires?” he asked.

“No—it’s not that I disapprove, but since people often speak ill of him, I simply thought he wasn’t a man worthy of entrusting my daughter’s future to.” “That misunderstanding should now be cleared up.” “Hmm…” “Now that it’s been cleared up, why not let your heart soften as well?” “The parents will permit it—let them wed.” “I, too, was at fault.” “As Kunisuke’s true nature has become clear tonight, I shall leave it to the wishes of the man and woman.” “—And Kayano.”

“Yes…” “Become your husband’s support, work together to earn a living, and rescue Kunisuke’s sister from those courtesan quarters as quickly as possible.” “I’ll work hard for sure.” For the first time, a sense of peace filled the house. Hannen too felt gladness. By the time night had deepened, everyone was hungry. Kayano added firewood to the hearth and began cooking porridge.

With their conversation showing no sign of ending, the people dozed by the hearth until the faint light of dawn.

As night turned to day,

“Well then—live in peace.” The two took up their traveling hats.

Kayano and Kunisuke, who seemed reborn compared to yesterday, came to see them off partway with bright faces. Yajirō also followed along. “You needn’t accompany us any further. Artisans—time is money. From today onward, work together as you promised.”

Hannen stood on the bank of the Uji River after saying this. Reluctantly, “Well then, to the ferry landing,” they said as they walked. “Look there.” At the moment of parting, Hannen pointed to the timelessly flowing great river and said to the young man and woman: “From the very moment heaven and earth were created until their end, water flows with an eternal aspect. 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 end. When viewed from that endless and infinite flow of time, a human life is but an instant like a flash of lightning. In that fleeting moment, even the mere fact of being born into the same era in this way must truly be called a wondrous bond. How much more so, then, is it an exceedingly profound karmic destiny for those born in the same land, under the same sun, to become acquaintances, friends, parents and children, and even husband and wife……Yet for those bound by such rare and fleeting karmic ties to hate, curse, and revile one another—is that not utterly regrettable? Behold—even as we speak, the water flows endlessly onward, and the waters that have passed will never meet these mountains and rivers of Uji again……”

Nine “We understand.” The young couple nodded solemnly, letting Hannen’s words permeate their hearts.

The ferry departed. Hannen stood at the gunwale with Shōzenbō. The morning mist was lifting. Old Man Yajirō, time and again, “Lady Wako—please take care of yourself—devote yourself to your ascetic practice.” To him, Hannen still appeared as young as the former Jūhachi Kimimaro of old. Even now, he still called her “Lady Wako”. “You take care as well, Grandfather,” Hannen replied. “Farewell.” Kayano and Kunisuke, with moistened eyes, stared fixedly as they saw them off.

The ferry was heading toward the rapids. Downstream, ever downstream, the ship’s course was carried along. Yajirō’s figure gradually grew smaller. The morning sun was shining on the figures of the young man and woman. Hannen prayed to Buddha: May that couple have long-lasting happiness.

At the riverbank, small birds were singing in full chorus. An indescribable freshness—he felt it seep into his skin. Yet since descending the mountain, Hannen found himself pondering every single matter. It was,

Academic study for its own sake was insufficient. My diligent striving in the fog until today had essentially amounted to that. It had been a fervent engagement with classical texts, not with human beings. No matter how fervently one devoted oneself to academic study—if it merely connected to classical texts alone—its meaning remained meager. It could not be called living scholarship. It was not scholarship that became a guiding light for the hearts of sentient beings. It was nothing but a narrow thing that lit a lamp in one’s own breast, illuminating only oneself.

"I must understand humanity," he resolved. "I must understand society—that itself is the living Tripitaka." "Only through this can true Buddhism find its voice." As he walked upon Kawachi Road's pale soil, Hannen found himself entertaining these thoughts. "But..." Uncertainty crept in once more. "Such notions may still be presumptuous. Matters of life and society are not so easily grasped. Moreover...even in classical studies—have I not merely plucked one hair from nine oxen? A fledgling youth still wet behind the ears." He quickened his pace toward Yamato, anchoring his hopes to Hōryū-ji Temple ahead. Strength flowed into his steps with each stride as he vowed: "First I must immerse myself in no-thought and ignorance—devote myself wholly to study. Nothing but devotion."

A persimmon-hued crowd

I

“Hmm?” Shōzenbō stood at the teeming crossroads of the station road, pacing restlessly as he looked around.

It was the post station at Kizu, right after crossing the Kizu River. A large official notice board posted by the Genji Government Office stood there. Even before that official notice, Hannen was nowhere to be seen. Filthy cheap inns, horse grooms’ stables, samurai cursing before them, women displaying river fish in buckets, and miscellaneous crowds of travelers all swarmed together with autumn flies, creating a clamorous scene. “You idiot! If you wanna climb so high, go be a crow!” shouted the persimmon seller as he dragged down the child who had been playing on the roof and began berating their backside right in the middle of the thoroughfare—when the child’s mother came running up barefoot,

“Why are you beating someone else’s child?” she demanded, shoving the persimmon seller sideways. “This your brat? Had to discipline him ’cause his mischief made the roof leak! What’s it to you?” “The leak’s from the old house—beat your own kid!” “So I hit him—got a problem?!” he barked, striking again. The child howled. “Think you can mock me ’cause I’m a woman?!” The mother lunged at him.

The quarrel between the parents escalated, and onlookers swarmed like flies, the horses on the station road neighed, and dogs barked furiously. Shōzenbō, having searched in vain, called out “Master!” but there was no sign of him resting in any nearby houses. Because there had been some commotion at the Kizu ferry, he had come running a step behind to meet at the crossroads of the inn—but... If he wasn’t here—with Nara so close—perhaps he meant to walk ahead freely and wait at Nara’s entrance?

“That might be the case.” Shōzenbō quickened his pace while lifting his gaze toward the road ahead. His foot caught on a chicken. Raising dust, the bird flew raucously across the thoroughfare.

Upon leaving the post station, he soon proceeded from the Sagaraka tree-lined path to Fukuro Slope.

In the white-dusted thicket,

West: Kawachi Ikoma Road; East: Iga Ueno Road.

A guidepost stone marker stood there.

For a while now, there had been a mountain ascetic sitting silently beside that stone marker, having set down his pack. "...I'm thirsty," he muttered, looking around. It seemed he wanted fresh water, but finding none, he resigned himself and resumed munching on the rice wrapped in oak leaves. In front of him, as Shōzenbō passed by in haste, the mountain ascetic suddenly looked up and sprang to his feet as if jolted upward,

“Hey! Hey!” He grabbed his staff and called out to stop him.

II As he passed by, the mountain ascetic once again— “Monk! Are you deaf?” Shōzenbō heard and halted, “What?” He turned around involuntarily with a sullen expression.

The mountain ascetic who had gestured arrogantly toward him was a sun-bronzed man of twenty-seven or twenty-eight. He wore a persimmon-colored suzukake robe stained by rain and dew, held a kongō-zue vajra staff upright, and pressed against his forehead was what they call a tokin headpiece. “Do you have business?” When Shōzenbō said this,

“Oh, I called you precisely because I have business!” “As I am in haste, if this concerns sect matters, I must ask to be excused.” “I’m not here to argue about sectarian doctrines. Well, return here.” Though Shōzenbō found this highly troublesome, historically, mountain ascetics and monks—though both stood upon the same foundation of Buddhist teachings—differed drastically in appearance: their temperaments clashed, their etiquette diverged, their scriptural interpretations and ascetic methods were wholly distinct. Thus, they opposed one another at every turn—monks viewing ascetics as heretics, ascetics regarding monks as those who exploited the Buddha for their livelihood—and their relations had always been fraught.

In particular, the mountain ascetic factions contained far more violent members than their mountain warrior monk counterparts. Moreover, this group served as convenient refuge for those wishing to disappear from society—they carried at their waists razor-sharp single blades called *kaidō* (precept swords) or *gōma no tsurugi* (demon-subduing swords), displaying a tendency to let steel settle disputes at the slightest pretext. _(Getting entangled would be troublesome…)_ Having thought this, Shōzenbō recomposed his expression. “Then state your business,” he said compliantly, retracing his steps toward the man.

The Mountain Ascetic seemed to feel a sense of superiority now that his argument had prevailed, "Hmm," he nodded.

Then, turning arrogantly toward Shōzenbō as he approached,

“You alone?” he asked. “What do you mean?” “Fool! I’m asking if you’re traveling alone!” “I have a companion. I lost sight of them—that’s why I’m hurrying. Is that all you want?” “Wait, wait. I wouldn’t stop you for nothing. Then this companion must be Hannen Shōnagon.” “How do you know that?” “Don’t you recognize me? Clueless as ever! Have you forgotten Shūōbō’s face? I am Narita Hyōe’s son—the fallen Jutōmaru—now reborn as Harima-bō Benkai, mountain ascetic!”

“Huh?―” He involuntarily jumped back— “Jutōmaru, you…!” Shōzenbō scrutinized him anew. The mountain ascetic Benkai opened his red mouth and guffawed. “What a coincidence! What a coincidence! “…But it’s a shame Hannen Shōnagon isn’t here.” “Where is Hannen Shōnagon?”

Three

Even if his name had changed to Benkai, a mischievous person remained a mischievous person; traces of when he was called Jutōmaru still lingered somewhere in his form.

“Hey, where’s Hannen Shōnagon?...” he pressed again. Shōzenbō found himself overcome with revulsion whenever his eyes met the man’s—eyes viscous as curse flames, eyes that perpetually challenged all who faced them. He feared his own blood—how it surged violently when drawn in by that gaze. “I do not know.” As Shōzenbō shook his head calmly—Benkai took a forceful step forward,

“You must know.” “Is he not your teacher?” “But today, I am alone.” “You lie.” “Didn’t you just say with that mouth of yours that you’re hurrying ahead because you have a companion?” “Hannen is my lifelong enemy. It’s been a while—I’ll meet him.” “Take me there now!” he threatened. Shōzenbō held a pitying smile at the corner of his lips. “Lord Jutōmaru—no, Lord Benkai.” “What?”

“Why do you harbor such resentment toward Lord Hannen?” “Now, more than reasons, it would suffice if I just make that guy kneel at my feet within my lifetime.” “That is my wish.” “Ah, how utterly pitiable.” “It is said that those who curse others shall never be saved from the suffering of curses in their lifetime.” “You’ve picked up some monkish phrases before you knew it, haven’t you?” “Well, whatever. Take me to where Hannen is.”

“First, I refuse.” “What was that?” “My revered teacher has no time to quarrel with idlers like you.” “He is in the midst of single-minded ascetic practice.” “Unworthy as I am, I am one who will become a shield with my own body to block any obstructors.” “If you have business, please state it to me.” “Impudent,” Benkai spat to the side, “Are you saying you refuse to let **me** meet him?”

“That’s correct.” “Are you so terrified of Benkai? …No—of course you are. That man—whether at Hino’s seminary or Mount Hiei—mastered sucking up to teachers and groveling before superiors to claw his way up.” “He dreads facing me because I’d rip off that lying mask of his—but I vow this: in my lifetime, I’ll strip away Hannen Shōnagon’s cunning disguise, rise above him, and force that wretch to kneel palms-down in the dirt!” “With such resolve, you ought to apply yourself to study.” “And how fares Lord Koun?”

“I don’t need to ask about that… Bring out Hannen. Tell me where he is. If you keep talking back, it’ll get messy—I’ll settle this my way.” With a creak of twisting his waist leftward, the ritual sword at his hip slipped from its sheath—the white blade-light shooting straight toward Shōzenbō’s chest.

Four Shōzenbō, who had served as a samurai bearing a long sword until around the age of twenty, was not such a coward as to suddenly lose his composure simply because a blade was pointed at him.

“You said you’d become a shield for Hannen with your own body.” “Yes.”

“Enough of this foolish bravado. Let me meet Hannen instead! …Refuse? If you refuse, this drawn sword won’t return to its sheath without purpose—are you prepared?” “…………” “Are you prepared?!” As the second shout rang out, Benkai’s hand swiftly raised the blade as he glared. The white light cut through the wind and slashed diagonally across his opponent’s figure—and in that instant, as a small cloud of dust rose, Shōzenbō’s form had leapt into the distant thicket of grass.

“Benkai, if you find your own stupidity so vexing, then hone your mind and redo your studies. If you can become a full-fledged human being through that, I will let you meet my revered teacher—and above all, even you will be saved.” With that, Shōzenbō said,

“What?!” With his persimmon-colored hemp robe fluttering,

“Bastard, don’t move!” Benkai glared fiercely and lunged forward. “Ah—” Staggering, Shōzenbō began to flee.

“Stop!” While listening to the enraged 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 came into distant view Nara’s hills, the tip of Tōdai-ji’s pagoda, and autumn in the old capital with its crimson leaves—but suddenly he thought: if he were to enter Nara Town as things stood, and Hannen happened to be waiting there for him, it would prove most troublesome indeed.

What exactly was the karmic bond between Benkai and the Teacher? The Teacher had never hated him nor caused him harm, yet from childhood to this day, Benkai’s loathing of Hannen remained like that of a sworn enemy. Had his soul as a child been so deeply wounded by constantly lagging behind a younger boy in both scholarship and conduct at Hino Seminary—so bitterly frustrated and unable to forget it? Was it that the prank at Tadasu Field—where he tried to push another into a wildfire, only for the flames to turn back and burn him instead—left a grudge that still smoldered even now?

No, it couldn’t possibly be something so simple. In short—though one knew nothing of Narita Hyōe’s household—it must have been the family’s sin. In eras of prosperity, they had been raised to arrogance; in times of downfall, warped into resentful creatures. And could it be that one who saw every adversity as another’s fault rather than his own had unwittingly become this Benkai of today? (To let Lord Hannen meet such a warped man and risk injury would be folly.) Shōzenbō swerved from the path, shut his eyes tight, and fled without looking back.

Ballad of Youth

I

Somewhere along the way, Hannen became separated from Shōzenbō and stood alone near Nara’s cedar forests.

He kept a meticulous watch for figures approaching from the town until dusk fell, but no one resembling Shōzenbō appeared. If he had come this far, Hōryū-ji Temple—his destination—was close by, and if he had gone there first, he knew Shōzenbō would come after him—but

“What could have happened?” Hannen worried over Shōzenbō’s well-being, yet he found himself unable to abandon this hard-earned companion and press onward alone.

The centuries-old cedar treetops towered tall and stately, shrouding the evening sky. The sky, sharpened by the moon’s brilliance, had cleared to a lucid pale azure—darker now than at twilight—where shadows beneath the trees and moonlit patches bright as daylight stood in stark contrast, forming crisp stripes and mottled patterns. Hoo, hoo—came the deer’s calls. Noticing this, he focused his gaze to see does and stags wandering about, frolicking beneath the moonlit night. Around the cedar roots where Hannen sat, one or two deer lay sprawled; when he reached out his hand, they turned eyes accustomed to humans toward him and pressed their bodies closer.

“There.” Hannen drew the deer close to his lap while petting its back. The young doe’s coat was glossy, and her skin was warm. “The deer seems hungry for food, but...” “Hmm… I have nothing to give,” Hannen murmured,

If I speak of hunger—I too feel a certain hunger within myself. It isn't food. It is neither sleep nor ease... This hungry feeling is a blood-deep loneliness akin to longing for a mother’s warmth. Because I happened to descend the mountain, saw the lights of the secular world, and glimpsed worldly pleasures—my young blood must be stirring. He tried to push the doe away from his lap, as if fearing its warmth. But the deer did not even attempt to move. The adolescent young deer, manipulated by the doe’s calls, chased and were chased, oblivious to the night. Hannen stood up and tried once more to return toward Sarusawa Pond.

There again, men and women from the town were strolling about for moon-viewing. The men and women walking shoulder to shoulder while whispering sweet nothings turned around to look at the dejectedly wandering figure of Hannen and cast him pitying glances. They must be happy now. But they were effectively drinking poison that would soon corrode their lives. From the perspective of a pure-bodied monk, were not those many men and women who feverishly sought purpose within such fleeting dreams rather the pitiable ones?

Hannen, having thought this, regarded them as rather pitiable, but he could not deny that there was something within himself that made him feel lonely. It was merely that his ideals and ascetic practice coldly suppressed it like stone, and he was faintly smiling. With a clattering sound of someone running up,

“Master!” he called.

It was the voice of Shōzenbō, who had been searching in vain.

II Hannen searched for Shōzenbō, and Shōzenbō searched for Hannen, spending half a day in vain; yet even so, being able to meet there still felt like a fortunate coincidence. “I was worried about what had happened to you,” said Shōzenbō, rejoicing at seeing his teacher unharmed.

“As for you—even if we missed each other in Kizu, weren’t you far too late?” When reproached by Hannen, Shōzenbō found himself at a loss for words. Though he could have explained how he had encountered the yamabushi Benkai along the way and been forced to make endless detours to shake off his relentless pursuit, when it came to mentioning that such a curse-like being clung to his teacher’s shadow—whether to speak of it or not—he had privately resolved silence was wisest: hearing it would bring no joy, and if remaining unaware was possible, better not to tell.

“No, I too was a bit… out of sorts.” “At the inn in Kizu, I heard that someone resembling Master’s attendant had turned toward Kawachi Road, so I ended up going in the wrong direction.” In that manner, having vaguely glossed over the matter—and though they were also tired—they resolved to take advantage of the moonlight and walk through the night to Hōryū-ji Temple, which lay no more than two *ri* ahead. Then, along the moonlit white path damp with dew, they arrived at Hōryū-ji Temple’s gate late into the night. They knocked on Saiō-in’s door within the precincts, slept just as they were without changing a thing, and the next day formally met with Archbishop Kakumon.

They had already sent a letter from Mount Hiei to the archbishop in advance, and Archbishop Jien had also provided a personal recommendation, so—

“You may stay for as many years as you wish,” Kakumon graciously permitted his study stay, then— “However, I am still but a mere scholar-monk, so I cannot say whether I possess the depth of knowledge you seek, Lord Hannen,” he said humbly. However, among the eminent scholars of the age, when speaking of those who had truly mastered the essence of Kegon teachings, none could surpass this man—this was the world’s established opinion, and Archbishop Jien had often spoken of it. Hannen was determined that, no matter what, he must have everything this man possessed bestowed upon him.

“Though my nature is that of a dullard,” he proclaimed while prostrating himself on the wooden floor of the great hall to perform the ritual of entering Kakumon’s tutelage, “I vow to devote my life solely to Buddhist study and find purpose therein. I humbly beg you to discipline me with your whip and grant me your sacred guidance.” Among ordinary students, Hannen drove himself from predawn until nightfall—ascetic observances, manual labor, academic study—scarcely sleeping as he exhausted both body and mind. “That’s Hannen Shōnagon of Mount Hiei,” whispered his seminary classmates, vaguely aware through rumors that he had “entered the priesthood at nine and received full ordination.” They refrained from assigning him strenuous tasks, yet Hannen himself took initiative—splitting firewood, drawing water—and for over a year now had lived entirely apart from Shōzenbō.

On winter mornings—treading on the frost-white ground—Hannen’s figure could often be seen at the riverside, carrying buckets on a shoulder pole as he went to draw water from Hōrin-ji River, three *chō* away from the kitchen. Then, one morning, “Might you be Lord Hannen?” A young traveling girl came near and asked.

III “Yes, I am the Hannen you seek—” As he answered, he felt a sense of familiarity toward the girl standing before him—as if he had seen her somewhere before—yet could not recall where. The girl showed an expression of relief—as if thinking *Ah, good*—while also appearing somewhat bashful. She appeared to be around seventeen or eighteen years old. Yet her eyes were slightly more mature than her years, and she carried a scent to her skin and hair that could not be mistaken for that of an innocent maiden. Because of this, she was alluring to men—her face, her figure—and taken as a whole, she was so undeniably a beauty that none would protest if shown to anyone.

“Um… actually… I am someone from Awataguchi in Kyoto.” “Huh?” Hannen set down his water buckets, his face suspicious as he wondered why this passing traveler girl knew his name. “Might it have been the autumn before last? When you passed by Kajigaike Pond—though I was but a stranger—I caught sight of your figure from afar.” “Ah… You know me?” “Later, Lord Asamaru informed me that that person was your elder brother.”

“Huh? From my brother?” “I am Kozue, who was with Lord Asamaru at that time. …My father is called Awataguchi Muneji, and he makes his living as a swordsmith nearby.”

“I see…” Hannen said, opening his eyes wide in surprise as an uneasy premonition stirred incessantly in his chest—something concerning his brother’s circumstances. “Are you called Lady Kozue? I thought I’d seen you somewhere before.” “I too have been walking around Hōryū-ji Temple since the day before yesterday and found many scholar-monks of similar age, making it difficult to search for you… though I thought it improper to make inquiries within the temple grounds.”

“What business brings you to this Hannen?” “Wh…” Kozue lowered her eyes to her feet and fiddled with the winter grasses at the riverside 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. “What do you mean by ‘consultation’?” “It’s about your honorable brother and me.” Hannen’s heart thudded as if a pebble had been struck against it.

“Has something happened to my brother?” “It’s… all my fault…” At Hannen’s feet, Kozue collapsed in tears and pleaded haltingly as follows. Asamaru and Kozue—both nineteen this year—had fallen in love two years prior and begun discussing their future together. But when their relationship became known to society and both families, they were placed under strict surveillance and separated. Thus the young pair had conspired to leave home without permission.

“That brother of mine…” Hannen stood frozen on the frost-covered ground, his lips paling as he listened to Kozue’s words.

IV Upon further inquiry into the details, it turned out that Asamaru, while fleeing with Kozue during their journey, had caught a severe cold that worsened until he could no longer eat, taken to bed at a nearby cheap inn, run out of what little pocket money they had brought, and was now utterly at his wits’ end. “So… my brother wished to see me and sent you here as his messenger?” “Yes…” Kozue remained despondent,

“So many times we took a blade in hand thinking we might as well die together, but in the end we couldn’t bring ourselves to do it,” she sobbed, her shoulders trembling. The thoughtless young pair must have been at their wits’ end, but Hannen found himself even more confounded. First weighing on his mind was concern for his adoptive father—who had shorn his hair and finally found peace in his later years—and how he might feel. Next came worry for his brother—frail-bodied and sickly since birth—now stranded on his journey without money or refuge; Hannen could vividly picture him writhing in anguish. The severity of the illness also troubled him.

“Where is that inn?”

“It is nearby—at the edge of the inn in Koizumi.” “Next to a house that deals in sutra books, under the eaves, a wooden sign is neatly affixed.” “As you can see, I am currently in the midst of my morning devotions. I must now take my seat for the service and complete the temple’s daily tasks before I can attend to my own body.” “…Once I have finished that, I will come to visit. Kozue, please continue nursing my brother until then.” “Then… will you come?” Kozue said with a relieved expression. It seemed the younger brother had told her the older brother would surely be angry, but upon hearing Hannen’s reply, she rejoiced as if she had glimpsed a single lamp in a labyrinth.

“I will come.” Why would I abandon him? “When I do come, please tell my brother to stay strong as well.” “Yes… Even just that will surely give him strength.” “Well then…” Hannen, suddenly reminded of the morning bustle in the study hall, hastily 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 seeping out. Beneath a pitch-black ceiling stood three large earthen stoves in a row. In that kitchen, wood splitters and vegetable choppers with their sleeves tied back by tasuki sashes worked through the morning hours, exchanging rough language and singing boisterous songs unbefitting of monks.

When Hannen, shouldering the water bucket, entered, the head monk who had been holding metal fire tongs in front of the earthen stove saw him. "Hannen! What were you doing?" he said, lowering the heated metal fire tongs and walking toward him.

V “Where did you go to fetch water?” the head monk demanded, glaring at him. “Yes.” When Hannen apologized, “Don’t you ‘yes’ me!” he barked, thrusting the metal fire tongs against Hannen’s chest— “Did you come to Hōryū-ji Temple to play, or did you come for ascetic training?” “…………” “I’ll discipline your lazy nature.” The head monk raised the heated metal fire tongs overhead and struck his shoulder. Hannen knelt on the damp earth of the kitchen, both knees and hands pressed to the ground. “I deeply apologize.”

“Outrageous!” Colleagues holding kitchen knives or wearing work sashes noisily crowded around, “While we’re working, this outrageous wretch…” some scholar-monks joined in cursing, “He’s not used to rough work—it can’t be helped,” someone defended him.

But in response to the defenders’ words, the head monk shouted even louder. “How can this be called rough work? For those who dwell in a monastery, it is but a natural duty.” “At Mount Hiei or such places, they might be exploiting servant monks and temple attendants to handle meal service morning and night, but in this temple’s student quarters, we will not tolerate such indolent living.” “Furthermore, whether you are the child of nobility or anyone else, we will show no leniency regarding status.” “That is both the command of Kakumon Sozu and the rule of Hōryū-ji Temple!” “Is that clear?!”

“Yes.”

“Remember this.” The robe showed no damage on the surface, but the skin on his shoulder where he had been struck must have been torn. To the back of his hand pressed against the ground, red blood came crawling like an earthworm from deep within his sleeve.

Seeing the blood, the head monk fell silent. Hannen poured the water from the bucket into the large jar and went back to the river to fetch water again.

Kozue was no longer in sight. From the morning mist over white withered fields, crows rose and departed. "If only his condition were mild..." The illness of his younger brother kept incessantly signaling anxiety in his chest.—While praying for the Buddha’s protection, Hannen trod the same earth again and again.

After completing his half-day’s duties, when he was finally free to act on his own, Hannen left Hōryū-ji Temple alone for the town without informing Shōzenbō. At Koizumi Inn, households conducting business with nearby temples, horse handlers transporting cargo bound for Kawachi, woodcutters, and masterless samurai had gathered in considerable numbers, their dwellings lining the street with closely packed eaves.

“Ah….” Here... Hannen stopped and peered into a dim shack. A large old straw hat hung under the eaves, It read “Kichin”. Something appeared to be stewed inside, for smoke from a smoldering fire filled the house. With a baby’s wails and the innkeeper’s shouts echoing about, it was so cramped one would doubt there could be space to lodge other travelers.

VI In any case, since this was undoubtedly the inn, Hannen approached its entrance and inquired, “Ah, if it’s about a sick traveler, they’re in the annex out back.” “Go around to the back through this alley,” shouted the innkeeper from within the smoky house. “I humbly wish to meet that person briefly, so with your permission, I shall proceed to the back,” Hannen politely said, then tried to go around to the rear as directed.

Behind the cheap inn—for they likely farmed as well—cattle were tethered, and farming tools and straw mats lay scattered about. As he looked around for where the annex mentioned by the innkeeper might be, there was a rundown shack—likely a repaired sericulture shed—partitioned into two ken, with someone sleeping on one side.

(Sleeping in a place like this?) He understood his younger brother’s circumstances just by seeing that plank shack. The feeling of falling ill under the traveler’s sky, the feeling of being driven to despair by society for love’s sake—contemplating death without even being able to savor that love—vividly shown before his eyes, he felt a pain in his chest.

Thinking he must not startle them, he stealthily approached the entrance of the plank shack and peered into the dim, foul-smelling interior. He called out, “Asamaru.” Then, the person who had been sleeping there flung off the thin futon that was visible and sat up abruptly. “Ah... this is—” Hannen hurriedly bowed his head and apologized. The man sitting on the futon and staring his way bore no resemblance. He was a man of about twenty-four or twenty-five, with a sallow complexion and an intense, bitter demeanor. With eyes as keen as a hawk’s, the moment he sat up, his right hand moved the leather-wrapped nodachi from his bedside to his knee. He wore a sleeveless beast-skin garment like those of ronin, and an empty sake jar was pushed to the corner.

“I deeply apologize for mistaking you for someone else and disturbing your rest,” Hannen said with a bow, whereupon the man— “What’s this? A monk?” he muttered under his breath— “Who’ve you come looking for?” “I heard a relative of mine was suffering at this cheap inn.” “So it’s the brat with the young woman, eh?”

“Yes.” “Next door.” Casually pointing at the plank wall with his chin, the man once again pulled the futon over himself and flopped back down. “Thank you very much.” Immediately moving to the adjacent room and looking inside, he found a torn paper screen drawn shut there. “Sorry…” This time with care, Hannen announced his presence in a soft voice.

VII

This morning, Kozue, whom he had met by the Hōrin-ji River, upon hearing his voice, immediately opened it,

“Your brother has come,” she said, leaning close to the patient’s pillow. “Eh... Brother?” He must have been waiting anxiously. The moment he heard this, Asamaru scrambled out from beneath the bedding. “Asamaru, stay where you are. Don’t expose yourself to the cold wind.” “Brother...!” When Hannen saw his younger brother’s eyes brimming with tears, he felt heat prickling against his own eyelids.

“I... I’ve lost all dignity... To... to be found in such a place...” “In... in such a place...” “Enough of that. Now... Kozue-dono, return the patient beneath the futon.” He urged him to rest, but Asamaru lay prostrate before his brother, weeping uncontrollably. Hannen took his hand, “How many years has it been? When I met Omoto by Kajigaike Pond, I had already foreseen this might occur.” “I had long feared this day might come.”

“I apologize.”

“At this point, no matter what you say, it’s too late. What matters now is your health—and planning for what comes next.” “Anyway, stay under the futon. Let’s talk calmly.” Forcing them back into the futon and striving to smile encouragingly at both his younger brother and Kozue to lift their spirits, he asked about their resolve for the future. Of course, the young couple who had come this far in their love stated that they had no intention of parting even in death, nor any desire to return to the capital where their parents resided.

And constantly, the shadow of being ensnared by death's temptation could be seen upon both Asamaru and Kozue. Hannen, having discerned that the two were teetering on the brink of peril, grew deeply troubled. Were he not a monk, there might at least be some immediate recourse—but he could not bring them within the austere temple gates, and leaving them lying in this draft-ridden, squalid shack would only worsen his brother's visibly deteriorating condition. Both the physical malady and the sickness of their hearts might at any moment drive them to pursue death like some sweet dream, leaving behind nothing but futile regrets to gnaw upon.

Then came footsteps from outside—the owner of this cheap inn. Without ceremony, he slid open the entrance. “Monk,” he demanded, “you one of them Hōryū-ji scholars?” Hannen, confronted by this direct address upon being recognized, answered “I am,” whereupon the innkeeper pressed further: “And you’re claiming kinship with this invalid here—truth?” “Yes.” “Then you’ll settle his debts—lodging fees, medicine costs, all of it.” Before Hannen could respond, the man produced a scribbled tally from his robe and slapped it before him.

VIII Of course, he had no money on him, but if his brother had incurred debts, he thought he would have to consult Shōzenbō and find a way to manage it. When he requested a four- or five-day extension, the innkeeper shook his head. “Don’t mock me,” he growled obstinately. “How many days d’you think I can keep a sick man here? Every night I turn away other guests for this—my wife and brats’ll starve at this rate!”

“I understand this has been an inconvenience.” “An inconvenience? This has been a monumental nuisance! I’d have tossed you out long ago if not for the medicine debts. I waited for your arrival, banking on that story about Hōryū-ji connections. Hand over their belongings and clothes as collateral and take them away immediately!”

“You are quite right. But I do not ask for your extended grace period—” “……” “Even two or three days…” “Don’t spout nonsense! It’s precisely because he’s a patient that I’ve endured even until today.” “As one who has entered the monastic path, I cannot possibly take this patient and woman back through the temple gates.” “So—are you feigning ignorance? Do you mean to trample on your debts?” “Never.” “Then strip off that priestly robe and hand it over! I’ll take the woman’s sash too! No—that still won’t cover it! Wait—you’ve got a fine rosary there! Crystal beads, aren’t they? Hand those over as well!”

Then—the young man who had somehow slipped in behind him and now stood imposingly nearby like a rogue samurai struck the screaming innkeeper across the cheek with the leather-wrapped scabbard of the sword he carried in his left hand, delivering a sharp blow.

“Ah! Ouch!” 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?” “That’s right.” “What’s your game? Why did you hit me?” “Shut up!” The rogue samurai thrust his burly arm toward the innkeeper’s collar—as if plucking a bothersome insect to discard it— “Get lost!” He hoisted him up and kicked his cowardly backside.

“Whoa!” The innkeeper somersaulted outside and, with his mud-covered hands, plunged into the thawing mire. “Me?! ……Damn you! How dare you—” “Damn you! How dare you—!”

Brushing away the hands grabbing at him, the rogue samurai glared fiercely with his hawk-like eyes that gleamed from within. “If you’d been listening quietly next door all this time, you wouldn’t spout such merciless drivel—say that again!” “What’s wrong with collecting debts?” “You telling us to starve?” “Shut up! Who said anything about defaulting?” “Miserly cur! Here—I’ll cover it. Take this!” “In return—treat both the patient and me as proper guests, or you’ll regret it.” “……Why tremble? Hold out your hand!” The rogue samurai pulled a money pouch from his robe and thrust coins before the still-doubting innkeeper’s eyes.

IX

When he saw the money, the innkeeper prostrated himself like a flat spider, then flipped his hand over and began hawking cheap kindness—bringing unrequested firewood, offering to cook gruel, asking if they needed medicine—all without being asked.

“……What a mercenary fellow.” The man with the air of a rogue samurai turned toward Kozue with a wry smile, “Madam. How fares the patient? Has there been any improvement?” “We remain ever grateful for your kindness. Thanks to you, today seems…” Kozue turned to Hannen Shōnagon and, “Brother. We receive daily care in every matter from our neighbor next door. Please offer our thanks.”

Hannen had already been filled with gratitude in his heart, wondering how he should express his thanks even before being told to do so. In this world there truly exist extraordinary people; to view society solely as a den where the strong devour the weak is narrow prejudice—it is precisely through such neighbors that a paradise may exist even within asura’s burning house. Even amidst lives choked with gasping struggles, one might yet sense a clear spring breathing within—such was the natural order of things.

Such people are precisely those who embody the Buddha-mind without conscious awareness—they should be called exemplars of rare virtue. They must be acknowledged as blessed beings, regardless of their worldly occupation. With both hands pressed firmly to the floor, Hannen expressed sincere gratitude and explained that—being bound by monastic vows—he could not immediately repay the advanced funds but would certainly return them within two or three days. At this, the man laughed robustly and— “No need for such formal obligations.” “In Nara’s Chayamachi district, that much coin would vanish in a single night’s revelry.” “Consider it alms for you, monk. Hahaha!”

“In that case, I am deeply obliged. I beg your pardon, but may I ask your honorable name?” “A name? —I’m not much of a man worth naming, but even so, my ancestors were of the Izu clan. Now that I’m a ronin, I’m just a country samurai who’s taken the name of my homeland and goes by Tenjirō.” “So you’re traveling then? If that’s so, then setting aside part of your journey funds for our troubles must leave you wanting.”

“Nah, I’m no wealthy man, but I’ve got enough for travel funds—it’s no hardship.” “Please, do not worry.” “If you fret over it like that, my goodwill will end up being for nothing. ……Ah, I ended up interfering.” “Well then, I should head back to my own quarters.” Having said that, the man entered the adjacent room and did not show his face again.

Eventually, while listening to the cries of winter 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—with his brush racing across freezing bristles—he wrote an agonizing letter to his adoptive father Noritsuna, now called Kanzen after renouncing his secular name, who dwelled in a hermitage at Awataguchi. At dawn, he entrusted it to a government courier bound for the capital.

Phantom Thief

I Whenever food, clothing, or thoughtfully prepared medicines became available, Shōzenbō would carry them to the town’s inn at Hannen’s request. “He was in excellent health today.” “Given his condition, he should be able to rise from bed by tomorrow or so.” That day too, Shōzenbō returned from town and came to report in his room.

Hannen’s eyebrows brightened somewhat,

“—I see.” “At least my brother’s condition has stabilized for now, but…”

“What comes next will be quite another ordeal.”

“What should be done about the matter with that woman? …It’s about time someone comes to fetch us from Father.”

“Lord Kanzen must also be deeply distressed.” “Do not speak of that. We brothers—along with our birth mother—were taken in by our adoptive father. Through these turbulent times and poverty, how much hardship have we caused him? …Just thinking of it wrenches my heart.” “It is unavoidable…” “Just when the world had somewhat settled down and his adoptive father had retired from his position, hoping to spend his remaining years free from worry—yet again such things occur.” “…It is not only Asamaru’s sin that can be blamed—when has this Hannen ever brought peace of mind to his adoptive father?” I, too, must strive harder. My younger brother is sickly; at the very least, I must repay our adoptive father Lord Kanzen for his long years of hardship. “Wouldn’t this be the sole offering I can make to my late mother?” Shōzenbō was filled with emotion and could say nothing. While even the fiery hope blazing fiercely within Hannen’s body was something he found heartening, the immediate perplexity before him drew from him a faint, involuntary sigh.

“Lord Hannen. —An express letter has arrived from the capital! Please come to the dormitory’s administrative office to retrieve it.” In the courtyard, someone called out.

Realizing what it was—Hannen immediately fetched the letter and broke the seal. It was the long-awaited reply from his adoptive father. That a response had arrived yet no envoys would be dispatched to retrieve the young pair became clear. What could his adoptive father be thinking? What manner of instructions had he deigned to give? As he read through it, his adoptive father’s brushstrokes seemed to conjure before his eyes both the man’s stern countenance and anguished heart. The bond between parent and child pierced his own breast with poignant intensity.

However, the main points stated by his adoptive father in the letter were strict opinions of the following nature—contrary to that affection. (I consulted with the woman’s parents as well, but they are people whose impropriety defies description. Since they have abandoned their home, I have resolved not to interfere. From the very beginning, you should refrain from involving yourself with such unscrupulous runaways and devote yourself wholeheartedly to your studies. Whether those individuals suffer or starve is their own doing—let it rather serve as a living lesson. It would be an act of compassion to have them learn from actual society instead of parental words. I will absolutely not send any envoys to retrieve them.)

II To Hannen, each character of the letter felt like his adoptive father’s expressions and voice. The heart of the strict father—who hid his benevolence and sternly rebuked his unworthy son while being deeply anguished somewhere within—spoke with a painful intensity: “Do not interfere.” However, if he were to take his adoptive father’s words in the letter at face value and adopt a strict attitude himself, he wondered where his brother would end up. He thought that perhaps there was no path left for his brother but to choose death.

That was precisely what Shōzenbō had worried about. Love was like a fever. When healthy people—taking their own sound state of mind as the standard—attempted harsh remedies, young men and women would scatter themselves like flowers hastening spring’s arrival, pursuing dreams without the slightest regret. Shaking those fragile trees and thoughtlessly hastening the petals’ fall from the sidelines achieved nothing. Moreover, toward human suffering one must approach with absolute compassion. As disciples of the Buddha, this was all the more imperative.

"What should be done?" That night, Hannen lay awake thinking.

However, he could not find a good solution. That was because Hannen himself, as a disciple of the Buddha and a student of the strict monastic community, was naturally bound by the morals of the Dharma fortress and the constraints on his freedom of action when considering the matter. Suddenly, he— (If their mother were still alive here, what would she do?) he wondered.

Then immediately, Hannen too reached a resolution.

(——I should become their mother in her stead) was the conclusion he reached. After all, both Asamaru and I lost our mother in childhood; it is an undeniable fact that we were starving for a mother's sweet love. ――However noble our adoptive father's grace might be, the fact remained that we hungered for maternal touch—for things to cling to, for tenderness bordering on foolishness—things no father could provide. If even I occasionally felt this way, then my sickly, timid younger brother must feel it all the more.

That such years of loneliness would ignite toward a youthful maiden was, from the perspective of human physiology and psychology, only natural. But when viewed through the morals of human-made society, as the unforgivable act of delinquent children, it was only natural for them to be cast out by both family and society—and there was no one to resent. If mothers still existed in this world, then surely at such a time as this, maternal love would stake her very being to save these wayward children. Even if all the world were her enemy, a mother would undoubtedly fight resolutely for her child.

When morning came, Hannen muttered once more in his heart.

“That’s right—I shall become a mother! As Mother would have done were she here, I will consider my younger brother’s plight and think through it alongside him!”

III

As usual, after finishing his lecture on the Kegon and Hossō doctrines for the students, Kakumyō of Hōryū-ji Temple was returning along the bridge corridor when— “Your Excellency, the Archbishop,” a voice called out from below.

Kakumyō cast a sharp glance down from the bridge corridor at 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, he asked to be granted ten days' leave to visit Kyoto—whereupon Kakumyō inquired, "Is Lord Kanzen unwell?"

"No, it concerns my younger brother," Hannen said with trepidation, fearing the Archbishop might rebuke him for being entangled in such worldly matters. "You may go," came the unexpected permission. Not only that, but Kakumyō also spoke thus: "It has already been over a year since you came here." "The essence of the Kegon teachings that I possess has already been largely imparted to you, and I believe you have assimilated them." "The study beyond this lies solely in self-realization." "Now is precisely a good opportunity." "If you go up to the capital, you should inform Archbishop Jien of this and plan your next path of practice."

When told this, Hannen felt an even stronger reluctance to leave and said he wished to stay another year for further study, but the Archbishop— “No—there is no need for you to continue studying at Hōryū-ji Temple any longer,” he said. At an unplanned time came his parting with Kakumyō. Hannen expressed his deep gratitude and withdrew. He informed Shōzenbō and notified those in the academic dormitory of his departure; the following day he passed through the temple gate. The students from his dormitory, “Goodbye.” “Do well.”

“We pray for your devotion,” they blessed him with their mouths and saw him off, but in their hearts, they were... (He must have succumbed to the intense studies there and finally asked the Archbishop for leave,) they laughed to themselves.

Hannen parted from over a year of academic study and had only taken a few steps beyond the temple gate when—

(I can’t shake the feeling I’ve left something behind,) he looked back. And, (Is this truly right?) he wondered, doubting his studies. Somehow, he felt no confidence.

And after parting from the Hōrinji River—which had drawn up the hardships of dawn and dusk—and entering Koizumi Post Town, his mind was at once filled with thoughts of his younger brother.

IV

Asamaru had recovered to such a degree that he was nearly unrecognizable and had left his sickbed.

Because his older brother and Shōzenbō, dressed in traveling attire, had suddenly come to visit, he and Kozue widened their eyes in surprise, “Where are you departing to?” he asked, already wearing a lonely expression. Shōzenbō, “No—the Venerable Master has now completed his Kegon studies, so there remains no need to stay in Nanto. As the Archbishop of Hōryū-ji Temple has granted leave, we have come to take our farewell.”

“Then… are you returning to Mount Hiei?” he asked uneasily.

“Then… I think I shall return,” Hannen said, then added, “Therefore, why don’t you return to Kyoto with me?”

“…………”

“I’ll go with you. And would it not be a child’s duty for us to go together and apologize to Father?”

“Brother.” “I have caused you such worry, and for that, I am truly sorry.” “But I cannot return to our adoptive father’s house now.” “Why?” “Please understand… With what face could I…?” “That is precisely why I am coming with you.” “Leave everything to me.”

Kozue, who had been listening nearby with an uneasy expression, led him to the back of the hut when Asamaru stood up from there. “Are you planning to go back?” she pressed. “I refuse—even if I die, I refuse! Your older brother must surely have received Father’s orders and been told to skillfully bring us back to Kyoto.” Pressured by the woman’s words yet feeling he could not defy his brother, Asamaru found himself caught between them, looking down in apparent bewilderment.

Then Shōzenbō came to check on them and said, “Lady Kozue, that is your groundless suspicion. The Venerable Master has no intention of ignoring your feelings or tearing you apart against your will. Rather, his wish is for both of you to return to your fathers—your father and Lord Asamaru’s adoptive father—as children ought, to apologize for your sins and humbly seek hope.” When he earnestly explained and persuaded her, Kozue finally relented, and they abruptly resolved to depart for Kyoto.

By the way, wanting to at least say a word of thanks to the kind ronin—a fellow lodger who had helped settle the inn’s debts a few days prior—he peered into the neighboring hut, but no one was there. When he asked the innkeeper, “Yes, he departed quite early this morning.” “He left word saying, ‘Please give my regards to everyone’—”

“Oh.”

“He’s already departed?” …I had been thinking to properly express my gratitude today… “It was inexcusable.” Hannen felt as though he had left a debt unpaid in his heart and deeply regretted his own negligence.

V The young man and woman walked ahead, while Hannen and Shōzenbō kept their distance behind. Though winter’s day, the sun’s warmth seeped into the withered grass, making the mountain’s shadow feel mild. I want them to be happy. Hannen watched his younger brother and the man’s lover walking ahead, his heart swelling with emotion.

“Hey, Shōzenbō.” “Yes.” “When we meet my adoptive father in Awataguchi, you must join me in entreating him.” “Yes.” “If by any chance they refuse to listen… I think we should appeal to the master at Shōren-in… When I see their joyful figures—those two have forgotten the world entirely; they’re simply savoring their youth.”

Dusk fell.

As they had a woman with them and the night was growing bitterly cold, they sought lodging, but having already passed the village of Komada, they would have to press on to Tomino no Shō before finding anything resembling a house. But if they crossed just one more hill—the one they were currently climbing—then on the western foothills, there would surely be lodging houses (where travelers paid with firewood) and farmhouses, he thought. When they stood atop the hill,

"Oh..." Hannen raised his hat. Across the fields of Kawachi Plain, controlled burns glowed beautifully within the vast darkness. The light from these fires consuming the plain's shadows seemed to kindle something in his youthful heart. Hannen watched them like sacred flames illuminating his future path. His cheeks flushed crimson. Silent prayers and vows took shape within him as he faced the fires. Then—

“No—Lord Younger Brother is—” Shōzenbō began in a panic. “They must have gone ahead.” “That may be the case.” When they quickened their pace, somewhere, a piercing “Hiii—” —the scream of a girl—could be heard. It had not been a trick of the ears. It was indeed Kozue’s voice. The slope there had already begun its descent, and looking down, the pitch-dark road cascaded into a cliff overgrown with a thicket of mixed trees. “Someone… help—!” The second scream, like tearing silk, struck the ears of the two.

Even so, Asamaru’s voice was nowhere to be heard—what in the world could have happened?

“Ah, Master!” Shōzenbō, who had dashed ahead, seemed to trip over something and tumbled head over heels down the slope. Hannen also kept running,

“What has happened?” “Lord Asamaru is… there.” “What—my brother?” Startled, he peered down at the ground and saw what was unmistakably a human-like figure lying there with their face turned sideways.

VI

From that moment onward, across the plain beyond, a woman's wailing voice threaded like silk past Hannen and Shōzenbō's ears. "Wait—isn't that Kozue's voice?" Here lay Asamaru, unconscious as if struck by a club, while there echoed Kozue's shrill cries for help—the situation was anything but ordinary. When his brother lifted him up and he came to his senses, Asamaru— "Kozue— Kozue—!" he cried desperately, stumbling into a pathless field of pampas grass.

The flames of distant wildfires under a rain-laden sky tinged the low clouds crimson. Through the firelight, about ten figures appeared as dark shadows dashing and leaping into the pampas grass. “Kozue—” When Asamaru shouted, a voice cursing something rang out fiercely, and he staggered again from a blow by one of them. Shōzenbō and Hannen, worried for Asamaru’s safety, rushed to his side immediately. When they drew near, the ten-odd figures their eyes had clearly seen were undoubtedly a band of marauding bandits who rampaged like wild beasts through villages and mountain wilds alike.

That was all well and good, but among them, there was indeed a conspicuously burly man holding Kozue’s body sideways. Hannen—

“Ah! Are you not Lord Amagi Shirō, whom I met at the inn in Koizumi?” When he said this, Shirō laughed—a dry, hollow laugh that echoed through the surroundings. “That’s right. This woman here made a promise with me back when we stayed together at the lodging house in Koizumi—so I’m taking her with me. I’ve been lying about being Amagi Shirō. I’m a bandit known both as Amagi Shirō and Tokusa Shirō.” “If you’ve got any objections, go ahead and spout them here.” When Hannen heard this terrifying, fiendish voice, everything in the world turned dark and incomprehensible. The very man whom he had, until this very moment, held in his heart as a most extraordinary person of the world, never forgetting his gratitude from that time—precisely because that man had ripped off his mask and spoken thus—left him dumbfounded, with no words to reply for a time.

VII “Ah… “So you are not a man of honest profession, but rather a resident of Amagi—the leader of bandits called Tokusa Shirō?” “Yet… even hearing this, I still cannot believe it.” When Hannen spoke, Shirō— “What’s so hard to believe?” He pressed, glaring at him with vicious eyes. “You see… “The image of your gracious figure—how you saved my brother and me from peril at that inn in Koizumi—remains vivid in my mind’s eye to this day. “However I consider it, you seemed a neighbor of virtue—I cannot fathom you being one who dwells in the realm of demons.”

“You fool!” Shirō bared his gums in a sneer, “That is simply the way of evildoers—the stratagems of villains. I am one who sows not a single root of virtue—only evil roots—as I tread through this world. I am the sovereign of the demon realm! From this day forth, remember this visage well so you’ll not be ensnared by such ploys again!” While shielding Hannen’s body and holding his staff at the ready, Shōzenbō could endure no more— “We’ve seen through your deceit—you poisoner of men and corruptor of this age. No need for empty words. Leave the girl here and begone!”

“Don’t spout nonsense. To get my hands on this beauty, I’ve wasted over twenty days and sunk a fortune into inn fees and whatnot. From here on out, I’ll enjoy her as my property for a bit—then either sell her to portside brothels or fetch a good price from Mutsu slavers to recoup my investment. Why the hell would I hand her over to scum like you?” “If you won’t give her up—”

“What’re you gonna do, monk?” “Take this!” As Shōzenbō swung his staff down, Amagi Shirō lightly sidestepped and caught it with his right hand. “If you keep up these clumsy antics, I’ll send you on a pilgrimage to hell!”

“Shut up!” As they wrestled for control of the staff, Shōzenbō’s entire body knotted with rage.

“Don’t mistake us for mere monks.” “The honorable one present here is Lord Hannen Shōnagon, the adopted son of Rokujō no Sanmi Noritsuna Ason.” “Moreover, I myself was once a samurai who wielded bladed weapons.” “Ha ha ha ha.” “If you’re so eager to flex your muscles, Shirō has plenty of underlings who love shedding blood. Start by tangling with those men over there.—Hey!” He then glanced back at the eight or nine henchmen behind him,

“Take these two monks, strip them naked, and tie them to one of those trees over there,” he ordered. Until then, the men had been silent, their eyes gleaming mutely; with a thunderous roar, they transformed into ferocious starving wolves, encircling Hannen and Shōzenbō in a ring and lunging at them from all directions.

VIII

Because Hannen charged at the crowd despite attempts to stop him, Shōzenbō was mercilessly beaten down. Then, with him reduced to a half-dead state, the bandits bound him to the trunk of a withered tree in the kaya field; soon after, they bound Hannen and Asamaru alike with their hands behind their backs. "Serves you right! Flaunting that useless strength of yours," they crowed in triumph. Then, as if claiming rightful payment for their labor, the bandit henchmen snatched the travel funds from Shōzenbō’s pocket,

“We’ll mercifully spare your lives,” they said. Even after suffering such treatment, Shōzenbō still did not cease hurling abuse at the bandits. “You damned devils! You steal others’ possessions and cause them suffering—if you think that means you’ve gained profit or won, you’re gravely mistaken! You may keep scheming like this, but all those evil deeds will come back to you. You are depriving yourselves of your heavenly blessings and driving your own physical bodies into suffering. Just wait—before you lies the Mountain of Needles and the Sea of Blood!”

“Ha ha ha!” The bandit henchmen laughed uproariously, as if entertained by a street performer’s antics. “You damned monk, preaching your childish con to us.” “If hell exists, I’d pay to go take a look myself.” As one finished speaking, another jeered, “What you call hell—that’s your own damn situation right now.” “With your half-baked drivel and fooling gullible folks for years—every last monk’s bound for hell, that’s common knowledge!” They kept hurling insults,

“Shall we go, Boss?” they urged Amagi Shirō. Shirō took Kozue’s hand, “I intend to take this woman with me to the capital for a while and live in a townhouse for about half a year. You lot can scatter wherever you please,” said Amagi Shirō, combining the money stolen from Shōzenbō’s pocket with his own funds and distributing it among his henchmen before striding off briskly ahead of them. Had she lost all strength to resist? Kozue, with one arm held fast under Shirō’s side, followed him like a sheep wherever he led.

“So long!” The bandit henchmen jeered at Shōzenbō and Asamaru’s bitter expressions as they dispersed like night crows, each vanishing into separate directions. Bound to the tree trunk, Hannen neither heeded the voices around him nor voiced his anger—keeping his eyes tightly shut while reciting Buddha’s sacred name in his heart.

Midnight frost descended pure white upon the fields, and a single moon hung in the sky, honed by the cold wind. Only the sound of Asamaru’s stifled sobs… occasionally reached Shōzenbō’s ear.

IX

As dawn approached, the earth was sown with needles of frost; from the branches of trees hung swords of icicles, evoking visions of the Eight Cold Hells, while a frigid wind crept in, freezing the tips of limbs.

As his physical sensations faded, Hannen found within his own body a soul as clear as a winter moon, shining with the light of non-thought. “(How wondrous! Even within a defiled body like mine, Amida Nyorai dwells and abides.)” he thought.

Never before this night had I felt my own being to be so precious. This awakening came through Amagi Shirō binding us to these icicle-laden trees of the Eight Cold Hells. Hannen found himself unable to resent the bandit. What burned far hotter was resentment toward his own powerlessness—this inability to save even a single brigand. How much more galling then, that I could not rescue my own flesh-and-blood brother! What meaning lay in enduring ascetic trials on Mount Hiei, studying in Nara’s southern capital, exhausting myself in ceaseless scholarship—if it served only my own advancement? If learning existed for learning’s sake, if discipline aimed at worldly success—then why chain myself to monastic vows? Better to hoard gold unshackled by precepts. Better still to become a samurai, staking ambition’s blade upon fortune’s storms. But a Buddhist’s great vow cannot dwell in such petty self-interest. It must become a ship of salvation for all beings—a moon illuminating every life. I sought no hermit’s realm of carefree wandering among clouds and streams, no leisurely spring days spent in detached contemplation. This world of clashing flesh and blood permits no such stillness. Do I not study until my bones ache, suffer until my spirit frays—all to forge myself into one vast enough to gather this corrupt world’s anguished masses into these two hands?

For one whose being burned with this great vow, Hannen could not help but weep and lament himself—unable to summon anger toward even a single bandit, yet equally powerless to save his own brother. But when he considered it more deeply, he realized he had neither resolved nor saved even his own self—let alone his brother. Why can I not save even one person? Hannen now thought with piercing anguish. A self that cannot resolve itself cannot possibly resolve others. The root cause lay in nothing other than all scholarship and contemplation falling short. Even to dwell on such worries might be presumption itself. Above all else, he must first achieve his own resolution. Not for the petty self of advancement or fame, but to become a vessel of salvation in this turbid sea—to pole toward the great vow of the far shore.

“Oh, a monk’s tied up here…” “Oh dear, you must’ve run into bandits or something. Poor souls.”

Night had broken, and around Hannen, as well as near Shōzenbō and Asamaru, travelers and horse handlers had gathered.

X Then, from among the group of travelers, "Oh dear, oh dear." An old woman raised a sympathetic voice to the passersby standing nearby.

“Why do you all stand there gawking?” she rebuked. “Does others’ misfortune amuse you?” Then she hurried to Hannen’s side. “This area teems with bandits—you must’ve crossed paths with wicked men. Oh dear… Your body’s cold as ice. How terribly you’ve suffered.” Spurred by the old woman’s actions, the hesitant onlookers now pressed forward—some untying Shōzenbō’s bonds, others tending to Asamaru, while still more…

“My house is just below this hill.” “I can light a fire and offer some porridge—please come along with me,” she said. The horse handler leading the horse spoke again: “You needn’t worry about the fare—please ride along to that point,” he urged Asamaru as he began to walk. “You must have had your travel funds stolen.” “This is but a little,” said some who wrapped coins to offer alms. When he heard Amagi Shirō’s words, Shinran felt nothing in this society was more terrifyingly veiled by masks; yet encountering people of such beautiful human compassion made him think no Pure Land of Warm Human Kindness could surpass this world.

The three, at a farmhouse at the foot of the mountain, fully warmed their bodies, staved off their hunger, expressed their gratitude earnestly, and eventually set out onto the warm highway of a winter day no different from yesterday.

When they reached the fork of Tatsuta Highway at the Kawachi border, Hannen came to a halt. “Shōzenbō, there is a matter I have been considering... I wish to make my way to Isono Village from here—” “Oh—is Eifuku-ji Temple in Ishikawa Village?” “—…” “Yes, I wish to pay homage at Prince Shōtoku’s mausoleum—where he, his august mother, his consort, and the Three Honored Ones rest—and undertake a seven-day retreat there.”

“Is that so? A noble resolve indeed—but will you be taking Lord Asamaru with you?”

“No, no—there are matters I must reflect upon, so it would be best for me to go alone.” “You—take Asamaru with you to meet my adoptive father in Kyoto and request the master at Shōren-in to make arrangements. Then send my brother back home for now.”

“Understood.” “Asamaru,” he said, turning to face him— “You have no objections, I trust?” “Yes…” Yet in Asamaru’s heart, thoughts of Kozue remained inescapably fraught with anxiety and sorrow; he seemed unable to reconcile himself to returning to Kyoto alone like this. “I leave this to you.”

Having said that to Shōzenbō, Hannen soon turned alone toward the Kawachi Road and walked away.

Wall Inscription

One

A profound silence akin to vacuum enveloped them, with a cold so bitter it seemed to freeze one’s bones to the marrow. As night deepened further, this gelid air—like that of a world where no creature could dwell—rendered ears, noses, and lips nearly insensate. From somewhere, since two days prior, the sound of Lotus Sutra recitations had been drifting outward. By this night it had continued for four evenings—through dawn’s breaking and dusk’s falling—an unceasing flow like water: now low, now high, never pausing in its sutra chant.

“Who could it be?” whispered those from Eifuku-ji Temple in Isonokami as they huddled by the hearth. “It must be another eccentric monk,” some laughed, while others...

“Surely no one has lit a fire inside the mausoleum?” one monk fretted about fire precautions. “No, there appears to be no trace of flames,” another responded.

“I see… Then that’s fine…” “But what kind of man is he?”

“He’s still just a young monk of around twenty.” “He entered through the worship hall of the Three Honored Ones and has been sitting alone on the floor of the innermost mausoleum cave, fasting and conducting his retreat”—a monk in his forties sat silently listening to this account, eyes tightly shut. The monk, seemingly a guest at this temple and addressed by others as “Venerable,” was an elusive figure—appearing by the hearth where temple monks gathered to exchange jokes, then vanishing like mist; retrieving gnarled roots from the back mountains to carve with his small knife—a man who defied categorization, part-ascetic and part-layperson. Yet since the Lotus Sutra’s recitation had begun echoing from Prince Shōtoku’s Mausoleum four days prior, he had sat motionless, head bowed in absorption. But now, hearing the monks’ talk, he abruptly rose and departed for parts unknown.

Tonight too, the moon shone stark white and cold. The monk put on straw sandals from the temple quarters and carried his quiet footsteps—softly padding—toward Prince Shōtoku’s Mausoleum that stood some distance away.

The sound of the Lotus Sutra drew nearer. Ascending the stone wall, in the mausoleum’s corridor, the Kongō Lion’s eternal lamp faintly illuminated the surroundings, and the shadows of plovers skimmed past the winter mountain area where Emperor Bidatsu’s Mausoleum loomed over the great roof. Circling beneath the corridor, the monk moved toward the mausoleum cave where the imperial tomb was located. When one approached that place, a bone-chilling cold that constricted the body and a mysterious darkness hung in the air—even the temple monks always said it felt somehow eerie.

Weathered by wind and rain and left untended for centuries, the building was pierced through the rotted door’s cracks on all sides by the moon’s white light, sharp as blades. When the monk quietly peered inside, there indeed sat a young man on the floor within—solitary and desolate, frozen stiff like white jade, sitting upright alone. And, seemingly unaware of the monk’s footsteps, he continued to recite the Lotus Sutra in a resonant voice.

"Ah..." "It was indeed Hannen Shōnagon after all..." The monk muttered to himself and, quietly muffling his footsteps, returned to the temple.

Two

The sixth morning since beginning his retreat here dawned pale and cold. The second and third days had been marked by excruciating physical agony from hunger and cold, but from around yesterday onward, his body and mind had grown numb within a corporeal shell akin to a living corpse—now only the fire of his will, the flame of life itself, blazed fiercely toward the gate of Dharma-seeking. Not a single bowl of food nor a single drop of water had passed through his throat. His voice was hoarse, his eyes clouded; even Hannen, with his formidable will, had by evening slumped his emaciated hands onto the floor and lay unconscious for a time.

As soon as the bell of the belfry below Mihayama rang out beside his ears, echoing to announce the first watch, Hannen suddenly came back to himself and let out an involuntary roar— “Namu! Prince Shōtoku…” And then, facing the stone door of the mausoleum cave, he pressed his selfless palms firmly together. “—Impart to this lost and deluded fool Hannen the path to enlightenment. You may deign to crush this physical body, this corporeal shell, with hardships. Only deign to grant this one a single path of light and faith.” As he focused his thoughts, his sunken eyes—like the window of a bellows—blazed with scorching light, his lips pressed into a rigid line. Whether a voice would answer from Prince Shōtoku’s mausoleum cave or this body would rot and die here, he reset his unwavering knees like unyielding stone.

That he had come to this ancient mausoleum and sat engaged in this battle of thoughts was not merely a spur-of-the-moment whim or mere chance. Hannen had long admired the great achievements and august life of Prince Shōtoku, and it had been his enduring aspiration to seclude himself in the prince's ancient mausoleum whenever opportunity arose—even if only in a dream—to vividly envision his revered visage in the flesh.

The young Prince Shōtoku was both the great progenitor of Japanese culture and the founder who brought Buddhism to flourish. It was through the hands of this prince—a youth of profound wisdom and virtue—that Japanese Buddhism first took root in the hearts of the people across the Imperial Land of Japan— a sacred endeavor that imparted the decree: “Become the light within your own hearts.” Tradition tells that even Kōbō Daishi once secluded himself in this very mausoleum for a hundred days, seeking illumination amid the darkness of mortal delusion. The afflictions of ordinary fools and their straying through blind shadows—this was a path all must walk. Even Kōbō Daishi had done so. How much more inevitable, then, for one such as myself.

Hannen prayed that as long as this life force remained— He yearned to behold the light of resolution for all that was a source of doubt and contradictions that refused to coalesce into a unified whole—the Buddhist studies he had pursued at Mount Hiei, the true nature of the world, and his own existence as an individual. However, just as human physical strength has its limits, so too does mental fortitude have its bounds. As the night deepened and the cold clarity of the air sharpened to a blade-like intensity, Hannen collapsed once more with a sudden thud.

Then, someone— “Venerable Hannen—” At first, it seemed like a voice calling from far away, but—

“Venerable Hannen. Venerable Shōnagon.” “Venerable Shōnagon.” After being repeated countless times near his ear, he suddenly regained consciousness.

Someone had placed a paper candle nearby and was cradling him.

Three

“……Have you come to your senses?” said the man. Hannen, half in doubt and wondering who it could be, raised his eyes and looked at the person cradling his freezing body with warm hands. “Oh…” He cried out in surprise. “You are Hōin Seikaku of Anjū-in Temple—disciple of Chikurinbō Jōgon of Mount Hiei—are you not?” “Yes.” The hōin smiled. “Since last autumn’s turning, I too have harbored doubts about present-day Buddhism. Alone I descended Mount Hiei and have remained here at Eifuku-ji Temple in Shiga-no-sato.” “…But your fortitude astonished me.” “Persisting in such merciless asceticism will destroy your body!”

“Thank you…” “Then it seems I had lost consciousness.” “It’s fortunate I was watching over you from afar—had you remained thus until dawn, you would surely have frozen to death.” “Perhaps it would have been better had I died.” “What madness!” “You—of all people, so resolute—contemplating suicide?” “I never imagined you capable of such frailty of will.”

“I blurted out my true feelings—how shameful.” “However much I contemplate or perform austerities, this benighted nature of mine—incapable of dispelling ignorance—writhes in agony seeking great wisdom. It torments me beyond endurance, and to the world, I am but useless.” “In that sense, whether I live or die amounts to the same.” When Hannen’s anguished words ceased, Seikaku Hōin laid out the dishes he had brought behind him before the young monk,

“Please have a mouthful of porridge while it’s still warm.” “Then we’ll talk.” “Since I made a seven-day vow when beginning this retreat, I thank you for your kindness, but I cannot accept the porridge.” “Is tonight not the completion of those seven full days?—For midnight has already passed, making it the dawn of the eighth day.” “Please have it before it cools. Once you’ve regained your strength, I would hear your desperate thoughts… and I too have matters I wish to discuss.” Upon being told this, Hannen humbly received the bowl for the first time. The porridge was thin like lukewarm water, but as the food flowed into his stomach, his whole body was suddenly overcome with a flush of feverish heat like fire.

Hannen had once studied under Jōgon of Mount Hiei, so he had long been acquainted with Seikaku Hōin, Jōgon’s distinguished disciple. Moreover, he had secretly held admiration for Hōin’s talent in wielding intellectual eloquence at places like the mountain’s Great Lecture Hall. If it were this man, Hannen thought, then he could bring himself to fully confide all his troubles. Seikaku too was one of those doubters akin to him who, finding no assurance or resolution in Mount Hiei’s current state, had once sought refuge with Zen master Eisai recently returned from China—but even there failing to grasp the light of spiritual pursuit, he had wandered aimlessly until finally arriving at Shiga-no-sato last autumn, where he now spent his days in idle stillness.

Four “That two wanderers should meet here so unexpectedly must surely be Prince Shōtoku’s divine arrangement.” Seikaku Hōin continued speaking without pause, his words growing more fervent as he went on. “I cannot fathom what conviction sustains the people of Mount Hiei today in their complacency.” “If it be archbishop ranks or brocade-clad vanity they prize, they should instead become unabashed laymen—contending freely for gold and honors! If they seek scholarly rivalry, let them stand as scholars! If mere profession, why impose the Five Precepts or rigorous asceticism upon others? They lack both the need and authority for such impositions!”

Hannen nodded silently. “What do you think? On the surface they feign purity and preach salvation, yet once they descend the mountain, they indulge in wine and women more than laypeople. When conflict arises, they wield swords and halberds to enforce Buddhism’s authority through violence.” “In the Heian period—when Dengyō Daishi opened Mount Hiei to cast light across Japan’s Buddhist world, lamenting the corruption of monks—that lamp has now burned dry of oil. The present Mount Hiei is neither a place for sincere ones like us to establish our lives nor a realm of peace.” “……And so I wandered out in confusion. But encountering real society—seeing people’s raw suffering in this world, their reckless pleasures, witnessing too much of life’s ceaseless flux—someone of shallow wisdom like myself becomes all the more bewildered, like a fish unaware of the river it swims in. I can scarcely grasp anything at all.”

Hōin’s voice was impassioned.

The young Hannen, overwhelmed with emotion, involuntarily gripped his hand,

“Venerable Seikaku. “What you speak of is exactly what I intended to say.” The two of them had wandered into the same labyrinth with nearly identical anguish. “In your seven days and nights of secluded devotion, what did you attain, Lord Hannen?” “I gained nothing. It was only hunger and cold. —But through finding someone like you who shares the same anguish, I learned this torment isn’t mine alone.”

“That is my only memento.” “I intend to leave Eifuku-ji tomorrow, but I have no plans to return to Mount Hiei.”

“And where are you bound henceforth?”

“I have no destination…” Seikaku bowed his head, his demeanor lonely, “Merely walking in search of a true teacher and the true path—even if it proves to be a path without end in this lifetime…”

The two young disciples of Amida were silently staring at the flickering light of the paper-wrapped candle beside them. Then, tearing through the late-night air, somewhere a woman’s sorrowful scream flowed, soon changing into a voice that seemed to sob, sniffling and sobbing, continuing to cry endlessly—

“Hmm, that’s a strange sound.” When Hannen raised his face, Seikaku Hōin also stood up,

“Where could it be? There shouldn’t be a woman’s weeping in this sacred ground...” Seikaku Hōin murmured, leaning out from the veranda to scan the pallid winter night.

Five

“Hmm… The voice seems to be coming from the sutra hall under construction. …I’ll go take a look.”

Hōin went outside toward the sutra hall. Before long, he returned and said to Hannen, his eyes burning with righteous indignation, “The world never runs short of wicked men.” “Did he abduct a young woman?” “Yes. When I went there, a man who appeared to be a rogue samurai had tied a woman to one of the sutra hall’s pillars and was spewing threats at her. But since she refused to yield compliantly no matter what, he was attempting to force her submission through brute strength.”

“It seems bandits are running rampant in this vicinity as well.” “No—they seem to be from another land. When I called out to him, the bandit—appearing to be an exceptionally bold fellow—showed no surprise and introduced himself as Amagi Shirō, a notorious brigand.” “What? Did you say Amagi Shirō?” “Do you know him?” “I have heard of him. A man who appears on every highway—he may seem gentle in appearance, but he is a terrifyingly violent person.”

“Thinking this—and also not wanting to get injured myself—I deliberately spoke politely: ‘Since this is a pure Buddhist ground, I ask that you at least refrain from committing evil deeds here.’ But Amagi Shirō sneered and said, ‘If you insist on such talk, then first you must drive out those filthy monks before this place can be called a true realm of purity.’” “Monks hide behind false masks and conceal their filthy deeds, while we do what we want with our true faces exposed—which of us is more honest as human beings?—he argued such logic.” “To this, I too found myself somewhat at a loss for a reply.”

“And then… what did you do?” “Though he spouted logic, it seems even a bandit harbors fear in his true heart. Using that as a parting pretext, he dragged the woman away again to parts unknown.” “Then—that woman—was she not a winsome girl of nineteen or twenty, with Kyoto’s grace about her?” “I saw little of her face, but Amagi Shirō kept calling her ‘Kozue, Kozue.’”

“Ah! Then, as I thought…” Hannen pictured in his mind the tragic state of his brother’s lover—still clinging to her affection for his brother while resisting bandit Shirō and battling his coercion—and felt unbearable pity.

“In which direction did they go?” He said this and tried to stand, but his weakened body, like a rotten tree, immediately gave way at the knees and staggered. Seikaku Hōin supported him, “Are you intending to pursue the bandits? Stop this. Even if you chase after them with your precious body to save one woman, you will never catch up to the bandit’s wind-like speed.”

“Ah...” Though tears did not fall, Hannen poured out his entire body’s sorrow and prostrated himself on the ice-like floor. His own powerlessness tormented him. Could it truly be said his brother had been saved through that? What would become of his brother’s lover? The misfortune of those judged by judges without true power weighed heavily on his mind.

“—The night will soon end.” “Lord Hannen, I shall see you again tomorrow morning.” Leaving only the light behind, Seikaku Hōin departed with the clatter of wooden clogs.

Six

In the distance, the sound of a rooster heralding dawn could be heard——

However, when he raised his face, the outside was still dark. “Sss... sss... sss...” The wax tears from the light faded as if weeping. The flickering lamplight swayed gently across the mausoleum’s aged walls.

? …… Hannen, who had been quietly meditating to pass the remaining one koku until dawn, suddenly noticed something squirming like countless spiders on an ancient wall near Prince Shōtoku’s Mausoleum and found his eyes drawn to it.

Because the lamp was about to go out, he quietly cupped his hand against the wind and moved toward the edge of the wall. When he looked, traces of aged ink—who had written them?—remained faded along with the wall's decay. Staring intently, he could faintly make out these words: Japan is a land suited for Mahayana. Hearken clearly. Hearken with discernment, My divine edicts: Thy life-root now enters its tenth year. When life ends, Swiftly enter the Pure Land. Zenshin, Zenshin, true bodhisattva.

Countless times, Hannen read them under his breath. And then,

(Whose brushwork is this?) he wondered. Kōbō Daishi, a scholar monk like myself, and many other lost wandering monks must have secluded themselves in this mausoleum. It must have been one of them who had written and left these phrases. Yet, to Hannen’s mind, those several lines of text did not seem at all coincidental. For seven days and seven nights, what else could it be but the divine voice of Prince Shōtoku, to whom he had devoted himself with a deathly resolve? He thought it must be a divine revelation that had answered his own desperate thoughts. As if he had seen a single light in the dark night, Hannen fixed his gaze intently on the characters. Especially,

“Thy life-root now enters its tenth year.” This was clearly about himself. If I counted on my fingers, those phrases would precisely apply to myself at twenty-one years old by the traditional count.

Moreover,

When life ends— What kind of divine revelation was this? Were these the Prince’s words declaring that the deluded self of over ten years had died as of this night? “Japan is a land suited for Mahayana… Japan is a land suited for Mahayana.” Ah, the voice of the divine mission that deigned to give me birth in this Land of the Rising Sun resonated in my breast. Yes… Last night, I had even confessed to Master Hōin that I harbored thoughts of death. Prince Shōtoku deigned to command me to die. “And [He] deigns to command me to act as one reborn after shedding the shell of delusion and ignorance, and spread My divine edicts across this Land of the Rising Sun.”

Already, outside, small birds chirped. As the paper lamp’s wax burned out completely, dawn broke whitely, and on the conifer trees of Mihayama Hill, the young sun’s light twinkled and glimmered.

Harbinger of Spring

One

In this world—in this Land of the Rising Sun—Hannen became aware of what his mission in being born here was.

At the same time— (I died at twenty years old)—from beneath this conviction, he was reborn anew. These two beliefs were a gift from secluding himself in Isochō’s mausoleum. He thought, filled with emotion, that this was a divine revelation whispered to him by Prince Shōtoku.

But when it came to *By what means am I to fulfill this weighty mission?*, he became once more a child of chaotic doubt. On the wall inscription of Prince Shōtoku’s mausoleum, *—Japan is a land suited for Mahayana—hearken clearly to My divine edicts.* it was written. But that was a hint and a proposal; even if told *Hearken to My divine edicts*, the footsteps trodden by the Prince were too great and too nebulous.

“—If there are no ears to listen…” Hannen writhed anew in anguish.

“I want ears that could hear.” Lost, he wandered aimlessly for two years thereafter. He visited Kōen at Tōdai-ji, sought entry at Tōshōdai-ji, and wherever the Dharma lamp burned—undaunted by treacherous paths, undeterred by distance, enduring lashing rain and wind—he journeyed in search. Yet there was no key to the truth he sought. Though the form of edicts spread by the Prince remained, their soul had long vanished from every corner. Temple halls stood as hollow husks. Nor was Mount Hiei alone in this desolation.

Not only could he not obtain what he sought, but the more he wandered, the more his confusion deepened. After wandering aimlessly for over two years, worn out and without direction, he suddenly appeared at the gate of Shōren-in Temple, requested an audience, and sat before his teacher, Archbishop Jien, in a state so emaciated he was nearly unrecognizable. Jien, at a glance,

“What has happened to you?” he exclaimed in alarm.

Hannen had been out of contact for so long that he had come intending to visit his teacher’s quarters, but from those very quarters, his teacher had already come out to meet him first. “Not particularly… There is nothing different about me,” he replied. His strong mental strength truly paid no attention whatsoever to the decline of his own body. “You say there’s no change—but you’ve become terribly thin.” “First of all, your complexion is poor.” “You bear no trace of your former self from your time on Mount Hiei.”

“Now that Your Grace mentions it, perhaps that may be so. It is simply that I wished—no, yearned—to grasp even a day sooner the peace and great resolution of my lifetime—or rather, of humanity’s eternity, and thus I tormented my body through ascetic practice…” “That may be so.” Jien watched his jutting shoulders and bony knees as though gazing upon something pitiful. The image of Jūhachi Kimimaro from the days of his childlike locks remained eternally etched behind Jien’s eyelids, and within his heart, he now compared those unburdened, glowing cheeks of yore with the present-day Hannen.

“Your person now burns with impatience.” “You must be consuming your body like fire in your search for truth.” “That is well enough, but you must not ruin your body,” Jien said, as if admonishing his beloved child.

Two Hannen had kept in his heart numerous questions he intended to address once he met his teacher—set aside as unresolved matters—but perhaps because the archbishop was so struck by his haggard appearance, no matter what Hannen asked, Archbishop Jien would only say, “Focus on recuperation,” and refused to answer any doctrinal inquiries.

“Well, you must rest,” was all he said, but to the doctrinal inquiries, he gave no answer. In truth, during that time, Hannen—perhaps because he always chewed his food without tasting it—had no appetite whatsoever; when he saw plum blossoms, he saw them only as white, and when he heard the songs of small birds, he knew only that something was calling. Perhaps it was because upon reaching Shōren-in Temple and encountering his teacher’s gentle words—suddenly feeling at peace—that the fatigue of over two years seemed to surge forth all at once. Like an invalid, he began to waste away day by day: his cheeks hollowed, his eyes sank deeper, and only the light within their depths grew stronger.

Jien seemed to be worrying many times more than Hannen himself realized.

“How about it, Hannen? Won’t you come with me today?” The sun was warm on a day fragrant with plum blossoms. Jien lightly suggested they walk in the garden. “Where are you going?” “To Gojō.” “I shall accompany you.” Hannen followed along nonchalantly.

He was not one to favor extravagant palanquins in the first place. That said, as he seemed troubled by being seen by passersby or having to return their greetings too often, Jien pulled his white silk monk’s hood deep over his face and walked on, his worn-out wooden clogs clacking noisily.

He had been told they were going to Gojō, but having not asked for what purpose, Hannen was wondering where his teacher was headed when, upon arriving at Nishinotōin in Gojō, they entered through a magnificent gate that appeared to be the most imposing structure in this neighborhood.

Hannen was struck by a thought.

“Isn’t this Lord Tsukinowa Kanpaku’s villa?” he stopped in his tracks and looked around.

“Hannen, come quickly,” Jien turned around and beckoned from before the middle gate.

At the front carriage porch, a dazzling palanquin stood parked to the side. Jien did not approach it; instead, he opened the middle gate himself, walked across the wide courtyard, and silently ascended toward the eastern building’s corridor. (Is this permissible?) Hannen nearly asked, but the Regent was his teacher’s own brother. Since theirs was a relationship that dispensed with formalities between strangers—and moreover, one that maintained an elegant bond transcending mere blood ties—he supposed this was customary, and so he too climbed upward without a word.

In the inner chambers, the flutes and reed pipes of Saibara court music resounded faintly from afar. Occasionally, the voices of ladies-in-waiting laughing and chattering leaked through, serenely tranquil in a manner befitting a spring day.

“Today, even the samurai at the front are nowhere to be seen.” “Will no one come forth?” “A guest has arrived!” Jien headed toward the bridge corridor of the inner garden and clapped his hands.

Three

A young servant came running, “Ah! Is it Lord Shōren-in?” he prostrated himself. Jien was already crossing the midpoint of the bridge corridor, “You don’t have any other guests, do you?” “Yes, only those of the inner household are present.” While answering, the young servant bent at the waist and slipped past Jien, “Lord Shōren-in has graciously arrived.” When he conveyed this message to the depths of the corridor, the music of the dance piece abruptly ceased, and then, the laughter of elegant women and the rustling of their garments scattered delicately in disarray.

“Oh, Lord Shōren-in?” Tsukinowa Kanezane was already standing there. Kanezane was holding a transverse flute in his hand. Gazing at it, Jien,

“At play again, I see—as lively as ever,” Jien remarked with a smile, accompanied by Kanezane and the samurai attendants. Lacquer, gold leaf, gold dust, brocade-edged tatami mats—all were things utterly unfamiliar to commoners’ homes. The fragrance of smoldering rare wood stung the nose with its opulence, and somewhere, the song of a caged nightingale persisted incessantly. However, in that ten-mat room with brocade-edged tatami, aside from the guest who had just entered and the host, not a single other person could be seen. Scattered about in disarray were fans, hand drums, stringed instruments, fiddles, and by the reed pipes lay deep purple hood cloths and masks—all left where they had been dropped. The people who had been seated in those spots had vanished as though carried away by the wind.

“What’s this—is there no one here?” When Jien voiced his puzzlement, Kanezane—

“Hahahaha— Since Your Reverence has come, they’ve all hidden themselves out of shyness.” “There’s no need to hide.” “Today being the princess’s birthday, we had gathered ladies-in-waiting from the retainers’ households to amuse ourselves with mock gagaku performances and sarugaku antics. But upon hearing a stern guest from the monastic order had arrived, they all seemed to have fled in panic.”

“Why do the ladies-in-waiting shun monks so?” “Rather, it’s the monks who avoid them.” “Are women not forbidden by precept?” “But are we not all human?” “Hahaha— “They likely find your presence rather oppressive.” “No need for such discomfort—come forth! I’ll join you in flute-playing.” When Jien announced his intent to play, the brocade-draped screen trembled. From its shadow—where several ladies had hidden beneath layered robes—one failed to suppress a giggle. This spark set them all ablaze—

“Hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo.” “Hohoho…” they burst into laughter, and then a princess who appeared to be thirteen or fourteen years old—laughing even more gleefully—emerged from beside the screen. “Ah, how amusing!” she said, clutching her stomach while still laughing uncontrollably as she showed herself. Following this, ladies-in-waiting, wet nurses, and others came pouring out one after another from that spot.

Four

“Princess, won’t you greet your uncle—”

When Kanezane spoke, the still somewhat childlike princess did nothing but laugh,

“Later,” she said and hid behind the ladies-in-waiting.

To Jien, she was a niece; to Kanezane, she was Princess Tamahime, his one and only daughter in this world. “Tamahime—” Jien called out, “Let us set aside formal greetings for now—show me a sarugaku imitation.” Then again, both Princess Tamahime and the ladies-in-waiting laughed all the more—though what they found so amusing remained unclear—and offered no reply.

“It would be regrettable to halt your amusing games on account of this Jien’s arrival.” “If you do not dance, I shall have no choice but to depart.”

Then, Tamahime hurried over to her father’s side and, clinging to his knee, “I don’t want Uncle to leave.” “In that case, let us begin the gagaku.” “If you would also do so—” “Of course I will.” Jien deliberately put on an animated air,

“I will recite a poem.” “Really?” The princess, emphasizing her point, turned to the ladies-in-waiting. “Uncle has deigned to recite a poem.” “You all, please listen.” “Yes, yes—we rarely have the chance to hear Your Reverence’s recitations, so we are listening most attentively.” “In return, the princess shall dance!” “Oh no.” Tamahime glanced briefly behind Jien. There, a young man with a pale face—as thin as a plum tree trunk yet dignified—had been waiting all this time; gazing at this Hannen, she blushed. Jien noticed,

“Ah yes—the princess has not yet met this person.” “…………” Tamahime nodded with childlike innocence. Her father Kanezane continued, “He is Uncle’s disciple—a brilliant scholar named Hannen Shōnagon.” “When you were still cradled in your wet nurse’s arms visiting Shōren-in, Hannen too was surely an endearing child monk—though neither of you would recall it now.” “I could not possibly remember something from when I was such a tiny infant.”

“So there’s no need for you to be shy.” “I am not being shy at all.” The princess, too, eventually said with familiarity.

“Then dance and show me.” “I don’t want to dance. But if it’s a kokyū or koto, I could play those.” “Very well.” “Uncle, you must recite—I insist!” “Yeah, I’ll recite.” When Jien, putting on an overly serious air, puffed out his chest, Kanezane and the ladies-in-waiting stifled their laughter.

Hannen did not even smile, remained utterly silent, and did not move his clear eyes.

Five

Thereupon, a maid brought sweets and placed them before Jien and Hannen. Jien ate one of the sweets, moistened his throat with hot water, coughed with an “ahem.” Both the princess and the ladies-in-waiting, each holding their instruments, had been waiting, but since Jien showed no sign of beginning his recitation, “Ugh, Uncle!” the princess pouted slightly. “Please hurry and recite.” With childlike innocence and bell-like eyes, Princess Tamahime pretended to glare, and Jien obediently began to sing.

Saiji's, Saiji's Old rats, young rats Devour the sacred robes, Devour the kesa stoles. Tell the monks. Nay, tell the master!

As soon as he finished singing,

“Elder Brother, I have a matter I wish to discuss,” he said to Kanezane.

“Then, let us go over there,” said Kanezane, and together with Jien, he stood up and left for another room.

The princess, wearing a bored expression, began to follow them but returned when her father called her back. The wet nurses and ladies-in-waiting, anxious not to upset her, “Come now, Princess—since everyone else has left, shall we play pretend sarugaku or demon tag again?”

“But…” Tamahime shook her head. Hannen was left behind forlornly in a corner. From among the ladies-in-waiting, one approached his side, “Venerable Disciple. Please join us as well.” “Yes.” “Let us play demon tag.”

“Yes…” Hannen was at a loss for an answer. “If the Princess were to become restless, it would cause difficulties, so I must beg your indulgence,” she said, taking his hand. And then,

“Princess, since this Venerable has kindly agreed to be the first to play the demon, that should suffice.” Tamahime pulled back her shell-like white chin and nodded with a smile.

As stated, it was an extremely bothersome situation, but before he could refuse, one of the ladies-in-waiting circled behind Hannen with a purple cloth and blindfolded him.

With a rustling of silk garments scattering in all directions, everyone seemed to have hidden somewhere. At times, "The demon of Tō-ji Temple— What do you seek—" they sang while clapping hands rhythmically. Hannen walked groping with his toes, stroking walls and pillars as he went. Suddenly, he felt his blindfolded physical self laid bare his present state of mind—struck by sorrowful irony.

Six

Giggles and stifled laughter arose here and there.

Using that as his guide, Hannen groped his way and wandered around the room. And then, he caught the person hiding behind the screen, "I caught you," he said, removing the blindfold. That was Princess Tamahime. The princess, "Oh..." Tamahime made a troubled face, and Hannen, startled, released the hand he had been holding. "Now it's your turn to be the demon, Princess," said the wet nurses and ladies-in-waiting as they tried to bind her face with a purple cloth.

“No!” The princess fled to the veranda like a bush warbler. Just as they met, a young samurai announced, “Lord Hannen, Lord Jien of Shōren-in has returned.” Hannen let out a sigh of relief. “Ah. Has he returned?”

After greeting the people and preparing to leave, the princess suddenly looked lonely toward Hannen’s retreating figure,

“Please come play again,” she said. Turning around, Hannen,

“Yes, thank you very much.”

However—he felt as though he were escaping from something oppressive. To come into contact with such opulent courtly life existed only faintly in his childhood memories, as distant as a dream; over ten years had passed since he was nine years old, and now, without realizing it, the austerity and solitude of monastic life had soaked into his very being—he felt that even being present in such a resplendent atmosphere was unbearable. Jien had already put on his wooden clogs and was walking through the garden where clove flowers scented the air.

After accompanying him outside, Hannen asked Jien as follows. "Master, when you are on Mount Hiei, you become a person of Mount Hiei; when you are at Shōren-in, you become a person of Shōren-in; and when you visit secular households, you become a person of those households." "Even when mingling among ladies-in-waiting and children, you seem to blend in naturally with them as well." "How is it that you can calmly sing such chants?" Then Jien said. "It is only recently that I have become able to do so—in other words, I have finally come to set my heart upon the state of finding joy wherever I am."

“—Finding joy wherever I am.……”

Hannen muttered under his breath, parroting the words, and sank into thought. Jien continued, "But someone like you must not seek such an escape." "For someone like me—a so-called elegant monk who composes waka and remains bound to such pursuits—I have found but a small peace in that state of mind." "After all, your current anguish is more noble—" "But I am in complete darkness." "You should return to Mount Hiei once more." "And do not rush, do not escape—walk through the darkness of ignorance." "Unless you walk as far as you must walk, you will never reach the far shore."

The red plum blossoms at some embankment faintly scented the sunlit path with the aura of spring, though there was no wind.

Seven

The gate of Shōren-in came into view. As they passed through the gate, Jien repeated his words once more.

“You should return to Mount Hiei once more,” he said. “Yes.” By the time Hannen gave that answer, he had already resolved himself internally. “Tomorrow, I shall take my leave.”

“Hmm…” Jien nodded and carried the sound of his wooden clogs away toward his quarters. Then, beneath the shikidai reception platform of the quarters, there was a young monk crouching with his hands pressed to the ground in greeting. Jien glanced at him and retreated deep inside, but as Hannen was about to step up, the young monk suddenly grabbed the sleeve of his monastic robe. He called out, “Elder Brother.” It was unexpected. This was his younger brother Asamaru, who had returned to the capital some years earlier with Shōzenbō.

It was something he had long been concerned about, and even regarding Shōren-in, he had intended above all to inquire about what had transpired since then—but never had he imagined that his younger brother would be there with his head shaved, nor had his teacher Jien mentioned even a word of it. He could only stare wide-eyed in astonishment,

“Oh…” he uttered, but for a while, he could only stand there, dazed by his younger brother’s transformed appearance.

Jin’u, his eyes clouding as they fell upon his brother’s thin, sharpened face, “—Though I am ashamed to meet you here, as you can see, I have now received ordination from the Archbishop and taken the name Jin’u.” “…Please rest assured about what has transpired since then,” he said, bowing his head. “I see.” Hannen let out a deep breath and nodded. With that, his heart found peace as though his younger brother’s settled path had been decided—yet at the same time, he was also keenly aware of his younger brother’s even more profound state of mind.

“Has our adoptive father given his consent?” “Having been graciously forgiven all my sins, I now train alongside you, Elder Brother, as a single disciple of Buddha.” “That is well… Our adoptive father must surely have been reassured.” “Now that you have awakened your resolve, strive with all your might.” “If you devote yourself single-mindedly to ascetic practice while honing your spirit, divine favor from the Buddha and devas will surely come.” “Do not falter, do not doubt…”

Hannen admonished his younger brother in this way, but even he himself thought his voice lacked conviction. However, Jin’u was sincere. He soaked his elder brother’s words into his being,

“Yes, I will most certainly devote myself wholeheartedly to practice,” he said with an air of repentance.

The next morning, Hannen left through the gate, heading toward the path to Mount Hiei with an air of detachment. Jin’u stood by the gate of Shōren-in, his face lingering there as he watched him depart for what seemed an eternity. Somewhere, the faint chirping of a bush warbler could be heard each time the wind died down.

Old and New

One

“Hannen has returned to the mountain—” Among the people of Mount Hiei, this fact caused a profound stir. In their minds, the figure of Hannen had unwittingly grown into a significant presence. Regardless of whether they had any personal stake in the matter, his movements remained a constant source of unease. The reason lay in how Hannen—who from his days as a boy monk under ten years old had been permitted to ascend the ordination platform and thereafter continued to hone his knowledge, surpassing his peers in scholarly pursuits—had recently come to be vaguely perceived by them as a threat.

“I hear Ichijō-in returned to the mountain—when was that?”

“It must’ve been about ten days ago now. That Shōzenbō fellow had returned way before that, but it seems Hannen’s appearance was only just recent.”

“It’s been exactly three years, hasn’t it?” “That’s right—Hannen descended the mountain in the winter before last…” “He must have accumulated considerable ascetic practice.” “Nonsense! Nara’s a city of women—who knows what sort of ‘ascetic practice’ a young Hannen’s been pursuing there?” “That describes you monks.” “The fact that Hannen has been studying with such fearsome conviction—I heard this from a visiting monk from Uji who came to the mountain some time ago—it’s become quite the talk even in the foothills.” When one person lavishly praised Hannen’s scholarly talent and subsequent sincere attitude, as was typical of the indolent ones, faces tinged with mild jealousy turned slightly pale.

“That Hannen is holding lectures starting tomorrow in Yokawa’s Hage Valley—” he said, as though just remembering. “Right, right—I hear he’ll be lecturing on *Shōshikan* and *Ōjōyōshū*. But what could a youngster of twenty-two or three possibly have to say in front of the mountain’s venerable masters and learned scholars? It’ll be something to hear.”

“The learned scholars are spiteful—they pressed him with earnest requests, but isn’t their true aim to trip him up and pounce?” “That may well be.” “Ah, if so—it’ll make for fine entertainment.” As though a bell had clanged beside ears steeped in indolent slumber, the people burned with envy toward Hannen.

The following day, the entire monastic community came streaming into Hage Valley one after another in a steady procession. The lecture hall was packed to capacity with not even room to stand an awl. While young scholar-monks naturally formed the majority, among them could be seen the abbot of a subtemple and a distinguished monk, their white brows knitted tightly.

Before long, on the mat of the lecture platform, a young man spread his priestly robes and sat down. People momentarily mistook his sharp-shouldered, bluish-pale figure for something else, “Huh… Is that Hannen?” they muttered involuntarily, widening their eyes at his altered appearance. “He’s emaciated.” “Only his eyes are sharp, aren’t they?” “It seems he’s been ill.” Among the people in the audience, such whispers furtively flowed. However, Hannen’s lips alone were crimson, more so than anyone else’s. Then, after bowing once, he opened those lips and began to lecture on *Shōshikan* in a deliberate manner.

Two That day’s lecture by Hannen was rooted entirely in his own unique new interpretations born from personal anguish, its character markedly different from Buddhism that existed solely for adherence to traditional forms or academic study pursued merely for scholarly ends. Thus, to those nurtured by the teachings of past learned scholars and venerable masters, Hannen’s unfamiliar lectures rang each time like the voice of a heretic, while many dismissed his new theories as the pretentious scholarship of a young upstart.

Their attitude was one of scoffing “Hmph…” Among them, some clearly showed hostility, “When young people go off on a bit of study travel, this is exactly why we have problems,” a certain elder said mockingly.

However, the only one who listened earnestly throughout was Gonchibō. Gonchibō was a monk whom Archbishop Jien of Shōren-in, concerned about how today’s lecture would proceed, had specially sent up from the foothills to observe the situation. Alongside him stood another monk—unclear which cloister held his monastic affiliation—whose intimidatingly rugged and robust build drew attention. He had planted himself at the very front and, with a glare-like gaze, listened motionlessly to Hannen’s lecture until its conclusion.

The long day had ended, and a mist-like haze flowed into the lecture hall of Hage Valley. On the mountain folds that rose like walls around three sides of the hall, twilight shadows tinged purple as the sun began to set. Hannen concluded his lecture, which had lasted nearly half a day, “In a single short day, I cannot possibly discuss the essence of *Shōshikan*.” “Today, I will close this Dharma assembly and wish to delve deeper tomorrow.”

He bowed and descended from the platform.

Among the large crowd, there appeared to be several who resonated with his new exegesis,

“Venerable Hannen! “Even when night comes, it’s no trouble at all.” “I implore you to lecture on *Shōshikan* through to its conclusion,” implored some; others— “Today’s teachings differ entirely from the interpretations of past masters we’ve studied.” “We juniors are torn—should we adhere to traditional doctrines or follow Your Eminence’s theories?”—voiced their confusion; “In scholarship, one need not defer to elders or predecessors!” “Please continue!” “Attendants!” “Light the lamps!”

There were those making a commotion, but Hannen had already left his seat and stood on the veranda, wearing a thoroughly weary expression as he faced the evening mountain shadows and breathed. Then there as well, young scholar-monks immediately went and surrounded him, "In today's lecture, there was a part that doesn't quite sit right with me," "We humbly request you explain once more what your words there meant," they pressed, refusing to let him leave easily.

Having changed seats, Hannen provided flowing responses to each of their questions one by one, but before long, the lecture hall interior had grown so thoroughly dark that they could no longer see each other's faces.

Three

Shōzenbō had come to meet him.

“Master, before it gets too late...” He approached his side and urged him.

Taking that as his cue, Hannen made his way through the crowd and exited the lecture hall. The night air was chilly, making one feel the mountain’s majesty.

“Please wait a moment.” Shōzenbō lit a torch, stood ahead of where he was walking, and held up the light.

The torch emitted more smoke than flame, billowing ink-like into the air. The flickering mountain path would loom vividly before their eyes one moment, then vanish the next, plunging into darkness as deep as a valley.

"We are approaching the cliff path. Please stay as far left as possible while walking," Shōzenbō cautioned—then formally addressed him: "Master." "Though I listened to today's lecture from a distance, I considered it a most stirring and invaluable teaching. Yet among the whispers around us, there seemed no lack of envy and resentment." "I cannot help but fear that expressing such unvarnished truths might ultimately harm your own person."

“If speaking with raw sincerity is deemed wrong, then I would be unable to voice my own beliefs.” “They say, ‘When in a village, follow its customs.’” “After all, Mount Hiei has its own traditions—there are matters like the disposition of monks here and their academic customs…” “Are you telling me to conform to that?” “Though it may go against your nature—” “If I were to preach things that please the people here and be satisfied with that, why would Hannen have endured this suffering until today?” “Even if all things—jealousy, persecution, attacks—gather upon this single body, so long as Hannen stands in the lecture hall, he cannot engage in acts that shroud the Buddha in a cloak of deceit.” It was an uncharacteristically forceful tone. Shōzenbō, precisely because he knew the obviousness of it all, found no further words to say.

Beneath the darkness to the right, the Yokawa River roared, its flow echoing from the depths of the gloom. The torch flame occasionally broke into sparks resembling fireflies that flew down into the valley. When the cliff path ended, they emerged onto a slightly wide, flat area. To reach Ichijō-in, they had to circle yet another peak. However, when they stood there, the distant lights of Kyoto flickered into view, and the pale blue starry sky spread open, making the ground at their feet much brighter. “Halt!” Suddenly, from within the grass thicket, someone bellowed out. To both Hannen’s eyes and Shōzenbō’s eyes, five or six black figures clearly leaped out from the surrounding area.

“Who’s there?” Shōzenbō instinctively shielded Hannen’s body. The five or six monks who had gathered haphazardly were undoubtedly among those who had been in the lecture hall’s audience that day. Some carried rod-like objects, while others gripped swords. “You heretic!” one sneered. And then, all at once, “You insolent upstart Hannen, spouting heresies despite your youth—you cannot remain on this mountain! Either descend now or swear here before Buddha that your doctrines are false! Give your answer!” they threatened in a commanding voice.

Four Hannen stared directly at his opponent's face without moving a single eyebrow and smiled with his lips.

“My doctrine is my doctrine, and whether to accept or reject it lies in the hearts of those who listen. No matter what commands may be issued, a scholar cannot bend or alter their own doctrines in which they believe.” The calmly spoken words only served to further inflame the already furious emotions of the other party. “Very well! Then leave Mount Hiei! If you don’t leave, we’ll drag you out!” The monks rolled up their sleeves to their shoulders.

Hannen’s legs did not budge, as if rooted to the ground. "Why do you order me to leave the mountain? I have no recollection of being expelled from Mount Hiei." "Everything you spouted today in the lecture hall blasphemes the Buddhist teachings!" "Please specify how." "It needs no explanation." "Examine your own mind!" "You call yourself a Buddhist disciple yet lack true faith in Buddha!" "Yes—I refuse to worship Buddha as an idol. He too was human like us, bearing earthly desires and dwelling among mortals. That is how I revere him." "My lecture may have contained unfamiliar words for idol-worshippers like you. But these beliefs cannot be bent or changed at your command." Before Hannen finished speaking, a monk’s fist slammed violently into his shoulder—

“You greenhorn! You’re lumping Buddha together with humans!” “Teach him a lesson!” “Know the Buddha’s wrath!” Then another monk’s swung rod struck Hannen’s lower back with tremendous force. Shōzenbō had already grappled with two monks the moment violence erupted. The mountain monks here were even known by another name—warrior monks (sōhei)—and as they trained rigorously in martial arts to match samurai, even Shōzenbō found it no easy task to grapple with two of them.

Moreover, Hannen had no means to oppose them through physical strength. Shōzenbō seemed to be shouting “Escape! Escape!” while grappling over there, but Hannen did not flee. The four rough monks, facing Hannen who had sat down there, raised their legs to kick and swung their rods to strike him down while, “Impudent brat!” “You disrespectful wretch toward Buddha!” Shouting in unison, “Cripple him!”, their fury showed no signs of abating until they had beaten him half to death.

Then, from deep in the grass where he had been standing all along with arms crossed, looming there, the large man—perhaps having found the sight unbearable—seized his leather-wrapped greatsword at his side and dashed toward Hannen.

Five

The warrior monk was that man—unfamiliar to this mountain, around forty years old—who had sat at the very front of the dharma assembly throughout Hannen’s lengthy daytime lecture on *Shōshikan* in the lecture hall, his head bowed as if in constant slumber throughout. He dashed forward and barked, “Ruffian!” His voice resonated with extraordinary power as he raised an iron-like fist. “Those who commit violence upon this sacred mountain of Dharma are the true desecrators! The enemies of Buddha!” he declared. “Vanish swiftly, or Tayūbō Kakumyō shall show no mercy!” With this warning, he struck a man’s profile with force enough to shatter a cheekbone. The struck monk—

“Agh!” he cried, clutching his face as he stumbled over the cliff’s edge. The remaining ones, “You there! You don’t look like one of Mount Hiei’s own—what gutter-spawned beggar monk are you?” “How dare you strike a fellow monk!” Tachi swords and rod fragments descended upon him with storm-like ferocity. The man who had introduced himself as Tayūbō Kakumyō—perhaps finding it troublesome—drew the greatsword resembling a battlefield blade that lay at his waist, “You insects! “What filth you spew—!” With a whistling sound, the back of the blade rang out as it struck a monk’s nape. The severed rod fragment flew into the air, and two or three men tumbled away to the left and right.

Probably thinking it impossible, the monks fled while barking at each other like dogs, tails tucked. The one who had been grappling with Shōzenbō also, when their comrades cowered and began to flee, lost all courage and, abandoning him, vanished like a deer into the shadows from the very rear. “I do not know who you are…” Shōzenbō let out a rough breath from his shoulders, “...Thank you for saving us in our peril…”

“Are you injured anywhere?” “Yes.” Hannen also lowered his head and expressed his heartfelt gratitude. And then, by the starlight, as he looked up at the figure of the great monk—whose towering stature far exceeded his own and whose robust form seemed formidable—he thought he had seen him somewhere before.

Tayūbō Kakumyō continued to meticulously survey the clumps of grass and shade of trees around them, “What cowards these monks from unknown factions are! Academic matters ought to be refuted through scholarship—yet instead of debating in the public lecture hall, they resort to violence, ambushing Lord Hannen on the road with lawless acts! Such villains are unworthy of bearing the name of Buddhists! Who knows what further cowardly deeds they might attempt? I shall escort you to Ichijō-in.”

With that, he started walking ahead. In his footsteps and demeanor, there was a certain soldier-like strength,

“I am most obliged,” Hannen said while feeling reassured, accepting his kindness as he followed behind. Even so, the name Tayūbō Kakumyō was one he had never heard before—not on Mount Hiei nor in Nara—and he found himself wondering just who this man could be.

Six

Eventually, they arrived at Ichijō-in of Mudō-ji Temple. During that time, Tayūbō Kakumyō and Shōzenbō had conversed quite familiarly with Hannen leading the way, but when they reached Ichijō-in, “Please stay for as many days as you wish.” “Though Master’s quarters may seem quiet in that manner, he is by no means someone who would cause you any undue concern.” Shōzenbō persistently urged Kakumyō to stay.

Kakumyō, who originally had no particular lodging plans, appeared to consider the invitation fortuitous. "In that case," he said while untying his straw sandal cords, offered brief apologies to Hannen, and moved toward the inner quarters. The master and disciple had not yet completed their meal, and Kakumyō too seemed hungry. Shōzenbō carried an armload of firewood to the large hearth room and invited, "Though unworthy for a guest, this fireside may feel more welcoming. Please take a seat here."

Hannen soon arrived there too, and master, disciple, and guest all sat together to sip gruel. Kakumyō was thoroughly delighted by the unpretentious hospitality, “It’s been ages since I last slept under a roof,” he said. “Last night on a pagoda’s edge, the night before in a wayside shrine at the mountain’s foot—every night on cold floors alone. Thanks to you, tonight I finally feel human again.” Hannen offered a wry smile. “You seem lost in some struggle yourself. “I too sometimes stray from this mountain.”

“Nay,” Kakumyō waved his hand brusquely— “The Master’s confusion and this one’s own are quite different.” “For warriors like us, even to speak of such confusion would be presumptuous.” “We’re merely searching for a resting place for hearts worn ragged from being glutted with too much blood.” “You were referred to as a warrior, but if I may ask without offense—what is your true name?” “It’s rather shameful.” Kakumyō gazed up at the ceiling blackened by soot from the bonfire while wearing a disgruntled expression. And then,

“Now, that too is but a provisional name from my former life. In truth, I am the son of Unno Yukichika, Lord of Shinano.” “What?” Hannen involuntarily widened his eyes. “Then, you were Unno Michihiro-dono, who was both a Doctor of Letters at the Kangaku-in and held the position of Imperial Archivist?” “That Michihiro is indeed me.” “I joined Lord Kiso’s uprising, aiming to greatly expand my ambitions, but while Lord Yoshinaka was a brilliant man as a destroyer of eras, he was not a builder of a new one.” “Everything turned out contrary to our aspirations and culminated in the ruin you are aware of.” “I also considered that a man’s endeavors had already ended and once resolved to die, but somehow survived until the final battle, and now find myself thus left with this body that has no purpose left in the secular world.” With self-deprecation, Tayūbō Kakumyō said this and laughed.

Seven

The nighttime conversation at hearthside showed no sign of ending.

From the moment Tayūbō Kakumyō had heard Hannen’s lecture that day, he had been deeply convinced this was no ordinary monk. After further spending the night in conversation, he felt this man might be none other than the great pioneer who would become the light of this present world—a world lost in nihilism, turmoil, and darkness.

And so, the following day, Kakumyō once again presented himself before Hannen. “I have a request to make.” Hannen directed a soft gaze. Kakumyō found it strange—where within those maiden-like eyes could lie concealed the bold convictions that had poured forth in yesterday’s lecture hall? “This one humbly entreats to be counted among your disciples from this day forth—” “As my disciple…” “Then,” Kakumyō declared with force, “The self I have been until today—as I stated last night—was a defeated warrior adrift without living conviction. Now I wish to truly begin anew as a human being. If you would grant this request, Kakumyō shall consider today his first year of rebirth and resolve to follow in the wake of his Master’s steed along the path of great vows.”

“You are already a senior who has served as a Doctor of Letters at the Kangaku-in and whose accumulation of scholarly knowledge and worldly experience far surpasses that of this Hannen. What I fear is precisely that learning. Can you cast away all that you have been until now—your scholarship, wisdom, martial prowess—everything—and become a one-year-old infant truly born today?”

“I can—I intend to.” “If you can swear to that, then unworthy though I am, Hannen—being somewhat older than your one-year-old self—may guide you.” “Please, I beg of you.” Kakumyō vowed. Once, when he had joined Kiso Yoshinaka and aimed his arrows during the written exchange in the campaign against the Taira, “Kiyomori is the dregs of the Taira clan, the husks of the warrior houses.” Even Kakumyō—that spirited man who had once hurled insults to vent his frustrations—from the very next day cast off his half-monk, half-secular appearance to become a one-year-old Buddhist disciple, and toward Shōzenbō too,

He began addressing him as “Senior Brother” and took on the role of a samurai.

Kakumyō was not alone.

While the era embraced Minamoto no Yoritomo's resplendent accomplishments, it simultaneously expelled from society more defeated souls than triumphant ones. The Heike clan and their vassals—who met their end at Dan-no-ura—were counted among them. The Kiso retainers, who had spearheaded the campaign against them, likewise met ruin. Even Yoshitsune—he of glorious military exploits—was swiftly eradicated alongside his inner circle, vanishing from society's forefront. But—those who perished were not necessarily dead. It was the way of all living beings that as long as life persisted, they would struggle to survive somewhere. The Heike remnants, Kiso remnants, Yoshitsune remnants—though all their kin had vanished from public view—still drew breath somewhere, writhing in some form as they struggled toward rebirth.

Tayūbō Kakumyō, too, was one such person.

Eight

When new forces attempt to rise, the old forces inevitably unite to slander them.

“Did you hear Hannen’s lecture?” The eyes of the monastic community, sensing the new force in his voice, were seized by unease. “What does he speak of?” “Well, go hear for yourself once.”

The lecture hall in Hage Valley was filled day by day with the monastic community. Those unable to secure seats at the Dharma lectures stood along the veranda edges and outside the windows, listening only to his voice. As his lectures grew more fervent, the assembly too grew heated, and those being profoundly struck by inner reconsideration became clearly divided from those harboring unrelenting combative resentment toward Hannen. Of course, those who envied and hated him far outnumbered those who revered him. From the hostile faces of the majority rose a murderous aura, and when he proceeded to the lecture's crucial points,

“Heresy! Heresy!” they shouted, “Cease parading your eccentricities!” they jeered, and at times there were ruffians who stood up as if to charge the lectern. As Hannen always returned at dusk, Shōzenbō grew concerned for his master’s safety, “I implore you to conclude your lectures earlier,” he entreated. Hannen nodded, but when the lecture on *The Essentials of Cessation and Contemplation* ended, he promptly began a fresh exposition on *The Essentials of Rebirth in the Pure Land*.

“This is troubling.”

Shōzenbō was greatly dissatisfied. “Is your lecture more important, or is your well-being more important? Surely you understand such a simple matter. Yet I must question why you venture daily to Hage Valley, risking such danger.” “Moreover—not only does the majority of this mountain increasingly slander the Master’s quarters day by day—they even denounce you as an academic bandit trampling upon dharma texts established since Dengyō’s time with your personal interpretations! Is this not so?” “To continue your lectures now would be akin to pouring oil on flames and suffering in the fire yourself—or so I believe.”

He remonstrated with utmost earnestness. But Hannen— “Since there was the initial promise—” was all he would say, and instead of attempting to rebuke or persuade him, showed no sign of reconsidering or ceasing his lectures. At this juncture, what reassured Shōzenbō was that the newly ordained disciple Tayūbō Kakumyō—as if guarding Hannen’s person were his own mission—stationed himself by Hannen’s side and kept watch. Perhaps because of this, the commentary on the *Ōjōyōshū* was completed without incident, and Hannen spent until the following summer secluded within Ichijō-in—but when at last he heard autumn’s quiet footsteps,

“I will go to Kōfuku-ji,” he declared—and without taking Shōzenbō or Kakumyō, entirely alone, he descended from the cloud-wrapped heights and set out for Nara. His aspiration lay within Kōfuku-ji’s sutra repository. Having received permission and entered that great treasury’s darkness, Hannen began bathing his eyes in the voluminous Buddhist canon—neither seeing sun nor gazing upon moon—with but a single wick’s light beside him. The entire Buddhist canon—said to require five years for an ordinary person’s stamina to finish—Hannen read through in mere five months. He likely read not with eyes but with heart; when he emerged from that treasury’s gloom into this world—eyes blood-congested and raw-reddened, face wax-pale from sunless days—the world stood in midwinter’s depths: Kenkyū’s seventh year, with withered-leaf winds howling.

Chapter on Women

The Transience of Wind and Water

One

He believed he had grasped something and emerged from the darkness of the sutra repository into the light. Hannen's joy upon emerging into the world from within the Buddhist canon after five months was filled with profound knowledge and enlightenment, so immense it felt as though his ribs might burst. (I will no longer waver at anything.) He resolved. (I will not be defeated by anything anymore.) He planted his feet firmly.

And secretly in his heart, "I shall save this world." Taking Shakyamuni’s solemn vow as his own, he ascended snow-covered Mount Hiei for the third time. It is said that Buddha Shakyamuni Tathagata, having opened the eye of great enlightenment, descended from the Snowy Mountain. He, having strengthened his faith through new knowledge, boldly ascended toward the traditional dharma citadel.

What manner of mental and physical fortitude he possessed—Hannen did not die, as though he were immortal. Reduced to nothing but skin and bones, and on a snowy day when even the path to the foothills was blocked,

“Lord Hannen—he’s just returned—” Kakumyō and Shōzenbō welcomed his figure as he suddenly stood at Ichijō-in’s entrance,

They were so startled they could only gasp, “Ah…” From then on, Hannen had not a single day of what could be called rest. Awe-inspiring was his vajra resolve; he immersed himself that winter in studying the Kegon Sutra, not even indulging in conversations with Kakumyō and Shōzenbō by the fireside, warming their hands. Observing Hannen’s daily life, Kakumyō once found himself deeply moved, “I had thought staking one’s life was the work of samurai alone—but how could I have known? For a single common person to become what is called a monk demands something more blood-soaked than battle.” He bowed his head in heartfelt acknowledgment.

It was late May of the following year. From Naniwa to the vicinity of Kyoto, an unprecedented gale swept across the region. With the May rains at their height, the rivers overflowed into the capital, while around Naniwa, storm surges encroached upon the land, sweeping countless dwellings out to sea. After such events, drought would inevitably follow, and once an epidemic began to spread, villages and highways alike swiftly became filled with the groans of the sick. The capital suffered most severely. The authorities opened the Institution of Medicinal Charity, where physicians and high-ranking nobles administered medicines, while various temples performed prayers to expel the god of pestilence and pasted red talismans on every household’s entrance—yet these measures proved as ineffective as scattered raindrops against the drought.

Even the dogs became nothing but bones, staggering weakly as they walked. The town was littered with corpses of wayfarers who had fallen ill, dried out like kindling, while such inhumane people roamed unchecked, stripping clothes from those still breathing and stealing them away. Suddenly, a summons arrived, and Hannen descended Mount Hiei. On his way to the Imperial Palace, at every crossroads along the route, he witnessed numerous such gruesome sights. (Ah, who will save them from these sufferings?) Young Hannen’s vow seethed from the depths of his heart.

Two

What could this summons be for? Until arriving at the Nakatsukasa-shō ministry office, even Hannen had not understood the reason, but when he presented himself, unexpectedly, through an imperial report, came the edict: Hannen was appointed to the rank of Shōsōzu and assigned as Temple Lord of Shōkō-in in Higashiyama. On Mount Hiei, once again,

“Him, a *Shōsōzu*?” they affectedly whispered,

"To become temple lord of Shōkō-in at twenty-five is unprecedented… Connections must matter after all—without noble lineage, promotion comes slowly," they muttered enviously. In their eyes, rank stood as a monk's ultimate goal. If not that, then wielding influence. And they never neglected to confront both warrior houses and powerful clans. Who had petitioned the throne? Hannen seemed indifferent to all such matters. Neither praise nor censure held any value in his countenance. Yet even their ceaseless chatter had lately reached a point where they could no longer disregard recognition of Hannen's ascetic practices. When events occurred, they might buzz like cicadas about them for a season, but ultimately fell silent. In their hearts, Hannen's presence had grown so formidable that they felt awe bordering on dread—yet true to petty men's nature, being unable to voice this directly, they writhed in their own envy and frustration.

The following autumn, Hannen established a repository of the complete Buddhist canon at the West Pagoda on the mountain. (Without looking at others, should the disciples not study?)—as if to silently demonstrate this to the assembly. Speaking of silence, he carved two statues—one of Amida and one of Samantabhadra—during his spare time with unwavering focus. Upon completing them, he left these as mementos of his time residing at Mudō-ji Temple, and before long, relocated to Shōkō-in Temple in Higashiyama. Even after relocating to Higashiyama, his ceaseless religious vows showed no sign of waning. It was around that time that he undertook a seven-day retreat at Sannō Shrine; he would also occasionally ascend the mountain and sit through the night on the great floor of Konponchūdō Hall.

What brought him the greatest spiritual joy around that time was a day when he visited Shitennō-ji Temple and viewed in person Prince Shōtoku’s handwritten *Śrīmālādevī Siṃhanāda Sūtra* and *Lotus Sutra* preserved at the temple. Prince Shōtoku’s sacred works had always whipped his youthful heart into fervor. When Hannen first touched those authentic manuscripts, he recalled the white winter night at Kawachi’s Imperial Mausoleum. “You appear deeply invested in Prince Shōtoku’s sacred legacy,” “Please rest here awhile.” The elderly monk who had guided him through the temple treasures now casually invited him further inside. When Hannen proceeded to offer formal greetings, he discovered this was none other than Ryōshu Sōzu—the abbot of Shitennō-ji Temple and a revered master.

For Hannen, even just meeting this person was a beneficial day and a day of rare spiritual joy.

In this year, Yoritomo died in Kamakura. And Kajiwara Kagetoki was expelled from the capital and killed by soldiers on Suruga Road. The vicissitudes of the warrior houses were like raging waves. The great waters of the Dharma stagnate without being discharged.

In the second year of Shōji, Shōsōzu Hannen welcomed the early spring of his twenty-eighth year at the foothills of Higashiyama.

The Transgression of Winter Rain

One

With the arrival of this spring, it was exactly three years since he had assumed the position of Temple Lord at Shōkō-in. With both the status of Temple Lord and being attended by temple officials and retainers, Shōsōzu Hannen’s person could no longer remain as free as it once had been. At times reflecting,

"(Lately, I’ve grown somewhat like a nobleman)," he thought with chagrin when considering the opulent lifestyle at Shōkō-in Temple. "(I must not grow accustomed to this)," he resolved, fearing luxurious robes and rich foods, dreading the comfort of warmed night garments, apprehensive about reciting sutras by rote, terrified of becoming a mummy enshrined within an ornate pagoda. Yet as Temple Lord, there were temple affairs requiring oversight, official duties demanding attention, and audiences that must be granted—until gradually his life had become one no longer guided solely by his own will.

“The ox-drawn carriage is ready.” Kohata Minbu said with his hands pressed to the floor. Minbu was a temple official whom Hannen had employed upon becoming Temple Lord—a gentle man of forty-six or seven. Hannen had already prepared to go out. In his sunlit room where spring light streamed through, he sat upon a round cushion wearing a new surplice whose folds stood sharp as blades, prayer beads in hand. Though this was a sight they saw morning and evening, the temple officials and retainers would sometimes startle when they glimpsed him,

(Ah, such graceful beauty—) they would involuntarily avert their eyes. Indeed, Hannen of late differed from his former self—emaciated from ascetic rigors—now with plump lower cheeks and a slightly concave, large shaven pate at the back of his head that gleamed with a luster one might call intellectual beauty. Though by no means conventionally handsome, his eyebrows were thickly drawn with conviction, his phoenix eyes narrow, his gaze strong yet gentle, and his lips as red as if stained by vermilion. And perhaps from seldom venturing outdoors of late, his skin had grown as pale as a woman’s down to the backs of his hands.

Yet, his thick nasal bone and sturdy jawbone drew undeniably masculine lines. His shoulders formed broad, angular lines that seemed capable of bearing even a massive boulder without faltering; when he stood, his stature would likely exceed five shaku and five sun. Particularly striking was the thyroid at his throat, as large as a newborn infant’s fist. When this elegant and imposing figure stood within the high-ceilinged temple complex during morning service, the vast hall’s emptiness seemed filled to the brim.

The snide steward-monks from the minor temples whispered among themselves: “That magnificence of the Temple Lord—it must surely be what they call virginal beauty.” However, Shōzenbō—who had served his master since childhood—could not reconcile himself to this view. “He grows ever more like his mother Lady Yoshimitsu,” he found himself compelled to think. Yet those thick eyebrows that slashed across his face like ink strokes; that nasal bridge broad as a temple beam; that thyroid at his throat swelling like an infant’s fist—these bore no trace of maternal lineage. If one sought their origin in bloodlines coursing through time’s riverbed—there pulsed perhaps some vestige of Minamoto no Yoshiie himself.

“Well then, shall we go?” At Minbu’s summons, that figure now rose from the round cushion and went out to Shōkō-in Temple’s carriage porch. It was precisely the seventh day of the New Year’s pine-decorated period. Hannen had a woven-bamboo ox-drawn carriage prepared and was now thinking of going to Archbishop Jien of Shōren-in Temple to offer New Year’s greetings.

Two

As attendants, Shōzenbō and Kakumyō followed alongside the carriage as usual. Even the ox-tending boy wore new cloth hitatare. In Archbishop Jien’s quarters, three or four court nobles—likely New Year’s greeting guests as well—had gathered, and

"If the Temple Lord is here—" they said hurriedly, beginning to take their leave. Jien stopped them, "He is not one who requires reserve. Since it's the New Year, well—please take your time." Hannen followed the guidance,

“Is everything well?” he said from beneath the shutters.

“Certainly.” The archbishop was unchanging as ever.

Hannen, too, felt somehow at ease when he came there. Only when appearing before the archbishop did he realize that humans retain a childlike heart no matter how old they grow. The guest court nobles—"Ha—... You are the Temple Lord of Shōkō-in? You’re so young!"—exclaimed, their eyes widening in astonishment. "I had heard your esteemed name, but I had imagined you would be a man already approaching fifty." When another person let out a similar exclamation, the archbishop, from beside them,

“Hahaha! He remains exactly as you see him—still a mere child,” said the Archbishop. “To address the Temple Lord as a child—how improper!” protested a court noble. Hannen felt his teacher’s words had glimpsed his true nature. “Your words ring true, Master,” he replied humbly. The Archbishop, as was his custom, guided the conversation toward waka poetry. Then: “With this New Year gathering of distinguished faces, we cannot avoid composing verse.” “I hear Hannen has been secretly practicing his craft of late.” “All present here share this beloved art—” He clapped his hands, summoning an inkstone, poetry cards, and a writing desk. The guest nobles—

With expressions that seemed to say “What should we do?”, they exchanged looks of bewilderment. Yet these were faces always seen at Shōren-in’s poetry gatherings—men who held Fourth Rank, served as Chamberlains, or were sons of notable houses—so among court nobles there should have been hardly any lacking an appreciation for the art of poetry. What could they possibly be so flustered about? In any case, as they fidgeted incessantly and saw the poetry cards and inkstones being brought in, they furrowed their brows even more.

Jien showed no concern whatsoever. Since it was his beloved path, his face was already wholly absorbed in composing poetry.

“Might it not be better if we were to inform him outright?” “Then let me be the one.” “No—it should come from your own lips…” The court nobles, who had been whispering among themselves in low voices, finally steeled themselves and hesitantly began, “There is something we wish to bring to Your Eminence’s attention…”

Three “Hm? …What might that be?” “In truth, even this New Year, there are those here and there making disgraceful claims about Your Eminence.”

“In this world, praise and censure may attach themselves to anyone.” “Yet if left unaddressed, there is no telling what unforeseen calamity might befall us.” “Has Your Eminence heard nothing of this?” “I know nothing of it,” Jien replied with nonchalance, shaking his head.

Hannen edged closer from the side, “Honored guests,” he called out. “I am troubled by talk of Your Eminence’s impending misfortune—and what precisely do these rumors concern?” “It is indeed about the poetry.—This New Year, at the Imperial Palace’s poetry gathering commencement, His Majesty issued the theme of ‘love.’” “At that time, the poem Your Eminence composed was as follows,” the court noble intoned in a low, recitative voice. “My love— The pine in the winter shower—”

Unable to dye, In Makuzugahara The wind stirs.

“I see…” “And…” “People have a way of finding fault in the most unexpected places. We too, at that time, never imagined this poem of Your Eminence’s would become the seed of such clamorous disputes among courtiers and monastic communities.” “Hmm.” The Archbishop himself made a strange face, as though hearing this for the first time.

“Why is that?” he muttered. “To that end,” said another court noble, taking up the thread, “as for Your Eminence’s splendid poem, even His Majesty offered words of admiration, and from the ladies-in-waiting to the chamberlains, all praised it to the skies, saying, ‘Truly, the Archbishop is a master of elegant diversion.’ However, a faction of narrow-minded councilors and monks later began claiming that the Archbishop of Shōren-in was none other than a fraudulent monk deceiving the world—for while his ‘Pine in the Drizzle’ poem was undeniably masterful, they argued that a man of purity like him, who knew nothing of love let alone a woman’s touch, could never have composed such a love poem. Undoubtedly,” they declared, “the Archbishop of Shōren-in hypocritically postures as a lifelong celibate saint, yet in truth belongs to the sort who secretly steals perfumes into his sleeves to mask his breath—likely leaping over even Gion’s wanton courtesans’ garden walls! How vile! The decline of Buddhist Law and this so-called Age of Degenerate Dharma are inevitable when even high-ranking prelates behave thus—truly unavoidable, truly lamentable!”—so they arrogantly wag their slanderous tongues, spreading these rumors wherever they gather.”

Hannen listened as though being spoken of himself, his eyes made fearful. Having finished listening and drawn a relieved breath while wondering what unpleasant mood might be staining the Archbishop's countenance, when he stealthily looked, Jien—"Hahaha"—shook his shoulders and laughed.

Four “Strange criticisms indeed—to go so far as to discuss such things.” “Among them, there are even those who have submitted petitions to the government offices demanding that Your Eminence be exiled.”

“What an utterly astonishing world this is—in that case one cannot have poetry in life. Nor can one possess literature. If it is wrong for monks to compose love poems, then even the poets of the Manyoshu and Kokinshu must be condemned as apostate monks.” “However, they say Your Eminence’s ‘Shigure’ poem contains too much visceral realism—that a celibate monk who knows nothing of women could never compose such verse.”

“That’s absurd. “Even monks are human; if they see a beautiful woman, they will find her beautiful, and even in the winds of Makuzugahara, if blood stirs, they will think of love. “Moreover, the nobility of poetry and song lies in expressing human truth—with lies and pretense, they lack vitality.” With that, Jien dismissed the folly of public opinion with a laugh, but the courtier guest— “However, as they say—*the tongues of the many can melt metal*—so there is nothing better than caution for Your Eminence.”

“Let me say this plainly,” “In the first place, who decreed that monks must avert their eyes from women and avoid sitting beside wine cups?” “The Buddha never uttered such words.” “It is monks themselves—those lacking confidence in their faith—who propagate such notions.” “Moreover, it is what secular folk say—those who view monks as brocade-clad marionettes.” “We detest such constricting practices precisely because we trust in our own devotion.” “To give an example—though I cannot recall when—I once moored my ship at Murotsu and passed a night’s journey with a courtesan.” “The courtesan then—Hanenuri was her name, if memory serves—stood renowned in Murotsu. We spoke of ships coming and going at the harbor, those ephemeral ways of the floating world; I listened to tales of human sentiment from both masculine and feminine hearts, and answered Hanenuri’s inquiries into Buddhist doctrine. To this day I recall it as a most splendid night—yet never have I considered it sinful for a monk.” “The moon dwells in turbid waters yet remains unstained; where the heart is pure, no dust clings to the body. Moreover, discovering delight where none seems present—this constitutes the virtue of refined sensibility. Let slanderers slander as they will.”

Jien took up his brush and was already writing the waka that had formed in his mind with fluid strokes.

The courtiers, moved by the Archbishop’s words, entered a state of poetic immersion; before they knew it, such topics seemed to have slipped from their minds.

In due time, Hannen took his leave and returned to Shōkō-in Temple. However, today’s topic had strangely gnawed at his chest, whether in the ox-drawn carriage or in his bedchamber. And yet, he felt that the Archbishop’s words alone still fell short of providing a complete answer to society. Buddhism and women, monks and love—these were by no means a matter of a single waka poem. These past few days, Hannen had thought of nothing but that matter with feverish intensity. When confronted with an unsolvable problem, it was his habit never to forget it even in his sleep until he had unraveled it.

About ten days later.

A messenger from Shōren-in appeared. The message was from his teacher, the Archbishop, requesting his assistance and asking him to come.

Five

The Archbishop was waiting. As always, he was clear-headed and energetic. When he saw Hannen’s face as he arrived, “You’ve come.” “Actually, there is something I would like to ask of you,” he said, dismissing the attendants. “What matter is it?” Hannen, somehow sensing ripples of restlessness within Shōren-in—a movement within stillness, as it were—gazed at his teacher’s brow. “It’s nothing particular, but it may be that I will have to travel to a distant land for some time.” “And concerning the matters during my absence—I would like to ask for your assistance in any case.”

“I have received such a sudden request… But… to what land?” “I do not yet know to what land, but it seems certain that I must go.” “So that there will be no inconvenience whenever I return, I have prepared various notes on this.” “Entrusting the aftermath to you is, of course, the only option,” he said, taking out a document from his handbox and placing it before Hannen. “Understood.” Without asking a thing, Hannen concealed it in his robe. And, “As we dwell in this uncertain human world—as you have said—one cannot know when your departure may come, nor when unforeseen circumstances may arise. In any case, I shall take custody of it. Please, may you remain at ease in your heart at all times.”

“Indeed.” Jien was satisfied with Hannen’s words, which he felt as if reflecting his own heart in a mirror. “I leave it to you.”

“Yes.” “But please keep your heart open…” “Do not worry—I am a man who can find amusement wherever I am, such is the lingering virtue of refinement… Or rather, the sin of refinement! Hahaha!”

From the direction of the entrance came the incessant voices of visitors and the footsteps of attendants passing between the guest hall.

Hannen, fearing to overstay, took leave of his teacher's chambers. As he made his way along the corridor,

“Elder Brother.” When he looked, it was his younger brother Jin’u.

Jin’u wore a face filled with sorrow. As always, his eyes were weary from both the frailty of his sickly body and the strain of his kind, delicate nerves.

“—Are you leaving already?” “Well… How fares your health of late—” “I am well.” “That’s well. Offer up your sincere heart, take refuge in the Buddha, and serve the Archbishop.”

“Yes… Um, what sort of discussion took place just now at His Eminence’s chambers?” “Are you worried too?” “I cannot help but worry. “Not only myself, but all the other disciples and close associates have been crowding into the guest hall each day, holding discussions in that manner…” At his brother’s words, he glanced toward the temple’s western wing from where they stood. Indeed, in the distance over twenty people—the Archbishop’s relatives, poetry companions, and a motley gathering of clergy and laity—could be seen with faces as somber as at a vigil, whispering amongst themselves.

Six

Jin’u’s eyes welled up,

“In that gathering, His Eminence’s esteemed disciple—the young lord of Hanayashiki—is present.” “Oh, Lord Michitane is here as well?” “The others also wish to meet with you, Elder Brother, regarding certain matters they wish to discuss. Would you not return?” “I see.” Hannen hesitated in thought— “They say they wish to meet you.” “Will you grant them audience?” Jin’u eagerly stepped forward to guide him. The people in the guest hall

“It’s Lord Hannen of Shōkō-in Temple,” they whispered among themselves, their sorrowful brows gaining a faint strength. “As you are no doubt aware,” said Michitane of Hanayashiki, Jōgon—a disciple—and the Archbishop’s acquaintances as they surrounded Hannen on their knees, their voices hushed. “—This has become a dire situation.” “Might you have some wise counsel to offer?” they pressed. It concerned the Archbishop’s long-standing predicament. Neither Archbishop Jien nor his inner circle had imagined that a single waka poem would ignite such virulent public condemnation. They had initially laughed it off as trivial, yet the controversy soon spread beyond the imperial court to the monks of the Five Mountains, with demands for Jien’s expulsion blazing like wildfire. And,

"(Expel Shōren-in)"—and even more extreme demands such as, "(Send him into exile!)"—brandishing these condemnatory words while pressuring the authorities, scheming strategists moved covertly through both Buddhist circles and government offices, until even the imperial court reached a state where it could no longer let matters lie. Thus—proposing that they first have the Archbishop attend court, seat him before the imperial screen, conduct an inquiry with assembled nobles present, then pass judgment based on his responses—the court had repeatedly sent summonses to Shōren-in Temple during this period. Yet the Archbishop,

"(Throughout history, poetry has never been condemned as criminal. Moreover, its essence defies explanation to vulgar deliberations)," he declared, refusing to answer the summons to court. When envoys pressed him repeatedly, he at last shook his head obstinately.

"Claiming, 'Jien is bedridden with illness,' he secluded himself in his quarters." As the Archbishop—younger brother of the former Regent Kanezane—taking such a stance toward this unpleasant and irrational matter was only natural, and as a poet’s discernment, it was entirely justified. Yet because of this, the court’s disposition grew even more unfavorable, “Then, without further inquiry, they must present the proposal of exile to His Majesty,” grew louder and louder.

Had Fujiwara no Kanezane still held power as Regent in the imperial court, such a thing would never have occurred. But he had resigned his post two or three years prior and was now styled Zenkan while living in seclusion. In his absence, newly risen political factions that had come to power in the court allied with monk officials surrounding them, plotting to expel even his younger brother Archbishop Jien from Shōren-in Temple and install a monk from their own faction in his place.

“Leaving things as they are will only magnify the Archbishop’s guilt.” “Lord Hannen, could not Your Reverence go to the imperial court in place of your master and provide an explanation?”

Seven

The case was complex, with both overt and covert dimensions. The controversial waka poem served merely as a superficial rallying point for the opposition faction; beneath it lay far subtler machinations—monastic factions who found Archbishop Jien’s presence an impediment to their unfettered ambitions, and newly appointed Regent Fujiwara no Motomichi and Takatsukasa Udaijin, who sought to exploit Fujiwara no Kanezane’s retirement by purging established powers and securing complete control of the court through their own factional dominance. Thus, regarding this incident, Hannen held his own observations and critiques. Broadly speaking, he concurred with the Archbishop’s stance and resonated profoundly with the very substance of his resolve.

Just as I could not bend my teachings even when threatened and reviled by Mount Hiei’s monastic community, if the Archbishop were to cower before the courtiers’ insidious schemes and compromise his stance as a poet, it would be a desecration of poetry and a simultaneous abandonment of his very character. And so Hannen had prayed that his master would never bend justice even at the cost of exile, until now silently fortifying their shared resolve as teacher and disciple through wordless understanding. Yet seeing Jien’s disciples and poetry companions gathered in hushed anguish—their brows shadowed with care, their sighs pooling like incense smoke—pity softened his heart. Remembering too his aged master’s frailty, he found himself powerless to voice his convictions.

“We beseech you, Lord Hannen—in this situation, we have no other recourse but to rely on your strength.” Michitane of Hanayashiki said so, Jōgon said so, and all the others were of the same opinion. Hannen reluctantly,

“Well, I cannot say whether my efforts will suffice, but bearing the sincerity of all present, I shall attempt to attend court in my master’s stead,” he replied. On the very next day, a messenger arrived from Reizei Dainagon demanding that Jien attend court despite his illness. From his disciple Jōgon, “As I stated previously, the Archbishop remains indisposed. However, should his disciple Lord Hannen Shōnagon prove acceptable, we can arrange his attendance at any time,” he proposed a substitute. The messenger departed and,

“The imperial decree states there would be no objection even to a substitute,” he reported. And they set the date and time.

The day was bitterly cold, and a spring drizzle glistened. Having purified himself, Hannen attended court. Proceeding deep into the imperial palace gate corridor, "Shōkō-in Temple Lord Hannen Shōnagon, due to his teacher the Archbishop’s distress, having received the summons, has come forth as a substitute." The senior nobles handling the mediation,

“Please wait,” they said and withdrew into the hall of dignitaries. For the first time admitted even to the forbidden garden of the imperial palace, Hannen found himself awed by its divine purity and solemn atmosphere while simultaneously—on another plane—drawing his heart taut as a bowstring, resolved both to fulfill this day’s mission and to avoid bringing shame upon the Archbishop’s name.

Eight “Of what lineage is this monk envoy Hannen?” Regent Motomichi turned to Takatsukasa Udaijin and said. “Hmm?” Lord Takatsukasa turned once more toward Reizei Dainagon and, “Are you aware?” he inquired. “Then, that monk is said to be both the son of the late Kōgō Daijin Arinori and the adopted child of Hino Sanmi.”

“Hm?” “Is he Fujiwara no Arinori’s son?” Motomichi fell silent. In the minds of the court nobles, family names and lineage governed perception before any personal observation. Had he been born to an obscure house, they might have resolved to scorn him utterly. “I see—Arinori’s child.” Whispers flowed through the air. With the appointed hour set, the court nobles stood arrayed in formal robes, awaiting Hannen’s arrival at court.

Eventually, the mediation passed from one to the next until it reached the Regent. Motomichi once again reported the matter to those behind the imperial curtain. For an instant, the court nobles held their breath. In the distant lower seats, Hannen’s figure came into view. All at once, people’s eyes fixed upon it. The people gasped in surprise, (What insolence!) their faces stirring with disapproval.

"(What insolence!)" their faces flushed with agitation. For ordinarily, when first attending court, even from their distant lower seats, first-time attendees would tremble at the knees and bow their heads, utterly unable to meet the gazes of the seated court nobles—yet Hannen Shōnagon advanced without a trace of timidity. His ritual robe, starched stiff with the crisp folds of a fulling block’s strikes, was draped about him like crane wings. With eyes quietly turned toward the vassal lords flowing left and right from behind the imperial curtain, he took two or three steps forward to his seat.

The court nobles gasped because his figure appeared overwhelmingly large before them. No warrior or holy man—when viewed within this grand palace—had ever seemed so imposing; even Yoritomo himself would have appeared small. That Hannen, still merely a young monk, filled their vision so completely— it provoked such indignation in the court nobles that they deemed it insolent. Yet when they saw him quietly take his seat facing the throne and bow in reverence, their indignation vanished.

Etiquette lies not in form, but in heart. Truth radiated from Hannen’s demeanor. The Emperor too is a child of Buddha, and Buddha too is an infant of the Emperor. Buddha Shakyamuni himself, having crossed to this land and witnessed myriad Buddhist blossoms flourishing in Japan—this eastern realm of Dharma—must have united his heart with the Emperor’s august will; within the Emperor’s noble form too, Buddha’s heart must naturally reside as great compassion. Hannen—who had deeply nurtured within his heart’s soil the spirit of Prince Shōtoku, he who bestowed upon this nation its manifold imported philosophies and cultures—now advanced closer to the throne with these ever-present thoughts, his entire body steeped in profound emotion, unable for the longest time to raise his dazzling forehead.

Behind the imperial curtain, all was hushed, but Emperor Tsuchimikado too found himself nodding repeatedly in response to his sincere demeanor.

Nine

Eventually, Lord Takatsukasa “Envoy monk,” he called out. “Yes?”

Hannen raised his face. “Disciple—can you answer all matters in place of your teacher Jien?” “With my teacher’s heart—” “Indeed.” He nodded and slightly shifted his knees forward. “Then I ask: what state of mind could the Archbishop—a saint of unbroken vows—have been in to compose such an amorous love poem?” “Monks too are children of humanity, and thus—” “What?” At Hannen’s bold answer, the court nobles flushed, “Then—since even the Archbishop is a child of humanity—are you, disciple, claiming that fornication and falling in love are only natural?”

“I would not go so far as to say that.” “But did you not just state that even the Archbishop is a child of humanity?” “No saint or high priest—however exalted—can reach white-haired age with their innate heart unchanged, free from the five desires and earthly passions, unburdened by evil karma.” “Though the earth lies locked in deepest ice, when spring arrives, grass sprouts and flowers bloom wildly.” “Even should those flowers vow never to scatter through eternity, they must still become green leaves and turn to autumn.” “Can this be called the earth’s sin? It is the sun’s mighty power—the law of nature.”

“Such arguments cannot serve as justification—they only further substantiate the Archbishop’s guilt.”

“But—” Young blood flushed Hannen’s cheeks as red as spring itself. “But what is it?” “Shakyamuni saw how humans, indulging in the natural spring of their desires—drowning in the five passions, scorched by earthly afflictions—lose sight of the precious eternal Pure Land and writhe in the torments of hell, and He felt both pity and sorrow.” “Therefore, Amida Buddha first set forth the Five Precepts, and among their articles, He admonished against sensuality.” “The Archbishop who violated them is a fallen monk—he must be exiled and made an example to the Buddhist order.”

“The Archbishop’s person is innocent.” “That poem vividly sings of youthful human love—this too makes it clear.” “If someone had secretly accumulated sins of fornication and become sated with sensuality, they could not compose such youthful poetry at that advanced age.” “It is the body of the Archbishop, approaching the late autumn of human life.” “Yet the fact that such poetry can still be composed is proof of how the Archbishop retains a youthful heart even today, and to maintain such a body into old age, he must be one who has upheld pure celibacy.” “Moreover, if there were any shadowy conduct in His Grace’s own behavior that might invite such suspicion, why would he compose heart-wrenching love poems steeped in passion to recite before the assembled company at a poetry gathering?” “He would surely compose more saintly-seeming poems to deceive both his own heart and the eyes of others.”

Hannen calmly rebutted and dismissed. At the core of his words lay a heat that struck those who heard. He understood all too well—even compared to his present self—how agonizing monastic celibacy was and how precious it remained to him. He was less defending his teacher than shedding tears over the profound anguish of his own spiritual practice.

Ten

Amida Buddha imposed demands that were difficult for humans. That is the vow of the Five Precepts.

Among monastic practitioners seeking the Dharma, the precept they struggled and suffered with most was the prohibition against sensuality. To close one’s eyes to women was a feat difficult even for those born blind.

Until they accumulated years of practice by suppressing, suppressing the body's desires, most young monastics ended up breaking even this single precept. Moreover, those deemed saints or high priests—who overcame this most arduous practice—were, for the most part, individuals possessing physical strength and vital energy far surpassing ordinary people; thus, the hardship of their practice too exceeded that of ordinary people. It was akin to a jewel polished with a bloodstained heart with each passing moment and day. The more one polished it, the more their attachment grew; yet should it slip from their hands, a decade of practice and two decades of crystallization would shatter to dust, leaving their religious life in pursuit of the Dharma utterly obliterated.

How could someone like Archbishop Jien commit such folly? The Archbishop was already a jewel—a personality long transcended from the realms of clarity and anguish. Whether viewed from behind or from the side, he remained the very jewel of asceticism itself. His ethereal form of transcendence—as a poet meant living in joyous play under the principle of finding delight everywhere; as a monk meant having attained the Pure Land to guard the Dharma light through a life free from even a speck of defilement. No matter how one scrutinized the Archbishop’s surroundings through base worldly suspicions, it remained unthinkable that he might feel loneliness or misfortune for lacking anything beyond his current state. To those who still insisted on viewing such an Archbishop through conjectures untainted by impurity: let them try living and sleeping alongside him at Shōren-in Temple. However the Archbishop had navigated a life without women, there lingered not a trace of loneliness or artifice in it—one would surely recognize he appeared content exactly where he stood.

Hannen expounded in detail the meaning as described above to the assembled people.

And then, “Though a youth such as myself has presumptuously argued vehemently, for false rumors to fall upon my master is a matter this disciple finds mortifying. I humbly entreat that the radiant divine judgment and Your Excellencies’ esteemed discernment be bestowed upon us.” With that, he concluded his words.

People who had steeled themselves, assuming that a monk would surely resort to citing abstruse Buddhist scriptures or deceive them with clever-sounding Dharma phrases and incantations, were struck by his human words— (It seemed they perceived it as an honest defense,) and not only did no one attempt to interject during that interval, but the Archbishop’s character came to be thoroughly understood by all. His Majesty had Regent Motomichi summoned into the imperial curtain-dais and appeared to be giving some command. Motomichi withdrew,

“For Hannen—writing paper and an inkstone—” he ordered those nearby. On the paper stand were placed an inkstone and the imperial poem topic from His Majesty before Hannen.

Eleven When he composed and presented the imperial poem topic, this time the court nobles— "A poem on this topic," they issued one deliberately perplexing challenge after another. Hannen did not lay down his brush.

The court nobles,

“Ho…” they murmured in admiration at each poem,

"Indeed, if one possesses poetic talent, even a monk may compose freely on any matter," some now belatedly nodded in agreement. "Archbishop Jien has been blessed with an excellent disciple."

The eyes of the court nobles toward Hannen suddenly softened, and the censure of Jien was no longer pursued.

Having bowed to the imperial curtain, Hannen attempted to withdraw. Then,

“Wait a moment,” Motomichi said. From the court messenger, With the announcement of “An imperial bestowal,” a cypress-bark brown small robe was granted to Hannen.

Hannen withdrew from the imperial palace while weeping tears of gratitude for the imperial grace. Only after settling himself inside the ox-drawn carriage did his heart finally return to its usual state with a sigh of relief. He could feel cold sweat clinging to his undergarments.

Ah, that was perilous. He thought deeply.

What if he had failed today’s mission? Given the atmosphere among those court nobles, his mentor’s exile might very well have become a reality. Though monks were absolutely distinguished from laypeople through prohibitions against sensuality, food habits, and lifestyle forms, yet they existed within political regimes, wielded power in military forces, and there was no arena of prestigious positions or power struggles where monks were absent. In a monk’s life that could have been lived with just one straw hat and one staff, why did they seek—or get burdened with—such troublesome things as status and official ranks?

If that were absent, even the Dharma teachings might be somewhat purified. Even if they distinguished themselves solely through clothing, food, and women, if their fundamental way of life remained intertwined with politics, conspiracies, and military force, it would amount to nothing.

"But..." Hannen reflected on himself and could not help but feel ashamed of his own form. Had he not, without even realizing it, acquired a brocade kesa, the rank of Junior Prelate, and even the prestigious position of monzeki upon his own person?

And now, they could not be discarded—

Hannen’s heart—unable to deceive itself—burned to cast off the brocade kesa and rank immediately and return to his former ascetic pallet. “Will this self too become a Junior Prelate, then an Archbishop, then a Head Abbot—only to be vexed by petty men’s envy and nobles’ political strife, forced to end a life so rare to attain twice over, adorned in false brocade?” With hand pressed to cheek—calm as a lake yet with waves of fierce doubt churning turbidly in his heart—Junior Prelate Hannen sat deep in thought as the ox-drawn carriage’s beast, having successfully completed its mission, returned triumphantly to Shōren-in Temple’s gate.

Glistening Moonlit Night

One “That’s a fire!” Standing in the corridor, Kakumyō shaded his eyes.

The sky was hazily white. Perhaps due to the deep evening haze, though moonlight shone, the moon itself remained unseen.

“Hmm…” Shōzenbō furrowed his brows, “Around Gojō?”

“No—it must be across the river.” “Then—isn’t that near the residence where Master has gone?” “It may be some distance away, but I’m still uneasy.” “The Kamakura daimyōs visiting the capital and the regent’s retainers had gathered in one place and came requesting a Buddhist sermon from Master since evening, but…” “You there—why did you not remain waiting with the ox-drawn carriage?” “But the other party said that once night fell, they would have soldiers escort him back to Shōkō-in Temple, so I should return without worry—and Master also permitted me to leave, so—”

“If anything were to happen to Master, it would be disastrous,” Shōzenbō said. “I’ll go fetch him.” “No—I’ll go,” Kakumyō countered. As he started to dash out,

“Kakumyō, Kakumyō—since Lord Minbu, the temple official, is not here tonight, you stay and keep watch.” Shōzenbō had already exited from the direction of the priests’ quarters. As he approached the town, dogs barked incessantly on the main street. Yet though he had rushed here guided by the red glow in the sky, before reaching the Kamo River’s banks, the fire’s color had vanished, leaving the sky beyond murky and dark.

Scatteredly from the crossroads emerged townspeople. “Commoners—has the fire been extinguished?” “Yes, milord—it appears put out.” “Where was it?” “In Rokujō—a certain shirabyōshi dancer’s house and four or five others burned down.” “Ah—a shirabyōshi dancer’s house.” “Then—no noble residences nearby?” “In former times perhaps—but nowadays that area’s inhabited only by courtesans and shirabyōshi dancers.” Well—that’s a relief. Though eased, Shōzenbō still felt vague unease trusting only commoners’ words. Judging his master’s sermon must have concluded by now, he ceased running and continued walking north across Gojō Bridge.

North of the bridge was crowded as expected. The lingering gawkers stared at the smoldering remains of the pleasure district. “Another bandit raid?” “Seems so,” someone answered. “He got drunk and rowdy, but when they refused him service, he came back with his gang. Set the place ablaze right before everyone’s eyes and ran off.” “Why didn’t witnesses douse the flames or shout for help?” “Do that and you’d get carved up on the spot! Even Kamakura magistrates can’t lay hands on that one—slippery as mist in the wind.”

Exchanging such rumors, they shuddered in fear.

Two

That night, the samurai residence where Hannen had been invited to deliver a Buddhist sermon was quite distant from the Rokujō pleasure district where the fire had occurred. Nevertheless, when Shōzenbō arrived breathlessly, he found rows of tall lanterns lined up at the gate, with numerous samurai and horses bearing saddles of the Rokuhara forces crowding like a market as they neighed and jostled one another, each entering the entrance in turn to offer condolences for the fire.

The people who had gathered for the Buddhist sermon had likely mostly returned home upon hearing about the fire. Shōzenbō was wandering through the crowd when he approached a samurai who appeared to be a house retainer, “Excuse me,” he said, bowing. “Where might the Lord of Shōkō-in Temple, who had graced this evening’s Buddhist assembly, be at present?”

“The Lord?….” “Ah—if it’s that lord, he has just returned.” “Ah, then—has he already returned to the temple?” “He was just summoned by the manor’s ox-drawn carriage.” “And his attendants…?” “The retainers were meant to have two or three accompany him, but with this ill-timed fire, we couldn’t provide a proper escort—most regrettable.” “Are you from Shōkō-in?” “Yes.” “If you hurry, you might still catch them.” “Please make sure to convey our deepest apologies.” Shōzenbō returned to the streets and ran while watching for ox-carriage shadows. But whether they had missed each other somewhere—he encountered nothing at Gojō, nor Nishinotōin, nor even Nishiōji.

As soon as he returned to Shōkō-in Temple,

“Kakumyō, has the Master returned?” “No… Did you not return with him as an attendant?” Shōzenbō hurriedly related the state of the town and the message from where he had gone, “I came running, but even so, I thought the Master would have arrived first by now…” “That’s unsettling.” Kakumyō, sticking his face out from inside the room and looking up at the sky,

“He’s late.” “Hmm… Even if it’s an ox-drawn carriage…”

"I have a bad feeling," Kakumyō muttered as he withdrew further inside. He reappeared fastening his long sword's leather cord to his sturdy waist and thrust his feet into the nearest pair of geta.

"Let's go check," he said as he passed through the temple gate. Watching Kakumyō's retreating figure, Shōzenbō wondered if Musashibō Benkei - Yoshitsune's retainer who was said to have once dwelled at the West Pagoda of Mount Hiei - might have carried himself with such a bearing.

Step by step from beneath the trees of Higashiyama, the two kept thinking they might soon hear the creak of ox-drawn carriages or see torchlight approaching from afar, but even after reaching Gion, they had not encountered a single carriage belonging to others. “Suspicious?”

“Since he was summoned via ox-drawn carriage, this main road would be the only possible route.” As they stood surveying the tree-lined crossroads, something cold dripped from pine boughs onto their collars.

Three

Despite Shōzenbō and Kakumyō searching with bloodshot eyes until deep into the night, they could neither find their master’s ox-drawn carriage nor see any trace of his return to the temple—for an unforeseen accident and circumstances had awaited Hannen on his homeward journey. ……… Rokujō still burned fiercely. Three Kamakura retainers accompanied the ox-drawn carriage—each holding smoldering torches at both flanks and rear— “Make way! Make way!” The carriage bearing Hannen back to Shōkō-in Temple forced through gawkers rushing toward the flames, commoners fleeing in panic, women and children—crossing Gojō Bridge eastward.

Though separated by the river, even speaking of fire—before Rokuhara, soldiers were stationed at its four gates, keeping a sharp watch on all comings and goings.

Barely pushing through there and arriving at Nishinotōin Crossroads, they encountered a minor samurai wearing armor too crude for a Kamakura retainer— “Halt!” A spear suddenly thrust from the darkness. The accompanying retainers responded without hesitation, “We bear no ill intent—this man serves Doi Kanesue, kin to Lord Yoriie. We escort Lord Hannen Shōnagon of Shōkō-in Temple, whom we invited to tonight’s sermon, under our master’s orders.” The crossroads guard pressed, “Lord Hannen Shōnagon, you say?”

“So it’s Lord Hannen Shōnagon…” he pressed. “In that case,” they answered plainly.

“It’s my duty—” Briskly approaching the ox-drawn carriage, he rudely peered inside the curtained interior, “You may pass,” he permitted. After bowing politely and attempting to proceed straight ahead, they were once again called to a halt.

“Ah, go this way,” he said, pointing westward. When they explained that this would make for a detour, the minor samurai stated that on one of the main roads tonight there were suspicious individuals who had sneaked into the magistrate’s residence to commit banditry—with pursuers now patrolling—and that if they were deemed suspicious, they might face calamity; thus he was cautioning them out of kindness.

“If you’re aware of that, then however you choose to proceed is none of my concern,” he scoffed. Unable to advance despite the crossroads guard’s unnecessary admonition, they sought Hannen’s counsel, “Though it be distant, let us take the detour. Should we encounter narrow paths impassable to wheels, dismounting to walk would pose no hardship.” “Then, ox driver.” “Yes.” “Make haste.” He directed them to turn westward and proceed.

After seeing off the ox-drawn carriage and its torchlight, he let out a vulgar laugh and stuck out his tongue. Then, from the shadows along the tree-lined path, “Ahahaha!”

Suddenly, a crowd erupted in uproarious laughter, and strange figures emerged one after another, surrounding the fake official and clapping him on the shoulder. “Seriously, Umeiya—your fake voice and mannerisms are, no matter how you look at ’em, the real deal of a petty official. So funny, so funny—I nearly burst out laughing, you clown!” said one of them, pulling his thin ear in mock praise.

Four He was a tall man with a black cloth wound repeatedly around his face. A long leather-bound field sword - one befitting its name - lay slung across his waist as he came racing like the wind from Gojō Bridge’s direction. But spotting the group loitering and laughing at the crossroads ahead, he strode toward them. "You fools! What are you doing standing there cackling like idiots?"

“Oh! Boss?” “Get into the shade of the tree-lined path. Even without that, the arson in Rokujō’s being blamed on Amagi Shirō—rumors about us’re closing in faster than flames.” “Well, ’til just now, we were hidin’ behind those trees waitin’ for you, Boss. Then someone got bored an’ stopped a passin’ monk’s ox-carriage, playin’ Rokuhara officials. Made some fella tryin’ t’head south take a west detour instead. Got everyone riled up cheerin’—that’s how ’twas.”

“You idiots! You’re just amusing yourselves with petty tricks!” “If you’re going to play these games, think grander! Harbor more insatiable desires!” “Outlaws’ lives burn like those flames—blazing madly at the wind’s whim! Without distinguishing good from evil, they snatch worldly things into greed’s smoke and perish swiftly!” “Whether you waste your lives on petty tricks or build towers of greed and sin—it’s all the same in the end—” Both his imposing frame and silver tongue confirmed this man as none other than Kizoku Shiro—the Amagi brigand feared by Kyoto’s people like a demon incarnate.

Shirō delivered this harangue to his subordinates and immediately muttered, “No—this is no time for that.” Peering down Nishinotōin’s broad white avenue, he continued: “They’ll be catching up soon… We need finalize plans. Kumota—your puny frame’s good for staying unnoticed. Get to Gojō’s edge and shadow that mother-of-pearl palanquin with palm-fiber designs on its shafts when it comes.—The rest of you hunch along both tree lines, trailing that litter without raising suspicion.” He gripped his sword hilt. “When my whistle cuts air, swarm it from all sides—grab whoever’s inside and haul ’em straight to Yodo Embankment. No dawdling.”

“What’s this ‘person inside’ nonsense?” “You’ll see later—it’s a prize I snatched near the fire tonight. Never dreamed I’d find such treasure.” “Hah! If it’s your catch, Boss, must be some beauty.” “Wipe that grin off your face. After you’ve had your fun, haul her to Muro Port—she’ll fetch top coin. This one’s highborn—fresh as dawn dew, a Tang poem come alive with golden pins and rosy cheeks. Don’t screw this up.” Shirō finished issuing commands,

“Where’s Kumota?” he asked, looking around.

Then, from amidst the group emerged a bulbous-headed man of dreadfully short stature. “I’m here,” he said, standing and looking up at Shirō’s face.

Five

Having received Shirō's command, Kumota's small shadow dashed off toward Gojōguchi, and before long the other subordinates too were drawn into the darkness of the trees lining both sides of the path as if sucked in. Alone—only Shirō remained standing at the crossroads.

As the smoke from the fire thinned and the clamor of the world subsided, the hazy moonlight blurred the late night into a sheet of mica-like shimmer.

Before long—indeed, shortly after—from Gojōguchi along Nishinotōin ōji, the faint *creak, creak* of wheels quietly grated against the damp earth. (Here it comes.) And there Shirō stood at the crossroads, arms folded as if aware yet oblivious—until, unmistakably, the single lacquered palanquin he had earlier spotted amid the clamor of waiting for the fire to die down near Suzaku now approached, guarded by about ten retainers waving torches, and started to turn west at the intersection of the main road.

Then, there stood Amagi Shirō like a stone Buddha, arms folded. “Hey!” The ox driver called out. Since he still did not move, the kuge samurai who was beside the palanquin— “Step aside!” When scolded, Shirō turned his face as if noticing for the first time, squinting at the torch that blazed red against his features.

“Ah, my apologies.” “Why stand obstructing this broad thoroughfare where none pass? You vacant-eyed fool.” “In truth, I am a country samurai who arrived in the capital this very night from Kantō province. Having lost my way, I stood here bemused in contemplation.” “Away! Away!”

“Yes, I shall move aside, but might I humbly inquire about something?” said Shirō, taking two or three steps closer to one of the kuge samurai and bowing his head. “By which path might one properly proceed to Toba?” As the samurai casually pointed out the direction and began explaining, Shirō abruptly seized the small box hanging from the man’s chest by its leather cord and wrenched it free. “What—how dare you?!” the samurai cried—but by then, Shirō himself had already leapt nine feet back from the palanquin and stood gazing at them,

“If you want it, come and take it!” he taunted, brandishing the box. The retainers stood aghast, “You fool! That contains precious aloeswood Her Highness the Princess received from a certain dignitary at today’s banquet at the Imperial Palace! Should base servants lay hands on it, divine punishment will strike! Return it! Return it!” “Hahahaha! Not a single bolt of punishment strikes—how curious!” “Damn you!” Torches flew— Amidst a shower of sparks, Shirō broke into a run. He dashed off while whistling. Unaware of the evil scheming afoot, the samurai abandoned the palanquin and gave chase to him alone.

Six Having lured the retainers—their eyes wide with alarm—to an optimal location, Shirō—

“Alright!” he said to himself and came to a halt. And then, the small box of precious wood— “This’ll fetch some coin too,” he said, hanging the leather cord around his neck before deliberately gripping the hilt of his long field sword with his left hand and glaring at those who had pursued him. “You bastards—do you not value your lives? Who do you think I am? There shouldn’t be a soul who doesn’t know Kizoku Shirō of Amagi—but for those who don’t know their place, I’ll show you exactly what kind of man I am. Nozomi! Get out here, you bastard!”

When they heard the name Amagi Shirō, the people recoiled as if startled, their knees buckling— “Shut up! The Kamakura office is right there!” “If you keep shouting, the officials will swarm every crossroads in no time!” “Return that precious wood while you still can see where you’re stepping—it’s an important item for Her Highness!” “Bwahaha! If you fear officials, how can you walk the land as an outlaw?” “You fools!” “Go ahead and call them! If they hear ‘Amagi Shirō,’ it’ll be the officials who turn tail and run!”

“You’re spouting nonsense, you bastard!” As the ten men, emboldened by their numbers, drew their blades in unison and charged to strike, Shirō—as though seizing upon a task he relished—swept his field sword from its sheath and unleashed his innate cruelty like a demon king. Two or three who had failed to escape lay sprawled out, letting out unnatural cries. At that very moment, from the vicinity of the palanquin they had abandoned two *chō* behind, came a scream unmistakably belonging to the princess—a sound like silk being torn. The samurai were likely flustered by that as well, and seemingly having lost their courage in the face of Shirō’s rampant ferocity, fled with their feet scarcely touching the ground.

Using the corpse's clothing, he vigorously wiped the blood from his sword, then Shirō raised both fists high into the air as if loosening stiff shoulders, "Hahahaha!" He laughed alone, as though something were amusing him.

Then, from there, a small man who resembled a kappa-headed dwarf came running up, “Boss.” “Spider, what happened?” “It went well.”

“The woman?”

“We’re carrying her on our backs,” said Kumota. “Since we mustn’t meet anyone on this road, we’re running along the farm path behind the tree line.” “I see,” Shirō replied, leaping over an embankment in one bound. When he looked toward the fields, a cluster of figures—shoulders pressed together like palanquin bearers—came dashing between the embankment and cultivated plots, exactly as Kumota had described. Without a word, Shirō broke into a run. Kumota followed. After covering four or five *chō*, they finally paused to catch their breath, relief washing over them.

“Hey, put her down for a moment,” said Shirō. On the dew-laden grass, the face of the still-youthful princess—her lush black hair and flowing five-layered robes spread about her—was gently laid sideways.

“Poor thing—mustn’t let her get chilled by the night dew. Put the woman’s head on my lap,” said Shirō as he settled himself in the embankment’s shadow.

Seven “Be careful not to let her body bump into anything.” Having placed the princess’s face on his lap, Shirō gazed at her countenance—translucent as lapis lazuli—and at lips unmoving like red plum blossoms devoid of breath as he spoke. “I won’t be rough.” The underlings huddled together, staring intently at her face. While standing dazedly struck—as though beholding the pinnacle of feminine beauty in her deathlike, motionless brows and the nobility enshrouded in five-layered robes—

"Hmm... Truly remarkable." "She has an air of nobility." "Indeed refined. Women of proper lineage truly possess something extraordinary." Shirō, satisfied, "How about my discerning eye?" While running his fingers through the disheveled black hair cascading over the princess's forehead, "There should be water in those fields yonder. Find something to scoop it up with." "Wouldn't it be wiser to keep her unconscious until we board the boat at Yodo? If we do this half-heartedly and revive her with water, she'll start shrieking and wailing again."

“However, it’s quite a way to Yodo. If she dies along the way, it’d be a waste. I want to see her cry at least once. Just give her some water out of concern.” “You’re too soft, Boss.” When one went to fetch water, during that time, Shirō— “Being lenient with women is a man’s virtue—what can a man who isn’t even lenient with women achieve? Among men’s drives, the greatest one—others may not know it—is women, I say.” “Whether it be Taira no Kiyomori or Minamoto no Yoritomo, had they despised women, they would never have conceived the ambition to seize the realm.” “As proof—when those men took power, the very first thing they did was lay hands on the women they desired. I may be an uncrowned general, but instead of aspiring to sit above the realm’s lords, I will most certainly obtain any woman I fix my sights on.” At that moment, a man who had scooped water using a fragment of earthenware arrived,

“Boss, the water.” “Force her mouth open and make her drink.” The princess moaned faintly, opened her star-like eyes, and gazed around at the terrifying men surrounding her as though beholding a nightmare. “She’s alive.” When Shirō muttered this, his underlings doubled over with laughter, clutching their stomachs. That sound must have startled the princess back to consciousness like a heavenly tempest or demonic clamor blown down from between the clouds. The princess let out a shriek—a scream from the depths of her soul—pushed Shirō’s shoulder aside, and started to run.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Shirō grabbed the hem of her robe, “Princess, you must resign yourself now. Calm down and listen to me.” “Someone—please come!” The princess trembled as she wept. Her black hair streamed in the wind, veiling her face like a bamboo blind.

Eight

A short while before that, two figures turned from below Kiyomizuzaka toward Matsubara and then crossed further through the fields from Midōdō’s forest.

The two—Shōzenbō and Kakumyō—wandered anxiously, concerned for their master Hannen's return path. "Kakumyō, isn't that it over there?" "Where?" "The ridge path over there." "Oh, indeed." "That appears to be torchlight." As they hurried through the fields, they found an ox-drawn carriage accompanied by three or four retainers heading westward. Yet the lost travelers' uncertain steps paused intermittently, their anxious faces betraying desperate deliberation over direction as though they had strayed from the path.

“Pardon me, but—” When Kakumyō unexpectedly called out like this, all eyes near the carriage turned toward him in unison. “What?!” they snapped sharply in Kamakura dialect. “Might the occupant of this carriage be the Lord of Shōkō-in Temple?” From behind the curtain came Hannen’s voice: “Oh.” “Master.” Shōzenbō rushed to the carriage side and recounted their search through the night—the fire’s commotion, their fruitless scouring of every likely path. “Why deviate from your usual route? Had we combed these fields until dawn, we’d never have found you here.”

“Well, it seems there’s been some disturbance at Rokuhara, and the Higashi Ōji main road from Nishinotōin has been closed to traffic…,” answered the retainer who had escorted them. Shōzenbō furrowed his brow suspiciously, “Hmm, but I traversed that main road back and forth numerous times just moments ago in search of Master’s quarters, yet there was no sign of any such disturbance.” “However, officials were clearly standing at the crossroads and told us so, so we had no choice but to come out from the tree-lined path onto this ridge path. But being unfamiliar with the way, we couldn’t figure it out at all and were at our wits’ end when your disciples appeared and saved us.”

“You’ve had quite the ordeal,” Kakumyō added his gratitude in unison, “From here onward, we two shall escort [you] back to return to the temple; pray take your leave.”

“Then, please continue using the ox-drawn carriage as it is.” “We shall return it tomorrow.” “No, we will send a servant to retrieve it. Then, pray take your leave.” The Kamakura retainers who had escorted them departed from there with the ox driver in tow. Having stopped the ox-drawn carriage in the misty field, the master and disciples exchanged rumors about the evening’s fire and details of the Buddhist lecture, lingering for a time to bask absently in the spring night’s stillness—until Kakumyō seized the ox’s reins and,

“Senior Brother, shouldn’t we be going now?” “Shall we go? —Perhaps this sudden relief has left me utterly composed.” “I’ll take the ox’s reins.” “No—I’m the one accustomed to this.” Kakumyō had already walked ahead. Next came the heavy roll of wheel tracks soiled by night dew. After retracing their path some three or four *chō*, just as the tree-lined entrance seemed to loom in the distance, Kakumyō halted mid-stride with an expression like one listening to empty air.

Nine “...Is it my ears?” Kakumyō muttered. “What’s that?” Shōzenbō also stopped.

Then, unmistakably this time, through the hazy expanse of night over fields or plains, a woman’s voice—shrill as a flute’s cry—echoed into the distance.

“Ah...” In the carriage compartment, Hannen raised the curtain and gazed into the distance. It seemed his eyes had caught sight of something,

“How pitiable…” he said. “And,” “Is that yet another village woman’s weeping voice being carried off by wicked men? Though the world appears settled under the Kamakura lord’s reign, governance scarcely reaches the people. Still, evildoers run rampant while good folk suffer oppression.” He spoke with furrowed brow and lamenting tone—but in that instant, Kakumyō threw the reins onto the ox’s back and—

“I’ll go rescue them!” Kakumyō immediately ran off. Shōzenbō stood watching for a while, anxious about leaving his master’s side and concerned for Kakumyō fighting alone—but his companion’s figure, having vanished into the haze, showed no sign of returning easily. “Saving lives is commendable, but Kakumyō acts with such reckless valor that he might slaughter a thousand to rescue one. Shōzenbō, go and keep watch over him.” Hannen spoke these words from within the carriage, perhaps himself feeling uneasy.

“Then, I shall leave you alone for a while.” Having said this, his body was as swift as an arrow released from a bowstring. Leaping over the stream flowing along the base of the embankment, he ran at full speed through the field where winter grasses still tangled around his feet. As he advanced, the sounds of curses and clashing blades grew unmistakably clear. Crouching low to peer through the pearlescent gloom of the mica-bright moonlit night, he saw Kakumyō Hōshi standing alone against roughly fourteen or fifteen demonic figures, all howling in unison as they assailed him.

"I’ve come to assist, Kakumyō!" Shōzenbō called out as he drew near, thrusting himself forward to push into the midst of the villains. But at that moment, a man who had been observing from the side suddenly darted from the base of a lone cedar in the field, spreading his arms before him and rendering him unable to aid Kakumyō.

“Are you also one of the bandits?” When he clenched his fist and swung a blow straight at the figure standing before him, his opponent nimbly dodged while— “You’re Shōzenbō, aren’t you?” “Hah!” “You haven’t forgotten Amagi Shirō, have you?” “Oh, how could I forget? With *you* involved, it becomes all the more unforgivable!” “If you interfere—pity though it is—you’ll lose your life. Unlike usual, tonight’s job concerns a crucial prize.” Looking, he saw the princess they had carried here bound securely at the base of a lone cedar tree. A gag had been fastened over her face to prevent any sound.

Ten The back that stands upon justice is supported by Buddhas and deities. "Namu!" Shōzenbō charged forward like a warrior. Though he didn't know which court lady she was, he couldn't let her become this villain's prey. Even now, seeing the true identity of Amagi Shirō—the Pure Land bandit who committed evil deeds while ravaging Kyoto and the Kinai region—and witnessing the victim's grievous state, wondering if she was to be made his sacrifice, his anger blazed all the more fiercely, "Namu!" As he tried to grapple and bring him down, Shirō too swelled his entire body with rage,

“Grah!” “Namu!” “Grah!” As their full strength clashed against each other, even the divine aid of Buddhas and deities seemed powerless to overcome this demon’s wicked fortune. The instant he cried “Ah—,” Shōzenbō’s body was slammed into the ground as though driven into the earth. Shirō immediately lunged at him, “How’s that, you bastard?” Mounting him, straddling his body, drawing a short sword, and pointing the blade— “I’ll send you straight to the Western Pure Land you’ve always longed for.” At the moment Shōzenbō resigned himself to having already been stabbed, Tayūbō Kakumyō—who had scattered the many foes before him with his lone strength like spiderlings—suddenly turned around.

“Damn you!” What he threw was the metal-ringed oak club he had taken from a bandit’s underling and had been using to punish the bandits.

Had it struck, Shirō’s skull would have been shattered to pieces, but Shirō jerked his head forward with a start. The club whirred deeply as it passed over his back. At the same time as Shōzenbō raised his leg and kicked him upward from below, and Kakumyō rushed in to deliver a powerful kick to Shirō’s shoulder, these three actions occurred in the span of a single hair’s breadth. While letting out a loud utterance akin to “Damn it!”, Shirō’s body separated from Shōzenbō and rolled like a hatchling turtle—but he was no ordinary man who would merely leap up or claw at the dirt from there. When kicked down, he added his own stubbornness to the momentum and tumbled over and over until he had rolled four or five ken ahead, then sprang up nimbly,

“Hey! Hannen’s disciples!” he said, glaring this way. “You dare interfere! Don’t forget this.” With a voice brimming with curses, he spat these words, and like a sorcerer forming seals to vanish into mist, the shadow raced toward the edge of the field swift as the wind.

Eleven “My lady, you need not worry any longer.”

“We are from Shōkō-in Temple. Your attendants are also here—how have you been summoned?”

“I shall carry you. Cling to my back.” Whether these words of effort from the two men even reached the princess’s ears clearly, she—her spirit spent—merely trembled violently and clung to Kakumyō’s back when she saw it turned toward her. The two returned to their master’s ox-drawn carriage, “I apologize for the delay.” “As expected—had we not come, a woman would have become that evil man’s sacrifice.” Hannen leaned out from the carriage,

“Who might you be?” “I have not yet inquired.” “Does she not have attendants?” “They might be present… but I do not see them.” “I wonder how far we must turn back. They cannot carry her all the way. I shall alight from the carriage.” “Master, will you walk?” “Hmm…” By now, Lord Hannen had already stepped down. The princess, even beneath her utterly exhausted consciousness, appeared to be restraining herself somehow, but when she was transferred from Kakumyō’s back into the carriage, she seemed to feel true relief for the first time,

“I offer my deepest gratitude,” she said faintly, and then,

“If we proceed to the tree-lined street of Nishinotōin, there should be a palanquin and attendants… I shall gratefully accept your kind offer.” “Do not trouble yourself.”

The ox-drawn carriage had already begun to move. Hannen seemed to have been caught in some reverie, for he appeared startled when the carriage started moving. Then he began walking alongside it. Yet when they reached the tree-lined street the princess had mentioned, none of her attendants were present. A single lacquered palanquin lay tilted by the roadside, one wheel sunk into the adjacent stream.

“I don’t see anyone here.” “My lady, where might your residence be? Our Master suggests that we escort you to your gate while we are on our way.” “Which princess might you be? Tell us,” Kakumyō said into the carriage. “I am Lord Tsukinowa Zenkaku’s daughter,” she said faintly from within. “What?” It was not only Kakumyō and Shōzenbō who were surprised—even Hannen seemed taken aback,

“Then, you are Lord Tsukinowa’s esteemed daughter… which would make you the Tamahime?”

“Yes,” answered the princess, her voice now considerably calmer and clear.

“As I thought… It was Buddha’s divine guidance… Our losing our way on the path, our happening to seek out our master’s quarters…” “How strange!” Shōzenbō exchanged a look with Kakumyō and said this. The fact that their master, a disciple of the Archbishop of Shōren-in, had rescued the princess—who was the Archbishop’s niece—was, from the very beginning, no mere coincidence. It was nothing other than Buddhist karma. The two rejoiced, barely holding back tears, feeling they had been permitted to carry out this blessed act of great compassion.

Twelve They had intended to escort her to Tsukinowa Village, but when the ox-drawn carriage carrying the princess had traveled four or five *chō*, they encountered a group of torches and figures rushing toward them from afar. The people held torches in their hands. They were also carrying *tachi* long swords, long-handled weapons, bows, and the like. And when they noticed this ox-drawn carriage,

“Do not let those suspicious monks through!” they clamored as they surrounded them. Shōzenbō quickly perceived, “Might you all be Lord Tsukinowa’s attendants?” “Well then… Judging by your words, you must know something of Her Highness’s whereabouts.” “What has become of Her Highness? If you have any knowledge, tell us at once.” “As for Tamahime-sama, we came here intending to escort her to the residence.” “She rests safely within the ox-drawn carriage.” They seemed to suspect deception, at first glaring at Shōzenbō as he spoke. But after being thoroughly questioned about the circumstances and learning that Hannen—Lord of Shōkō-in Temple, who had provided the carriage and now walked beside it—was present, the Tsukinowa retainers pressed their hands to the ground,

“Though we plead ignorance, we beg forgiveness for our discourtesy.” “This must indeed be what is called the manifest divine protection of the Buddha.” “How overjoyed our lord must be…” “I will come to pay my respects properly at another time.” “Ah, what a relief.” Repeating voices of thanks—“How grateful we are”—that seemed insufficient no matter how many times they said them, the people gathered close to the princess. Kakumyō passed the ox’s reins and,

“Then, I shall assuredly hand over Her Highness’s person.”

“Yes… Then we shall,” said a Tsukinowa retainer as they took over pulling the carriage. The princess spoke from within: “To receive even this carriage…” she said with hesitation. “Please keep it,” they replied. Hannen saw the princess’s face more vividly than before. She bowed her head, eyes brimming with tears. The silver hairpin in her black hair had already begun swaying along its arc, glittering brightly. The retainers hurried onward as if desperate to ease their lord’s worries even a moment sooner, leaving matters of returning the carriage and formal thanks for tomorrow as they impatiently pulled ahead.

The whirling wheels traced swift arcs of light as their tracks left twin furrows on the pale road before receding into the distance. Creak-creak—Hannen stood rooted in place long after the carriage sounds had dissolved into the murky darkness. A dreadful force—tearing at his convictions, no, wrenching life itself from his chest to rend flesh from soul—made him shudder violently. Eyes burning inward, he searched the heavens for the moon veiled in mica-hued clouds.

Peony’s Messenger

One Placing himself on a cold round cushion and leaning his elbows on a cold desk, Hannen had been holding a brush to write something, but he cast the brush aside as if throwing it and closed his eyes. A needle-thin line creased his brow. He shook his head slightly. And once more took up the brush. "........" Trying to become selfless—trying to enter the realm of no-thought—he poured all his spirit into each sutra character, into the brush tip—discarding distracting thoughts—

His profile seemed frightening. Even the knuckles of his fingers gripping the brush handle appeared to harbor something abnormal.

“...Lord Shōsōzu, Lord Monsetsu—I most humbly apologize for intruding upon your sutra transcription, but beg leave to report a matter.”

It was Kohata Minbu, the temple official. He had been standing with both hands behind his back since earlier, watching for an opportune moment, but Hannen seemed unaware of his presence. Edging closer timidly, he spoke— “What?” Hannen turned his face. He directed a piercing gaze. “The guest has been kept waiting rather long...” “Who?” he asked pensively. At this, even Minbu revealed a slightly startled expression. He thought—he had already informed him half an hour prior that a noble scion from Kazan-in had come regarding gratitude for the Archbishop’s affair—yet now he had to repeat it afresh.

“The noble scion of Kazan-in has arrived and has been waiting in the guest chamber since earlier.”

“Ah yes, that’s right.” “Shall I show them in?” “No—wait... Today Hannen’s body is unfit—offer proper apologies and send them away.” “Ah...” “Then you will not grant an audience?”

“I have no desire to meet anyone.” Minbu had no choice but to withdraw, though he thought this behavior was most unlike him. Hannen never acted so selfishly when receiving guests. Moreover, these past few days had seen a frost-like severity in his tone and an austere attitude, with an intensity in his brow that nearly repelled all who approached. (Our lord master has been acting strangely of late.) This was not something only Minbu perceived. Shōzenbō had remarked on it too, and even Kakumyō—never one for subtlety—had noticed.

But Hannen himself knew better than anyone that he was aware of it. And yet, when he reflected on this restlessness within himself—finding it both frustrating and shameful—and strove to overcome it through every form of practice, the more conscious he became of it, the more his mind grew disordered, until he found himself captive to distractions. This phenomenon had begun on the night just seven days prior. Ever since that night, a beautiful woman had taken up residence in Hannen's eyes and heart. However he tried to drive her away, however he sought to erase her, the beauty would not depart from that place. At times she would slip into his dreams and torment Hannen's body through the long nights.

Two

Each day, spring ripened further. Hannen looked outside with maddened eyes. The garden of Shōkō-in Temple resembled resplendent embroidery. The bright yellow forsythia flowers pained his eyes. The white-skinned form of magnolia blossoms, akin to a woman's flesh, appeared to him as spiteful coquetry.

Whatever he saw or touched, nature was suffused with the sweet-and-sour honey of spring. Bees, birds, cats—all were in love. (Humans too exist beneath that nature.) Yet Hannen sometimes thought of the secret fatefully lodged within himself as an unfortunate fetus—pitiable and unformed.

A secret fetus that could never be bathed in this world's light—a darkness-born hope that had emerged without the promise of birth—the more he tried to overcome such torments, the more his very personality crumbled from its foundation. "Tamahime…" He even found himself inadvertently murmuring her name in the depths of his mouth, if only as a meager act of consideration. In the hot breath, Even just silently mouthing "Tamahime…" seemed to bring some solace to his anguish—but the moment he turned to look at himself, to objectively observe Hannen, Lord of Shōkō-in Temple, as a single human being,

“Ah…” He covered his face with his hands and tearfully wished to apologize for his sins before the Buddha. He was struck and struck and struck through by intense shame and the whip of self-reproach. If only someone would raise a staff— (This heretic!) he thought. Was there no one who would strike him down until his flesh tore apart—no one to beat him until he lost all perception of this vile body with its abominable fantasies and desires? He ran to the Buddha, weeping. And then, as if he were a madman, he recited sutras. He secluded himself in a room and entered deep meditation.

(No good.) All too easily, such a cry surged up from the depths of his distractions.

In the Prince Shōtoku’s Mausoleum at Isonaga, on the floors of Mount Hiei—all those years of ascetic practice now provided no strength at all. When he closed his eyes, within those eyelids; when he calmed his heart, within the waves of that heart; when he looked up at the sky, within the indigo of that sky—Tamahime’s figure appeared and would not leave. He even considered confessing everything to the Archbishop and receiving his rebuke, agonized many times over whether to go to Archbishop Kakumon of Nanto and lay bare his truth. Yet his position as lord of Shōkō-in Temple did not permit it, and by his very nature, he believed this was a problem he must resolve through his own strength. And he thought overcoming this torment would mark the boundary between completing himself or not. How could spirit overcome flesh? How could faith fully subjugate body? For three months he had lived in anguish, wrestling with how to reduce his twenty-eight-year-old youth’s vigor and pulsing blood into something cold as ashes.

Three

Clouds hung low over Higashiyama. On the white, parched road, dust swirled. “Oh, how awful!” A middle-aged woman who seemed to be a lady-in-waiting stood frozen, clutching her robe against the wind. A whirlwind sweeping up fallen petals blew fiercely, tearing at the leaves of the peony branch she held to her chest. “Maiden, maiden—hold up the umbrella, if you please!” As the wind subsided, rain began to pitter-patter down.

The young girl positioned a large, amber-colored, long-handled umbrella from behind.

“Is this not Shōkō-in yet?”

“Isn’t that gate with the white walls the one?” The rain had turned to fine droplets, the wind had ceased, the clouds had parted, and within the misty spring light, somewhere a bush warbler’s song could be heard.

The young girl folded the wet umbrella. And then she stepped onto the entrance steps of Shōkō-in Temple, “I humbly request.” The temple official came out and knelt down. And then, he stared wide-eyed at the woman’s figure and the peony branch. The woman gracefully, “I am Manno, who serves in the inner chambers of Lord Tsukinowa Zenkaku. At Lady Tamahime’s behest, I have brought a single branch of room-blooming peony to present to Lord Shinran.” “Furthermore, if we could receive a written reply to this letter from Lord Zenkaku, her honored father, I would consider it a great happiness.” “…Please kindly relay this message,” she said, presenting the letter alongside the peony.

The temple official reported the matter to Kohata Minbu. When Minbu heard that the messenger was from Tsukinowa,

“Please take your rest,” he said, showing Manno to the waiting room. “This is splendid…” murmured Minbu as he gazed at the peony. The flowers were not yet open, but the color of the rain-soaked leaves was beautiful.

Promptly, Minbu took it to Hannen’s chamber. When Hannen heard it was a gift from the princess, his eyebrows lit up with joy.

Upon reading the letter, he immediately composed a reply. And after sending the messenger back, he himself took out a white porcelain vase and arranged the peony in it. “...It still bears her form.” Gazing at the branching form that smiled vividly from the water’s edge in the white porcelain, Hannen had forgotten that day’s melancholy. The letter from Lord Zenkaku had expressed thorough gratitude for that previous occasion. It seemed that as a father, Fujiwara no Kanezane had been profoundly grateful and delighted by Hannen’s rescue of Tamahime from peril—evidenced by his sending envoys of gratitude not only today but also through the Archbishop of Shōren-in or directly dispatching retainers, demonstrating every form of appreciation. Yet for Hannen, there had been no gift as joyous as this day’s single branch of peony.

Yet even so, it seemed Lord Zenkaku still felt his sincerity toward his benefactor remained insufficiently expressed, for in today’s letter was a most earnest invitation: he earnestly wished for them—the Archbishop of Shōren-in and Hannen—to honor his residence with a visit together. Though he could offer no grand hospitality, he noted that the cherry blossoms at Tsukinowa were now in full bloom, the moon these nights shone with particular beauty, and a rare biwa player from Naniwa was currently staying there; thus, he hoped they might hear a performance of *The Tale of the Heike* and allow Lady Tamahime and himself to personally express their gratitude for recent kindnesses.

Hannen replied that he would consult with the Archbishop first—but in his heart, he had already resolved to go.

Hōshi’s Tale

I While the cherry blossoms of Yoshino had already scattered into a blizzard of petals, the double-flowered cherry blossoms of Tsukinowa Village were now at their peak. The thick blossoms piled on the branches like snow had darkened ink-black with the dusk, but when the evening moon’s shadow began to steal into their hearts, the myriad cherry blossoms swayed in the wind with a bluish-silver light and a dry, rustling sound.

“Tonight’s guests are the very ones who gave life to our princess—let there be no negligence,” resonated through Tsukinowa’s mansion, where Zenkaku, his family, and even the lowliest servants—all exercising meticulous care—cleaned the gate and waited with painstaking attentiveness.

Before long, two guests arrived riding in an ox-drawn carriage. They were none other than Hannen and Archbishop Jien.

“We have been awaiting you.” The retainers formed a line to welcome them. Lord Zenkaku came out to the entrance steps to greet them,

“Welcome,” he said, guiding them himself to the guest hall. As befitted the residence of Zenkaku Kanezane, who had risen to the weighty offices of Regent, Grand Minister, and even Chancellor, the grandeur of its garden layout and the opulence of its interior furnishings were such that one’s eyes and mind alike were captivated. Hannen had once come there a few years earlier, together with his teacher, the Archbishop. At that time, he had just returned from his journey emaciated beyond recognition and was still but an unknown student; thus none of the retainers there seemed to realize that the shabby young monk of those days was tonight’s guest of honor. Hannen now dimly recalled how he had happened upon a place where a large number of maidservants were engaged in some game together and how they had troubled him by insisting that he too should blindfold himself.

The princess still had not shown her face. Through the midst of numerous candles, beautiful attendants circulated with high-legged trays and dining utensils. They were all likely members of the clan; over ten people sat arranged around Hannen and the Archbishop. “Will you partake in wine?” When Zenkaku first offered wine to the guest of honor, Hannen, “I will not partake,” he declared clearly. As he was a monk, they could not press him too harshly. The Archbishop had some fondness for drink. Moreover, since the Archbishop and their host Zenkaku were blood relations, there remained no need for formal restraint between them.

“Since Hannen declines to partake, I shall claim his portion. This night I mean to indulge in your generosity and drink my fill. For the return journey, I’ll have you carry me straight into the carriage—that much I insist upon.” The archbishop declared this and, with the air of one loosening his sash cord, began refilling his cup in earnest. Zenkaku too now dwelt in circumstances of secluded retirement, savoring his twilight years. On such evenings, it was less about entertaining guests than about the expansive richness of his own existence.

“Your Excellency of Shōren-in, isn’t this a case of reversing host and guest?” “Then serve Hannen ample dishes.” “Venerable Hannen, please take up your chopsticks.” “I am partaking. To witness Your Excellency in such liberated spirits is, for me, the finest feast imaginable.” “Moreover, I find myself envious.” “Hahaha! Hannen’s uttering something profound.” The archbishop had already dissolved into blissful intoxication, a man dwelling among wine immortals.

II

“Has the princess not appeared?” the Archbishop inquired after a time. Lord Tsukinowa Zenkaku glanced back at the retainers,

“Still preparing? The guests have already arrived,” he murmured.

“I shall go and inform them.” One of the retainers stood up and left. That figure grew hazy as it receded into the far end of the blossom-lit corridor. In the corridor, numerous hanging lanterns with lit candles were lined up, and in the innermost room, the princess had deeply lowered the curtains and was applying her makeup. The black hair that had just emerged from the bathhouse was still damp. The girls, dressed in willow-patterned five-layered robes, attended behind her, awaiting their assigned tasks. The maidservant Manno applied kyara incense to the roots of the princess’s black hair and combed through each strand with care to leave not a single tangle.

At length, the princess set down the mirror. At that moment came a voice from the corridor— “Princess. Your uncle and the guests have been waiting eagerly.” Manno immediately responded— “Yes, we shall be there presently,” she answered. The wind suffused with blossom-light flowed in through the window, rustling as it dried the princess’s black hair. “Princess, shall we?” When thus prompted, Tamahime quietly stood and left her chamber with the girls and Manno. But when she saw the guest hall’s radiant lights reflected in the pond room’s spring waters, she halted.

Manno turned around. “Princess.” “How did you pass the time?” The princess hid her face against the railing pillar. “For some reason, I felt bashful.” “Oh… What could possibly be embarrassing? It’s only those of the inner circle here.” “But…” From the niche above, a white petal fluttered down like a moth and alighted upon the princess’s black hair. Before Manno could reach out her hand, the princess took it herself, toying with it between her fingertips. “It’s all right if I don’t go out to greet them, isn’t it?” “Father will thoroughly convey his gratitude on my behalf.”

“That will not do.” Manno had assumed the princess was merely acting on her usual willfulness and throwing a tantrum, so she was slightly flustered. “Well… let us go.” “Why must you act so bashful tonight of all nights?” “It’s not that I’m being bashful, but…” “Then, wouldn’t that be all right?” As if leading her by the hand, Manno and the princess approached the guest hall, when her uncle the archbishop, sharp-eyed,

“Ah, there you are. Come now—here, to my side,” he beckoned. In the archbishop’s eyes, Tamahime would forever remain only an innocent girl. Even now, just as he occasionally treated Hannen like a child, he persisted in seeing Tamahime as a mere youngling, calling to her as though to seat her upon his lap.

III

If the archbishop did not even jest, no one would ease the atmosphere of the gathering. The princess kept her gaze lowered as if before something dazzling, and Hannen too did not speak a word. What made it all the more awkward was that the main guests refrained from drinking; as if fearing the mood would sour, Lord Zenkaku repeatedly took up the sake decanter himself to tend to their cups, or brought up gossip of worldly affairs to enliven the conversation—but eventually, he whispered something to an attendant, whereupon the retainer led a blind monk by the hand from somewhere in the mansion into this guest hall.

“This is Hōshi, a monk renowned of late as a master biwa player.” When Zenkaku had him introduced, the blind monk Hōshi sat quietly in his assigned seat with his biwa held close and bowed in silence.

He must have been nearing fifty, his long eyebrows showing traces of frost, his deeply sunken eyes mere slits as thin as needles. As was typical of the blind, with his head slightly tilted, he wore an expression as though intuiting—through some inner sense—the demeanor of the guests, the number of lanterns, and the approximate boundaries of his own position. “So you are called Hōami?” When the archbishop asked,

“Yes.” He turned his head toward the voice, “To be summoned before your noble presence is a blessing beyond measure.” “Do you drink sake?”

“I did in the past, but these days…” “It seems you cannot see at all.” “It must be the result of my karma.” “Since childhood?” “No, it was about ten years ago. What sort of illness I contracted—my eyes were nearly destroyed overnight. At that time, I truly felt as though the world had become darkness, but as I grew accustomed, I forgot the inconveniences and made my livelihood by playing the biwa, which I had some fondness for. Thus, wherever summoned by the wind to places of flowers and moonlit nights, I attend to enliven banquets, and when alone, I live regarding my biwa as both wife and child. I dare say my heart feels more refreshingly pure now than when my eyes were open and I suffered the torments of the five desires.”

“Hahaha, well now, that’s quite something.” Zenkaku turned toward Hannen, “Please request a piece for us—he plays Tang melodies and recites the Tale of the Heike.” Hōshi waved his hand, “It’s quite… Tang melodies and such,” he modestly declined. Hannen found listening to the music desirable, but he wanted even more to inquire about this monk’s circumstances and the life of a person who could not see. But Hōshi, perhaps thinking to act before the guests grew weary, readjusted his hold on the biwa and promptly set about tuning the strings. When the four strings resounded, the samurai who had been sitting informally, even the girls and servants in the next room, all edged closer to the seats and listened intently.

IV With his hands on the curved end of the biwa, Hōshi diligently adjusted the twists of its four strings. Once the tuning sounded satisfactory to his ear, he tilted his face slightly upward, as if awaiting a guest or the host to name their requested piece. At that moment, the archbishop interjected a question. “Monk.” “Yes.” “Your biwa appears to be Tang-made, but is it indeed an imported item?” “No, it is old, but it was likely made in Japan, as the inscription bears the name Saga.” “Moreover, while Tang biwas are often made with rosewood for their bodies, this one uses Japanese mulberry.”

“When was it that the biwa came to Japan?” “Indeed—” Hōshi fluttered his sightless eyes, “Well, I cannot say for certain, but there are various theories—one claims that Ono no Imoko brought it from the Sui dynasty during Empress Suiko’s reign, while another holds that its origin lies with Fujiwara no Sadatoshi, an envoy to Tang China who studied it and returned during Emperor Ninmyō’s reign. In any case, that it existed since the Tenpyō era is reasonable to accept when one examines the artifacts Empress Kōmyō donated to Tōdai-ji.”

“In our land, those renowned as skilled biwa players—” “Those I have just mentioned—Lord Fujiwara no Sadatoshi; Prince Atsumi, progenitor of the Uda Genji clan; and Semimaru, the renowned attendant to His Highness—” “And in the present era?” “Though it is most presumptuous to speak of such rumors, among the common people, it is said that there is likely no master such as His Highness—the Fourth Prince of Emperor Takakura, who after becoming Retired Emperor is referred to as Emperor Go-Toba.” Lord Zenkaku Kanezane nodded. “Indeed,” he said in agreement.

Hōshi began to speak unprompted, “Though it is not for one such as myself to presume to know, according to public opinion, His Majesty Retired Emperor Go-Toba is said to be a man of extraordinary brilliance.” “It is said His Majesty oversaw the compilation of the *Shin Kokin Wakashū*, possessed profound knowledge of ancient practices, excelled in martial arts, and was especially skilled in horsemanship and kemari—but what particularly astonishes the common folk is that his paintings far surpass those of ordinary artists.” “Moreover, given His Majesty Retired Emperor Go-Toba’s exceptionally noble temperament, it is said he shared a profound bond with the late Lord Minamoto no Yoshitsune—and even now, he occasionally gives vent to his grief over Lord Yoshitsune, whose loyalty to the throne burned so fiercely, to those in his innermost circle.” “And having witnessed the tyranny of the Hōjō clan after Lord Yoritomo’s passing, and detesting the arrogance of the samurai government, His Majesty infused it with satire foretelling that Kamakura’s downfall would not endure much longer—then commanded Fujiwara no Yukinaga to compose what has lately come to be fervently performed: *The Tale of the Heike*.” The Retired Emperor went so far as to have a blind man named Shōbutsu compose it and devised plans to spread its popularity among the populace. “His Majesty’s intent was to teach the principles of loyalty and filial piety and to admonish the downfall of the arrogant. As for my own recitation, it was in truth taught to me by that Shōbutsu, and since I remain unaccustomed to both the strings and the songs, I fear it must be rather difficult to listen to.”

V

The candlelight flickered dimly on Hōshi’s gaunt cheeks. People knew that *The Tale of the Heike* had grown popular of late, but none had until now learned of such profound intentions within His Majesty Retired Emperor Go-Toba’s heart. The archbishop pointed at Hannen beside him, “This Shōsōzu Hannen here—as Hōshi has just recounted—is second cousin to Lord Yoshitsune, he who received exceptional favor from Retired Emperor Go-Toba. To contemplate His Majesty’s designs and hear *The Tale of the Heike*, which holds such deep ties to tonight’s gathering, would be our greatest honor.” “Hōshi-dono, begin the tale at once,” he said.

The fact that Yoshitsune, the heroic scion of the Minamoto clan, and Hannen here were second cousins seemed unknown to all save Zenkaku, and the guests now quietly turned solemn gazes toward the dignified figures of host and guest.

Even the princess’s eyes, modestly downcast as if shy of the candlelight, seemed to gaze at Hannen’s profile from beneath her deep eyelashes as though beholding something dazzling.

Hōshi, “As you wish.” He bowed politely and adjusted his grip on the plectrum. Positioning the four strings precisely and straightening his posture, he became one who might be said to embody artistic dignity—as if forgetting entirely the presence of nobility. In that moment, court ranks and powerful houses were no more than dust. He surveyed the utterly silenced crowd with a commanding gaze— The tolling of Gion Shōja’s bell Echoes impermanence’s truth. The hue of sala trees’ blossoms Reveals this law: All flourish must fade.

The proud do not endure, are but a spring night’s dream. The fierce too have perished in the end— they were as dust before the wind. When we look to distant foreign lands, Zhao Gao of Qin, Wang Mang of Han, Zhu Yi of Liang, An Lushan of Tang— disregarding even the governance of the former sovereign emperor, indulged in pleasures to the utmost, they gave no heed to admonitions. Without even perceiving the disorder of the realm, they knew not the people’s sorrow— all did not endure long— they are the ones who have perished. When we consider our realm in recent times… Hōshi’s face began to appear grotesque, even monstrous. The plectrum struck the four strings, and with terrifying force he beat the yellow mulberry body. He glistened with sweat on his forehead as though nothing existed in heaven and earth but his art. The listeners too were drawn into his art and could not regain their senses. They were captivated by a feeling as though listening to Bai Letian’s *Song of the Pipa* on Lake Penjiang, and even the mindless lamps seemed entranced during that time.

In recent times, the lay priest of Rokuhara— the former Grand Minister Taira no Ason

The very manner of the man called Lord Kiyomori— Words—nay, even the brush—could not suffice. Tracing back their lineage,

The fifth prince of Emperor Kanmu the ninth-generation descendant of Prince Katsurabara— The piece progressed, and the night deepened. People were present yet absent. Only the shadows of falling flowers danced outside the dark shutters.

Six If one were to play the entirety of *The Tale of the Heike*, its length was such that even if narrated until dawn broke, it could not have been fully told. Hōshi had stitched together only the pivotal episodes of that vast tale, masterfully weaving the Taira clan’s resplendent era and their numerous fleeting stories, until at last he had narrated their downfall from Yashima to Dan-no-ura. The Second Rank Lady had long been accustomed—

Since she had long prepared herself for this moment, she donned a dull-colored two-layered robe. She took up the silk hakama trousers high at her side. She tucked the Sacred Jewel under her arm. She fastened the sacred sword at her waist. took up His Majesty and

The listeners had unknowingly filled their eyes with tears. Pitifully before their eyes appeared bows and arrows, hinoki fans, and scarlet hakama trousers drifting amidst the azure sea’s churning whirlpools. And though they found the downfall of that arrogant, prosperous clan and its branches pitiful and tragic, their tears were not shed for those people; rather, they perceived the impermanence of themselves—humans equally bound under the same fate—and with piercing sorrow, came to contemplate their own tomorrows.

Though I am a woman, I will not fall into enemy hands. I shall attend His Majesty. Those who would follow this noble resolve must make haste! she solemnly stepped toward the gunwale. The twang of a loosed arrow and the plectrum's strike made listeners shudder body and soul. The thick strings clamored like sudden rain; the thin ones whispered like secret confidences, just as the old verse describes. Then—as if four strings had snapped—the plectrum stilled. The piece ended. Hōshi's face shone drenched as though caught in a downpour. He pressed the plectrum against his solar plexus, drawing one great breath through his entire being.

“Ah,” everyone murmured as if speaking with one voice—though no single person had initiated it. Their faces regained composure. They praised Hōshi’s skill in succession, yet Hōshi himself remained utterly still. “My gratitude for your patience in hearing this clumsy performance,” he said. “I shall now take my leave.” Clutching his biwa, he slid from his seat with practiced ease. His perfectly serene demeanor left the audience all the more impressed. As he departed and casual chatter began to rise, Hannen quietly slipped away into the garden—a space so vast its boundaries dissolved into darkness. Beneath the faint glow of night-blooming flowers, he stood transfixed. When a tree trunk brushed his back, he let his weight settle against it. Flecks of white drifted across his vision—falling petals that vanished when he reached for them, phantom traces mirroring the illusions clinging to his heart. The princess’s arched brows—her lips—her raven hair—he could not banish them. A feverish impulse to cry out raged through his motionless form, silent yet violent as delirium.

“Emptiness, emptiness.” His lips let out something like a groan that he immediately bit back with his teeth. With fists pressed against both sides of his chest, he began walking painfully into the darkness - deeper and deeper. The ears that had just heard that lengthy discourse on impermanence burned like fire with youthful blood even he himself could not control.

“Ah….” “That was careless of me.” “I beg your pardon, whoever you may be.”

He had tried to step aside quickly, but ended up bumping his shoulder. That was the voice of the blind man Hōshi.

Seven “Oh! You’re that biwa player from before?” “You are Archbishop Hannen, I presume?” “I am.”

“What excellent timing to meet you here,” said Hōshi. “There is a matter I wish to discuss.” “With me?” “Would that pose an issue?” “Not at all. Given our present circumstances…” Hōshi drew nearer, “My biwa performance tonight must have been trying for your ears.”

“That’s not the case—I was listening intently.” “No, that cannot be so.” “A blind man’s intuition knows.” “And the sense in my plectrum’s strings knows too.” “Tonight’s guest of honor occasionally heard without listening.” “To eat yet taste nothing, to hear yet discern no sound—I sensed such emptiness at times during that gathering.” “Thinking it might be my poor biwa skills, I spoke with my brow dampened by sweat—but that was not the cause.” “Art’s essence enters the divine only when listener and performer become one.” “Your heart would snap away like a severed string—where it fled, I secretly sought to trace in my mind.” “Then from my left side came drifting the scent of tomoe-gashi wood.” “You had surely given your heart to Lady Tamahime.”

“…………” Hannen was startled and could not help but look again at the blind man’s sunken eyes. What a bluntly speaking monk he was—or rather, did he not possess something like a terrifying sixth sense? Hannen wanted to retrace his footsteps. Then Hōshi, “Please have a seat,” he said, stroking the pillar of the pavilion at the base of the artificial hill and gesturing toward the Chinese-made ceramic stool there.

“Please.” Something about it felt restrained yet unavoidable. Hōshi settled himself beside the priest and said, “A common tale, isn’t it? Even for one such as myself...” He tilted his head with reminiscence before continuing: “Truth be told, I wasn’t always this wandering biwa player. In my youth—your age now, Venerable—I dwelled in a proper temple. I immersed myself in sutras, studied under Nara’s great scholars, practiced austerities until my bones ached, wept tears of devotion upon the meditation platform.” His voice roughened. “Then I traded half a lifetime’s penance for a woman’s embrace. Charged with monastic misconduct, whipped raw, cast out.” A dry chuckle escaped him. “Seized my chance—lived with her by Kakogawa River till her dying year. Now when I ponder those days... what difference truly lies between paths with women or without? Only we monks insist there’s any.” He quoted doctrine like a curse: “One they call the Path of Difficult Practice—the other, Easy Practice.” His solitary laughter hung sharp in the air. Words now flowed as if to himself alone—

“The world calls my blindness a punishment, but to me, it’s a black Pure Land—a darkness of peace. When these eyes could still see, I tried to tread the arduous path—stumbling and agonizing—but now all is monochrome blindness. I walk this level Path of Easy Practice… hahaha.”

Eight

A single fallen petal came to rest on Hōshi’s face. Brushing it away with his hand, “Just think—how could this troublesome mortal become a living Buddha in the flesh? “I cannot say whether it would have been better to remain at the temple as a bishop or live out my days in some Kakogawa backwater with a woman—only to lose her to death—and end up as I am now: a blind performer drifting between entertainment halls. But I have no regrets whatsoever.” “Not the slightest dissatisfaction or uncertainty about my present lot.” “When I subjected this body to ascetic trials and armored my heart in precept robes—why does this current self feel closer to Buddhahood than that?” “It cannot be chalked up to age alone.” “Though these eyes see nothing, I remain a man who finds no discomfort in a woman’s company—that much I can say.”

Hannen could not muster a single word in reply. Though Hannen did not respond, Hōshi kept speaking unprompted, leaving no room for awkwardness—yet the story was too horrifying. If he tried to cover his ears, the very act of deceiving himself would make his conscience reproach him. It felt abhorrent yet truthful, ugly yet undeniably present within himself. “Hahaha, let’s leave the heretic monk’s ramblings at that.” “So, Venerable—what are your thoughts?” “...Since Buddhism has also advanced considerably in recent years, we wish to learn from new knowledge such as yours, Venerable.” “Kurodani’s Hōnen Shōnin is said to speak quite admirably—but I would like to hear the views of Shōkō-in’s Lord Hannen, whom they call the Northern Peaks’ prized steed, regarding women.” “Or perhaps your esteemed beliefs regarding the precepts would suffice…” He pressed on with malicious persistence. For Hannen, there was of course a fortress of belief that he had built through desperate effort up to this day. He had believed his preparations to be as solid as a rocky base, fully equipped to conquer all mental distractions here—yet somehow, in response to this blind man’s utterly mundane question, no words arose in his heart that could decisively sever the tongue of sophistry.

“Returning to my own story again—when I was your age, Venerable, though it feels irreverent to say, even the Buddha’s sacred lips appeared like a woman’s, and the Song-dynasty script of sutras looked like love letters.” “Longing for the night, yearning for secrets—even when you try to restrain it, blood breaks iron chains—” “Such was my case, but perhaps an exceptional one like you differs, Venerable. Have you sealed yourself within those silent mountains and cold temple walls without feeling doubt or suffering?... You cannot claim otherwise.” “What can someone who remembers nothing possibly achieve?” “Did not even Shakyamuni Buddha pass through such flames?” “Demoness—demoness dancing in flames—have you no memory of being possessed?” What monks would deem sinful even to contemplate, this blind man stated as casually as placing it on his palm. Hannen felt his chest tighten.

“Monk!”

“Yes.” “What exactly do you mean by asking that?”

“Not really…” Hōshi stretched his neck and looked down. “...There is nothing in particular I intend to do, but as I have received from a certain person an item to deliver to your lordship later, I merely took the opportunity to inquire.”

Nine “However, though I was entrusted with it, I cannot help but waver over whether delivering this item would be for better or worse… Archbishop Hannen, your lordship must have some inkling.”

“To me?” “……From whom?” ……” “She is a lovely person. “No—let me stop there. Just because my life has been this way does not mean I can recommend you follow the same path.” “A person’s fate is something they forge themselves. I will leave that item here, but I will not tell you not to touch it or not to accept it.” “It would be best for Your Excellency to decide for yourself with care.” With those words, Hōshi took out a single poem card from the shadow of his sleeve. He placed it face down on the stool, with the written side underneath. The blind man was about to leave after taking such meticulous care as to pick up a stone to prevent it from being blown away by the wind.

“Please wait.” Hannen called out to stop him and inquired. “The name Hōshi that you bear must be an assumed one since taking up the biwa. By what name were you addressed before that time, when you were at the temple? If it is not an inconvenience, I would like to hear it.” “Indeed…” “Though it brings me shame to speak my former name, the truth is, I was once Kyōshin Shami of Kōfuku-ji Temple.” “Ah… Kyōshin.” He had heard of him—Kyōshin Shami had been quite famous in Nara, once even spoken of as a monk renowned for both learning and virtue. But after rumors spread of his involvement with a female entertainer in Nara led to his expulsion, and his subsequent life as a ferryman in Kakogawa became a laughingstock among the masses, “Kyōshin Shami of Kakogawa” turned into a byword for corrupt monks, even lampooned in satirical verses and folk ballads. Was this man truly Kyōshin Shami? When Hannen heard this, he felt compelled to reconsider the words the blind man had spoken earlier.

But Hōshi’s figure had already plodded away into the dim tree shade where pale shapes fluttered. And in the spot where he had sat on the stool, a single poem card remained—left behind like a riddle.

I, who had believed my eyes could see, had been utterly laid bare by Hōshi—he whose eyes could not see. As he had declared, I now sustained a terrifying inversion of the mind. Here I stood at a crossroads: whether to walk unswervingly the path of convictions forged until this day, or to tread the road taken by “the novice monk of Kakogawa.”

“?……” The poem card pressed down by a small stone trembled in the wind like a wagtail’s tail—whose hand had written it? What was written? Hannen’s heart quivered with these questions, yet he (I must not look), he declared inwardly. The stronger light of wisdom suppressed his fierce passion like twisting vines crushing flame. (I must not touch this). He left the pavilion. A night wind flowed through his refreshed mind—a self that had conquered itself and ascended higher. Then a woman emerged from behind the pavilion’s shadow, clutching a poem card as she pursued him. When he turned toward the voice calling out, there stood Manno—the princess’s lady-in-waiting.

“Venerable Hannen, though this poem was composed with such care, please do look upon it before you cast it aside later.”

Forcing the poem card into Hannen’s hand, Manno retreated into the darkness of falling petals as though fleeing.

Shattering White Porcelain

One

Within his own blood, a destruction he had never before experienced was now beginning. Hannen vividly felt it. The dull headache over these past two or three days was one example of that. His long absence of deep sleep at night was another manifestation of this phenomenon. The backs of his eyes were always hot; his faculty of thought had become utterly disordered. So many changes were being discovered in his body that he had to re-examine whether this was truly himself. *(I must not succumb to this rebellion),* he willed himself strongly. However, his condition after returning from the Tsukinowa household’s banquet several days prior had worsened further; moment by moment, his will was being eroded, his convictions driven into retreat—an inexorable force of instinct pressing down.

A vague emptiness had made him sit listlessly again today; he himself wondered what dull eyes he must have in others' sight. He had told everyone it was an illness—of course avoiding all visitors—and above all feared appearing before the Buddha. He would sit in the main hall for the indispensable morning service, yet could not lift his face to gaze upon the Buddha's countenance. He could no longer endure keeping himself there like some guilty mass.

"You must not strain yourself—please remain in your sickbed. Your body is not yours alone; you bear the trust of countless disciples and sentient beings who revere you as both teacher and light. Truly, you are one whom even the eminent monks of the Five Mountains and learned scholars deem indispensable," those around him insisted vehemently, urging rest as if he were gravely ill. Both Shōzenbō and Kakumyō prayed anxiously day and night for his recovery. Yet it was precisely this knowledge that plunged Hannen deeper into self-reproach—he now felt unworthy to stand before even them as their teacher. To all surrounding him, he wished to prostrate himself utterly exposed.

(This self is a mass of falsehood.) In the white porcelain vase, the peonies were beginning to part their youthful lips—those very indoor-blooming ones recently gifted by Lady Tamahime of the Tsukinowa. These peonies cast their tormenting, bewitching smile upon him morning and evening, even at midnight upon his pillow.

That smile also seemed uncannily akin to someone’s—the texture and scent of petals just beginning to swell.

Last night too, led astray by that fragrance, I crossed the wall that should never be crossed; the night before last I crossed it as well. I did what none in this world knew—those who knew were only Tamahime, her attendant Manno, and myself.

The sky had been overcast; even the stars had closed their eyes; the footsteps abandoned in the darkness had been completely erased—no one could possibly know. But wait—could there truly be none beyond the three of us who knew the secret? He could not shake the feeling—he felt certain someone else must still know.

Who could it be? Hannen had been pondering this since earlier. Then he realized that it was indeed something within himself. (I have become two people) — he realized. He could perceive two opposing forces, borrowing Hannen’s singular young body, battling savagely within his heart and blood. And the master of the flesh, sinking into reverie all day while exhausting his wakeful eyes on the white porcelain peonies, was seeing pale secret dreams.

Two

The night deepened early in Higashiyama. The bosom of the Thirty-Six Peaks lay steeped in profound twilight darkness where no starlight reached. When she recalled her fear, her legs stiffened and refused to move. Yet when Manno thought of her princess's heart, that fear vanished. Knowing a woman's heart could only be understood by another woman, she had boldly ventured into this dark night to fulfill a secret errand for her lady. After completing this task—so that the princess might rejoice with lovely eyes brimming happy tears and hands clasped as if in prayer—Manno had even resolved with desperate courage: *(Should her father discover this, I alone will bear all blame).*

And yet, I thought there was nothing as shallow as the hearts of men. Though he had firmly sworn to visit again the very next night, had he not shown his face since then? The day before yesterday too, Lady Tamahime had stayed awake all night waiting in longing. Last night as well, she had wept through until dawn. A woman’s heart is known only to women; the watching eyes of others cut deeper. "You hateful man," she thought resentfully, gazing up at the earthen wall before her.

The earthen wall of Shōkō-in Temple appeared to Manno like an iron fortress. It solemnly divided the darkness of this sullied world from that of the pure realm. “...?” She threw a pebble and listened—no response came. A second stone followed, then she stood motionless beneath the wall, her cloaked form lingering in shadow. Dew on willow leaves glittered like fireflies. Last time I threw stones from this spot, he answered right away—or so I’d believed. If he’d lied like some fickle libertine all along, how pitiable my lady became—wasting away with true faith. Should that prove true, pebbles wouldn’t suffice. She’d have to pound the main gate and condemn his cruelty outright.

Manno, growing impatient, picked up another pebble; it scattered willow leaves and fell soundlessly into the distant earthen wall. Like tears shed for a heartless man, there was no reaction at all. "What should I do?" A face hidden beneath the cloak sighed in bewilderment. If she were to return empty-handed now, she would have to witness Lady Tamahime sinking tearfully into despair. When she imagined those wounded eyes brimming with tears and collapsing wordlessly, Manno felt she could neither return nor remain.

She stood frozen for half an hour. The night dew chilled her cloak damply. She had even lost the self-restraint to avoid others' notice. This time, she threw a stone aiming at the eaves. She threw several more in quick succession.

Then, the back door of the earthen wall creaked softly. It was unmistakably a human figure.

Manno ran toward it as if rushing to meet her own lover. “Lord Hannen,” she thought, her chest tight with resentment. The person had a black cloth draped over their head, remained silent like a mute, and walked ahead of her with hastened steps—as though constantly pursued by something, or pursuing something themselves.

Three

People say that even if you talk until dawn lingers, you can never say all there is to say—but for those two, it was not so. When they met, they became filled with nothing but the satisfaction of gazing at each other. Even when Manno tactfully withdrew, the situation remained unchanged. With no particular words to exchange—since lighting a lamp risked alerting the manor’s residents—they left the bedchamber’s curtain open to emptiness, sitting near the base of the shutters, forgetting entirely how the midnight dampness seeped into the weight of their layered silk robes and monastic sleeves. The pair did nothing but sit motionless, listening intently to the pulsing of their yearning hearts.

“Do you prefer spring, or do you prefer autumn?” “What writings do you read?” “Among the Kokinshū poets, who do you prefer; among the Man'yōshū poems, which do you recite lovingly?” Even engaging in such trivial conversation made them feel breathless, their hearts constricting painfully, their dry lips unable to convey their intentions as they wished.

The princess kept her face tilted downward at an angle, to such an extent that she might as well have remained bowed. When a breeze would somehow slip through her black hair, Hannen felt nearly dazzled, uncertain whether it carried orchid-musk or aloeswood. The whisper of the Kako River novice mocked him at his timid ear. Having vividly discovered within himself this beastly heart veiled in deceitful robes, even the tales of the Man'yōshū and murmurs of spring and autumn became mere empty distractions. Ferocious and wild blood ignited fierce strife to assert instinct; a savage spirit that defied all sacred sutras and surrounding society seared his entire soul with blazing flames.

“…………” Yet Hannen’s outward appearance maintained a countenance as cold as water itself. Even with his seated lover’s finely attuned sensitivity, she could not glimpse so much as a needle’s eye into his inner self. Nor was Hannen one to ever permit forgiveness. Like an iron-forged casket of falsehood, his knees remained square and numbless through eternity. And at last—drenching his soul in scorching tears of lament for being human, inherently forged with that irredeemable falsehood—he forgot even his lover’s presence there.

As this went on, the crowing of a rooster could be heard. Manno gently pushed open her bedchamber door and came to urge the reluctant pair to part—but when she arrived, she found them still seated rigidly in their original positions, silent as ever. Frustration welled within her: What was the point of all my efforts to lure one of them here? Yet fearing that dawn’s approach might invite catastrophe, she secured a pledge from Lady Tamahime for their next nocturnal meeting, slipped out through the inner chamber, opened the back gate, and watched the sleepwalker-like black figure vanish into the night.

Then, whether the night patrol officers had somehow learned of these repeated occurrences or whether by chance they had unfortunately crossed paths with him that very night—the officers who had been tailing Hannen for some time now— “Hey!” After shouting a stern rebuke, they suddenly grappled him from behind. The sound of silk cloth ripping rang out sharply. The patrol officers were left clutching only one sleeve of the monastic robe as they pitched forward. The terrifyingly swift footsteps had already vanished far into the darkness.

Four

“Stop! You think you can run?!” The patrol officers continued their pursuit with furious shouts. But after running four or five *chō*, they themselves began to doubt whether the person was worth apprehending at such lengths and clicked their tongues in frustration.

“He doesn’t seem to be a bandit—probably just some monk who sneaked into a noble’s women’s quarters. There’d be no end to the days spent catching that sort.” The patrol officers wiped the sweat on their foreheads with the sleeve of the monastic robe they had forgotten they were clutching, and tried to discard it toward the nearby stream as though flinging away something filthy—but then noticed the fierce sound of a biwa roaring down like a waterfall from the cliff above, “Who’s there?! At this hour, in such a place?!” they shouted, looking upward.

However, the biwa player was in no position to answer—as anyone hearing that sound would understand, he had poured his entire body and soul into the four strings, existing in such a state that distinguishing whether the sound of the void was him or he was the sound of the void was nigh impossible. “Ah… That Hōshi the Biwa Player is practicing alone again,” they thought. “He’s an odd one—even if you offer him coins, he’ll refuse to play no matter how you press him, yet there he goes, up into the mountains at midnight where no one’s listening, playing all by himself until dawn.” Though there was no crime to accuse him of, the patrol officers—perhaps spiteful of how joyfully the biwa sounded—shouted “Hey!” again and again, but with no response forthcoming, they picked up a stone and hurled it upward toward the pine-covered hill.

It appeared he had just finished playing a piece; after the stone reached him, the plectrum ceased its motion for a moment—and then from atop the hill— “Who’s there?! The one pulling this idiotic prank—” “I’m an officer from Kagariya.” “If you’re an officer, that’s even worse. For what reason do you halt this monk’s biwa? If this were near inhabited areas, that would be problematic—” “I called out to you repeatedly because I have questions to ask, but since you didn’t respond, I threw a stone. Didn’t a monk flee into that hill just now?”

“Is there a custom of throwing stones when asking someone something?” “Such a person would not deign to come up to this hill.”

“Well, if that’s how it is…” The patrol officers began to approach but then—

“Hey, Hōshi. “I hear you were recently invited to Lord Tsukinowa’s banquet. That mansion must be full of beautiful women.” “Wait—even if I ask that, a blind man wouldn’t know.” “What a night of nothing but wasted efforts. Alright—I’ll go rouse Lord Tsukinowa’s servants and give them a stern warning for the future.” “If you officers would kindly refrain from meddling in such trivial matters.” “Even if you admonish them, the men who sneak and the women who wait for them shall never vanish from this world.”

“A fallen monk shielding another fallen monk.” “Ah, the night breaks!” “Is it already dawning? …Ah, now that I think of it, I am somewhat weary. I can now indulge in the carefree, selfless slumber [of enlightenment], yet there are those who cannot even attain this sweet slumber granted to humans—those who writhe and live crushed beneath today’s sky.” He lay down effortlessly like a leaf insect on the edge of the ruined hall atop the hill. “Ah yes—I recall Master Hōnen of Kurodani’s oral teachings. *Namu Amida Butsu*, *Namu Amida Butsu*.” As he murmured these words, the patrol officers were banging relentlessly on the Tsukinowa residence’s back gate.

Five

Neither the day before yesterday, yesterday, nor again today had the people of Shōkō-in Temple seen the Master. Hannen, who had shut himself in a solitary room as if detesting even a needle's worth of light, spoke in a piercing voice from within. "No one shall come here." "You must not enter without my leave." Kohata Minbu, the temple steward—unable to let matters lie—huddled together with Shōzenbō and Kakumyō, knitting his brows in worry.

“If we were to summon a physician and have them examine him—” he said with a sigh. “He would be angered.” The two shook their heads. “‘Doctors and healers for this body?’ he had declared with a severe expression just the other day.” “It is a disposition we cannot fathom—and until he either unravels, accepts, or shatters whatever that disposition collides with, he cannot placate himself and live in moderation.” “We all share the same concern, but for now, there is nothing we can do but watch and allow matters to take their course a while longer.” Since these were the words of Shōzenbō—who had known the Master’s temperament since childhood better than anyone—Minbu and Kakumyō could only fall silent, having no choice but to comply. Minbu was overseeing all temple affairs in place of the Master’s Quarters, so preoccupied with them that he could not remain composed. Kakumyō, for his part, had an optimistic streak,

“Indeed—he wields deeper discernment than we ever could,” “Fretful concerns only obstruct your sacred meditations.”

Then, as the desolate, hushed air of dusk pressed down from the temple complex’s high ceiling, it was around the time when a young monk began distributing lights to the hanging lanterns in the inner sanctum. Against the still faintly pale garden surface of the abbot’s quarters, a loud noise resounded. Then came a voice calling Shōzenbō’s name—repeating it over and over—unmistakably that of the Master’s Quarters. “Yes! Yes!” Shōzenbō ran while wondering what had happened. The door to the room stood open, but Hannen was nowhere to be seen. When he looked suddenly, Hannen stood in the garden; at his feet lay a white porcelain vase of peonies that had seemingly bloomed to their fullest around this very day—the vase and all now thrown against a garden stone and shattered into fragments.

“Ah… What has happened?” “Shōzenbō.” Hannen’s voice was calm—he did not seem like the man who had shattered the vase and peonies into fragments. Standing in the twilight, his face appeared deathly pale, yet his eyebrows resembled those finding a break in the clouds to cast a single thread of light.

“There should be a bamboo staff in the corner of my room.” “The staff?” “That’s right—the bamboo staff that walked with this body for years on ascetic journeys.” “Bring it down to the garden.” “What will you do?” When he brought it as instructed, Hannen sat upon the earth. Kneeling to present it, he found Hannen placing the staff in his hands and bowing his head.

“Shōzenbō, since I revere you as the Buddha, you alone must become the Buddha. I have been possessed by an unworthy mental affliction unbecoming of a Buddha’s child—wandering for days through a shameful maze. Though I have not acted, my heart has already committed defilement equal to sin. Strike me down! If I am struck with that bamboo staff, my past ascetic practices will revive. Strike until hypocrisy shatters! Strike without seeing me as your teacher! Infuse that staff with the Buddha’s wrath—”

The Fog’s Door

One

It was a darkness that severed all ties and plunged straight ahead. Hannen ran four or five chō before turning to look back at Shōkō-in Temple. Shōzenbō’s figure—who had opened the wicket gate and stood there seeing him off—was no longer visible; there remained only a dark wind churning the desolation between heaven and earth. The white grain-like stars filled the sky beneath the lingering moon of dawn. “Forgive me… I only burden you with hardship…”

An irrepressible need to apologize surged up in Hannen’s chest. From their childhood days before he had even entered the priesthood—when they had shared every aspect of their lives—Hannen had felt for Shōzenbō an affection surpassing that of blood kin, yet upon reflection, he realized he had scarcely allowed him a moment’s peace of mind. The man seemed born to provide common-sense support to someone with an unrestrained nature like his own, and Hannen keenly felt here and now just how much he had truly sacrificed him for his sake.

“However, I will never let that be in vain.” He felt as though he were pressing his palms together in prayer. At the same time, an equally heartfelt sense of apology welled up within him—toward the Archbishop of Shōren-in, toward his younger brother Jin’u who was there, and also toward his adoptive father Kanze, who had renounced all worldly ties and secluded himself deep in a bamboo grove. “Later, you will surely think of me as defiled, but Hannen will retrain himself anew. It is not fleeing in defeat, nor hiding out of fear of worldly judgment, nor disappearing to evade exposed guilt. I simply wish to dedicate this body and life to once more seclude myself in the darkness of the Great Treasury and cling resolutely to the Buddha’s feet. Please grant me your forgiveness—for a time.” Where could Hannen be fleeing to after abandoning Shōkō-in Temple this late at night? His person no longer bore any of the figured-silk ceremonial robes or gold-brocaded vestments worn by the Shōkō-in Temple Lord—only the chillingly austere appearance of a wandering monk with a single hat and staff.

And thus, Hannen’s heart had left words behind for Shōzenbō alone. He had confided all his secrets to him—and entrusted him with matters yet to come. For Kohata Minbu and Kakumyō, he had prepared testaments; how astonished they would be later, how they would grieve—but such immediate emotions were far too trivial a matter before Hannen’s great resolve now. It was a determination to stride over even greater things, and chiding himself that acting effeminately would let him surmount not a single one of the countless hardships to come, he armored his heart.

“Right—before dawn breaks—”

When he tried to step forward, something pulled at the hem of his priestly robes—a large black dog.

“Shoo!” Hannen drove it away and ran. The dog barked loudly, as if announcing it to the slumbering world. He felt as if even the dog’s bark were pursuing him. Along the still-dark Kamo no Se, he hurried as far as his legs could carry him. Fortunately, he was not questioned by anyone in the streets of the capital. And before long, the place he was climbing breathlessly toward was the foot of Mount Hiei.

This mountain had always been in his heart. This mountain, for Hannen, was the homeland of the heart.

Two

There were two women standing in the wind like herons. This was the foot of Unohana-zaka Slope. Beyond this point lay the sacred boundary where no woman’s footstep was permitted. The mountain path, shrouded in thousand-year cedars, glistened with dawn’s pale light. “Are you cold, my lady?” She tried to drape her own cloak over the other woman. The one refusing was the figure called Princess, her face hidden beneath a noblewoman’s jōrōgasa hat. Youthful in appearance, even her posture and feet suggested a delicate form ill-suited to such rough winds.

“No,” she said faintly. “You must be cold as well.” “It’s nothing for someone like me.”

What women were these, and of what station? At this hour, when night had only just begun to whiten, it seemed unlikely they had ascended from the village below—still less could they have descended from above. These two young women must have sheltered from the night’s rain and dew in the worship hall of Akayama Myōjin nearby. Though folds of lingering snow still etched white patterns across Mount Shimei’s cliffs, here in these foothills it was already spring—too mild to be called cold. As proof, bush warblers sang ceaselessly in every stream and valley. That their skin alone felt so chilled could only be because they had spent the night exposed to mountain winds on the hall’s open veranda, its doors left unlatched.

Even so, who could they be waiting for? They seemed to be expecting someone ascending from the foot of the mountain here, and the woman who appeared to be a maidservant kept glancing around while encouraging the disheartened princess—an attentiveness far beyond what an ordinary attendant would typically do. “Ah—Lady Tamahime!” The woman who had been gazing toward the foot of the mountain suddenly exclaimed in an almost exaggerated manner—likely because she had at last discerned the figure of the long-awaited person—and clattered back to the princess’s side.

“Do look, my lady. It is indeed that person.” Pulling at her sleeve and pointing, but upon hearing this, the princess suddenly turned inward, and despite her expressionless face, clearly betrayed her fluster.

“Could it be a case of mistaken identity?” the princess said. “No—why would *I*?” Manno asserted with conviction.

Before long, the figure of that person came into view as they rounded the low, winding path. He was ascending, muttering a low sutra chant under his breath, without so much as glancing aside. When seen up close, it was Venerable Hannen Shōnagon, wearing nothing but an old hat soiled by wind and rain and ancient ceremonial robes. He had cast aside both the exalted position of Shōkō-in Temple Lord and all that had clung to his person at the foot of the mountain by this dawn, and now, pressing onward with his staff along the single path of seeking the Dharma, he had climbed to Mount Hiei—the homeland of his heart.

He did not even notice the two women waiting for him there. He briskly passed right by them. The princess gasped, her heart leaping at the sight of his figure. Overwhelmed by tears and shame welling up in her chest, she hid herself in the shadow of a tree. The maid, as if frustrated by that, ran out alone,

“Lord Hannen,” she said, standing before him. “Ah…” The woven sedge hat of the man who had stopped his staff and stood still trembled faintly.

Three

“You are Manno, are you not?” After a moment came Hannen’s voice, low and escaping him. “You were startled, were you not?” “I was startled...” Hannen spoke with unvarnished truth. Through the tree shade, even the princess’s form could now be seen. How had they come to know of his mountain ascent? Had one removed the hat concealing his face, his features would assuredly have shown disarray from panic.

“Yesterday, from a certain person, I happened to catch wind of your retreat to Daijō-in Temple.”

“?…” There could be no such person. It was something he had decided alone within his own heart. Even to Shōzenbō—to whom he had confided this—it was something he had spoken of only yesterday. There was no way it could have reached Tsukinowa.

“You must be wondering,” Manno said. “In truth, it was that biwa player from before who told us—he said the princess and I were too pitiful and declared: ‘If you wish to meet Venerable Hannen so desperately, go keep vigil at Akayama Myōjin near Mount Hiei’s base. Within two or three days, Venerable Hannen will surely pass through there.’” “Did that novice monk from Kakugawa say that?” Hannen murmured. “…That monk has terrifying insight.”

“According to that Hōshi, there is likely only one path that Venerable Hannen must take.” “That is Mount Hiei.” “He declared with conviction that you would surely climb Mount Hiei… So Her Ladyship and I resolved ourselves and humbly waited.” “We can no longer return to the mansion.” “Moreover, we have no home to return to anywhere in this world.” “If you deem us pitiable, I humbly beseech you to take Her Ladyship and ascend the sacred mountain with her.” Manno dropped to her knees and prostrated herself weeping. The princess too was weeping in the shade of the trees. The desperate strength gripping him had nailed Hannen’s feet to the earth as if driven through with stakes. Bewilderment and shame came rushing forth all at once. The resolve that had carried him this far with crystalline clarity—the determination steeled to scale the sacred heights single-mindedly, believing no obstacle could arise—now echoed hollowly from his heart’s depths like earth collapsing into a sinkhole, leaving not even a straw’s worth of conviction. Were forgiveness possible, he would have knelt beside Manno and wept. No—he thought death itself would be far preferable if attainable.

“By now, even at the mansion, that matter has become known.” “Society may have already begun to suspect.” “Even if Lady Tamahime were to cut her hair and declare her wish to be with you…” Manno’s position must have been an excruciating one. What they had steeled themselves to face someday had come rushing to their very feet far too quickly. Could he alone find peace by hiding in the mountains, leaving behind the princess and Manno—who suffered because of this problem born from his own actions? His own morals could not help but condemn him vehemently.

Yet, to even consider bringing a woman into these sacred precincts was an unthinkable prospect. How foolish were the lofty peaks of Mount Hiei—not a single step beyond this Unohana-zaka Slope was permitted for women to tread. As a thousand-year-old precept that even emperors could not violate, an awe-inspiring boundary between the secular world and the sacred had been established there.

IV “Please take the princess and go back.” Making himself like stone, Hannen had no choice but to say that. He had no choice but to plead. Fully aware of his own sin and blame, yet—

However, Manno, placing the princess behind her, did not readily comply with that.

“I had long known you would say that.” “But what am I to do with Lady Tamahime’s tender resolve?” “Lady Tamahime has already sworn in the depths of her heart—in silence—even unto death. Your words are no different than telling that lady to die.” Hannen had no words to reply. He was now astonished at the woman’s single-minded resolve—could her heart have been so resolute all along?—while feeling only the crushing weight of his own guilt for what he had done.

“I am well aware that this sacred mountain has prohibited women within six ri in all directions since the Venerable Saichō’s founding,” Manno said. “Yet is there not the tale where Shakyamuni Buddha declared to the nun Utpalavarnā—a disciple of Venerable Maudgalyāyana—‘You yourself have truly walked the path of Buddhahood’? The Lotus Sutra states women are incapable vessels, but does this mean women lack the grace to cling to the Buddha’s salvation? I do not believe such a thing exists. Even as a woman, if she is a human being—” She pressed with both emotion and logic. Then, as if urging the princess to come forward and move Hannen’s stubborn heart, she glanced toward her charge—but the princess merely lay prostrate on the ground, weeping.

“I understand—that must indeed be the case. But—” Hannen knelt and spoke to Manno and the princess. He became aware of his own voice—one into which he had poured his entire soul—as if it were a matter of life or death, desperate and unyielding. “Please listen calmly. This sacred mountain is a Buddhist training ground. One cannot violate its laws through mere interpretation—call it a contradiction if you will, but these are precepts established by our predecessors since Saichō’s time. Until someone grasps their fallacy and compels the masses to acknowledge it, these rules stand unbroken.” His words sharpened like a blade. “Should I defy them and ascend with you? It would only plunge the monastic order into chaos and make us both objects of scorn. My fate matters little, but your name would be reduced to that of a licentious woman’s indiscretion.” A bitter truth hung between them. “Your father would face disgrace—the Archbishop of Shōren-in, your entire clan.” His voice wavered but did not break. “All this stems from my sin. I came here with resolve stronger than death to atone—to cast this body into infinite darkness or achieve salvation for countless beings.” A final confession tore free: “I can no longer dedicate myself to you alone. Call it heartlessness if you must.” Then, colder than winter frost: “Lady Tamahime… return home. This is farewell.”

Did he harbor such severity within him? Did he possess such a cold voice? What a merciless pronouncement—like frost, like a boulder. Manno found herself beyond tears.

Bandit Chapter

Arare

One

This area was in the process of forming a new Buddhist metropolis.

The fourteen grand halls of Ninna-ji Temple and its forty-nine temple complexes—pagodas and sanctuaries—lined the peaks and valleys from Omuro to Mount Kinugasa with their jade-like elegance and azure-and-vermilion architectural beauty, while the cultural force of the age, divorced from urban clamor, continued to expand yet another Juraku pleasure district.

Kagami Pond was a place where people came for firefly viewing in summer, and Utano for listening to insects in autumn; the people of the capital, yearning for nature, often took their staffs and wandered under the pretext of admiring seasonal flowers, the moon, or withered fields. Yet it was said that from this autumn through winter, and from winter into the New Year, an unusually large number had been visiting these Buddhist centers—Ninna-ji foremost among them, along with Kezōin, En’yū-ji, Tōchi-in, and others in the area—with hearts turned earnestly toward devotion.

“The natural course of the world’s changes has steered people’s hearts in this direction,” the people here declared, calling it the prosperity of Buddhism, its flourishing, and even its revival. Come to think of it, one could not say that was entirely untrue. The era when war had been life itself and war the societal norm had already become something left behind, like a ship gazing back at a great wave it had passed through. Regardless of the Kamakura Shogunate’s foundations or nature, people’s hearts had grown weary of conflict and now aligned in their wish to return to their original way of life—to attempt living quietly. Once state governance fell under warrior control, it became a matter of Taira or Minamoto rule; even when both were rejected, makeshift cloistered governments only complicated matters further, leaving whatever took shape far removed from popular hopes. The wise saw that the bright sunlight of true benevolent rule—something people thirsted for in their hearts—would likely remain absent for some time. What rises to overthrow hegemonic rule is itself hegemonic governance. If so, why transform the entire land into a realm of endless strife where none could live in peace? Such questions naturally took root in weary minds. This sentiment grew strongest among the warrior class. The court nobles always sought to preserve their present comforts unchanged. As for the farmers—the Emperor’s great populace and nation’s foundation—they remained nearly invisible to these power shifts, viewing the shogunate’s rise in Kamakura with as much concern as today’s weather or tomorrow’s—

The first month of the first year of Ken’ei was an unusually peaceful New Year. This peace was not one where all four classes were reveling in a benevolent rule and blissful land, but a windless stagnation—a state of powerlessness—born from exhaustion and stupefaction.

Such commoners, "Shall we visit a temple or something?" they would say,

“Shall we listen to a sermon or something?” they would say as they headed outside the capital. Therefore, the rituals these people devoted to Buddhism were invariably formal, treated as outings, and extravagant. “Let us solicit contributions for the temple’s restoration,” “Let us donate pagodas,” “Let us apply vermilion lacquer,” “Let us adorn the halls with jeweled garlands,” “Let us invite as many people as possible to the Dharma assemblies,” and “Afterward let us have the caretakers perform dengaku dances.” If they did not indulge in Buddhism in such a manner, their emptiness would not be filled. As for that which could fulfill those who came seeking, these fourteen halls and forty-nine temple complexes in fact possessed nothing.

However, on the surface, the Buddhist revival had now become an evident social fact. The intellectual currents of the age were indeed seeking something.

Two

Today again, the area around Ninna-ji Temple was bustling. An eccentric wealthy patron who had erected a single memorial pagoda invited his clan members and court nobles to its ridge-raising ceremony; to those connected attendees who gathered to witness it and the tribal poor residing in this vicinity, he scattered coins and distributed rice. Thus despite January’s cold sky threatening snow, the ground below showed congestion in what might be called an unseasonable rain of charity—a downpour of joy. “I did a good deed.” “May my house prosper for generations through this merit.”

The wealthy patron, nearing eighty, beamed with satisfaction as he watched the crowd pick up the coins he had scattered. By all accounts, this wealthy patron was a merchant who had amassed an enormous fortune in a single generation through wartime dealings, but after hearing a sermon at Ninna-ji Temple’s Dharma assembly, he seemed to have suddenly attained some form of enlightenment; it was rumored that he had devoted the majority of his wealth to conceive of today’s act of charity.

The wealthy patron, who had constantly felt burdened and vigilant in his later years due to the gold he himself had amassed, now felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders— It was said that he exclaimed, “Ah, I’m saved now.” Surrounded by monks, clan members, and acquaintances who praised his virtuous deeds, the wealthy patron, his aged body now like a hollow husk, was being escorted to Ninna-ji Temple’s guest room. “What a blessed soul!” “He’s a man of great compassion!” The crowd expressed their gratitude toward his figure, but in truth, it was the patron himself who had been saved. Among them were those who had once been exploited by this wealthy patron through cruel interest rates or who had loathed his greed—so voracious it could light lamps on his fingernails—and whispered behind his back, calling him “Oni Chōja.” Yet setting aside such past grievances, people were now wholly moved by his present deeds, and believing these too to be the Buddha’s teachings, they were equally enveloped in spiritual joy.

Amidst such a crowd, someone suddenly bellowed, “Thief!” When they heard the shout of “Thief!”, those nearby immediately reached into their pockets and sleeves to check. Then there were several people—those who had lost the coins they’d painstakingly gathered, women who had hairpins stolen, others whose sleeves had been slashed with blades—

“There is a thief.” “There’s a thief among us!” they shouted from all around. Countless eyes finally identified and chased after those who had slipped into their midst. Two suspicious-looking men broke away from the group and fled from Kagami Pond’s edge into the mountains. Since their weapons were plain to see, no one dared pursue them into the foothills. The two villains—evidently seasoned mountain travelers—followed Kinugasa’s ridges to Senbon, then pushed through Rendaino’s withered reeds, their bodies half-submerged in the rustling stalks as they moved toward some unknown destination.

“Freezing!” “Ugh, so cold.” The villains exchanged nothing but such muttered words. It was no different from returning home after their daily mundane work and ordinary earnings.

Eventually, they knocked on the door of a house that appeared to belong to a peasant.

“It’s me. Open up,” he said.

Above the fields, winter clouds hung low, not yet turning to snow as dusk approached, and birds were being tossed about like leaves in the wind. “Kumota?” Those drinking sake around the hearth turned toward the door.

Three “It ain’t Kumota—it’s me.” Outside, he said again,

“Oh, Heiji?” A man stood up and opened the half-rotten door from inside with a creak. The hearth smoke that had filled the house escaped with a whoosh from the eaves into the sky like a gust of wind. “You’re late, brothers,” the comrades lolling about inside said in unison, and the two subordinates—their noses reddened from exposure to the cold sky—crouched toward the hearth as if to blacken them with soot, “Course we did! Ain’t like we’ve been lazing around drinkin’ like you lot.” Proudly, the two of them took out the small coins and hairpins they had stolen together and laid them out before their leader Shirō.

Just as they were expecting to be praised, Amagi Shirō paid them no heed, “Is this the haul from Ninna-ji?” “Well, Boss, we didn’t manage anything too fancy with the daytime job, but still, we cut the sleeves off those folks picking up coins and snatched this much.” “You damn fools!” Staring fixedly at his subordinate’s dumbfounded face, Shirō had someone pour him sake while, “Who told you to bring back these dirt-covered coins? When I ordered you to work at Ninna-ji, it was because I thought that the wealthy patron who held today’s ridge-raising ceremony for the memorial pagoda must have donated a large sum to the temple, so you should have stolen that, or else targeted his relatives who would have come dressed in luxurious belongings and attire.” “Who told you to bring back these paltry coins?”

He grabbed what lay before him and slammed it down. With a fearsomely displeased expression, veins bulging like those of a drunkard, he barked: "Hey! Pour me some sake!" "Boss, that's all the sake we've got left." "No damn sake left?" His bitterness reached its peak as he muttered, "What a miserable state we're in." Since the wars had ended, a fatal stagnation had settled over them. Even when they took on petty jobs—snatching women, raiding homes, setting fires—the bandit clan's dozens of members would devour their meager gains in days. Moreover, as order gradually returned to the capital, the Rokuhara enforcers' pursuit grew relentless. Where once they could have boldly occupied towers or abandoned temples within the city, now they were driven to the outskirts—and even there found no peace.

“It’s Kumota! Open up!” At that moment, there was another knock at the door. One of the subordinates—the dwarf Kumota—had returned from somewhere. Shirō, as if he had been waiting impatiently,

“Open it quickly!” he said. And when he saw the figure entering, “Kumota? How did it go?” “Boss, it didn’t work out.” Kumota was dejected, but “But I did get some interesting news,” he said, thrusting out his strange face.

Four Among Shirō’s many subordinates, the most conspicuous man was this Kumota. His height measured just under four shaku, and his features resembled both an old man and a child. Because he was an orphan who from childhood did not comprehend the love of parents and siblings—just as one born blind knows nothing of color—he remained unaware that something called love existed in human society. Cruel and ruthless, this man lived believing he would do anything to survive.

Therefore, there was work that only Kumota could do. Even acts of cruelty that Leader Shirō could not bring himself to commit, this man carried out without hesitation; moreover, no matter how heavily guarded a mansion might be, this small man knew no difficulty in infiltrating it. That day as well, it seemed he had gone somewhere for such work, but there appeared to have been no earnings. However, it seemed he had brought back some promising rumor. At this, Amagi Shirō's mood improved slightly,

“Hmm… Something interesting?” “…Is this something that could make money?”

“Of course! Ain’t no point tellin’ you somethin’ that don’t make coin, Boss.” “Damn right.” “It’s the lean season.” “Gotta score work quick or we’ll choke.” “Not just coin—it’s payback too. Two birds with one stone.” “Quit yappin’ and talk straight.” “Nothin’ fancy—‘member that court princess you nearly snatched durin’ the Rokuijō brothel fire?”

“Hmm, I ain’t forgotten how infuriating that was. That was Tsukinowa’s former regent’s daughter.” “Who was the bastard that messed with our job here?” “Those disciples of Shōkō-in Hannen.” “Boss.” Kumota edged forward on his knees,

“About that Hannen...” “Hm... What’s happened to Hannen?” Ever since that time, Shirō had not forgotten his curses against him. Regardless of profit’s presence or absence, he had always let his subordinates know he would retaliate given the chance.

But now—according to Kumota—a major problem had arisen around Hannen since last summer. It was said to be a romantic affair between him and the daughter of the Tsukinowa family. Hannen, fearing society’s relentless attacks, had secluded himself on Mount Hiei and severed all ties with the outside world; his teacher, disciples, and even the Tsukinowa family on the woman’s side were said to be desperately scrambling to suppress the scandal and manage its aftermath.

“How about it?” Kumota twitched his nose. “There hasn’t been such an interesting piece of information lately.” “How about we track down that heretic monk Hannen and give him a good extortion?”

“Is that true, that story?”

“There’s no room for doubt.” “This’ll bring in money. If that doesn’t work out, we’ll strip Hannen naked, drag him out as a public spectacle on the capital’s main street, and settle that old score of ours.” For several days after that, this nest of evildoers here took turns going out each day to investigate Hannen’s whereabouts and verify the truth of the rumors.

Five

“Hey, let’s take a break,” a man called out toward the valley. “Hey!” came a voice from that direction. They were four or five young scholar-monks. With the snow having melted, they had ventured out to gather firewood that had grown scarce after being burned through during their winter seclusion. Branches snapped by the snow and pine needles scattered by the Shime gale lay buried in ravines and along cliffs. Though faint signs of spring had finally reached the valley—bush warblers singing along the mountain stream’s lower reaches, trees dotted with crimson buds—when they looked up, remnant snow still whitened the shoulders of Kurama’s distant peaks and the deep folds of Shime-ga-take.

“Ah, it’s warm here.” The scholar-monks carried bundles of firewood to the south-facing valley cliff and formed a circle. The mountain grass, retaining the sun’s warmth, gently encircled their waists. “It was a long winter indeed.” “Finally, spring has come to us.”

“Spring has come… The mountains remain mountains, the valleys remain valleys. Day and night, mist is our dwelling.” “Do you find it dreary?”

“Because we’re human.” “Overcoming that is what ascetic practice means.”

“There are times when our confidence starts to crumble.” “Even though we talk about ascetic practice, we can’t help but create loopholes.” “It’s sneaking down the mountain to go breathe the air of the world below.” “Even if we keep doing such things, we won’t overcome anything—we’re just living in contradiction.” “Exactly. If you dwell on it too earnestly, how could anyone live in a monastery? One must properly find moderation—take for example Archbishop Hannen, who’s shut himself away in Daijō-in.”

“There are all sorts of rumors circulating, but what in the world happened with that matter?” “Hey,” one monk said, leaning over a companion’s shoulder. “Weren’t you asked to run an errand to Yokawa’s Iimuro Valley this morning before coming here?”

“Yes, I was entrusted with a document from the Ajari of Shiō-in and left it there.” “Was Hannen there?” “I don’t know.” “Who is there now in that temple?” “Someone who looked like a member of the faction was in the kitchen.” Desolate, the interior was cold and dark like an abandoned temple. Certainly, since around early summer last year, Hannen Shōnagon—temple lord of Higashiyama Shōkō-in—had come up and shut himself away there; yet no one had ever seen his figure. “It’s unclear whether there are temple officials or disciples—or not. It’s strange.”

“That makes no sense,” one of them said with a thin smile, “Hannen isn’t at Shōkō-in Temple, of course, and even if he pretends to be at Daijō-in, he’s not actually there either… It’s all fishy.”

Something like a fiery light slashed diagonally through the valley sky from nearby bushes. People's eyes remained fixed in contemplation as they stared at the female pheasant that had glided there.

Six

Eventually, one of them broke the silence, “Then where on earth is Archbishop Hannen keeping himself? This is nothing short of suspicious conduct!” he exclaimed, his tone tinged with the fervor of a scholar-monk. “Well, I don’t know about that.” Then another one of them,

“Oh, he’s at Daijō-in Temple all right. He just isn’t showing himself. They say he’s shut himself away to perform secret austerities due to some profound inner turmoil.” “He may soon qualify for the rank of archbishop—what more could he lack?” “Well, there are those who say he has abandoned that honorable rank and intends to pass away. The Ajari of Shiō-in and the Archbishop of Shōren-in seem to be secretly worried about it.” “To pass away at such a young age… Is that even true?”

“In our youth, we all suffer from this illness once.” “If one delves too deeply into scholarship and becomes ensnared by its maladies, in the end, death itself becomes enlightenment.” “Was Hannen truly such a misanthrope?” “Given that he even sent relics to the Hōkyō of Ninna-ji Temple and Archbishop Kakumon of Nanto, it can’t be a lie.”

“Then has he been in secret austerities all this time—fasting or such?” “They say Archbishop Jien, who raised him from childhood, keeps sending messengers urging him to abandon this course upon hearing rumors. Yet he remains resolved to die regardless.” “So that’s how it is...” they murmured in unison, heavy sighs escaping them. “Ah! Now we see why his form stays hidden,” “Shouldn’t we all moderate our scholarly zeal accordingly?”

And—a monk who had been lying down using firewood as his pillow, "Ahahaha!" He clapped his hands and roared with laughter.

“Naive fool! You simpleton! You’re all hopelessly gullible! Though I suppose it’s precisely this gullibility that lets us monks keep our bellies full.” “Who dares parrot the Devil’s tongue?” When they turned, they saw the brute whom Mount Hiei’s scholar-monks called Devadatta. “Devadatta! What’s so amusing?” “How could I keep from laughing? Hannen’s passing into Nirvana? Hah! My sides ache! Oh, he’s performing secret austerities alright—but not the kind you pious dolts imagine!”

“How can you utter such slander?” People instead felt resentment toward Devadatta. Undeterred by their expressions, Devadatta kept laughing as he curled his thick lips. “But it’s precisely because you esteemed sages believe such foolish rumors that I couldn’t help but mock your naivety.”

“Then what great vow could Hannen possibly have that he’s secluding himself in such desperate practices?” “Isn’t it obvious? “Love! “Hannen’s human too—he’s got a secret woman!” “What?! He has a woman?!” Their eyes widened at the bold declaration.

Seven

Devadatta smiled thinly, as if pitying the roundabout ways of the people making such surprised faces, “Eyes—do you have them or not? We’re all human—even Mount Hiei is a society where humans live. Given that, you should realize those youngsters putting on holy airs are actually the craftiest schemers of all. To begin with, I never thought much of this Hannen character—” The people listened in silence to Devadatta’s sharp observations. Devadatta continued to chatter, as if intoxicated by his own eloquence.

“Just think about it,” Devadatta pressed. “He’s still just a twenty-nine-year-old green novice this year, isn’t he? That whelp became a temple lord, then a Junior Archbishop—you’ve got fools fawning over him as some thoroughbred prodigy or even a Bodhisattva reborn! All that praise has turned to poison for the man. The world rates him far beyond his worth, and you lot compound the error by swallowing those lies whole.” “Devadatta,” challenged a monk, “what proof lets you make such brazen claims?”

“I’m the only one monitoring Daijō-in’s comings and goings.” “Why do I keep a watchful eye on his actions? There’s a reason for that.” “……It was around early summer last year.” “I saw Hannen’s secret woman with these very eyes.” “Hmm… Where?” “At the foot of Mount Hiei, in front of Akayama Myōjin.”

“……….” There was no ambiguity in Devadatta’s words. They were eyes that compelled belief. The people too, having seen the sincerity in his attitude, shed their skepticism and began to lend an eager ear. “……Hannen likely thinks no one sees him, but that itself is Buddha’s punishment.” “Exactly the night before, I conspired with the folks from the study hall and went down to Sakamoto town for drinks.” “After drinking too much and waking to find the night already paling, I panicked—if I were late for morning prayers, I’d be exposed! I rushed out and reached near Akayama Myōjin, and what do you know—a beautiful woman was clinging to Hannen’s sleeve, weeping! The look on Hannen’s face—utterly flustered!”

“A courtesan from Yase? Or perhaps a Kyoto dancer?” “No way—she’s nothing like those women! No matter how you looked at her—tucking up the hems of five-layered robes with a maidservant in tow—she was clearly a noble’s daughter. The two of them were weeping and pleading about something. I hid in the tree shade—sinful as it was—and watched quietly. Even without hearing their lovers’ talk, doesn’t this prove what a cunning fraud Hannen is? Don’t let that man deceive you!”

“I see.” “If that’s the case, then claims of his passing away or nightly visits to Kyoto’s Rokkaku-dō Temple for ascetic retreats—all such things…” “A facade of lies.” “If he is making his visits, it would be to that woman I mentioned.” “What’s all this?”

“There are no saints who have lived in this society.”

“If even Hannen does such things, then our sneaking off to Sakamoto for women and drink must be a lesser sin.” “Somehow... society itself feels absurd now.” “To think even this Mount Hiei is shrouded in lies—” “You’re only realizing this now?” “Come on, let’s go...”

“In the evening, sneak out to Sakamoto again and vent your frustrations.”

Shouldering firewood, the people stood up. The firewood felt heavier than usual.

Eight

After walking about ten chō along the ridges, someone from the valley called out to that group shouldering firewood.

Devadatta strained his ears,

“Wait, wait! Someone’s calling out!”

The figure of a young traveling monk came into view below. While holding onto his sedge hat, the young monk came up panting. “Hey there, Mount Hiei monks!”

“What is it?” “May I ask—is Daijō-in Temple still further along the ridge?”

“If it’s Daijō-in Temple you seek, it’s in Yokawa’s Iimuro Valley. Follow this mountain stream, descend further, and cross to the opposite bank. You’ve come too far in this direction.” The young monk turned back toward the deep ravine path with a sorrowful look after receiving these instructions. Between the trees roared a red muddy stream swollen with melting snow.

“Thank you very much.” Reluctantly, the young monk clung to the rock and began descending toward the valley once more. Watching the young monk’s footsteps—which seemed as weary as cotton—Devadatta,

“It’s dangerous!” Devadatta cautioned.

For those unfamiliar with this valley, there were nothing but dangerous rapids and cliffs. Even to cross to the opposite bank, there was no bridge nor reliable path along the rocks. The young monk gazed at the terrifying visage of the raging stream and heaved a sigh. Resting intermittently, he made his way downstream. Blocked by snow-snapped rotten wood, there too he stood dazed, his resolve crumbling. The loneliness wasn’t his only burden. Between the trees in the marshland, dusk already dimly approached. Then came white specks—whether frozen snow flying from Mount Shimei’s bosom or sleet spilling from gray clouds—falling into the marsh with a rustling sound like delicate patterns for a time.

"Cold."

The young monk curled up timidly like a rabbit beneath the shelter of leaves. Unlike the wild monks of this mountain, the eyes peering out from under his sedge hat held a timid yet virtuous gaze. With his pale skin and sickly, frail build, he was a youth ill-suited for such a journey as a traveling monk. *I want to see him.* *I don’t want to freeze to death here.* *Even if I die without meeting my brother...* He muttered, then warmed his frozen hands with his breath. Desperately, he raised himself up and began walking through the marsh wetlands—but his feet slipped on rotten leaves, sending him sliding down to the edge of the mountain stream.

"…………" Had he injured his back? He winced, his brows furrowed in pain. The sedge hat had already been swept away by the muddy torrent, carried downstream. He remained unable to rise. Upon his shoulders, upon his face, the stinging sleet fell like blows. That refined face, with its air of nobility, resembled Hannen in some way. He should resemble him—for this was Jin’u, Hannen’s younger brother, now residing at Shōren-in.

Long-Armed Monkeys

Like a fleeing flying squirrel, someone slid down the cliff, rustling the leaves. Pushing through the tangled branches of the shrubs, a head suddenly popped out—it was none other than Kumota, one of Shirō’s henchmen.

Peering into the dimly lit valley, "No good here either," he clicked his tongue. On the cliff above, the voices of many still lingered. The sleet-cleared sky had turned starry and piercingly blue. In its place rose a blade-like wind that lashed against the pitch-black cluster of shadows moving along the cliff's edge. When the group above shouted "Kumo!", "Hey…" He threw his head back and barked.

“Coming down won’t help.” “This pool here—no crossing that looks passable, I tell ya!” Gritty soil crumbled noisily around Kumota’s feet. Despite his attempts to stop them, the men above clung to wisteria vines and relied on sasa grass roots, descending the pathless slope in a line like long-armed monkeys. And then, after briefly surveying the area around the mountain stream, “With the snowmelt swelling the water like this, no matter how far ya go, there ain’t no ford you can cross easy.” “Around here, the river’s narrower.” “Just find a way across already!”

“Exactly! No way we’d drown.” Kumota was walking ahead,

“It’s dangerous!” he shouted again, halting them. “What?”

“There’s a cave down here.” “Crawl along the ledge!” “Should we light a torch?” “No fires.” The voice left no doubt—this was Amagi Shirō.

In the darkness, only their eyes gleamed. The blades of the axes and naginatas they held occasionally emitted blue glints in the dark. "If you light torches while moving," he warned, "the mountain monks will spot us instantly. Samurai mansions? The imperial palace? We'd sneak into any without fear—but Mount Hiei alone demands caution unless you want terror." "Those warrior monks here thirst for blood more than us bandits and love their blades better." "Not just that—every temple on this mountain has bells. At the first sign of trouble, the Ninety-Nine Bells' sacred toll would surround Sakamoto Gate before we blink." "With snow still clinging to the peaks, Shimei Pass makes poor escape." "Head down to Yase and we're trapped." "And keep your damn voices low!"

Even a bandit leader must advance step by step, devoting meticulous consideration equal to military strategy. Exercising stealthy restraint, the group of fourteen or fifteen men guided by Shirō’s discernment finally completed their cliff descent and stood before the whirlpool where the rapids’ white foam gnawed at the rocks.

Two Whirlpools, sprays—the frenzied visage of the water. With a roar—terrifying streaks of water shot through the darkness. The henchmen had descended to the pool’s edge but turned pale and crossed their arms. “How do we cross this muddy torrent?” said Shirō. “Cut down a tree.” The henchman gripping an axe—

“Right!” he dashed out, but it was a gorge—trees were abundant—and he looked around, wondering which one to cut down. Between the rocks overlooking the rapids, a tall oak tree had spread its roots. Shirō pointed and,

“Knock that one down toward the river,” he ordered. “Right, that makes sense.” The two men wielding axes approached the tree’s base and sank their blades in with a solid thunk. The gleam of axes clanging chipped away at the large tree’s white flesh fragments, sending them flying. The treetops and leaves towering into the sky, caught in the humans’ ferocious breath, trembled as they scattered tear-like stars. With a creak, as it began to tilt, many hands pushed against the trunk’s back, urging the axes onward with cries of “Another strike! Another strike!”

With a CRACK—a sound like the very ground breaking apart—the light of white water leaping up split the darkness clean in two.

“We’ve got it!” shouted the black-clad group. The tip of the felled great tree’s branches reached exactly to the bedrock on the opposite bank. Shirō’s laughing voice echoed through the shifting shadows. Those who had rushed ahead were already scrambling on all fours like monkeys across the felled oak’s upper boughs. “Careful! Keep quiet!” “One wrong twist, and we all get tossed off!”

“Whoa, steady there!” Lightly, one after another, over a dozen figures leapt across without difficulty. Then, exchanging playful banter as they burst into laughter there, their voices and forms were instantly swallowed by the Shimei gale and vanished into the dark ravine’s depths.

As if watching shadows in a dream, Jin’u had been gazing at it from a slight distance for some time now. In the end, there was no way to cross this raging current. Night had fallen, and so—from the twilight when white hail had begun to scatter—he had crouched beneath the trees in the shape of a docile rabbit, resigned to sleeping in this ravine with fallen leaves as his blanket.

"Oh..." Involuntarily, he stood and walked to the pool where the giant tree had been felled. "Have mercy on this wretched soul—is this not the bridge Amida has granted me?" Mimicking those who had crossed before him, he crawled across on hands and knees. To the others, it had appeared a simple leap—but for Jin’u, it became a harrowing trial. The tree still shifted as though breathing, while the water lashed at him with a ferocious visage that seemed intent on devouring all.

Jin’u closed his eyes, “Amida Buddha,” he prayed, his body stiffening.

Three

When he looked up, high above, a single flickering light was visible. The heavens were filled with countless stars, but among lights kindled by human hands, only that solitary point could be seen. To the right were mountains; even when he turned left, there were mountains—nothing but a pitch-black screen of darkness. "If only I could meet him by tonight..." After finally emerging from that valley, Jin’u fastened his heart to hope. His beloved brother was already at Daijō-in Temple in Imuro Valley, not far from here. Something only flesh and blood could fathom—a crushing weight—gnawed at his yearning heart.

"I want to see you as soon as possible." His legs forgot their weariness of their own accord. His heart was single-minded; it was wholly devoted. I must meet him without a moment’s delay. I must meet him and strike my brother’s heart with my own sincerity. Whether my brother knew or remained unaware—now, the censure against him in this world could not be stopped even if he covered his ears. Brother Hannen had now become a person of grave concern. Society clamorously condemned my brother; mocked him; and attacked him relentlessly.

Surely my brother could not be unaware that both the archbishop of Shōren-in—his mentor and my own teacher—and the former regent Tsukinowa, Tamahime’s father, were so tormented they scarcely slept at night. ――And that matter was another problem entirely. Unthinkably—or perhaps all too thinkably—they said a noble lady and a temple lord who commanded both clerical and lay respect had fallen in love; they said they had held secret trysts; and what’s more, evidence had even been seized by the Rokuhara night patrol, so it was told.

Jin’u could not remain still—not even as he watched from the corner of his eye how the aged teacher’s body grew thinner each night, as though planed away by a carpenter’s blade. (To leave such matters unresolved—abandoning Shōkō-in Temple and fleeing deep into the mountain’s heart—I cannot fathom you, Brother. How cowardly! No—this serves neither your purpose nor honor. Leave things as they are, and public censure will only fester further. If you love Lady Tamahime, consider her standing! What turmoil must lie in your heart? Place yourself in her father’s position! Whatever it takes—now of all times—you must devise a resolution! If saving you requires my life’s forfeit, so be it.) Resolved thus, he had stolen into the mountains without even informing his teacher Jien. Fearing worldly eyes might spy him, he took a distant path from Kurama-guchi along the ridges—disguised as a wandering monk to even the mountain folk—until at last he arrived.

But――Jin’u did not believe his brother was the immoral man society condemned. I know my brother’s true nature better than anyone. Brother was by no means a man of many passions, nor one to drown in emotions. Though he certainly possessed abundant sentiment and fragility, by nature he stood second to none in bearing fortitude and fervor on one side of his character. He was also a man of unyielding will who would never retreat once his heart was set. This was both the virtue of his brother—a son of their mother who had inherited much Minamoto blood—and a flaw that brought him suffering, this very trait being what drove him from tranquil circumstances into hardship’s alleys—he pondered deeply as he walked.

Four

It was a sudden noise that arose from the cold darkness of the temple complex, isolated from all the sounds of this world. With savage vandalism, they destroyed Buddhist implements and furnishings one after another, their creaking footsteps making the building itself groan as demonic work began to stir around the vast, pitch-dark main hall. Of course, this was no ordinary deed—it was an incident that began when Amagi Shirō and his gang, having crossed Yokawa at dusk and advanced toward Imuro Valley, launched their attack.

From the moment they departed their nest in Rendaigahara outside the capital, they had undoubtedly come targeting Daijō-in Temple from the outset. Shirō took the lead, breaking through the side doors as he advanced, followed by over a dozen men who entered the inner sanctuary. They first hauled out the principal image from its shrine, then gathered items such as candle stands, sutra desks, Chinese brocade curtains, mother-of-pearl-inlaid tables, crystal incense burners, and scripture chests into one spot on the floor. Leader Shirō inspected each item one by one, “Throw away this junk,” “This one’s worth something”—as they sorted through the loot like flea-market scavengers, the insatiable underlings left a trail of muddy footprints trampling deep into the abbot’s quarters, still searching every corner for hidden gold.

Then, two temple attendants from the kitchen, finally noticing the commotion, came running with paper lanterns—but upon encountering the shadows of the bandits, With a yelp, they fell flat on their backsides.

“Make a sound and I’ll cut you down!” When blades were thrust at them, one temple attendant blindly charged at the bandits. Another bandit hastily stabbed sideways into the attendant’s flank, making him collapse to the floor with an eerie groan. “Bastard!” With bloodied sword lowered, the bandit chased after another fleeing attendant. Overwhelmed by shock, the temple attendants tumbled into a dark room while screaming unintelligible shrieks one after another.

“Bastard!” The bandit immediately closed in, grabbing the collar of the temple attendant who had crouched in the corner—but then, somewhere in the lacquer-black room, “Who’s there――” said a voice. Hm? He turned around, his eyes gleaming as if piercing through the darkness. When he looked, there sat a monk on the floor, who had laid out a round cushion as if enshrining a seated statue. “Who the hell are you?” When the bandit said this, the monk calmly, “I am Hannen,” he replied.

“Huh?!” He instinctively recoiled, “Hannen?” “Hannen of Shōkō-in?”

“Indeed.” His low voice held a clarity as crystalline as winter air. Though those keen ears could not have missed the earlier clamor, his demeanor remained unshaken—not a tremor of surprise disturbing its stillness.

Five “Who are you?” In response to Hannen’s question, the bandits answered as if boasting of their status as outlaws. “Bandits!” “Hah!” Opening his half-closed eyes wide, Hannen spoke again. “Since you are bandits, if you take what you desire, there should be no need to kill people.” “Naturally, we don’t want to kill, but these damned temple attendants are making a fuss.” “So that there will be no disturbance, as I will ensure they are persuaded, you may proceed with your work without concern.”

“This guy’s a smooth talker.” “Who’d fall for such an old trick?” “He’s trying to lull us into complacency so he can ring the bell or summon the mountain monks—that’s his game!” They naturally did not believe. Upon hearing of the situation, leader Shirō sent word to bring Hannen to the main hall. The underlings twisted his arms and forced him to stand. Without showing any fear, Hannen was led out of the room. As for Amagi Shirō, he sat arrogantly atop a scripture chest in the main hall. When he spotted Hannen, he sprang to his feet and roared a rebuke.

“There you are! You good-for-nothing monk!” And then, even more loudly: “Sit him there!” Though no order was needed—Hannen was already seated. The underlings, wary that any harm might come to Shirō, whom they revered as their leader, once ostentatiously surrounded him, but upon seeing it unnecessary, each began bundling and wrapping the loot they had gathered to make it easier to carry. Shirō glared fixedly at Hannen’s eyes. Hannen likewise did not avert his eyes from Shirō’s face. Though seven or eight years had passed since they had met at an inn in a town near Hōryū-ji Temple in Yamato, the ronin-like vigor and sharp hawk-like eyes from that time still showed not the slightest change in Shirō’s appearance. Moreover, strangely enough, this man—whether in the case of his brother Jin’u or during tonight’s assault on his own quarters—had made it almost a rule to appear and inflict persecution whenever some problem involving women arose. Hannen faced Shirō’s shadow while recalling that karmic tie. I thought he was a messenger sent by Amida to chastise me with the whip of my indolence and sin.

“Hey, Hannen!” Shirō began by saying. “Don’t you dare forget my face.” “Today, I’ve come for payback.” “It’s exactly been a year now, but you sure had the nerve to interfere that night when I was taking Lady Tamahime of Tsukinowa away.” “You might claim *you* didn’t lay hands on me, but since it was your disciples acting on *your* will, it’s only natural this payback falls on *you*—that’s how the world works.” “So tonight, I intend to take every last furnishing and coin from this Daijō-in. Got any complaints?” “If you’ve got any complaints, I’ll hear them, Hannen. Go on—spit it out.” As if declaring without words that the large, masterfully crafted nodachi was right there, he pressed his fist against his left hip, twisted his body slightly, and glared down.

Hannen’s eyes remained fixed on Shirō’s face. Then he said quietly, “Is that all you want?”

Six “There’s more!” As if to press down, Shirō raised his right shoulder.

“I am the supreme bandit of the realm.” “A bandit’s greed knows no bounds.” “I’ll haunt you for the rest of your life—use you as bait to amass treasures, then come to extort them.” “Consider this tonight’s first installment.” “For a lifetime—so to speak—I’ll squeeze wealth from this Hannen.” “I’ve got your weakness in my grip—or rather, you can’t refuse.” “With such accumulation of wealth, what exactly do you intend to build?”

“If I die—in this world where I bid farewell—I have not the slightest intention to build and leave anything behind. All of it—drinking, buying, indulging—every pleasure imaginable to delight this body of mine.” “And what does delighting it achieve?” “Satisfaction.”

“Is that not merely what the body perceives, while the heart harbors many times that suffering and emptiness?” “Humans are the dual embodiment of spirit and flesh.” “We are not beings who live by flesh alone.” “I hate petty logic—not a single person spouting it lives looking happy.” “Anyway, I just need each day to be entertaining—I’ll do whatever I want.” “What a pitiable man you are.” “Who?” “It is you.”

“Bwahahaha!” Shirō let out a clear laugh toward the darkness of the high ceiling, “This guy, unaware of his own misfortune, dares to call *me* pitiable!” Clutching his side as if in pain, he started to speak, but then—suddenly seeming troubled by a word from Hannen that lingered in the corner of his mind— “Tell me—what part of me is pitiable? Where do I seem so?” “How pitiable it seems that a good soul like yourself lives without ever bathing in the light of the Dharma you ought to meet, groping from darkness to darkness.”

“Hey, wait!” Shirō stomped once on the large floorboard, “‘A good person’? Me?” “If so, then I did say that.” “Watch your tongue when you speak.” “The one who called this Amagi Shirō a good person—in all the realm, you are the first.” “First of all, it’s a tremendous insult to me.” “I am a villain! I am a great thief!” As he declared bombastically, Hannen gazed up at him with a demeanor as cold and still as solitude itself, forming a faint dimple in one cheek.

“You are a weak human. You must wear this mask of feigned wickedness because you cannot survive in this world without it—” “‘Feigned wickedness’? Don’t mock me! My evil springs from my very heart and soul. I rejoice at others’ grief—I craft their sorrows and misfortunes for my pleasure. To preserve my own life, I’d slaughter a thousand without remorse. Thus stands Amagi Shirō: merciless! Greedy! A lover of slaughter! When I see women, lust consumes me; when I see others’ happiness, curses boil in my throat.—And still you dare call me a good man?”

“Truly, I have heard a rare voice of truth of late.” “The more you speak, the more you reveal yourself to be an honest and good person.”

Seven

Shirō took pride in being the unconcealed mastermind of great evil in the world. Yet tonight’s opponent not only showed no surprise at his ferocity but even went so far as to call him forthright, an upright man, a good person.

In this situation, Amagi Shirō’s dignity as a man of his stature was in tatters. He felt a greater insult than being kicked, and every single word from Hannen angered him. Taking Hannen’s calm words as mockery of himself,

“Enough!” he finally roared, bulging the muscles of anger in his face, shoulders, and arms, his entire body radiating a menacing dignity. “Do you think flattering me would make me happy?” “Don’t underestimate me.” “I’m not like those soft humans—I’m built differently.” “Enough chatter—hand over the gold.” “In this deserted temple, there can be no reason for gold to exist.” “We’ll search this place!” “You may search to your heart’s content.”

“Go find that!” With a jerk of his chin toward his underlings, Shirō resumed his watch over Hannen. Throughout, not a single expression appeared on Hannen’s form or countenance. When the exchange with Shirō ceased, his eyelashes merely veiled his half-closed eyes. The underlings scattered and rushed into the abbot’s quarters, eventually returning having found nothing more than a single jade inkstone screen and a layered lacquer box from Hannen’s chamber. There was no gold, but the jade inkstone screen seemed to satisfy Shirō’s greedy heart quite sufficiently.

“Temples have such items after all,” he muttered while gazing dazedly. And then immediately, “Let’s withdraw. Grab those things and get moving!” he ordered.

The underlings each secured the stolen goods to their bodies and exited the main hall. Shirō pivoted on the foot he’d begun to move and delivered one last poisonous jab.

“Hannen, I’ll be back.” Against those arrowhead-sharp eyes, Hannen’s gaze laughed like a spring star. “Oh, you may come again.” “Hmph… You’re a man of stubborn pride.” “Of all people, having your evidence of violating celibacy seized by someone like me is your misfortune.” “You’d better resign yourself to me hounding you for money in this life and the next.”

“What a profound karmic bond. Someday, this deep connection shall bear the flower of Dharma.” “You’re still spewing delusions! You called my evil a false mask—why not tear off that holy disguise of yours? Live as the commoner you are; it’d lighten your burden.” “Ha! Preaching to a monk—how backward! My sutra’s the true shortcut to paradise for living men.” “Enough chill—tonight I’ll warm myself with Yase’s courtesan, hear kalavinkas sing beneath paradise’s quilts.” “Farewell.”

True to their nature as bandits, their movements as they withdrew from the scene were swift enough to escape notice. No sooner had they emerged into the corridor than both Shirō’s shadow and those of his underlings vanished like dried leaves swept away by a valley wind, erasing all trace of their whereabouts. His teeth chattering uncontrollably since earlier, Jin’u—who had been cowering in the shadow of a veranda pillar—watched it all with eyes like those of someone trapped in a nightmare.

Ninety-Nine Nights

One

A cold wind swept through the vast darkness of the temple complex desecrated by demonic forces and through the wretched traces of muddy footprints left behind. Jin’u’s body would not stop trembling. With his ankles quaking, he peered into the main hall from the corridor doorway.

There was not a single light burning. In that darkness where Hannen’s presence could neither be confirmed nor denied, his form remained unseen. Jin’u advanced by crawling. —Then he saw it: sutra scrolls abandoned by the bandits unraveling like white serpents, writhing in the wind. Beside them sat the shadow of a figure. “Brother...” The voice burst forth as if forced upward from his throat. When Jin’u realized Hannen’s faintly pale face had turned resolutely toward him, he sprang forward and clung to his brother’s knee.

“Oh…!” The astonished brother’s hand gripped Jin’u’s back firmly. Both the hand that gripped and the hand being gripped were like ice. Only the younger brother’s tears soaking through Hannen’s knee burned like scalding water. Then it seemed Hannen had understood why his brother had come to the mountain, and Jin’u had grasped how his brother saw him in his heart—all without a word being spoken. He had utterly forgotten thoughts of blaming or admonishing him, finding satisfaction solely in weeping drenched by tears of familial affection.

“Well now, you’ve come. Did you lose your way to arrive at this late hour—” “Brother…!” was all Jin’u could force out before his tongue locked up. He couldn’t speak. All he felt was longing. “You must be cold—and hungry too.” “Hmm… If only there were something warm to eat…” “No, I’m not hungry.” “I need nothing.” “……More importantly—are you hurt anywhere?” “Why?”

“Because of Amagi Shirō.” “……” Silently smiling, Hannen shook his head. It was as though it were someone else’s affair.

Jin’u lifted his face from his brother’s knee and grasped his brother’s hand tightly. “Do you know?” “The voice of society—the clamorous criticisms and debates of the capital’s people?” “Hmm…” “The plight of your master, and the distress of Lord Tsukinowa, the Lady’s father—” “……I know.” “Do you know everything?” “Even while dwelling on this mountain—what these eyes see, what this heart hears—even should my body hide deep behind a door of mist, my heart remains unable to fully depart from the labyrinth of the secular world. Such a state must not be—not for what I am now, not for what Hannen is now.”

It was a firm tone. Even at this critical juncture, Jin’u found himself astonished by his brother’s unbending, solemn brows. Each time they met, his brother’s character seemed to approach a towering mountain—growing deeper and steeper—and the more he climbed, the more he felt its height looming above him. “Don’t worry about it. You should sleep instead. Come to my room.” When he stood quietly, the paper torches of temple attendants were moving in the depths.

Two

Even when he closed his eyes, Jin’u remained unable to fall asleep for a long time.

His brother had made him sleep and gone out somewhere.

In the corridor, voices that seemed to quiver from the cold could be heard. Since one of the temple attendants had reportedly been slashed by bandits, faint noises persisted in the kitchen until late into the night—likely from treating the man and managing the aftermath. When these sounds ceased, Hannen soon returned quietly to his room. Jin’u, sensing his brother peering at his sleeping face, maintained his feigned slumber. He had assumed his brother would immediately lie down to sleep nearby. Yet Hannen instead began tightening the cords of his monk’s robe and adjusting his leggings—preparing as though he meant to go out again.

(At this hour?) Jin’u wondered, his mind sharpening with suspicion. The moment he heard a faint breath, the oil lamp’s flame went out. With stealthy footsteps as though trying not to wake those asleep, he left the room and closed the door behind him.

"What...? “Whither?” Jin’u sat up."

He hesitated for a moment, but his unease became unbearable. In a panic, he reached under his pillow; then he put on the monk’s robe he had removed nearby.

He went outside. He looked there and here, but his brother’s figure was nowhere to be seen. He ran toward the mountain gate to look. His brother was not there either.

The sky between the peaks shone like a polished mirror. The cold surpassed that of evening; where in this world had his brother gone, braving such chill through deepest night? Come morning, his brother lay asleep beside him still clad in his monk’s robe. Could he have slept at all? Yet there he sat, nonchalantly eating from his meal tray.

“Brother… last night after that, did you go out somewhere?” “Yes, I went.” He asked no further, and he answered no further. Hannen immediately left the monks’ dining hall,

“I have long made silent meditation my daily practice. Do not enter while I am in the meditation room,” he said.

During the day, there was no opportunity to meet, and at night Hannen would go out alone somewhere. Not a single night had he missed.

From last year to this year, while hidden in the mountains, Hannen's state of mind had transformed countless times through anguish. The rumor that he had resolved to die and fasted was likely true as well. From this desolate land while contemplating real society, he must have spent many months seeing with his eyes and hearing with his ears the voices and appearances swirling around him as if living amidst purgatory's flames. And now, toward something he sought single-mindedly, he would leave this Daijō-in each night only to return at morning's coming.

"Tonight, I will quietly follow behind him and see." Jin’u half believed his brother’s actions and half was swayed by the world’s ill repute when suddenly he harbored a doubt—a “what if?”

Three

That night, Jin’u left his bed early and hid outside Daijō-in. A cold droplet struck his cheek. Rain fell. Yet the clouds glowed bright—cotton-like clouds raced across the sky. “May it not rain,” he prayed nightly, fretting over his brother who walked through this darkness. Quiet footsteps now slipped past the mountain gate. It was Hannen. Of course he noticed nothing—Jin’u trailed his brother’s shadow from behind, now visible, now hidden.

Through Yokawa Valley—a place fraught with peril even in daylight—Hannen plunged into the darkness to descend. His strides suggested a man with a blazing purpose. Rather, it was Jin’u who struggled to keep pace. Along the mountain stream, the road stretched toward Shirakawa. The wind shifted then—with a deafening northern gale came large raindrops that struck faces and robes. The sky had turned violent. As black rain clouds tore through the void, the moon’s edge would fleetingly appear only to vanish again into utter darkness. The roaring water ceaselessly threatened their footing. Jin’u panted on, eyes locked on the shadow ahead that threatened to disappear at any moment.

Had the straw sandal thong snapped?

Hannen was resting for a while on the edge of a crossroads chapel near Jōdo-ji’s settlement. The bell of Zenrin-ji announced the second watch amidst the howling wind. “This path? “…Where in the world are you trying to go?” More than ever, his brother’s heart remained a mystery to Jin’u. From the foot of Mount Awata stretched a long path through mixed woods. As he trod relentlessly over rain-soaked fallen leaves, the black rooftops of the town soon appeared, Sanjōsekki’s watery glimmer now before his eyes.

The river had already swelled with this downpour. The muddy torrent churned white foam against the rocks in the rapids. If one went down to Gojō, there would be a bridge, but Hannen looked around for a shallow area and attempted to cross there. “Ah—dangerous!” Jin’u, forgetting his own peril, found his attention captured by the sight of his brother advancing to the river’s midpoint. Even when he tucked up the hem of his monastic robes high, the spray reached up to his waist. And then there was the coldness of this water. Jin’u clenched his teeth and walked step by step, probing the riverbed stones with his toes.

And—into a deep hollow as if gravel had been gouged out, Jin’u stepped. By the time he thought “Ah—,” the swift water was already cutting through his throat and rushing past.

“Brother—!” Jin’u cried out involuntarily. Then, after being swept four or five ken downstream and raising his hand above the water’s surface, Hannen came rushing back toward him through the churning spray.

Four

“Jin’u!” To the hand Hannen stretched before his eyes, Jin’u clutched with both hands. “Brother.” “Thank goodness. Are you hurt?” “N-no.” His lips had turned purple. His voice trembled and would not come out.

“Don’t let go.” Hannen, carrying his younger brother who was drenched like a soaked rat, climbed up to the riverbank.

“It must be freezing, but endure it until we reach our destination.” They immediately crossed over the embankment and walked on. Straight west along Sanjō Avenue.

There was a dense grove of trees. It was the precincts of Chōhō-ji. When they reached the Rokkaku-dō there, Hannen took undergarments and monastic robes from a chest placed in a corner of the hall and made his younger brother change into them. Jin’u kept his hands pressed against the veranda floor, face downcast without end.

“Omoto, why are you crying?”

“I am ashamed of myself.” “Why?” “Even I had allowed myself to be swayed by rumors and had in truth doubted you, Brother. So tonight, I resolved to follow and see where you were going—and thus discovered that your nightly secret outings were for ascetic retreat at this Rokkaku-dō.” “From Mount Hiei—three *ri* and sixteen *chō* [12 km]—since the tenth day of this New Year, I vowed, and tonight marks precisely ninety-nine nights. I understand your concern, and I deeply sympathize with the distress of Archbishop Jien and Lord Tsukinowa as well. But until Hannen crosses this sea of ignorance to reach the far shore, I have armored my heart with a fierceness like a warrior facing Asura, so that no obstacle or worldly attachment may hinder me.” “For that reason, I told no one of my retreat to this Rokkaku-dō—only the heaven and earth of midnight knew.” “I was not unaware that you had been following me from Daijō-in. But as tonight marks the ninety-ninth night, I deemed it time to reveal this. Moreover, I wish for you to inform Archbishop Jien that Hannen still remains adrift in this sea of ignorance. Yet I swear—I shall not drown forever in the eternal darkness.” “I swear that within this lifetime, this deluded body shall attain the Buddha’s radiant light and return to offer proper amends for today’s transgressions—do you understand, Jin’u?”

“Yes… I understand completely.” “If you understand, then hurry back—return to the master at Shōren-in. Until then, consider me no longer your brother. Just believe in the great power of heaven and earth and the Buddha’s divine might. Especially since your body is weak, strive at least to dwell within a tranquil mind.”

Hannen knelt and pressed his palms together toward his younger brother’s chest.

Five

Deep trees enclosed the spring area where silent darkness pooled like lacquer. It was Shūgaku-in Pond, situated directly behind Rokkaku-dō. There in the midnight depths, water sounds echoed. A figure stood naked performing ritual ablutions. The pale-skinned man finally emerged, cleansed by the frigid spring's purging cold. It was Hannen. Though cold still lingered, frost no longer crowned the treetops now—unlike those early January nights when he'd first vowed to undertake this Rokkaku-dō retreat, when thin ice had coated the pond nightly. He would shatter that ice, immerse himself in the Eight Cold Hells' torment, scour away all delusions, then finally attain the hall's sanctified floor.

——That had continued for ninety-nine nights as of tonight. He still wondered how this body had endured.

However, practice was not practice for practice's sake. It was none other than the great vow to emerge from the delusions of birth and death and touch the radiant light of the far shore. Had these ninety-nine nights of devotion truly met the Buddha's divine will? Wiping his freezing body, Hannen donned white undergarments against his skin and wrapped the Junior Archbishop's robes over them. And then, as he pushed open the door of Rokkaku-dō Temple, he suddenly thought—

*Not just a hundred nights—even two hundred, a thousand—until I receive the divine power of liberation, I must not turn back.* *You must still face straight toward this sacred gate.* Chiding himself, he pushed open the hermitage door.

He sat on the floor. He gazed up at a solitary sacred lamp deep within the spiritual altar. When Hannen settled into lotus position there, he felt both his fragile resolve and stubborn will—every vestige of self—dissolve away. And he forgot his physical form. What remained was only the innate soul he had been born with. A single entity—pitifully called human—so riddled with delusions. "Namu Nyoirin Kannon Bosatsu." Clasping his hands in prayer as he existed in pure beingness, something beyond self sent up a cry of supplication from every pore of his body.

“Buddha’s child Hannen—having been born human and lived through twenty-nine springs and autumns, idly growing complacent in this land’s blessings; even now gasping in the foul ignorance of undiscerned enlightenment; retreating into seclusion yet wandering astray; one who ceaselessly aspires to tread the path of practice—yet fool that I am! Descending the mountain only to founder on worldly mysteries; tormenting this heart with folly and greed; worse still, toward women whom the Buddha warned against—though I strive to forget, even in dreams I cannot! Neither the power of precepts nor my own strength suffices to suppress it! In this endless battle against delusion’s demons through days and nights—this fool Hannen finds body and spirit both eroded, teetering toward ruin.” Once I resolved to die, yet found death’s approach barred; clinging to life only to be tossed about in desire’s turbid sea. Alas, Savior Bodhisattva—where lies my path? Reveal it! The crucial matter of liberation from birth and death! This anguish does not remain Hannen’s alone. “For all fellow beings—for us children of humanity.”

Before he knew it, white streaks of tears overflowed from his eyes—eyes blazing with his ferocious single-minded pursuit of the Dharma—and streamed torrentially down his cheeks.

Six

The rain-washed road carried away the mire as white pebbles glinted. The buds on the trees swelled faintly red, and a thin veil of mist rose over the town roofs. Hannen walked. In that raw morning townscape, only his face remained shadowed. His steps held neither vigor nor direction. "Without resolving this great vow," he repeated inwardly, "my existence holds no meaning." The previous night’s turmoil had delayed his departure from Daijō-in until late—so late that dawn now found him still at Rokkaku-dō Temple. With last night’s observance complete, ninety-nine nights had passed in this single-minded pilgrimage from Mount Hiei.

"What have I gained?" Hannen still found only his own exhausted form within the immeasurable darkness. He did not notice when he bumped into passersby, did not notice when palace attendants carrying a palanquin shouted at him, did not notice the street vendors pointing and laughing as if he were a madman...

This morning, it was no wonder he was seen as a mad monk. His priestly robes—still not properly dried after being soaked in last night’s river water—clung to his body. The hem was torn, and his feet oozed blood from wounds of unknown origin. At times when he reached a crossroads and suddenly raised his gaze—present yet distant, glowing from within with feverish intensity—unsuspecting passersby would startle. Yet it was fortunate that everyone in the streets mistook his appearance for that of those beggar monks wandering about. For had anyone recognized Lord Hannen Shōnagon—abbot of Shōkō-in Temple—walking through town at this early hour in such disarray, given his whereabouts were already a public concern and his scandalous affair with Lady Tamahime of Tsukinowa was being loudly debated, they would immediately...

(A heretic monk was there.) (As Junior Archbishop Hannen walked,) eyes brimming with curiosity and contempt gathered, and people might have flocked to see his figure as if it were a sideshow attraction. Indeed, these streets were perilous, but Hannen himself paid them no mind whatsoever. —It was only his struggle for the Dharma. He wanted to grasp the light that would free him from the present darkness. The crucial matter of liberation from birth and death—on that alone did divine power depend.

“Ah.” When he saw the railing of Shijō’s temporary bridge, his body—exhausted like cotton—unconsciously clung to it. Due to the overnight rain, the Kamo River ran red and turbid. The rapids of the muddy current swirled backward, sending up white spray. All of it—the young grasses that had painstakingly sprouted along the riverbank, even the delicate flowers—lay submerged beneath its depths. Just like his own youth.

“Oh….” “Are you not Hannen Shōnagon?” Suddenly, someone tapped his shoulder from behind. It was a crowded thoroughfare in Kyoto. Finally, he encountered someone who knew his face.

Seven

“Well, this is a rare encounter,” Seikaku Hōin said.

Hannen turned from the bridge railing. “Oh... you.” “Do you remember? Seikaku, Dharma Seal of An’gu-in.” “I remember.” “In an unexpected place...” The Dharma Seal narrowed his eyes nostalgically. It had been ten years since that night when Hannen secluded himself at Prince Shōtoku’s mausoleum in Shiga—a bitter winter night spent sharing struggles of Dharma pursuit and worldly detachment with a Dharma Seal lodging at Eifuku-ji Temple before they parted ways. The same traveling Dharma Seal now stood before him, laughing with effortless grace in his staff-and-sedge-hat attire. This was Seikaku of An’gu-in.

“It has been some time—I have heard various reports about you,” said the Dharma Seal, gazing at Hannen’s brow. “This is most shameful.” Hannen lowered his head, “At Isonaga’s Prince Shōtoku Mausoleum, the year I met you was the winter of my nineteenth year. In the ten years since then, what have I done? Even then, I was plunged into darkness by my doubts about Buddhist teachings. Even now, it remains pitch black—or rather, back then, precisely because my experience of real society and life was shallow, my anguish and sense of darkness were even fainter. At times, even I am plunged into despair—even now, I found myself gazing at Kamo’s turbid current. A fool like me ends up thinking that death is the best solution after all…”

Seeing his lonely-looking, pallid forced smile, the Dharma Seal assumed a devout expression akin to worship, “That is precisely Lord Hannen’s noble quality, I think.” “If it were anyone else, they would never have continued such a bitter struggle.” “Most people, by that point, would have found a convenient compromise and settled into peace.” “The very point where you differ from others lies precisely there.”

“When you say that, I feel like crawling into a hole.” “You must already have heard the rumors—I am truly a being full of contradictions, one even I cannot manage.” “This conflict between my futile spiritual quest and my inherent weaknesses has driven me into an impasse with no way forward or back—now I, Hannen, stand utterly forsaken by the Buddha and nearly buried by society.” “Truly, I can only call this the consequences of my own actions.”

His voice, having not passed a single bowl of water down his throat since last night, was parched and so low it was nearly inaudible. Yet within that voice blazed a fierce fire of life, and his face was veiled in a youthful vigor—as though laughing at himself, mocking himself—and tears of frustration at the thought of collapsing as he was. "I can imagine," groaned the Dharma Seal, placing his hand on Hannen's thin, sharpened shoulder with eyes full of compassion.

“If we linger here, we’ll draw attention. Let us talk while we walk.”

Eight

Side by side, the two of them began to walk. Starting to cross Shijō Bridge to the east, “Dharma Seal, were you not heading west? If we go this way, we’ll end up having to turn back.” When Hannen hesitated, Seikaku of An’gu-in shook his head,

“No, it’s no trouble. When I consider that my friend has lost his way to enlightenment for a lifetime, retracing a single day’s journey is no trouble at all.” So saying, he continued both walking and speaking, “The moment I heard your sincere account, something flashed into my mind. I believe it will surely grant you some light of salvation.” “Wh-what… is it?” “Lord Hannen, have you ever met Reverend Hōnen, who resides at Yoshimizu Hermitage in Kurodani?” Immediately, Hannen answered.

“I have long been aware of his reputation through hearsay, but I have yet to encounter the karmic opportunity for an audience.”

“What a great misfortune,” said the Dharma Seal.

“By all means, you must meet that Reverend once.” “Rather than my expounding here on his spiritual power in a hundred words, a single meeting will clarify everything.” “I too, at first, thought him nothing more than a street monk peddling strange doctrines and neglected to visit—but once I gazed upon Reverend Hōnen’s brow, my previous notions reversed entirely, leaving me remarkably brightened, resolute, and at ease.” “I even came to resent how late our karmic connection had been, thinking, ‘Why had I not met this man sooner?’” “By all means, you must go and meet him.” He urged with fervor.

The rumors about Reverend Hōnen’s new religious doctrines being preached at the Nenbutsu sect in Kurodani—and of the throngs of clergy and laity being drawn there—were things Hannen had long since heard; by no means were they his first exposure through Seikaku of An’gu-in’s words. Yet as the Dharma Seal had now confessed, doctrines like lay rebirth, exclusive Nenbutsu practice, and the path of easy practice—principles one heard about—appeared thoroughly vulgar to those Buddhist scholars sequestered in their ivory towers of academia, who held themselves loftily aloof. To their eyes, these teachings resembled signboards of priests pandering to the masses, and visiting that sect’s gate felt like an act that might somehow compromise their own authority.

For Hannen—unlike ordinary scholars or ascetics fixated on doctrinal mastery—who had plunged headlong into the Tripitaka’s Buddhist scriptures and life’s profound depths with a resolve bordering on life-or-death, who had made the lonely darkness of ignorance his spiritual training ground for over a decade, and who still continued his bloodied quest even now, the idea that what he sought could lie within such marketplace bustle and crowds was utterly inconceivable. When he heard of Yoshimizu Hermitage, when he heard of the Nenbutsu sect in Kurodani, when he heard of Hōnen Genkū—no matter how many times such rumors reached his ears, they had always felt like nothing more than stones from another mountain. That now—this very morning—

"Oh! The Reverend of Kurodani." He felt as though a door in his chest had been knocked. "By all means, go and see." The Dharma Seal urged him once more. And then he parted ways and departed. "The Reverend of Kurodani." Hannen muttered to himself and looked back. No longer could the figure of the Dharma Seal be seen in the thoroughfare. The morning sun shone intensely on the flame-like finial of Chōhō-ji Temple’s pagoda. "Hōnen— That’s right—Reverend Hōnen is here!" It was strange, in a way, that it had been the morning after the ninety-ninth day. Was this where Nyoirin Kannon had pointed? Hannen immediately resolved in his heart—

“I’ll go!” he resolved.

Departure from the Mountain

I

Where he had slept or where he had obtained food—Hannen’s whereabouts these past few days had been unknown—but it was certain he had not returned to Mount Hiei since then and had remained within the capital. The trees of Awatayama had faintly taken on spring hues day by day. At Yoshimizu in Kurodani, once night broke, the voices of nenbutsu never ceased to be heard. Under the frequent comings and goings of believers’ feet, what had once been mere grassland had before anyone knew it transformed into a bustling thoroughfare.

Amidst that flow of people, Hannen’s figure was discovered. Of course, there was no one who knew him as Hannen. Unless one were someone like the Dharma Seal of An’gu-in—a person of exceptional memory—or an intimate acquaintance, even if they peered beneath that sedge hat, they would not notice. (Which monk is that?)—yet no one turned to look.

Women, the elderly, children, and youths passed through. Most of this class were naturally commoners of middling and lower ranks, but occasionally there were veiled noblewomen and warrior-like figures accompanied by daughters in market hats. Moreover, near Yoshimizu Hermitage’s gate, palanquins and carriages left waiting had been placed. Hannen soon passed through the sermon gate alongside a multitude of laypeople. Beneath the stepped corridor leading up to the Dharma seat clustered countless straw sandals, wooden clogs, and rope sandals. He too removed his footwear there and, joining townswives holding children’s hands, laborers reeking of sweat, and people of meager learning, sat as one among the lay congregation upon the Dharma seat.

Thus, Hannen’s desire in coming here was not yet to meet Reverend Hōnen and bare his heart or inquire about his own grave matters, but rather to first become one of the laypeople himself—to set aside scholarship and petty intellect, adopt the humble mind of the masses, and sincerely seek to understand the doctrines of the Exclusive Nenbutsu Sect that had drawn so many common folk to its teachings. The suggestion made by the Dharma Seal of An’gu-in at the banks of Shijō still lingered in his ears, and he firmly believed it to be a divine voice; yet Hannen felt that rather than rushing abruptly to Hōnen’s gate and meeting the Reverend on impulse, he should first understand what the Nenbutsu sect preached by the Reverend was, and then visit anew. Moreover, when he deeply reflected on his former self, he realized that his excessive immersion in scholarship had led him to attempt comprehending everything through academic means alone, harboring a stubborn insistence that he could not accept any doctrine unless it aligned with the petty intellect of his learning. He had become so overly fixated on theory that he ended up merely toying with it; what he had believed to be a headlong charge toward truth was, in reality, a race that carried him right past it. And so, at this very moment, he cast aside all his petty intellect, scholarly learning, and superfluous knowledge, humbled himself to recognize that he too was but a commoner among the masses, and sat among the congregation, listening intently.

II

For about ten days Hannen attended. During that time Reverend Hōnen’s figure never once appeared at the preaching seat before the congregation of listeners. “They say he’s taken ill with a chill and lies abed,” ran whispers among the faithful. Atop the lectern Hōnen’s direct disciples appeared one after another—expounding upon Nenbutsu’s essential doctrines with fervent clarity. Among them stood no few scholars who had cast off exoteric and esoteric teachings’ ancient husks after gaining renown in other sects now gathered beneath this new patriarch.

The faces of Saizenbō Shinjaku, Shōkōbō Benchō, as well as people like Kūgen, Nen’a, and Tankū were ones Hannen had recognized from before. Moreover, even within Kamakura-dono’s shogunate, Kumagai Naozane—a warrior of the eastern provinces renowned for his martial prowess—had caught his eye among the believers, having changed his name to Renshōbō and now bearing a gentle demeanor one would scarcely associate with such a man, his shaven head and black robes on full display.

"This very platform resonates with living voices."

Hannen returned each day carrying one profound impression. He returned having seen the Pure Land within the very world itself.

“Excuse me! …” It was the time when people were streaming back from the temple gate. Leaving an old woman and young child at the entrance, a woman who appeared to be a merchant’s wife had followed Hannen, “Could it be… Venerable Hannen?” she called from behind. “Who are you?” “You’ve forgotten me, haven’t you?” the woman chuckled. Hannen, confronted by her smiling face,

“Oh! Kozue?” he exclaimed in surprise. In his heart, he compared his younger brother Jin’u’s present state with Kozue’s utterly transformed appearance before his eyes. Their love had long since become a relic of the distant past. He had not failed to ponder this woman’s fate after her abduction by Amagi Shirō, but never had he imagined she might be seen basking in such blissful sunlight. “I caused you such worry during that ordeal,” she said, “but now—though ours is a modest living—I have become the wife of a grain merchant, borne children, and dwell with my parents.” “Though distant,” she continued, chanting nenbutsu beneath her words as she bowed toward Yoshimizu’s gate, “I have heard whispers of your affairs and ever prayed in secret for your welfare—that we should meet here must be by the Venerable Master’s blessed design.”

Having fallen into the bandit Shirō’s hands, she would naturally have been sold to a distant port or drifted eastward among bands of wandering women—spent dark days in muddy waters either way—yet not a shadow of such a past could be seen on Kozue’s face. Her face, bearing the modesty of a mother and the composure of a wife, held only a bright, animated smile.

“I see.” Hannen thought he had encountered something joyous. And when he asked what her current happiness was, Kozue replied without hesitation.

“It is the nenbutsu practice.” “Since I have continued chanting the nenbutsu—whether by my husband’s side or while nursing my child—there has not been a single day I have thought myself unfortunate.”

III It was not only Kozue’s blessed state he had witnessed. Hannen walked on after parting with her, deep in thought. How strange it seemed. This grace lay upon all who flocked to Reverend Hōnen’s gate at Kurodani. Every face shone with joy and life’s blessings. None dragged shadows of anguish like he did. The wretchedness within him stood out starkly among that crowd. Yet by then, a profound resolve had already anchored itself in Hannen’s core. Soon his figure climbed the path through Mount Hiei’s forests, steeped in cold green shadows. Each step bore the weight of that unwavering determination.

“Well, if it isn’t Hannen!”

From a cedar grove path emerged four or five scholar-monks, mingling their gazes and whispering among themselves as they brushed past. "Heh heh…" They covered their mouths with their hands, then immediately— burst into uproarious laughter.

Hannen did not even turn around. He had only immediately sensed a striking difference in the ordinary state of mind held by the people of this mountain and those of Kurodani. He thought it the height of irony: this altar, endowed with such majestic nature and a thousand-year tradition, brought no divine radiance to the people today, while from the master of a humble hermitage in the city's alleys, a great path had been revealed. (Miracles do exist in reality.) Hannen once again thought how fortunate he was to have been born in this present age. Had he not been born now, he could never have witnessed that miracle; he could never have met Venerable Hōnen. Seikaku Hōin of Anju-in had indeed spoken truth.

His heart quickened. Even so, it was nothing like the agitation of recent days. His heart turned eagerly toward the light. When he returned to Daijō-in, he immediately sent a messenger toward the foot of the mountain. The messenger made rounds to Shōren-in and Shōkō-in. For about a year, Shōkō-in Temple had lain desolate as a soulless abandoned temple, shrouded in gloom—and the people who had been keeping watch there—when they received their master’s unexpected letter,

“The master is returning!” they exclaimed, wild with joy. The message was conveyed from Kohata Minbu to Shōzenbō, and Shōzenbō, bearing that report,

“Kakumyō!” he called out as he rushed into his friend’s quarters. And then, “The Master is returning—come greet him—that’s what the letter says,” he announced. “Truly?” he exclaimed, eyes widening. They must have been overjoyed—and indeed, each day until now must have been steeped in dread.

"Thank goodness," they cried as they hugged each other.

IV

The heavenly bamboo berries were red.

The sunlight filtering through the thicket was already steeped in the warm, humid scent of sprouting grass. “Here we are.” Looking up at the plaque above Daijō-in Temple’s gate, the people let out relieved, sweaty breaths. “To think the master endured a whole year in this abandoned temple…” Kakumyō groaned. Kohata Minbu, the temple official, along with Shōzenbō and about ten other disciples, had felt their hearts pounding from the moment they entered that place. Heading toward the entrance, “We, the honorable keepers of Shōkō-in, have come to pay our respects.” “Please inform the master’s quarters of our arrival.”

The temple retainers proceeded further inward. Soon,

“To the main hall,” they ushered the entire group through. On the great floor of the opened temple complex, spring light—abundant after so long—flowed in from all four sides. But when they looked up at the altar in the inner sanctum, there was no main deity statue within the sacred cabinet—no incense or flower vases, no sutra desk, no shrine, no hanging curtains. Only the wind blowing through remained refreshing. (Huh?) Suspicion showed on every face. Yet no one uttered a word. All the more because their master’s figure was awaited with gratitude so overwhelming it choked their chests. Minbu, Shōzenbō, Kakumyō, and those below them in rank sat rigidly on their knees, waiting silently.

(How terribly emaciated he must be)—everyone painfully visualized his physical decline in their mind’s eye. From deep within came the sound of a door opening, followed by quiet footsteps drawing near—the sensed approach of someone moving through the shadowed corridor. —And there stood a tall figure clad in warbler-green kasaya, rosary beads in hand. “Ah… Venerable Master.” Needless to say, it was Hannen. The prostrated people lifted their faces again and doubted their own eyes. For the countenance they had imagined would be reduced to skin and bones—though somewhat haggard—now brimmed with youthful vitality, and above all, within those glistening eyes blazed a willpower of astonishing force, radiating a hope unlike any ever witnessed before.

Without laying out a round cushion, Hannen sat directly onto the floor. He, too, seemed engulfed by an indescribable emotion toward his beloved disciples, whom he was meeting for the first time in a year. Just a single word, “I have caused you all much worry, indeed,” he said. “……Why, simply beholding your healthy appearance is enough to make all our hardships immediately melt away.” Shōzenbō caught the softly falling tears in his palm and answered. Even the stalwart Kakumyō blushed like an infant long separated from its mother upon seeing her face.

V

At Shirakawaguchi at the foot of the mountain, a single palanquin waited. Two young children and a cowherd sat in the nearby grass, gazing forlornly at the clouds.

It was the junction where the Shiga Pass trail diverged from the Ōhara Road. Carrying a biwa on his back and using a staff, a monk trudged down from Shiga Pass. Noticing an unsteady gait indicative of blindness, a child emerged from the grass,

“Biwa player, there’s a palanquin here,” the child cautioned.

The blind monk halted his staff,

“Thank you.” He straightened his back and looked up at the sky, “Whose palanquin is this?” “The Lord of Shōkō-in Temple is descending the mountain.” “Ah!...” “Lord Hannen is leaving the mountain, I hear.” “Do you know Lord Shōkō-in?” “I had the honor of meeting him at Lord Tsukinowa’s night banquet.” “I see… So Lord Hannen has indeed decided to leave the mountain.” “It must be so. … Though I even feel moved to play a tune in celebration of Lord Hannen Shōnagon, here by the roadside… Let us leave that for another time.” “I am Hōshi.” “Please convey this message from afar.”

Speaking to himself and nodding alone, the traveling biwa player trudged off toward the Ōhara Road through the wind bathed in the setting sun. “What’s with that damn monk? I can’t stand blind folks—always spouting clever nonsense.” As the cowherd muttered, the children who had been playing together—

“Oh, he’s here!” they exclaimed, standing up.

The figures of Hannen descending diagonally over Kirazaka Slope and the other welcoming people began to come into view. The cowherd raised the palanquin’s curtain and adjusted the position of its rails. The rumor of “Hannen’s Departure from the Mountain” had spread throughout Mount Hiei within half a day. Secretly, those who privately admired him, seniors who had been concerned for his well-being, and a portion of the students formed a line so thick it looked pitch-black behind Hannen.

After performing a courteous farewell to those people, Hannen moved into the palanquin. In his heart, he had already bid an eternal farewell to Mount Hiei—the mountain that had been both a home he was born into and an altar of blood-soaked ascetic practice from the spring of his tenth year to this day at twenty-nine—but those seeing him off noticed nothing. “Venerable Hannen, go in good health.” “We await your return indeed,” they said.

When the palanquin began to move, thick white mists swayed over Shirakawa and along the foothills of Nyoi-ga-take. And then, from somewhere, came the clear, resonant sound of a plectrum striking four strings.

“Oh, I hear the biwa. ……The monk of Kakogawa? ……” While covering his eyes inside the palanquin, Hannen recalled Lady Tamahime’s figure, likening it to white cherry blossoms on a misty night.

Romance Chapter

Gate

I

A fearsome group of warrior monks, their shoulders squared and high clogs stomping,

“We demand an audience!” they bellowed, standing defiantly at the entrance of Shōkō-in Temple. “We monks have come from afar because we have matters to discuss with Lord Hannen Shōnagon.” “We request an audience.” The temple officials were in a room beside the entrance,

“(Oh no, they’re here again),” they muttered, exchanging glances and making perplexed faces. From some monk from Negoro to another from Miidera, Shugendō ascetics from Shōgoin, masterless samurai from Kamakura, down to nameless ruffians from the streets—who could tell how many groups had come yesterday and today?

As if by prior agreement, all of them— “Let us meet Hannen!” or, “Bring Hannen out here!”—they clamored. The fact that he had descended Mount Hiei and returned there became known throughout the capital and beyond within a single day— as if someone had thrown an oil jar into the midst of burning flames. Some blocked the entrance, demanding to confront the impure, precept-breaking sham temple lord and strip him of his dignity, while others came to harass and extort money—ruffians and masterless samurai alike.

“Persist in stating that he is not here.” Kohata Minbu, the steward, strictly instructed the temple officials, and when they still refused to leave, he himself drove them away.

Even now, a group that had come to visit was,

“If he’s absent, we’ll ask where he went,” they declared, planting themselves on the steps. “We confirmed he returned here from Mount Hiei four or five days ago.” “Then where did he hide?” The temple officials floundered, “We do not know,” they replied, “Fool!” One rasped hoarsely, “You temple rats—think you can ignore your lord’s whereabouts? If authorities summoned him this instant—where’d you report?”

“But as we have been so ordered, we cannot disclose it.” “You lot wouldn’t understand.” “Bring out the steward! Surely even he hasn’t gone into hiding?” “No matter who gives the order, it is absolutely impossible for us to grant you an audience with the Lord Abbot.” “Shut up!” With the butt end of his naginata, one of them jabbed a temple official in the side. As the temple officials fled inside, “Hey, listen up, Hannen. “If you are so ashamed of your own conduct, why do you not come out here, prostrate yourself, and either demonstrate true repentance or enact a public apology? Or if you have objections, shall we debate them?” “Rumors last seventy-five days—even if you hide, this matter won’t be resolved!”

II They hurled a torrent of abuse, “You idiot Monzeki!” “Deceiver!” And like tengu demons, they bellowed laughter, spat across the ground, and withdrew. No sooner had one mob left than another would arrive— always the same cycle of curses, extortion, and theological provocation. At night, stones clattered against Shōkō-in’s great roof while voices roared beyond the walls: “Night after night the lovelorn cat leaps over spying walls, slinks through crossroads of desire—”

To Tsukinowa Endure, they say Morning after morning, The lovelorn cat Driven by the whips of the multitude, Crouching at the Buddha’s hem Even at noon, Endure, they say There were those who passed by, clapping their hands with torn fans while singing loudly for all to hear. In the morning, whoever opened the gate would inevitably find tiles and ox sandals scattered all around. One morning, a large tombstone had been thrown in. "The Buddha’s punishment will surely befall you." Threatening notes bearing such messages were a daily occurrence. However, Hannen’s own life remained unchanged even after moving there; he continued to dwell quietly in his contemplative cell of reflection.

There were indications that he had sent letters four or five times to Archbishop Jien of Shōren-in and others, and that numerous missives had come from Jien as well, but he had not once stepped outside. The stillness surrounding him resembled the ominous calm at a typhoon's eye—an eerie lull when one could not know when destruction and darkness might strike. His attendants were thrown into disarray by his sudden declaration. It was Hannen who left the chamber.

“Today, let us go to the venerable master at Kurodani.” The temple officials “Huh, right now?” they blurted out in spite of themselves. “Yes.” he said with a firm jut of his chin.

There was no need to ask again. When one looked at Hannen’s figure, he wore a white silk monastic robe with a platinum-brocade kesa draped over it and an amethyst rosary resembling strings of grape dewdrops around his fingers. The rosary was a relic of his mother Yoshimitsu no Mae, while the platinum-brocade kesa had been worn when he previously visited the imperial palace to dispel suspicions regarding his teacher Archbishop Jien—so rare was it to see him in such formal attire. Minbu, Kakumyō, and Shōzenbō all hurriedly prepared themselves in emulation of their teacher’s attire.

At the front of the steps, the young attendants gathered. The ox driver pulled out the new Koyatsuba carriage to the carriage porch.

Three

Yoshimizu Hill lay directly beneath Mount Kachōzan. The hermitage at Kurodani had become too cramped, so at some point he had moved here to Yoshimizu, yet even now people still called him the venerable master of Kurodani. There Hōnen had lived for over thirty years. Though he had of course traveled elsewhere or spent months away during that time, he had truly renounced the world at Kurodani in the Western Hills and taken the name Hōnenbō when he was eighteen years old. Thus from that pivotal moment onward, his karmic tie to these lands around Kurodani and Yoshimizu had spanned at least forty-odd years—a period as long as an entire human lifetime.

(A karmic bond—) Hannen now felt it deeply within the carriage. Shōkō-in Temple and Shōren-in Temple were both so close to Yoshimizu that one could say they were neighbors separated by just a fence. And by the time he was nine years old—when he had been led by the hand to the gate of Shōren-in and had his head shaved—the venerable master of Kurodani had already moved from the broad valley of the Western Hills to Yoshimizu, opened the gate of the Pure Land, and proclaimed the exclusive practice of chanting [Amida’s name].

For twenty years, living within a hundred paces of each other—why had there been no occasion to form a close bond? Though the voices of Nenbutsu constantly drifted through Yoshimizu's trees to reach his ears, he wondered if they had yet permeated his heart. (A karmic tie—) Profoundly—and precisely for that reason, Hannen regarded this day—this wondrous encounter—as something that filled him with such gratitude toward even the sound of wheels traversing this circling path that he wished to press his palms together in prayer.

The elaborately adorned Koyatsuba carriage, having traversed a distance that was truly short in terms of physical path—yet spanned a vastness of years equivalent to tens of thousands of miles in time—arrived before Yoshimizu Hermitage.

Avoiding the vicinity of the gate, Hannen got down from the carriage about ten ken ahead. When Kakumyō went inside to visit, "The venerable master has also been awaiting your arrival," said the group of disciple monks who had come out to greet them at the entrance. Kakumyō exchanged a glance with Shōzenbō—huh?—wondering when their teacher had notified the hermitage about today’s visit in advance. Hannen’s figure, his tall frame accentuated by the platinum-brocade kesa draped over him, moved quietly toward the inner quarters as the people of Yoshimizu Gate bowed low in reverence. The people of the hermitage found themselves drawn to the faint aura of nobility that lingered behind him, as befitting a nobleman, yet none noticed that this was the same man who had been mingling among laypeople at dharma lectures these past days.

After boiling tea, placing Futo-mochi rice cakes and bowls on a cypress tray, and carrying them toward the inner quarters,

“Do not come until I call,” came the voice of the venerable master. The sliding door at the veranda was tightly closed, and no one approached.

Four

“Are you Venerable Hannen?” “I have long known your name, Venerable Hannen…” said Hōnen. It was a gentle voice. Hannen bowed politely, “For many years, though dwelling nearby, I remained unblessed by karmic opportunity to meet you—thus this marks my first audience at your esteemed gate.” “Why could this resolve not have arisen sooner? That is what I have pondered.” “Nay—some distant souls are near, while those sharing one roof remain apart. You and I, meeting after countless seasons’ passage, are truly those both distant and near.” “This very encounter is what one would call a true karmic bond.”

“The truth is…” As Hannen raised his face, crimson flooded his ears. The venerable master must have seen the desperation radiating from his brow. With a smile that held both warmth and gravity, “Your purpose—” he gently invited. “Though unworthy of your notice, I come today to beg—even should it burden you—that you gather this wretched self into compassion’s gate. Like a bird driven to your knees, I cling here.” “Might you then grant me the mercy of hearing these foolish matters from my past?”

“By all means, let us hear it.” In the venerable master’s words there lingered no trace of perfunctoriness. He leaned forward intently, “Speak freely of whatever you wish.”

Hannen placed both hands on the floor as if his bones had dissolved. He felt he had encountered a father of boundless compassion. Hōnen’s eyebrows floated like wisps of white cloud; his chest lay broad and still as a sunlit mountain hollow sheltering tranquil warmth. (I could tell this man anything.) Yet in that same moment, Hannen realized how his own body and mind—forged through years of merciless asceticism along perilous paths and through storms—now stood before this man as nothing but wounds of futile anguish, congealed into some unnatural stubbornness of human form.

“Here, aside from myself, there is no one listening. Please speak freely—say whatever you wish without reservation.” Hōnen too leaned forward earnestly to inquire. At this very moment, Hannen felt he was meeting someone he had never thought possible to encounter. When he sensed this resolve, he determined to lay bare everything here—no matter how shameful, foolish, or sinful. As he began recounting each matter in detail, his words held not a trace of pretense or falsehood. Twenty years of torment endured on the path of difficult practice were of course foundational. Regarding the great contradiction he now faced—the exhaustion from complex entanglements of unrequited love, societal pressures, and his own youthful existence—he laid bare every sinful deed without concealment and sought the path toward liberation.

Five There was no pretense, no shame. (Only this person—) With single-minded devotion, he prostrated himself—his body clad in the Junior Archbishop’s platinum-brocade *kesa* soaked through with tears of repentance—and laid bare every last detail in a voice stripped of all pretense. Hōnen listened with his eyes tightly shut throughout, but when he half-opened them now, they brimmed with sympathetic light. He gazed with compassion at the pitiful figure of this twenty-nine-year-old youth on his tragic quest for Buddhist truth. He had thrown himself wholeheartedly onto the perilous path of difficult practice, battling the contradictions of conventional Buddhism, swimming through the murk between society and Buddhist teachings—and now his fervent passion and physical being collided with romantic love for a woman, leaving him at life-or-death crossroads. Both physically and spiritually, he stood utterly amid thorns and darkness, having lost all sense of direction—as a monk, as a human being—on how to proceed.

“Am I… after all… a hopeless person? Please speak frankly,” Hannen said with a fervent breath.

“No…” Seeing Hōnen’s face move slightly from side to side,

“If I am beyond redemption, then death must be the only path left for me.” “I believe you are a chosen one.” “One born into this mortal world but once in five hundred years—nay, a thousand.” “Why do you say this?” “The day will assuredly come when you attain wisdom through your own understanding.” “Can this be true?” “Set your heart at rest.” “Allow yourself greater ease.” “The path you’ve trodden mirrors my own journey.” “Battling tempests alone does not constitute the voyage to enlightenment.” "—Yet you withstood all this." “Those who cling to self-powered austerities most neglect their own efforts while despising hardship.” “You confronted them directly.” “And thus encountered an inevitable contradiction.” “Yet this very impasse you’ve reached holds profound worth.” “Who in these latter centuries has walked such arduous paths to arrive here?” “You alone are Hōnen’s true spiritual kin—a companion along the Dharma’s way. Henceforth, I shall share every burden of counsel with you.” The venerable master reached out and clasped Hannen’s hand.

“I am grateful.” Hannen closed his eyes heavily. When he felt the venerable master’s warm hand, his body stiffened with unworthiness—yet he had met the person fate had ordained him to meet. This hand—neither joined by his own will nor by the master’s—was being bound by the Buddha himself in this very moment, he realized, and smiled faintly. The venerable master returned a gentle smile. From Hannen’s smiling face, tears spilled steadily. They were tears of sacred joy.

＊

After spending half a day speaking alone with the venerable master, Hannen eventually exited the room. When he showed himself at the entrance to the meditation hall, he called in the attendants he had brought there.

Six

On the shoulder of Mount Kajō, a pale evening moon seeped into view.

“An unusually long audience—it seems their discussion with the venerable master has been quite harmonious,” whispered Kakumyō and Shōzenbō, gathered near the shafts of the imperial palanquin—just as Kohata Minbu approached from within the gate—

“You are summoned.”

"So you’ve finally returned," the people said as they entered.

However, Hannen was not returning. Gazing down intently at the people crouched there, his expression took on a solemn cast. He appeared to be composing the words he was about to say within his mind.

Shōzenbō, who had begun arranging the footwear at the entranceway*, looked up at his lips and stiffened*. "What... Is there something* you require?" he asked*, repositioning* his hands*.

“Therefore,” Hannen said, surveying the assembly,

“Though you may deem me a heartless teacher who cannot fathom your hearts for making this sudden pronouncement, I, Hannen, having now obtained the venerable master’s permission, have resolved that from this day forth I shall remain at Yoshimizu and begin anew my training as a novice monk of the Nenbutsu Sect.”

“Huh…?” “At this gate…?” The shock was overwhelming, yet the speaker’s words were so calm that it seemed impossible to believe he had truly settled such a momentous decision in his heart. “As a disciple of the venerable master who will remain here, I must now return both the ceremonial robes of Junior Assistant High Priest and the title of Lord of Shōkō-in to the imperial court.” “Each of you must return to the temple and inform Mount Hiei of Hannen’s renunciation.” “Furthermore, to the entire monastic community of the mountain, I intend to separately address a letter to Hōdō-in and later submit in writing what Hannen believes.” Having said that, when he entered the adjacent room, Hannen had already removed the platinum-brocade kasaya and the ceremonial robes of the Junior Assistant High Priest.

When they thought *(This is the truth)*, the tears that Kakumyō and Shōzenbō had held back up to their chests streamed down their faces, and they slumped their shoulders over their hands.

If told thus, this was their teacher—one who had never wavered. Moreover, his determined brows showed no ordinary resolve. Hannen folded his kasaya and ceremonial robes with his own hands, then returned and handed them to Shōzenbō. Their master now stood clad in a chill black robe. “Now you must all renounce worldly ties.” “When you return to Mount Hiei, joining me in the Nenbutsu Sect shall be at your discretion.” “Your long devotion—even after we part ways—I shall never forget…” Hannen bowed his head.

The disciples could not suppress their sobs. The empty palanquin, bearing only the master’s discarded kasaya, drifted weakly back through the evening wind strewn with falling blossoms.

Yoshimizu Night Dialogues

One

Each day was a new breathing of being reborn. Hannen died, and Hannen was born.

Hōnen once said, “Come here,” and led him into the chamber. “You need not trouble yourself over worldly rumors,” he began, “but I hear vexatious people persist in condemning you by clinging to past deeds you committed.” “Moreover, the monks of Mount Hiei—upon hearing you entered the Pure Land sect—now loudly slander you in every manner, calling you an ingrate who draws his bow against the sect he owed gratitude to, a traitor to his teacher the archbishop.”

“This has been my resolve from the outset. My sole fear is that by granting my wish, I will prove unable to atone for disrupting this Nenbutsu Sect’s peace.”

“Do not worry.” The venerable master laughed brightly, “If this sect could be shaken by mere ripples of censure against you, it would be unworthy to stand among the multitudes as salvation’s sheltering shade,” he said. “And yet,” “We must not willfully defy the world’s prevailing winds.” “What if you were to take this occasion to change your name?” “However slightly, it might lessen others’ preoccupations—and lend weight to your own sense of rebirth.”

“I could not have wished for more.” “Presuming upon your kindness, I humbly beseech you—please bestow upon me some name that would suit me.” The venerable master pursed his lips. After a while, “Shakkuu,” he said in a strong voice. Shakkuu—he thought it was a name that perfectly suited his current state.

“I thank you most humbly.” He looked happy. Shakkuu had completely changed. Since entering here, he swept the meditation hall morning and evening alongside fellow practitioners of the Dharma, cared for devotees who came to hear teachings, attended upon his teacher Hōnen, and spent each day bright and untroubled in the labors of a novice monk. Somehow to his former countenance had been added an unhindered communion—there was freedom, brightness, expansiveness; each day became a reason for being. It was the joy of existence.

Hōnen loved Shakkuu.

At every turn, from the depths of the dōjō, a voice calling “Shakkuu” drifted out. Among the companions in the meditation hall were Kumagai Renshōbō. Kūgen was there. Nen’a was there. Tankū was there. The Hōin of Anjuin also appeared from time to time. And they rejoiced wholeheartedly in Shakkuu’s rebirth.

A year passed quickly.

When winter came, the people of Yoshimizu would gather around the hearth at night, and nothing brought them greater joy than to sit knee-to-knee and speak of their pasts and matters of doctrine.

Two

Everyone modestly pursed their lips. However, this silence was not mere emptiness. Though no one uttered a sound, those gathered around the hearth were communicating adequately through that very silence.

Steadily, they kept their eyes fixed on the beautiful flames within the hearth— Outside, the sound of falling leaves could be heard. The arrival of the winter night incessantly rattled the hermitage door. “Lord Shakkuu’s cheeks have become slightly fuller.” When Renshōbō murmured, the people surrounding the hearth—Shinjaku, Benchō, Nen’a, Zenshō, and others—quietly watched his face, “Truly,” they murmured in agreement. Shakkuu nodded. “If I weren’t gaining weight while staying here, that would be a lie.”

“When we first saw you, you were so thin.” “At that time, I was a mere shell. Even now, as I sit facing the hearth like this, I can feel my very soul glowing warmly.”

Shinjaku stretched his back, which he had been rounding, “Everyone has had that at least once—even someone like me.” He bashfully reminisced. “That’s right,” Nen’a affirmed. To Shinjaku—who in those days had burned with a heart seeking enlightenment—being amidst such worldly ties and the dust of society would constantly disturb his mind, making it difficult to enter the true realm of rebirth. Thus he had thought, and entreated the venerable master to let him renounce the world. The venerable master permitted it; when Shinjaku put on his straw sandals,

"We shall meet again in the Pure Land," he said, and departed.

After that, he drifted to Sanra in Kawachi. There, the virtuous widow of an eccentric wealthy man—being a truly devout Buddhist nun—resolved to grant his wish: she built a hermitage in the woods and told him, “I will provide food, so live here chanting the nenbutsu as your heart desires.” Shinjaku,

(“Here—my Bodhi grove,”) he thought, purifying his mind with the sound of birds and entering samādhi. Yet as three or four years passed, he found himself increasingly preoccupied with human concerns—wondering how his fellow practitioners fared, whether the venerable master was well—until even the small child who brought food mornings and evenings from the patron’s residence stirred in him a desire to converse. With every rain and gust of wind, his heart grew more entangled with worldly matters, until he could no longer seek that pure, unclouded Bodhi free of distractions and earthly ties as he had first envisioned.

In his flustered state, in the fourth year, he donned straw sandals and returned to the venerable master in the capital. When he shamefacedly explained the circumstances, the master— *(You have undertaken a noble journey.)* Even if one has learning, even if one is a sage—those without a mind for the Way do not experience such delusions. *(...for you have taken a step closer to Bodhi after all.)* Contrary to expecting to be scolded, it is said that the venerable master rejoiced. “Oh, if you speak of such old tales, I’ll be ashamed,” Shinjaku laughed, brushing off his friend’s story.

Three “Lord Nen’a,” Shinjaku pressed this time. “Instead of just speaking about others, I would like you to talk a bit about yourself as well.” “Ah, I have no stories to tell.—Rather, it’s Lord Renshōbō who should speak,” he said, peering at the face of Renshōbō, who sat beside him.

The people of the same cell often wished to hear stories from the mouth of Kumagai Jirō Naozane, who had actually walked through countless life-and-death situations under the Jishō and Juei Wars. But Renshō,

“Ha, ha, ha, ha.” Amidst his sparse beard streaked with white, he merely opened his large mouth—befitting an eastern warrior—and laughed. Laughing like this was always his answer. But tonight, he added a few words to it: “At my age, speaking of war stories is nothing but shameful.” “I too, before meeting the venerable master here, carried myself as nothing but a stalwart eastern warrior—affecting the airs of a seasoned hero. Yet once I awakened my resolve and reined my heart’s steed into the Nenbutsu sect, all such recollections now feel like children’s play.” “No matter what they say, I break into a cold sweat,” he said. Modestly fingering his prayer beads, Zenshō—

“Most dignified indeed,” murmured Zenshō, “Though Lord Renshōbō speaks with such humility, it was entirely through his guidance that I first came to know the teachings of Master Hōnen.” “For many years, I remained unsaved by Tendai’s ancient doctrines and was merely growing old and decaying at Ryūge-ji Temple in Akiba—when at that time, I happened to encounter the lay monk Kumagai, who had wholehearteredly entered the Pure Land sect and was then known as Rensei. Upon hearing that a venerable master resided at Yoshimizu, I single-mindedly made my way to the capital.” “If the lay monk had not stopped by my temple on his return from Kumagai, I might never have shared in this joy of karmic bonds with all of you here throughout my life—this is what I always think,” he said gratefully.

Shakkuu had been silently listening to the others’ talk but found himself particularly drawn to the stories of Kumagai Renshō and Zenshō. If I too had not met Seikaku Hōin at Shijō Bridge that morning... he thought once more, unable to refrain from pressing his palms together in gratitude for that fateful encounter. A cough was heard from the back. “Have you awakened?” The venerable master’s presence, even through the partitioned room, immediately reached the disciples’ hearts. Due to this cold spell, it seemed he had been suffering from a sore throat for some time now.

“We must not disturb his rest.” “Shall I prepare the medicinal decoction?” Each lost in their own thoughts, the people drifted from the hearth’s warmth to the frigid chamber.

Under the Roof

One

It was mid-January, not long after the New Year had begun.

It was from the evening when a white squall swept over like smoke and brought dusk. As midnight drew nearer moment by moment, the storm grew fiercer. Those who had fallen asleep exclaimed "The rain is leaking!" and rose to make an uproar.

Shakkuu lit a paper torch and thrust his head outside, but it was instantly extinguished. The Zen hermitage door rattled fiercely, swelling as if bulging, until at last the door to the venerable master’s sleeping chamber tore free and rolled into the rain-lashed garden like a spinning wheel. “Venerable Master.”

“Master!” In the pitch darkness, it was impossible to tell who had spoken, but already several disciples, concerned for their master’s chamber, gathered there. It appeared that one end of the roof had been torn away by the storm, and white rainwater cascaded down from the beams as if being dumped. Of course, even with effort, the light did not last for an instant. Shakkuu, along with disciples such as Renshō and Nen’a, hearing the faint sound of Nenbutsu chanting from that dark corner, all gathered together in one place. That was none other than their teacher Hōnen.

To prevent the cold that had finally begun to improve since the year’s end from worsening again, the disciples surrounded Hōnen with their own bodies as they chanted the Nenbutsu in unison. The storm showed no sign of abating. The beams and pillars creaked and groaned. Doors were torn away two and three at a time, and in the torrential rain, the garden—now resembling a lake—appeared terrifyingly vivid.

In the midst of this, someone came wading through, splashing knee-deep in the water. “Lord Shakkuu!” he shouted as he walked around the house. Soon, from where the door had torn away, “Is Lord Shakkuu present?” he asked, peering inside. The people saw the man drenched from head to toe and, from the corner,

“He is here—but who might you be?” they inquired.

“I am Shōzenbō,” said the figure. “Oh.” Shakkuu began to rise but stopped himself, remaining seated beside Hōnen. “What brings you?” he asked. “I came to see if you had suffered harm in this storm.” “You’ve come at last.” “As you see, there has been no change in the Master’s condition.” Then the others asked, “How fares the town?” “A dire sight indeed.” “On my way here, I saw a pagoda fallen.” “Countless gates and earthen walls lie shattered.” “Even the great ginkgo at Awataguchi crossroads has snapped.”

Two

If this terrible gale were to keep blowing until dawn, what would become of the capital city? The people around the Master held their breath, certain that this crude log-framed hall of Yoshimizu Hermitage would not withstand the storm. Shōzenbō, who had risked danger to come check on them, soon— “Then, I shall take my leave.” With a splashing sound, he returned once more into the darkness of the downpour. The Master looked at Shakkuu’s face, who remained seated beside him.

“There is a stream beyond the fence,” he whispered. “One who knows the path well might not fall, but go check.” “Yes.” Shakkuu remained gratefully mindful of the Master’s concern as he moved along the corridor, peering through the window for Shōzenbō’s figure. “Lord Shakkuu.” Shōzenbō still stood there—drenched in rain thick as bamboo stalks. At this gate where master and disciple had parted ways under strict orders never to meet or visit—orders he had kept in mind yet found impossible to obey—Shōzenbō had seized upon the great storm’s cover to come rushing here. ――But having been unable to exchange familiar words before their fellow disciples and the Master, he seemed to linger with lingering regrets—until spotting Shakkuu’s face at the window, he lunged forward and called out in his old-fashioned manner,

“Master!” he called, stretching up his wet face from below. “By the Master’s concern—there flows a mountain stream through a ditch nearby. Take care as you go.” “Yes.” “Have you been safe since then?” “As the lord of Shōkō-in has changed, this one has relied upon the archbishop of Shōren-in and, together with Lord Jin’u, has been serving the archbishop.” “Is my brother also engaged thus?” “He remains quietly devoted to his ascetic practice.” “However, there is talk that Archbishop Jien will soon reassume the position of Tendai Archbishop of Mount Hiei. Should that come to pass, I fear we may seldom meet hereafter.”

“Do not trouble yourself over me—as you see, I have attained resolve in my heart and live in sounder health than before.” “Archbishop Jien too appears to be in tranquil spirits.” “With tonight’s tempest, Shōren-in must be in turmoil over various matters. Rather than tending to me, it is the Archbishop’s own circumstances that—” He raised his eyes to the clouds roaring across the sky. “Return swiftly,” he said, closing the window.

Three

“It was terrible, wasn’t it?” “What a dreadful storm that was.” “I’ve never known such fierce winds since gaining my senses, I tell you.”

Under the blue sky of the next day—now completely clear—the townspeople walked about gazing upward while surveying collapsed houses, traces of washed-away bridges, and rows of giant trees that had been felled. Yoshimizu Hermitage, perhaps sheltered within the mountain’s embrace, had suffered relatively little damage—yet even so, half its roof had been torn away.

“If it rains, we’ll be in trouble.” “The cold cannot be kept out like the rain can. At least let us begin with the Master’s quarters,” said the hermitage residents as they propped ladders against the eaves, hitched up their robes’ sleeves, and climbed onto the roof.

“Please let me help.” “We’ve brought thatch.”

“Let’s repair the storm shutters.” The believers gathered in crowds, cooking rice and raising the gate—unexpectedly, the damage appeared on the verge of being repaired in no time. Receiving the thatch sent up in unison from below, Rennyo, Shakkuu, and four or five others on the roof were diligently repairing it. There was also someone halfway up the ladder passing materials along. Though Shakkuu and Rennyo were unaccustomed to such work to begin with, among the disciple monks were those who had experience building hermitages without outside help, and the roof was being skillfully thatched.

They pressed down battens and trimmed the ends of the thatch; Shakkuu too was hard at work. Before long, warm rice balls came up from below. Once they finished eating, they immediately resumed work. From someone’s mouth, the sound of nenbutsu chanting began to flow. From those on the roof, from the groups raising the gate, and from those working inside the house, the nenbutsu spilled out, becoming a single bright chorus.

In the garden, a huge hemlock tree lay fallen in the muddy water. The other trees too had most of their roots exposed.—Looking closer, there stood a large-bodied monk with hairy legs bared and sleeves rolled up, working as black as a laborer. He carved paths through standing water and dug into the soil with a hoe, restoring each tree to its original posture one by one. At first, this monk alone had remained silent—sullen and caked in sweat and mud—but eventually drawn into the others’ chanting, he too began swinging his hoe while reciting the *nenbutsu*.

From atop the roof, Shakkuu suddenly spotted the man and let out an involuntary cry of astonishment.

Having noticed this, the monk below stopped his hoe and looked up at the roof. And, …… Without saying a word, he simply smiled. It was Kakumyō, his former disciple.

Then, Kumagai Rennyo, who had been by Shakkuu's side,

“Hey, Tayūbō,” he called down from the roof, as though addressing someone long acquainted.

Four Kumagai Rennyo’s hairy legs came down from the roof via the ladder. Kakumyō, who had been below, with a mud-splattered face beaming a smile, threw down his hoe there and,

“Hey,” he said nostalgically, drawing near.

“It’s been so long. How many years has it really been?” “Seventeen or eighteen years.” Kumagai Rennyo also reached out and grasped his old friend’s hand. “Was it during the Juei era that I first met you?” “Nay, it was Jishō 4.” “You and yours entered the capital under Kiso Yoshinaka’s banner, while we swarmed into the city alongside Lord Yoritomo’s Eastern Provinces soldiers, striking at the Taira’s stronghold.—Ah yes, that must have been the year.” “We had met once or twice even before that.”

“Well, it’s been ages.” “You’ve changed.” “The world has changed… and so have I.” “It’s a dream—a fleeting moment.” “Yet for those of us who once raced across battlefields—slaughtering multitudes in that realm of carnage, drenched in blood like rakshasas while vying for glory—to now behold each other’s tranquil forms beneath this sun… whether we name it fortune or blessing, it surpasses all imagining.” Rennyo spoke pensively as he settled onto a stone in the tree’s shade,

“Absolutely!” said Kakumyō, agreeing amiably as he settled himself beside him. “All of this too is thanks to the Buddha’s light.” “If I hadn’t felt even a slight aspiration for enlightenment, who knows what would have become of someone like me by now.” “Yet for me, when Lord Kiso met his ruin like that, becoming a wanderer was unavoidable—seeking physical stability while also yearning for peace of mind, I finally reached the Buddhist path. But you, Lord Kumagai—with military achievements beyond comparison to mine, a rising retainer of Kamakura poised to live as a daimyo—why did you abandon the warrior’s way?” “I think I can understand a little, but the people of the world will find it strange.”

“That isn’t strange in the slightest.” “Even now, I see this outcome as inevitable.” “Is that so…” “Reflect on this.” “When consumed by ambition—dreaming material gain as life’s purpose—we see nothing else. But with age and peace, though battlefields fade, we find new hungers: profit-driven wretches like starving ghosts still swarm.” “Deceit and schemes fester more vilely than blood-soaked streets.” “Among such creatures, one must either drown in their filth or be devoured.” “How could peace exist there? It was terror of past sins—this transformed worldview—that made me discard status and seek refuge in the Yoshimizu master’s name.” “No mystery—merely nature’s course.”

Five

“Indeed,” Kakumyō nodded deeply. And then, looking again at Kumagai Rennyo’s figure wearing nothing but his black Buddhist robe, he felt his head bow involuntarily. “When I escape that mire of corruption, even I sometimes look back on the past and shudder at how I spent half a lifetime in such a place.” “Now then, Tayūbō,” said Rennyo, staring fixedly at Kakumyō’s face. “You—I’ve never seen you at Dharma gatherings before—why have you come here today to help?”

“Nay, I just dropped in.” Kakumyō openly put his hand to his head. “Truth be told, if it weren’t for an occasion like this, I couldn’t approach our master’s side either—and seeing him up on the roof doing such menial labor as a servant’s work, I can’t just stand by and watch.” “So even though no one asked me to, I’m lifting up the fallen garden tree and replanting it.” “Hmm….” “The person you call your teacher isn’t a holy man, is he?”

“The one up there repairing the roof—Hannen Shōnagon—” “No—rather, that gentleman changed his name to Shakkuu after entering here.”

“Ho….” “Lord Shakkuu’s?”

“Now then—I have a request. Will you grant it?” “To me?” “What is it?” “To speak plainly, I wish to remain by Master Shakkuu’s side.” “But even if I were to cling to him, I know it would be futile—so I’ve held back until now. Yet being separated from him, I feel as lonely as a stray dog that’s lost its master.” “At times, I even feel as if the faith I’ve carefully built up might crumble away.”

“I see.” “You wish to stay here with Lord Shakkuu—is that it?” “That’s right.”

“As teacher and disciple, that is how our hearts should be.” “Wait here—I’ll go talk to Lord Shakkuu for you.” “Nay.” Frantically, Kakumyō waved his hand. “Since Lord Shakkuu has strictly forbidden anyone from visiting here as well, even my toiling here today might become grounds for reprimand.” “I beg you—implore the holy man on my behalf and have him speak to me.” “Ha ha ha. Even Tayūbō Kakumyō, once hailed as Lord Kiso’s fierce general, grows timid before his Dharma teacher.” “Very well, I’ll speak openly to the holy man and try to intercede for your request.”

“Please.” After Kakumyō stood holding a hoe once more, Rennyo walked toward the room where the holy man resided. Then he approached Hōnen—who sat with broken sliding doors and folding screens propped around him—and appeared to engage in conversation for some time.

Six “Lord Shakkuu.” Looking up at the roof, Nen’a called out. “The holy man summons you,” came the voice from below.

Shakkuu descended from the roof, washed his hands and feet in the stream, and then went to the holy man’s room. Kumagai Rennyo was nearby.

“Do you require something?” “Hmm.” The holy man’s face brightened. Having had the hermitage ravaged by last night’s storm, he now wore an expression as though his cold symptoms had completely healed. “...I hear there is a man called Tayūbō Kakumyō among the laborers.”

“Yes, I have noticed him.” “Rennyo has come to plead on behalf of one who admires you, asking that he be allowed to remain in this hermitage. What should I say?” “I must humbly decline.”

“Why?” “Shakkuu does not yet possess the qualifications to be a teacher of others.” “Moreover, I, a mere novice serving Your Holiness, cannot have an attendant.” “But…” The holy man paused in thought but immediately raised his white eyebrows, “What if this Hōnen were to grant permission?” “Under the roof of the Nenbutsu sect, there should be neither class nor personal circumstances.” “Nenbutsu followers are those who cling to nothing and remain equal in their natural state.” “I have no words to offer in return.”

“Then I shall leave it to you.” “Yes.” “Rennyo, go and tell him.” Kumagai Rennyo immediately stood up, “Let us rejoice,” he said as he went outside.

Kakumyō bounded eagerly and knelt before Shakkuu. Shakkuu rebuked him. “Why perform such formalities?” “Through the holy man’s grace, you too have been granted entry.” “From this day forth, you are—in essence—a fellow member of the pure assembly no different than myself.” “Cast aside all notions of serving me, and together we shall devote ourselves wholly to Nenbutsu.” “My deepest gratitude.” Kakumyō absorbed these words fully, taking his place at the hermitage’s humblest seat to split firewood and draw water.

Under the roof of Nenbutsu, another friend of faith had thus been added. The storm’s damage was soon completely repaired, and winter nights at the hearthside grew lively. The power to give birth, the power to multiply—the faith of the Nenbutsu sect, with its infinite potential akin to spring soil, spread forth so that even in places untouched by sunlight or moonlight, voices chanting Nenbutsu could be heard. Therefore, “I must be at the holy man’s side”—so pleaded earnest seekers of the Way, immovable in their desire to enter, arriving daily in such numbers they could not be turned away.

Due to the crowding of the hermitage quarters, Shakkuu found a small thatched hut in Okazaki at year's end and resolved to relocate there. Day after day without fail, he commuted from Okazaki to Yoshimizu to serve the holy man and immerse himself in studying the primal vow of the Easy Practice Nenbutsu sect, never neglecting these duties for even a single day.

Okazaki’s Hut

I

The site of Okazaki’s thatched hut lay in the shade of a pine-encircled grove, where through gaps between the pines, the flow of the Shirakawa River could be seen transparently. Behind was the Kaguraoka plateau. From the thatched hut’s kitchen, the figures of people descending Konoe-zaka could be faintly seen.

Shakkuu crossed that slope every day. Exiting Yoshidayama onto Toriioji Avenue and commuting to Yoshimizu Hermitage remained his unceasing daily routine, regardless of wind or rain. Of course, he handled all cooking and cleaning himself morning and evening. With no bamboo conduit yet installed, he fetched drinking water from the Shirakawa River. Returning from Yoshimizu after gazing at winter stars always left night well advanced. After adding firewood and tending the cooking, when he finally sat alone to sip his gruel in solitude, every light in the capital would have already vanished—until it seemed he alone remained awake beneath heaven and earth, there in that place where gruel was sipped.

*What in the world?* *…*

It was an evening on a certain day. Shakkuu, before opening the door to the thatched hut, was struck by a strange feeling and looked around his surroundings. That morning when he had left the hut, the gateway had been buried under fallen leaves—yet now it stood neatly swept, with even those leaves gathered in one place and burned. When he went around to the back, he found the water bucket filled to the brim and the wooden floor scrubbed clean. After stepping inside and surveying the room, Shakkuu’s eyes widened further still.

In the lamp’s dish, oil had been replenished so that transferring a spill’s flame would suffice, and even the evening meal tray had been prepared there. *Who could it be?* he pondered. Was it the honest farmer couple from nearby who had helped when he moved to this thatched hut—or perhaps one of the believers who came to the sermons? “Strange,” he thought. No matter who he considered, he could think of no one. At the same time, as long as he could not recall who that person was, he could not help but hesitate over whether it was right or wrong to take up the chopsticks for this evening meal.

But the meticulous care was undoubtedly all manifestations of goodwill’s radiance. Toward that goodwill, he ought not harbor groundless suspicions or hesitations. Having resolved thus, Shakkuu took up his chopsticks.

The next day was the same. The next night as well, when he returned, the thatched hut had been cleaned.

But that was not all. Instead of the thin night bedding, different bedding had been laid out. It was by no means a luxurious item, but it was free of the smell of grime.

II That remained a mystery for days—a mystery faintly redolent of feminine presence. For even a single ceramic bowl or stitch in his undergarments, monastic purity demanded objects never grazed by female hands. Yet now he detected traces—the barest hint of face powder clinging to surfaces—and sensed an unsettling fragrance lingering in the air. Wrapped in those night quilts through successive evenings, Shakkuu endured visitations not from demons but something more insidious: torment soft as pear blossom nectar or magnolia wood’s grain. Undeniably this bedding had been arranged by a woman’s touch—its cotton warmth mirroring heartfelt sincerity. For an ascetic sworn to austerity, such comfort burned hotter than any hellfire.

However, the mystery remained unsolved as days passed. Present-day Shakkuu was stretched taut—so much so that he lacked leisure even for such inquiries—with Yoshimizu’s teachings serving as each day’s beam for his heart. On that day, with no particular events occurring, no gatherings of followers, and his teacher Hōnen Shōnin being absent besides, Shakkuu returned to Okazaki’s thatched hut while sunlight still lingered—a rare occurrence.

Then, on a narrow path through the pine grove near the thatched hut, he encountered a veiled woman. The moment he glimpsed her through the trees, Shakkuu’s heart leapt—seized by a peculiar sensation. Immediately connecting to the ever-present mystery he carried, *(That woman)*—the whisper rose within him—and a pounding heartbeat struck as if his very ears burned with the heat of some sin he had committed. Shakkuu often experienced such fleeting disquiet not only with that woman but with all women encountered along thoroughfares. Each time this occurred, he lamented his spiritual resolve’s immaturity; yet even after twenty years on the Path of Difficult Practice and receiving the compassionate rain of the newly embraced Path of Easy Practice’s teachings, this alone felt beyond remedy. The disciplined self forged through ascetic rigors and this self made breathless by women’s fleeting presence seemed like entirely separate beings.

“(If……)” he thought intensely of calling out to her. The woman walked soundlessly over pine needles—with no alternate path to avoid him—attempting to pass by softly, her form brushing against the hem of his priestly robes. But—the woman bent her posture slightly, deliberately angling her veil sideways to conceal her face as she passed. And so Shakkuu too—

While thinking (Have I seen her somewhere?), he ended up passing by without a word.

After walking about ten steps and turning around, he saw that the veiled woman had also glanced this way before quickening her pace and disappearing. As if he had released a small bird from his bosom, Shakkuu stood captivated, watching until the figure’s shadow melted into the low shade of the Shirakawa riverbed.

III Why hadn’t he called out to stop her then—if only to ask her name?

Shakkuu closed the thatched hut and entered the solitude of night, yet he could not help but find himself bound solely to the clarity of meditation. A soft rapping sounded from outside. Thinking it might be mischievous forest creatures again, he left it alone for a while.

“Is the master of the hermitage away?” he stated plainly. “—It is that I stopped by upon noticing your lamplight’s shadow.” “Might you grant me lodging without hardship?” “I am no suspicious sort whatsoever.” Shakkuu rose, “Are you a traveler?” “Indeed,” came the voice beyond the door. “A wandering biwa monk am I.” “I shall open it forthwith.” When he opened the door, beneath starlight stood a blind man leaning on a staff, a biwa slung across his back. Before Shakkuu could voice a sound—

“Hmm?” The blind man tilted his head slightly, “You are Venerable Hannen, are you not?” “Oh, Lord Hōshi of Kakogawa?” “As I thought—Lord Hannen.” “Now I have joined the Nenbutsu Sect under the venerable Hōnen and changed my name to Shakkuu, but as you say, I am indeed that Hannen.”

“Ah, yes—I had heard such rumors long ago.” “But what a karmic bond we share! I had heard you were dwelling somewhere in this area, but never would I have imagined this hut to be your residence.” “Please, come in.” Shakkuu—as if delivered from his aimless distractions—took Hōshi’s hand. He added pine nuts to the hearth,

“It has been quite some time.”

“Indeed.” While untying the leather cords of his biwa and setting them aside behind him, Hōshi continued, “You’ve changed remarkably.” “Your body has grown robust.” “Your spirit has brightened.” “And now you sit facing forward in your present conviction.” “I cannot contain my delight,” he said, as though seeing it all clearly.

But Shakkuu knew the terrifying power of this monk's "intuition." He knew that even what those with sight could not see, this wanderer could perceive.

“Is that so? Do you feel that way?” “I can tell clearly. Your voice’s five tones are entirely different from several years ago.” Such was Hōshi. When explained thus, it stood to reason that an artist who sought to move people by playing mere four strings to evoke the myriad joys and sorrows of all creation would naturally possess an ear capable of discerning a person’s health or state of mind through their voice alone—and given this monk’s acute senses, it would surely be effortless. Yet when so plainly perceived, Shakkuu felt as though even the deepest recesses of his being were laid transparently bare, leaving him unable to remain composed.

IV The pine nuts added to the hearth became a moderate fire, gently warming the two silent figures. Hōshi strained his ears to the winter wind outside,

“Winter has its merits too,” he mused earnestly. “Though I find the sleet-ridden evenings when one struggles onward to be trying, when, through the kindness of a reached home, I regain my composure like this, and when I soak in the warmth of the hearth while speaking with the master of the house, I do feel the joy of being alive.”

“But, Lord Hōshi…” Shakkuu adopted a serious demeanor and spoke solemnly. “For me, this solitary dwelling in seclusion has yet to reach a point where I can deeply rejoice in solitude; rather, it has all too easily become a nest for indulging in distracting thoughts. Lately, through devotion to the Nenbutsu, I have found some peace of mind—but—”

“That’s only natural… “You are only human.” “Why do you not take one more step?” “‘Why do I not take that step?’ you ask.”

“It’s difficult to broach, but are you endeavoring to suppress the vigor of your youth?”

“…………”

“I do not say you should become a heretic monk like me.” “Nor do I suggest you retreat into refined elegance.” “Yet it was only after leaving the life of a monk and observing it that I came to feel I understood the life of a monk.” “It’s a significant problem—monks must first discard their current contradictions from the fundamental principles of their way of life and return to the righteous path.”

“I have been thinking about it as well.” “Buddhism must exist among people—the Pure Land of the afterlife will no longer suffice. This world itself must become a paradise: a place where life is comfortable, joyful, and bright.” “How should the lives of monks engaged in such teaching be?” “I myself am the prime example—if one does it in secret, they won’t be blamed, but once discovered by others, they’ll be lashed by every accusation: ‘sexual misconduct,’ ‘condemned to hell,’ ‘heretic monk.’”

And yet, whether it be Gakumonro in Kōya or Sakamoto in Hiei, at the foot of every Buddhist temple, women adorned with makeup inevitably gather. Who are the partners of these women? Moreover, I have heard that the keeping of male concubines is also frequently practiced among monks. “It may seem comical, but upon reflection, it is a grave issue—for it concerns the primary duty of humanity.” “…………” Shakkuu remained silent in such a way that it was unclear whether he was present or not. Hōshi abruptly changed the topic,

“Ha ha ha ha.” “Whenever I meet you, our talks always drift to such matters.” “You must draw out these words from me somehow.” “My shoulders ache… Ah well—on a night like this, I should play a tune. Will you hear it?” “Nothing would please me more.” “I would be honored to listen.”

“What shall I recount?”

Pulling the biwa from behind closer, Hōshi lifted it onto his thin knees.

V

“Brr, it’s freezing!” Like a child of the wind, there was a swift-footed figure that raced down under the winter moon to the Shirakawa riverbed.

Neither a child nor quite an adult—a small-statured, short-legged man. His hair, like that of a kappa, was left wildly disheveled by the wind. “Tonight I’ve drawn the short straw! The guys must be all cozy and warm by now—no doubt about it.”

Perhaps returning from some urgent errand he’d been ordered to run within the capital—there he was, none other than that Kumota, instantly recognizable even among Amagi Shirō’s underlings. Like a river deer leaping from stone to stone, he crossed the Shirakawa stream without wetting his feet and began ascending Kaguraoka, but—

“Huh?” he stopped and strained his ears— “There’s a biwa playing.” “Hmm… There’s no mansion in a place like this…” When he suddenly looked down, there was a faint flicker of light within the red pine grove. Even Kumota, who lacked an ear to discern the skill of the biwa playing, stood listening as if bound at the feet, utterly entranced.

“Who could it be?” Partly driven by curiosity—and lured by that strange melody—Kumota descended a cliff of bear bamboo halfway down the slope. Soon emerges, O autumn night’s— Autumn night— Moon-pale steed, take heed Even in the moment spent reaching heavenly heights, Where does this hastening heart wander? Autumn, ah! The sorrow of resented love. What do you hide, O maidenflower? I am a soul of inherent suffering in this fleeting world. Do not speak of this to others. This sight too is shameful. “It’s Kogo.” Biwa ballads had become popular lately, so even Kumota recognized that much.

Stealthily approaching, he peered through a gap in the back of the water hut. Lukewarm smoke caressed his face. By the hearth sat someone silently bowing their head in rapt attention, while another figure sat slightly apart playing a biwa. Host and guest alike dissolved their souls into the four-stringed instrument's sound, their forms—seeming to have forgotten all else—crimsonly reflected in the firelight.

“Huh? …That’s Hannen from Mount Hiei. Heard he’d gone into hiding with Hōnen and changed his name to Shakkuu—so he’s been holed up in a place like this?” Kumota muttered as if he’d stumbled upon some trifle, and in that instant, the sound of the biwa had vanished from his head entirely.

“The boss must not know either.” “This guy’s good for another round of drinks.”

Dashing through the pine grove, he grabbed onto the cliff of Konoe-zaka and climbed up swiftly like a flying squirrel.

Dance of Flames

I

About ten cho north of Kaguraoka, crossing Nakayama and reaching the foothills of Nyoi-ga-take, in the midst of a vast, desolate field stretching as far as the eye could see, stood a pillar of flames so large it could be mistaken for a fire, around which swarmed small human figures like scattered black beans. This area lay at the outermost edge beyond the capital proper—a remote land far removed from the city’s bounds. People of the capital naturally had no business here, nor was this a path travelers frequented. Yet if some lost soul were to mistake it for a welcoming village and draw near, they would surely meet with an unexpected fate.

For why? Then go closer and see for yourself. The men gathered around the great bonfire there were all strangely attired ruffians who might have been driven from Rashōmon’s den. Under this cold, whetted winter moon, they piled up withered field grasses and laughed with heedless abandon—a scene resembling the Hells of Frozen Wilderness depicted in hellish paintings.

“Boss, how about some hot stuff?” Warming some sake, one of them spoke. “Tonight, there’s as much sake as you want,” proclaimed another man, extolling the pleasures of this fine night. “The only thing missing is women.” Someone answered. “Don’t talk about luxuries.” “Until yesterday, we didn’t even have sake.” “We went all the way to Ōmi for work—job didn’t pan out—got chased by local warriors, threatened by police, then when we tried hiding at Miidera Temple, those warrior monks welcomed us with their great naginata blades! Two days and nights without a proper meal—barely escaped with our lives!” “If you think about that, tonight’s sake—even if it’s local swill we stole from peasant homes—is what you’d call a heavenly delight for these times.”

“Quit with the logic,” scolded a man beside him. The one whose words were only slightly less slurred,

“That’s right! For us lot, logic’s forbidden.” “If we can spend each day like this—carefree and happy, living it up—then that’s all that matters.” “Hey, Boss, ain’t that right?”

Amagi Shirō, his face redder than fire, exhaled a great breath of liquor toward the icy moon, “You talentless fools—when you drink, you do nothing but spout nonsense.” “Why didn’t you think about that when you got into this thieving business?” “Everything humans can do has been ordained as permissible by what they call the God who created heaven and earth. If doing it is wrong, then take your complaints to God!” “That’s right. So we do what we want.” Shirō abruptly,

“You lot, feel like singing?” “Let’s sing!” “Don’t wanna dance?” “Let’s dance!” They chorused as one. “Then dance! Sing!—Till the sake’s gone! Till dawn breaks! Make merry! Make merry!”

II They pounded sake jars, they pounded pots. Drawing their machetes, suddenly one began to dance, then two more, then three more, raising their hips in revelry as they commenced a clownish performance.

Oh, how I long to go— Yase’s lanterns, When evening falls Calling, summoning! Oh, how I long to meet you! Eguchi’s boat— When I think of you, Calling, summoning! Go—what need to question? Meet—what need to say? Nay! Without a word exchanged— Just to sleep together— Autumn—the nights stretch endless, Winter—doors shut tight, In spring, eyes thaw, Summer—until black hair clings damp Beyond this world If only we could just sleep together— “Ahahaha! Singing such worthless songs.”

“Singing such worthless songs.” “But damn—it’s inexplicably hilarious, I tell ya.” “Ain’t ya got any more of those bottomless clown songs?” When Shirō clapped his hands in delight, getting carried away,

“You bet there are!” they cried, circling around the flames as they began dancing again. At Sumiyoshi’s four noble shrines, There dwells a fair-faced woman— Ask who the man might be, Matsugasaki’s hollow man. Declaring the dance moves absurd, the whole group erupted in uproarious laughter, clapping their hands in raucous unison. It seemed even thieves had their own logic and philosophy—for none of these men lamented being homeless, felt loneliness without wives or kin, nor grieved over their imminent fate: tomorrow without food, tomorrow perhaps ending in executioners’ hands as heads displayed on the riverbank.

Moreover, at this very moment, they were in a state of great satisfaction. As long as this moment was joyful, that was enough—

Just then,

From the edge of the field came a lone black figure riding the wind like Wukong, darting through the air; when it drew near, this was none other than Kumota—that ambiguous being who defied categorization as either child or adult.

“Boss, I’ve been there.” When they saw their newly arrived comrade, the group clung to his neck, “Good work, good work.” “Here—drink.” Kumota brushed away their hands and faces, “I’ll drink after I finish talking to the Boss. Forget the sake—just keep it down for a bit.”

Three “How’d it go? What’s the situation?” The reason Shirō had asked Kumota this was that he had sent this agile little man beforehand to investigate the layout of a certain wealthy household they had their eyes on for carrying out their job tomorrow night.

“That mansion’s no good, I tell ya.” “Hmm, all show and no substance.” “Not exactly—see, about fifty days back, after we ransacked that village, the old man of the wealthy household went and hired a whole bunch of skilled rural samurai. Now he’s lying in wait, ready to team up with the villagers and give any bandits who show up a real scare this time. You try storming a place like that, Boss—not even half of us’d make it back alive.”

“That ain’t gonna work.” Amagi Shirō, too, knew that life was something to be cherished.

“Then what about the others?”

“I checked everywhere, but there’s not a single mansion with flimsy-looking locks,” said Kumota. “Places that seem easy to sneak into? Just empty hovels without a coin or decent furnishing. And those mansions packed to the rafters with gold—like I said—they’ve got guards holding firm…” “The world’s rotting away…” Shirō’s enthusiasm waned. “Back when Genji and Heike riffraff were slaughtering each other—tossing the realm’s lands around like backgammon dice—fields like this were littered with corpses in gilded armor, left for stray dogs to chew on. We could torch any mansion, snatch women, haul off treasure—nobody batted an eye. But now wars are over? Samurai turned paper-pushers, farmers glutting on fat harvests… We’ve peaked, and our work’s gone damn near impossible.—World these days ain’t worth a laugh.”

“Boss, there’s no need to be so disheartened. At times like these, you must have that treasure box that always gets the job done, don’t you?” “The treasure box…” “Have you forgotten? —The former temple lord of Shōkō-in.” “Shakkuu? I ain’t sayin’ I’ve forgotten about him, but now that he’s holed up under Hōnen Shōnin’s wing, there’s nothin’ we can do. I once snuck into Yoshimizu an’ debated Hōnen Shōnin, but that holy man… there’s just somethin’ about him that scares me. Can’t bring myself t’go back there again. Moreover, that Yoshimizu Hermitage’s got a whole bunch of fallen Taira and Minamoto samurai holed up there. If we get caught messin’ around, we’ll end up in serious trouble.”

“But there’s no need for such worries, I tell ya. Shakkuu’s living just twenty chō from here in Okazaki, see...”

“In Okazaki?” Shirō’s eyes glinted.

“That’s news to me.” “If he’s really holed up in Okazaki, I tell ya—might just treat you all to some prime sake again...”

Four Pursing his thick lips and drawing his chin back slightly, Shirō sat deep in thought, his eyes gleaming with cunning intellect. With a low groan: "I see." "So it’s strange Shakkuu’s building a hermitage all alone out there, eh?" "Ditching his position as temple lord of Shōkō-in, hiding at Yoshimizu Hermitage, then commuting alone—gotta be some story behind that." "Why don’t we sniff it out?" suggested Kumota shrewdly,

“Right. Before I head out, if we grab his weak spot, it’ll be even more convenient.” “Then wait two or three days.” “I’ll dig up somethin’ for sure.”

The sake was running low, but the bonfire’s flames burned ever fiercer, and since they had settled on tomorrow’s target, Amagi Shirō and his men grew spirited and continued their barbaric songs and frenzied dancing well into the fourth watch of the night—until at last, a junior lookout shouted from afar, “The constables are coming!” he bellowed. “What? Constables?” Hunting arrows suddenly whizzed past his ear—two or three of them.

Clamorously rising to their feet, they stamped out the bonfire’s flames in unison, and before the thick, murky smoke had even begun to swirl low around them, every last one of them had scattered and vanished into the darkness. In terms of their swiftness, it was something that constables could never hope to match. However, what they had mistaken for constables was entirely their underlings’ illusion; in fact, it was a group of about ten hunters who were forming ranks as they passed along the ridge of Nyoi-ga-take, aiming to reach the peak by the time the morning sun rose.

Two or three of them gazed at the fire in the field. “Those earth-spider bandits strut about like they own the world again.” “Let’s give ’em a scare!” They took their thick boar-hunting arrows—tools of their trade—and casually loosed four or five shots as a “courtesy.” When one wondered where the bandits’ shadows—vanished like smoke—had gone, there were holes burrowed into strategic points across the wilderness, ample to shelter them from the cold. Having likely slept as soundly as they pleased, the next day Kumota—alone—spotted a veiled woman returning from Shakkuu’s hermitage in Okazaki and instantly began tailing her.

Five

Several days later, Shakkuu returned to the dimly lit door of his hermitage at dusk and, as was his custom, withdrew into his solitary dwelling—but no sooner had he hidden himself than rustling footsteps and voices crunching through fallen leaves approached from the woods behind. Soon, Amagi Shirō and several of his bandits stood blocking the hermitage’s entrance. “Shakkuu! You in there?” he shouted into the hermitage.

“Yeah,” came the quiet reply. Shakkuu immediately appeared on the veranda. Even as he gazed at the men standing there with squared shoulders, his expression showed no particular change. Shirō, as was his custom, flipped the hilt of his field sword high behind him, “We’re back.” Intending to pierce his opponent with a single remark, he twisted his lips into a sinister smile as he spoke. Shakkuu slightly pulled back his chin and said, as if welcoming a friend.

“Won’t you come up?” Flanking Shirō on both sides, henchmen—their countenances even more ferocious than his—gripped mountain machete hilts or clenched fists in a show of intimidation. Yet their opponent’s unexpected demeanor made them falter slightly, eyes darting between their leader’s face and Shakkuu’s figure. “We’ll come up after settling matters.” “Though if matters aren’t settled, we might just take up residence here awhile.” Shirō’s harassment clung with its usual stubbornness.

“Business with me?” said Shakkuu. “Don’t play dumb!” Shirō’s voice suddenly sharpened with his signature menace— “You haven’t forgotten what I told you when we met at Daijō-in in Iimuro Valley before?” “Yeah.” “Lately my trade’s gone sour—no decent drink for ages—drying up completely.” “That’s why I remembered you. Want coin. Came for coin.” “As I answered before—monastic vows forbid wealth. Take whatever pleases you from this hermitage.”

“No—I won’t hear ‘poverty’—you’ll write a letter!” “To whom?” “To Lord Kujō—to that Lord Tsukinowa.” “I’ve no present cause to petition Lord Tsukinowa by letter—” “You have!” “......” “Shakkuu—you fancy you’ve hoodwinked the world, but this Shirō sees through your tricks!” “When scandal brews over Lady Tsukinowa—you bolt to Mount Hiei! When Hiei turns dangerous—you skulk at Yoshimizu! And just as gossip wanes—off you slink again to this lone house in Okazaki!” “A pretty dance!” “But Shirō’s eyes pierce such sorcery!”

“What you’re saying makes no sense to Shakkuu.” “Fine—I’ll rip that mask right off you! Kumota—tell this heretic monk what you saw!” “Right.” As if poised for this moment, Kumota thrust his grotesque face forward from among the underlings.

VI When Kumota, taking over for his leader Shirō, spoke like a stray dog barking, it became clear there was a woman who came to this hermitage nearly every day; moreover, when Shakkuu was away, this woman would do laundry, prepare for the night, and then leave. When they tailed her back, they even ascertained at Lord Tsukinowa’s mansion in Kujō that the woman was none other than Manno, the princess’s maidservant—he declared triumphantly. “If you and the princess had cleanly severed ties, there’s no way her maidservant would come to do chores like fetching water.” “And so, you’re naively trying to fool the world.” “How about that? Aren’t you impressed?” As Shirō concluded his words like a dagger thrust, Shakkuu offered not a single excuse in response.

“It is indeed true that there are facts as you say.” “However, it is nothing more than alms from one who pities a destitute monk.” “Matters between women and men—whatever you claim—we’ll never accept.” “Or do you dispute our terms?” “No.” “Hmph... Truly left speechless,” he sneered. “Then write Lord Tsukinowa a letter.” “Tell him to give this man suitable alms.” “—I’ll arrange the particulars.”

“What crime could Lord Tsukinowa have? All stems from Shakkuu’s inadequacy.” “Blame Shakkuu—strip even Shakkuu’s Buddhist robes.” “You fool—think those rags’ll buy a drink? —Enough! Done with this tedious talk. We’ll return another time.” Contrary to expectations of persistence, Shirō withdrew with his men abruptly.

However, it occurred four or five days later.

Wherever he had gone and returned from, when a single palanquin arrived at the gate of Lord Tsukinowa of Kujō, and its occupant—the master himself, Lord Tsukinowa—was observed alighting from it, suddenly Amagi Shirō, his eyes gleaming fiercely, dashed out from the shadows and seized the sleeve of the Zen prelate’s monastic robe just as he was about to enter the estate.

“Wait!” he shouted. Lord Tsukinowa turned around and glared sharply at the man’s face from beneath his white eyebrows, as if he sensed something immediately.

“Take your business to the steward,” he said with a composed face. But those who were surprised were the minor samurai, children, and cowherds in attendance around this mansion, “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” “You insolent!” he shouted, as they tried to intervene and raised a commotion.

“Shut it!” he barked. “If you dare lay hands on me, I’ll kick you dead! I didn’t come here for *you* lot. All this time, no matter how many messengers I sent, not a peep in reply—so today I came myself to negotiate with Lord Tsukinowa.” “Stay back and keep quiet!” And even if blades were drawn, he showed no intention of releasing his grip, “Lord Tsukinowa! Hear my terms!” he roared. Lo and behold—something had occurred before Lord Tsukinowa’s mansion in Kujō. Curious passersby stopped one by one, then in pairs, until they formed a wall of onlookers.

VII The attendant samurai finally reached his limit. “You! If you keep up this insolence, we’ll haul you before Rokuhara’s Tribunal!” He grabbed Shirō by the waist of his hakama and tried to pull him back from Lord Tsukinowa’s side. As Shirō turned around— “What? You’d hand me over to the authorities?” “Go ahead! Drag me to Rokuhara’s Tribunal or wherever you please!” “You said it yourself!” The samurai tried to grapple him into submission. “Don’t fuck with me!” Shirō suddenly smashed his fist into the samurai’s temple, then kicked his buckling waist. He proceeded to kick and toss the advancing cowherds and retainers like ragdolls before turning to the clamoring crowd that had formed a human barricade.

“Hey, you lot! I don’t show my face in broad daylight as a rule—but today I’ll let you gawk all you want! Get a good look and remember it! Might serve you well someday! I’m Amagi Shirō—chief of bandits!” He struck a haughty pose—then continued: “Any of you itching to prove loyalty to Lord Tsukinowa—go ahead, run to Rokuhara’s constables! —But mark this: I didn’t come here today for robbery or extortion.” “I came to meet Lord Tsukinowa about a matter—sent letters ahead and all.” “But they kept making excuses not to let me see him—so I grabbed the man myself here! That’s the truth of it!” “What crime is this?!” “Listen up, passersby! One thing I want to ask!” “And this ‘matter’? There’s a foul rumor about his precious daughter and some monk!” “That monk and me—this Shirō—we’ve got ties from past lives that can’t be cut! Came to offer advice on this messy business… But you spat on my kindness! What’s with this cold shoulder?!” “Which is unreasonable—me getting angry, or you blocking the gate?!” His shouts implicitly stirred the crowd’s hunger for chaos while advancing his own aims through cunning extortion—Shirō’s methods made one’s hair stand on end.

When the passersby heard him say this, they stood frozen in place, fearing that leaving now would make them suspects who might report to Rokuhara—terrified of future retaliation. But in that moment, Lord Tsukinowa—the key figure—had slipped past him and hidden himself inside the gate. Suddenly noticing this, Shirō blazed with fury like a fireball once more, “Ah! He’s run off!” He scattered the retainers blocking his path left and right as he forced his way into the mansion.

“Let me meet him! If the Zen prelate refuses to meet me, then I’ll see the princess! I’ll tell her why I came! First, bring out that maidservant called Manno!” While standing rooted in the garden, he kept bellowing in a voice so thunderous it reverberated through to the innermost chambers.

At that moment, apparently in response to someone’s urgent report, four or five Rokuhara samurai galloped over on horseback. No sooner had they arrived than they scattered the crowd and lithely dismounted from their saddles at the gate.

Shirō’s shouting could still be heard within the estate.

VIII “Is this truly Shirō?” The Rokuhara samurai pressed for confirmation. Lord Tsukinowa’s retainers,

“There is no mistake.” They answered while trembling. “Very well. We will apprehend him—do not concern yourselves.” After stationing the constables who had rushed in afterward outside the mansion, the samurai strode boldly into the garden, their longswords clanging against their scabbards. “There he is.” When the three Rokuhara samurai spotted Shirō’s figure and halted, Amagi Shirō turned his ruddy face—still flushed from shouting toward the inner chambers—in their direction. “?” … He fell utterly silent.

“You reckless villain—don’t move!” The samurai who had shouted suddenly charged forward with his powerful build. “Damn you! You reported me to Rokuhara!” No sooner had Shirō hurled this curse into the mansion than he fiercely engaged in combat. Then,

“Bastard!” After letting his opponent fully grapple with him, he drew a dagger from his robe and stabbed the samurai in the flank. “Any of you come near me, this is what you get!” He shoved the corpse away with a thud. “Ha!” He hurled the blood-smeared dagger at the stunned faces, then his body flew—lightly—to the base of the large pine before the main hall, as though borne aloft by the wind. Before they could cling on—swiftly—Shirō’s figure was climbing up the trunk like a squirrel.

“Damn!” By the time the samurai rushed beneath it, Shirō had already leaped from a branch onto the great roof. “Idiots!” he snarled down at them. Not just through words but in his very expression, he conveyed that insult—baring white teeth as he laughed derisively, raucously, from atop the roof. “You lot and I are built different! Amagi Shirō is immortal! Not even Minamoto no Sanmi’s arrows could pierce me!” Striking a hateful pose as if striding across the hall’s roof ridge, he waved his hand and scattered eastward.

“Get him!” “Shoot!” Amid the commotion, he had vanished from who-knows-where—now only the crowd at the gate remained, clamoring like spectators shown a picture-scroll demon in broad daylight. “What an intriguing man.” “A bandit who reaches such heights is remarkable.” “In short—it’s because samurai and monks strut about so self-importantly that such rebels emerge.” “Too many would be a nuisance, but one or two like him make things lively.” Amid this lingering crowd exchanging such remarks, Amagi Shirō—now hooded in a black monk’s cowl—had slipped unnoticed into their midst,

“Have they still not caught the thief? Hmph—what sluggish constables,” he sneered, glancing back at Kumota—the dwarf-like small man accompanying him.

Spring’s Auspicious Message

I

The more others were driven to desperation, the more Amagi Shirō’s nature compelled him to watch and savor it for his own gratification.

All the more so. He who had stormed into Lord Tsukinowa’s residence and tasted bitter defeat did not remain idle in repaying it—he retaliated with malice. Not long after that incident, rumors—exceedingly unfavorable to Lord Tsukinowa—began circulating spontaneously among the lowborn in the streets, until that mansion in Kujō became the townspeople’s object of fascination. To elaborate: though these were mere trifling slanders, they spread—as the saying goes, “the mouths of the multitude melt even gold”—with all the gravity of sealed secrets passed down as truth, and therein lay their terror.

To Lord Tsukinowa’s character. To Suehime Tamahime. To that family. They spread every manner of lie and smeared them with slanderous filth. Needless to say, its source was Shirō.

Even after the turn of the year, the winter sky remained desolate, raging with grey violence.

It was the morning of January in the third year of Ken’ei (1203).

That morning—while it was still dark—Shakkuu left Okazaki’s Thatched Hut. Along the banks of Shirakawa, where he would normally head west, he walked directly toward Mount Hiei. Even when he reached Kirazaka Slope, day had not yet broken. In silent resignation, he stood there. Trees he recognized; rocks he recognized—the grass in this area had once been dampened by Lady Tamahime’s tears and had been laid beneath Manno’s knees.

In the pre-dawn gloom, a crow cawed loudly. Shakkuu set out toward the mountain once more in silence—his gait powerful, these footsteps not those that had chased the uncertainty during those ninety-nine nights he had spent traversing these slopes.

He was drenched in sweat from head to toe. Exhaling white breath, he stood before Konponchūdō Hall. By then, the clouds had finally transformed into a purple sea, faintly beginning to bring forth today’s sun. “...Still asleep, are you?” Shakkuu stood behind a monk’s quarters and gazed at the closed door. That was the abbot’s sleeping quarters. Before long, the bell of the Central Hall rang out loudly. The sweat immediately turned to ice, biting into Shakkuu’s skin with its cold. Yet Shakkuu remained motionless, standing rooted in place.

The monk who had casually opened the door before him started upon seeing the figure standing there and asked in surprise. “Ah! Who might you be?” “It is Shakkuu.” “If the Abbot has awakened, please inform him.” “Oh—is it Hannen?” The monk—recalling something—wore an increasingly suspicious expression as he hastily retreated into the inner chambers. He soon returned, “Please enter,” he said. Jien was already seated in a cleaned room. Having left Shōren-in, Archbishop Jien had been on this mountain since last year, having assumed the position of Abbot for the second time.

“Shakkuu?” Bathed in this long-unheard voice over his lowered head, “Yes…” For a time, he could not raise his face.

II Hands clasped before raising his face, Shakkuu felt his chest clogged with welling shame and nostalgia. Since he was a child of nine, this venerable teacher had taught and raised him as his own. Yet whenever they met now—somehow—it was only ever when he brought the teacher hardship. Should he deem it “unpardonable”? Or “inexcusable”? No—such facile words could not convey this emotion that defied expression.

Moreover, the matter that had brought him here so abruptly this morning was one that might yet again impose grave hardship upon this venerable teacher. No—rather, depending on circumstances, this matter might even make an enemy of the teacher who stood as Abbot of Mount Hiei—such was its gravity.

(How should I broach this?) Shakkuu wrestled with how to proceed. Yet Jien remained unchanged as ever—still viewing him through that childlike lens he’d maintained across the years. "You came—how rare." "Yes." Though he ought to inquire after his teacher’s health, exchange seasonal courtesies, recount his time at Yoshimizu—though apologies and explanations piled mountain-high in his chest—this morning Shakkuu could not bring himself to dwell on any of it at length.

He raised his face and revived within his chest—as unyielding as bedrock—the resolve he had forged when first deciding to come here. "This morning I came because there is a request I must make of you, Venerable Teacher." The tone carried such unusual force that it seemed to strike Jien’s ears. The archbishop sharply focused his gaze beneath knitted brows. "Hmm... Something?" "I beg you not to be startled—" Then Jien smiled gently. "That you would speak thus—in all the years since I granted you ordination at nine years old until this day—this is the first time I have heard such words from you." "A grand aspiration indeed."

“A grand aspiration… Truly, this is Shakkuu’s great vow.” “What in the world?” “I humbly ask to take Lady Tamahime, the youngest daughter of Lord Tsukinowa, as my wife.”

“Ugh...” It was Jien’s groan—as if suppressing something in his throat. Even the face of the unflappable teacher was in extraordinary turmoil. Shakkuu immediately pressed both hands flat against the floor, his ears crimson like madder roots. “Tamahime… as my wife… You mean… as your wife?” “Yes!”

“…………” Jien tightly pursed his lips and looked up at the ceiling. For a long time, he remained like that, his eyes closed. Plop, plop... Beneath Shakkuu’s face came the sound of falling tears.

Before long, Jien asked in a low voice heavy with pressure, “With what resolve…?” When he posed this question, Shakkuu—tense as a bowstring—responded instantly, “To manifest the true form of the Nenbutsu sect within this very body. And because I wish for this very body to be saved by the true light of the Nenbutsu sect,” he answered, his entire body poised like a solid mass of conviction.

III Abbot Jien and Shakkuu both sat there in utter silence. Like two boulders rooted there. This—he has come resolved to die. Jien felt. Without at least that level of resolve, he could not have uttered those words now. How heartrending—he could not help but feel profound sympathy. Jien knew every detail of the circumstances leading up to this day. And he was more concerned than anyone. He prayed for Shakkuu’s great fulfillment more than anyone.

—However. The hope he had now suddenly voiced was far too significant an issue. Jien knew well that all of Shakkuu’s anguish and his fervent devotion to Buddhism had centered on this issue for several years prior, and as a teacher who had observed him since his earliest stirrings, he believed he possessed sufficient understanding. Yet even when confronted with this reality—demanding resolution—after all, as a monk, and moreover as the Tendai archbishop, *Very well*,

(Even if it were permissible,) it was not something that could be uttered. But also, Shakkuu— That he had voiced this candid cry—(I wish to take Lady Tamahime as my wife)—there could only have come after truly years of anguish, doubts, self-reproach, and a desperate struggle against his own flesh; it was by no means a resolve formed overnight. Having emerged from such dark wanderings and turned to the Nenbutsu sect, even there, Shakkuu appeared to have been unable to find solace solely in the teachings of easy attainment of rebirth. No—rather, to the "key" of a certain truth he had already held in conviction, he had added even stronger belief from Hōnen’s teachings, until at last—

*This is truly the way to go.* Having resolutely steeled his resolve, he must have come there. Even if he himself opposed it, even if society as a whole rejected it, he might still plunge headlong toward that vow, battling a hundred hardships. ——What a predicament. Jien had never hesitated so profoundly to utter a single word. He found himself lost in thought for so long that he began to doubt whether his own mind—the very organ that discerns right from wrong—had lost its capacity for judgment.

“I have disturbed your morning service.” “I shall take my leave.” Shakkuu quietly withdrew toward the edge of the veranda.

Jien, with his eyes closed,

“Wait,” he said. “Yes…” Obediently, Shakkuu crouched down. “Will you leave the mountain at once?” “No.” After a pause— “Though it feels presumptuous to call it a mere convenience of my ascent, I intend to make pilgrimages to Konponchūdō Hall and the Seven Sannō Shrines, and visit dear Iimurodani Valley after so long.” “Take care of yourself.” Without affirming or denying Shakkuu’s plea—without answering anything at all—Jien turned his face away, his eyes growing moist.

IV "This plum tree has grown so large." Shakkuu was looking up at the plum tree before the Sannō Shrine. To the stones and stone lanterns all around, he cast a nostalgic gaze.

“Twenty years have passed…” he thought to himself. From the peak through East Tower Valley to Iimurodani Valley—every rock and stream his eyes fell upon was an old acquaintance in this mountain landscape. From age ten until this day two decades later. He was bidding silent farewells. When he looked up at Daijō-in’s gate—where he had once exposed his emaciated body to merciless self-mortification—inexplicable emotions overwhelmed him, rooting him in place as he stared. Now he resolved not merely to abandon this bed of self-powered asceticism, but to shatter every last vestige of the disciplinary precepts all monks considered inviolable. At thirty-one, he would cast aside his purified form and become what present-day clergy would surely condemn: a dweller in seas of filth and valleys of sin—one who took wives and ate meat. Mount Hiei would never accept him again—lacked the grace to do so—this day marked their parting. Tomorrow, the mountain would thunder with fury, denouncing Shakkuu alone as apostate. With these thoughts, he departed Iimurodani Valley.

But—no matter how strongly his belief had solidified, he could not take Lady Tamahime by force. Moreover, the great vow he dreamed of could absolutely not be realized with any woman other than her. Shakkuu once again fell into anguish, different from before. (How could he obtain her?) To ponder this seemed more difficult than pursuing the shadow of truth. Even Jien—his teacher, who knew him as a human being more than anyone else—remained silent and gave no answer.

“To go directly to Lord Tsukinowa myself—” he even fixated on such thoughts. However, he could not help but simultaneously realize how much that behavior resembled a madman’s. It was rumored that Lady Tamahime had now secretly secluded herself at the Nishitōin Villa to escape society’s clamorous gossip. After Amagi Shirō’s threat to the mansion, even Manno had abruptly ceased appearing in Okazaki. She had likely been ordered to remain confined.

Approaching there was difficult, and communication from the Lady had been severed, but Shakkuu’s dreams would sometimes slip free from his body on certain nights to behold her form.

As each night passed—as starlit warmth turned to spring evenings—

It was a certain morning.

Shakkuu wrote down last night’s dream on a scrap of paper and, deeming it something no one should see, concealed it at the bottom of his handbox.

If this practitioner’s karmic destiny ordains violation with a woman— I, born to defile the jade woman’s body, Throughout this single lifetime, I shall be adorned [by Amida’s vow]. At life’s end, guided into birth within the Pure Land.

＊

There was a single temple samurai who came down from Mount Hiei. He tied a document to a plum branch and was asking people coming and going in Kyoto how to reach Nishitōin on Gojō.

V

Lord Tsukinowa frequently made his way from Kujō to this Nishitōin Villa as part of his daily routine. And when he entered the inner rooms,

“How is she today?” he would first ask in a hushed voice, addressing the maidservant who sat silent and reserved amid the scent of medicinal baths—this was his custom. Even during the day, with the lattice shutters dimly lowered and only the blue-gold flecks on the sliding doors casting an eerie glow in the corner where the maidservants kept watch over the medicinal bath, they would answer in hushed tones, as though wary of the Lady’s chamber beyond. “Last night, unlike usual, Her Ladyship slept soundly.”

“...Did she sleep?” Lord Tsukinowa’s brow relaxed faintly at even this small reassurance. “And her food...” “Her Ladyship still refuses to eat.” “Will she not take nourishment?” His face darkened. When one finally entered Lady Tamahime’s sickchamber, there too spring’s arrival stood firmly rebuffed—daytime lattice shutters remained drawn, mirrors sheathed in cloth bags, rouge dishes and combs buried deep within lacquered boxes. Behind the standing screen’s shadow lay a maiden poised at life’s springtide, her pearl-like features half-lost in jet-black tresses, having now languished abed through countless moon cycles.

“How do you fare?” Lord Tsukinowa sat down beside his daughter as he spoke. With her eyes alone, (Unh... Unh...) she managed to nod, but offered no words—merely closing her eyes in silence. Her father could see tears pooling beneath those closed lids the instant they shut. Pitiful—the thought came immediately, yet (This is vexing.) escaped him as an involuntary sigh. For Lord Tsukinowa—before taking monastic vows, when he had governed court affairs as Fujiwara no Kanezane, the Tsukinowa Regent—had once possessed a vigorous spirit, untroubled even by matters concerning his seven daughters. But after his eldest son’s untimely death and his forced resignation from court due to political rivals—as his circumstances shifted in later years—his worldview transformed profoundly. Upon becoming the monk Tsukinowa, even his temperament softened entirely, growing excessively indulgent toward his children until he himself—

(‘I am not a doting parent,’) he would even tell others. Tamahime was his youngest daughter, and while all her elder sisters had found suitable marriages, this princess alone—no matter how many proposals came— (Still—) (At that family’s house…) With such reservations, though never outright refusing matches—by society’s measure, her marriageable age had grown late indeed. Yet Lord Tsukinowa could not bear to part with this one daughter from his aging side, so profoundly that it might be called blind love; to him, she remained exquisitely lovely and utterly dear.

VI “Won’t you eat something?” Lord Tsukinowa said. The Lady—her face pale as the moon amidst water weeds, her black hair—merely gave a faint sideways shake. “If you don’t eat, you cannot live!” “......” “You’re still young!” He chided her softly—mindful of the patient’s sensibilities. “The joys of womanhood, the happiness of being born human—isn’t all of spring yet to come?” “……” “Gather your strength and think of something—anything—you might want to eat. The physician said there’s no illness in your body—it’s only your heart that’s ailing.” The Lady’s eyelashes gathered white pearls,

"But, Father..." She tried to speak, but—

“I’m sorry,” she apologized faintly. “There’s nothing to apologize for.” “That very concern is what’s harmful in the first place.” “Indeed, the plum grove at this villa should be blooming nicely by now—try opening those lattice shutters there.—Manno.” Manno, who had been sitting motionless with her head bowed behind the screen as if uncertain whether she was present or not, at that moment, for the first time—

“Yes…” she replied, “My Lady, would Your Ladyship care to view the light from outside for a moment?” She leaned forward and inquired of the Lady’s face. As if to say “No…” the Lady showed an even more sullen expression and turned toward her father— “Why ever was I born such an unfilial child?” Then—she began to sob low and muffled. Lord Tsukinowa, without any words of comfort, folded his arms. A thick breath escaped him as if forced out.

The cause of the Lady’s current state was not entirely unknown to her father, Lord Tsukinowa. Yet this was an issue that could not be broached even between father and child—for to speak of it would assuredly worsen the Lady’s condition, and as her parent, he would then be compelled to voice his judgment. This was what Lord Tsukinowa dreaded. He prayed that by some means Lady Tamahime might resolve the burden in her heart as it stood or else forget it altogether—yet in truth, it seemed that with each passing day, the source of her affliction only gnawed deeper into her breast.

The furrowed brows of Lord Tsukinowa—who seemed utterly at a loss over what to do—hollowed out the profound anguish of a parent with a child.

And—in the next room, a maidservant,

“Lady Manno—just a moment…” she called out in a low voice. “Is it the physician?”

“No, it is a letter—for Lord Tsukinowa.” “For me?” Lord Tsukinowa turned around and wondered who could have sent a messenger to this villa.

“Put it there.” “I shall go now.” With that, he quietly rose from the Lady’s bedside. The Lady, with faint, feeble eyes, gazed up intently from her pillow at her father’s face.

Seven “Where has the letter been placed?” Having come out to a room facing the wide plum grove of the East Garden, Lord Tsukinowa blinked his eyes. Probably, having abruptly come out from the dark sickroom into the bright sunlight before him, his eyes stung from the glare.

The outer servant spoke from the edge of the veranda: “The messenger insists on delivering the letter directly to Your Lordship himself.” “From where does this messenger come?” “From the Archbishop of Mount Hiei.” “Ah… From my brother?” he said suddenly, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “Admit him.” “No—he is already waiting there.” Looking—sure enough—on the western side of the veranda, a monk crouched in the garden, poised to await a summons.

“Are you the messenger from Jien?” “Yes… Though it is most presumptuous of me, I have been strictly commanded to deliver this letter directly.” “You’ve had a hard journey.” Taking the plum branch from the temple official’s hand, “Take your rest before you leave,” he acknowledged. Lord Tsukinowa, after dismissing the attendants and remaining alone, calmly opened the letter. As he read on, a shadow of anguish began to stir across his countenance. Clearly perplexed—eyebrows that were being stirred by the greatest anguish within his heart.

"He is indeed my brother." The letter contained words to this effect— At this very moment here stood a single young man at the crossroads of life or death. Even I—a Buddhist who could not attain enlightenment—had no power to save and guide him. Needless to say, this youth was none other than Shakkuu, whom I had raised with devoted care since his ninth year—but was there no wisdom... no prudent course— From myself as his teacher came this plea to your esteemed judgment, offered with prayers from the depths of my heart—such was the letter’s substance.

"My brother... He remains ever my brother." Lord Tsukinowa muttered again, covering his eyes as fragile tears cascaded from his lashes. "If such wisdom dwelled within me, I would not endure this torment... My brother knows only of Shakkuu’s trials, yet it is I who suffers daily witnessing my child’s frail form." To Lord Tsukinowa, Jien’s belated plea felt bitterly inadequate—a flicker of familial resentment kindled within him.

“The suffering of this self is far beyond that.” Were he not the clan’s patriarch, even a man of Lord Tsukinowa’s stature might have succumbed to such sentimentality—regressing to foolishness and weeping bitterly—yet for his child’s sake, he restrained himself. But having stilled those emotional tides and re-examined his brother Jien’s letter with customary composure, he found that while the wording contained nothing more than stated, between the lines it seemed to convey a single profound significance. This was suggesting that even at life’s most desperate impasse, a path forward existed.

The phrase “Is there no wisdom?” was by no means merely those words alone; rather，it also seemed as though he were admonishing and encouraging his elder brother Lord Tsukinowa from Mount Hiei.

Eight Even those bound by the name of relatives—those who rarely showed their faces under ordinary circumstances—had gathered in one hall this night. The Tsukinowa clan consisted solely of members who either held positions of eminence or maintained socially substantial lives—an exclusively aristocratic lineage—and thus, barring matters of utmost gravity, they would never assemble thus. “When I came expecting some consultation, we’re told to wed Tamahime to some Nenbutsu acolyte called Shakkuu!” “Since all seem too reticent to speak—thinking these are Lord Tsukinowa’s words—if I were to step forth first on behalf of the relatives and declare opposition, this proposal could only be deemed preposterous.” “For the clan’s sake, I cannot consent to tonight’s discussion.” Whenever a family council convened, an elder of influence would break such collective silence to voice his view thus, and following suit,

“Well…” A look of refusal appeared unmistakably on every face. “First of all, the notion of a monk taking a wife is nothing short of an outrageous affair.” “Moreover, were we to marry off our youngest princess, the Tsukinowa clan would be laughed at as if we’ve all gone mad.” “Even if Shakkuu’s lineage is noble and he is a prodigy—” “Moreover, this comes at a time of unfortunate rumors.” “However much the princess may desire it, we cannot trade our family’s honor—if you would have every member of our clan endure society’s condemnation without concern, then there may be no alternative.”

“Truly, it is because you dote on Tamahime too much as your youngest princess that such matters arise.” “Abandon this notion. Everyone disapproves—” Yet not a single person attempted to consider Lord Tsukinowa’s feelings or devise any method or strategy regarding the matter.

Lord Tsukinowa could do nothing but remain silent, enduring his relatives’ relentless questioning. Although he himself had invited them to discuss the matter,

“Lord Tsukinowa, too, seems to have aged somewhat.” “The fact that he cannot discern such obvious matters must be due to his age,” was all he received—mocking laughter from his relatives. Moreover, Lord Tsukinowa himself lacked the confidence to override them. The relatives’ words were all things he himself had thought and agonized over. And when he realized that his common sense was, after all, the common sense of the majority, he became all the more utterly paralyzed.

“You must absolutely abandon such thoughts.” “Oh, the princess’s illness is just the sort of thing that tends to happen when one is young.” “Once she finds a good son-in-law elsewhere, she’ll forget all about it.” The relatives departed, driving their words home like nails. The darkness of perplexity did not clear from Lord Tsukinowa’s heart for days on end. When he went to the Nishitōin villa, there too, a sickroom that had remained closed since winter greeted him like an icehouse. Today as well, Lord Tsukinowa left Tsukinowa under the pretext of checking on the princess’s condition at Nishitōin—but along the way, he thought of something—

“Take me to Yoshimizu,” he abruptly commanded his attendants from within the palanquin.

Nine

The Yoshimizu Nenbutsu dojo was divided into approximately three chambers. These comprised three distinct spaces: Futatsu-iwa no Bō (Central Chamber)―Matsu no Shita no Bō (Eastern New Chamber)―and Yoshimizu no Bō (Western Main Chamber). The Master typically dwelled in Yoshimizu's Western Main Chamber. Having visited multiple times before, Lord Tsukinowa directed his palanquin's shafts toward that structure, "After paying respects to the Master, I earnestly wish to humbly receive his divine guidance—might you inquire whether this would be convenient?" he instructed his attendants to relay.

“I shall grant an audience.” Such was the Master’s reply.

However, as it was now in the middle of delivering a sermon to his attendants, an intermediary’s message requested him to wait for a while in a separate room; thus, Lord Tsukinowa entered a chamber overlooking a small waterfall in the garden and waited for the sermon to conclude. Spring was already fading. In the waterfall basin, fallen petals and debris floated and sank. Somewhere, an old bush warbler was singing persistently. “Through Hōnen’s discourse up to this point, I trust you have come to grasp that there are two essential paths to attaining birth in the Pure Land.” “The term ‘birth in the Pure Land’ does not solely signify one’s final moments, nor does it denote death. It means precisely what the characters say: to go and live—that is, birth in the Pure Land. To go and live… To go and be born…” “It is the Buddha’s power—the grace of great compassion—that first shines its boundless light only upon those who seek to live.” From the distant dojo, the youthful and vigorous voice delivering a Buddhist sermon could be heard. It was Hōnen’s voice.

Lord Tsukinowa remained there in waiting, silent and bowed down, listening intently. Hōnen’s voice continued onward. “However, until yesterday, the path each of you has walked was that of the Path of Sages—a path of self-power and arduous practices.” “Even though the goal of dwelling [in the Pure Land] is the same, how difficult that path was—how fraught with confusion and how arduous a gate it proved to reach—is something you have personally experienced in full.” “Now, as for how our Pure Land sect’s teachings of Other Power may be described—it is precisely as the Bodhisattva Nagarjuna taught: ‘In the Buddha Dharma there are countless gates; in the worldly path there are difficulties and ease. Land travel on foot is arduous, while boat travel on water is joyful.’” “Though Vasubandhu Bodhisattva was called the Thousand-Text Master, when it came to birth in the Pure Land, he devoted himself wholeheartedly to Tathāgata Amitābha of Unhindered Light Filling the Ten Directions, declaring, ‘Together with all beings, I shall attain birth in the Land of Peace and Bliss.’ Great Master Tanluan burned and discarded his Daoist scriptures to return to Other Power. Zen Master Daochuo, upon reading in the *Mahāsaṃnipāta Sūtra* the words ‘Though hundreds of millions of beings undertake practices and cultivate the path in this Age of Dharma Decline, not a single one has attained realization,’ awakened abruptly—abandoning the old teachings of the Path of Sages’ self-power and entering the true gate of the Pure Land’s Other Power.” “Furthermore, among the venerable ones of our land—Kūya, Genshin, Ryōnin, Yōkan, and others—have they not all abandoned their cultivated wisdom and practices to attain birth through the single practice of Nenbutsu?” “Do not doubt—whether good people or evil, wise or foolish, men or women—if they chant *Namu Amida Butsu* alone and deeply devote themselves, all one hundred people will attain birth in the Pure Land without exception. There should not be a single person who fails to go and be born.” “Though this body is one of defilements and evil karma, do not harbor such needless self-abasement beneath the Great Compassionate Light.” “This Primal Vow that Amida established for beings burdened with deep karmic obstacles—what obstacle could there possibly be for those of strong evil or bodies of defilements?”

Together with the sound of the waterfall basin, the Master’s distant voice resoundingly flowed into the depths of Lord Tsukinowa’s heart.

Ten Not only that, but whenever Lord Tsukinowa came to this Nenbutsu dojo, he always sensed a peculiar kind of household there.

Under Master Hōnen as patriarch beneath a single roof, it was said there were eighty-eight attendant disciples alone. When examining the former identities of these over eighty individuals, one found Shinren—son of Lord Shigemori of Komatsu—and Hōshinbō Shōren—son of Atsumori the Ungoverned—among many others from the fallen Heike clan who had once known utmost splendor and now lived here with shorn heads. Among them was Kumagai Jirō Naozane, a Genji general, all gathered as disciples at this Dharma assembly. Particularly, seeing Rennyōbō Naozane—once Kumagai Jirō—and Shōren, son of Atsumori, who should by all rights be mortal enemies, behaving with such uncommon familiarity toward each other, he felt as though this very dojo provided living proof of Master Hōnen’s teachings: a Pure Land where former adversaries could dwell without the enmity of their past lives. To worldly eyes accustomed to ordinary society, it was not only a heartening sight but also a kind of marvel—that humans could live together in such harmonious joy.

“My apologies for keeping you waiting.” “As the Master’s Dharma talk has concluded, please proceed to the inner chamber.”

A disciple monk eventually said this and guided Lord Tsukinowa to the inner chambers.

Before long,

“My apologies.”

Hōnen’s figure appeared. Lord Tsukinowa, “You seem well as always—” Lord Tsukinowa offered a courteous greeting, to which the Master returned a solemn bow before they shifted to casual conversation about various matters for a time. Before long, Lord Tsukinowa assumed a solemn expression and, “In truth, I have been listening remotely to your sermon today—today in particular, it felt particularly poignant.” “However, given my advanced age and illness, I fear the remainder of my life in which I may listen to such precious sermons will not be long.” “…Therefore, so that I may have no regrets in this life, today I wish to lay bare every corner of my heart—to speak openly and inquire fully. Would this pose any inconvenience?” Hōnen nodded deeply,

“Ask me anything you wish.” “I will wholeheartedly share as much as this Genkū knows,” he said gently with an open demeanor. Lord Tsukinowa’s eyes grew moist. It was clear something profoundly overwhelming lay heavy in his heart. The Master, discerning this,

“No one is to approach until I call.” “See that the narrow door in yonder corridor is shut as well.” Having issued these commands and dismissed the attendant disciples— “Now then—what might this weighty discussion you mentioned earlier concern, that you would bring it before this Hōnen?” “Set your mind at ease and speak freely,” he urged, leaning forward with knees advanced.

Eleven “This does not concern my own circumstances, but you, Master, dwell in a pure state of being through strict observance of precepts and ascetic practices. Moreover, I understand your over eighty disciples all maintain solemn vows as practitioners of purity who have left secular life.” “…Yet one such as myself who speaks thus—” Lord Tsukinowa abruptly paused—as if retracing his long political career in his mind— “Though these dyed robes cloak my form, I remain steeped in worldly habits—keeping a wife, eating meat, unable to abandon this layman’s existence of savoring delicacies and dwelling in comfort. Thus, as I chant the Nenbutsu while harboring such contradictions between heart and action, does not the efficacy of my invocation differ inherently from yours, Master, or that of your disciples?”

“Is your doubt regarding that matter?” The Master nodded in apparent delight at Lord Tsukinowa’s candid question, “This is a baseless doubt.” “Do not the sutras expound upon a hundred thousand sentient beings? Do not the commentaries state that all ordinary beings—whether good or evil—attain birth?” “What distinction could exist between monk and layperson?” “The Nenbutsu you chant and this Hōnen’s Nenbutsu are one—there exists no duality here.” “Yet… between the Nenbutsu of pure monks who shun women and abstain from impurities, and the Nenbutsu uttered by defiled mouths like ours—entangled day and night in familial affections while grasping at meager solace through wine, meat, and pungent flavors—surely some disparity must persist.”

“—You are mistaken.” The Master straightened his posture.

“As I have always stated—the Nenbutsu path rests entirely on Other Power’s Primal Vow. On this path that vows not to abandon even fools and evildoers in the Pure Land, how could any distinction exist? Do not doubt—simply chant the Nenbutsu, and you will attain birth. This I, Hōnen, firmly believe.” “Though I have heard this teaching many times and believe I comprehend it, these same doubts still plague me at moments—and I cannot think them mine alone. For I find myself compelled to ask: why then do monks abstain from taking wives or eating meat?”

“A most simple question indeed. All those practices are aspects of the difficult path—relying on self-power to eliminate hindrances—and have no place in the gate of Other Power’s easy practice. We leave things as they are; to impose ‘thus it must be’ would itself become the difficult path.” “The practices of the self-power path lie in exhausting wisdom to transcend birth and death, while those of the easy practice path lie in returning to ignorance to be born in the Pure Land.” “Even I, Hōnen, merely live as I prefer—I do not strive to abstain from meat or avoid women. It is simply that my present way brings ease and suits me perfectly; thus I see no need for change.”

“Then…” Lord Tsukinowa’s voice quivered involuntarily, as though prostrating himself in rapture beneath some great salvific hand. “I wish to receive one young disciple from among your followers to wed my youngest daughter. Might I beg you, Master, to grace this matter with your auspicious words?” …… The Master’s eyes—amber orbs within their tranquil wrinkles—seemed to comprehend all things as they brimmed with a faint smile of wholehearted approval.

“That is a most excellent proposal. I, Hōnen, shall exert myself.” “But whom do you desire?”

Twelve

Adjacent to the spacious lecture hall stood another broad, wooden-floored monk quarters. Elders like Nen'a, Shinjaku, and Rennyo were nowhere to be seen, but the young disciple monks would typically gather around the large hearth there, chatting like an extended family in a main house. “I thought to serve tea, but there’s been no summons from the guest chamber at all.” “Hmm, Lord Tsukinowa keeps an unusually long audience today as well.” At that moment, a monk emerged from the rear carrying an infant barely ten months old,

“Trouble, trouble! Prepare some rice flour!” “Oh, has he woken up?” “Once he starts crying, there’s no stopping him.” “Seiren’s good at soothing—let him carry the baby.”

“I will carry him.” “I will carry him.”

Within the monks’ quarters, Seiren, the youngest among them, carried the infant on his back and moved through the spacious lecture hall, “Hush now, go to sleep Sleep the Nenbutsu Hush now, rest here Stay the Nenbutsu Standing or walking, To the Nenbutsu”

At the gate of the Pure Land— What blooms? Always the bodhi tree— The twin sala trees.

As he sang the lullaby and moved about, the people who had formed a circle “Hahaha! Seiren’s spouting nonsense again.” “Yet how he’s grown—had the Taira remained mighty, he’d be Lord Atsumori’s son now—that unofficial courtier.” “They say even this Seiren was left roadside after the Taira fell—the Master found him during his travels...”

“The Master does love children. Why, just four or five days ago, he picked up that infant too...” “A Zen hall where a foundling carries another foundling on their back and sings lullabies—though Japan is vast, there exists no other place but this Yoshimizu.” While they were laughing and chattering, suddenly, from the Master’s inner chamber, the Master and Lord Tsukinowa emerged side by side and walked out across the floor.

“Is Shakkuu here?” The Master looked around and said.

“Yes, I am here.” Shakkuu, who had been reading in the corner, quietly set down his book and advanced before the Master. And placed both hands on the floor. “Do you have need of me?”

Thirteen The Master solemnly sat upon the dais in the lecture hall where he always gave his teachings, and Lord Tsukinowa sat beside him with an even graver expression. (What will he command?) wondered Shakkuu, remaining prostrated before them with his hands on the floor.

The Master quietly looked back at the monks of the quarters. “Have Shinjaku, Rennyo, and all others not present here summoned. And I would like all of you to gather here.” “Yes.”

The elders who had been in the inner chambers eventually emerged to join them, wondering what was happening. Nearly forty to fifty disciple monks were already lined up in rows there. And Shakkuu alone lay prostrate under everyone’s watchful gaze. This was no ordinary situation.

The people held their breath and fell silent, and when Hōnen saw that all had assembled, he slowly began to speak. “Shakkuu— “Lord Tsukinowa, who is present here, has come today through this Hōnen to bid you take a wife.” “……Well then—do you have the intention to take a wife, or not?” The complexions of the disciple monks seated in rows clearly began to show unrest within the silence. Some wore expressions as though doubting their own ears at their master’s utterly unexpected words, while others peered sidelong through their brows at Hōnen and Lord Tsukinowa, scrutinizing what lay behind the two men’s faces.

“…………” When they looked at Shakkuu, he—like a stone suffused with blood—had stiffened his entire body, stained his ears crimson, and still remained prostrated under the collective gaze, hands pressed firmly against the floor. The Master pressed further,

When asked, “Do you not have such an intention?” Shakkuu raised himself up for the first time—and then lowered his eyes somewhat again—

“It is my desire,” he answered. Contrary to expectations, his voice remained calm. “Hmm——” As the Master nodded with a deep inward breath, the disciples grew all the more bewildered about what lay between this master and disciple. “Now then, I shall convey this party’s intention: the woman we wish for you to marry is called Tamahime, the youngest princess of Lord Tsukinowa.” “Shakkuu… I believe you have long been aware of this…” “Do you have any objections?” Shakkuu’s body trembled.

He wanted to weep openly and lay bare his naked self before Master Hōnen and the princess's father. Beyond that, he wished to speak of his faith and practice—both what had been until today and what would follow hereafter. Yet even he could not withstand it—his eyes burned with surging emotion, and while his heart brimmed with joy, he also felt the immense burden of bearing all three realms of existence upon his solitary shoulders. For a time, no words would come.

However, this was a great vow he had long desired of his own accord and could not help but undertake. Shakkuu resolutely straightened his posture and continued. "I am deeply grateful." "I have considered no one other than Lady Tamahime, but if it is that noble daughter, I wish to take her as my wife." "May Buddha bear witness—I have loved Lady Tamahime beyond all pretense until this very day." "I humbly ask for your guidance." Dozens of fellow monks gazed blankly at Shakkuu’s earnest attitude.

Chapter: Sharing the Palanquin

Kumano Dog

1

What a flurry of activity! From summer to autumn, the people of the Tsukinowa household had no time to even speak of the heat. “It’s like Obon and New Year’s have come at once” was the servants’ complaint.

It was impossible to tell how many dozens of family meetings were repeated. The relatives too, at one point, declared: "We will no longer associate with a house that would give their princess to a monk they call a mere woodchip." But when confronted with Lord Tsukinowa's unwavering determination to hold the wedding ceremony that autumn—"If you insist this strongly—" some threw down their spoons in resignation while others struck middle paths seeking harmony. Thus through such means, the wedding arrangements were finally settled during the sweltering Dog Days of midsummer.

Archbishop Jien of Mount Hiei had descended the mountain and was at Shōren-in. From there, messengers were constantly dispatched to Tsukinowa, while between Tsukinowa and Yoshimizu—and likewise with Gojō Nishinomiya—documents ceaselessly went back and forth. Amid these hectic days continuing on, through the town still gripped by lingering summer heat, wedding paraphernalia kept being transported yesterday and today toward the Nishinomiya Villa. “As expected of the former Regent’s son-in-law—such splendid furnishings!” “Will the ceremony be held at Nishinomiya?”

“Seems so.” “The furnishings aside—what an absurdly blessed man that young monk must be, claiming that flower-like youngest princess as his own!” “And they call him a scrap of wood!”

“Ah, I want to become a scrap of wood too!” Whenever luggage bound for Nishinomiya passed by, the townspeople would gaze after it with envious eyes from the street corners.

“Might I ask…” A mountain ascetic halted his pilgrim’s staff toward the crowd. Having seemingly returned to the capital after a long absence from mountain austerities, he had grown out his beard, and his skin was ruddy black like pine bark. “Yes, what is it?” A commoner responded jovially.

The mountain ascetic, with sharp eyes, looked back at the wedding procession’s luggage that had just passed by while—

“I hear there is to be an auspicious ceremony, but who exactly is this groom?” “Well, listen here.” The commoner gestured, “Lord Kujō is also quite the connoisseur. Even among seven daughters, they have this youngest princess so utterly adorable they’d want to keep her in their very eyes—and yet, can you believe it? Out of all possible people, they’ve plucked some disciple from the fringes of Master Hōnen’s followers and decided to give her to him!” “And this disciple…?”

“They call him Shakkuu—they say he’s from good stock, you know… Still…”

“Shakkuu?” He tilted his head slightly—

“About how old a man is he?” “He would be thirty-one or two.” “That’s what they say.” “Then could it not be Hannen Shōnagon, who once served Archbishop Jien at Shōren-in and later entered Mount Hiei?” “Yes, yes. They called him Hannen before.” “Ah!” With a thick groan through his nostrils, “I see. “So it was him after all!”

Making a terrifying expression, the mountain ascetic fell silent. With a single black and sturdy Kumano dog following behind him, rhythmically tapping his staff, he moved away from the crowd.

II

Woof——

Catching up to its swift-footed owner, the large Kumano dog wagged its tail and entwined itself around him. The mountain ascetic called "Kuro," “You fool,” he admonished. “What do you think you’re doing following a homeless wretch like me? Go home.” However, even when driven away with the staff, Kuro did not try to return. The mountain ascetic struggled, “Even if I tell you to go back, do you also have no homeland to return to? Just like this Ben’en—” Woof—— Kuro bit the mountain ascetic’s sleeve. The mountain ascetic, faced with this dog that had followed him from his journey—a creature without ties to the three realms—found himself unable to cruelly abandon it,

“In return, Kuro—even if we end up dying in the wild together, don’t resent me…… Is that still all right? Oh, even so—” Drawing the playfully nuzzling Kuro’s scruff to his knee, the mountain ascetic plopped down onto the roots of a roadside tree.

“I’m exhausted… And hungry――” The sound of cicadas was like rain. The surrounding groves were growing dim in the twilight.

Suddenly looking back, he saw the temple gate come into view, where seven or eight scholarly monks stood clustered together discussing something. “Truly we’ve entered the Latter Day of the Law! Buddhism itself has decayed—no, people’s very hearts have rotted—to the point where no one bats an eye at a monk openly wedding some noble’s daughter!” One monk clutching books widened his eyes as he spoke. The others either hunched their shoulders or hitched up their robe sleeves,

“From what I hear, didn’t Hōnen rather encourage it?” “After all, it’s a vulgar creed that does nothing but grovel before the masses—the lowly commoners. But regardless of Hōnen’s role, for someone like Shakkuu—once hailed as the Northern Peaks’ finest steed—to stoop to such shamelessness…” “This concerns the dignity of us monks.” “Do the monastic community of the Five Mountains intend to tacitly approve this?” “Even if we lodge complaints, there’s little to be done when it’s a matter of personal volition.” “Inflict Buddha’s punishment! Buddha’s punishment!”

"What do we do?" "Beat them!" “You can’t mean to resort to violence as well—” “If not, on the night of the wedding ceremony, we will launch a large-scale attack and condemn his heretical acts.” The mountain ascetic, who had been stroking Kuro’s fur and picking off fleas, suddenly stood up his staff,

“Kuro, come!” he said, quickening his footsteps.

The mountain ascetic walked from house to house through the narrow, filthy back alleys where stone carriers, carpenters, and roofers lived, begging for alms. However, in every house these days, the chanting of Nenbutsu leaked out, and there was no one who would lend an ear to the mountain ascetics’ sutras. “Move along,” they curtly said wherever he went. The mountain ascetic tsked,

“A day of hearing nothing but vexing things,” he muttered, counting the small coins in his leather pouch, then peered into the back entrance of a food stall where something was sizzling in oil.

“Won’t you give us some food? For me and the dog—just this much...” he said, holding out meager coins in his hand to the woman frying food.

III

A bowl of unpolished rice and a wooden dish bearing sesame-fried morsels were set before the mountain ascetic. The famished Kuro barked wildly, nearly leaping at the chopsticks in the ascetic’s grasp. “Quiet, you greedy wretch!” When he flung a fried piece to Kuro, the dog wagged its tail and snapped at it. The mountain ascetic too began wolfing down his rice. Beside him sat two customers who had occupied camp stools before his arrival, drinking sake around a plank serving as their table. They too appeared to be destitute monks, but one had grown boisterous and was holding forth with great fervor—

“Bullshit! Monks are human too!” “We’re human monks—those bastards who decided we should be treated like wooden puppets, forbidding us to drink sake or touch women—they had it wrong from the start!” “Contradictions, secrets, servility, pretension, falsehood—all these noxious vermin festering in monasteries? That’s why!” “No wonder they’re putting on airs like they’re doing what no human can!” “When I heard that former Shōsōzu Hannen—now Shakkuu of Yoshimizu—went and openly took a wife, I thought, ‘Now that’s a damn good thing!’” “I raise both hands—here’s to Shakkuu!”

“Exactly! I feel the same way,” the other man spat vehemently, “There are those who caw their opposition like Tō-ji’s crows, but what about those bastards themselves?!” “It’s impossible! I ask you—is there even a single true virgin among those Five Mountains monks?!” “Shakkuu is rather an honest man.” “If such humans don’t come forth, it’d be a lie. Even if we grumble in the shadows, it won’t get us anywhere. Taking action requires courage, but it’s delightful that he’s boldly putting it into practice!”

“Depending on how you see it, he’s Buddhism’s revolutionary—a hero!” “For his sake, let’s refill our cups and celebrate grandly!” They raised their cups and drank boisterously. “Ahahaha.” “Wahahaha.”

“The world has brightened.”

“Shall we go?” Leaving the money, the two left unsteadily. The mountain ascetic’s face—silent until now—had been suffused with an inexpressibly foul expression, but when he suddenly shot a wrathful glare at their retreating backs, he sprang up and went outside. Kuro was still ravenously licking up the remaining rice and fried food on the wooden plate with his long tongue. “Kuro!” Blowing a whistle, the mountain ascetic broke into a run. Then, stealthily, he loosed Kuro upon the shadows of the two monks walking cheerfully ahead.

“Woof, woof!” With a ferocious cry, Kuro suddenly sank his teeth into the other monk’s calf. “Ouch!” “Damn you!” Aiming at their panicked state, the mountain ascetic swung his staff while shouting, “Heretics!” When he saw the two collapse by the roadside, Kuro and the mountain ascetic slipped into the darkness without a backward glance.

IV

The mountain ascetic spread a single straw mat on the riverside. The underside of Shijō Ōhashi Bridge arched massively into the darkness like bellows and formed a roof.

“Sleep.” Clutching Kuro’s neck close, the mountain ascetic endeavored to make himself sleep.

However, he could not seem to fall asleep. It was not because of the sound of the nearby rapids by his pillow. It was not because horses and people occasionally passed over the bridge either—the mountain ascetic’s temples were swollen with blue veins. He was terribly agitated.

"What good does it do to beat up some drunken monk? I did a foolish thing." "My opponent is none other than Shakkuu." He muttered as if addressing Kuro. "I once vowed—that within my lifetime, I would surely rise above you." "But my position did not improve easily." "Twenty years ago when I met that wretch, I was a fellow monk at Mount Hiei while he already presided over a temple authorized for ordinations." "And ten years later when we crossed paths in Yamato, he had become Shōsōzu Hannen—a scholar famed even in Nanto—while I remained a lowly Shōgoin mountain ascetic..." Shoving Kuro aside, he jerked upright. Spotting a fish’s shadow flopping on the shore, Kuro dashed to the water’s edge.

“For several years after that, I entered Ōmine, climbed through Katsuragi, traversed various great mountains across the provinces, devoted myself to ascetic practice following En no Ozunu’s lay ascetic traditions—yet even now I have yet to ascend to Shōgoin’s official ranks. My name merely changed from Benkai the itinerant yamabushi to Harima-bō Ben’en upon receiving honji inka certification—barely gaining recognition among fellow mountain ascetics. And now, returning to the capital after so long, that Shakkuu has again become controversial—rumored as prospective son-in-law to the former regent’s house or not—ever the troublemaker.” Resentfully, Ben’en grabbed a pebble and slammed it down.

Harima-bō Ben'en—once known as Jutōmaru, the fallen son of Narita Hyōe—was comparing his own childhood with Shakkuu's by visualizing them on his eyelids.

Twenty-odd years had passed—. When Shakkuu was called Jūhachi Kimimaro and I was known as Jutōmaru, we attended the same school together. And I remember this too: when he—mocked as the son of a fallen noble—commuted to Hino Academy in a rickety oxcart, I would daily flaunt myself at the academy gates as the heir of a retainer prospering under the Taira Chancellor, accompanied by many samurai attendants driving a splendid oxcart with cracking whips. From that point onward, with the waning fortunes of the Taira clan, everything had reversed. While he amassed both reputation and capability with each stride, what of me? The path I had trodden and my present state—

Ben’en, far from being able to sleep, lifted his gaze and looked up at the stars from beneath his thick eyebrows. "I lost—in form. …But that’s not because I’m lazy! I’m practicing asceticism right here, right now. However, it’s because I lack that guy’s social deftness and talent. Now is the time—punishing that wretch Shakkuu will purify the Buddhist realm. I cannot stand idly by while petty geniuses like him cozy up to powerful families, trample the precepts, and spread corruption through society. Alright! I’ll do it! I must throw myself into pursuing this heretic monk!" As if cementing his resolve, Ben’en muttered fiercely.

Then—as if water were being poured over the poisonous flames enveloping his entire being—from somewhere in the dark riverbed came the rippling sound of a biwa flowing forth.

V Even as he struggled to fall asleep, having a biwa played right by his ear made it all the more impossible to find rest. Ben’en started to lie down but sat up with a furious jerk.

“Shut up!” he shouted toward the source of the sound. However, the biwa did not cease. He continued singing of the Heike with detached composure. “Stop it!” he continued, “Hey, you beggar monk!” he snarled. Then—abruptly—he set down the plectrum,

“What is it, Mountain Ascetic?” came the voice from afar. “I told you to stop because it’s disturbing my sleep—can’t you hear?” When Ben’en scolded Gonpei, “This is not a place for sleeping,” the biwa player retorted defiantly.

Ben’en’s anger reached a boiling point, “Then is this a place to play the biwa?”

“If inspiration strikes, one may play the biwa anywhere.” “But sleep does not follow such whims.” “In human existence, there should naturally abide a sense of decorum.”

“Insolent!” he spat, grabbing his staff and rising to his feet. Contrary to expectations that he would flee, the biwa player remained composed, holding his instrument; facing a man poised to strike, he stared intently through unseeing eyes. “Are you blind?” When Ben’en muttered, “The blindness lies with you. Though these fleshly eyes are ruined, my mind’s eye stays open. Ah well—how callow you remain, Mountain Ascetic,” said the blind man with a faint smile.

Observing him, this monk too appeared to be one who spent nights using the riverbed beneath the bridge as lodging—he had spread straw mats over the stones, placed a slightly soiled bundle and belongings upon them, and was now sitting on a rock at the water’s edge. The fallen state of Kakogawa’s Kyōshin Shami—that was none other than Hōshi. “You called me immature.” “Where? How am I immature?!” “Then—are you not a yamabushi who follows the lineage of En no Ozunu’s lay ascetics?” “That’s right!” “Can one truly be called a Mountain Ascetic without undergoing ascetic practices—sleeping under trees and atop stones, resting calmly among wild beasts and venomous snakes? For what purpose do you undertake peak entry? Why wear the ritual headdress, ritual dagger, and eight-eyed straw sandals? “How amusing that you cannot sleep because of a biwa’s sound... I suspect there is some resentment festering in your heart. Ha ha ha ha!” His claim of having opened his mind’s eye might not have been mere bravado after all. Ben’en felt as though he had been seen through to his very core and, for a short while, stared fixedly at Hōshi’s face, but—

“Hmm, you’re quite the one for concocting clever arguments. If you truly understand people’s hearts so well, do you know what I’m thinking right now?” “Can’t you tell?” “Go on—say it!” “You’re enraged that Shakkuu is wedding Lord Tsukinowa’s daughter, Lady Tamahime.”

“Idiot! You must’ve heard me muttering that to myself just now.” “Don’t just spout obvious nonsense—try guessing what I’ve been thinking in my heart about what I’ll do about it!” “I’m not an onmyōji, so I don’t know such things of the future…”

VI Hōshi continued, “But, Mountain Ascetic—how truly despicable it is for one to envy another man taking a comely wife.” “Though I cannot say what your anger entails—”

Then Ben’en, “My anger is public outrage—not a personal grudge.”

“Ha ha ha.” “It’s both, isn’t it?” “Instead of getting red-faced with boorish anger, wouldn’t it be better for you to take a good wife yourself if you want one so badly?” “Shut up! Do you take me for some heretic and unprincipled Mountain Ascetic?” “If you keep flapping that clumsy mouth, I’ll make you taste my vajra staff!”

“Why…?” said Hōshi, tilting his head habitually— “Why should taking a wife be considered heretical and unprincipled? The precepts were established by humans, not decreed by the Buddha.” “Don’t you know?! Keeping wives and eating meat has been established as a precept equivalent to the sin of falling into hell!” “Then what of Monk Myōitsu of Tōdai-ji? Is Monk Jihō of Gangō-ji a fallen monk? If we look back to Buddhism’s clearer era in the distant past—the Nara period—there were several eminent scholars like Myōitsu and Jihō who took wives. Have you not read the *Shoku Nihongi*? In its entry for Enryaku 17, there is a Daijō-kan decree stating—”

“From now on, the children of monks— compel all to return to secular life, thereby to serve as a warning for the future.” Even seeing this recorded, you grasp only half the truth. For it cannot be denied that weak corrupt practices ran rampant in those days. The Self-Power Holy Path school established absolute power as a reaction to that era.” “But whether we speak of self-power or other-power, the path remains singular—the same moon over a lofty peak. Yet unless we thoroughly examine where worldly ways and human hearts truly lie, how can we take the masses’ hands and guide them kindly to peace?” “To blindly cling—even as society changes and hearts evolve—to antiquated doctrines of outward bodhisattva-like piety, meat-eating heresy, and absolute self-power… this is what common folk call a fool’s rote memorization…” “Ha ha ha! Forgive my impertinence… But this way lies stagnation! How long will you wander—barely scraping by as beggars—unable to save even yourselves? At this rate, I say there’s scant difference between stray dogs and Shugendō practitioners!”

“You damned blockhead!” With a whoosh—the staff whined through the air, and—

“Ah…!” Hōshi gasped as he threw himself prostrate. “Insolent… Insolent!” Ben’en struck him again and again. The biwa Hōshi had been clutching now lay broken—strings severed, neck snapped, body shattered.

“Kuro! ――Let’s sleep.” Holding the barking dog, Ben’en fell asleep where he had been lying.

………

It was when dawn had begun to pale the night. Roused awake, Ben’en suddenly opened his eyes to find Hōshi from the previous evening tending a fire. Without a trace of resentment on his face, he smiled faintly and said: “Mountain Ascetic, the dried rice is cooked.” “It tastes good with miso licked over it. Won’t you come here and partake?”

When he looked, beneath the cracked earthen pot smoldering lay the shattered biwa. At the rice's aroma, Kuro barked. Ben'en seized the dog's head, "You greedy wretch! I'll feed you later—don't go craving some beggar monk's scraps!" He clutched it tight and lay supine again.

On the bridge, morning crowds were already coming and going. Among them passed several palanquins—likely congratulatory gifts from high-ranking nobles—ostentatiously borne by porters on their way to visit Lord Tsukinowa.

The Palanquin of Non-Retrogression

I

Gardeners entered, pruning old branches and sifting out diseased leaves, and the Gojō Nishinotōin villa stood with its clean river sand marked by broom patterns. In the waters of the Kamo River flowing immediately behind, autumn leaves from distant upstream beyond the capital floated downstream. Nearby stretched autumn when even the Thirty-Six Peaks of Higashiyama burned deep crimson.

October of Ken’ei 3 (1203 CE). For Shakkuu, it marked a culmination; for Tamahime, the most unforgettable day of her life had come. The two took their seats at the wedding dais. Like the Seat of the Sun and Seat of the Moon. What a splendid couple they must have made—the townsfolk could only imagine. Moreover, people even claimed such an elegant and magnificent affair—surpassing the living scroll of banquets and gilded carriages that unfolded over seven days and nights from those nuptial candles—had been rare even in the Fujiwara clan's golden age. Rumors also spread that Lord Tsukinowa would gladly exhaust his worldly riches during those seven days without regret.

The groom, Lord Shakkuu, did not outright refuse the extravagance and grandeur that were not necessarily unsuitable for this single monk's taking of a bride. (—All these are the seven treasures and jewels with which Buddha had adorned me.) Thus he seemed to accept it willingly.

Now. From the day after the ceremony came distributions of mochi to the poor, servings of gruel, solicitations for temple donations—and when these concluded, the bride and groom at last moved to dwell alone in their new love nest. Yet—though such wealth had been expended—the vital house for the young couple’s dwelling stood not newly built. The place lay within Okazaki’s pine grove—the house being that very Okazaki thatched hut where, had Shakkuu not been present, squirrels would have scampered across the tatami.

Moreover, it was not even large enough for a single person to enter under its thatched roof—it remained exactly as it had been originally. “In that case, the new wife is such a poor thing.” “For what purpose did Lord Tsukinowa spend all that gold—what calculation guided him? We cannot fathom it at all,” those who knew him said, tilting their heads in puzzlement. No one could possibly understand—save Shakkuu, Tamahime, and her father.

The belongings that the new wife brought with her to that place consisted solely of a single bundle of garments, hair tools, and one palanquin. That palanquin alone, being newly made for this ceremony to Lord Tsukinowa’s taste, was a thing of utmost splendor. When placed within the pine forest, its mother-of-pearl inlays, gold dust, and crimson tassels glittered beneath the dappled sunlight—so beautiful it seemed almost unearthly. (I think we should live like this—but do you find it disagreeable?)

(I do not mind.) Such was their wedding night’s vow.

This was the life Shakkuu had desired, and the grand event had been Lord Tsukinowa’s design. Together rejecting narrow-minded sectarianism, he had firmly believed this wedding was not merely a life for his daughter and son-in-law alone, but a Buddhist marriage manifesting Buddha’s will for all sentient beings, and a celestial union ordained through heavenly intent. As there stood no separate quarters for attendants, each dawn would see ox-drivers and menials from Nishinotōin trailing through the red pine grove—where warblers trilled—to timidly inquire after the newlyweds’ needs at their thatched hut.

II

The princess—no, the new wife—rose early with the birds and, together with her sole servant Manno, gathered firewood in the grove, drew water from the spring, and devoted herself wholeheartedly to the morning chores. Briskly cleaned now stood the room of the thatched hut where soon a modest meal was laid out. Two teacups sat.

Even as Shakkuu looked at the meal tray, it appeared to him as the world of sentient beings; he contemplated Buddhist teachings, and profound emotion welled up in his chest.

Two chopsticks, two wooden plates—every item above was a pair. Doesn’t this meal tell us that all life’s endeavors begin with the number two—? Sun and moon.—Humans living beneath these two must not be solitary—unless they become wanderers like Saigyō. Only those who are chosen can cross to the Other Shore alone. Sentient beings must pole [the boat] together as two people. Riding the waves of yin and yang.

O foolish monks of today, unable to fully commit to either path and struggling in this turbid sea of defilement! O sentient beings! Shakkuu picked up his chopsticks and secretly thought to himself: How his own figure that morning glowed with peace and satisfaction—why could people not become like this? He found himself smiling into his rice-filled bowl. Dazzlingly beholding this, Tamahime—his new wife—flashed a glimpse of her pearl-like teeth and smiled.

“Hahaha.” Shakkuu’s cheerfulness that morning. His body felt light. He wanted to step out beneath the sun and give thanks for being born human. He wished from his heart to prostrate at Buddha’s feet in gratitude for dispelling twenty years of ignorance. He desired to share joy even with grass and trees. How much more ought he thank his good wife? Are you Kannon Bosatsu who temporarily took human form to purify this mortal flesh—should he say that? Or perhaps—

(Tamahime, you were saved by me, and I was saved by you—from this karmic bond, what must we as husband and wife bring forth?) Should I say this? But his chest was full—Shakkuu could say nothing this morning. Tamahime, even more so, was inclined to look downward…

Manno, who had carried the meal tray to the kitchen, stood alone in quiet satisfaction. Dappled sunlight through the pines streamed into the kitchen shelves, where not a speck of dust lingered since dawn. "We have come to escort you," called the minor samurai and menials from Nishinotōin at the entrance. "Oh—" Shakkuu, regaining his composure, turned to his wife.

“Starting today, I shall go to Yoshimizu daily—and you shall come with me.”

“Yes.” “Have you taken to heart all I have long instructed you?” “I understand.” “Though the path from here to Yoshimizu may be short, a hundred obstacles surely await. Never forget ‘non-retrogression’ in your heart.” “No matter what occurs—do not waver! Do not panic! Do not fear! Think that Shakkuu stands with you! Trust in your husband’s strength and Buddha’s protection!”

The menials were searching for the ox-driver by the palanquin. The ox-driver had led the ox to the spring’s edge together with a child and was peacefully grazing it on grass.

III

“The preparations are ready,” one of the menials called into the hut. “Right,” said Shakkuu, standing up. Tamahime also exited the hut. That day, their attire was resplendent, as if attending a formal occasion. Above all, the bride wore in her black hair a golden hairpin whose luster had not yet faded from the wedding candles’ glow, and with each step she took, the hems of her five-layered robes stirred a noble fragrance of sandalwood that lingered richly about her.

“…………” Not with words but with her eyes—as if to say “You first”—she showed her husband a glimpse of shyness in her demeanor and boarded the palanquin. Shakkuu then took his place beside his new bride. It was an extravagantly decorated palanquin newly made with silk tassels. The resplendently dressed young couple sitting side by side within—their knees pressed together—were so radiant that no accumulation of pigments or gold leaf could depict their brilliance. Even the ox-driver and menials among their retinue inadvertently gaped in awe.

“Advance…” Shakkuu said from atop the palanquin.

“Ah!” The ox-driver struck the ox with his reins. The jet-black-furred back of the Yase ox swelled upward. Massive and ponderous—yet never retreating backward—were the beast’s legs. Thrusting its head forward, the colossal frame pivoted in a tight spin, its wheels gouging into the earth as the palanquin began swaying along the forest path. “Which way shall we proceed?” asked the samurai attendant walking alongside. Shakkuu answered him: “From Nogawa Palace westward past Shirakawa Spring Palace—ascend Nijōsue and emerge onto Toriidōri Avenue.”

“Wouldn’t this be somewhat of a detour?” “Never mind—from Toriidōri Avenue to Jūzenji Crossing.” “And then pass by Gion Shrine, all the way to Yoshimizu.” “Let’s proceed at a leisurely pace.” “Understood”—but from the bend at Nogawa Palace onward, that silk-fringed palanquin had already begun drawing people’s eyes. Even from the opposite bank of Kamogawa Riverbed, children and common folk, seeing the gathering crowd, came splashing through the water to run over. Especially in this area, there were many villas belonging to Lord Yoshida, Lord Konoe, Lord Takatsukasa, and others. Windows, gates, and roadsides were suddenly alight with countless eyes staring in wonder at the strange sight.

“What’s that?” “What’s coming through?” The women who had been washing clothes at the riverbank elbowed their way through the throng with their wet hands. Amidst the forest of legs, stray dogs barked, infants wailed, and chaos reigned.

“Hey! A beautiful noblewoman, accompanied by a young monk, is passing through!”

“How strange!” “Don’t you know? That’s the monk who lives in Okazaki’s pine grove.” “So that’s Monk Shakkuu?” “That’s Lord Kujō’s monk son-in-law.” “What’s this? The monk son-in-law is passing through?” …… “Oh, so that’s the bride?” As if some great calamity had befallen the realm, the townspeople waved their hands and pointed while clamoring for others to look, and before every villa and temple gate along their path, eyes glazed with bewilderment and mouths agape in astonishment stood lined up, unable to utter a word.

IV When the palanquin reached Toriidōri Avenue, the crowd had grown so dense that unless it ran someone over, the vehicle could move neither forward nor backward. “Without any shame before others! Lord Kujō’s monk son-in-law and his bride are passing through in one palanquin!” “Have they lost their minds?” “Too fortunate for their own—” “No—it’s Buddha’s punishment!” “Mad bridegroom!” “Heretic monk!” “Hell cart!” No matter how they were driven back, the crowd clung to the palanquin like maggots, their numbers swelling until they choked the crossroads.

The peaks of Mount Kachōzan, Awatayama, and Nyoi-ga-take—the autumn leaves across all thirty-six peaks blazed like Tenpyō brocade embroidered by the Weaver Girl of Tang. The sky revealed a clarity of utmost purity; even as yellow dust whirled upward from the avenue, it could not merge with that azure expanse no matter how high it rose. At the palanquin’s forefront, the ox-driver and samurai attendant advanced with brows glistening black with sweat. “Out of the way!” “Clear the path!” “We’ll show no mercy to those who block the road—they’ll be crushed beneath the wheels!” They brandished whips, barked orders, and forced the shafts forward inch by inch. Yet the crowd, emboldened by their numbers, yielded only when directly threatened—

“Look at that!” they pointed and jeered, roaring with laughter like town-dwelling tengu. “Look at that monk’s face.” “Putting on that solemn act, draped in that white-brocade monastic robe and playing at purity—” “I wonder what faces they make at night…” “Woman… woman!” “How dare you! The nerve!” “Both of you!”

But that was nothing. Among the vulgar words hurled by the common folk, there were those who even casually cast more explicit, more severe, face-reddeningly lewd jibes.

And by the time they were about to reach Jūzenji Crossroads, the palanquin had become so packed with people that it could not advance even a shaku. Yet Shakkuu did not compromise his dignified bearing in the slightest. It was an attitude of not a single eyebrow twitching.

The one who appeared all too wounded was Tamahime. Even veiled, the young bride could not walk beneath the daylight sun—such was the custom for beauties raised in seclusion during those days. However—facing such trials was a resolve Tamahime had prepared herself for even before this man became her husband, a vow she had clearly sworn after being admonished by both her father and Shakkuu. As for the hardship of exposing her jade-like skin to broad daylight, she did not find it painful. Rather, she considered herself fortunate—nay, found it a wife’s greatest joy—that so soon after their marriage, she could unite her sufferings with her husband’s along his path of faith.

V Those who neither joined the crowd nor sympathized with the people in the palanquin being jostled and cursed in its whirlwind, but merely watched these unfolding events as bystanders, What would become of it?

While harboring both interest and anxiety, they too, caught in the wake, were pressed by the human torrent.

Then, from behind the jostling crowd emerged a tall, large monk and a tightly-muscled monk in his forties with a lean build. “Move!” “You’re in the way!” they barked, frantically pushing through the gawkers as they desperately tried to reach the palanquin.

—Someone from within the bustling throng took aim at Shakkuu’s palanquin, “Degenerate monk!” a voice shouted as a stone flew. A lone gawker spearheaded the violence, setting a precedent for mischief—and the swirling human mass, as though ignited— “Whoa!” they cheered, “Heretic scum—!” another voice cried, hurling a stone. With a clatter, ox-hide sandals and stick fragments came storming toward the wheels and blinds.

The large monk, sweat streaming down his temples, and another monk who had pushed through the gawkers stood hesitantly—"Hmm..."—as they rolled up the sleeves of their monastic robes high on their arms. "You insolent wretches!" The lean monk delivered a solid iron fist to the head of a commoner picking up a pebble nearby, while the large monk spotted the face of some priest hidden among the gawkers who was about to hurl a dangerous roof-tile fragment toward the palanquin.

“You maggot!” No sooner had he extended his arm than he seized the priest by the collar, yanked him forward, and lifted him high above eye level before hurling him down with a “Drop dead!” The crowd roared and parted, revealing four tsubo of bare earth where the priest—his nose swollen like a pomegranate—crawled into the throng. Kakumyō and Shōzenbō seized this opening to dash toward the palanquin. “Master!” “Lord Shakkuu!”

Clinging to the shafts of the palanquin, their faces soiled with sweat and tears, they cried out. “Ah! Shōzenbō and Tayūbō Kakumyō!” Shakkuu opened his lips for the first time. Tears glistened in his eyes too. The two monks breathed like flames. “I have come without permission,” “But how could you see this as another’s affair?” “Please grant us leave to accompany you to Yoshimizu Hermitage’s sacred gatefront.” As Shōzenbō spoke, Kakumyō—once known as Lord Kiso’s fierce warrior—seemed ready to weep,

“Grant us your permission—no, even without your permission, we will follow the palanquin!” he declared.

VI

Whether he consented or refused, the two were not waiting for Shakkuu’s answer. They split to either side of the shafts. “Commoner! Hand over that whip!” Kakumyō snatched the ox driver’s whip, his enormous eyes glaring as if to smite even a million demonic gods that might block the palanquin’s path, while Shōzenbō gripped the reins of the Yasé-black ox with iron resolve. “You there! Do not dare obstruct the Easy Practice Nenbutsu Sect’s pioneer!” he roared, striking at the swarming gawkers’ shadows as they drove the palanquin mercilessly forward through billowing yellow dust, its frame groaning under the strain.

The crowd, overwhelmed by the thunderous wheels rumbling through the earth and the two path-clearers’ momentum, roared and scattered in disarray to open the way—yet the pebbles, mud, and tile fragments only grew more perilous as they escalated from mischief to rebellion and from rebellion to fury. “What do you think you’re doing, you heretical scum?!” “Don’t let them pass! That defiled palanquin—!” Like a gale or demonic arrows, they clattered—against the palanquin’s fan blinds, its side curtains, Shōzenbō’s shoulder, even near Tamahime and Shakkuu’s knees—only to be deflected.

Tamahime—who until yesterday had neither approached nor seen what lay beyond her secluded chambers—now watched this terrifying multitude: some raging, others mocking or inciting, still others shouting obscenities that would make ears burn. It was as though every manner of demonic horde had descended to earth—howling, raging, lunging at her lone palanquin. A woman’s soul withered and trembled before this onslaught, leaving her scarcely able to feel alive.

Her face remained completely still and bowed down, as white as paper; the gleam of her hairpin, her black hair, her shoulders—all trembled faintly, making it seem she might collapse sideways in a faint at any moment. “Tamahime!” “What good will that do?!”

Tamahime felt as though someone had called her and returned to herself with a start. It was not the voice of her husband beside her. Shakkuu had not moved a single one of the fingers folded on his knees since departing Okazaki’s Thatched Hut. Only his thick eyebrows bore the unwavering belief, firmly set. Hereafter, with lips that held no earth to retreat to, he merely observed the antics of the demonic hordes possessing the masses before the palanquin. And from those tightly sealed lips, faintly,

*Namu Amida Butsu.* *Namu Amida Butsu.* *Namu Amida Butsu.* Tamahime, overwhelmed by terror, realized she had become separated—unbeknownst to herself—from what she must never let go of even for an instant. *Namu Amida Butsu!* *Namu Amida Butsu!*

She too chanted with single-minded focus alongside her husband. As she chanted, a mysterious power welled up, and she resolutely raised her face—pale and wilted—straight up. Something not of her own strength solemnly supported her countenance. Woof! At that moment, a calf-like Kumano dog suddenly leapt before the palanquin and bit Kakumyō’s leg—the very leg that had raised the whip.

VII “Damn beast!” Kakumyō raised his bitten leg and kicked the black dog’s jaw. With a yelp—the Kumano Dog let out a shriek, rolling over to expose its pale red belly—but as the vigorously turning palanquin’s wheel ran over the tip of its tail, it emitted two more sharp cries before leaping sideways into the crowd. There—in the spot where the dog had fled—appeared the face of a single yamabushi. It was Harima-bō Ben’en, registered at Shōgo-in.

He had been mingling among the crowd since earlier, inciting them and shouting himself—but when he saw the black dog return bloodied to his feet, it was as though he had lost all rational restraint. "You bastard!" With a roar, he lunged toward the palanquin, reached out, and with a sharp rip, tore through the curtain with its wisteria-colored edges and crimson silk tassels, using all his strength. The torn curtain’s threads and bamboo slats draped over Ben’en’s tokin like a spider’s web. And then, Shakkuu’s profile within the palanquin appeared vividly in his eyes like the moon breaking through the clouds.

Years of pent-up hatred and curses surged from the tips of Ben’en’s heels to engulf his entire being. He spat into the palanquin and began speaking rapidly, “Go to hell!” he reviled, “Even so—are you human or a monk?! What’s the meaning of this, you fool?! You trample on a thousand-year Buddhist tradition, you heretic!” “This will finish you!” After regripping his staff and raising it overhead, Shōzenbō grappled him from behind, “You insolent fool!” He tried to throw him, but Ben’en resisted fiercely. On the contrary, it was Shōzenbō who was now in danger. Kakumyō, seeing this,

“You!” Kakumyō struck Ben’en’s shoulder with his whip. From atop the palanquin came Shakkuu’s voice for the first time. “Enough—both of you stand down!”

“Hah…” “Do not look elsewhere! Do not get sidetracked!” “Yes!” “Do not concern yourselves with stones caught in the wheel ruts or things akin to weeds; do not be misled. As for the path ahead—the Other Shore of the Vow—let waves crash and winds blow; proceed believing that our path lies single-mindedly toward the pure azure sky, and consider that aside from the sacred name of Namu Amida Butsu, there exists no mouth that speaks. Whether stones strike you or spit is cast upon you, answer with Namu Amida Butsu; whether you are struck or spat upon, answer with Namu Amida Butsu. Behold! The day will soon come when all these tens of thousands will chant Namu Amida Butsu in unison with one voice!”

“Don’t make me laugh!” As Ben’en attempted to leap at them once more, he threw him off.

*Namu Amida Butsu.*

*Namu Amida Butsu.*

Without wiping bloodied heads nor sweat-drenched faces, Shōzenbō and Kakumyō pulled the palanquin straight ahead. With this voice, with this power—as if to make them resound throughout heaven and earth.

*Namu Amida Butsu.*

*Namu Amida Butsu.*

Pure Land in Myriad Blossoms

I

At Yoshimizu Hermitage that very morning, Retired Regent Tsukinowa had paid a visit and, after conversing with the Master for some time, had taken his usual seat among the listeners and was now hearing the Master’s lecture alongside over three hundred other students. “This is terrible!” came a lively voice from outside the lecture hall. “Right now, at Jūzenji Crossroads, people are making a commotion like a battle! When I went to see what was happening, I found Shakkuu and Lady Tamahime riding together in a palanquin, parading through town in splendor on their way to this Yoshimizu—and the rabble are enraged! They’re shouting ‘Drag them down!’ and ‘Beat them senseless!’—truly, it’s utter mayhem! If we don’t hurry to rescue them, those two might well be slaughtered before they even arrive here!” The messenger anxiously went around informing those in the meditation hall. However, nearly all of the obstinate ones were inside the lecture hall, sitting solemnly with knees pressed together as they listened intently to the Master’s ardent lecture; even upon hearing that voice, they merely changed their expressions and none rose to their feet. The Master, too, seemed to have heard it, yet he did not speak a word about it; Lord Tsukinowa also remained still.

“What should we do? …Even if one or two of us go—it won’t make any difference.” As two or three people murmured these words at the gate while anxiously watching, they soon saw what appeared to be a silk-tasseled palanquin that had charged through a muddy battlefield—along with two warriors whose faces had hardened like Marishiten—creaking and groaning as they pulled its shafts toward them. “Ah!” “They’ve arrived safely.” Involuntarily, those standing at the gate raised their hands.

Shakkuu immediately entered the training hall. Tamahime, following behind, sat inside the lecture hall together with her husband.

Amidst the russet monastic robes and black vestments alone, hers was the sole attire startlingly vivid enough to rouse the eyes. The students' gaze could not help being drawn to it. While lecturing, the Master must have sensed it—amidst the solemnity, a voiceless disquiet had begun to course through them, unspoken yet palpable. Yet— Shakkuu and Tamahime alone stood as embodiments of serenity itself, countenances of bliss itself. Without their minds straying elsewhere, they listened with tranquil hearts until the Master's lecture reached its end.

The day’s lecture was long. When the lecture ended, Lord Tsukinowa immediately took Tamahime to the Master’s presence and had her introduced. The Master looked quite satisfied, “Ah… So this is she,” he murmured, narrowing his compassionate eyes as he gazed at Tamahime. And then, nodding to himself, he spoke once more. “Truly, you make an uncomplicated temple wife.” “With this, one of Shakkuu’s yearnings finds mooring.” “Though the sea of Primal Vow lies distant yet, let this great ship of Amida’s pledge rest its waves upon shore awhile…”

II

The next day too, the young couple came to Yoshimizu’s gate in their palanquin just as they had done the day before. Through rain and wind from that day onward, there was not a single day Shakkuu and Tamahime neglected. Among the nearly four hundred disciples, only these two always stood out in the lecture hall. The aged samanis remarked, “What admirable devotion,” but to the young samanis, Tamahime’s loveliness and Shakkuu’s blissful composure grated on their eyes. They could not help feeling envious. And it seemed each of them had begun to reconsider the Jōdo Sect’s teachings with renewed solemnity.

“It is good,” the Master said.

At another time, from the lecture platform, the Master let slip words to this effect: "Among these disciples, those who truly grasp this Hōnen's words—who instantly feel the Buddha's grace and perceive this world through mortal eyes as a Pure Land in Myriad Blossoms—are likely none other than Shakkuu and his wife." The Master himself earnestly envied their spiritual attainment—though needless to say, his envy differed fundamentally from that of immature young samanis.

Ah, gratitude. Shakkuu’s heart was now filled with gratitude. This very happiness is the nectar of great compassion that any nenbutsu practitioner could receive once they partook of the absolute embrace. However, people—unable to partake of that nectar—still willingly wandered only in the self-restraint and doubts of the Path of Sages. On mornings when the sun rose, their palanquin departed from Okazaki’s Thatched Hut; in the twilight when the evening moon ascended, their palanquin returned from Yoshimizu.

And so, as they continued to see them on the road every day without fail, the townspeople ceased to find it suspicious. Though there were those who would bow their heads upon encountering their palanquin, there were no longer any who would throw stones. "If only we could live like that—a husband and wife walking the same path, chanting the same *Nenbutsu* in harmony—how truly happy we would be," even the common folk began to reflect, comparing their own warped households, marital relationships mired in weariness, and hearts grown desolate. Before long, it was said that on days of sermons at Yoshimizu Hermitage, those bringing their spouses had suddenly increased around this time.

However, the monks of other sects who cursed the Jōdo Sect reviled him all the more and envied him. Above all, Harima-bō Benên,

“The Latter Days of the Law! The Latter Days of the Law!” Ben’en would declare to everyone he met, invariably launching into tirades against Shakkuu. Should anyone attempt to defend him, Ben’en would snap at them like a provoked enemy—refusing to relent until they nodded along with his ranting. “Exactly! You’re absolutely right!” On this day too—trailed by that large black dog whose tail had been halved by a palanquin wheel—Ben’en sat venting his grievances to the shopkeeper in the dirt-floored room of a grimy Gojō backstreet tavern. All the while, a man resembling a masterless samurai had been silently nursing his drink in the corner since earlier—

“Shugenja-dono,” he called out. And then, “You’re quite the amusing man. Let me offer you a drink,” he said, extending a cup and thrusting it toward him.

III “Shugenja, where do you hail from?” “Of Shōgoin,” Ben’en answered curtly. “You…” “I am a ronin.” “A fallen Heike?” “No—Genji’s—” “It’s strange for a Genji samurai to be a ronin.” “The Genji’s current supremacy has now replaced the Heike’s former dominance,” he retorted, returning the sake cup and fixing his gaze on the man’s face. That ronin was Amagi Shirō. “I’ve had enough of samurai service.” “Even that is somewhat different in nature from Kumagai Renshōbō’s, though.”

“Then, as a ronin, how do you make your living?” “I can’t say it too loudly, but I’m a bandit.” “Huh?” Ben’en was astonished at Shirō’s bold words, but Shirō, believing theft to be a legitimate human profession, spoke unabashedly: “When wars are waged, they slaughter people and horses; in peacetime they trade in schemes and stratagems—compared to such samurai, thieves are better.” “By count of those killed or driven to tears—no comparison.” “Especially one softhearted like me—I don’t torment the poor.” “Take those powerful clans—or false humans like Shakkuu, permitted by neither heaven nor earth—we stake our lives confronting them.”

“So you gave me that sake cup for this reason, then.” “It seems you too hold resentment against Shakkuu’s actions, which is why I sought to become close comrades.”

“Well said!” Ben'en, now in an excellent mood, paid the sake bill himself, “Let us depart.” “To the pleasure quarters?” “No—should I touch women, I would forfeit in one night the spiritual powers gained through twelve years of austere training in remote mountains across the provinces.” “Ahahahaha! Truly you remain a mountain ascetic! Should you plummet earthward like Kume Sen’nin, you’d prove quite troublesome.” “Let us take this sake elsewhere—to some secluded spot where we might converse at length.” The two linked arms and entered Gion Shrine’s shadows. Thudding down onto the stone steps,

“You—what connection do you have with Shakkuu?” “It’s not a connection—it’s hatred. To put it plainly, we were likely born into a fate where we curse and are cursed by each other—” Ben’en finished recounting his own life story from childhood to the present day, “But today, I believe this hatred toward him isn’t personal resentment—it’s public outrage.” “I’ve even come to see it as my heaven-ordained mission to punish that Dharma Demon Shakkuu in Heaven’s stead.”

“There’s someone better than me at this.” “I’m one who holds a grudge against Shakkuu too, but I don’t aim to kill him. I’ll keep him alive till eighty—ninety even—to see which of us lives more humanly, extorting gold from his flesh all the while as we test who outlasts the other.” “Fine.—Fine, but letting such a Buddha-demon linger in this world would be pure poison to society.”

IV

“A poison to society?” Amagi Shirō retorted mockingly at Ben’en’s shallow ideology. “When you say that, you make this society sound pure—but where has such a pure society ever existed? Under Fujiwara rule, Heike rule, Genji rule—in every era, petty officials repeated their vile histories while people lived cunningly, greedily, concerned only with themselves.” “That’s exactly what society is.”

“It’s not entirely like that.” “If that were true, what purpose would drive us to devote ourselves to Shugendō?” “It is precisely because we seek truth and believe in the ascetic power of purification—even within such a society—that we live purifying ourselves through ritual cleansing.”

“Hahaha.

“You’re the fool who waits a hundred years for the river to clear.” “Why on earth would this society ever conform to what Shakyamuni and the saints preach?” “First off, most of those guys putting on airs of sainthood are frauds, aren’t they?” “But I’ll compromise with those frauds—so Shakkuu needs to stay alive. Otherwise, it’s bad for business.”

“No—from my position, letting him live is absolutely impermissible.” “Just you wait. The day will surely come when Shakkuu’s hollow corpse—his throat slit—lies exposed in the streets.”

Each held fast to their beliefs without compromise. Amagi Shirō had his convictions, and Ben’en had his own.

(Surprisingly, they were impossible to talk to.) Over drinks, they had once resonated, but upon clashing their deepest selves, they ended up despising each other.

“If fate allows, let’s meet again somewhere.” As the saying goes—“Those who clash must part”—and so they parted without ceremony.

The year came to an end, and it became Genkyū 1st Year.

In Okazaki’s nest of love, the young wife and Shakkuu—immersed in religious ecstasy—welcomed their first New Year. Tamahime, too, had grown accustomed to the water chores of the thatched hut by now. On the seventh day, the two went to offer New Year’s greetings to the archbishop of Shōren-in Temple in Awataguchi. Jin’u had now entered a period of robust study. What came to mind was that Noritsuna—his foster father who had taken the name Kanzeon and spent his old age in solitary seclusion—was no longer in this world at that time. Before Shakkuu and Jin’u could reach this joyous dharma realm, he had long since passed away.

"(If only my foster father were here…)" her husband would muse—a sentiment the young wife heard many times.

When February came, her husband, “I want to go on a trip nearby,” he said to his wife. He wondered consolingly whether his young wife would feel lonely. After all, she was the wife of a novice monk. Tamahime shook her head and smiled. And on the morning her husband was to depart, she diligently prepared his travel attire, went out to the gate, and handed him his hat. “...I’ll return in about twenty days.”

Without saying where he was going, Shakkuu left Okazaki’s pine forest. Tamahime clasped her hands together toward her husband’s retreating figure. “May you return safely,” she prayed to Buddha—perhaps some instinct told her, or maybe she simply felt, this was not a final parting.

V Whenever he thought of his present happiness—wrapped in dharma bliss—Shakkuu could not help but feel gratitude toward those who had brought him to this day. The nurturing kindness of parents and venerable teachers. And the predecessors’ kindness through admonishments and trials. If he were to count them all, he felt such gratitude that he could kneel and press palms together in reverence even to the clouds over Mount Hiei and every tree and blade of grass by the roadside— Above all, what remained deeply carved into his heart was the spiritual revelation he had received from Prince Shōtoku during that heartrending period of anguish when he was nineteen—he who, with each passing year, could not help but feel anew the immensity of that boundless grace. Buddhism in this land—as a novice monk among its people, he had known hardships, endured trials, and now experienced the dharma bliss of this day. No matter how he might live his life from here on, he could not imagine any mission for himself other than establishing the Pure Land Buddha-realm.

Prince Shōtoku had been the first to graciously suggest it through a lone flame - that single wick of light within the true darkness of his youthful anguished heart. The power that sustained him through later tribulations had been that very light from those days. To Naniwa Bay - when Shakkuu departed Okazaki and made straight for Shitennō-ji Temple in Settsu, it could only have been to offer his report regarding that boundless benevolence.

For a while, he stayed at Shitennō-ji Temple. And then, having retied the laces of his straw sandals, he set his feet toward Kawachi Road and drifted carefree, letting his sleeves billow in the east wind as if savoring the budding trees of late February.

“Bastard.” “……He still doesn’t seem to have noticed.” A large black dog followed after him. The one leading the dog was, needless to say, Ben’en.

The space between his eyebrows beneath the headgear seethed with murderous intent that had been stalking its prey since last autumn. Before pursuing Shakkuu, he had gone so far as to have a Kyoto swordsmith hone the ritual dagger at his waist to razor sharpness.

But—from Kyoto to Naniwa Port, from Shitennō-ji Temple to Kawachi Road—in such bustling thoroughfares, he simply could not find an opportunity to draw near. In slightly desolate tree-lined spots, there were indeed moments when he tried to steel his resolve—*now*—yet for some reason, precisely at such times, his courage would grow strangely faint. Whether it was due to a lack of openings or because Shakkuu carried himself with such reckless abandon that striking became paradoxically difficult—he always let the moment slip away.

Whether Shakkuu was aware of the terrifying black dog that kept alternating between trailing behind and darting ahead or not, before long, his figure vanished into Eifuku-ji Temple in Ishino. To the pine-covered hill of Miha-yama, where Prince Shōtoku’s sacred mausoleum stood—into that pine wind.

“Woof!” When Kuro suddenly began barking at the temple gate, “Damn it!” Ben’en fled once from there toward the village. And then, he tried to tie Kuro up deep in the distant pine forest with straw rope and start over.

Woof! Woof! Woof!— After seeing him off, Kuro barked as if mad. No matter how he tried to calm the beast, its wretchedness remained; Ben’en drew his honed ritual dagger and thrust it toward the dog’s snout, speaking sternly. “Stay quiet and wait there for one night.—Got it? As a reward, later I’ll let you lick your fill of that heretic monk’s living blood.”

VI

Spring was still young, the moon new, the early night chilly.

After taking ablutions in Yamashimizu’s reservoir, donning white undergarments and ink-black monastic robes, Shakkuu received a paper wick from Eifuku-ji Temple’s kitchen and advanced alone toward the inner sacred mausoleum. A desolate cave, a ruined hall before it—all remained as of old; nothing had changed here alone.

“Ah!” It was an involuntary breath of truth—akin to the profound emotion felt when a child of humanity, returning from a long wandering journey, stands once more in their spiritual homeland. Together with a voice welling up from the depths of his chest, Shakkuu prostrated himself on the floor before the mausoleum. The Land of the Sun is a land suited for Mahayana.

"Hearken to the Truth! Hearken to the Truth! Obey my teachings." It still rings in my ears. In the winter of my nineteenth year, when I made my emaciated body sit upon this floor through seven days and nights of prayer, I beheld the form of Prince Shōtoku not as a dream, and discovered the characters of the divine decree upon the wall. "Thy life’s span should be but ten-odd years."

Upon death, swiftly enter the Pure Land. Zenshin, Zenshin—thou art a true bodhisattva. "It is awe-inspiring. Without a doubt—by divine decree—Hannen died and Shakkuu was born. Ah! Here Shakkuu was born, solely through Prince Shōtoku’s boundless virtue. My present dharma bliss defies all comparison. Yes—to commemorate this night of grateful retreat, I shall receive those two sacred characters and henceforth bear the name Zenshin. Zenshin! Zenshin! Now I am manifest precisely as those twin characters." My joy became the Prince’s joy. Shakkuu believed without doubt.

How can I express this joy? Forgetting the deepening night, Shakkuu—or rather Zenshin—drew a paper candle closer and began staining his brush on tissue paper. But soon, unable to suppress the welling emotion, he raised an impersonal voice resonantly and chanted the hymn of praise he himself had written on that very paper. The wondrous vow of Buddha’s wisdom

Through the blessing of the Holy Virtuous Emperor, Having entered the assembly of right concentration, I became like Maitreya of Tuṣita— Savior of the World, Great Bodhisattva Kannon. Manifested as the Holy Virtuous Emperor, Never abandoning the multitudes, You abide with us like Amida.

……With a sharp creak, the floor behind him groaned as if grinding its teeth at that moment.

Harima-bō Ben’en—lightly disguised and concealing a honed ritual dagger on his back—crept forward step by step, avoiding the moonlight filtering through the eaves. Great Compassionate Savior-Emperor Shōtoku, Like a father you abide. Great Compassionate Savior Kannon, Like a mother you abide. As he chanted his self-composed hymn in a low voice, white streaks of tears streamed endlessly down Zenshin’s cheeks. They were sweet tears born of spiritual joy. His eyelids blurred by these tears of rapture, the mausoleum niche suddenly seeped a rainbow-like light; all around him fragrant lotuses seemed to dance in the air, while within the radiant splendor of tranquil illumination appeared the smiling forms of the Three Venerables—Prince Shōtoku and his attendants—and he felt as though his late mother Yoshimitsu Gozen and wife Tamahime too were present nearby. Overwhelmed with gratitude, forgetting even himself, he raised his voice—

Teacher-Lord of the Land of Wa, Holy Virtuous Emperor— The boundless grace and virtue defy all gratitude. With single-minded devotion, I humbly take refuge— Grant that this praise remain unwavering! Tick... tick... tick... Marking each instant of a fleeting moment—a sharp blade drew near behind him. Profoundly, the night deepened; lamps glowed white as somewhere in the distance echoed the howls of hungry wild dogs.

Doctrinal Enemy Chapter

Under the Icicles

1

It was a biting early spring night. The moonlight was white as snow; the slender branches of the trees reminded one of crystal.

“Brrr… It’s freezing…” Shinren stood frozen. A wind as if blown from the depths of the Eight Cold Hells swept at his hem and whistled away toward the distant Kawachi Highway. During the day, he had felt spring’s gentle touch in the warmed earth where grasses sprouted and in the warmed water, so he had carelessly gone out lightly dressed; but when night fell, the suddenly prickly air chilled his skin with an illness-like coldness. Shinren wiped his runny nose,

"I should have taken lodging…" he muttered in regret. He wanted to return as soon as possible—to see his master’s face—to hear his friends’ voices—and this heart of his, which had driven him relentlessly onward even through this late hour, single-mindedly hastening his steps toward the capital, had pushed him too far; perhaps due to the slight fever in his body, his legs felt heavy, and the bridge of his nose ached in the wind. If he stopped walking, the wind would blow at his hem, intensifying the chills, and in the end, he even felt like sitting down.

Woof! Woof!—somewhere, a savage dog's bark rang out. It pierced the silence, continuing relentlessly. "Oh?" This was no ordinary dog's cry. Even beasts harbor joys and sorrows in their howls. As though a nail had been driven through him, Shinren felt the dog's anguished heart as his own.

“There are no houses in this forest…?” He entered the sparse woods. The gaunt, still-leafless scrub trees showed him the same density and texture of turf no matter how far he went. With a rustling crunch, the fallen leaves being trampled under Shinren’s feet seemed to alert some sensitive creature to the presence of a human, when suddenly from the nearby tree shade— —W-woof! Woof!

A dog's bark rose in frenzied madness. "Oh!" Shinren felt fear. Yet—out of pity—he found himself unable to abandon it and run. At the base of a tree there, a large black dog bound with coarse rope stretched its neck as if being throttled, fixing nearly bulging eyes on Shinren's shadow—pleading—desperately showing an expression beyond what any language-endowed human could ever convey—

“What happened—did you bite some peasant’s child to death, you…?” Shinren fearfully approached; the black dog’s body—likely frenzied beyond reason—was soiled with its own blood. Rubbing against him, the dog entangled itself with Shinren— with eye gunk and bloodshot eyes holding something like tears. “Wait—hey! If you keep thrashing like this, I can’t untie you!” “Let go! Let go of me…!” Finally shaking free, he untied the rope from the tree root. The dog leaped in joy—Shinren watched, thinking this must be what ecstasy looked like.

Suddenly, the black dog dashed off like a battlefield arrow. “Ah…” While he stood staring in dismay, its shadow had already darted under the shrubs and emerged onto the highway—then in a flash, it was flying toward the distant hill.

On the hill, many pine trees stood visible. It was then that Shinren also noticed—there, a light flickered faintly.

“Oh… That temple gate—isn’t that Eifuku-ji Temple in Isonaga? …Yes, where Prince Shōtoku’s mausoleum is…”

He started walking after the dog, relying on that light with his far slower legs.

2 The temple gate was closed. Shinren came to the foot of the hill,

“Hmm… Even if I knock at this hour…” he hesitated. Because he sensed Prince Shōtoku’s august spirit, the mountain radiated divinity. Yet if perceived as a demon-haunted peak, even its roaring dark pine winds took on a fearsome visage. “Any place would do——” Shinren wanted a place to sleep. At any rate—he had come this far—he would visit. Thinking so, he stepped onto the cliff’s ledge. Just now—the voice of the dog he had freed in the woods—at that moment began echoing again from Eifuku-ji’s distant back mountain.

A shiver ran down Shinren’s spine. The dog’s bark at that moment carried an even more sinister murderous intent than what he had heard earlier on the highway—a bizarre kind of howl.

And what’s more. The dog’s bark seemed to be approaching again with terrifying speed. At the same time, the sound of human footsteps—striding with wide steps, though whose they were—also drew near.

"Bandits?" In that instant, he could only imagine that much. Shinren ran behind a large oak tree. A person had broken through the upper fence and plunged into the bamboo thicket on the cliff. —Only one person.

Shinren clearly saw something glinting in his hand. “Damn it!” A man’s voice filled with terrible rage drew near. When he looked, it was a yamabushi wearing a black cap-like tokin on his forehead. Grrr! Snarl! The black dog clung desperately to the yamabushi’s sleeves—his hem—chasing him with life-or-death fervor. At this annoyance, “Shut up!” The yamabushi kicked. The dog yelped and fell onto its back—but undeterred, it immediately pursued him again as if to bite.

“I’ll cut you down!” The yamabushi brandished the straight-bladed ritual sword he carried, raising it above his furious eyes. Even the blood-maddened dog cowered at this, letting out a pitiful cry as it dropped its tail and shrank back in retreat. “Look what you’ve done! ’Cause you came barging in here, you let Shakkuu slip away somewhere!” “Quit chasing me—search for Shakkuu!” “Tonight’s when I gotta finish that bastard off.—Hey! Black dog! If you reckon me your master, help track down my mark—Shakkuu!”

However—there was no way the dog could comprehend such things. The dog could only grieve at its wretched owner’s blood-flushed visage and cower in fear.

“Where the hell did he disappear to?” Biting his lip, the yamabushi paced about, glaring around. Shinren’s soul froze stiff—if discovered, even mistaken identity might not spare him. Should I flee? Should I stay still? He could do nothing to stop his entire body from trembling uncontrollably. “Must be toward the highway.” After muttering this, the yamabushi ran off into the distance like Idaten, still gripping his sword.

Of course, the black dog followed after them—Shinren felt relieved. When he came to his senses, cold sweat dampened his armpits. It wasn't impossible they might return—now was the time.

He scrambled up the cliff. And when he entered the temple grounds through the gap in the fence that the yamabushi had broken through, all that met his eyes here was a midnight temple complex, silent and sunken to the depths of a sea of trees.

"Oh, someone's awake." Shinren noticed a small light drifting through the deep connecting corridor of the temple's inner hall.

Three “I come with a humble request.” As Shinren approached and prostrated himself on the ground, a temple monk holding a paper torch, who happened to be passing over the bridge corridor,

“Are you a traveler?” he asked, peering down.

When Shinren, expressing his fatigue, humbly requested whether he might be granted lodging for the night, "I understand your request, but just now there was fierce barking—could it have been a stray dog reacting to your presence?"

“No—that dog seems to belong to the yamabushi who just dashed out from our temple.” “A yamabushi…?” “Yes—he carried a blade.” “What?” “He wore a terrifying expression.” At these words, the temple monk rushed frantically toward the inner chambers. Voices murmuring “Could bandits have breached?” rose as people suddenly began scurrying about in chaos.

Then, one of those who had gone to check Prince Shōtoku’s mausoleum,

“Venerable Zenshin (Shinran), who had been in ascetic retreat at the sacred mausoleum tonight, was nowhere to be seen!” one of them announced as they made the rounds.

Fearing he might have met with some calamity, even the elder monk took the lead, had torches lit, and those red lights dotted their way up to the back of Mount Goyō, “Lord Zenshin—” “Venerable Zenshin—” they called out as they walked. Shinren was astonished in his heart.

If they spoke of Zenshin, could he not be Shakkuu—that fellow disciple who had been among Venerable Hōnen’s disciples in the capital, having studied under the same master together?

Just last year—Kennin 3rd Year (1203 CE). That person—having married the daughter of the former Kujō regent family, Tsukinowa Zenkō Kanezane—was one who had caused an unprecedented problem in Buddhist teachings. Moreover, he had left Mount Hiei, devoted himself to the nenbutsu teachings at Yoshimizu, shifted allegiance from self-powered austerities to other-powered practice—and even then, he was engulfed in the roaring whirlpool of public opinion. In the past, there had been rumors in the countryside that he was once called Shakkuu and had changed his name to Zenshin after marrying. Could it be… that Shakkuu? Shinren suddenly found himself unable to stay still either, and driven by a restless stirring in his chest, he began wandering aimlessly with the people of Eifuku-ji to search.

"That's right," he thought. He exited the temple gate and ran toward the highway. Earlier, the yamabushi had run down this path with his sword lowered. If Shakkuu had fled to avoid calamity, this would undoubtedly be the path he took. But now he could no longer see any trace of the yamabushi, nor hear the black dog's bark. Shinren stood lost in the frost-laden wind, wandering aimlessly. Even if he returned to the temple—amidst this commotion—he felt he could not sleep peacefully while disregarding the anxiety of his fellow disciples who shared the same master. With his back pressed by the wind's force, Shinren kept walking in its direction.

Then, from nowhere, the sound of sutra chanting could be heard. He wondered if it was his ears playing tricks on him, but that wasn’t the case.

“?” “……” He turned his face against the wind and looked back.

There was a watermill. The waterwheel had frozen solid and come to a stop, as if draped in bleached cloth. Under the eaves of that hut crouched a figure, seated on a rock.

Shinren opened his eyes wide. Indeed, he was a traveler in poor monastic robes, just like himself. “If… could you perhaps be Venerable Zenshin, who was once called Shakkuu?” “Yes.” The figure rose from the rock, looking doubtful, “And who might you be?” “Three years ago, I was granted leave by Venerable Hōnen and hid away in the countryside of Kasagi. I am Shinren—the same Shinren who lived with you for about half a year at Yoshimizu.”

IV

“Venerable Zenshin—” Shinren looked at him quizzically and asked again,

“Icicles hung from the eaves, the wind blew through—why would you choose such a place to chant sutras?” “In truth, I had been pursued by a blade and fled here.” “If fleeing, you should have hidden in Eifuku-ji’s monk’s quarters.” “I thought it pitiful to disturb the monk’s quarters.” “And considered it wrong to startle everyone sleeping peacefully.”

“I see.” Shinren felt as though his heart had been struck, “Even when faced with imminent danger, on the very brink of your life being threatened, you appear to be someone who does not forget compassion.” “What a shameful thing.” Zenshin smiled and, “That was not my intention at all.” “I was simply so terrified of the yamabushi’s blade that I ran here in a desperate dash—nothing more.” “—And having been saved as if by a miracle in that perilous moment, I felt as though the Buddha’s very hand had carried my body here—so overwhelmed with gratitude was I that I lost myself and chanted sutras.”

“Just who is that yamabushi? What resentment did he harbor that he tried to kill you?” “Well… To tell that story would take considerable time, but to put it briefly—that yamabushi whom you too seemed to have noticed, Lord Shinren—is someone who has been my academic companion since childhood and now, having received certification from Shōgoin, goes by the name Harima-dō Ben’en.” “Ben’en?” …I feel like I’ve heard that name somewhere before. “And tonight—”

“I had a humble vow that led me to seclude myself at Prince Shōtoku’s sacred mausoleum beneath Eifuku-ji’s Goyōzan.”

“Hmm.”

“Then, it seems Ben’en had stealthily drawn his sword behind me without my noticing—and just as that blade was about to descend upon my head—ah, even now it feels miraculous—or rather, perhaps it was the salvation of Prince Shōtoku, whom I revere in my heart as a compassionate father, mentor, and mother—at that moment when peril hung by a hair’s breadth, a single black dog suddenly leapt in through the side door Ben’en had opened.”

“What? The dog?”

“It must have been Ben’en’s dog—it let out a single, terrifying bark. Because I was startled and turned around, I realized for the first time that there was a person right behind me trying to kill me. I thought the dog too would join its owner in attacking me and bite me, but no—instead, it clung fiercely to Ben’en’s sword-wielding arm and would not let go. That I barely managed to escape was thanks to that opening; when I reflect on it, though it was but an animal, that dog saved not only me but also its owner, who was on the verge of committing the terrible sin of murder, rescuing him from that sin as well.”

“Oh…” Shinren felt his heart struck even more deeply,

“Well, strange things do happen indeed. The dog had been tied up in a grove of trees ahead, and I untied the rope and set it free.” “You did?” “Yes—I did.” …… Remaining standing under the eaves with icicles, the two continued to silently gaze at each other’s faces for what seemed an eternity—as if they could not help but feel the great power of invisible things within this universe. If Shinren had not resolved at that time to untie the black dog’s rope, what would have become of Zenshin by now?

The two sat down. Facing toward Goyōzan Mausoleum, forgetting themselves, they pressed their rosary-holding palms together and chanted the nenbutsu aloud in the joy of being disciples of the Buddha.

A crimson light flickered, reflecting on the shoulder of Goyōzan. The night dawned. —In the clouds, in the fields. The icicle blades above the two began to shine like a beautiful coral curtain before they knew it.

Spring thunder

I

—How much longer will this spring remain so cold?

Shōshinbō Tankū, an external disciple, happened to stay that night in one of Yoshimizu Hermitage's rooms; yet throughout the night, he lay awake to the wind blowing down from Kechōzan's summit, the sound of trees across thirty-six peaks, and needle-like cold seeping through the doors.

“How can everyone sleep so soundly?” he thought, burying his collar in his night clothes. Occasionally, with a sharp creak, the pillars and beams emitted sounds of cracking from the dry air and cold.

"The holy man too had aged—and this hermitage building as well." Tankū was suddenly seized by a lonely notion of “nothingness” as he contemplated the transience of human lifespans and the rise and fall of buildings.—The pillars and ceiling that appeared so solid before him, even his own flesh shivering from the cold—all were nothing but emptiness, mere manifestations of that “nothingness.” "The day will come when it loses its form…" "It is the people of Mount Hiei, the masses of Nanto, and the monks of Takao who are hastening it."

―Now. The winter gale assailing the newly sprouted religion—the Jōdo sect—was not merely the wind from the Thirty-Six Peaks. There were other terrifying doctrinal enemies. The monastic community of Mount Hiei acted from traditional authority and societal power.

The monastic community of Takao, led by Myōe Shōnin, primarily acted from the standpoint of doctrinal examination.

Meanwhile, the Gedatsu Shōnins of Nara opposed it primarily through their missionary efforts, They were shouting, “Destroy the fashionable heresy!” As their means, every method of movement and hand of persecution were now closing in on Hōnen Shōnin like a tide enveloping him—

“Ah, what will become of us?” Tankū drew his body into an even tighter ball.

"What must the holy man be feeling now..." The sleeping quarters of his teacher Hōnenbō lay beyond, separated by a single raised veranda. —Hmm? As Tankū thought this, he lifted his head and narrowed his eyes as if doubting his own ears.

The sound of chanting could be heard. It was not a dignified voice, but even in its low tone, one could sense an unflagging samadhi of single-minded devotion—it was the voice of nenbutsu chanting. “Who could it be?”

The next instant, he, as if forgetting himself, put on his Buddhist robes and swiftly went out to the veranda.

“The holy man’s room…” While admonishing himself not to hinder him, he stealthily entered as far as the next room. What could he be recalling at this late hour? Lately, his health had noticeably deteriorated. This winter in particular, he had repeatedly suffered from malignant fevers and been confined to bed.

The candle that Tankū glimpsed through the gap was white and clear; it was cold there like an ice room—there should be no sign of fire. He remained sitting frozen in the next room, contemplating his teacher’s state of mind in myriad ways, and resolved to stay like this until the holy man fell asleep. In this midnight hour when even the grass and trees slumbered profoundly, if there existed even a single person somewhere who received the *nenbutsu* of the Master’s quarters into their soul, would not even a lump of charcoal fire serve to warm the Master’s heart—so he thought. Tankū, having thought so,

“Ahem.” Intending to inform the Master that there was a disciple attending in the next room, he gave a light cough.

Then, the following day.

The holy man, who had come out as usual to receive the morning greetings of his many disciples, wore an uncharacteristically displeased expression and said—

“Is Tankū not around here? Please call him over for a moment.” II Tankū was told by a fellow disciple that morning, “The Master summons you—” “Yes, at once,” he replied, while immediately thinking to himself: So the holy man has perceived my sincerity from last night—no doubt some gracious words await—he thought. He eagerly went before Hōnen. There, many attendant disciples wore puzzled expressions, still unable to grasp why their teacher had formally summoned Tankū—but Tankū secretly swelled with pride.

“Was it you who summoned me?” “Hmm…” Hōnen’s brows were stern as frost; his amber-brown eyes fixedly pierced Tankū’s face. “Last night, when this Hōnen was chanting the invocation, it was you who coughed in the adjacent chamber.” “Yes, it was I.” “For what reason?”

“Huh?” “Why did you do such a thing? Explain yourself.” “…………” Tankū, his shoulders stiffened at his teacher’s unexpectedly harsh tone, remained frozen in place, but— “……Well then,” he answered, swallowing his saliva. “Last night, even in your sickbed, the cold was so bitter it felt like one’s nails would freeze.” “In that late hour, I suddenly heard your holy man’s chanting voice and thought—how precious, at your advanced age—! Moved by reverence, I approached your chamber. Though all around slept and none knew the hour, I alone was here listening reverently—attending in service—and with such feelings, I carelessly coughed.” When Hōnen heard this, with a displeasure rarer than any he had shown even of late, he strengthened his voice.

“Not only Tankū—all of you, listen well.” “When this Hōnen chants the nenbutsu, it is not done to be heard by others.” “Having opened the gate of exclusive nenbutsu practice here at Yoshimizu decades ago, and seeing how your training has progressed, I had always rejoiced in believing that even when this Hōnen departs this world, the bodhi flowers of seated practice leading to rebirth—blossomed here at Yoshimizu—would never wither. Yet to find those who still harbor such misunderstandings… this Hōnen’s heart grows heavy.” Genuine sorrow seemed to weigh on their teacher, and all disciples stiffened their collars solemnly, not one daring to lift their gaze to his face. Hōnen continued:

“Alas, this Hōnen too is an aged body—the cold of last night pierced this frame all the more deeply.” “But what came to mind then was this: If even now, with night quilts layered warmly upon me, I feel unable to endure—how measureless must have been the hardships borne by Dharmākara Bodhisattva in ancient times?” “In fire for thousands of kalpas, in water for tens of thousands of kalpas.” “And ultimately—for whose sake?” “For whose sake…” His final words struck with force. He continued speaking while trembling violently. One might doubt how such fervor could issue from the lips of this elderly man.

“If sentient beings undertake practice and constantly recite the Buddha’s name with their mouths, the Buddha will deign to hear this—” “The voice that proclaims the Nenbutsu—even if no human hears it—the Buddha acknowledges each utterance.” “The Nenbutsu is not meant to be chanted for others’ ears.” Hōnen took joy and satisfaction in solitude. “Tankū and all of you—it is a grave error to chant seeking others’ approval!” The morning sun shone near the holy man’s back; the people remained awed by his severity long afterward.

Tankū shed tears,

“I acted thoughtlessly.” Tankū was crying with his hands clasped. At that moment, one of the disciples, “Lord Shinren has returned,” he came to report to Hōnen.

Three

“Shinren?”—This came as a surprise to both Hōnen and the other disciples.

For it had already been three years. This Shinren was a man who had devotedly trained at this Yoshimizu Hermitage but one day suddenly requested leave from his teacher Hōnen and left through these gates of his own accord. His reason was as follows:

(In this way, amidst the bustling capital—where we had established a training hall for the Nenbutsu sect with many followers, living day and night alongside diverse devotees and fellow practitioners of varied minds—I found myself truly unable to purify my heart and enter into single-minded recitation.) In my view, this manner of practice was misguided. "And so I alone wished to go to a remote countryside utterly severed from worldly dust, remove myself from human clamor, lead a pure and solitary life, enter single-minded concentration, and attain the Way—please expel me." Having said this, Shinren departed from that place.

——And yet, it was said he had abruptly returned once more to this gate. The people looked at Hōnen’s face as if gauging what he might say in response—Then Hōnen, “Admit him.” Having said this, he immediately—

“If he seems tired, let him rest and give him some gruel or the like. You may do so afterward.” However, Shinren was immediately guided inside. “Oh…” Nostalgic old friends.

He had not gazed upon the master’s chamber in so long. This pillar, this ceiling, and the trees in the garden——

Shinren sat down, his eyelids reddening. He tried to speak, but upon clasping his hands, remained silent for a time.

“Shinren?” “Yes… I have returned…” “I have no face to show.” “You have returned well.” “I feel as though I want to crawl into a hole… but…” “There is no other place for Shinren to go.” “After all, I have now come to fully understand that there is no bed of Ōjō other than this Yoshimizu Hermitage, and so I have returned.”

“It seems you have engaged in good practice.” “These three years—where have you been?” “For a long time, far from the capital, I had borrowed a hermitage in the mountains owned by a certain wealthy family in the mountain village of Kasagi.” “Except for having someone deliver food once a day, I saw no one’s face, spent day and night in nenbutsu, remained completely cut off from the sounds of the world, and lived such that I knew the passage of time only by watching the grass grow and the leaves fall.” “And… what did you gain?”

“I gained nothing.” “For the first half-year or so, I conducted myself with what I believed was a clear mind, thinking, ‘This is indeed the true path of a nenbutsu practitioner.’ After a year passed, I began to feel a kind of emptiness within myself. By the second year, my mind grew disordered, and the loneliness of nature constantly threatened my heart.” “Though I intended to chant the nenbutsu with a mind free of thought, day after day, I found myself thinking of the capital.” “If I closed my eyes, I would see the capital’s lights; if I covered my ears, I would hear the dear voices of people.” “And even in my dreams, I would interact with people and see nothing but dreams of returning to the capital.” ……I wanted to speak so unbearably—with old friends, with people of the world, with devotees. “——The one who fled in disgust at the beginning became unbearably, inexplicably longed for, and with no recourse left—truly, to my utmost shame—I slipped away like a nighttime fugitive and came fluttering back from the depths of Kasagi.” The assembly listened attentively to Shinren’s honest confession of his experiences, with deep interest and also learning something from it, in a harmonious manner.

Hōnen had completely returned to his usual gentle gaze. "That you came to understand that was the best thing... though three years was a bit long," he said, even wearing a smile, then turned to look at the assembled disciples.

“This morning was truly a precious morning for my disciples. For Hōnen as well, a joyful morning—” he repeated.

IV

Ōjō. It was taught there that Ōjō meant to go forth and live. This was no term signifying closing one's eyes in complacent ease or ending in extinction.—To go forth and live—to go forth and live—an unyielding high hope and fierce desire for elevation in life. That was what they called Ōjō. At Yoshimizu’s lecture hall, another serene half-day had passed beneath the eaves of the meditation chamber, enveloped in solemnity. The voice of the venerable master delivering his lecture could be heard from those solemn depths all the way to the front. It seemed scarcely believable that such a voice belonged to a man who had already passed seventy.

However, starting with that old man, in this Jōdo sect, (To go forth and live)—they were devoting themselves to this ideal. Moreover, for that very reason,

They ceaselessly sought and searched for the truth of how humans ought to live. The venerable master, in response to this, “(Only nenbutsu. First and foremost, only nenbutsu),” he taught. He taught that only nenbutsu fulfilled the two foremost desires of human life. Outdoors too, spring was sprouting lushly from the earth day by day, and this Yoshimizu Hermitage resembled young grass. A youthful vigor—newly arising, newly rising, breaking free from all shells of old forms—to raise a great lamp of happiness in this human world existed even in Venerable Hōnen, who had passed seventy.

To the younger disciples of other years, of course, and even to discerning individuals like Seikaku Hōin and Rennyo—people in their prime of discernment—the old religious fortresses with history and authority—beginning with Mount Hiei—nonetheless somehow showed a tendency to decline and stagnate. Yet compared to those great orders, this Yoshimizu Hermitage—no more than a single hermit’s thatched hut—had imperceptibly gained the era’s support and taken on a form almost like the center of the spiritual community. By all means, this had to be called a most mysterious phenomenon.

However, society refused to face this mystery squarely. Rather than face it squarely, society not only persistently viewed it as something deformed and perverse with disdain but, when they saw how it was growing, This could not be ignored—suddenly, there was even a movement to crush this Jōdo sect through persecution while they still could. Today as well—as the sun finally began to set on the lecture hall’s eaves, the venerable master’s sermon concluded, the assembly completed their rituals, and were quietly preparing to disperse from their seats—when a disciple came panting back from outside,

“This is bad, everyone!” He changed his gaze and addressed the surrounding people. “There’s a rumor that Archbishop Jien has finally resigned as Tendai Archbishop and left Mount Hiei.” “What? He resigned as Archbishop?” “More than resigned—he could no longer bear it and resolved to step down. With Archbishop Jien gone, Yoshimizu and Mount Hiei will surely face turbulent times from now on.”

“Has there still been no word from Archbishop Jien to the Venerable Master?”

“There likely isn’t—it was too abrupt.” “—And at Mount Hiei, they’ve convened yet another council tonight—for what must be the dozenth time—to fully renew their preparations for conflict against our Jōdo sect. Moreover, I’ve heard they aim to frame this as a political matter and petition the imperial court to suppress nenbutsu chanting.” “Hmm... This bodes ill indeed.”

“If we keep remaining idle like this, in the end, they may destroy the gate of nenbutsu’s easy practice that we’ve painstakingly built up to this point.”

“What might the Venerable Master be contemplating?” “I suspect he remains unaware. Let us all go together and attempt to discern his disposition.”

V “No—wait!” One of the disciples shook his head.

“The Venerable Master maintains that unshakable bearing, but he must surely know everything.” “If we were to go to him with flushed faces in our agitation, it would only burden him with needless worry.” “Then shall we sit idle and await our ruin at Mount Hiei’s whim?” “That will not come to pass.”

The young disciples whispered among themselves and went out of the meditation chamber. And they gathered in the back forest out of consideration as disciples—to prevent the Venerable Master from sensing this uneasy atmosphere and to avoid causing further distress to Hōnen, whose health had already been poor of late.

“What should we do?” There, they once again brought the previous issue into deliberation, and the people spoke to one another in voices that held nothing back.

“Just what causes those common monks of Mount Hiei to view this Yoshimizu Hermitage with such hostility?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Jealousy—it’s nothing but jealousy.” “Those who claim to save people… And Mount Hiei—with its thousand-year tradition and immense power… It’s unthinkable.” “That reasoning ignores human emotions, but since even those at Mount Hiei have feelings, when they compare how Yoshimizu fares against their own entrenched Mount Hiei in society’s regard, they can’t help but grow restless.”

“Spineless.” “Of course monks clinging to the old religion wouldn’t act that way unless they were spineless—they just want to safely keep their hereditary privileges and strut about on their own, whether they cut themselves off from real society or not.” “And when someone appears in that setup praising new doctrines and rousing the populace—that alone makes it forbidden from the start.”

The dappled sunlight filtering through the forest trees shifted the patches on the young disciples' black-robed shoulders, flickering as it glimmered in the rustling wind.

“Even though all that exists—” another disciple continued. “At Mount Hiei, day by day, influential patrons and eminent scholars are all abandoning the mountain and leaving.… Even Tankū of Nison-in, who received such a harsh rebuke from the Venerable Master this morning, is one of them.” “Bencho, Nen’a, Shōkū—countless people have been moving from Mount Hiei to Yoshimizu Hermitage.” “Hmm.”

Their eyes all nodded in agreement. “Among them, Venerable Seikaku Hōin of Anjū-in. Kōsai Hōshi of Shōkabō, who was known as a renowned monk of Saitō. And then there is Zenshin, who—amidst the clamorous uproar over taking Lord Tsukinowa’s daughter as his wife—resolutely sets an example as a practitioner of the Nenbutsu sect. They are all people who were once at Mount Hiei and later joined the Nenbutsu sect.” “Indeed,” Manno said, “when you list them all like that, it’s no wonder Mount Hiei is jealous.”

The former regent, Lord Tsukinowa, was the first to be counted. Next, even counting only the court adherents—Ōimikado Sadaijin, Kazan’in Kanesue, Nonomiya Sadaijin, Hyōbukyō Motochika, and others—they exceeded ten in number.

As for military families: Beginning with Renshō of Kumagai Naozane: Amazake Tarō Tadatuna, Utsunomiya Yoritsuna, Lord Koshirō Takayoshi of Kōzuke Province, Yatarō Chikamori of Musashi Province, Sonoda Shigeie, and Tsudo Saburō Tamenori. As for female devotees in particular, while the scriptures of the old religion had long demonized women, the Nenbutsu sect had opened the gates of salvation to them without discrimination. Beyond Masako—mother of Kamakura Shogun Sanetomo, who maintained her faith from afar—there were others unseen in the old religion: Kosaishō, wife of the Third Rank of Echizen; Gyokkin, daughter of Sukekata; Shinjitsu’s aunt; the daughter of Ogawa no Jijū of Sanjō; Lady Mikawa, a lady-in-waiting to Cloistered Princess Hanazono; and Myōshin-ni of Izu’s Running Hot Springs—all distinctive to this place.

VI

Saints and laypeople alike—originally, the aspect of humanity was one. How much more so for women, how much more so for evildoers—what discrimination could there be? Rather, it was precisely such people that the Nenbutsu sect joyfully welcomed and wished to answer in their spiritual struggles. How might we navigate this path ahead—this life—and live it well? Let us ponder together; let us pray together.

Evildoers, come! Women, come forth!

And O laypeople. Monks of the Path of Sages and self-power recklessly impose austerities that are even difficult for themselves to practice. They recklessly regard abstinence from material things as purity, become obsessed solely with formalities, and in reality end up harboring great contradictions beneath the surface. In the Easy Path of the Jōdo sect, such imitations of pseudo-saints are most detested. It deems the natural state as it is to be pure. Meat is acceptable; wine is acceptable. Men have women; women have men. This too reveres the natural state of human existence as it is. There naturally exists the way of men and women. As long as one does not stray from the path, it is acceptable.

And O laypeople. That is perfectly acceptable. Your professions, your other aspects of life—as they are, in their natural state—you can splendidly attain rebirth in the Pure Land. You can attain enlightenment; you can become holy. It is not difficult. For that, you need only chant the *nenbutsu*. Nor must you find the practice burdensome. You may chant whenever it comes to mind. Even once a day—or if you wish to chant a thousand times, nay, even ten thousand times.

If your profession was crafting eboshi hats, you could chant while making them; if you were a bowyer, you could chant while stringing your bow; if you felt moved to utter it even once before sleep, you could do so in your heart; when holding a rice bowl, if something within you naturally stirred you to chant, murmuring it in your heart while holding chopsticks was also a splendid practice. Hōnen, the founder of the new religious sect, had spoken thus. It was incomparably more populist than traditional teachings. Moreover, it respected real society; it made human life its true purpose.

In Hōnen’s doctrine, faith never compelled individuals to alter or distort their way of life. Rather than existing as a society for religion’s sake, it stood as a religion for society—a faith integrated into social functions—completely altering its position from the arrogant dominance of Mount Hiei and other old religious institutions, opening its gates as monks among the people. As expected.

(This was indeed true religion.) The masses supported it, and the intellectual class too were beginning to stir. It had naturally become a new force. Hōnen had not created it. Nor was it a force built by Hōnen's disciples. It was born of the times. Yet with this new emergence came equal erosion of the old powers. "An enemy of Buddhism has appeared!"—so Mount Hiei viewed the matter.

Mount Hiei, driven by its immense power and pride, repeatedly took up this issue and convened what was known as "Mount Hiei’s Council," "(First, let us have Archbishop Jien, with his ambiguous stance, step down as abbot)"—they drafted such a resolution and seemed to adopt a confrontational posture. The abbot of Mount Hiei at the time was Archbishop Jien; the archbishop and Tsukinowa Zenkaku were blood relatives. Lord Tsukinowa was not only the most fervent Nenbutsu adherent among Yoshimizu’s patrons but also the father of Tamahime, who had married the former Venerable Hannen—now a young monk called Zenshin—thereby becoming the wife of one who cast ripples of great social controversy. This Zenshin too was originally a traitor who had studied at Mount Hiei and served Mount Hiei, but now he had gone to Yoshimizu, joined Hōnen, become Lord Tsukinowa’s son-in-law, and forged ties even with the archbishop himself.

(Traitors to the faith!) Here too existed their emotions and rancor.

Seven

“So, the abbot was forced to step down, then.”

“There was no longer any path to pacification—”

“He was in a difficult position.” The Yoshimizu disciples who had gathered in the forest found that the more they talked,

Mount Hiei and Yoshimizu Thus, they realized how complex the conflict between these two had become.

“In other words, Mount Hiei is in an uproar not because of religious issues but because they’re peddling a power struggle.”

“Beneath that lie latent all sorts of emotions—pride, jealousy, and the like.” “They’ll inevitably clash with us—and as for us at Yoshimizu, there’s no virtue in silent observation. If they sell a fight, we’ll buy it! If they drive the abbot from Mount Hiei, we’ll stand unwavering in support of Archbishop Jien! If they slander us to the Imperial Court, we’ll battle even while pleading our case there!” “But the Venerable Master would never sanction such actions.”

“We’d rather not trouble the Venerable Master’s ears with such clamorous matters.”

“Eventually, it will reach his ears through other followers’ voices.” “We’ll act silently—our own way.” “To avoid troubling or worrying our Master—” “And...”

“And… what?”

“For the immediate present, what should we do? Shall we go to Shōren-in, where Archbishop Jien resides, convey our zeal, and seek his counsel, or else—” “The archbishop probably won’t meet with us.” Everyone wore uneasy expressions,

“This is difficult,” someone muttered. Feeling the ominous storm clouds as if about to loom over Yoshimizu’s thatched hut from beyond Shimei Peak—well then— When it came to how they might oppose them, these young people alone could devise no strategy. “Right—what if one of us—preferably someone who knows Mount Hiei well—climbs up and thoroughly scouts out the situation there?”

“Hmm… Even so—what countermeasures do we have?”

“I’ll go,” a young monk said immediately. That was Jisshō—the youngest disciple, who had been at Mount Hiei until just two years prior.

“Oh, if it’s Jisshō, this task should be easy.” “Is one person enough?” “It’s better to go alone.” Jisshō, bearing resolve, stood up as if to depart immediately.

Just then,

“Hey, you all—what are you doing gathered in such a place?” Nen’a, the senior who had emerged from the meditation quarters, approached and reprimanded them. The group maintained feigned nonchalance, “No, there isn’t anything in particular we’re doing.”

“It’s twilight already, isn’t it?” “Yes.” “There’s also the cleaning of the meditation quarters.” “We’ll do it.” Obediently, the young disciples scattered away. However, only Jisshō had slipped into the forest depths unnoticed by Nen’a. Gazing up at evening clouds draping Mount Hiei’s shoulders, he vanished without trace.

Declaration of War

I

Only his eyes were visible, his head and face completely wrapped in a kesa from top to bottom. There was no way to tell who he was. In his hand he leaned on a four-shaku-long staff called a nyūdō staff, wearing a tattered monastic robe and high clogs, “The entire monastic community of the mountain!” Pressing his hand over his nose and altering his voice, he went around to the monasteries before Saitō, Tōtō, the peaks of Mount Hiei, and the valleys, shouting like an exorcist. “Tonight, assemble at Sanmon. Tonight you are to assemble.” Then from within the monks’ quarters,

Voices answered, “Most certainly, most certainly.” Upon hearing this, the monk went to the front of another temple and called out, “The entire monastic community of the mountain—tonight, assemble at Sanmon.” It seemed to serve as their acknowledgment instead of a verbal reply. “Most certainly, most certainly”—the same response was heard there as well.

This was Mount Hiei’s notorious so-called “Sanmon Council” proclamation.

It was an evening when that proclamation circulated once more in the dim twilight—a night when all snow had melted from Shimei Peak, and a tepid spring mist rose like steam from grass thickets and bamboo groves. Before long, the bell of first watch sounded as signal.

A haloed moon hung faintly; the moon was not round.

“Heeey——” “Hoy!” Calling out to one another as they spotted each other’s shadows, the figures of monks ascending toward the Konponchūdō Hall at the summit—from valleys, streams, and mid-slopes—could be seen appearing just like monkeys.

The gathering place was always fixed as the plaza of the Great Lecture Hall. “Hoy!” “Heeey—” Exchanging owl-like nasal calls, they came swarming there from midway up the path, each carrying suitable stones they had picked up along the way. And toward the dewy grass, Thud, thud—they threw stones. The stones became their seats; they sat upon them, planted their nyūdō staffs before them, glinted their eyes with low grunts, pursed their lips, and glared fixedly at the Great Lecture Hall’s unlit stairs at the center.

Before they knew it, the space had become filled with black, russet, and ashen silhouettes. When the three thousand members of the monastic community from the Three Pagodas gathered in this manner, they had once even swayed the governance of the imperial court; neither the Taira clan nor the Minamoto clan, despite their military might, could bend Mount Hiei to their will. The times were changing moment by moment, yet their pride in such things had not diminished; of course, even the abbot could not maintain his position without the support of this assembly.

“Shh!” From within the darkness, someone eventually made this sound and raised a staff into the air; then, in unison, all members of the assembly covered their own eyes with their left hands.

Next, when a second voice called out, they brushed away their hands.

When they looked, on the stairs of the Great Lecture Hall—at one end of the wide veranda—a single monk was climbing up. Because his mouth and nose were tightly bound over the hood, even those who regularly saw his face could not discern who he was at all. The purpose of Mount Hiei’s Council lay in openly debating even their unrestrained opinions and emotions; thus, if one feared repercussions from words spoken, it could not be conducted. Under such formalities, the initiation of discussions had long been customary, and regardless of the issue at hand, it had become ritualized.

II “Recommendation!” declared the monk standing on the veranda of the Great Lecture Hall, bellowing with such magnificent fervor.

It was the declaration to open the assembly. The assembly, crouched like stones, formed a riverbed of humanity. “First—our primary objective has been achieved.” “The abbatial succession has been carried out.” The monk on the platform raised his fist and delivered a passionate speech.

“Archbishop Jien—who harbored heretical nenbutsu in his heart, kept many nenbutsu adherents among his blood kin, and while occupying Mount Hiei’s chief seat, layered collars of deception over Tendai’s dharma light—could no longer endure being hounded by our public censure and fled down the mountain with his tail between his legs! Now let us celebrate here our welcoming of Archbishop Shinshō as our new abbot!” When these words concluded, the assembly roared back like a tidal wave.

“But,” the impassioned monk paused to catch his breath, “That alone is not the purpose of these Mount Hiei Councils convened repeatedly of late.” “Our true aim will not be satisfied until we eradicate those heretics residing at Yoshimizu Hermitage!” From among the assembly, “Most certainly! Most certainly!” Countless voices rang out. “Even if we drive out this duplicitous abbot, those Zen monks at Yoshimizu will persist unchanged—slandering other sects and spreading their plague of nenbutsu to corrupt society!” “No—if left unchecked, Hōnen-bō and his followers—Zenshin, Seikaku Hōin, and all those traitors and apostates—who knows what atrocities they might commit next?” “If this continues, the world will question where the Founding Master’s legacy and Mount Hiei’s authority lie—are we three thousand of the Three Pagodas nothing but puppets?” “Indeed—we’ve already reached a point where such accusations are unavoidable.” “Even former abbots of this very mountain have knelt before the nenbutsu sect! And countless vile apostates have abandoned us to flee to Yoshimizu!” The monk on the platform, as though possessed, periodically struck the air with his fist,

“How does the entire assembly of this mountain perceive our current state?” “Can we let this trend continue unchecked?” “Or must we all descend to Yoshimizu and cast off our kesa?” Having incited them with these rhetorical questions,

“Shut up!” “That’s baseless!” “That claim is baseless!” The assembly roared, “Get lost!” “Down from the platform! Down from the platform!” they shouted, refusing to hear any more. Then, replacing that monk, another monk nimbly rose to the platform.

“Maintain silence.” It was an aged voice; judging by its tone, this monk seemed to be quite a senior elder even within Mount Hiei. “If you merely make a pointless uproar, no matter how many times you convene assemblies, it will amount to nothing more than venting frustration.” “It is pointless.” “We have come upon a critical juncture that demands our deep deliberation.”

“It’s perfectly clear.”

“For apostate monk Hōnen alone—should the Three Pagodas of Mount Hiei raise such clamorous uproar—it would be childishness unbefitting grown men.” “Mount Hiei rises not against Yoshimizu’s faction through private grievance! We must take arms against those vile monks who poison society—we must purify it!” “We must fight for society’s sake!” “Most true! Most true!” “This apostate Hōnen devours flesh, guzzles wine—nay, even played matchmaker for his disciple Zenshin’s marriage! Though his tongue drips honeyed words about women’s enlightenment—in truth! By what dark arts?—he stands revealed: thief of Buddhism! Demon of this Latter Age!”

“How can we stand idle?! Destroy that thief of the Dharma!” When one person shouted, the crowd began to sway like a wave, “Crush the apostate monks’ order!” “Burn Yoshimizu to ashes!” roared [the elder].

III The assembly reached a psychological state where mere verbal debates and venting anger would no longer satisfy them. “Good grief,” someone exclaimed. “Attack Kurodani!” “Destroy Yoshimizu!” “Burn down the nest of apostates!” At the edge of the Great Lecture Hall’s veranda, seven or eight agitators—some in pairs, others in trios—leapt up and began speaking in vehement tones, “Exterminate the Nenbutsu!” they pointed.

“Wait!” Then again, four or five men rose there, spreading their arms grandly and declaring: “Reckless violence is unwise.” “It would only diminish the Mountain Gate’s dignity.” “We must properly bring divine punishment upon the heretics through lawful means.” The assembly surged like a wave— “How can we stand idle?! The plan!” “The plan—!” “How can we stand idle?!” “The means—!” he barked.

Straining a hoarse voice, an elderly-looking frail monk said desperately.

“Appeal, appeal!—First, several of our number shall go to the government office to submit a petition suppressing the Nenbutsu and present our appeal to the imperial court—this is the paramount strategy.” The debate split into two factions, and those standing on the platform engaged in a war of words, refusing to yield. As tensions flared, one faction finally shoved opponents off the platform; those who clambered back up lunged at chests, struck and were struck in turn—the turmoil knew no end.

Then, from within the chaotic crowd,

“This one’s a Nenbutsu spy!” “He’s a spy from Yoshimizu!” “Don’t let him escape!” someone bellowed in a booming voice. When they looked, that person was grabbing a monk by the collar and twisting it. The captured monk—who like Mount Hiei’s Three Pagodas assembly had wrapped a kesa around his head and carried a monk’s staff—must have been caught due to suspicious behavior; he was that young man named Jisshō who had consulted Yoshimizu’s disciple monks and come to observe Mount Hiei’s movements.

“Ah! This one was at Mount Hiei before and now calls himself Jisshō under Yoshimizu—an apostate monk!” “So you were swayed by Hōnen and came to spy on us!” “No doubt—he’s a spy!” “What am I to do?”

“To make an example of him, beat him to death!” Having been discovered amidst such murderous intent, there was no way he could endure. Jisshō let out a scream and tried to flee, but under a barrage of countless staves, he was mercilessly beaten and collapsed there.

By the hands and feet, his body was carried out beyond the Mountain Gate. There were those who sought to behead him and display his head at the foot of the mountain, but many argued this would fail as both warning and punishment—it would be better to cut off his ears and send him back. The assembly immediately sliced off both of Jisshō’s ears with a sharp blade and laughed. Moreover, “Go on—bark your precious Nenbutsu now!” they jeered, battering him with staffs and kicks until his body lay smeared in bloodied mud, then cast him aside.

The Monk’s Wife

I

Wrapped in elegant five-layered robes, the new wife—who had been raised in the sheltered depths of the former regent’s household—had, whether through a woman’s resolve or not, gradually grown accustomed to living in Okazaki’s thatched hut amidst deep grasses after her marriage.

“It must be about time my husband returned.” As dusk fell, Tamahime would gaze at the evening clouds from the eaves of the thatched hut and send her heart spellbound toward her husband on his journey. Traveling from Settsu through Yamato Road—her husband who had set off carefree with those very words. From the start, having married a monk, she had never expected only nightly embraces or days of morning and evening intimacy like those found in townspeople’s homes, lay samurai households, or noble families. But—

"If only you were here…" Each time she lit the lamp or faced the evening meal, a feminine melancholy naturally stirred within her. From the Tsukinowa family home had come a single maidservant, an ox driver to tend the ox-drawn carriage, and disciples Shōzenbō and Kakumyō—in all, this narrow thatched hut housed some seven or eight household members. Yet when night fell, those people retreated to their respective rooms, leaving only the dark sound of the pine wind evoking the roar of ocean waves—a loneliness entirely its own.

“You thief!” Outside the scullery’s water room, one of the servants bellowed loudly. When first unaccustomed to such things, even these shouts would startle Tamahime’s very soul; but having lately grown used to this Okazaki dwelling far from any village, she no longer felt particular alarm—thinking it must simply be foxes from the pine grove behind scavenging grain in the storehouse or vegetable scraps by the drain. After her marriage, when she lit evening lamps in the newly expanded Buddhist hall and two cramped rooms, she would sit near the modest furnishings and desk, still thinking of her husband.

——Where...? Where is my husband seeing tonight's lamplight? And does he think of me at all—as I am here longing for him like this.

No— Suddenly, her loneliness began to play a sorrowful melody like a forest that had shaken loose the leaves of youth and desolation. "My husband likely does not think of me even one ten-thousandth of what I feel. ……He does nothing but seek the Nenbutsu, seek the Buddha—single-mindedly, moment by moment—for there must be no other way than this: how one might become one with the Buddha. ——Since his decision to embark on this journey too must be part of his ascetic practice..." Tamahime felt sorrow as a woman. She sensed her body eroding under unbearable loneliness.

A sob rose in her throat, and she felt the urge to collapse in tears. But—the one who had chosen that husband and created this fate was none other than herself. Moreover, was this crown of love not something she had finally attained by battling all the surrounding opposition and the world’s roaring condemnation?

Ah, this crown of love. It was no glorious thing of seven treasures—no jewels nor gold nor silver; rather, an icicle hairpin and a ring of thorns. When she lamented in loneliness, when she grieved in sorrow—those icicles and thorns pierced her heart. She thought this pain was given by the Buddha because her own heart remained wanting. She believed that through proper stewardship of her heart, this crown of love should become a glorious splendor to be proudly cherished—a flower of seven treasures and myriad blossoms.

“That’s right—if my husband becomes one in heart with the Buddha, then I too must become one with the Buddha.” "As my husband grows greater, I must not be left behind." After checking the oil in the Buddhist hall’s lamp, she sat there—beautifully and coldly, like a flower of ice. And then, she quietly chanted nenbutsu under her breath.

II

Nenbutsu—just Nenbutsu. From my childhood, my father taught me this on every occasion. Master Hōnen also taught it. My husband, too, always said that. (Just Nenbutsu.) Her education and womanly virtues were therefore rooted in faith from her maiden days. When she pressed her palms together and purified her mind to the depths of stillness, she could enshrine within her breast—refreshingly and purely—the moon of Suchness whatever the circumstances.

Night seemed to deepen. This thatched hut was both Tamahime and Zenshin’s abode of love and their new household, yet their daily life differed not at all from that of a strict temple—morning and evening devotions being obligatory, nights devoted to study, mornings governed by early rising. In the evenings, the disciple monks would each hold their meager lamps to read texts and copy sutras, their hushed conversations faintly audible; but when the appointed hour came, they approached the veranda outside the Buddhist hall where she sat,

“Good night, my lady.” After offering greetings in succession with “We shall retire first,” they soon fell into a hushed silence, seemingly having settled down to sleep. ——After that, in this solitary thatched hut of Okazaki—where no other dwellings stood nearby—there remained only the dark sound of wind through pines. Once everyone had retired, the loneliness grew keener still, and even the gurgling of the Shirakawa River, quite some distance away, could be heard mingling with the pine wind. But—when the sounds of pine wind and flowing water reached Tamahime’s ears, even as she chanted the nenbutsu with her lips, her heart had unknowingly turned to thoughts of her husband. With a start, she realized—

Thinking “This won’t do—”, she strove to focus her mind into single-minded concentration, but this very effort only further disturbed her heart, distancing her ever further from the pure nenbutsu samadhi described by her father and taught by her teacher. (Why must women harbor such base passions?) Tamahime probed deeply into her own heart and realized that even she had allowed shallow suspicions and petty resentments to take root there.

Even as she chanted the nenbutsu with her lips, from the depths of her heart— (What if my husband has grown tired of me and intends never to return?) (What if—on his journey—another woman has caught his eye?) Such imaginings, which even she disdained as unworthy of a cultured woman’s dignity, rose to the corner of her mind and disrupted her nenbutsu chanting.

How shameful. If she could not endure being troubled by such trifles and this degree of loneliness, then why had she become a monk’s wife?—yet even as she scolded herself thus, it proved futile. Even were she to summon that resolute self from when she had loved with such determination—staking her very life and defying not only her clan but all of society—it would avail her nothing at all.

“Ah, I want to see you.” Longing scorched her body. In the midst of agonizing cold and desolation—a body of flame—that was she.

Then—it was not the wind, nor did it seem like foxes or raccoon dogs. Someone was outside the thatched hut—the sound of footsteps. And there was someone knocking insistently on the door.

III "Ah..." A surge of near-ecstasy raced through her chest at the thought that her husband might have returned. However, when she listened carefully for a while, the voice of the person knocking bore no resemblance to her husband’s. It came with a hurriedness as if being pursued from behind—

“Venerable Hannen! “Venerable Hannen! I am from Yoshimizu—a disciple of Master Hōnen named Jisshō, who stands among the humblest of his followers. Please open this door quickly! Save me! I am now about to be killed!” As his pleas continued, the knocking grew more violent. It seemed either Shōzenbō or Kakumyō had risen at once to open it. A clattering noise persisted from the front, and suddenly the lamp inside the hut—once extinguished—flared back to life.

“Lady of the Cloister.” It was Shōzenbō’s voice.

Tamahime turned her gaze toward the source of the voice and widened her eyes.

“Yes,” she said.

“Have you not yet retired for the night?” “Yes, I was awake.” “I beg your pardon, but as Kakumyō and I face a matter beyond our judgment, might we trouble you to step forth for a moment?”

“What happened?”

At the edge where Tamahime had left the Buddhist hall, Shōzenbō was crouching, holding a paper torch.

“Just now—there was some sort of noise at the front, wasn’t there?”

“Therefore, a troubled soul came tumbling in, drenched in blood, begging for salvation.” “What? A blood-soaked man?” “You likely know him not, Lady of the Cloister—a humble disciple from Yoshimizu named Jisshō…” “What of him?” “He ventured secretly to Mount Hiei—driven by reckless curiosity.” “To uncover what?” “Of late, rumors abound that Nanto, Takao, and above all Mount Hiei conspire to vilify Yoshimizu and destroy Master Hōnen’s nenbutsu followers. Fearing this, Yoshimizu’s young scholar-monks seemingly ordered Jisshō to spy on Mount Hiei’s councils.”

“Well…” Tamahime, as if feeling her heart race, quietly pressed a hand to her chest. “And so—Jisshō had faithfully hidden at Mount Hiei for several days. Just tonight, when Mount Hiei’s council convened at the Great Lecture Hall, he slipped into the crowd of mountain monks to observe their deliberations. But someone—no one knows who—recognized him as a Yoshimizu follower. Rough monks surrounded him, leaving him half-dead with injuries so severe he could not stand. Yet he somehow fled here. Even if he tried returning to Yoshimizu now, as I said, his wounds are too grave—he cannot walk. Should Master Hōnen lay eyes on him, he would surely face reprimand. While he wandered nearby in confusion, he fears another encounter with the mountain monks would cost his life. Thus he pleads: ‘Hide me in this thatched hut’s storage shed—anywhere—until my body mends.’ That is his appeal.”

Now, with Master Zenshin away from the thatched hut and such a complicated individual’s admission being beyond their own discretion to decide, Shōzenbō deliberated with the Lady of the Cloister about what ought to be done. However, even to Tamahime, “Well…” she thought, but even after that, she found herself suddenly perplexed about how to issue instructions for that treatment.

IV Although she was hesitating,

When she considered (a person's life), Tamahime found herself unable to abandon it. "Where is that person?" "As he is covered in blood, we placed him in the palanquin shed." "Let me go see."

“Yourself, my lady?” Shōzenbō’s expression suggested it was unnecessary to go that far, but she had already walked ahead. Adjacent to the cowshed stood an enclosure where the silk-palanquin had been stored to shelter it from rain. As she drew near, a groan reached her ears—the injured Jisshō lay sprawled on a straw mat, seemingly in torment. “Ah, Lady of the Cloister,” murmured Kakumyō, who had been standing silently nearby when he saw her approach.

Under the paper torch held by Shōzenbō, she furrowed her brows as she surveyed the extent of Jisshō’s wounds. Will he survive? she wondered immediately, so grave were his injuries. One ankle was split like a pomegranate, and half of his face was swollen like a barrel. “Please bring sacred sake. Then, medicine, cloth—” Having said that, she could no longer afford to think about the circumstances, the standing of this thatched hut, or any such related matters. Kakumyō hesitated,

“Well, do we have sake?” he asked Shōzenbō. “There may be some, but…” “Please hurry.” Urged by Tamahime, “Yes,” he replied and ran off to the storehouse. When the items arrived shortly after, she washed the gruesome wounds—so horrific that even Shōzenbō and Kakumyō had hesitated to touch them—and tenderly wrapped bandages around his leg, arm, and several other places. And, having had the bedding carried, “Prepare the medicinal broth.” “When morning comes, give him gruel or something.”

With that, she left after giving detailed care instructions. Having somewhat regained his senses, Jisshō was later told that it had been the Lady of the Cloister. "This is too much," he said, clasping his hands in prayer in the straw futon. When he had calmed down, he seemed to sleep soundly for a while inside the palanquin shed. But after daybreak, when Kakumyō brought him gruel, he opened his bloodshot eyes dully,

“Gruel? … Gruel, you say… I don’t need it. I can’t eat it.” He shook his head and insisted; even so, when they tried to force-feed him, he screamed from his dry lips that seemed seared with fever.

“It’s no use. Even if I eat it, it’s pointless. I’m beyond saving now—death is right there before me.” He said this like a delirious murmur and tightly closed his eyes. Something like a teardrop streamed from them as he continued: “Has the master of this thatched hut, Venerable Zenshin, still not returned from his journey? I must meet Venerable Zenshin—there’s something I must tell him... Oh... oh... What will become of Yoshimizu Hermitage... If we remain idle like this, the master’s person will be endangered by the heretical foes of Mount Hiei and Nanto. All that we’ve painstakingly built—the Pure Land’s serene earth—will surely be trampled underfoot by them... I must see Venerable Zenshin just once...to report what I’ve uncovered about Mount Hiei... Then I can die... Has Venerable Zenshin still not returned?”

V

A single maidservant was handling the post-breakfast water chores in the kitchen. Tamahime had made it her daily routine to clean the household Buddhist altar room and living quarters. She also endeavored to wash all her husband’s laundry by her own hands, though unaccustomed to such tasks. Having tended to Jisshō’s wounds the previous night, she noticed by morning that her under-kimono had become stained with blood. Changing out of it, she went to do laundry at the river behind the thatched hut.

The current flowing down from Yoshida Hill to Shirakawa had been frozen solid in winter, its cold sharp enough to cut one's hands during any task, but now the water had warmed, and spring sunlight filtering through the trees spilled gently over her white hands as she washed clothes. The bloodstains that had clung to the kimono spread a faint oily film across the swift current's water before vanishing completely. "I wonder how he fares this morning." She remained concerned about the injured man's life—and with that, she couldn't comprehend why fellow monks, whose sole mission should be praying for society's purification into a Pure Land, needed to spill such vivid blood in conflict.

Within the monastic community alone—unlike the strife-ridden, treacherous real world—there would surely be a pure, noble, harmonious realm where one could live joyfully. This was what she had believed until the day she married Zenshin. From the day after her marriage, that expectation had been betrayed, and time and again, she had been shown that the monastic world was merely a part of society. If she were to grieve over that, it would mean every day had to be filled with sorrow—

But upon earnest reflection, she realized that even she herself could hardly be both a new wife and a bodhisattva. Jealousy—resentment—passion—she could only ever be a wife like any other in the world, burdened with such things.

“Why must humans live drenched in blood, entangled in such strife and suffering, instead of finding joy in this world meant for delight?” As she pondered this while wringing out the laundry she had washed in the stream, the sound of footsteps seemed to approach from the path across the water.

“Woman.” Called thus, she raised her head for the first time. Clearly, they were none other than Mount Hiei’s monks—wearing robes with distinctively shortened hems, carrying naginata in their hands—standing rigidly on the far side of the river in pairs. “What business do you have?” When Tamahime answered, the two monks—likely sensing an uncommon dignity in her words and bearing—fell silent for a moment and stared intently back at her.

…… The two were whispering something. Likely struck by Tamahime’s visage—a beauty rare even in the vast capital of Kyoto—they seemed both bewildered and reconsidering their approach, their abrupt address of “Woman” now appearing to leave them flustered. After a while, one of the monks— “No—” he corrected himself. “My apologies for the rudeness, but are you Lady Tamahime, who was wedded from the Kujō family to Venerable Zenshin’s household?”

“Yes...” As if confirming their suspicions, the two monks exchanged glances and laughed among themselves.

VI

A vulgar voice resounded from across the river. His front teeth protruded from his lips as he laughed, and she, on this side of the river, could almost grasp what the monk was saying. Taking advantage of their silence, Tamahime did not look toward the opposite bank either. She had already finished the laundry. She wrung them out and quickly returned to the thatched hut.

The log bridge should have been far downstream—where could they have crossed?—yet with a speed that made one wonder when they had done so, the two monks carried their large naginatas under their arms, sunlight glinting off the blades,

“Servant—” This time they came right up behind her and said, “Last night… No—perhaps dawn.” “In this vicinity—has a single wounded scholar-monk not wandered here?” “He’s just a green junior, y’know.” “You don’t know of him, do you?” “I do not know.” “Don’t know?” One of them snorted and muttered, “Then we won’t press further—in return, you’ll kindly guide us to that thatched hut over there.” “What do you intend to do?”

“We’ll have you let us search those storehouses and under the floors there.” “At this inopportune time, the Venerable Master is currently away on a journey and absent, and as we have not seen any such young monk, I must ask you to refrain from this needless endeavor.” “When you say that, Servant, we can’t help but grow all the more suspicious. Whether the Venerable Master is away or present, that is naturally a separate matter. To tell the truth, that injured one who must have fled into this vicinity is none other than a junior disciple of Yoshimizu Hermitage—not unconnected to you, Servant—and a spy that Hōnen sent to Mount Hiei.”

“……” As Tamahime stepped forward, the monk who had been talking circled around in front and deliberately held his naginata’s shaft horizontally. “I won’t keep you,” he said. Tamahime had, without realizing it, let aristocratic pride show in both her expression and bearing. She stared fixedly at the two men with eyes that regarded lowly inferiors.

“Hahaha—are you angry?” His yellow teeth protruded again. However, one of the monks kept glancing suspiciously toward the thatched hut. Tamahime, faced with the words she had blurted out without weighing right or wrong, was both frightened by those cunning eyes and driven by a determination to prevent it at all costs.

“Half-truths and half-silences—I can’t bear this weight on my chest any longer. Since we’re on the subject, I’ll spill everything for you to hear, Servant.” He leaned in close and spoke with spittle flying. Tamahime’s body trembled with loathing. They were ill-mannered mountain monks whose very breath reeked. "That injured man’s name is Jisshō. Someone caught him eavesdropping on Mount Hiei’s council—left him half-dead, but later, the whole monastic community said it was a pity we let him escape. Had we taken him alive, he’d have been perfect living evidence when appealing to the court—wisdom after the fact, eh? So we split up and combed every valley, foothill, and stretch down to Shirakawa. Then—call it divine guidance—someone washed faint blood-like stains downstream. And here you are… Hah! Surely you weren’t scrubbing gore? Either way, you’ll clarify this mystery for us—or we’ll rest our weary legs at your hut and beg a cup of hot water—” “When we came here, you were present… Hahaha! Surely you weren’t washing off blood, were you?” “Therefore, for now, you must make that mystery clear to us.” “Otherwise—since our legs are tired—we’ll rest on your hut’s veranda and have a cup of hot water or something—”

VII

After finishing the morning cleaning, Shōzenbō said he had business to go to Rokujō and, entrusting the remaining tasks to them, went out. Inside the palanquin shed, Jisshō still lay soundly asleep, having fallen into a coma.

The neighboring cowshed was empty, sunlight pouring in, and the cows were grazing on grass in the distance.

(If I were inside here instead of the cows, how carefree I’d be.) For a guy like me who couldn’t easily cast aside distracting thoughts and earthly desires, that might just be the shortest path to liberation.

Tayūbō Kakumyō sat on the hay piled outside the cowshed, his sleep-deprived face exposed to the sunlight.

Before he knew it, Kakumyō leaned back and was dozing off. It was as innocent as a child’s.

This man too had already spent many years since first revering Zenshin (Shinran) as his teacher. Until Zenshin himself found stability here, he had scarcely known time to settle in any place; driven either by persecution from others or by his own anguish and spiritual seeking, he had passed years moving from turmoil to turmoil—so much so that until this very day, he had never been able to keep watch with his disciples over the sunlight bathing this quiet thatched hut.

But even when separated or straying, before they knew it, only Shōzenbō and this Kakumyō had returned to Zenshin’s side—though now Zenshin was away on a journey. The cow lowed peacefully—Kakumyō, having tended to the unexpected injured person the previous night and likely having hardly slept, was drooling from his lips as he dozed off quite contentedly. In his prime, he had been called Shinshi Kakumyō, his scholarly talent renowned throughout the capital; when Lord Kiso raised his army, he served as a samurai general, a figure of such valor that he chilled Taira warriors to the core. Yet seeing him now, not a shadow of that former ferocity remained.

He always told himself, ("Not yet... Not yet free...") he would often mutter, but his dozing face resembled that of a living arhat—as if a halo of bodhi enlightenment shone behind him. The pattering footsteps made him open his eyes; with a grimace he turned them sideways and, vaguely startled, stood up.

“Kakumyō, please come quickly!” Someone called out—and then the footsteps hurriedly vanished once more into the shadow of the hut. “What’s this?!” Kakumyō hurried off. What immediately came into view was at the riverside behind the thatched hut where two monks stood holding naginatas and surrounding Tamahime while uttering threatening remarks. Kakumyō’s large body moved with such speed that one might wonder if something so massive could be so light and agile.

“Ouch!” One of the monks clutched his battered cheek, staggering “What’re you—” Before he could finish, Kakumyō’s hand seized the other’s collar, “Like this,” he growled, yanking him close before grabbing his waistband and hurling him earthward with a thunderous crash.

Burn the Imperial Palanquin

I

It was the morning of early March.

From the hermitage of Kyoto’s Rokkakudō, a traveling monk emerged into the bustling streets where spring winds blew, his face radiant. “Ah.” Gazing up at the sun as though cradling his own life, he stopped in his tracks and began to worship.

It was Zenshin (Shinran). A monk's robe—soiled from being worn continuously through the journey from winter to spring—a thin vestment—travel gear—who could have known that this man was the monk-son-in-law of Lord Kujō of Tsukinowa, who had become a target of jealousy and envy and thrown the world into uproar? And that he—who had only recently married his new wife Tamahime—had left her alone in the solitary chamber of their thatched hut to embark on this journey. And so, even as people coming and going in the streets passed him by, (Ah, the former Hannen Shōnagon)

No one noticed—not even if they thought, “Shakkuu of Yoshimizu is passing by.” Zenshin also walked on without glancing aside. Surely he too, upon setting foot in Kyoto’s soil, must have felt nostalgic for his Okazaki home and eager to meet his new wife’s smile again; thus he followed along the Kamo River toward Shirakawa.

However, upon returning to Kyoto, the first place he visited was neither that thatched hut nor the side of his new wife. Last night, the day before yesterday, three days ago. The place where he had spent these three days and nights was the hermitage of Rokkakudō. For this journey’s purpose was twofold: to visit Prince Shōtoku’s mausoleum at Eifuku-ji Temple in Shijō Village of Kawachi, and to seclude himself at this Rokkakudō hermitage—there to offer gratitude and prayers to his heart’s content, and from past recollections, quietly contemplate the future—.

The mausoleum was a relic of Prince Shōtoku's youth—a time of his own dire wandering and anguish—when he had received a divine revelation in a dream: "Thou shalt live but ten-odd years." It was a relic of youth where he had received this revelation in a dream.

Had that turning point not come then, there would be no me as I am today. How could this radiant life exist now? Kyoto’s Rokkakudō was also the place where he had made a solemn vow—burning with spiritual seeking and staking his life on survival—to undertake a hundred nights’ journey from Mount Hiei to its hermitage.

There as well, he was profoundly indebted to the compassionate bond of Nyoirin Kannon, and there were many memories—

From the darkness of half his life, he now felt as though he had emerged. From the Path of Sages to the Easy Path. And love was realized, leading to marriage with Tamahime. "Ah." Zenshin's chest swelled involuntarily. Was there any person as blessed as he was now? But—when he wiped his eyes and looked around the streets of the capital—how many wretched people there were here: dark faces, shadows clouded with doubt, downcast countenances weighed with worries, figures frantically driven by their tasks—truly, this place teemed with such wretched souls.

People who were materially wealthy yet spiritually impoverished—what were called wretched people. Zenshin reflected on his own happiness,

“That’s right—I can’t afford to be intoxicated by my own satisfaction alone.—My happiness is something I must share.” “And when all people in the world come to feel happiness like mine, only then can I truly say that I myself have become happy.” “Until then, it is nothing but a small self-satisfaction.—I had not sought such petty satisfaction until today.” When he passed Shirakawa, the pine grove of Okazaki eventually came into view on the hill to the right.

Before laying eyes on his home and wife after so long, Zenshin was sternly rebuking his own heart.

II “Ah—Master!” “The Venerable Master has returned.”

When this voice arose within the thatched hut, the air—which had been sinking somberly through this spring day—suddenly blazed into radiant brilliance. Needless to say, among them all, the one concealing profound joy beneath an expression that appeared utterly impassive was Tamahime, working behind the scenes. Still clad in travel-worn robes, Zenshin first entered the Jibutsudō hall before emerging quietly; prostrating himself before the Buddha image, he turned toward his dharma brothers celebrating his safe return.

“During my absence, I feel unworthy of Buddha’s divine protection.” Something—a sharp, throbbing pain as though their chests had been wounded—swept across everyone’s complexions.

However, no one broke the silence. Even as they beheld Master Zenshin’s travel-stained appearance, they could not bring themselves to feel that way.

Taking off his travel garments, Zenshin settled at last into his own room for the first time in a long while.

“Well, you haven’t grown haggard at all.” Tamahime struggled with how to comfort her husband and express her sincere devotion as his wife. “Is that so?” Zenshin gently stroked his own cheek with his hand and smiled warmly. “Now, no hardship that assails me can make these cheeks haggard—save for illness.” “Such confidence has grown within me of late.” “This brings me great joy.” “As for you—”

“Well…”

Tamahime asked herself and realized she had lacked such conviction during his absence. Even now, she felt the path ahead remained fraught with peril.

“Have I lost weight?” “Let me see.” “I might have lost weight, just a little…” Zenshin laughed. Indeed, his new wife’s figure—her soft form—the scent of womanhood itself compelled Zenshin’s travel-weary eyes to gaze upon her with profound tenderness.

―Without this woman, I― he thought silently.

(How would things have turned out?) he reflected. At the crossroads of youth and spiritual seeking—where the passions of youth, which burned or pierced through everything without restraint, and the pitch-black doubt that had long enveloped that era would have inevitably led him astray—had this woman not been in his heart—he might have ultimately... Writing the two characters for “emptiness” in the air, he might have plummeted into either despair over life or severance from it in one breath.

No matter how much he struck, struck again, battered until his hands bled—that pivotal moment when he turned from the Holy Path gate of the past, which never opened despite all his efforts, to follow Hōnen Shōnin’s Easy Path—there were moments when he could not help but think: If this woman were not here—All things melted into clarity within this single life he now lived—the power to feel spiritual ecstasy in existence owed not only to his retreat at Rokkakudō and the guidance of Seikaku Hōin of Anjō-in but also truly to this woman’s power.

“To me, my wife is none other than Nyoirin Kannon Bosatsu”—so Zenshin murmured within his heart.

And.

At that moment, outside the thatched hut, there arose the clamor of many footsteps and the sound of low-class jeering.

III

“Let us meet him!” roared the voice outside. “No—we’re not fools to be tricked by your hollow excuses and turn back!” “Ugly as I may seem, I come representing Mount Hiei’s assembly!” “Produce Zenshin now!” To this, “The Venerable Master journeys afar and does not reside at this hut,” came what sounded like Shōzenbō’s voice, straining to reason with them.

However, the four or five rough monks clamoring at the doorway stubbornly squared their shoulders, “Shut up! How many times must we repeat the same thing?” “Do you think we’re messengers who’d fall for such sweet talk and turn back? Take a good look!” “Your excuses may have worked until yesterday, but today that trick won’t send us away!” As soon as one person’s roar subsided, another would—

“Zenshin must have returned this morning.” “There’s a witness who claims they saw him in Shirakawa.” “Produce him! If you persist in hiding his face, we’ll break in ourselves!” Each shout pierced through the hut’s interior like physical blows. When Zenshin noticed his wife flinching and narrowing her eyes, he inquired:

“Who is that visitor?” Tamahime, as though it were her own sin,

“—Please forgive me.” “Due to negligence during your absence, we provoked Mount Hiei’s monks in such a manner.” “Why?” “The truth is, it happened as follows,” she explained apologetically to her husband. After they had sheltered the injured Jisshō, Tayūbō Kakumyō severely punished and drove away Mount Hiei’s men who had come to seize him the next day—which was why the rough monks of Mount Hiei had been coming daily to commit such outrages ever since.

“Jisshō,” Zenshin muttered under his breath, “—That Jisshō—is he the young disciple serving under the venerable master of Yoshimizu?” “Yes, that is correct.” “Where is he now?” “He has passed away.”

“What? In this thatched hut—” “Everyone did their utmost—but for two days he burned with fever, muttering deliriously all the while.” Zenshin fell silent and furrowed his brows—not only grieving for that meaningless victim, but sensing impending disaster looming over his teacher. The rumors were everywhere: Mount Hiei, Takao, and Nanto’s anti-nenbutsu sects slandering Hōnen, scheming to destroy Yoshimizu Hermitage, their curses against the chant intensifying daily—all things Zenshin had seen and heard firsthand during his travels.

But that such backlash would come someday was something Master Hōnen had known far better than he himself did. From the beginning, Zenshin too had refrained from reacting hastily to the rumors spreading among the people. Yet now, in the vicious curses shouted by the monks outside, there was a strong sense that—though the timing seemed opportune—they had seized this favorable moment to strike. (...What a predicament...) Before all else, his thoughts turned to the calamity threatening Master Hōnen.

Quietly stood up,

“I will meet them.” Seeing her husband stride forward, Tamahime lost all color from her face—for she knew how ferocious were the Mount Hiei monks who had come seeking vengeance after being chastised by Kakumyō.

IV

“Ah… Kakumyō!” She involuntarily headed toward the room beyond.

“Kakumyō—stop him! The Master is—” “The Master is—” Tayūbō Kakumyō had been reprimanded by both the instigator who treated this incident gravely and everyone else. For that reason, he had been ordered not to show his face under any circumstances—even if Mount Hiei’s men came seeking retribution—and so he remained cowering in a single room, shrinking into himself. ――Today, those adversaries had come again. He too had been listening there to the voices outside that had roared furiously since earlier. His arm itched with pent-up energy. For his part, he had countless reasons to rush out and settle matters decisively with his iron strength—but he steeled himself, knowing that escalating the conflict further would only wound the hearts of those working behind the scenes.

At that moment— “Kakumyō, please stop!” Tamahime’s voice could be heard, so— “Ah!” As he, startled by something, rushed out along the wooden veranda, his master Zenshin emerged from an inner room at the very moment they encountered each other. “Wait.” Kakumyō knelt and grabbed Zenshin’s sleeve. “I will drive them away. There is no need for you to deign to meet such violent, unruly monks with your precious body.” Tamahime, trembling, came to her husband’s feet and stopped him.

“Please, leave this matter to Shōzenbō and Kakumyō…” “If you were to get injured—” However, Zenshin smiled calmly. “It is you who are making such a fuss.” “The reason I meet them is not to gauge their knowledge or character—even if there is some misunderstanding, it concerns our revered teacher.” “I cannot entrust this to others. Do not worry.” The sound of his footsteps moving forward was not rough, but in his back one could see both conviction and a strong character. Knowing his master was not one to be stopped once resolved, Kakumyō remained seated on the wooden veranda, eyes glinting with unease.

By that time, even Shōzenbō—who had gone out to deal with them—had been pushed to his limits. Five or six rough monks—some wielding their customary large naginatas, others leaning on greatswords—were not satisfied with mere furious roaring; they seized Shōzenbō by the wrists, and one stood poised to stomp his mud-caked feet across the thatched hut’s wooden floor and charge inside. “Oh… Well now,” they jeered, having glimpsed their composed master in that instant.

“Ah! So you’ve finally shown yourself!” The monks momentarily drew back, collectively fixing their murderous glares upon him, “You liar!” “There you are!”

“Why didn’t you show yourself sooner?!” Having barked this, Zenshin meanwhile retrieved round sitting cushions and had seating mats laid out individually for guests on the wide floor beside the entrance. “Please come in,” he said with ceremonial politeness, remaining perfectly composed. Such formalities only discomfited the violent intruders. From within his patchy red beard, a hulking monk—his goshawk-like eyes blazing—swung a fist to shatter Zenshin’s calm. “Fool! Quit mocking us!” “We didn’t come for idle chatter—this concerns Mount Hiei’s very honor!” “Your head might just be ours!” “Now hear these charges and answer!”

V While enduring the intruders' violent words, Zenshin sat reverently before them. "Don't act deaf!" The rough monks, provoked by his utterly unresponsive demeanor, threatened him with menacing grimaces as they continued— "Mark this well, Zenshin. If you cannot answer each charge we now present, we'll smash this hut to splinters, skewer your head on a naginata's tip, and carry it back to Mount Hiei as our trophy!" "…………" With a faint smile, Zenshin nodded.

“First—” declared one of the rough monks, his voice—forged in the mountain foothills—resonating with suppressed power as he began. “What justification have you for planting a spy within our sacred Mount Hiei?” “…………” “Second—how do you answer the charge that your spy Jisshō, that lowly functionary, eavesdropped on Mount Hiei’s council and spread vile rumors throughout the land?” “…………” “Third—what defense have you for unleashing violent monks from your sect to physically assault Mount Hiei’s envoys who came to parley at this hut?”

“…………”

“Above are three charges—how do you answer, Venerable Zenshin?!” “…………” “Your silence—is this a declaration that you have not a single word of defense? Then as promised, we’ll crush this hut, strike off your bare head, and take it back with us!” Already one monk planted his mud-caked foot on the wooden veranda, while another seized Zenshin’s wrist to drag him outside. “What are you doing—?!” Kakumyō—who had positioned himself behind his master like a guarding tiger—could endure no longer and sprang upright.

“Stand down!” Zenshin’s voice was cast toward Kakumyō.

“The three charges you have presented.” “All are failings for which Zenshin can offer no defense.” “You may dispose of me as you wish… None shall lift a hand to stop you.” “Well spoken!” Dragged downward, Zenshin’s body rolled and fell beyond the thatched hut. Not a trace of pallor showed on Zenshin’s face. At once reseating himself upon the earth, he yielded his body to their brutal strength without reluctance or tremor.

“What are we to do?” Now, as if feeling some hesitation, one of them muttered, “Slay him! Of course we’ll slay him!” One monk adjusted his grip on the naginata’s hilt, causing the guard to ring out. “No—I won’t let you slay him!” Kakumyō, ignoring his master Zenshin’s words of rebuke, jumped down from the wooden veranda. And then, spreading both arms wide between them and Zenshin, “You evil monks! I’ll give you the three answers!” “Come on then!” Zenshin, who was behind him, rebuked Kakumyō as if lamenting his demeanor. However, Kakumyō would not consent.

“Go to hell—I care not if my master excommunicates me. For this cause, even if I must sever my rosary and fall among heretics, so be it. Against demons, the sword that subdues them; against evil, the fist that destroys it. If you hesitate, I’ll start by taking your bare heads!”

Six Like oil poured on flames, Kakumyō’s words set every mountain monk’s face ablaze. “You dare spew such grand boasts!” “This must be the wretch who gave our Mount Hiei brethren that thrashing!” “We’ll start by crushing this one!” As they growled at each other, one monk— “Thus!” he roared, suddenly whirling his naginata in a whooshing horizontal slash aimed at Kakumyō’s skull. “Child’s play.” “What farce is this?!” Kakumyō sank low and stretched his hand toward the naginata’s hilt slicing through empty air. He seized it fiercely and clamped it beneath his arm,

“Hunh!” His two eyes reverted to those from the days when he was called a fierce general of the Kiso Army and emitted a light that seemed to leap from his face.

With a gasp—in the very moment his opponent froze, the naginata had already been seized back into Kakumyō’s hands. Kakumyō swung it diagonally upward and mimicked his enemy’s words, “Thus I strike!” he bellowed. Zenshin—even the voice that cried “Stop!”—and even as the mountain monks—even their act of cowering back with an “Ah!” had no effect on Kakumyō’s momentum, drawn taut like a bowstring.

Something grotesque burst with a *gyah* sound—a spray of brain matter like red mud splattered.

At the same time, a single torso fell with an earth-shaking thud. “You’ve done it now!” “Oh, Ashura shall now manifest hell before your eyes! Hell too must manifest in this world to punish the nature of false monks like us.” Three swings. Four swings. As he swung his naginata with fury welling from his entire being, the mountain monks—whether realizing how difficult it was to counter him or recoiling from the unexpectedly fierce retaliation after having underestimated him from the start as no real threat—suddenly began to falter.

“Don’t you forget!” “And don’t forget those bold words!” “We’ll be back another day—!” “Until then, we’ll leave that corpse there in your care!” With these final words, they scrambled away without a backward glance. “Cowards!” Kakumyō was not satisfied.

“Give it back! Take this corpse and get lost!” he called out, chasing after them for about a hundred meters.

However, when he lost sight of the fast-fleeing enemies in the distance, he too came to his senses from his momentary frenzy and halted. And then, he suddenly looked with a wretched expression at the blood-stained naginata—his hand—the sleeve of his robe.

“Ah… I’ve done something terrible.” Kakumyō shuddered at his own actions. No—more than fearing the judgment for his sins… he thought of the misfortune that would befall his teacher Zenshin. (What have I done…!) The scream tore through his mind unbidden.

Realizing this, he could no longer bear to hold it even a moment longer and tossed the bloodied naginata into the thicket. He began heading back toward the thatched hut but abruptly grew terrified of returning and, like a child concealing himself, hid beneath the tree’s shadow while keeping watch over the surroundings for some time.

Seven

At that moment, Kakumyō—like a child about to be scolded seeing a fearsome parent—flinched and narrowed his eyes. What should I say to apologize… His mind was consumed by that thought. From afar, Master Zenshin approached. He wore an expression more severe than ever before. ………… Kakumyō held his breath in the tree’s shadow, but when he saw his teacher’s figure—stopped mid-stride, angry brows now shadowed with sorrow, eyes scanning the surroundings as if genuinely worried while searching for him—he could endure no longer,

“Master… The unruly disciple Kakumyō is here.” He ran out and planted both hands on the ground before him with a slap. Zenshin lowered his eyes,

“Hmm...” His face burned with indescribable emotions. Should he condemn him? Should he pity him? Zenshin found himself at a loss for words, for he himself was too much a man of emotions akin to Kakumyō’s. However, we master and disciple are first and foremost servants of the Buddha. In any judgment, there must be no petty self-centered views—we must judge both ourselves and others solely according to the Buddha’s will.

Zenshin’s eyes, which had been closed, quietly opened. “Kakumyō…” “You have reduced twenty years of ascetic practice and virtuous deeds to nothing in an instant.” “You have burned the thatch gathered over a thousand days in a moment of rage—”

“Master! Please strike this foolish man. Trample me to appease your wrath.” “Strike you down?” “Yes…. If not, bind me to this tree with rough rope and give my body to the wolves of Mount Hiei.”

“……It’s too late.” Zenshin exhaled sharply, as though his own chest were in pain. “Why didn’t you realize it a moment earlier? Even were I to bind your flesh now as an offering, or kick and berate you—what effect would that hold against Mount Hiei? What apology would it make to the Master of Yoshimizu?... It would merely soothe for a fleeting moment the feelings between one such as myself and one such as you.”

“…………”

Kakumyō, as if burying his sturdy shoulders into the earth, kept his face pressed to the ground and wailed loudly. “Farewell then.” At his master’s voice, he lifted his tear-drenched face, “Ah, so….” “Does this mean I can never return to your side again?” Zenshin did not answer. Excommunication—his master’s retreating figure seemed to silently deliver the judgment. Though he had resolved himself to accept excommunication and fall into hell, Kakumyō could not help but grieve.

“Yes.” When he regained his senses, he realized that remaining near his master’s thatched hut would only cause his master further suffering.—Despondent, Kakumyō’s figure soon departed from Okazaki’s pine forest and wandered off to parts unknown.

Eight

"The disciple’s immaturity goes without saying—the master’s immaturity." "The grave sin Kakumyō committed is undoubtedly the sin committed by this Zenshin." "...By what right can I sit here undisturbed before Amida Buddha?" Zenshin had shut himself in the Buddha hall there and was subjecting himself to blame.

“I believe this is because neither my way of life nor my conduct has yet become worthy of being graciously accepted into the Buddha’s will. Today’s events, too—I consider them a scourge bestowed upon my heart, which, having taken a wife and grown complacent in spiritual bliss, has given rise to negligence.” Even as darkness fell around him, he did not leave that place. Just as his heart was being darkly tormented, no lamp burned on the altar. “Please forgive me.” “Kakumyō’s sins—no, my transgressions.” “And may this storm of calamity not strike harshly upon the venerable person of the Master of Yoshimizu.” “Let all winds blow upon this body, let all rains fall upon this body—let every hardship and suffering descend upon this Zenshin.” As he prayed—though not quite a storm—a rather strong wind raced across the eaves of the thatched hut.

Rising—Zenshin lit the lamp that had gone out. Shaken by a wind blowing in from nowhere, the small flame’s tongue went white and wild, as if seeking something to burn. Gazing at the lamp, Zenshin suddenly realized that around him, without his noticing, more than what was necessary to sustain his life had accumulated. His young life had indeed gained a measure of stability through its bond with the opposite sex, but he secretly feared that this very arrangement would breed complexity in their future life, lull them into complacent luxury, and make them prone to laziness.

If this current stability was akin to a childbed for the frailties humans so easily succumb to, then stability was nothing but a seedbed concealing the sprouts of future suffering.—Zenshin shuddered. Could it be that Kakumyō and the other disciples’ feelings had also, without their realizing it, been influenced by this way of life of his and changed? After passing through a period of adversity—an era of hardship—the slackening of spirit that comes when one relaxes to enjoy the spring sunshine exists in everyone; even in oneself.

“Yes.” Silently, Zenshin went outside.

There was wind, but it was a starry moonlit night. He called to wake the servant sleeping next to the cowshed, “Pull the palanquin over there,” he commanded. The ox driver’s servant suddenly widened his eyes in surprise at where Zenshin was going out to. Following the order, they pulled the palanquin far away, and then, when they tried to untie the ox, “There’s no need to attach the ox.” Zenshin transferred the flame from the lamp in the Buddha hall to a paper torch and came out again. And then, he placed the flame at the hem of the resplendent silk-tasseled palanquin’s curtain.

This palanquin was an extravagance newly commissioned by the Tsukinowa Kujō family for his and Tamahime’s wedding ceremony last autumn.—It was also the very palanquin in which the bride and groom had once ridden, pulled by an ox driver along the great road from Okazaki to Yoshimizu, only to be pelted with stones like rain by the capital’s envious people. “...Ah. “Master’s Reverence is burning—burning the palanquin with his own hands!” The ox driver’s servant, upon seeing the small flame in the distance grow into a mass of crimson flames, turned toward the thatched hut and began shouting loudly.

Nine

Everyone, startled, rushed outside.

The incident from earlier that day was fresh in everyone’s mind, so immediately—

The thought that struck them—that the Mount Hiei monks had come for revenge—was what they felt. However, the ox driver’s servant, “Has Master’s Reverence gone mad? He burned the palanquin—burned it with his own hands like that!” he said with a trembling voice.

Truly, to anyone who saw, Zenshin’s figure was one that could only invite doubt. The fire he had set had already become an immense mass of flames impossible to extinguish, blazing fiercely as it spewed eerie sparks into the starry moonlit night.

Silently, Zenshin stood a short distance away, gazing entranced at the flames.—His pale face, illuminated by the fire, seemed even to bear a faint smile.

“Why?” “What has come over you?”

“Venerable Master—” While exclaiming one after another, Shōzenbō and the others gathered around him with looks of astonishment. And then, they solemnly compared the flames and their master’s complexion. “I’m merely burning rubbish.” Zenshin’s words were as calm as water in response to the mass of flames measuring three meters in height. “Because I am not a Zenshin who would ride in such a thing again.” “Moreover, because any useless clutter in this thatched hut would hinder nenbutsu.” “Furthermore, when I consider all of today’s events to be this body’s failing, I do this for the sake of self-discipline.” The people bowed their heads.

Then, from among those people, there was one who had a maid assist and unhesitatingly threw splendid garments and women’s implements into the flames. Upon looking, it was Tamahime of the inner household. Those furnishings were all wedding items she had brought from her birth family, the Kujō family, as mere everyday necessities. “...Mmm.” Zenshin’s lips curled into an inexpressible smile of joy as he gazed at it. _That is precisely my wife._ As though declaring in his heart—and as though gazing upon this flame as the true furnace that would melt his and his wife’s hearts into one—he kept his composed face turned unwaveringly toward the crimson lotus of fire.

Because the palanquin had been burned, the ox was released from the cowshed and sent back to the Kujō family the next day along with the ox driver. Tamahime sent back her sole remaining maid to her birth family along with them. Now, to the other disciples as well, Zenshin granted leave, stating that if they had their own reasons to do so. Since it was not a severance of ties, Shōzenbō, understanding his master’s feelings, set out on a journey. Each of them left Okazaki seeking their destination.

The thatched hut was left with just the two of them. Suddenly, it was enveloped in a loneliness as if abandoned.

“Let’s wait like this.” Zenshin said to his wife. Tamahime nodded. To wait—needless to say—meant awaiting Mount Hiei’s retaliation. The monastic masses would not remain silent forever. The days passing without word since then rather evoked an ominous gathering of clouds—a sign that Mount Hiei’s forces would soon descend en masse.

(If they attack...? Such matters—and his resolve at that time—Zenshin had told his wife none of it. Yet judging by Tamahime’s demeanor, each morning she appeared to have readied herself with immaculate composure to die at any moment.)

The wind did not cease.

1

Eerily enough, Mount Hiei as a whole had maintained an unnervingly quiet silence of late.

They had thought [Mount Hiei] would retaliate in some form, but no action whatsoever was taken against the thatched hut in Okazaki either. —Yet to take that as evidence that Mount Hiei had altered the resolutions of its council and softened its stance toward the nenbutsu sect would be premature; in fact, their hostility had only grown increasingly hostile. Even on the mountain, there were wise men. “A place like Okazaki is not the core of our heretical enemies.” “The enemy’s central stronghold is Yoshimizu, is it not?” “Yoshimizu is none other than the main stronghold of the nenbutsu sect.” “Therefore, if we crush Yoshimizu alone, it is evident that afterward—whether it be Zenshin of Okazaki or anyone else—they will all fall into disarray and hold no power over society.” Thus, the wise man expounded—

“To repeatedly go out to a mere thatched hut in Okazaki and engage in conflict—that is the height of folly.” “Reportedly, after that incident, Zenshin and his wife dismissed all disciples from the thatched hut, burned everything from their own furnishings to the palanquin, and now seem to be calmly awaiting our punitive measures—but to respond ostentatiously to those who have prepared themselves thus would only make us appear petty, turn us into laughingstocks of the world, and obstruct public opinion against nenbutsu.” “Simply destroy Yoshimizu.” “If we crush Yoshimizu, Okazaki and the rest will destroy themselves in due course.” “Cease this pointless time-wasting; it is crucial that we advance resolutely toward our objective.”

“Excellent—” This argument swept through the people of Mount Hiei. There, they— “Let us descend,” they conspired about the day. “Let us descend”—this was a codeword used only among their comrades, and— “(Let’s do it!)”—a rallying cry that also served as a show of force. Even the abbot did not have the power to stop it. They immediately brought out the portable shrines of Hiyoshi Sannō Sansha and polished them thoroughly. When they carried the three portable shrines of Hiyoshi Sannō Sansha down to the capital at the head of a grand procession of three thousand from the mountain, no one dared block their path. When it came to the Mount Hiei monks’ forceful appeals, even those bearing bows and arrows would yield the way.

They had completed their preparations. Having drafted the petition—"Nenbutsu Cessation Petition"—to present to the imperial court, the day had finally come when, tomorrow, the masses would rouse themselves to march down from the mountain. “Hey! A decree from the Central Hall!” someone bellowed as they rushed about. “Gather!” Without anyone in particular saying it, people ran toward the Konponchūdō Hall on the mountain. At the Great Lecture Hall, people had already swarmed together. The three portable shrines of Hiyoshi Sannō Sansha, prepared to be carried down the mountain tomorrow, had been decorated.

“Yoshimizu has surrendered,” declared a monk. “Having heard the rumors and shriveled in fear—as you can plainly see—Master Hōnen and over one hundred ninety disciples have jointly submitted this letter of apology to Mount Hiei. I shall now read it aloud. Silence!” A mountain monk stood on the Great Lecture Hall’s veranda and began reciting in a booming voice the petition bearing Master Hōnen’s name along with those of his disciples from Yoshimizu.

2

Though Hōnen’s health had been poor of late, confining himself to a single room in Yoshimizu Hermitage where he rarely set foot in the garden, he understood everything perfectly. He felt he could not abandon it—this was just two or three days prior.

“Shinkū, take up the brush.” Hōrenbō Shinkū, his senior disciple, “Wh-what is it?” “Write as I speak,” said Hōnen, closing his eyes briefly before beginning— Respectfully to the Three Treasures presiding over this temple, We submit this before the sacred treasures of the guardian deities. He commenced dictation in a low voice. Shinkū transcribed the words flowing from the Master’s lips like silken threads. It grew into a lengthy text. “…A moment,” Shinkū requested, pausing the relentless dictation to draw a sheet of kaishi paper and discreetly wipe his tears.

As he continued transcribing, tears welled up, threatening at any moment to spill onto the paper. No matter how he tried to restrain himself—no matter how he tried—the words left him unable to hold back his weeping. This was what the Master meant to send to Mount Hiei’s multitudes to dispel their misunderstandings. Each phrase rang with blood and tears. The Master spoke only of blaming himself—of it all being due to his own lack of virtue. At the same time, he painstakingly clarified that the true intent of the nenbutsu teachings was nothing like what others speculated or doubted or viewed with suspicion; beyond Pure Land practice, there was no hidden purpose whatsoever.

Moreover, having had them draft another seven-article oath, the next day,

"There is an urgent matter; come to the hermitage at once," he sent messengers to all his disciples and informed them. Wondering what was happening, people began gathering one after another at the hermitage's gate from morning onward.

Master Hōnen showed the written oath he had them draft the previous day to the assembly,

“Those who are of one mind with Hōnen, I ask you to affix your seals here.” Some, upon reading it once, “Is this not tantamount to a surrender document to Mount Hiei?” one disciple muttered, retreating to a corner and biting his lip in bitter frustration. Others, too, “This is too humble,” some muttered, retreating to a corner as tears fell. In the seven-article oath and the document sent to Mount Hiei, there was not a single argument condemning doctrinal adversaries. They merely stated their own self-restraint and sought to dispel their suspicions. It was only natural that people lamented. But since it was the Master’s will, there was no help for it; one by one, the disciples proceeded to sign.

And so, within three days, one hundred and ninety names had been inscribed upon it. Zenshin, who had rushed from the thatched hut in Okazaki, had of course also affixed his seal among them.

It had been delivered to Mount Hiei and was read aloud today in the Great Lecture Hall. The monastic assembly of Mount Hiei raised a victory cry, proclaiming, "We have triumphed!"

With a sneer of “Look at your disgrace!”, they swelled with pride, looking down upon those who had surrendered.

3

The enraged masses, having fully vented their resentment, declared, “There’s no use trampling further those who have bowed their heads, pressed their hands to the ground, and surrendered,” and thus the “nenbutsu cessation” petition movement—which had even gone so far as to polish the mikoshi of Sannō Gongen— (the matter was brought to a close—) came to an end.

Afterward, Saint Kakuan Hōin of An’yō-in ascended Mount Hiei in a personal capacity and, declaring “I wish to speak to the people of the entire mountain,” ardently went about canvassing.

In short, such conflicts arose from misinterpretations of Buddhism, their root cause being a lack of understanding. From the Hōin’s belief that— Bearing the lecture title “The Path of Sages and the Jōdo Sect,” he ascended the mountain to instruct Buddhists on fundamentals equivalent to an introductory course in Buddhism. The people of the mountain— “That man too is now called a distinguished disciple of Yoshimizu or some such thing,” they muttered. “The world praises him as— ‘Evangelist of the Four Seas’ ‘Unifying Eloquence’ —treating him like some grand personage. But let’s hear what nonsense he actually spouts.” With this derisive intent, they flocked to the temple where the Hōin was staying, arms crossed in mock anticipation.

Saint Kakuan Hōin did not touch upon minor incidents or emotions between Yoshimizu and Mount Hiei; he simply earnestly expounded the true essence of the path. “As all of you are already aware,” he began, “there are two paths to escape the delusions of life and death and attain spiritual peace through Buddhism. One method we call the Path of Sages; another we name the Jōdo Sect. Though their approaches differ—through establishing practices and accumulating merits within this mortal world to seek proof of enlightenment—their ultimate aim knows no divergence.” Saint Kakuan Hōin’s words were gentle yet deliberate, as if carefully dissolving complex truths for his listeners.

“Now, regarding the Jōdo Sect—when considering how one aspires to rebirth [in the Pure Land]—it divides further into two paths: the first called Multiple Practices Rebirth, and the second called Nenbutsu Rebirth.” “Multiple Practices Rebirth means purifying one’s mortal self through bodhisattva practices—whether serving parents, teachers, or lords. As for Nenbutsu Rebirth—since practices arise through external conditions—they become secondary. Above all else, chant the nenbutsu; through nenbutsu alone press urgently toward the Buddha’s Original Vow—thus it teaches.” “Therefore—as the Master of Yoshimizu expounds—if one follows his teachings, regardless of occupation or status, noble or commoner alike—living truthfully as they are—the Buddha’s hand shall guide them to the Original Vow. Because this path is so simple, clergy and laity alike come seeking life here like parched earth receiving rain,” he preached—and—

“We dare not harbor even the slightest intention of using this doctrine to oppose the established teachings of the Path of Sages or to establish our own influence.” “Fundamentally, our aspiration is not in the slightest aimed at instructing clergy or demonstrating clerical authority toward other clergy. Our goal lies in bringing light to the wretched masses—those with nothing to cling to, despairing of this world, fallen into nihilism. Our Original Vow is simply and solely to connect the hands of Amida Buddha with these pitiful people. I earnestly request your thorough understanding on this point. At the same time, I sincerely plead that Mount Hiei too might engage with present society through greater eyes of compassion.”

4 Saint Kakuan Hōin’s canvassing seemed to have been effective. Relatively speaking, Mount Hiei had developed a favorable impression of his lecture titled “What Is the Jōdo Sect?”

First, the seven-article oath and Hōnen’s humble document had arrived, and then Saint Kakuan Hōin had gone about preaching across the mountain in this manner; as a result, Mount Hiei’s sentiments seemed to have softened significantly. At least on the surface. But the wind—the waves—had still not subsided.

Just as expected. A second doctrinal enemy appeared, launching a massive salvo toward Yoshimizu’s pulpit.

It was Myōe Shōnin of Takao Toganoo. This master was decisively different from the so-called erudite scholars commonly found everywhere. He was a man of consummate spirit. He was a man whose depth of scholarship likely had no equal.

When the master of Toganoo spoke thus, that single statement possessed the power to stir the intellectual world. Moreover, Myōe was not one to frequently engage in rhetorical debates. He conducted himself with prudence, deeply maintained his integrity in later years, and was by no means a man to act rashly in pursuit of power or fame. Yet—that Myōe rose resolutely and challenged Yoshimizu. What demonstrated his fierce resolve to the world was,

*Crusher of Heresies* in Three Volumes *Crusher of Heresies Ornamented Record* in One Volume

These were the two works. “Have you read the master of Toganoo’s treatise?” “Hmm, I’ve seen it.” “The entire text burns with fervent criticism of *nenbutsu*.” “The Jōdo sect’s doctrines too lie shattered by it—reduced to splinters.” “Is this not what they call a divine tempest sweeping through an empty valley—such writing?” “Truly, a devastating blow.” “Yoshimizu must finally be routed. Before the master of Toganoo’s character and erudition, they’ll have no choice but to stifle their *nenbutsu* chants—however unwillingly.” Public opinion instantly seized upon this matter, spreading it through every alleyway.

As its reputation grew so formidable, even Yoshimizu’s scholarly monks secretly obtained copies of *Crusher of Heresies*, reading them in hiding—and many did so. Those who read it would inevitably, “Hmm,” begin to harbor doubts about the Nenbutsu Sect’s doctrines they had hitherto believed in, feeling their faith’s foundations grow unsteady. So profound was Myōe’s doctrine—imbued with an unshakable Buddhist spirit while wielding both systematic theory and meticulous scholarship.

The rebuttal stood incomparably sincere against the counterattacks by Mount Hiei and others, who sought to crush Yoshimizu through sheer violent suppression in defense of power, tradition, and their own positions.

“It’s a heavy blow.” “No matter how you look at it, this must be a fatal blow to Yoshimizu’s religious community,” people said to one another. Indeed, ever since Myōe Shōnin’s lion’s roar had appeared, a faint wavering of faith had begun to sprout even within Yoshimizu Zenbō. As evidence, one could see that the number of monks attending Hōnen’s lectures had drastically decreased of late, and it was undeniable that visits by lay followers had also diminished noticeably.

5

Even the scholarly monks still remaining at Yoshimizu, though maintaining a calm exterior, all seemed to harbor some measure of doubt within their hearts. “Just what part of Myōe of Toganoo’s argument claims the Nenbutsu Sect is flawed?” Whenever they gathered or interacted, it became the central topic of their conversations, and they still seemed concerned about it. “Is it not Myōe’s *Crusher of Heresies* that seizes upon the doctrines within Master Hōnen’s *Senchaku Hongan Nenbutsushū* and refutes them?”

“I understand that, but where exactly do their beliefs differ?” “Myōe had pointed out several areas, but the most critical difference lies here: Yoshimizu’s doctrine upheld nenbutsu as the primary means for rebirth in the Pure Land, whereas Myōe asserted that bodhicitta was the essential truth for Buddhists.” “In other words—a debate between nenbutsu and bodhicitta.” “That’s precisely what it boils down to.”

“Myōe does not engage in mere debates,” said the scholarly monk, closing his eyes as he began reciting memorized passages from Myōe’s treatise as if reading aloud. “From the standpoint of ‘arousing bodhicitta and attaining rebirth in the Pure Land,’ he confronts Master Hōnen’s *Senchaku Hongan Nenbutsushū* head-on, enumerating what he terms the Sixteen Heretical Views of the Nenbutsu Sect.” “Though the Buddha’s sun has set, its afterglow lingers; though Dharma’s waters recede, their moisture remains. Through this, we calm our poisoned intoxication; through this, we sprout buds of awakening. Is this not fortune itself?”

Although this is so, foolish and deluded children rarely accept and taste the good medicine—why such clumsiness? In recent times, there was a sage who composed a single volume titled *Senchaku Hongan Nenbutsushū*. Though claiming to make rebirth practices their sect’s tenet while deluded by sutras and deceiving multitudes, they obstructed those very practices. Myōe had long cherished deep faith in the sage, but hearing these heresies made him believe laypeople merely borrowed the sage’s fame to spread wild theories. Thus he had not yet slandered the sage. Yet when he recently perused this *Senchaku-shū*, his grief ran deep. When first hearing its name, he had rejoiced to honor the sage’s profound teachings—but now, opening its pages, he lamented how nenbutsu defiled the true Dharma.

Now I have clearly come to know that all various heretical views arising among laypeople, monastics, and the myriad sects originate from this book.

“‘—It begins like this,’ he said, ‘and in total, it states that the *Senchaku-shū* contains sixteen errors.’” “The first error is not taking bodhicitta as the practice for rebirth in the Pure Land.” “The second error is that within Amida’s Original Vow, there is no bodhicitta.” “The third error is the mistake of treating bodhicitta as a minor benefit—the fourth is the error of claiming bodhicitta suppresses nenbutsu—and so on, and so on.” “This is complicated.” “Which one is true? Even as we read, we actually become unable to tell.”

“What exactly is bodhicitta?” “Myōe expounds thus— ‘What is bodhicitta? It states: The mind aspiring upward is precisely this. Bodhi, translated, is called enlightenment. Buddhahood is all wisdom. It is the aspiring mind of sentient beings arising upon this wisdom. Therefore, how could those who practice the Buddhist path and seek rebirth do so without this mind?’” “I see. When you put it that way, it does seem that the initial aspiration—when humans turn to Buddhism seeking peace of mind—must indeed begin with the mind of enlightenment.”

“However, Master Hōnen, whose teachings we follow, states that while bodhicitta may assist in attaining Buddhahood, it cannot be relied upon. Master Hōnen has always taught that it is precisely nenbutsu alone that leads to true peace of mind.”

6

Those who read Myōe Shōnin’s critique would invariably read Master Hōnen’s *Senchaku-shū* once more and compare both doctrines. As a result,

“Many observers viewed this as having dealt a death blow to the Nenbutsu Sect.” In any era, newly emerging movements inevitably faced such counterblows, and it was an inherent characteristic of the world of discourse that those within it found more exhilaration in launching refutations than remaining passive. Even among considerable scholars, “They did it!” “How delightful!” Such things were cause for celebration. Moreover, the communities of Mount Hiei and Nara clapped their hands,

“With this, even the nenbutsu fell silent,” they declared, absolutely supporting Myōe’s argument.

Indeed, when viewed against its former prosperity, Yoshimizu Hermitage appeared to have declined remarkably on the surface. However, those who visited found it rather strange that Master Hōnen himself and his eminent disciples were unexpectedly composed, showed not the slightest inclination to slander Myōe’s arguments even in private, and displayed not a hair’s breadth of wavering in their faith.

Indeed, while the number of visitors and scholarly monks in the quarters had decreased compared to before, among those who remained, there was even a sense that they had further solidified their unity and the strength of their faith in the face of external persecution.

Nenbutsu or bodhicitta? Such problems as, Path of Sages or Easy Practice? Such matters were already elementary to the people here. By now, it could be said there was not a single one among the master’s eminent disciples who harbored doubts about such matters.

More and more, the scholarly spirit of these people had taken root in profound depths. ――Setting aside external persecutions, criticisms, and doctrinal nitpicking, they sought debate opponents within themselves and agonized together in their attempts to grasp truth within themselves―so much so that it showed a fierce mutual polishing of souls.

From the thatched hut in Okazaki, Zenshin also frequently commuted there. And he would always find himself caught up in fiery debates.

On that very day, many people had gathered—including eminent disciples such as Seishinbō Tankū, Seikanbō Genchi, and Nenbutsubō Nen’a, among others.

Suddenly, Zenshin appeared there. Then Tankū, “Oh, perfect timing!” he quickly added. “Venerable Zenshin, since you must have clear thoughts on this matter, I would like to ask—” he began to ask.

“In truth, among the people gathered here now—does faith vary from person to person, or does it remain unchanged?” “In other words—does faith remain one or differ? This is the problem that has arisen. What are your thoughts on this?” “Indeed.” Zenshin quietly took his seat among the group and gazed at the traces of their flushed faces, which suggested there had been quite a fierce debate. Tankū drew his knees close,

“For example, we hold the ideal of living equally in the Pure Land.” “Yet the sincerity of faith must differ between ordinary beings like us and Master Hōnen. When we consider this, we cannot help but wonder—when will we attain a state of mind like our master’s and gain true peace? I fear that those born foolish and ordinary will spend their entire lives without ever understanding the true taste of rebirth in the Pure Land.” “……And so…that’s how the debate arose…Is faith one and the same for all people, or does it differ?” “Is it mutable or immutable…That’s the problem.”

7 “What do you think, Venerable Zenshin?” “Therefore,” Zenshin adjusted his posture,

“I will state my thoughts.” As he began to answer clearly, all those present turned their gazes toward Zenshin’s brows. In Zenshin’s eyes, the faith he had honed to this point seemed to shine with a fervent gleam.

“In faith, there are not two.” “It is singular.” “To claim that sincerity varies depending on the person is an old way of thinking.” “It must be because the words spoken by those of the Path of Sages still cling to you all somewhere.” When he declared this with conviction, a hint of disillusionment washed over the group’s faces, and they fell silent as if struck dumb. Tankū, who had presented the problem and been striving to resolve it,

Tankū looked somewhat dumbfounded, as if he had heard something unexpected, and Nenbutsubō Nen’a, Seikanbō Genchi, and nearly all the others— “(What an outrageous theory!)” they seemed to say, their eyes clearly opposed as they fixed their gazes on Zenshin’s brows. “Then, if I may—” said Tankū, interrogatively representing the opinions of those people. “—Venerable Zenshin, if that is your belief, are you stating that your own faith and Master Hōnen’s faith are the same, one and the same, with not the slightest difference?”

“That is correct.” “If I may speak out of turn—” “Why is that?” “In terms of age, experience, academic standing—between Master Hōnen and Your Reverence, who has only just passed thirty—” “There is no difference.” “How stubborn! Then, between this Tankū’s faith and yours—” “There is no difference whatsoever.” “Faith is one.”

“How can that be?” “I believe this should go without saying at this point,” “Once I received the teaching of other-power faith, I have never been troubled by such questions to this day.” “The reason is that Master Hōnen’s faith, too, is something he possesses through other-power.” “Furthermore, this Zenshin’s faith is also held through other-power—where could there be any difference between these two?” “No—not only between master and disciple, but the faith of the Other-Power gate must be entirely one; I believe there must be no difference.”

However, even with Zenshin's words, none yielded. Reluctantly, the group appeared before Hōnen and sought this resolution. Then Hōnen spoke thus:

“To perceive differences in faith based on individuals is to speak of self-power faith.” “When wisdom, social status, gender differences, and such things are taken as fundamental, faith too comes to be seen as varying according to wisdom and circumstances.” “However, the Other-Power faith of the nenbutsu gate is equally bestowed by the Buddha upon all ordinary beings—whether virtuous or wicked—not something grasped through one’s own wisdom or worldly power.” “Therefore, there should be no difference between Hōnen’s faith and Zenshin’s faith.” “Those who believe in differing degrees of faith—even were you to take this Hōnen’s hand, I doubt we could journey together to the Pure Land...” “Ponder this thoroughly once more.” “Though it may seem I repeat myself endlessly, I shall declare it again here:” “The nenbutsu is the teaching of absolute Other-Power.”

8

Afterward, Zenshin considered such problems on his own. “Seeing how such debates arose even now, few truly understood the true intent of Master Hōnen, who had been expounding the Other-Power nenbutsu to such an extent.” He felt apprehensive.

“At a time when Mount Hiei’s three thousand halls all stretch out hands of persecution, and when Myōe Shōnin of Toganoo hurls such refutations into the world, if even those who should be esteemed disciples close to Master Hōnen still speak thus, the sprout of the Jōdo sect’s truth—having only just cracked open the earth—will be trampled without hindrance.” Indeed, he felt unease. “Even if they revere the same teacher, cling to the same truth, share chambers, and even partake of meals together—they can scarcely be called true companions on the path.” “Though gathered through shared scholarship and interests, their chanted nenbutsu still mingles voices of self-power, other-power, and delusion.”

Now, the so-called Two Teachings of Sagehood and Purity—the old doctrine of the Path of Sages and our new religion—had formed two great currents within Japan’s intellectual world. Having emerged from an era of opposition, they now drew ever closer, poised on the verge of a head-on collision. This was such a critical juncture. Yet in the minds of those within Yoshimizu, such fragile elements must not remain. Resolutely—the substance must become far more robust and clear; their collective beliefs must be unified.

Zenshin keenly felt this. When he tried to express his candid opinion to Master Hōnen, “You’ve conceived this at an opportune moment,” and the next day, it was announced to all those connected to the sect to gather. On that day, Hōnen had divided the seats into two in the largest room of the meditation hall and was waiting for the people to gather. Nearly three hundred followers had gathered.—Seizing the moment, Hōnen, “Today, as you can see, I have divided the seats into two: the Seat of Unwavering Faith and the Seat of Unwavering Practice.—Each of you must now show me, Hōnen, which seat you will take.”

Gasp... The people exchanged glances. No one spoke. No one readily stepped forward to take a seat.

“It seems you all are hesitant. Then I shall go first,” said the man who stood up—it was Shaku Shinkū. Without hesitation, Shinkū sat in the Seat of Unwavering Faith.

“I too…”—continuing thus, the one who sat in the Seat of Unwavering Faith was Dharma Seal Shōkaku of An'yō-in. But—even so—once again, nothing but restless eyes of doubt shifted whitely throughout the hall.

The hall fell silent; no one rose.

Then, a large monk opened the sliding door of the meditation hall and entered with a loud clatter of wooden clogs against the garden stones. “Well,” he called out cheerfully from outside upon seeing the spacious seating arrangement. “Master Zenshin.” “You seem to have taken on the role of scribe there—what exactly is happening today?”

He said this in his still-lingering rough Kantō accent. This was, needless to say, Kumagai Renshōbō. Zenshin, “I wonder—had you not received the notification?” “In truth today—the members of our sect have gathered here and divided into two seats: the Seat of Unwavering Faith and the Seat of Unwavering Practice.” “Oh! In that case—this Renshō must not be excluded from the dharma bond.” “Then I’ll take this seat here first.” Kumagai Renshōbō thudded down—also taking his seat in the Seat of Unwavering Faith.

9 Faith? Practice? Which of the two seats would they choose? (—They are being tested.) Thinking this, the hundreds of disciples seemed even more lost. They swallowed their saliva and remained acutely attuned only to others’ reactions. The hall fell silent,

(I—) Yet there was no one who stepped forward to clearly declare their stance. Kumagai Renshōbō, a Kantō warrior-turned-monk, took his seat in the Seat of Faith without hesitation, but the people— (That man is coarse-nerved. Since Shaku Shinkū and Dharma Seal Shōkaku had already taken seats in the Seat of Faith, he merely followed their example)—so they must have been observing him; rather, they stared at his attitude as if in contempt, yet their own stance remained undecided.

Zenshin, serving as scribe, spread out paper on the desk and gripped his brush, (Of all these disciples—how many truly possess genuine faith?) He waited intently with a fearful heart and earnest interest, gaze fixed unblinkingly for this proof to manifest numerically. —But no one even coughed. Time passed through silence into deeper silence. “?” …… It remained utterly still. —Then faintly—with a soft rustle—the brush in Zenshin’s hand began moving across the paper.

Seat of Faith He signed his name beneath it. Then, after a short pause, “I too shall join the Seat of Unwavering Faith.” “Zenshin, write Master Hōnen’s name in the Seat of Faith.”

It was the Master’s voice. The hundreds of disciples changed their complexions as if struck by a thought. But they felt it was already too late,

“I too thought so, but…”

The disciples suddenly burst into commotion, exclaiming things like, “No—I too, in my heart—”

The test of whether it was Unwavering Faith or Unwavering Practice had now become clear. Those who had taken their seats in the Seat of Faith ultimately: Dharma Seal and Great Monk Rank Shōkaku, Shaku Shinkū Hōren, Kumagai Renshōbō, And—

Zenshin (Shinran)

Hōnen

And so, there were only five individuals. Among the hundreds of gathered disciples, it was made clear that only this few had truly grasped faith. The rest were likely people who, even if they chanted the nenbutsu and even if they registered in the gate of Other-Power, still had some small vestige of self-power clinging to them. Whether they were unable to shed the shell of the old teachings, or their discipline was shallow—in any case, they were people who could not become perfectly clear, down to the depths of their being, in the nenbutsu itself. Zenshin, in his heart,

“Can one truly say that religion thrives in this age?” he sighed. “The Nenbutsu sect—viewed as burgeoning enough to draw envy from old-school Buddhists—” But Hōnen,

(That was only natural.) As if it were a matter of course, he gazed down upon the clamoring disciples—without lamentation, without joy—with his customary eyes.

10 The monastic community of Mount Hiei thereafter proclaimed victory over what they saw as Yoshimizu’s surrender—celebrating the seven-article oath bearing Hōnen and his disciples’ names—yet some among them warned, “That is their ploy,” while others, hearing reports that “Yoshimizu’s Nenbutsu practitioners were tightening their unity of faith, with external disciples multiplying steadily,” deemed it intolerable. Rekindling their innate jealousy, they fomented suppression, persecution, slander, and every form of backlash, ultimately petitioning the imperial court to “halt the Nenbutsu.”

Meanwhile—Myōe Shōnin of Toganoo refuted Hōnen’s *Senchaku Hongan Nenbutsushū* and other doctrines from an academic standpoint, stirring significant public discourse within scholarly circles—

(Now was the time.) "(Take advantage of this scheme—strike them down!)" came coordinated voices from those who responded. The eyes of society too— "(The Nenbutsu sect’s tribulations have come at last)," they murmured, fearing for Yoshimizu Hermitage’s safety, anxiously wondering what would unfold, watching uneasily as these two great ideological currents collided head-on.

In fact—even among the reliable senior disciples at Yoshimizu, there were those who gradually began to waver,

“Lately, no one’s face could be seen at all,” they would whisper together—and the one who had whispered these words would, by the next day, “For a time, I would like to return to my hometown and devote myself to faith and study in my home mountains, but…” Day by day, those who fabricated excuses—such as “My elderly parents back home have suddenly fallen ill”—and left Yoshimizu began to depart in growing numbers. In particular, among those who were tested in the two Seats of Unwavering Faith and Unwavering Practice and had their shallow, obscured faith exposed, there were some who felt secret displeasure; without stating reasons, they gradually withdrew.

To Yoshimizu, already in such a state, yet another sudden dharma enemy emerged from one direction—("Crush the heretics!")—a faction that raised waves upon waves of turmoil.

It was the monks of Nara’s Kōfuku-ji and Kaedatsu Shōnin of Kasagi, whom those monks revered as the living buddha of their time.

Kōfuku-ji Memorial They drafted this document, submitted it to the imperial court, and exhaustively listed what they termed the crimes of Yoshimizu Hermitage. The charges comprised nine articles, commencing with the first count of proclaiming heretical teachings, --The crime of privately distributing new iconography (Mandala of Uninterrupted Embrace)

--The crime of disparaging Shakyamuni --The crime of abandoning all good deeds --The crime of betraying the deities --The crime of subverting the state

And so on—each article enumerated one by one—with Kaedatsu Shōnin recording his detailed opinions for every count, compiling the entire text into a scathing treatise advocating the eradication of the Nenbutsu. Yoshimizu was now, quite literally, besieged on all sides. Mount Hiei attacked through institutional authority; Toganoo assailed from doctrinal grounds; And now the monks of Nara, targeting the propagation methods of the Nenbutsu sect, gathered every criticism from this angle and moved thoroughly to deal Yoshimizu its final blow.

11

But even so. Where fierce movements to overthrow the nenbutsu arose in one sphere, there were likewise no small number of its supporters across society. “No matter what he hears, the Master of Yoshimizu listens as though it were another’s concern—” Many in unexpected quarters grieved over this.

Moreover, at this very moment, Mount Hiei had submitted its petition to the imperial court, and the monks of Nanto were enumerating the evils of nenbutsu and urging its suppression in council deliberations— The question of whether to accept both petitions was being raised daily in the political deliberations of the high-ranking court nobles. These individuals—such as Ōimikado Tsunemune (grandson of Sesshō Morozane of Kyōgoku), Sadaijin Kanesue of Kasan-in, Taifu Takanobu of Kyōgoku, Minbukyō Norimitsu, and Hyōbukyō Mototsune—had long been devotees of Hōnen and were also politically...

"They held the opinion that 'While matters of discourse may be one thing, forceful petitions and slanderous attacks aimed solely at suppressing a new religion should not be rashly elevated to imperial governance by invoking sovereign authority,' as they attended the council deliberations." "Of course, there were also not a few court nobles who sided with Mount Hiei, those who supported Nanto’s arguments, and those who resonated with Myōe Shōnin’s doctrines; thus, the two ideological currents split into two political factions, invariably ending in fierce debates."

Thus, when Mount Hiei saw that the council’s policy was not swiftly decided, "(First, crush the schemes of the nenbutsu-aligned court nobles!)" they declared, resorting to their usual tactics—and soon, a warning arrived in the capital: the three thousand monks of the mountain would launch a demonstration carrying the Hiyoshi and Sannō portable shrines. When it came to Mount Hiei’s forceful petitions, it was customary for them to either result in bloodshed or spark some major social incident. "Alas!" Even in the court, there was a look of alarm at these rumors.

However, the nenbutsu-supporting court nobles hardened their stance: “It is Mount Hiei’s attitude that is outrageous. When comparing Hōnen of Yoshimizu to them, which side upholds true Buddhist principles—is this not clear?” The council’s deliberations grew even more vehement, and the conflict between the two factions sharpened from political to emotional.

Observing such perilous developments—

“This was troubling.”

More than anyone else, it was the former regent, Tsukinowa Zenkaku, who secretly grieved in his heart. He had now entirely withdrawn from politics and courtly authority, spending his remaining years quietly as a devotee of Hōnen’s teachings; one of his daughters had married as Zenshin’s wife, while his brother Archbishop Jien—though once Mount Hiei’s abbot—had found the position untenable and descended the mountain.

“Is there no path to reconciliation?” Zenkaku resolved that if he could mediate this great conflict through his own efforts, he would spare no hardship—even should it cost his aged life, he would not regret it. Thus—he dispatched a messenger to request a private meeting with Myōe Shōnin of Toganoo for discussions—and Myōe too returned word of consent. “If it be that venerable master,” Zenkaku clung to a thread of hope—believing that if he could preemptively resolve this crisis through conviction and sincerity, it would bring fortune not merely to Yoshimizu’s sect or Hōnen alone, but eradicate social unrest and prove a boon for the Dharma light of all.

However—an unforeseen major incident erupted from a place no one had anticipated.—It was a demonic fire that spread from the underbelly of society, a place neither Yoshimizu nor its doctrinal enemies had ever dreamed of.

Chapter of Evil People

Matsumushi and Suzumushi

1 According to the calendar, it should already have been called autumn, but the weather remained summer-like. A sky that seemed to have long forgotten rain showed motionless clouds this day too, and the very cosmos appeared a vast embodiment of weariness. This weariness and monotony were named lingering summer heat, with human behavior—indiscretion and listlessness—coming to be seen as natural. Even when gazing down upon the capital from Higashiyama's heights, beneath the blazing sun there were no figures traversing the great roads and bridges; parched townhouse roofs curled upward, the Kamo River's waters had dwindled to a trickle, and the embankment willows appeared only as rows of white-dusted heads bowed low.

Even though it was mid-August, with moon viewing approaching, this year remained thus. ――Change was desired. Indeed, an unrelenting yearning for change was present even in the panting leaves of the trees and in the stems of the dayflowers creeping along the roadside. "What dreadful heat!" "When you walk through mountains like these―the sweat pours out." "Oh… What a waste―my lovely makeup has been completely ruined."

"You as well?" "Hohoho—but still, better than sitting stiffly in formal robes within the palace chambers." "Today has been incomparably more delightful." "Just gazing up at this vast sky so freely—" There were two young noblewomen strolling aimlessly through Higashiyama.

Like small birds released from a cage, these women were carefree and giggled playfully. They had gone to Kiyomizu, they had visited Gion.—And now, they had come down toward Kurodani. One was calling out to the other as "Lady Matsumushi," and Matsumushi was addressing her companion as Matsumushi was addressing her companion as "Lady Suzumushi." Both wore similar attire, but their countenances were different. Matsumushi appeared slightly older, looking around nineteen, and Suzumushi looked about seventeen years old.

The tall, slender one with an oval face was Matsumushi, the elder of the two. Adorable—her expression animated at every turn, deep dimples perpetually gracing her bright countenance—Suzumushi possessed what might be called a face emblematic of the age. "Oh!" Suzumushi cried out softly upon reaching a certain gate. "Lady Matsumushi—what could have happened? The oxcart is nowhere in sight." "Oh... Truly?"

“Where on earth could that carefree oxcart driver have gone?” “Since he seems a bit hard of hearing, perhaps he misheard our words telling him to come here and wait—maybe he’s gone off to some outlandish place to take a leisurely nap while waiting.” “That may be the case.” Suzumushi furrowed her lovely brows— “What would you like to do?”

“Let’s walk.”

“Aren’t you tired yet?” “Not at all.”

The two set out walking again, tracing the shade beneath the trees. They were not daughters of townspeople. Yet they did not appear to be daughters of samurai families either. From how they constantly delighted in this bright open air here and there, and genuinely marveled at the street scenes and blueness of the sky—one could tell they were people accustomed to circumstances that kept them mostly indoors. Not lowly like townspeople’s women, and given those living such a life—ultimately, these two must surely be ladies-in-waiting serving within the imperial court. The names Matsumushi and Suzumushi made perfect sense as court names.

“—Lady Suzumushi, where shall we go now?”

“Hmm? …Anywhere.”

“Returning to the palace is still too early…” she said, gazing up at the scorching sun in the sky. “Somehow, I feel reluctant to let even a single moment slip away.”

II “Since we’ve been granted this rare day off today, why don’t we walk as much as we can for the entire day?” The younger Suzumushi, saying this, let the dusty wind toy with her gauze veil while running about childishly and scooping water from a roadside spring with her hands, “Oh, that’s cold!” And then—

“Can I drink this?” she asked, tilting her adorable head and looking at her friend. “Hohoho.” “Since there’s no one around to see, you can drink however you like without anyone laughing.” When Matsumushi said this,

“Well then,” Suzumushi scooped it up with her hands, wet her face from her lips with the droplets, and wiped her face with the edge of her veil.

Such things were effortlessly enjoyable for the two of them. The daily life of the imperial court—the inner palace existence—had become entirely ritualized and superficialized; those living there were nothing more than beautiful, well-mannered dolls. Thus, the two women felt a joy akin to sheep released onto open fields. “...Oh, Lady Matsumushi, you’re telling nothing but lies.” “Why?” “You said no one would pass by, yet look how many people are trooping off somewhere!”

“It must have been since we came to this crossroads. Do observe—they’re all turning from the same side.” “Where could all these people be going?”

“Toward Shishigatani.”

“What could be there?” “Let’s ask someone.” The two stood in the shade of the trees to avoid the sun, gazing at the passersby. There were men in servants’ hakama, townspeople with sweat-stained eboshi hats hurrying along, children, elderly people, women with their hair tied up—and among them mingled samurai solemnly bearing tachi swords and figures who appeared to be wives from respectable households. As they drew closer to the foothills of Nyoi-ga-take, their numbers had increased each time they emerged from tree-lined avenues, narrow lanes, and crossroads. And like ants, they continued along the road in the same direction.

“Excuse me,” Matsumushi softly inquired of a woman who was also walking along, sweating. “Um—today, is there something happening in the direction everyone is heading?” The woman wiped the sweat at her hairline with her sleeve and stared intently at Matsumushi and Suzumushi. “—You are ladies from the imperial court, are you not?”

“Oh,” Matsumushi answered in a small voice, feeling her own stature shrink under the gaze of this fellow woman whose eyes brimmed with a raw vitality so unlike her own.

“—Well then, it’s only natural you wouldn’t know. Today, Master Hōnen of Yoshimizu has specially come to Shishigatani to perform a blessed devotional service for us.” “Ah… Yoshimizu’s—” “Are you familiar with him?”

“Even within the palace, we have often heard the rumors, though.”

“That’s why everyone is heading to Shishigatani like this.” Lest they be late—with steps hurried enough to betray her anxious heart—the woman said this and walked ahead of the two.

III

Now that they knew this—as they listened to the words spilling from the mouths of those passing by on the road— “What a crowd.” “Well, you see, this is the first time since spring we’ve laid eyes on Master Hōnen’s revered form—he’s been gravely ill since winter.” “Has he fully recovered then?” “Given his age, he likely won’t recover fully.” “But Master Hōnen’s got such noble resolve—sparing no thought for himself, disregarding illness for all beings’ sake. That’s why he’s pushing through to appear.”

“In this heat—” “What a waste!”

“But if Master Hōnen were to see so many people gathering today for this Exclusive Nenbutsu, drawn by his virtue—surely that would fulfill his deepest wish.” “Only those from Mount Hiei and the Nanto temple monks would begrudge this.” “Hush now...” “Don’t speak so recklessly—you can see monks among us.” “Whatever they say, we’re Nenbutsu sect followers now. Since converting, both body and spirit feel unburdened—” “In my case, my wife led the way—she convinced me to first hear teachings from Yoshimizu. But looking back now—had Master Hōnen’s voice never reached these ears—I’d still be gambling through nights, drowning in drink, neglecting my trade...living some brutish truncated life that doomed my poor wife to misery.” Just as one pondered such folk—on the other hand—

“At today’s Betsuji Nenbutsu, will Venerable Jūren and Venerable Anrakubō also give talks?” “Oh, since those two venerables always reside at Shishigatani, they’re certain to appear today.” “Whenever I hear Venerable Anrakubō speak, my heart softens like an infant’s—and for days afterward, it feels so pure.” “But shouldn’t that state last longer than mere days?” There was also a cluster of young women sharing their joy with remarks like, “But we’ve only just begun nenbutsu practice—our days are still too few to expect more.”

When Matsumushi saw the radiant faces of those people, (How enviable...) she thought sincerely. Compared to ourselves, who did nothing but worry about the time to return to the palace and feared the shortening daylight as though life itself were shrinking— (They were so vibrant with life), she thought.

(Their vigorous lives and our own motionless daily existence in the dim recesses of the palace, like a faded mural—) Comparing them like this, she could not help but think.

The two were young. Restlessly, today their young blood, dreams, and all the facets of their youth had broken free from the constraints of daily life and burst forth from their skin.

“Lady Suzumushi.” “Shall we go?” “Yes.”

The two walked absentmindedly, following the white dust drifting along the street and the footsteps of the crowd.

When they came to the foot of Shishigatani, the place was enveloped in summer groves and the cool chorus of cicadas, but the number of people on the single mountain path was so great that there was not a gap to drive a spike.

Cicada Shells

I

Shishigatani—when people of the capital trod upon its summer grasses here and gazed up at the treetops of summer groves, they could not help but recall that tragic social incident from the Jishō era of old—now over twenty years past. On the midslope of this peak, at that time, there was a temple called Jūrenzan Anrakuji—previously known as Hōshōji—and it was none other than the aforementioned Archbishop Shunkan who resided there as his mountain villa.

The prosperity of the Taira clan at that time remained the stuff of legend to this day, just as— —This world— This world—I think it is my own, this full moon’s— When I think there is not a single flaw— the worldly prosperity of Fujiwara no Michinaga, who had composed this poem, seemed almost foolish in comparison.

Shunkan was a man of deep feeling. The Taira clan’s tyrannical conduct—this man could not countenance as ordinary. He conspired with dissident nobles like Shin-Dainagon Narichika and Taira no Hangan Yasuyori, rallied support for the Cloistered Emperor, and convened repeatedly at this mountain villa, (To overthrow the Taira clan)—such was their plotted scheme. Yet misfortune struck when those of the still-ascendant Taira house—radiant as the rising sun—unearthed their plans before execution. Nearly all who had frequented the villa met harsh punishment or exile to distant lands.

Shunkan was bound, paraded through the capital, subjected to every humiliation and the Taira clansmen’s spittle, then exiled to Kikaigashima—

Since then. This mountain with its accursed history stood uninhabited. For over twenty years, Hōshōji Temple's villa had been left to decay under rain and wind, and even after the demise of the Taira clan who once ruled supreme, not a single Dharma lamp burned there.

Then, unexpectedly, a few years ago, people began visiting this Shishigatani as well. The capital's residents— (What's this?) they wondered—for before they knew it, even at night, a speck of light had begun to appear in the pitch-dark sky of the eastern capital. (Who could it be?) It naturally became the talk of the town. When curious onlookers looked into it, they discovered that two young monks had recently taken up residence there. They repaired the dilapidated floor of Hōshōji Temple, thatched its roof with reeds, built a simple hut beside it, and before long, the bell for morning and evening devotions began to toll.

(Young yet so devout), they thought—and those who brought offerings, flowers, and votive lights increased in number; day by day, Hōshōji Temple’s altar returned to its original state of over twenty years prior, (The Venerable Jūren of Shishigatani) "(The young Venerable Anraku)"—by now, there was no one who did not know of him. When investigating the origins of these remarkable—young monks, it was found that both had formerly been North Face Guards; one had previously been called Kiyohara no Jirōzaemon, and the other had gone by the name Abe no Jirō Morihisa.

And then, through some karmic connection, these two deeply took refuge in Master Hōnen’s new teachings, entered his order, discarded their swords to become monks, and at the same time,

"For the sake of this teaching," they had devoted themselves to spreading it with such fervor that they would cast aside even their own lives. And the revival of the abandoned temple at Shishigatani was none other than a work born from the passion of these two sincere young men who wished to raise even one more lamp of the nenbutsu's flame in this society.

II Those who stood on the front lines of proselytization were always directly exposed to real society and their doctrinal adversaries, and precisely because of this—

“What’s Mount Hiei?” “Nara, Takao—aren’t they all just relics of the past, blinded by the old teachings and shut away in their ivory towers?” Jūren and Anraku were strong-willed. The more persecution they faced, the stronger they became. Thus, while they kept the people as their ultimate focus, opposition from the old teachings might as well have been invisible. “Society moves forward!” declared one. “What right have those who slumbered for centuries—millennia—to speak in this living world?”

“That’s right—we alone are now the people’s sole object of hope.” “We should just ignore those things and keep forging new lands of hope for the people,” declared the other, raising his eyebrows. They were two men of such resolve.

The more people gathered around them, deeply impressed by their conduct and wisdom and coming to admire them, the more fervently these young pioneers devoted themselves to ascetic practice with a mindset of "Behold this reality!" —Taking the people's joy as their own—here, truly akin to the Pure Land itself, laypeople's actual lives and Buddhist disciples' religious works blended seamlessly into one, so that even in the tolling of a single bell's note, human joy overflowed and spread across the capital.

“It’s higher than it looked from below.” Matsumushi, her face faintly flushed and pearly sweat streaming down, grasped the roots of bamboo grass along the path. “But this much…” Suzumushi said, panting while putting on a brave front—though even she seemed to find it absurd, “Hohoho.”

They wiped their sweat with their outer robes. Those climbing up from behind steadily overtook them. Each time this happened, the two contemplated their physical frailty and the unnaturalness of their secluded court life—akin to perpetual shade—through the sensations of their own skin and heartbeat. How wonderful it would be—how full of purpose life would feel—if every day they could work here in these mountains, under this sky, in places where free winds blew, sweating as they labored, they thought. “Oh—the bell is tolling. —Lady Matsumushi.”

“Indeed… The Betsuji Nenbutsu ceremony must have already begun.”

“Let’s go.” Their sweat was a joy. The weariness of their legs was also a delight. Their skin—usually wrapped in silk and leading a feeble existence behind curtains—had by chance awakened to true vitality and met the refreshing mountain wind. It was bathed in natural air. The two seemed not to regard it as painful at all, no matter how high or treacherous the path to Shishigatani might be. “Ah…” When they reached Hōshōji Temple’s front, the place was already packed with people. The hall’s upper level, lower level—even the corridor corners— Then Suzumushi—

“Oh, over there—” Suzumushi murmured, leaning her face close to Matsumushi’s and pointing with a smile, as if she had spotted someone’s figure.

III “Look… At the edge of that hall… They must have come.” “Who?” “Lady Bōmon.” “Ah… It really is.” “Beside her chamber, there seem to be three or four more ladies-in-waiting.” “Huh…” “It appears those people come here all the time.” “They’re talking quite familiarly with the monks.” As the two stood outside whispering like this, the crowd inside the hall gradually pressed closer together until a kind voice from within called out—

“Now, those standing outside, please come in one after another. —There’s room to sit.” Suzumushi looked at Matsumushi’s face, “What shall we do?” “Shall we go in?” “Okay, okay.” The two of them, harboring a sense of shyness and fear amidst the stifling heat of the crowd, quietly sat down beneath a corner pillar. They squinted as if dazzled and looked toward the front—

There, Buddhist lamps blazed as fiercely as the midsummer sun scorching the earth outdoors, their flames no less intense. The two felt no surprise at the inner sanctuary’s orderly arrangement or the altar’s placement, but they were astonished by both the lamps’ hue and the fervent eyes of commoners packed tightly about them.

(Do this many people in the world truly wish to hear Master Hōnen’s teachings?) they wondered, harboring even such a strange doubt.

And then, they secretly felt a sense of guilt—as though they were doing something wrong, something inexcusable—for having slipped into this place on a light whim, merely as an afterthought to their excursion. “Ah, how cool.” Suddenly, Suzumushi murmured this, and Matsumushi realized that her own skin’s sweat had long since dried—

("What coolness this is...") she murmured with deep feeling, narrowing her eyes.

The wind through the trees, resembling the sound of waves, blew in here in full force. The verdant scent of pine could be felt. And even the twinkling of countless star-like lamps flickering before the altar appeared cool and refreshing. About ten monks came out, lined up their backs, and were chanting sutras. The sound of the kei reverberated through the valley. And from the valley too, the voices of sutras and the sound of the kei returned as echoes.

Before they knew it.

Then, from someone—no one knew who—

The chanting of the nenbutsu began. Na…mu…a…mi…da…butsu. ――With each utterance of the six syllables, hundreds and thousands of human souls seemed cleansed one by one―clarified from non-obstruction and selflessness into pure mindlessness―as the nenbutsu repeated amidst rustling trees. “……” Suzumushi stared dazedly into space.

Then, she quietly peeked at Matsumushi’s face,

Suzumushi cast a look that seemed to say, "Shall we go back?" but since Matsumushi was staring intently at something, she appeared to hold herself back. Is this what the Nenbutsu sect was like?

Matsumushi, momentarily seized by curiosity, had at first been observing it all as a bystander, but when she noticed that the young lady-in-waiting beside her, the old woman, and even the townsmen were all equally pressing their palms together in devotion and chanting the Name with single-minded focus, she felt as though she alone was creating a void within this vast hall, somehow left behind.

IV

“…Lady Matsumushi.” “Huh?” “It’s boring. Let’s go back.”

"But we came all this way..." Part of her wanted to rise from her seat, yet another part resisted leaving. "Let us at least hear Master Hōnen's talk before going."

“Well…” With a reluctant expression, Suzumushi waited for just that. The chanting of the nenbutsu—which she thought, *I wish they’d stop soon…*—continued so long afterward that their legs grew numb. At first, they thought only of light regrets, (I wish we hadn’t come) they had thought, but gradually those in front, those behind, and those beside them—indeed all people in this hall—became so unified as to seem almost a single personality repeating the nenbutsu chant until Suzumushi too before she knew it,

("Na...mu...a...mi...da...butsu") Murmuring this under her breath with a slightly awkward hesitation, Matsumushi too began to imitate her,

"Na...mu...a...mi..." she began chanting, then looked down and laughed faintly. But—even if only in jest—unless they murmured something under their breath, they felt their presence as outsiders among the surrounding people, (Don’t laugh)—they quietly exchanged glances that seemed to scold each other—

“Na…mu…a…mi…da…butsu.” “Na…mu…a…mi…da…butsu…” they recited. At first, the Name—tangled on their tongues and emerging only unnaturally—had, before they knew it, become something both Suzumushi and Matsumushi repeated with ease. Not only that—suddenly, like the moon’s reflection emerging upon the water’s surface, within their slightly clarified hearts, their own souls—which even they themselves had not known—began to be faintly felt.

The nenbutsu was not coming from their lips.—At first, it had been merely their lips moving, but before they knew it, the sound from their lips had vanished, and the souls in the depths of their hearts were now the ones reciting it. The true form of humanity. Matsumushi and Suzumushi vaguely began to sense that their current selves had become something close to that.

(Could there have been such an honest self within me?) she wondered, to the point of re-examining herself. Logical reasoning and petty cleverness did not function during that time. Without reason, human-like joy and strength welled up in their bodies. At first, they found the sight of the surrounding people—chanting the Name without self or others—amusing, but then the light of life settled in peace within them came to appear noble. “It’s Master Hōnen—” “It’s Master Hōnen’s talk.”

Even as those around her had already ceased their nenbutsu chanting, stretching toward the front with a faint stir of commotion, Matsumushi still kept her palms pressed to her chest, head bowed, continuing to recite the Name. “Lady Matsumushi. The Dharma talk is starting.” Alerted gently by Suzumushi, she seemed to notice for the first time and raised her face, but on her eyelashes glistened something like tears.

That Light・This Light

I

The intense summer sunlight already filtered thinly through the trees nestled in the mountain’s embrace. The sound of cicadas changed into the crying voices of evening cicadas. The interior of the vast hall was dark with the crowded figures of people―yet it was so quiet one could hardly perceive that so many were present. Seated on the dais, Master Hōnen was continuing his Dharma talk for nearly an hour and a half now―. That voice alone could be heard—flowing strongly, lowly over the hushed sentient beings, yet haltingly, pressing upon them with a boundless inner strength that seemed to rise from unfathomable depths.

(He seems frail lately—) (With that frail body, how does he manage such a voice—) Each time his speech paused, the people would catch their breath and gaze intently at Hōnen’s form.

He was already seventy-four years old. Lately, he had grown so thin that anyone could notice, yet those tea-colored eyes alone remained as keen and bright as ever. On top of that, there were snow-white eyebrows resembling clusters of silkworm cocoons. Over his form, he wore a hemp kasaya of pale brown.—At first, having sat there, “Today, I shall speak on a portion of the Sutra on the Merits of Monastic Life,” he began in gentle, informal words—just as two disciples approached from either side with large fans and started to fan their master’s sleeves—but...

“Unnecessary…” As he shook his head lightly,

“Yes…” they said apologetically and retreated. Then, they wrung out a cloth in clear water and quietly offered it to his side, or prepared cooled roasted barley tea; however, throughout the long talk, he never once partook of them. As the eyes of the listeners were so fervent, almost devouring, Master Hōnen too seemed to have completely forgotten his own physical strength and health. The disciples, in the shadows, (Isn’t this too much for him?) they fretted anxiously, but there was no stopping it now.

The talk on the Sutra on the Merits of Monastic Life had now entered into an illustrative story: the Buddha, having entered the kingdom of Vaiśālī with his disciple Ānanda, was observing the lifestyle of its prince and lamenting— “It was exactly meal time. Having gone to the castle of Vaiśālī, the Buddha begged for food. Within the castle walls was a prince by the name of Yūgun. —The Buddha had come. Did that famous Shakyamuni come? Yūgun must have thought that the Buddha having asked for food at his household was a matter of pride. When he said this, he personally went out to greet,

“Please,” he said, and welcomed them into a lavishly decorated chamber within the castle walls. He had the women of the inner palace apply cosmetics, adorn themselves with jewels, play music, and serve platters heaped with rare delicacies from land and sea. The Buddha’s expression showed no pleasure. He partook little of the food. When night came, Prince Yūgun lit a hundred *koku* of oil in the nightless pavilion, their revelry oblivious to dawn’s approach.

Observing him and the lives of the women of the inner palace surrounding him, the Buddha summoned his disciple Ānanda the next day and declared thus.

“…………”

Matsumushi and Suzumushi both kept their eyes fixed on the Master, as if they themselves were being spoken of.

Of course, the Master’s eyes had no way of knowing whether they were there or not. Only the sentient beings gathered here and the current state of the broader actual society were his focus.

II Because the talk was gentle, clear, and close to their own lives, not only Matsumushi and Suzumushi but all those listening to the Dharma were engrossed. "—To Ānanda, the Buddha said, 'Ānanda, how do you view the people of this castle?' This was what he had been asked. 'I find it despicable.' To Ānanda’s answer—was the Buddha still dissatisfied? He declared thus: 'I know this: those who indulge in the pleasures of the five desires will inevitably meet their end before long."

This person (Prince Yūgun), day and night embracing the beautiful consorts of the inner palace upon the tower, indulged in sensual desires without limit. I declare: This person shall surely after seven days cast aside such pleasures and family, and without fail meet death. Thus it was prophesied. And, "O Ānanda! Should such a person not cast aside desires and delusions—should they not renounce the world—they shall assuredly fall into hell." When Ānanda heard the Buddha’s words—resolving he must save him, holding that spiritual benefit in his heart—he visited the prince once more.

When the prince saw that he had returned again, “A good friend has come! Teach me the Buddha’s teachings!” However, Ānanda, wanting to bestow great benefit upon him there, remained silent and answered nothing. The prince repeatedly implored Ānanda to preach the Dharma, but as Ānanda remained silent as if mute, he finally became crestfallen and— “Great Sage, you hold the Dharma treasury and benefit all sentient beings. What grudge do you bear that you alone refuse to preach the Dharma to me?”

Then, Ānanda opened his mouth for the first time and solemnly declared: "Hearken well."

“After seven days, thou shalt indeed die.” He delivered the Buddha’s words exactly as they were and departed. The prince laughed. Then, somehow, he began to feel discontented and joyless. Yet even so, he could not bring himself to knock at the Buddha’s gate and beg for teachings. Tormented, the seventh day arrived. “O Buddha.” “Save me.”

The prince ran to Buddha’s knees and wailed. The Buddha preached to him, taught him, and bestowed pure precepts for one day and one night. Indeed, Prince Yūgun’s ugly corpse died on the seventh day. “And the newly born one was a pure, single life that, together with the Buddha and Ānanda, possessed a form capable of bathing in this world’s true light…” Having concluded this illustrative tale, Hōnen,

“Now then—” he brought the discussion to the current state of society.

Among the people of today, is there not anyone being eroded by such pitiable, empty lives? No—rather than gazing at others, let us first examine ourselves. The prolonged warfare had, before one knew it, receded into distant memory; the Taira clan rose, the Taira clan fell, and people—while sensing life’s impermanence—pursued fleeting pleasures and became trapped in nihilism. Who could fathom how this tendency had sapped the people’s vitality today? This was not merely a malady of the nation but the lamentable condition of each individual soul. As humans, can we claim to have fully exhausted the “joy of being born” by treating such wretched, transient dreams as brief? At the same time, can we say we have fulfilled the mission entrusted at birth—our duties, our reason for living?

Three Pleasure, amusement - humanity’s endless greed. In particular, how do lust and vanity and such things erode human truth and life’s fullness for mankind?

And is it not trivial?

And how fleeting—moment upon moment?

Hōnen, like a youth, spoke fervently from the Sutra on the Merits of Renunciation, his cheeks flushed. For over two hours—there was no person, whether high or low, who lacked pleasures and the Five Desires. Moreover, few were those who appropriately incorporated the measure of these Five Desires—like medicinal doses for life—into their daily existence. The people who had been listening intently “Ah...” When they finally lifted their faces from self-reproach with sighs, the hall had already grown utterly dark. The Master’s form now seemed as limp as raw cotton, his disciples supporting him as he was led into the chamber of rest.

The tolling of bells and qing chimes—and under the brightly relit lamps, lotus petals were fluttering down. Gradually, within the hall, empty seats began to spread. The people who had been there were leaving. After the people had risen, the color of the blue evening sky lingered faintly.

“…………” The sound of the evening cicadas’ chirping was like rain. Matsumushi and Suzumushi had forgotten to rise.

“…………” The two of them had remained motionless with bowed heads since earlier, clutching in their chests something suddenly too vast to contain—tears alone streaming down first in disarray. (If someone were to see these faces—) Thinking so, they could not lift their faces, nor did they wish to leave this place for a long time. They had been struck by a great impulse. Each word from Hōnen had pierced them to the core—indeed, today’s tale of Buddha, Ānanda, and the prince resembled the castle they dwelled in—no, rather, that very Imperial Palace itself.

Those who indulge in pleasure, vanity, and all manner of desires without respite shall surely meet their demise on the seventh day—

Did the Buddha truly say such a thing, I wonder? No—those were not the Master’s words. That is written in the sutras—the very voice of the Buddha. (The voice of the Buddha—) Matsumushi felt a joy so intense she could have leapt into the air. Tears of gratitude overflowed at the serendipity of being able to hear—now and with her own ears so vividly—the voice of a sage from thousands of years past. (What a self I was!) Comparing her self before climbing up to Deer Valley and—her self after sitting here—she thought.

—And suddenly, she found herself loathing the thought of returning to that life in the palace. Whenever she saw the twilight lamps, countless ugly things from there would rise before her mind’s eye, (But I have to return)—when she thought this, her feet grew all the more reluctant to move. Suzumushi, too, seemed to feel the same way. That Suzumushi—the one who was always laughing and frolicking—now descended the stairs with a deep, motionless gaze, searched for her footwear, and began walking in silence toward the dark earth.

—Then, a young monk who had been rolling up the straw mat in the corridor,

“Oh…” he called out.

Four “Is it not Lady Matsumushi?” Earlier, he had approached with these words, smiling familiarly as he drew near, but— “Who might you be?” Matsumushi could not recall. Even Suzumushi could not remember the young monk. The young monk came to their side and performed a courteous bow,

“I am Anrakubō,” he said. Even then, as the two still wore doubtful expressions, “I now reside here in Deer Valley with my dharma companion Jūren, and today we were fortunate to welcome our teacher from Yoshimizu and hold a grand Dharma assembly. But long ago, I had occasion to accompany my teacher and visit the Retired Emperor’s Palace.” “On that occasion, I had the honor of meeting you, my lady, and Lady Suzumushi as well.”

“Oh… If you say so.” She seemed to have finally understood,

“I remember now.” Matsumushi’s face flushed with unaccountable shame. “Allow me to introduce Jūren.” Anrakubō briefly withdrew and soon returned with his companion Jūren. The figures of these two vigorous young men—their warrior-trained bodies paired with keen intellect—instantly captured the hearts of the two women.

Before long, the two were descending the mountain, but both had become strangely silent. When they stood on the bank of the Kamo and looked back, two small lights still remained on the mountain—as if the eyes of Jūren and Anrakubō were calling out from there. At the same time, both Matsumushi and Suzumushi imagined the life in the inner palace they would have to return to and the color of the lamps there, and their hearts grew all the darker.

“What hour is it now, Lady Matsumushi?” “Well…” “It’s gotten so late, Lady Matsumushi.” “What sort of excuse should I give, I wonder?” Suzumushi already seemed to have her heart pained by that worry.

The strictness of the Imperial Palace’s discipline went without saying. Moreover，the imperial harem was a cage of chastity. Matsumushi，too，found her feet refused to move，as suspicious eyes and needle-like words from elderly ladies-in-waiting and officials pierced her mind even before she returned. Whether stepping out briefly or returning home，when they contemplated life in that palace where such anxieties never lifted，they— —they sighed in regret，wondering why they had ever entered those gilded halls.

"(Why did I ever return to the Imperial Palace?)" she sighed with regret. In her days living in the townhouses, she had admired the Inner Palace of the Imperial Court as a place of such elegance and peace, where women’s happiness was gathered. ――And now, having become the most envied favored consort among its many women, one who had even received the Retired Emperor’s affection, when she looked back on it, her past longing was nothing more than the naive dream of a young girl.

To be sure, in outward appearance alone, they were adorned with jewels, clad in figured silk, and lived a life straight out of poetry and art—yet the Retired Emperor, whose temperament was so fierce he could not fully entrust even matters of governance to the current Emperor, imposed upon the women of the rear palace hardships too delicate to voice. Moreover, among the ladies-in-waiting and female officials surrounding the imperial consorts, there were factional rivalries and spiteful jealousies—coldly distorted glances exchanged in the shadows, ceaselessly waging entrenched curses and battles amidst proper decorum—a near-constant occurrence from dawn till dusk.

“Ah…” When Matsumushi murmured this, Suzumushi walked on with her head bowed, heaving a heavy sigh.

Yūkan Palace

I

It was November of that year.

The Retired Emperor Go-Toba of the Sento Palace decreed a pilgrimage to Kumano and made an imperial procession along the Kii Road. A drizzle that seemed unsure whether to fall had wet the road, but by the time the imperial palanquin departed from the Imperial Palace, the winter sun was shining, creating a beautiful scene fit for an auspicious departure with a rainbow on the verge of forming. The capital was filled with crowds of people who had come to witness the imperial procession, forming lines everywhere. Young girls and young men, “If only I could serve in that imperial palanquin for even a single day,” they murmured with both longing and resignation toward life above the clouds, afterward exchanging desolate glances at their own commoner destiny.

When the Retired Emperor was away, the Sento Palace embraced a great emptiness, "Ah, with this..." They were relieved, "With no official duties, what are we to do starting tomorrow?"

After four or five days, the ladies-in-waiting found themselves at a loss with boredom and loneliness. They would quickly grow bored of games like fan-tossing, backgammon-like board games, and poetry-matching contests; rumors of the men they had caught glimpses of here and there only made their circumstances—which they could not control—all the more painful, and to fall in love required even more courage than a bandit would need. Even so, when midnight fell, a man’s scent lingered somewhere in the ladies-in-waiting quarters. Under the impossibly high wall, there were mornings when a man's shoes lay fallen.

To make matters worse, likely taking advantage of the Retired Emperor’s absence, a group of four or five young nobles from somewhere banded together and committed the outrageous act of abducting a beautiful lady-in-waiting from the quarters and fleeing.

Yet, strangely enough, the women being abducted never screamed or even attempted to cry out for help in such situations. And before they knew it, they would return to their original quarters, compose themselves, and never speak to others of that terror. The low-ranking guards of the Imperial Guard encountered such incidents almost every night, but with expressions that showed little surprise, they had come to take it for granted to overlook most of them.

“Lady Suzumushi…” “What has made you cry?” When loneliness struck, Matsumushi would surely visit Suzumushi’s chambers; when Suzumushi was overwhelmed by troubles, she would go to Matsumushi’s chambers and confide everything as if to an elder sister.

…

When she suddenly visited there now, Suzumushi was prostrated alone under the lamplight—

“Did that senior lady say something harsh to you again?” She peered in.

“No.” “That’s how it must be—it surely must be so. Precisely because we are so deeply favored under normal circumstances, we become the ones harshly targeted in every matter on such occasions.” “I, too, have bitten my lips many times.” “Especially because you are so gentle.” “I have endured such things in silence, but today they went too far—not only confronting me directly, but someone even composed a mocking poem to slander me until I could no longer endure the humiliation.”

“What sort of reasoning is that?” “Are they claiming I’m involved with Lord Minor Captain of the Hanayashiro House? Someone discarded my hairpin and fan beyond the palace wall as supposed evidence—and now that senior lady claims to have found what she insists is his love letter…” “How vile of them!” “Even now, before everyone…” “Were you publicly shamed?”

“If that were the case, I would make excuses, but they only prick me with needle-like jabs, making me a laughingstock to toy with.” II

It was nothing unusual—the kind of trembling pleas Suzumushi made were things Matsumushi had also experienced many times before. However, Suzumushi did not merely grieve or cry over today’s humiliation alone. She grieved for her own youth, which had to be spent each day amidst such insidious pranks and malicious gazes. “If I stay in this place for years, before long I, too, will become a warped person like that spiteful senior lady. And before long, even I will no longer find it strange. I find it terrifying.” Suzumushi’s words—uttered through trembling tears as she clung desperately—gave even Matsumushi serious pause for thought.

A life devoid of any profound feeling—that alone was painful enough for humans. Looking around this imperial harem—where was there even a shred of true human-like life? In a world that knew neither hunger, nor cold, nor the shedding of sweat, there existed no expression of human kindness, no tears of sympathy, no joy in things. Everything was parched. What abounded was the stench of rotted cosmetics. A thorn wrapped in silk, brocade, and damask. Envious gazes adorned with jewels, and pitfalls. Their leisure consisted of nothing but indulging in carnal desires.

“Don’t cry anymore…” Matsumushi herself was crying as well. They embraced each other, “I won’t cry anymore.” “What would crying do to change this fate?” “I wonder if Shakyamuni Buddha accompanied by Ananda might suddenly come to this imperial palace.” “Indeed, I recall the Buddhist sermon we once heard at Deer Valley.” “What would Shakyamuni Buddha say if He were to grace us with His presence here?” “He would frown.”

“As He once declared in the castle of some prince or other in India, He would surely turn His face away from our lives.” “……Ah, isn’t there any way this can be changed?” “Some way…?” “It’s living.”

“But aren’t we at least alive?”

“No, this is not how humans live.” “We are hollow shells that merely breathe.” “As we heard in the Deer Valley sermon, unless we follow the path of rebirth—going forth to live—true life will never breathe within us.” “Do you think such things?” “I do—whether asleep or awake.” “Lady Suzumushi.” Hugging her tightly, Matsumushi whispered into her ear with hot breath.

“Really.” “Huh? “Really?” “Shall we escape?” “…” Outside the lacquered sliding door came the rustling of silk garments. It must have been one of those terrifying old ladies-in-waiting who patrolled the imperial harem at night. The two girls froze as if their breath had stopped, motionless with eyes tightly shut.

“......You must not let anyone notice. Wait for the right moment.” “Huh…”

“So don’t cry.”

The light there suddenly went out, and Matsumushi, muffling her footsteps, returned to her own room and slept.

Three

During the Retired Emperor’s pilgrimage to Kumano, the imperial palace was left with only those tasked with its upkeep, so no court nobles came to attend at court, and official duties were nearly nonexistent.

Seizing what they saw as their chance, attendants brought wine into their quarters from early evening onward while high-ranking nobles immersed themselves in banquets; meanwhile low-ranking guardsmen would take turns slipping through town gates after their closure each night to seek amusement before returning. Even now one such guardsman had returned from some escapade while masking his liquor-scented breath—but just as he moved toward entering their guard station’s gathering room through its small gate passed two figures exiting with silent swiftness. “Hmm?...” He turned at this unexpected movement and watched them go.

There were two figures. They had their kazuki veils pulled deeply over their heads. On that very night, the sharpened shadow of the crescent moon hung like a naginata blade upon the treetops of a great tree. In the blue moonlight, the kazuki veils shone like figures from a dream.

The two shadows fluttered out of the Imperial Palace like moths—and only then did the man of the Imperial Guard mutter to himself. “Even the ladies-in-waiting must be longing for men on a night like this.” “……But sneaking around is one thing—if they start using the imperial gate as an open lovers’ path, that’d be a problem.” “No matter what, that’d be trouble for us in our duties.”

Then, after entering the Imperial Guard’s station and laughing boisterously with his fellow guardsmen, a subordinate official from the senior night-duty court noble came rushing over,

“Hey, members of the Imperial Guard!” shouted someone outside. “Hah!”

When the subordinate official opened the small hut, he said with a flustered expression and heaving breath, “Did you see anyone who just left through the imperial gate?”

“Huh? ……Did someone pass through the imperial gate?” “I don’t know.” When one of them said, “I don’t know either.”

“Nor I.” They exchanged dumbfounded looks.

“Hmm, what about the small gate?” “The small gate remains open during evening hours.” “Then there’s no way we could know who went out.”

“For that reason, as we are keeping watch, should there be any suspicious comings and goings, we shall address them.” The man who had just returned from outside recalled the two veiled ladies-in-waiting he had glimpsed in passing— (If I were to say something careless)—he kept his mouth shut and remained silent. The senior night-duty official,

“Then perhaps it was the rear gate,” he muttered and ran off. “What’s going on?”—Before long, the commotion spread like ripples, not confined to the Imperial Guard and senior night-duty chambers but involving even high-ranking nobles and attendants in full force, emerging as a major incident within the Sento Imperial Palace. No—it was not just the outer court officials of the Imperial Palace. The chambers of the imperial harem were also thrown into turmoil. “It seems Lady Matsumushi has disappeared.” “No—not only Lady Matsumushi but Lady Suzumushi has also disappeared together, it seems.”

“What? Both of them?” “What could have happened?” “The high-ranking nobles are declaring they fled.” “My! How bold!”

For the women here who were safely complacent, as long as it did not concern their own selves, it was an eye-opening marvel and a subject of interest.

**Escape**

Part I

They had tied up the hems of their five-layered robes high with cords, exposing their white bare feet. The November earth was frozen solid. Night frost stung their pearl-like feet. Yet the two seemed not to feel either the pain or the cold. “Ah… Lady Matsumushi!” “What happened?” “I stepped on something…” “Huh? You stepped on something?” “It’s a burdock root.”

“Oh, blood—” Matsumushi bent down to Suzumushi’s foot and tore a strip of cloth. Having Suzumushi cling to her shoulder, she bound the younger woman’s foot; the cloth quickly turned crimson with blood. “I’m sorry.” Suzumushi’s eyes welled up, “What a waste,” she repeated. “It’s nothing—we’re in this together.” Supporting Suzumushi’s limping form, they hurried through Tadasu Forest.

When they entered the tree shade, it was pitch dark. Normally, even surrounded by torches, this would have been a path too terrifying to traverse. Yet not only were they wholly unaware of this darkness—they even felt as if a great radiance shone in the distance. Through such simple acts—supporting a companion's arm or walking across frozen earth while spilling blood—the two sensed an overflowing joy of life rising within them. With their entire beings, they came to understand what it meant to live with such urgent intensity.

When they exited the forest, the tawny withered pampas grass revealed a narrow path under slender moonlight. The path gradually sloped upward. At last, Deer Valley drew near. “No one’s pursuing us now—” “Just in time.”

“Ah, what a relief.” “There it is.” “Yes, this is Deer Valley.” They exchanged glances, then exchanged smiles.

One could only imagine how intensely they had yearned for this mountain these past six months. It had been since that day of summer’s Exclusive Nenbutsu Gathering.

“We’ve finally come here. “But now… I feel as though I’ve truly been reborn as a human being.” How well they had managed to escape resolutely, consoling themselves for their courage. Hushed, the winter night pierced with clarity. Closing their eyes and thinking of the past life they had abandoned, they now wondered in renewed amazement how they had endured dwelling there so long.

In that mire of envy and malicious cunning. In a crimson hell swathed solely in lies and vanity.

“Just a little further to the hermitage.” “Let us hurry.” “Is Venerable Jūren present?” Suzumushi frequently uttered Jūren’s name—while Matsumushi found herself inexplicably unable to forget the figure of young Venerable Anraku. They were women; those monks were young men. Thus, one could not think they had risked their lives to abandon the Imperial Palace and flee solely out of devotion to Buddha. It must have been love. It was undeniable that since that evening of the Exclusive Nenbutsu Gathering, Suzumushi had been unable to forget Jūren, nor Matsumushi to forget Anrakubō. Yet this arose from their earnest desire to break free from an ugly existence into true life—using Buddha as their strength and Dharma’s praise as their light—so while love dwelled in their hearts, they might not have recognized it as such. That said, needless to say, neither had yet attained enlightenment profound enough to be called true faith.

Two The mountain villa of Hōshō Temple was closed. By day there were pilgrims visiting and traffic between mountain and town, but at night this entire Deer Valley became a darkness without a single light—a stretch of valleys and peaks where a roar like the sea shook the trees. “Jūren, shall we sleep now?” Anrakubō gazed at the fading embers of the firewood. By the embers’ glow, Jūren had been reading a book. He stretched his spine that had stiffened with concentration, “Hmm... The night has deepened.”

“It’s grown bitterly cold,” said Anrakubō. “Shall we add more?” Jūrenbō suggested. When they fed the hearth more firewood, flames roared up anew. The soot-blackened ceiling glowed crimson. “How time flies,” Jūrenbō murmured. “Years have passed since we came to this deserted villa.” “In those years,” Anrakubō continued, “feeble though our efforts were, we built a Nenbutsu dojo for society—tilled one rice paddy into being.” “When I think on it, it gladdens us both.” “Hmm,” Jūrenbō nodded. “The Buddha must bless our service.—And now our days brim with gratitude’s radiance.”

“These carefree days of tranquil gratitude—I want to somehow make them known to people in this real society shrouded in chaotic dust. I want to share them.—That’s all I can think about.”

“The Venerable of Yoshimizu,” said Anrakubō, “bearing his aged body and even forgetting his own illness, devotes each day without cease to the Dharma—his very feelings are none other than that desire.” Jūren responded, “When I think of the Venerable Master, we may still be too complacent.” “I can’t help but feel it’s somehow wasteful to just warm ourselves by the embers,” Anrakubō murmured. Jūren closed his book with resolve. “Let us strive.” “Hmm.” Anrakubō nodded gravely. “To save others, one must first save oneself.” He rose from the hearth. “I’ll study a bit more.” As Jūren reopened his text, Anrakubō stood and settled before the darkened altar, entering samadhi through nenbutsu.

The only sound that could be heard was the crackling of the hearth fire. Occasionally, the mountain wind would strike with a force that made the shutters bulge, but in the instant after it passed, the silence would return, as still as the realm of death. Abruptly, Jūren raised his eyes,

"Anrakubō," Jūren called out.

“Oh. What is it?” “Is someone knocking on the door of the main hall?” “I see.” He strained his ears, but soon laughed,

“That’s a deer,” said Anrakubō. “You see—the white-haired deer we once caught on this peak must have climbed onto the corridor and gotten up to mischief.” “Is that so?” replied Jūren. Yet moments later, footsteps echoed right outside their hermitage followed by knocking at their door. “Hello…” came a woman’s voice.

For the first time, the two— “Huh? Who goes there?”

“Please open this door.” “We have come with a request.” Hearing a woman’s voice, he grew all the more suspicious as “Where are you from?” he asked hesitantly. “We shall explain once we meet you.” “We are those who have come from the Imperial Palace.” “From…the Imperial Palace?” Jūren hurriedly opened the door.

Three

Through the two-shaku-wide gap of the opened door, the mountain wind blew in carrying sleet, and inside the hermitage, the red flames of the hearth flickered wildly.

“Huh?...” Vividly, two pale faces came into view. All too unsuited were these women for this winter night and this hermitage detached from the world. (Should I close it?) Jūren was suddenly, momentarily tempted to do so—a shiver ran down his back as though he had glimpsed some terrible demon. “Who goes there?......You are” Even his voice had grown sharp without his realizing it. “Have you forgotten…?” said Matsumushi.

“We are Lady Matsumushi and Lady Suzumushi of the Bureau of Palace Attendants, whom you met this summer in the great hall of Hōshō Temple during your Exclusive Nenbutsu devotions.” “Oh.” Jūren peered outside, “Indeed. You are those two from that occasion... Yet what brings you palace attendants along these mountain paths at such an untimely hour of midnight?” “It is precisely to have you hear this that Lady Suzumushi and I have come wholeheartedly. The details shall be shared once admitted inside. We beg you permit us seating, if only at the periphery of this bond.”

Jūren turned around, “Anrakubō, what should we do? …” “What do you mean? Surely not…” “Indeed… We cannot turn away those who have endured such a cold night to come here.” “It cannot be the Buddha’s will.” “Yes.” They whispered something to each other, but soon cast aside their hesitation, “Please.”

They readjusted their manners.

From the supple hands of the two women—resembling those of high-ranking court ladies—as they removed their cloaks, sleet scattered. Both Jūren and Anraku averted their eyes from their fragrantly beautiful figures. For looking at them was simply too painful—their beauty was too overwhelming.

“The sleet appears to have scattered.—You must have been dreadfully cold.” “Pardon me, but where might we find the well water?” “Water?... For what purpose would you deign to use it?” “We need to wash our feet.” “What?... You mean you came barefoot?”

“Yes.” “Barefoot… all the way here…” Both Jūren and Anraku could not help but exchange glances. They had imagined that even if [the women] had come through the night for some urgent reason, [they] would have attendants or a palanquin waiting—but to come barefoot? Moreover—these were high-ranking court ladies who dwelled deep within the Imperial Palace. “This is no ordinary matter!” Jūren directed his eyes toward his friend, but it was already too late. Having allowed them to enter, they could not suddenly close the door now.

Reluctantly, they led the two to wash their feet at the rear waterspout and invited them near the hearth, where Suzumushi—frozen stiff—forgetting both shame and reserve, slid closer to the flames. Matsumushi, too, held out her trembling hands as if to feed them to the split-log fire. Each of her fingers was as beautiful as if seen through a ruby. Anrakubō was gazing at her hands as though they were exquisite masterpieces crafted by a renowned artisan. Jūren remained silent. For a time, the two women were also at a loss for words.

IV

Matsumushi and Suzumushi—

Though their words were prone to trembling and their hearts too full to adequately express their present feelings, the two began to take turns explaining why they had fled the Imperial Palace.

Their motives— Their motives and the six months of agonizing uncertainties and troubles they had endured. Having confessed every falsehood of their former lives to Jūren and Anrakubō, “Please let us remain in this hermitage as your disciples.” When they finished speaking, both threw down their lustrous black hair and wept bitterly. “…………” Jūren and Anrakubō stood dumbstruck at this revelation. That women of the Imperial Palace—nay, ladies-in-waiting who were the Retired Emperor’s favored consorts—had slipped past watchful eyes to reach this mountain retreat was no mere problem. It constituted an outright scandal.

The look of regret—Had we known it would come to this, we should not have let them in—flickered equally across the faces of both Jūren and Anrakubō; yet when they heard the women’s life-risking fervor,

"It must be so," sympathy stirred within them, and soon, faced with the sight of the two women weeping uncontrollably, (How could they coldly cast aside those who so deeply repent their past lives and seek rebirth into true life?) they wondered, tears welling up in both their eyes.

However—they also thought it terrifying. They could not help but shudder at the fact before their eyes. If they were to grant the pair's plea and continue sheltering them in this hermitage—what would become of it? —That was the reality. They knew full well this would lead to disastrous consequences. “?” ……” With arms folded, the two young monks could only exchange sighs. When they saw how unlikely the pair were to accept their life-risking plea, both Matsumushi and Suzumushi—

“Never again can we return to the Imperial Palace.” “If we cannot remain here as well, there is nothing left for us but to die.” They were no longer crying. They had staked their lives from the very beginning. The strength of death at their backs lay in the depths of their eyes. Rather, it was Anrakubō and Jūren who were in disarray.

“This is troublesome…” “Hmm... hmm...” Endless perplexity continued to make them heave heavy sighs, but, “So you are resolved never to return to the Imperial Palace, no matter what?”

“We will not return.”

“However…” When they earnestly tried to persuade them, “No, we understand how reckless our request is, but even knowing full well it would come to this, we left the Imperial Palace driven by feelings we could not suppress…” These women, who possessed both education and common sense—why would they now accept something resembling common sense? Jūren, who had tried to admonish them, instead found himself feeling ashamed. “…Anrakubō. “Let’s step aside for a moment and discuss.”

“Hmm.” “Then, please wait for a moment. We beg your pardon for stepping away, but we will retire to another room to discuss thoroughly and then give you our answer—” With that, the two rose from their seats.

5

Jūren went ahead along the pitch-dark veranda. “Where to?” Anrakubō, suddenly suspicious, asked. “Before the Buddha.” “I see.” The two went along the veranda to Hōshō Temple’s main hall.

There was no light—not even a sign of fire.

In the darkness, the two groped their way to sit in silence before Amida Buddha’s sacred altar. “At times like these,” he said, “there is no better way than to seek Amida Buddha’s guidance before His altar to decide matters.” “You’ve considered this well,” replied the other. “Then… what shall we do?”

“That’s the plan…” There too, heavy sighs came first once more. Jūren’s idea was as follows: first, he would make a thorough attempt to persuade the two women once more; if they still refused to return to the Imperial Palace no matter what, then as a last resort, he would quietly go to appeal to the Imperial Palace officials himself and request that the two be sent back to the inner palace in a peaceful manner—that was his plan. “What?…” …… Anrakubō said disapprovingly of his idea.

“I’m not sure about that. Wouldn’t sending back those two, who have staked their lives, amount to letting them die in vain?” “Then, what was your original idea?” “I want to save them.” “This Jūren also wishes to save them, but there is no way to do so.” “I cannot bear to cast out those who have clung so desperately to this mountain villa.” “So, are you saying we should grant their wish?” “Hmm…”

“That is out of the question!” Jūren strengthened his voice and said, “I am young, and they too are young. Moreover, if we keep two such beauties in this mountain villa that prizes purity—what would society think?” “But since they beg to become disciples,” countered Anrakubō, “are they not prepared to shave off even their lustrous black hair?” “Even so—” Jūren shook his head fiercely in the darkness— “They are women! We are men! And all of us still young!”

“No, no!” Anrakubō’s voice too grew heated in response to his friend’s words. “That way of thinking of yours is precisely the Shōdōmon-style reasoning most abhorred by the Jōdo sect. Our teacher’s teachings make no distinction between men and women—it is in discarding such boundaries that the nenbutsu path finds its novelty and differs from those narrow old doctrines.” “I know. But society—” “Are you seeking society’s approval for this decision—or the Buddha’s will?”

“Hmm,” Jūren stifled his voice, “That does put me in a difficult position,” “Are we not children of faith? Since we take the Buddha’s will as our creed, we can accomplish nothing if we dwell on worldly concerns.” Anrakubō’s passionate words relentlessly pressed down on his friend’s opinion. He wanted to somehow reach out a hand to those two gasping at the abyss of hell, even if it meant enduring some hardship to save them.

“Amida Buddha’s compassion must be equal for all people, no matter who they are.” “If one is swayed by circumstances and situations, they cannot save others—let alone themselves.” “Those women have awakened to that truth, staked their lives, and escaped here.” “How can we not save them?” Tears glistened in his eyes.

Flowers in the Shade

1

After that.

The senior nobles on night duty at the Imperial Palace, the officials of the high-ranking nobles, and others,

“What should be done?” In bewilderment, they lost themselves in the incident, grasping neither course nor plan, spending days mired in confusion and futile searches.

“Before His return,” they had initially been frantic and agonized. However, the whereabouts of Lady Matsumushi and Lady Suzumushi remained utterly unknown since that night.

"There were reports of two suspicious women residing in the Fukakusa area." In response to such information,

When they immediately dispatched Imperial Guard officers to investigate "that," it proved to be sisters from a samurai household residing in the countryside. When an urgent missive arrived from local officials stating, "Two veiled young women hired relay horses and journeyed along the road from Shiga to Hokkokurō,"

“That must be them!” was all they said as the senior nobles on night duty took their samurai and galloped off in pursuit.

"What news?" At the Imperial Palace, they waited in hushed silence—but after four days had passed, according to the exhausted nobles who returned, "When we caught up, lo and behold—it was the daughter of the Echizen steward and her maid!" Those who delivered the news were disheartened, and those who heard it were equally discouraged. —With no other recourse, they abandoned their previous policy of concealing the incident in secrecy and, enlisting the aid of constables from the Ministry of Central Affairs, issued notices from the capital throughout the Kinki region.

At crossroads, they erected notice boards detailing Lady Matsumushi and Lady Suzumushi’s approximate ages and facial features, and announced that anyone who reported their whereabouts to the Retired Emperor’s Guard would be rewarded.

However, seeing those notices, not a single one of the tips that came to the Imperial Guard from the populace proved accurate. "What in the world is this? This will only make matters more troublesome!" The Retired Emperor’s officials found their policies growing ever more chaotic and let out cries of dismay. In the midst of this, the month passed, and by early December, Retired Emperor Go-Toba had already returned from Kumano. His wrath needed no explanation. Not only the senior nobles who had been left in charge of the palace, but also those who had returned from accompanying the imperial procession, prostrated themselves in fear of his displeasure,

“We will surely conduct a full inquiry and, before many days pass, apprehend the two and return them to the Imperial Palace—” was all they could answer.

The edict that had been announced earlier spread even more widely, reaching various provinces. And to the rewards were added specific amounts of gold and silver, and specific numbers of fields for manors. At the crossroads of Ōtsu-guchi’s tree-lined street as well, people stood around the notice board like a black mountain, and among them was a rōnin-like man, silently crossing his arms.

“―Hey! What’re you staring at?” A yamabushi tapped his shoulder from behind. The rōnin-like man swung his straw hat around sharply,

“Oh, Harima-bō.” Beneath the hat, his laughing teeth were visible.

2

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

The rōnin-like man was Amagi Shirō. To the mountain ascetic Harima-bō Ben'en—who had been addressed—he walked out with their shoulders pressed together,

“So, what happened after that?” “Nothing much. Still wandering this carefree ascetic’s path.” Amagi looked behind Ben’en. “Where’s the dog? Didn’t bring that black one?” “Hmm.” “Died? Poor thing.” “No—I killed it.” “Who did?” “Me, obviously.”

“The owner killed his own dog—what a cruel man you are.” “Shirō, even you know this is cruel?” “Humans act as they please, so even those who get killed don’t seem so cruel. “—But dogs haven’t even done anything wrong.”

“Ha ha ha.” “You’re a strange one.” “Why kill it?” “Something pissed me off.” “Listen—here’s how it went.” They sat on the embankment. The dried pampas grass and autumn leaves—their roots perhaps holding frost—snapped and crackled beneath them.

“It was early spring. It was still bitterly cold then. Not long after parting with you, I learned that Zenshin had left his grass hut in Okazaki and set out on a journey from Naniwa toward Kawachi, so I followed him. When I discovered he was staying overnight at Isonaga’s Prince Mausoleum, I thought ‘Tonight’s the night,’ and crept up to cut down that Zenshin bastard—but wouldn’t you know it, that damned dog he kept chewed through the rope I’d tied and came charging into the hall right at the crucial moment!”

“Hmm, that does sound like something that would happen.” “—And then?” “In that brief moment, the dog barked, so that bastard Zenshin swiftly escaped from the tip of my blade.” “Didn’t you chase after him and strike him down with a single blow?” “But then, that damn dog got tangled around my legs and sleeves, interfering—in the end, I let him escape. It’s just so frustrating.” “So out of sheer spite, I cut down that mad dog and left it there—but even after that, this resentment still weighs heavy in my chest.” “I hear Zenshin returned to the capital not long after that.”

“He sure is.” “In a grass hut in Okazaki, he lives with his wife Tamahime—a life others would envy.” “Well, whatever.” Ben'en said consolingly, “In due time, another good opportunity will surely arise.” “By the way, Shirō, have you read that notice board in Matsubara?” “I did.” “Given your line of work—knowing every nook and cranny of the capital and beyond, indeed the entire wide world—you must’ve figured out such a thing without any trouble.” “Is this about Matsumushi and Suzumushi’s whereabouts?”

“That’s right.” “Even a thief workin’ in the dark night wouldn’t know such things. If they knew, they’d rush straight to the Retired Emperor’s Guards to get their hands on that gold reward, wouldn’t they? ……But lately, this Shirō here’s been down on his luck too, plain as day. So Ben’en—if you know, why not tell me where Matsumushi and Suzumushi are?” “Ha ha ha! That’s backwards.” “I’m the one wantin’ to ask you.”

三 “Ben’en—you mountain ascetic—so even you have desires after all.” “Don’t be absurd.” “But whoever wants to know where Matsumushi and Suzumushi are—it goes without saying—they’re after the reward money.” Amagi Shirō was a man who took pleasure in such things. He affirmed and delighted in his own demonic principles.

“Wrong,” Ben’en said, shaking his head. “I don’t need things like land grants or money.”

“Then for what purpose—” “To make that bastard Zenshin suffer—to exact one measure of revenge.”

“Hmm?” With an uncomprehending look, Shirō stroked his cheek down to his jaw—still bluish from what appeared to be a fresh shave done around yesterday.

“Hmm…” “Don’t you understand?” “I don’t get it.” “It’s my conjecture… but I don’t think I’m off the mark.—I believe Matsumushi and Suzumushi are surely hiding at Yoshimizu with Venerable Hōnen.” “Huh? Yoshimizu?” “Exactly.” “Why?” “Well—there’s no concrete evidence.” “But I can’t shake this feeling.” “Because—what do you think is the doctrine most celebrated among women these days?”

“The Lotus Sutra, perhaps?” “The Lotus Sutra was indeed practiced for a time among upper-class women—but in an extremely Hinayana fashion.” “Isn’t there a doctrine that more clearly speaks to women’s hearts in this day and age?” “Ah—the Nenbutsu sect.” “There you have it.” “From commoners to noblewomen—the number of female converts to the Nenbutsu sect is staggering.” “Among palace attendants and court nobles’ households alike.” “Hmm… I see.” “It struck me then—even two consorts escaping the Imperial Palace isn’t easily done.” “The world assumes it’s romance,” he said, “but if this were mere illicit love, they wouldn’t have fled together.”

“You could say that.” “First, if there were a man they fled to, those around him would know immediately. If they were prepared to die, that would be one thing—but otherwise, even if they escaped the Imperial Palace, they wouldn’t be able to live together satisfactorily. No matter how feverish love may be, I consider such a thing impossible.” “Nah, that ain’t necessarily true. When it comes to young women—” “Even if we set that doubt aside—the Imperial Guards’ officials and constables haven’t lifted a finger to investigate the religious sect. What do you make of that?”

“Because they’re thinking—‘No way…’” “That’s their oversight.” “An oversight, you say?” “If one were to investigate where neither the authorities nor the public have turned their eyes—not Mount Hiei, not Takao, not Nara—the conclusion would be Yoshimizu reeks most of suspicion.” “So, Shirō—how about using those eyes and feet of yours that pierce the darkness to track this down?” “Hm, I could do that.” “You may keep all the reward money.” “In exchange, leave informing the authorities to me.”

Four “Interesting,” Shirō said.

More than Ben'en's scheming to use this incident for his own revenge, Amagi Shirō felt a far greater demonic interest in exposing such societal secrets. "Then I'll put my all into probing this out. Once I track down Matsumushi and Suzumushi's whereabouts soon enough—and I will—where should I report it?" "Straight to me."

“But if I don’t know where you’re staying, I ain’t got no way to send word, do I?”

“Generally, I walk around like this every day, but while I’m in the capital, I stay at the Western Cloister of Shōgoin Temple. Could you come there?”

“Alright, wait there. Good news will come soon.”

Having made that promise, the two parted ways at Kamo Embankment, heading north and south.

The next evening, Shirō—dressed lightly with a black cloth wrapped over his head and face—was prowling outside Yoshimizu Hermitage. Pretending nonchalance as he passed by the hermitage gate, he peered inside and could still see lamplight. The guests appeared deeply engrossed in conversation. Shirō stood in the shade of a tree. After some time, one warrior-monk and two priests left the hermitage and emerged through the gate. As the visitors departed, Shirō slipped inside the gate unnoticed. The hermitage occupants—unaware of his intrusion—closed the gate behind them, extinguished the interior lamps, and sank into the quiet depths of sleep.

Shirō easily entered inside the wall and looked around at the buildings there.

The lecture hall, quarters, study, kitchen, sleeping quarters and other structures wound their way deep into the forested recesses. What had begun as nothing more than a simple hermitage—barely sufficient to house its holy man and handful of disciples—had gradually expanded under pressing necessity until now its disorderly proliferation of roofs and ridges stood glaringly apparent. “?”

Moving slowly and stealthily with arms crossed, Shirō crept along outside the door. Periodically peering through knotholes in the shutters or pressing his ear against them, he honed his characteristic nerves, engaging every faculty—sight, hearing, smell—to their utmost. Then— From behind one building’s door came the sound of an infant’s cry. It kept wailing as though craving milk. He stood frozen in shock.

“This must be the building where the women are,” he muttered, crouching beneath the floorboards. Someone seemed to have woken at the sound. They appeared to be earnestly soothing the night-crying infant, but soon opened the shutters, “Oh, don’t cry, don’t cry…” and began making the infant urinate from the veranda. The infant’s oblivious urine streamed onto the frost-covered ground like hot water. Shirō panicked—

“Ah...” He drew back further, but in doing so struck his head against a crossbeam under the floor. Grimacing, he endured the pain—sharp as sparks flying from his eyes.

Five “What a bastard.” As the door above his head closed, he muttered with relief under the floor. “...Damn monks.” Even in such trivial—accidental—matters, his eyes harbored resentment.

“Just you wait—they’ll crush this Yoshimizu Hermitage flat soon enough.” If a baby was crying here, this building had to be where the women were hidden—so he listened intently, straining his ears. But the voices and footsteps that occasionally filtered through from beneath the floorboards belonged to men, with no trace of any women’s presence.

“Then... another room?” …… “That’s right—the palace women who caused that major incident.” “They wouldn’t be careless enough to keep them in some obvious place.” “It must be a more hidden room where nobody would notice.”

A dark midwinter wind howled through the space beneath the floorboards, cold enough to stiffen flesh. Old wood shavings lay piled where they had absorbed moisture and clumped together. Crawling on all fours like a toad, Amagi Shirō pressed further inward, "The paltry reward money makes this job not worth the effort," he thought. Yet more than coin, it was perverse fascination that drove him - greater pleasure lay in watching this massive nenbutsu sect crumble from the sidelines, like a bystander savoring someone else's burning house.

“Ah…” Someone must be awake. Suddenly, he noticed a sliver of lamplight—thin as a needle—seeping through a gap in the veranda. Shirō warily kept his gaze fixed on it and did not approach for some time. Then, from somewhere— Na, Mu, A, Mi, Da, Buddha

Na, Ma, Mi, Da, Buddha Na, Ma, Mi, Da Na-ma-mi-da The voice of nenbutsu chanting arose as if welling up from the depths of the earth. It sounded like the voices of a great crowd, though it was but a single person’s recitation.

"Who is it, at this hour?" Shirō wondered. “Why’re they muttering that crap in freezing midnight—doesn’t earn a single coin… The world’s full of damn fools.” To go further in, he had to crawl right under where that chanting came from. Shirō waited for the nenbutsu to stop. He’d figured it’d end soon enough. But the deeper night sank, the fiercer grew that chanting—charged with selfless faith—showing no sign of ceasing even as dawn tinged the sky.

(“There’s no damn reason to wait!”) he thought to himself, yet somehow, in that voice—whether from ceiling or floor—he sensed a human awareness that could pierce the all-encompassing darkness in every direction, making passage directly beneath that person feel dangerous beyond bearing.

“Fool!” he mocked himself for this occasional groundless timidity and brashly crawled out. There, the floor was another level lower, making crawling difficult. He must have put his knee on something like a bamboo pole—there came a crisp snap like thin bamboo breaking.

"...?" Then, the nenbutsu chanting voice above his head stopped abruptly.

Six

While intimidated by the ongoing chanting voice, Amagi Shirō froze in shock when it suddenly stopped like a snapped thread. "? ......"

“Did I give myself away?” He had lost his usual defiant spirit and raised eyes filled with paranoid suspicion from beneath the floor. Then—it was just as expected. A creaking sound echoed as someone stepped heavily on the corridor above. And then, as soon as the door opened— “You fool!” Someone shouted toward the outside. It was a deep, hoarse Kantō accent. Shirō froze and held his breath. Though it was a monk’s quarters, he had long heard that among Yoshimizu’s disciples were several who had taken the tonsure—including Kumagai Renshōbō, a Kantō warrior’s last incarnation—and other renowned samurai descendants who had fought in the Genpei War.

(If I'm caught by such a man—) he shrank his neck, (It’s no use.) At last，I lost heart.

It was daylight about two days later. Even in winter, the daytime was warm. Rumors spread that the holy man remained unwell and would not appear that day, but when word came that Yoshimizu would hold a Dharma assembly with teachings simple enough for young and old alike to understand, laypeople came streaming in. Until four or five years prior, such Dharma talks had drawn at most a hundred or two hundred people. But recently, whenever word spread that Yoshimizu would hold them on set days, peasants from distant lands beyond the capital came to hear the teachings. On such days, they opened every lecture hall and monk’s quarter to the public.

“Huh?.. Must be ’cause it’s free… Bunch o’ layabouts comin’ around.” Shirō sat cross-legged among the crowd of listeners. Even so, he seemed somewhat self-conscious and took care to use others’ backs as shields as best he could to keep his face hidden from the pulpit. From the outset, he’d had no intention of listening to sermons. Only his eyes moved. When his legs grew numb, he promptly stood and stepped out onto the veranda,

“Ugh... Ah... Waaah...” he yawned. Again with feigned purposefulness, he wandered through the monks’ quarters. Deliberately pretending to take a wrong turn, he walked all the way to the kitchen area. “Ain’t here,” he muttered. “No matter how much I sniff around—not a whiff of woman anywhere here. Looks like Yoshimizu ain’t hidin’ her after all.” He grew increasingly irritated by Ben'en’s words,

"That bastard made me waste all this effort for nothing…" he seethed.

He thought to abandon his search and leave, but the Zen hall’s gate was packed with people. Moreover, feeling oddly listless, he sat down again in the crowd, his face perfectly composed. Followers of Hōnen emerged one after another to expound the teachings of the nenbutsu sect. The listeners absorbed every word without so much as a cough. Shirō looked around at these people. “What on earth could be so interesting?——” He made a puzzled face.

Before long, he grew sleepy. Like a cat on the southern veranda, he narrowed his eyes, let drool trickle down, and began nodding off again and again.

Seven Occasionally jolting awake, Shirō opened his bloodshot eyes. Then, wearing a faintly embarrassed expression, he glanced around at the surrounding listeners. Yet the audience maintained a silence like still water—eyes, ears, and entire bodies turned toward the sermon platform. Not one person showed distraction at Shirō’s drowsing form. “Huh?…” Though Buddhist teachings should have held no interest for him, Shirō now slightly widened his eyes and peered over the shoulders ahead toward the platform.

"Zenshin…" He had muttered involuntarily, making a nearby listener glance sharply at his face. Shirō looked down. He stroked his jaw to mask his discomposure. Zenshin’s voice seeped into his ears unbidden. A voice he recognized. (It’s been years,) he thought. There on the dais stood Zenshin of Okazaki, weaving raw power into his sonorous baritone as he poured words from his own soul into the hearts of the crowd.

As his body had grown noticeably weaker, even on days when the Venerable Hōnen could not show his face to the people, "(Oh, Venerable Zenshin!)" they would look up at his figure, and that alone was enough to satisfy the audience. Rejoicing, they now showed sincere hearts in the nenbutsu on their lips. As Zenshin, over a considerable length of time, expounded his beliefs even forgetting the garden growing dark around him, the people before long began to shed tears,

(I was wrong.) (I’ll start over.) (I’ll live better.) Filled with penitent feelings—their ears and mouths and eyes so intent that nothing existed but nenbutsu’s light—they listened.

Shirō rested his hand on his jaw. "You’re making me laugh," he sneered deep within himself. "I thought monks got revered ’cause their true selves stayed hidden—but here’s Zenshin! A damn monk who keeps a wife, livin’ openly in his Okazaki hermitage with that pretty Tamahime woman while breakin’ every precept. And still these idiot commoners worship him!" "They’re beyond savin’."

He felt sickened and could no longer bear to sit there. Maybe he should stand up from here— (Everyone! Wake up!) Should I bellow that out? And then give a grand speech exposing how Zenshin’s nothing but a corrupt monk breaking his vows? But when he thought about it, he wasn’t someone who could openly show his face in public either. If someone noticed— (That’s Amagi Shirō!) (The bandit king Shirō!)

If someone pointed me out, things would get dire—I had to flee immediately. “Tch… How long’s he gonna keep saying the same damn thing?” He clicked his tongue as if listening to some tedious argument and stifled a large yawn with a “Wah, wah, ah—”.

Eight

A voice—one that seemed to say "evil person"—suddenly reached his ears. Shirō started and raised his head. (Aren’t they saying something about me?) He glared around with eyes gleaming with suspicion. It was within the words of Zenshin’s sermon. The term "evil person" was used repeatedly. Every time the term “evil person” was uttered, Shirō would flinch, (He’s taking a dig at me), he thought. However, the audience filling the surroundings were still earnestly listening to Zenshin’s sermon, and not a single person was looking toward Shirō.

However, Shirō found the term "evil person" irritating regardless of whether the many people were indifferent to him. If Zenshin said anything this time that felt like a veiled jab at him, Shirō seemed ready to leap up and seize the preacher by his collar; he listened intently with ears pricked to Zenshin’s words. What flowed earnestly into his ears then was the cry of true humanity that Zenshin expounded—the teaching of other-power. It spoke of the nenbutsu’s efficacy, guidance proclaiming that any person could cast off past darkness from the day their heart turned toward it, walking onward along the path to rebirth in the Pure Land.

As proof of this, Zenshin was now stating thus. Even good people could still achieve rebirth. "Why?!" "How could there be such a thing as evil people being unable to achieve rebirth?" The listening people at first thought he might be saying something mistaken, but as they gradually listened to Zenshin expound further, they nodded deeply, thinking I see. They had come to understand that those who—though committing evil deeds—possessed strength in their human essence were far closer to the path of enlightenment than so-called good people who merely abstained from wrongdoing. Moreover, when such evil people once repented and returned to goodness, the combination of their gratitude and essence allowed their goodness—unlike that of good people—to instead draw nearer all the swifter to the heart of Buddha—

They say in the Path of Sages that those who tread into evil karma's darkness fall into Avīci Hell—but we practitioners of the Other-Power Nenbutsu could neither hate nor avoid those deemed evil for that reason. Yet we still wished and believed their evil nature might somehow find a turning point toward goodness.

Thus spoke Zenshin.

In all humanity, there existed no such thing as a true evil person. Within the hearts of good people lay evil; within the hearts of evil people lay good. Those labeled as evil had been demarcated thus by society—they came to praise wickedness, act as evildoers, and regard evil as supreme—yet in truth, being children of humanity like any other, they constantly cowered at the wind's whisper, dwelled on life's fleeting end, and inevitably found themselves unable to grasp a sense of purpose such as ours. Were one to count the most wretched souls in this world, they would not be the roadside beggars nor those mortally ill who knew not tomorrow's fate—no, it was precisely these evildoers who, though human, lived each day defeated by their own humanity.

Zenshin’s talk showed no sign of ending even then. The people were utterly hushed, as if in the depths of water; all bowed their heads and listened intently. Then, from somewhere in the middle of the audience, someone suddenly began to wail loudly and burst into tears. “Oh? …” For the first time, the people turned their eyes there. When they looked, wasn’t that Amagi Shirō, the notorious bandit of the realm? Shirō did not stop crying like a child.

Nine

The people were surprised and puzzled.

Forgetting even that he was enveloped by countless eyes, Shirō wept uncontrollably. “What’s this?” “What’s wrong?” Then, someone’s voice, “That’s Amagi Shirō, they say—a notorious bandit.” “What? A bandit?”

The sermon had already ended. Enveloped in twilight, the Zen hall’s straw mat remained clamorous with the crowd and the suspicious man’s appearance, but eventually a monk came, took the hand of the sobbing Shirō, and led him away while soothing him.

Completely different from before, in a hushed room, only the light of an oil lamp cast a faint orange glow. “Please wait here.” When the monk said this,

“Yes.” Shirō, unable to even lift his face, was still lamenting something.

After some time had passed, the quiet sound of footsteps approached.

When the door behind him opened, Shirō retreated fearfully into the corner. “Oh—it’s been an age,” came the voice of Zenshin, who had stood upon the sermon platform earlier. Shirō prostrated himself as if struck down. Zenshin edged closer, “You’ve done well to come and listen today.” “…Yet I cannot fathom why you weep so.” “Lord Zenshin—” Shirō pleaded, clinging desperately. “—I grew afraid. I grew utterly afraid.”

“Hmm, what?” When he deliberately inquired, “The end of this path I walk…” “Hmm. … Is that all there is?” “No—everything. … I’ve lived blindly until today, but my past terrifies me, and my present evil karma appalls me.” “And as I sighed, wondering if it was my fate never to escape this wickedness, Your Reverence said in your teachings that even good people are saved—how much more so for evil ones! Could I help but weep?” “For the first time, I felt Buddha’s vast compassion seep into my very bones.” “And then… somehow, there was nothing left but to cry.”

“Oh, Shirō.” “You have awakened the eye of your heart.” “What a fortunate man you are!”

“Huh? Me... fortunate?” “Behold—Zenshin included—every soul in this Zen hall has honed themselves through decades of suffering and delusion to reach this state of being cradled in Buddha’s embrace. Yet you—in but a single day—have been reborn like an infant from Buddha’s very hands! Are you not? A man of fortune unmatched in this world.” “Then even one such as I—who has wrought every evil deed, whose very limbs seethe with wicked thoughts and malice—”

“That very mind is bodhicitta.” “You are no longer a villain or anything of the sort.” “Will He deign to forgive all things past and present?”

“Zenshin—no, the Buddha would never deign to speak a falsehood.”

“Ah... I’m grateful.” Taking the hand of the man who had collapsed in tears once more, Zenshin drew up his knee. “Now… I shall arrange for you to meet Master Hōnen.”

Ten

As he was led along the veranda, Shirō recalled the sound of nenbutsu chanting from the night he had crept beneath that very structure. “Wait here for a while…” With these words, he had him wait in the next room, and only Zenshin entered the inner chamber. For a little while, Shirō remained sitting there motionless. And then, before long, “You may enter,” came the voice as the partition door slid open, revealing Zenshin’s upper body. “Yes.” Shirō could not easily enter there. He felt a terrifying pressure weighing upon him. Moreover, his appearance—or rather, his heart—seemed so utterly haggard that he appeared to feel at a disadvantage.

“No need for reserve.” These were the words of the white-browed old monk facing Zenshin. Shirō abruptly lowered his head. He had been careless—only now realizing this was Master Hōnen. “Here. Yes, here is already more than sufficient.”

“The cold wind seeps through—” said Zenshin. “The Master has caught a slight chill.” “I gratefully accept your consideration.” “But sharing the same seat would be too—” Then the Master rebuked him: “That inclination stems from your habitual thinking—you must amend it. What manner of resolve is this?”

“Ah…”

When he readily closed the door behind him, the warm air enveloping the Master soon wrapped around Shirō’s frozen heart as well. “From Zenshin, I have now heard all about you in detail—it has been one of my recent joys.” “Amida’s transworldly compassionate vow means this sacred pledge: to gaze with equal mercy upon even an ordinary being mired in the ten evils or one who has committed the five heinous sins, and to strive utterly to save them.” “Therefore, no matter how wicked or lawless a person may be—if they believe in the Tathagata’s compassionate vow and chant the *nenbutsu* with single-minded devotion—they will surely be reborn.” Shirō, his eyes glistening, instinctively leaned forward—

“—To be reborn… Oh… Even I—could I be reborn?”

“Behold,” came the Master’s forceful words. And he directed his finger toward Shirō’s chest. “Have you not already been reborn? Compare yourself as you were then—a demon of evil wisdom and delusions, crouching beneath this veranda in the pitch-darkness just moments ago, groping through the shadows with suspicious eyes while stifling your breath—to yourself now, speaking clearly and peacefully with us here. Then you will understand.” “Ah. Venerable Master!” Shirō, with his palms still pressed together, rubbed his head and cried out.

“Please forgive me. For everything—all that I have done until now… And to Venerable Zenshin as well.”

To such an extent that one might doubt he had ever been such a weak man, Shirō had changed. He looked nothing like the man once notorious throughout the capital and beyond—Kizuka Shirō, Amagi Shirō—as if he were an entirely different person.

Shirō wanted to blurt out everything about the past—the sinful deeds he had committed—every last thing. As if vomiting poison from his innards, he confessed and wept uncontrollably. And he lamented that from now on, he must perform good deeds sufficient to atone for it all. Moreover, he confessed everything to the Master and Zenshin—the purposes behind his sneaking beneath the monk’s quarters and mingling among the believers listening to sermons. And he also alerted them to the ongoing plots to overthrow this religious sect here, but since Zenshin had already sensed this from the start, the Master paid it no more mind than he would the winter wind rattling the doors.

Eleven

(What’s happened to him?) Harima-bō Benen clicked his tongue irritably and cursed toward the deserted area as if addressing someone present. “Stop your empty boasting—” “All talk and no substance—it’s been over ten days now!” “…And still not a word from you since.”

It was the Kamo River embankment where he had once parted ways with Amagi Shirō after making a firm promise during their standing conversation. He had gone there the day before yesterday as well. He had gone yesterday too—and today again— (Could it be?) he had come here thinking. Yet Amagi Shirō showed neither hide nor hair. He waited expectantly for them to come to Shōgoin; every day upon returning, he would immediately ask the lodgings’ servant—but no letters arrived, nor were any messengers seen.

He had casually declared, “Well, just wait—I’ll bring good news soon,” boasting that he would uncover Lady Matsumushi and Lady Suzumushi’s whereabouts, yet over ten days had passed without word—too sloppy even for a bandit’s usual negligence. “If that fool hadn’t spouted those grand promises and taken it upon himself,” he muttered, “I would’ve found them myself by now—”

Benen was furious beyond endurance. However, with no one to direct his complaints to, he ended up muttering those words to himself, looking toward the riverside, gazing at the embankment above, and standing there aimlessly for some time—the only recourse left to him. That he was so intensely anxious was, in fact, not without reason—for the Retired Emperor’s orders were growing increasingly severe, and the officials of the Ministry of Central Affairs were now zealously engrossed in investigating the whereabouts of the two ladies-in-waiting.

Moreover, the official notice boards erected across the city had swiftly taken effect: commoners within the capital, eager to claim the rewards posted upon them, now acted like full-fledged spies—at every gathering or commotion, they keenly honed their senses in pursuit of Lady Matsumushi and Lady Suzumushi’s whereabouts. This was why Benen could not afford to wait idly. If he dawdled, someone would surely discover them and secretly report to the authorities. He was certain to end up falling between two stools.

“Ah, how foolish.” He berated his own foolishness and,

"To rely on such a man and idle around waiting—that’s what makes me a fool." "Alright, I’ll stop counting on him." "I’ll find them through my own strength." Benen regripped his staff and began walking. Though truth be told, he had no clear target in mind.

(Yoshimizu), he thought, but try as he might, he couldn't bring himself to approach it directly. They would surely grow suspicious before he could even begin his investigation there. Perhaps he should start by probing areas connected to Yoshimizu's Jōdo sect instead. Tracing back from the outer periphery might prove unexpectedly fruitful.

While pondering such things, he walked along the tree-lined path toward Sanjō for about half a chō when someone’s voice called out to him from behind— When he turned to look, on the embankment where he had just been standing, a figure appeared, raising a hand to beckon. Ah... Shirō? he thought, but the figure did not match that expectation. Apparently, the man calling out to him seemed to be a monk wearing a black Buddhist robe.

Twelve

Who could that be? As Benen, perplexed, retraced his steps along the original path, the monk who had called out from afar also began walking from the opposite direction, each closing the distance between them. And when they had drawn near enough to discern each other’s faces,

“Huh?” Benen shouted with exaggerated force. Indeed, surprise was only natural – his exclamation hardly qualified as overstatement. “Shirō!” He dashed forward to stand before the monk-robed man, eyes widening anew in stunned disbelief. Amagi Shirō’s head now bore a clean shave. That fearsome warrior-bandit’s bearing had vanished utterly. Against the winter’s bitter chill, he wore only a single thin black monastic robe. Even his once-cruel eyes, that sharply vicious nose and jawline – all had softened imperceptibly, much like when he’d stood here days prior,

"Alright, just wait!"—there was no trace left of that great bandit who had once charged headlong into evil deeds. Benen, overwhelmed by the sheer extremity of it all, could only groan—"Hmm..."—for a short while, but—

“Hey!” He suddenly placed his hands on Shirō’s shoulders and shook him. “Wh-what happened to your appearance? You can’t possibly know how long I’ve waited here day after day. And have you found what I asked you to investigate?” Shirō smirked.

“Benen…” “What?” “I’ve lost my supernatural powers.” “Instead, I’ve been granted the merits of Buddhahood like this.” “Wait—you! Are you in your right mind?” “I’m sane.” “Did you change your appearance like this as a trick to investigate that incident’s secret by deceiving those Yoshimizu monks?” “Who would shave their head for lies or schemes?—Just yesterday, I received the master’s permission and was ordained through Venerable Zenshin of Okazaki.”

“Ordination…” “I’ve seen this bright world for the first time. I’m so happy—so delighted—I can’t bear it. Who could I tell about this refreshing feeling?… When I think back, both my mother and father did nothing but lament that I was a demon born wrong. I wonder how those parents fare now… Ah, I wanted to tell someone of this joy—and that’s when I remembered you and came here.”

“So—you remembered me because of that?” “Then what about finding out where Matsumushi and Suzumushi are, which I asked you to do?” “Enough already.” “Wh-what did you say?” “What do you accomplish by obsessing over trivial delusions, causing suffering both to yourself and others?” “Wa-wait, you fool! —I have no intention of listening to your opinions.” “I won’t speak ill, so stop cursing people.” “Even if you don’t do good things, just that alone will make you much more at ease.”

“So you sneaked into Yoshimizu and got yourself deceived by Hōnen and Zenshin of Yoshimizu Hermitage instead!” “What sacrilege! I won’t have you slandering the master who granted me rebirth.”

“What nonsense are you spouting?!” Benen raised his staff and, with a swish, swung it down toward Shirō’s face.

Thirteen Shirō twisted his body and clutched Benen’s striking staff under his arm. “What are you doing, Benen?!” “It’s obvious. How dare you betray our promise! You’ve fallen under the sorcery of the nenbutsu sect! I gather you must have blabbed our strategies to Hōnen and Zenshin of Yoshimizu.” “From the start, I confessed everything—every last thing. Is that so wrong?” “Is that so wrong?” “You—! I misjudged you!” “I can’t let you live another moment!” “Don’t panic—even if my hair’s been shaved off, Amagi Shirō’s arm strength hasn’t weakened one bit!”

“Interesting.” Benen raised his leg and kicked Shirō’s hipbone. And once again, he regripped his staff and began thrashing about wildly. Shirō leaped back, “Understood,” he snarled, rolling up the sleeves of his Buddhist robe and clenching his fist. “Alright—this time I’ll ordain you! Open your eyes!” “Insolent fool!” The two finally locked in a grapple. Burdened by the pack on his back, Benen’s movements grew sluggish. Ah—! With a cry, he was flung sideways, his face and shoulder slamming against tree roots.

“Serves you right!” Shirō said this and inadvertently let out a cry of triumph, but suddenly recalled that he was no longer the former Amagi Shirō but a disciple of the Nenbutsu sect,

(Damn it!) he thought.

At the time of his ordination, he had been strictly, strictly admonished. Do not assert your self—for when you assert your self, the old Shirō will surely emerge—suppress it with the Buddha’s power—to that end, never neglect the nenbutsu, no matter what you encounter; when you think 'here,' begin chanting the nenbutsu; and make it ceaseless—whether asleep or awake—make it your own—. Seeing Benen—who had been thrown down hard, wiping blood and mud from his forehead with a look of bitter frustration—Shirō immediately recalled it.—He hurriedly began to recite, like a child stumbling through the newly learned alphabet,

“Na…mu…a…mi…da…Butsu.” With that,

“Did it hurt, Benen?” he said, lifting him up.

“Gh…” Benen wiped the blood that had flowed into his eyes with his hand and, supported by him, staggered to his feet. “Hey, give me a break! I’m no longer the old Amagi Shirō—I’m a Buddhist disciple now! See? I’ll apologize like this—”

The moment he bowed his head, Benen—who had grabbed his staff while rising—clamped down on it head-on. “Bastard!” He struck with a force like that of a gale tearing someone from the sky. “Urgh…” Even the formidable Shirō staggered a few steps and then collapsed with a thud right there. Benen struck his back two or three more times. Even so, his anger showed no signs of abating, but just then, as a figure ascended from the riverbank to the embankment, likely thinking it would be troublesome if they were discovered,

“You bastard! Have you learned your lesson?” After spitting out that parting remark, he kicked sand with his eight-eye straw sandals and fled headlong into nowhere.

Fire and Fire

One

At Deer Valley’s Hōshō Temple, on several days each month, sermons and exclusive nenbutsu gatherings were always held; yet from this November into December, (Due to Jūren’s illness) it was said, there had not been a single one. No one suspected it at all. Rather, the people who regularly visited here, (things like this medicine), Saying things like “homemade sweets,” they would bring some sort of get-well gifts and leave them for the sick person. Each time,

“Jūren…” “Venerable Anraku…”

The two of them exchanged glances, then exchanged brows filled with unbearable self-reproach. "We—you and I—are deceiving those kind people. The devotees, unaware this illness is feigned, pray earnestly in the main hall for your swift recovery before departing. To watch them...it becomes unbearable." Venerable Anraku let out a heavy sigh and turned away into the mountain villa's depths. As silence lingered, regret now welled in their hearts—if only they hadn't hidden Lady Matsumushi and Lady Suzumushi there.

But with each passing day that their circumstances grew more dire, with each passing day, the two could not bring themselves to cast aside those they were hiding. “We have fallen into heresy—” Jūren confessed one day.

“Why?” “Search your heart thoroughly—I know not about you, but unwittingly, I seem to have fallen in love with Lady Suzumushi… Her eyes speak volumes.” “Then, blood unlike my own begins to stir.” “It’s not just you… To tell the truth, I am too.” “I am not unaware of such feelings within myself—” “After all, allowing women here was our mistake.” “It went against the Buddha’s will.”

“No—it is not the Buddha’s will—that is to say, it is due to our own immature practice. To view women as demonic and teach avoidance of them—that is the old sects, the Path of Sages! The Venerable Hōnen himself declared that such ways must not be followed, and Venerable Zenshin demonstrated this through his own example—as you well know. Moreover, has not Zenshin’s faith appeared all the more steadfast and trustworthy to every observer since taking Lady Tamahime as his wife?”

“So then, are we permitted to draw nearer to women?” “No good—not with hearts such as ours.” As if reproaching his own inadequacy, Venerable Anraku forced out these words. “One such as I could never grasp peace of mind as swiftly as Venerable Zenshin does.” “Then what ought we do?... If we leave those two ladies here, it’s plain—either our faith will crumble, or before that comes to pass, they’ll be found by the eyes of harsh inquisitors...”

“I’m sorry, but you must leave this mountain villa.”

“What? You’re expelling them?” “No—we must have them move quietly under night’s cover to some place where none will notice.”

II

It was Lady Suzumushi, burning with the light of hope, who had escaped the imperial palace—and Lady Matsumushi as well.

But the narrow room where the two had lived quietly for half a month was a cold, lightless chamber. “Please shave our hair,” they implored. “Once our hair is shorn, even if ordered to return to the Imperial Palace, we could never go back.” They pleaded with Venerable Jūren and Venerable Anraku time and again. Yet still the monks could not resolve themselves. “Please give us work—any task at all,” they entreated. “We wish to labor—even at the harshest water chores.” This too they had begged many times over, but

“That’s unthinkable,” said Venerable Anraku,

“You must remain hidden here a while longer,” Jūren admonished. However, as days passed, even if society forgot the rumors, the authorities’ investigations only grew harsher. “How much longer…” With eyes like dark little birds, Suzumushi and Matsumushi huddled together there.

“If…”

At the edge of the closed lattice door, footsteps came to a halt. It was Jūren’s voice. Anrakubō’s shadow could be seen behind him. The two women, wondering what this meant, felt their small hearts leap. The night had already deepened. After sunset, it had been unheard-of for the two men to visit this secret chamber where the women were kept.

“Please make your preparations at once.” “We will guide you there.” “Huh? …Where to?” “It has become too dangerous here at Hōshō Temple.” “It seems word has begun to spread.” “After discussing… if we follow the mountain path deeper in, there is a cabin where we once stayed temporarily.” “Please go there.—What comes after, we shall discuss thoroughly later.” A restless urgency drove the two forward. They could no longer keep still, as though flames had been lit beneath their feet.

Hooded and with their hems tucked up, the two followed Jūren and Anraku. They climbed under trees devoid of starlight. They wanted torches, but since even that was deemed dangerous, they walked entirely by feel. “It is quite dangerous here.” “Yes…” “Since no one has found out yet, you need not worry. If it becomes truly dangerous in these mountains, we will escort you to a distant place.”

“Oh... But… we feel that even in death, we would want to remain on this mountain.” Suzumushi said. Without her noticing when, Jūren had taken her hand. When Anrakubō came upon a steep slope, he hoisted Lady Matsumushi onto his back and crawled upward. I cannot abandon them. The young Jūren thought to himself. Anrakubō was likely the same. How could we abandon these powerless women who trust us so completely?

The surrounding trees were covered in frozen dew, their ice blooming like strands of white pearls. The earth was a freezing midnight that resembled a mountain of needles. Yet the breath and blood of the four youths burned as hot as fire meeting fire.

Before long, when they had climbed about twenty chō,

“We’ve finally arrived. Here…” said Jūren, pointing to a small vacant house with its door closed. Somewhere, a waterfall was roaring.

III It was a house that had rarely, if ever, been opened. The eaves and doors were rotting, and the mats spread on the floor were musty with the smell of mold. After a caretaker had lived there—and because Jūren and Anrakubō had stayed there for a time—there were meager cooking utensils and lighting implements.

“Here you should be able to remain hidden from society’s eyes for some time.” They gathered firewood and lit a fire. Tomorrow they would find an opportunity to bring bedding from the hermitage at Hōshō Temple while offering words of comfort. Matsumushi and Suzumushi could do nothing but let tears flow at the kindness of these two men. Even when recalling the resplendent sliding doors and thick cotton padding of the Imperial Palace, they felt no shred of regret. Rather than a life filled with delicacies and cosmetics and silk garments and music—all such atmosphere—they thought the truth present here constituted true human existence. Yet they could not help but feel their secular attire still seemed to weaken resolve. There remained only the desire to push this fervor to its limit—to shave hair, cut sleeves and robes away, and fully become nuns of pure form.

“Please.” “We will swear any oath…” Even after arriving there, they clung so desperately they could scarcely press their palms together. Anrakubō and Jūren could no longer refuse them. Or rather—they had come to recognize the profound fragility within their own youthful zeal and faith.

(That would be better), they thought. Doubtless Suzumushi and Matsumushi too had that same fearful turmoil coursing through their veins. They were all young, each holding an exceedingly perilous fire. Once they crossed that tissue-thin boundary, there would be no recovering their present peace of mind or conviction. In this regard, shaving the women's black hair would become—for both sides—an absolute vow and a manifestation of penitent reflection.

“Then, tomorrow,” said the two, once they descended the mountain and returned to Hōshō Temple. And then, once again, they climbed up. Two beautiful nuns had come into being.

Anrakubō took hold of Matsumushi’s black hair. Jūren took a razor and, strand by strand, bestowed ordination upon Suzumushi’s black hair. “Ah…” Jūren rushed out to the back and did not come back in for some time. Anrakubō, too, could not bear to look directly at the beautiful form of the young nun. Moreover, whenever they saw the two embracing each other, shivering and weeping tears of joy—it made them wonder if their past life had been as happy as this.

“I shall live upon Buddha’s path.” “I shall live through faith.” With those words, from the very next day onward, they began gathering brushwood and tending their meager cookfires. Whenever visited, they could be seen enshrining a single Buddha figure upon the altar and chanting nenbutsu before it. Jūren and Anrakubō took turns carrying their cumbersome belongings up the mountain. Yet unbeknownst to them, someone had already become aware of these two men’s comings and goings.

(Hmm?) (Where are they going...?) thought someone who had been keeping an eye on them. It was Harima-bō Ben'en who had been prowling everywhere—Yoshimizu Hermitage, Okazaki, all places with nenbutsu sect altars—putting his nose to work like a hunting dog's.

IV Hōshō Temple in Deer Valley, which had so vigorously conducted its monthly services and nenbutsu preaching, had lately shut its doors tightly. Though Jūren or Anraku had claimed illness as the reason, when Ben'en heard this rumor at the mountain's base, he immediately— (This is suspicious), he intuited. If they were truly ill, they would have summoned a substitute from Yoshimizu to at least hold the Dharma assembly on sermon days. Moreover, since neither Jūren nor Anraku had appeared at the mountain's foot at all, there must be some other reason. Such motives drove Ben'en to focus on Deer Valley. He decided a yamabushi's appearance would be unwise. Discarding his backpack, staff, and robes entirely, he altered his guise to resemble a woodcutter or farmer.

With a mountain knife at his side, Ben'en walked through the mountains daily. He loitered around Hōshō Temple and the mountain villa—sneaking into back areas, crawling beneath floorboards at night, trying every means of investigation—yet, it only made him think, "Hmm?" Matsumushi and Suzumushi were no longer there. He could find nothing suspicious. But Ben'en kept chewing dried rice without leaving the spot.

For though it had been announced that one was ill due to sickness, Ben’en had confirmed that both Jūren and Anraku remained alive and present there. “Something’s off.” “It must be here—nowhere else.” “Just you wait—I’ll expose it all soon.” His obsessive nature could be called an innate trait since childhood. Once fixated on something, he would never yield regardless of setbacks. This was evident in his abnormal tenacity—how even now, he clung relentlessly to the curses and vengeance he had nurtured toward Zenshin (Shinran) since his youth as Jutōmaru.

“Oh… Someone’s leaving… At this late hour.” It was the fourth night.

Hiding behind Hōshō Temple, Ben'en spotted a figure under the starlit sky. Though its head was covered by robes and hard to discern, the figure's stature resembled Jūren's. When Ben'en trailed him, Jūren climbed alone up the mountain path beyond Deer Valley rather than descending toward the foothills. He carried some sort of bundle in his hand. His every movement betrayed acute wariness of being observed. A triumphant "Got him!" set Ben'en's heart racing. Of course, Jūren remained oblivious to this hound on his trail. He had chosen the dead of night to stealthily deliver provisions to the nuns facing imminent starvation.

Ben’en had thought there would be no dwellings further up, but as he climbed the steep path that made his skin sweat, a small light appeared.

From the gap in the rotten plank door—

"Ah..." He couldn't help but startle. As Jūren stood, the door opened. With the hearth fire behind them, two beautiful nuns whispered to each other as they guided him inside. Ben'en rushed to the newly closed door and pressed his face against the hole in the plank. He held his breath and peered through. "Mmm..." He involuntarily released a deep breath. The wind roared through the mountains while somewhere echoed the dreadful sound of a waterfall. Stars shone keenly, each gleaming like a demon's eye. Monkeys wailed incessantly in the dark valley.

Torn asunder.

I

A man who looked like a woodcutter stood nonchalantly before the Konponchūdō Hall of Mount Hiei.

A monk who appeared to be the zasu’s steward,

“That suspicious fellow—investigate him,” the Zasu’s steward whispered to one of the officials handling temple affairs. “Got him!” Two men came running up in a flurry and seized the man’s arm. He did not even try to escape. “Here,” he said clearly— “What is it?”

“Who are you?”

“I am one who was called Shubōbō and served as a fellow monk at this sacred mountain over a decade ago,” he said. “However, at present—having received certification from Shōgoin Temple and changed my name to Harima-bō Ben’en—I now serve as a mountain ascetic.” “What? A mountain ascetic?” they said, scrutinizing his bizarre appearance— “Why would you wander about this sacred mountain in such attire, carrying a mountain hatchet?” “From midnight last night, I traveled along the ridges from Deer Valley’s inner peaks,” he explained. “I had no leisure to retrieve the ascetic’s robes stored at the foothills and clothe myself properly. Therefore—”

“Wait—each thing you say reeks of suspicion.”

“I will address those suspicions directly with the Zasu.” “If I cannot meet with the Zasu himself, then someone of equivalent standing will suffice.” His attitude was haughty. However, he did not seem to be a madman. The monks relayed the information truthfully all the way up to the steward. —Upon hearing it was from Deer Valley, the steward tilted his head in puzzlement but decided to meet him regardless.

After that, Ben'en washed his feet and entered a room. In a secret discussion that kept others at bay, he remained there for a long time without leaving. Not only that, but from the Konponchūdō Hall, messengers suddenly began running about, and twenty leading elders and core members of Mount Hiei gathered. What was about to happen was beyond the understanding of the junior monks, but by that evening, Ben’en had descended alone to the foothills, retrieved the pack and attire he had stored beforehand, reverted to his original mountain ascetic guise, and was striding hurriedly through the capital.

“This is the place.”

Standing before the Sentō Imperial Palace, Ben’en planted his staff. A short distance from the palace gate fence, the strict inquiry notice regarding Matsumushi and Suzumushi had been posted high up, its ink already bled from rain and dew.

“I humbly request an audience.” After passing through the Imperial Guard’s gate, Ben’en declared loudly. “I beg your pardon, but I have indeed witnessed the whereabouts of Lady Matsumushi and Lady Suzumushi with my own eyes. I earnestly entreat you to convey this report to the authorities.” “What?” The Imperial Guard erupted into commotion, and he was immediately escorted to the judicial council. The Monchūjo officials stood in formation. Ben’en eloquently recounted the circumstances he had personally investigated—naturally exaggerating to the utmost regarding Anrakubō and Jūren of Deer Valley.

“Excellent!” They recorded each detail, “Is this account accurate in every detail?” “As one who serves the gods and Buddha, how could I?” “Thumbprint,” they said, taking his testimony, They sent him back, saying there would be further instructions.

Ben'en passed through the Imperial Guard from the Monchūjo and exited outside the palace gate. Outside the gate, Mount Hiei monks waited with their eyes gleaming from beneath their hoods.

II

“Lord Ben’en.” “How did it go?” The shadows of the monks surrounded him. Ben’en said in a low voice, “The outcome was excellent—ensure this report reaches both the Konponchūdō Hall’s steward and Mount Hiei’s monastic assembly.” “Understood.”

“Then let us savor what comes next.” “Aye.”

After parting with Ben’en, the monks ran toward the mountain.

The mid-slope temples were already waiting for them to return. When one person heard, they ran ahead to convey it to another. That person then conveyed it to the next one. In no time at all, this matter became known throughout the entire mountain. "The day of the Nenbutsu sect’s destruction has finally drawn near." And in silence, the people rejoiced at the coming era in which Mount Hiei’s Tendai sect alone would reign supreme, imagining the ominous storm of dark winds and black rain that would soon assail their doctrinal foe Yoshimizu Hermitage—

“This time will be truly fierce.” “No matter how obstinate Hōnen or Shinran may be, they shall inevitably utter cries of mortal agony.” Speculation about how Yoshimizu Hermitage’s inhabitants might respond—even phrases like “it will make quite the spectacle” escaped the lips of those revered as elders and celebrated as erudite scholars. “A divine chance.” “Let it not slip through our fingers.” Once again, Mount Hiei stirred with subterranean tremors. Naturally, they breathed no word of these machinations. Brandishing their customary doctrine of nenbutsu eradication, they poured forth into the capital’s streets.

Nanto also arose upon hearing of this. They once again headed toward the imperial court,

“Petition for the Cessation of Nenbutsu” While submitting petitions, they stood at crossroads and temples, posted manifestos, shouted themselves hoarse while slandering the Nenbutsu sect—their criticism lacked any semblance of impartiality from the outset—and simply cried out: “Destroy the nenbutsu! Expel Hōnen! Bury Shinran!” But the people still paid no heed. They played the flute, but no one danced—the people’s criticism had already progressed far beyond that point.

＊

Now――they were just about to sleep. They knocked on the door so hard it might break,

“You two! Are you awake? —It’s Jūren and Anraku. Quickly, quickly! Prepare to flee, prepare to flee!” It was as sudden as a tsunami.

Matsumushi and Suzumushi,

With an “Ah…,” Matsumushi and Suzumushi froze their entire bodies. But Matsumushi was indeed the older one. “You mustn’t panic,” she said, deliberately keeping her voice calm to soothe her, then hurriedly prepared herself, even adjusting her footwear, and opened the door. But it was then that she was startled. The foothills of the mountain, which were always dark with only the wind through the trees, were now bright red. Every single tree stood out distinctly, and even the undergrowth beneath the leaves and trunks was glowing with red firelight—wasn’t it?

“Is it a fire?” Jūren and Anraku were scrambling behind the hut. They pressed their mouths to the rock spring to drink. With their faces still wet,

“Now! Run!” they said. “Is that fire at Hōshō Temple?” “If it were just a fire, we wouldn’t be in such a panic. The Imperial Guards have come—they’ve finally come! They’ve come with dozens of constables—”

III

Jūren continued speaking, “Follow this mountain ridge—endlessly—avoiding populated areas, and flee westward. Beware of those from other sects and rural officials.” To Matsumushi and Suzumushi—trembling, their feet barely touching the ground— “If constables arrive while you linger here, it will mean your end. Though we wish to accompany you, we must now report these events to the venerable master of Yoshimizu and prevent this calamity from spreading further.”

Anrakubō also urged them on,

“Now, hurry! ...Even if you’re pursued in the human realm, Buddhist realms exist everywhere—the Pure Land is everywhere.”

“Well then…” The two began climbing the narrow mountain path as if stumbling. “Do take care—” “Yes.”

“Do take care…” “…Lady Matsumushi, Lady Suzumushi.” “Venerable Jūren—Venerable Anraku…”

"Farewell." Though the flames devouring Hōshō Temple lay far beneath their gaze, the roar of raging winds and crackle of fire reached even that height.

To the ridge of the peak—seeing off the two figures’ shadows,

“Jūren,” Anrakubō sobbed as he grabbed his friend’s shoulder, “Hōshō Temple is burning.” “Hmm… Hmm… It’s the fire we set ourselves,” Jūren replied. “Better that it burns clean away.” “It was all our fire prank,” Anrakubō said bitterly. “Those without power to save the world tried to save it—those without power to save people tried to save them—this is Buddha’s stern lesson…” “But Anrakubō,” Jūren countered, pointing at the flames, “even if such things burn—look! Young grass will sprout from scorched earth! The seeds of our Nenbutsu sect become these flames dancing skyward!”

“To become martyrs—that was our resolve from the very beginning.” “I just hope that through this, the spirit of the nenbutsu practitioners will be greatly manifested in society.” “Even if I lack power—for those who appeal with their souls in sorrow—we have sacrificed ourselves to save them with our very bodies—no, I shouldn’t say that—at least our sincerity will be understood by the world.” “...Isn’t that enough?” “I’m not so sure—it feels uncertain.”

“If they don’t understand, I’ll find peace just knowing I alone was right. The only thing that worries me is whether our actions might cause trouble for the venerable master of Yoshimizu.”

“The Venerable Master knows nothing of this. Not only the Master—none at Yoshimizu are involved.” “Nevertheless, as formality demands, I shall offer apologies and explain the circumstances beforehand.”

“Of course, that is necessary. …How should we proceed?” “Two will only draw eyes. —This way: I’ll follow the mountain ridge to Yoshimizu’s venerable master. You run toward Okazaki and inform Lord Shinran of these details.”

“Alright…!” he started to run,

“Anrakubō, we may never meet again after this… Stay well.” “Stay well.” “...And you too.” “But whether we dwell in mountains or fields—we’ll never forsake the nenbutsu.” “Never!” “...Abandon it? Never!” ……

"Oh no—shadows resembling constables were already climbing up there! 'Farewell—'"

IV

Hōshō Temple burned down in an instant. The nearby trees stood with their limbs stretched out rigidly like black human bones. A dull morning sun rose from beyond the smoke of the embers. Anrakubō hid in the mountains for about five days, subsisting on grass roots. _To the venerable master of Yoshimizu—_ his heart agonized, _What rumors were spreading in the capital? Had his fellow practitioners been burdened with any trouble?_ He tormented himself with these thoughts, desperately seeking a path—any path—to descend the mountain even a moment sooner. But on every route stood shadows of constables, and he knew full well that carelessly venturing into the village would mean instant capture.

“Has Jūren managed to reach Venerable Shinran in Okazaki without incident?” As he thought this, remaining motionless began to feel like cowardice. “Alright, tonight’s the night.” Having steeled himself for death, he made his way down to the foot of Mount Kachō. Deliberately choosing pathless cliffs and valleys, he crawled like a bear.

It was midnight. How nostalgic—the roof of Yoshimizu Hermitage already stood blackened before him. Tears welled up in his eyes before anything else. How should he apologize? Yet when he stood before the hermitage, even at midnight, there was no trace of human presence anywhere—not in the inner building where a single lamp’s flame would always be visible, nor in any other place. It lay as silent as a graveyard. Even when he knocked at the gate, even when he hurled stones—

"Ah...!" What struck him with horror was this: at the main gate where people always came and went, two large logs had been nailed diagonally across it, and there hung what appeared to be an official notice. Startled—Anrakubō brought his face closer to it, but at that moment, "Who's there?"

A loud voice resounded in the darkness. No—the footsteps too came flying closer. Anrakubō fled into the nearby woods as though flung there. When he looked back, two or three torches were searching in different directions. Clearly, they were constables.—In his eyes, those torches appeared as hellfire and patrolmen. There was no chance to survive. As if constantly pursued by someone—and amidst a tumult of doubts and hesitations—he ran all the way to the Kamo River. Like a freshly sharpened sword laid sideways, the waters of the Kamo River were blue. When he looked up, the moon of bitter cold shone with a piercing clarity, the clouds that would have been welcome in such a moment had long since scattered to the four corners.

Ah…

Anrakubō leaned against the base of the bridge, listening to the bone-piercing sound of the rapids’ waters. What has become of the venerable master? What has become of the people of Yoshimizu Hermitage?

Suddenly, the answer revealed itself at the edge of the bridge nearby. It was an official proclamation written on an imposing thick-planked notice board. As if drawn in, he stood before it. When he read through it, This time, the petitions from north and south have reached the imperial ears, and the prohibition is due to the sectarian favoritism of various schools and the scheming of people’s hearts. Hereby, Genkū (Hōnen Shōnin), having established the Jōdo sect since the first year of An’ei in 1175, caused people of all ages to abandon their livelihoods; moreover, due to over fifty unauthorized practices, from this day forth, Pure Land nenbutsu chanting is hereby prohibited.

Furthermore, even a single utterance of this shall be prohibited. Ah... Ah... Furthermore, even a single utterance of this shall be prohibited... Then... Anrakubō prostrated himself on the frozen ground and burst into loud, manly sobs.

5

Anrakubō collapsed unconscious as though he had coughed up blood. He merely let out sobs, unaware that his entire body—flesh, bones, even his hair—was turning to ice beneath the winter moon and earth. "I’m so sorry…! I have no way to make amends! How can I possibly atone for this? To the Venerable Master and all followers and patrons of the Nenbutsu sect—" He immediately bowed his head.

He became aware of "Death!" but— "Could dying even begin to atone for this?" he demanded within his heart an even heavier punishment. The Nenbutsu Prohibition decree. Not permitting even a single utterance of this—such was the severity of this imperial decree. That the root of this calamity had arisen from the actions of myself and Jūren went without saying. "That’s right." He unsteadily stood up from in front of the notice. A heartrending resolve made his face appear paler than the moon. "I will clearly report my actions to the authorities, plead my sincere feelings, and entreat them to pardon the Venerable Master’s crimes." "At least… at least that…"

The winter moon shone down with cruel clarity upon his stumbling footsteps.

At the gate of the Saishōsho in Nishinotōin, the red bonfire was beginning to die out. When he knocked on the closed gate,

“Who’s there?” A samurai thrust his face out from a different small gate. “I have come with a request. “I am one called Anrakubō, residing in Deer Valley.” “I have come to surrender myself regarding the crimes I have committed.” “Please allow me to meet the Honorable Magistrate.” “What? Deer Valley’s—” Four or five samurai swarmed around and seized both his arms, “Oh! Anrakubō!” At this unexpected catch, “Quickly.” One signaled with his eyes; another dashed into the depths of the magistrate’s office. Magistrate Uemon no Suke Tsunemasa,

“He says he wants to meet me.” “He indeed states so.” “Seize him and drag him to the white sand court!”

Though midnight had passed, torches burned all around, casting a vivid red glow that illuminated only that place. Anrakubō, having been bound with ropes and made to sit in the white sand court, concealed nothing. He told everything truthfully.

And, "As for the Venerable Master and all other fellow believers of our sect, they know nothing of these matters. Though I may face whatever extreme punishment, I shall harbor no resentment—but I beseech you, through your mercy, to grant leniency regarding the prohibition against the Nenbutsu sect. Particularly considering how the Venerable Master has, these past years, been frail in health while strictly maintaining his devotional practices." His voice clung with shame, tearful sorrow, and fervent sincerity—as though he might cough up blood at any moment. Yet Tsunemasa would not deign to hear a word he said.

“Where has Jūren, who was supposed to be in Deer Valley with you, gone into hiding?” “Where have you taken Lady Matsumushi and Lady Suzumushi?” “Tell me!” Anrakubō would not utter a single word about that matter, so Tsunemasa— “This one is loquacious about his own affairs yet feigns muteness before the magistrate’s interrogation.” “He won’t confess easily—put him to the torture! Put him to the torture!” he barked.

The samurai grabbed a flaming torch from the bonfire and held it to Anrakubō’s face, filling it with smoke.

VI

Meanwhile, what had become of Jūren?

The path he took after parting with his friend Anrakubō could not have been free of thorns from the start. But Jūren’s path was far harsher.

“To Okazaki’s Venerable Shinran—” he impatiently made his way down toward the village, only to immediately catch the attention of the officers. “Deer Valley’s heretic monk!” they jeered, pursuing him like demons incarnate. He fled all the way to the foot of Mount Hiei and hid in the mountain forest—a place far more perilous than the officers’ encampment. For this was enemy territory of the nenbutsu sect. When the mountain monks of Mount Hiei heard that one from Deer Valley had fled into their domain, they rallied fiercely, throwing themselves into a manhunt.—Hearing their loud exchanges as they passed by, Jūren saw with stark clarity both Mount Hiei’s machinations and their bellies—their true ambitions—as they sought to exploit this chaos to fulfill their long-cherished designs.

“In this situation, what will become of Venerable Shinran’s residence in Okazaki?” he thought uneasily as he stealthily emerged from the mountain forest late at night to investigate. Sure enough, a barricade of bamboo and brushwood stood in the distance, with official guards stationed along the approach path. Following the riverbed, he slipped into the capital. When he inquired about the situation, he found the city in a seething uproar. Voices murmured all around: “It’s the prohibition!” “Not a single word of nenbutsu—” “Ah, Namu...”

“Careful—if you say that thoughtlessly!” Anxiously, the people’s hearts quivered in fear. They could not comprehend why chanting nenbutsu now violated national law—why it had become forbidden. Only a few years prior, these very teachings had been called upon even in the imperial court, their lectures praised and honored. Those of high station and respected figures alike had once lifted their voices to revere this nenbutsu as life’s supreme radiance—yet now, merely uttering it made one a criminal under the law. It was a doubt that defied all resolution.

And then, looking toward the Yōmeimon Gate of the imperial palace, there too stood a jet-black prohibition notice, while beside it at the samurai post, people like Iga no Hōgan Suesada and Suō Motokuni—now serving as magistrates for capital security—kept the night ablaze with torches and bonfires, smudging the winter moon with smoke. Sporadically, the figures passing before it would see the glint of spears and tread lightly into the distance, or stop before the official notice, There were also those who read it with a sigh, muttering, "Good grief," before leaving.

—And then, a man—wearing a priest’s robe over his head and tattered straw sandals on his feet—passed by, shooting a piercing glance at the magistrate’s samurai post from the corner of his eye, when suddenly he shook his shoulders and burst into laughter. “Ahahaha…. “Even if you ban the voiced nenbutsu, can you halt the nenbutsu chanted within the heart?” “Fool!” he cursed indiscriminately, “Though the Wheel-Turning King’s rank is lofty, the seven treasures do not endure forever. The world is in its latter days! An age of decline, an age of decline!” he cried out to the moon as if weeping and continued walking leisurely.

“Who goes there?” Magistrate Suesada, upon hearing that voice, “Capture him!” he bellowed. Hearing that rebuke over his shoulder, the monk walking ahead still did not quicken his pace, continuing to bellow passionately in a poetic tone, his voice booming.

“Though the heavenly realm abounds in pleasures, the five signs of decay have swiftly manifested.” “The five signs of decay have already manifested…” And then, from the depths of his belly, two cries— “Namu Amida Butsu.” “Namu Amida Butsu.”

“Wait!” The samurai brandished their spears and gave chase,

“I am,” the monk snapped, whirling around with torch-like eyes.

VII Even Suesada’s subordinates, who had lunged forward attempting to bind him without allowing a word, faltered at the monk’s roar and his piercing gaze as he turned.

“Wait!” they commanded, surrounding him while keeping their distance. The monk laughed, “Aren’t you the ones waiting? What business do you have?” “You there! Do you not see that official notice there? No—rather, how can you not know of the Nenbutsu Prohibition that has been so strictly proclaimed by the authorities, with notices posted at every crossroads?” “I know.” “What?” they exclaimed, appalled by his brazenness— “You knew [the prohibition], yet how did you just howl and parade before the very gates of the imperial palace?”

“Namu Amida Butsu!” ” "Ah! He did it again!" “O, Namu Amida Butsu!”

“Y-You there! To show such fearless defiance against the authorities… State your name! Who are you?” “I am one who cannot live even a single day without chanting the nenbutsu!” “Good! Don’t you dare regret this!” Moreover, during that time, reinforcements from the magistrate’s hut arrived. From his manner of speaking thus far, they determined he was no ordinary monk. As expected, the monk resisted with desperate fury. ―Swords, shouts, earth trembling. ――The place instantly transformed into a battlefield of carnage, resulting in numerous casualties just to subdue a single man.

But even the monk, who had raged like a demon-god, finally exhausted his strength and was bound in a cross shape beneath a pile of warriors. They were utterly incensed. The magistrate’s subordinates raised their shod feet and kicked the monk’s body like a ball. “Damn you!” While cursing, they pulled on the rope end and dragged him roughly through the magistrate’s office gate. The monk never let out a scream—no matter how they treated him, he would occasionally raise a spirited, indignant voice to denounce the rulers’ actions, and laugh derisively at the samurai acting as their pawns.

Magistrate Iga no Hōgan Suesada demanded of him, “State your name and declare your temple affiliation!” The monk readjusted his position on the ground and declared, “I am Jūren of Deer Valley! Try stopping my nenbutsu!” Even after being thrown into prison, he continued chanting. “What? Jūren?” It was a surprise after capturing him; the magistrate notified various parties and sought those who recognized his face. As a result, everyone’s testimony—

“There is no doubt it is Jūren,” they testified.

At this unexpected quarry, the magistrate’s contingent raised a cry of triumph. Since Anrakubō was already in prison, the judgment was decided on the same day. What remained unknown was still the whereabouts of Lady Matsumushi and Lady Suzumushi; however, as the Year-End Month drew to a close and even the New Year’s pine decorations period passed, it was finally decided to execute these two first. —The first year of Jōgen, early February.

The small stones of Rokujō Riverbed were still covered in ice. Because it was a warm day, the water of Kamo was turbid from melting snow. Jūren and Anrakubō, who had been dragged out from Konoe Prison, were tied to a post near the barricade; but when the time came, they were mercilessly pulled to the center of the execution ground by jailers bearing executioner’s blades under official decree and seated upon ice-covered stones without even a straw mat.

VIII “The reverend monks of Deer Valley are to be executed.”

The crowd gathered at the riverbed. Even outside the barricade, they thronged in.

“Oh, there they are!” Seeing from afar the figures of Jūren and Anrakubō being dragged by the executioners’ hands, someone involuntarily— “Na...mu...A...mi...da...Butsu...” they blurted out. “Shh…” A person nearby pulled their sleeve, “You know it’s prohibited!” they warned. “That’s right,” the crowd stifled their words. “Even uttering one chant could mean severe punishment under the decree—dangerous, dangerous!” “Is even Amida’s power no match for the authorities’ might?”

“It’s the times, the era—they say even Hōnen Shōnin has been placed under house arrest along with his other disciples.” “When passing before the Mikado gate, there remains no trace of Yoshimizu’s former appearance—nowadays, there are only stern-faced warriors and the glint of blades…”

“Then… can we no longer behold the revered Hōnen Shōnin?” “Do not dare chant! —In this world.” “What a dreadful sight… Ah, Namu Ami—” “Take care!” “When I think of our revered master, it slips from my lips unbidden.” “To stay mute is no easy thing.” Before long, “Ah…” The people rose on tiptoes and pressed their faces to the barricade. Looking across, they saw executioners with drawn blades circle behind Jūren and Anrakubō, speaking what must have been final words.

That alone seemed to be the jailers’ mercy. Both were wearing only their monastic robes. And they held prayer beads. (Perhaps the executioners had asked about last words,) but both Jūren and Anrakubō, (…………) quietly shook their heads. The bamboo barricade tips clattered in the cold wind; for an instant, the world hushed and froze gray. Then with one cry—"Namu Amida Butsu!"—bursting from Anrakubō’s lips, the executioner startled and swung his blade down slantwise. Jūren too chanted the nenbutsu. But there was no time for a second utterance. Instantly, blood from both corpses crawled like earthworms across the riverbed toward Kamo River, spreading until every blade and stone seemed dyed red.

The crowd forgot themselves,

“Namu Amida Butsu…” It was now a voice that could not be silenced even if one tried. This was no chanting by tens or hundreds—it burst forth from every mouth among the people. The jailers and officials made bitter faces but could do nothing.

*

“This is terrible! In a hut about four *ri* deep into Deer Valley, two young Reverend Nuns have committed suicide and died.”

In response to the hunter’s urgent report, “That must be Matsumushi and Suzumushi, the ladies-in-waiting.” The officials immediately ventured into Nyoi-ga-take. Just as they had suspected, it was them. Two makeshift mortuary tablets—having offered incense to the spirits of Jūren and Anrakubō, they had achieved a beautiful death with crystal prayer beads still in hand.

—The Wrath of the Retired Emperor’s Court! The anti-nenbutsu factions of Nanto, Eizan, and other sects across the provinces seized this moment to intensify their outcry. And their efforts bore fruit. Thoroughly, the *nenbutsu* was purged from the land, and Yoshimizu—their proclaimed doctrinal adversary—faced imminent annihilation.

Chapter of Ice and Snow

Flowers Scattering Profusely

I

――A sudden turn of events.

In the first year of Jōgen, on the twenty-eighth day of the second month. The imperial decree was issued to Yoshimizu.

Guilty. The decree ordered Hōnenbō Genkū to revert to his secular name Fujii Motohiko and commanded his banishment to Tosa Province.

The capital was filled with yellowish dust amidst these unsettling rumors. Fearing that followers in various provinces might be engaging in suspicious activities, the government’s courier system dispatched fast horses along every major route to provincial governors. Of course, the punishment was not imposed on Hōnen alone. Among the disciples of Yoshimizu, eight senior disciples—including Jōmonbō and Zenkōbō—were each assigned to provinces such as Bingo, Izu, Sado, and Awa, (Exile—) such was the stern decree. In addition, there were two others—Seiganbō and Zenchakubō—who had long been close to Anrakubō and Jūren of Deer Valley, and given their usual conduct as well, this was—

(Death penalty—) such was the harsh decree. Centered around Yoshimizu’s hermitage, the houses and estates of believers within the capital were each in a state as though caught in a violent storm.

Suddenly, violent warriors arrived, “Investigate!” With just that single word, they ransacked belongings and conducted house searches—and if they saw even the slightest scrap of a letter as suspicious, “You’ve been scheming deeply with those Nenbutsu sect fanatics!” They permitted no rebuttal. They dragged householders away mid-meal, hauled off mothers whose nursing infants wept—it resembled a scene from hell itself. Above all, in this recent turmoil, the one who faced graver peril than even Saint Hōnen was Zenbō of Okazaki.

Though the great propagation of the Nenbutsu sect had indeed been initiated by Hōnen, it was Zenbō—long singled out for particular scrutiny by Eizan—who had truly embodied Hōnen’s profound spirit and convictions. By uniting these with his own enduring scholarship, he forged what might be called an unshakable form for the sect. Now people speak of it as owing far more to Zenbō’s own efforts than to any other force. "He must absolutely be sentenced to death at this juncture"—such was the momentum fiercely rising among the opposing sects who knew his significance.

And—as an outstanding disciple among Hōnen’s followers, his name had been written at the very top of this round of executions. In accordance with the other sects’ wishes, as “death penalty.” As his crimes,

――He consumed meat and maintained a wife. ――He openly―and in broad daylight―rode together with his wife Tamahime and unabashedly had an ox-drawn carriage driven through the capital. ――He also... All of Shinran’s hardships and efforts up to this day were tallied as criminal charges, and the masses of Eizan secretly― “It is only natural that heretics meet such an end; only through this can both society and the Dharma’s light be called just and righteous,” they declared. Alone, Middle Counselor Rokaku Chikatsune refuted during the deliberation at Ninnaji-den to determine the charges, arguing that this was not a fair political proceeding.

The Middle Counselor’s arguments on this day were fierce. Though it was in the presence of the Retired Emperor, he boldly argued that Shinran’s death penalty was an unjust and violent punishment. —Yet he was neither an ally of Yoshimizu nor of Eizan. As a subject of the Emperor. Moreover, as one who governed this nation’s culture and spirit, he opposed it with utmost resolve. As a result, Shinran had his death sentence commuted, (Exile to Echigo Province, Kokufu)—such was the decision.

II "To have reached this old age—and to witness the world in such a state as this…" Lord Kanezane had aged. It was as though he had turned white-haired overnight. In this great upheaval—or rather, in a position of unceasing worry even before that—it must have been Lord Kanezane who grieved more than anyone and whose body bore the toll more than anyone else. Toward the revered master he had devoted himself to. And toward the beloved husband of my dear daughter—Shinran.

“……What is this?!” He bit his aged lips. “If only this body could serve as substitute…” The man who rarely lamented or faltered— Rumors that he had even muttered “I can neither sit nor stand—” and spent days in near-maddened grief circulated among townsfolk, likely no exaggeration. When the day of imperial proclamation arrived at last, he entrusted his aged form to an ox-drawn carriage and ordered, “To Yoshimizu.” To Yoshimizu—this would be his final journey.—Why must the luminous path he had walked with faith in easy rebirth now be trodden as this dark mire of despair? The Zen Chancellor—

“I want to die… I can no longer endure this human world.” Inside the ox-drawn carriage, he murmured.

When he arrived—ah—the Zen Chancellor inadvertently let out a heavy sigh. What a transformation—could this truly be that Yoshimizu residence, once filled with the voices of nenbutsu chanting? ………… The Zen Chancellor wept for a time, the blinds of his ox-drawn carriage still drawn shut. Even when the servant urged him, saying “We have arrived,” he made no move to alight. The area around the gate was a scene of utter devastation—scattered embers from a campfire, tattered straw sandals discarded by security warriors, horse dung, and more.

Because officials’ underlings and unruly warriors ate and drank wherever they pleased, wild dogs gathered in great numbers and even made their way into the meditation hall. The fence was broken, and on the gate doors remained crude crossbeams of logs still nailed in place; all entry and exit were restricted to a small side gate flanked by guards forming a phalanx of spears. But—

“Lord Kanezane has arrived.” “What? The Zen Chancellor?” When this whisper reached the guards, even they were compelled to awaken a sense of reverence toward the former Regent,

“Now then… this way,” said the guards as they removed the crude log crossbeams, fell silent, and guided him.

“Is the Master present?” The Zen Chancellor asked those nearby.

“He is present—though since then, he has kept himself in such seclusion as if he were not here, in the inner quarters,” answered one of the officials. Wondering how he had been faring for essentials—clothing, food, medicine—the Zen Chancellor stepped into the meditation hall, now trampled through by others with their shoes still on, and as was his custom, removed his clogs and ascended quietly. “Oh!” Catching a glimpse of his figure, the disciple of the meditation hall—overcome by a mix of joy and sorrow—inadvertently cried out, then stumbled his way toward the inner chamber where the Master always lay,

“Lord Kanezane has arrived—Lord Kanezane!” he urgently reported to the Master present there.

III How haggard he must have been—how he must have been lamenting this despairing old age. Lord Kanezane, who had been imagining the Master’s appearance in such a way, “Oh,” came the Master’s voice as usual, speaking first, and he was jolted as if struck by something. “……Oh.” Having answered in the same manner, he clenched both hands and for a time could not raise them. The Zen Chancellor immediately felt ashamed of his own inadequacy. Yet there was no reason for the Master to be such a man, and he grew ashamed of having imagined—projecting from his own grief—that the Master would be like some mortal.

Regarding this recent upheaval as well, "I hardly know what to say..." the Zen Chancellor began, "There is no need to speak," said the Master, even with a smile, and he did not touch upon it. And still, the quiet words flowing from the Master’s lips were teachings of the Dharma—a discourse on the human soul, delivered with a serene face enveloped in the conviction of Amida’s radiant light. "A faith that crumbles in such times—what use could it be? In such times as these, you must not let the fruits of your practice go to waste. Though Lord Kanezane appears somewhat haggard, if that were the case, even Hōnen would depart the capital with lingering regrets." What manner of man is this? the Zen Chancellor wondered as he reassessed the Master anew. It was Hōnen who had instead pressed his usual physical sufferings beneath his knees. However, it was impossible to know just how much this fact had strengthened the Zen Chancellor’s faith. As he was saved, having come here after so long, his heart brightened.

Be that as it may, various problems were already pressing upon him moment by moment. The day of exile had not yet been decided, but even during those few remaining days, Lord Kanezane had come there with the thought of placing the Master’s person somewhere tranquil and bidding him farewell from the depths of his heart. And so—when he inquired about the Master’s private opinion on the matter, the answer was that it would be acceptable provided the authorities granted permission. Regarding the matter with the authorities, since Lord Kanezane had already secured full understanding, when he conveyed that there was no need for concern, the Master also—

“Then, I shall gratefully accept your kindness,” he said. The following day—with an ox-drawn carriage prepared—the Zen Chancellor set out once more for Yoshimizu. They temporarily relocated the Master to a hermitage in Komatsudani, southeast of Rengeōin Temple at the foot of Amitaga Peak. Since he remained under house arrest, guards clad in armor were stationed here as well. Yet it proved far more comfortable than Yoshimizu’s ravaged meditation hall, and Lord Kanezane along with the Tsukinowa household,

“This is our farewell—” they wholeheartedly tended to the Master’s daily needs. After lifting the Master from the thorn-covered gate, Lord Kanezane found himself unable to stop worrying about how his son-in-law and beloved daughter had been faring since the incident—this too weighed heavily on his mind.

While thinking, “Tomorrow…,” he found himself so preoccupied with various matters that the days merely slipped away without progress. (Finally tomorrow—to Okazaki), he would think to himself each day, only to be consumed by myriad busyness—attending to visitors, tending to the Master under house arrest, petitioning the authorities—until nightfall.

The Hermitage Scented with Mother’s Milk

One “Lady Attendant—Lady Attendant!” Hurriedly, Shōshinbō called out from the hermitage veranda toward the inner quarters. This Shōshinbō was a new novice who had only recently—at the end of the previous year—begun serving at this Okazaki hermitage, working there with earnest diligence. Judging solely by his sincere demeanor and swift daily movements, none could have guessed that this novice had until just the year before been the great bandit Amagi Shirō—a man whom people had feared as though he were some demon or ogre.

He had offered up his former notorious names—Amagi Shirō and Tokusa Shirō—to the Master of Yoshimizu and in return received the name “Shōshinbō,” imbued with the meaning of being reborn through faith. The Master, at that time, “Because I am already advanced in years, I cannot assign attendants to you and take your hand on the long path ahead. Shinran is still young, and over the years you have shared a karmic bond with him. Moreover, as a teacher to be relied upon, he is a person surpassing even me. Therefore, you should follow Shinran and receive his guidance and teachings henceforth,” he said.

Since then, he had come to the Okazaki hermitage and faithfully performed his duties as a servant—cleaning the hermitage, handling backstage tasks, serving as night watchman, and all manner of things besides. (Like a wolf turned into a good dog—) Those who knew his former self watched with strange fascination. To such an extent had Shōshinbō been reborn in truth. When he learned of Yoshimizu’s recent catastrophic collapse, he ground his teeth in bitter frustration. For he well understood how Mount Hiei’s despicable schemes—of which Ben’en had long spoken—served as its primary cause. (I could throw away this single life and set Mount Hiei ablaze)—such words would sometimes slip from his lips, but when Tamahime of the back chambers admonished him,

(Yes—I shall renounce such vows and pledge this even to the Buddha), he submitted obediently. Tamahime had been pregnant since the previous year, and in her room now lingered the pearl-like cries of an infant. Whether praying before the Buddha, speaking with disciples, or gazing at clouds over the Thirty-Six Peaks from the southern veranda, she kept upon her lap her husband’s child—who yearned for her milk. Lately, she had been distressed by her lack of breast milk. Where had her husband gone? What had become of him? There was no word of his whereabouts. Even rumors of his assassination swirled through the streets. Given her husband’s perilous circumstances and knowing his fierce temperament all too well, she could not dismiss such possibilities—and so her heart ached.

Now—Shōshinbō called from the veranda, “The Master has returned! That figure is undoubtedly Lord Shinran. Come out quickly—see for yourself!” At his bellowing shout, Tamahime felt such a powerful impulse that her chest throbbed with pain. “Truly…” She tumbled out onto the veranda and stretched up.

From the direction of Shirakawa, a small figure could be seen ascending through the woods of this Okazaki hill—fluttering, the sleeves of his black Buddhist robe stirred by the spring breeze. (It’s my husband.) The moment she clearly understood this, she pressed her cheek tightly against her child—still unaware of everything—whom she held in her arms, “Your father… your father has returned safely.” “…Aren’t you happy? So happy…” Repeating it over and over, she was already moistening with tears. Shōshinbō, too, turned aside and quietly rubbed his eyes with his fist.

Two

――He was alive. He was safe—Tamahime thought this, and Shōshinbō thought this to such an extent that it felt miraculous. But before long, Shinran, who had been led to a room of the hermitage, “You must have been lonely,” he said with concern for his wife, appearing as though nothing whatsoever had happened to him.

—He was alive! Indeed, Shinran, who had returned to his home after so long, appeared as a living man. As always, he possessed a bursting vitality, his skin slightly sun-darkened, and with thick eyebrows that seemed all the more a symbol of resolute will—as if unfazed even if a mountain were to crumble—he sat calmly and composed. “Surely, you all must have heard the rumors in the capital—the calamity that befell the Yoshimizu order,” he said after a time.

Moreover, in a quiet voice—as if taking care not to startle the heart of his young wife, who knew little of society’s harsh realities—

Tamahime was holding her two-year-old son Fumaru to her chest.

“Yes, I was aware.” “For some time, even the Master had anticipated this. There is no need for surprise.” “My resolve has long been firm.” “That’s what I’d expect,” Shinran said with a quiet laugh. “In fact, I even think it’s something to rejoice over.” Perhaps feeling somewhat surprised by this, Tamahime raised her perplexed brows and looked at her husband’s face. Shinran continued his words in a low voice, “For until now, it had been the Yoshimizu hermitage in the city; it had been the nenbutsu that appealed greatly to city dwellers. Therefore, our preached voices—our faith—had not spread as freely as we wished, centered on the capital. But with this recent prohibition and punishment, from the Master down to our youngest disciples being sentenced to exile in remote mountain regions across the provinces, from now on—whether they will it or not—nenbutsu believers will plant their faith throughout all of Japan—” As he said this, Shinran slightly lowered his head as if gazing at something,

“This is entirely the Buddha’s design—what else could this be but divine blessing? For those of us who have crouched for years in a single corner of the small capital, it must be the Buddha’s will to broaden our vision across the world—commanding us to plant trees of Buddhahood wherever we go, make flowers of nenbutsu bloom, and cultivate Pure Lands… Thus did I explain this to the Master as well.” “This occasion brings nothing less than supreme joy.” “…Then the Master smiled and praised me—‘Shinran,’ he said, ‘you have spoken well.’”

Tamahime stared intently at the face of the nursing infant. She understood clearly that while she herself was one womb, her husband must also be a great womb nourishing countless multitudes with the milk of love and security. —But as a woman—and especially as a young mother—it was a heart-wrenching thing. Nodding along to her husband’s words, white dew misted at her eyelash tips and threatened to spill. “In the brief time I didn’t see you…” Shinran embraced Fumaru and rubbed his cheek against the child’s.

“You’ve grown heavier—no doubt you’ve been diligent in caring for him. But let him be exposed to wind and rain—the child of Amida will surely grow.”

Shōshinbō was kneeling in the shadows of the next room, and he felt Shinran’s words pierce him to the core one by one.

Three

Shinran’s return to Okazaki was by no means because his crime had been forgiven. Rather, it was because that grave offense had been determined. When his banishment to Echigo Province was settled, he was first released through the tribunal’s gates and ordered to remain in seclusion in Okazaki until the day of departure.

Of course—visiting the Master was also impossible without official permission. Interactions with fellow sect members were also strictly prohibited. Even so, he could not voice any complaints. Even if only for a few days before being exiled to a distant province, the fact that he was now permitted to live here with his wife and child was likely due to no small amount of maneuvering behind the scenes by his father-in-law, Lord Tsukinowa Zenkō. If not for that esteemed father-in-law, there would have been no such leniency—Shinran’s execution would undoubtedly have been carried out within three days of the Nenbutsu Prohibition decree’s issuance. That Zenkō, too, soon came to Okazaki,

“I will no longer lament,” he said. Shinran heard from his father-in-law about the circumstances of his teacher, Venerable Hōnen, “That must indeed be the case,” he said with a relieved smile,

“Yet in this remaining desire—before the Venerable Master departs into exile, and before this Shinran is cast down to his place of banishment—I wish but once more to meet him.” Lord Zenkō nodded in assent and said he would endeavor to entreat those at the imperial court to fulfill this request as well. As for Tamahime and Fumaru,

“I am protecting them. You need not worry,” he declared. Shinran was like an orchid blooming entrusted to the blowing wind, “Please,” was all he said. Not a trace of suffering could be seen in his brows. Even as my daughter’s husband, he truly is remarkable, Lord Zenkō thought. And, recalling Hōnen’s words as well, “This is no sorrow at all,” he thought, as his own grief over the past several months now seemed almost laughable.

The day of the Venerable Master’s exile, which people had been whispering would come in February—no order was issued in that February, and it was March.

Between the cedar-lined avenues of the capital, the pale shadows of Higan cherry blossoms already looked like snow. The temple bells within the capital, quivering with spring, grew duller and more listless with each passing day.

A young monk hurriedly left Shōren-in. Shinran's brother, Jin'yū.

Having heard from his teacher Jien that his brother Shinran’s exile convoy and that of Master Yoshimizu were finally set for the sixteenth day of March,

“Just one glimpse of my brother,” he resolved, prepared even for the possibility that the guards might drive him back, having obtained his teacher’s permission before setting out. Just as he had feared, deer fence barriers surrounded all paths leading to the hermitage in Okazaki—whether approaching from Shirakawa or descending from Kaguraoka.

“You shall not pass!” With a brusque wave of his sword, the samurai there barked a rebuke. Even if he pleaded his case, even if he pressed his hands to the ground, he was not permitted. Having no other choice, Jin’yū waited for sunset and then risked his life crawling down a pathless cliffside into the inner valley of Okazaki’s pine forest.

Four

It wasn’t the wind—there came a repeated knocking at the door. Though he thought there could absolutely be no one who would visit here now, Shinran called out, “Shōshinbō.”

It was already late at night. Seeing no response, it seemed Shōshinbō too was asleep. Tamahime was settling the infant to sleep. “Who might this be?” Shinran himself rose and went.

Outside the door,

“It’s me,” someone said. Casually opening the hermitage door, Shinran was startled.

“Oh, brother…” “Brother...” “How did you come to this hermitage…? Well, come in.” He took his hand and led him to a room. When they sat down, the brothers were already overwhelmed with emotion.

Though they lived in the same capital, right under each other's noses, the occasions when the two met were exceedingly rare. Each time they met, they found themselves so at a loss about where to begin…

“I hear you will depart for Echigo in the near future.” “Hmm... The sixteenth day, so the decree states.” “The sixteenth day. Then… it’s already imminent.” “Therefore, this is our farewell, you as well. Devote yourself single-mindedly to your practice.” “Yes.” “Your teacher, Archbishop Jien, has been my mentor since childhood. When I think back—from the time he took my hand and guided me in my youth until today—he has done nothing but shoulder worries for me, and I have not done a single thing to repay his kindness since then.… Please fulfill this brother’s share along with your own.”

“I will strive my hardest.” “And I will never forget your words now.” “But... if the day of exile is the sixteenth, then you, Brother, will no longer have the opportunity to meet Archbishop Jien...” “It must be difficult.… They wished for me to meet Master Yoshimizu even once, and Lord Tsukinowa made the request, but it seems the authorities will not permit it.… But you, Brother—even if this Shinran is exiled to a distant land, you must never grieve.” “For spreading the nenbutsu throughout the world, for forming bonds with all beings—by the decree of the Buddha, I rise.” “You may regard this as the commencement of a journey to spread the teachings.”

“In your heart—Jin’yū has also considered that this must be so.” “Let me repeat: You are still young. Even in the capital, devote yourself wholly to study.” “Yes, please spare no concern for such matters.” “Having been partially permitted to continue my regular practice, I too shall soon be assigned to preside over Zen’in Temple in Higashidani on Mount Hiei.” “Ah… So you are transferred to Higashidani on Mount Hiei.” “A curious bond indeed.” “This brother—slandered as a demonic foe of Buddhism by Mount Hiei’s monastic order—is now cast out…”

“Being a blood relative of Shinran, there was opposition it seems, but through our teacher Archbishop Jien’s arrangements.” “A good thing—amid such circumstances, this must be our teacher’s intention to shape you into your true self.” “I will fight—against countless trials.” “This brother goes north to spread the Other-Power teachings. “And you—to the mountain of Self-Power practices. These paths may seem as different as east and west, but climb them both and they lead to Amida’s same embrace. ...Let us meet again in Amida’s lap.” From the rear—just then, whether stirred by something or not—the infant Bōmaru began wailing. Jin’yū suddenly recalled his own childhood at the sweet breastmilk scent drifting from that direction.

“As for the hour of departure on the sixteenth…” “I depart at the Hour of the Hare.” “Jin’yū will toll the bell that morning. When the bell of Shōren-in Temple tolls at the Hour of the Hare, please know that your younger brother will be seeing you off from an unseen place.” With these words, Jin’yū eventually made his way back along the mountain path under cover of early night.

Predawn light

One Last night, in the small hall of Komatsu Valley, voices chanting the nenbutsu had risen throughout the night—despite the fact that since the prohibition decree had been issued, threatening severe punishment even for so much as uttering a word of the nenbutsu, both the authorities’ crackdowns and the people’s self-restraint had grown as tense as needles.

The predawn of the sixteenth day drew ever closer with each passing moment, marked by winds through the dark trees surrounding the small hall and the twinkling of white stars. Hōnen had slept only briefly during the evening and risen before the first watch bell tolled. While awake, he never neglected the nenbutsu for even a single second. ("This morning brings our parting—") The hermitage was packed with people. Commoners, monks, officials, and those who had rushed from distant provinces—a diverse assembly—had kept vigil through the night. These people, hearing the nenbutsu occasionally escape from the Master's quarters,

“Lest it be heard beyond the fence,” they shut and sealed even the open shutters and sliding doors, fearing outsiders might overhear. “If only he would speak in a slightly lower voice…” someone whispered.

Anxious fear of the authorities had become their daily existence. For merely whispering a single "Namu," they daily witnessed elders being thrown into prison or dragged to the riverbank and whipped. Outside the brushwood fence, even without cause, the authorities’ underlings—gripping spears like ox-headed and horse-headed demons, their eyes ever watchful for convicts—stood guard here. From time to time, they would barge inside unceremoniously, peer around, seize on trivial matters, and throw their weight about.

“He does not show enough caution toward the authorities.” “We understand the Master’s feelings—today being their final moment together—and his single-minded recitation of the holy name, but in his distraction he must have forgotten the prohibition, letting it escape loudly from his lips.” “Why doesn’t someone go and offer a word of caution?” someone said. “Well…” Not a single person exchanged glances and went to tell the Master. Then Zen’eibō—who had also been sentenced to exile and was to be escorted to the place of banishment that morning alongside the Master—

“Then, I will,” he said, rising.

“Oh, since it is Zen’eibō-dono, the Master will not take offense.” “Through Lord Tsukinowa’s efforts, even the escort arrangements have grown more lenient—but should word of any defiance against the decree reach the authorities again here, it would bring harm to the Master.” “I shall go and offer a discreet word of caution.” When Zen’eibō approached the Master and timidly conveyed everyone’s concerns, the Master appeared uncharacteristically displeased. Sternly straightening his posture, he declared:

“Even if this Hōnenbō were ordered to have his tongue torn out and body quartered into eight pieces, I shall not cease my nenbutsu devotions. Should I be exiled to the farthest seas of Silla and Baekje or granted death itself, this single practice of nenbutsu remains what the Great Sage Shakyamuni and countless bodhisattvas established here—the light and testament—for us foolish, afflicted multitudes. What are power, deceit, or threats? Could such things obstruct this? Could they erase those immortal sacred teachings from humankind? They are but mortal spittle cast toward heaven. You too—do not hinder this Hōnen’s faith, even in your dreams.”

Two

The night had not yet ended—the faint light came from rows of cherry trees. Above their blooming branches hung a waning moon. "Hurry—" From Tsukinowa's mansion emerged an ox-drawn carriage bearing an elderly lord—its wooden frame groaning as it moved—while foam flecked at its reins from how fiercely they raced toward Hōshō Temple's small hall in Komatsu Valley.

“Wait!” “Where do you think you’re going?” As they neared the small hall, warriors clad in light armor stood blocking the path of the ox-drawn carriage and challenged them. “You may not pass. Do you have the official permit?!” The elderly lord asked from within the ox-drawn carriage, “Whose men are you?” One of the warriors stated, “They are men under Exile Convoy Commander Kiyohara no Taketsugu and retainers of Magistrate Suō no Suke Motokuni.” The elderly lord nodded. “Summon the two gentlemen here. I am Lord Tsukinowa Zenkō.”

“Ah, is it Lord Tsukinowa himself?” Surprised, the warrior ran off. Kiyohara no Taketsugu, the Exile Convoy Commander who had been stationed at Hōshō Temple’s annex, promptly welcomed the elderly lord into one of its rooms in the temporary hut. “Your efforts in this duty have been most arduous,” the elderly lord said, offering a preliminary greeting. “The urgent matter that compelled me to come before dawn is not without reason.” “Tosa Province, where the Master has been ordered to proceed to this time, is far too harsh for his advanced age.” “And—in truth, I had earlier petitioned the imperial court to have him placed under my custody at Komatsu Manor in Sanuki Province, which I hold as my domain. Late last night, the Council of State issued a decision granting this request. Therefore, this morning’s departure for Tosa has been changed to Sanuki—I humbly request your kind understanding.” Taketsugu was surprised.

“Understood. I humbly comply,” he said, though— (How had such a lenient change come about?) He could not help but harbor doubts. After seeing the elderly lord off as he departed from there and proceeded toward the small hall, [Taketsugu] immediately consulted with Magistrate Suō Motokuni, (Is the change to Sanuki Nakagun genuine or mere rumor?) he sent an urgent messenger to the authorities to inquire.

Crossing paths with that messenger, a mounted envoy from the Council of State came galloping. It was indeed true that the Master’s place of exile had been abruptly changed. Faintly, around that time, the pale bluish-yellow morning sky began to brighten above the treetops of flowers—the watch fires there were burning out—

The Hour of the Tiger (3–5 AM). It was precisely the appointed hour.

Master Hōnen calmly removed his priestly robes and changed into coarse hitatare garments of secular clothing. From his teenage years until today—a span of approximately sixty years—not a single day had he removed the priestly robes he now returned to the authorities. Moreover, from this morning onward, his name was changed to his secular one: Fujii Motohiko.

His white hair extended like cotton, and his grown beard at the chin appeared to glisten. To this he added a pear-skin eboshi, entrusting himself to the palanquin presented by the exile convoy commander. Before entering the palanquin, "Lord Tsukinowa," Hōnen called out, searching among the crowd surrounding him—those who had come to see him off that morning—for the figure of the elderly lord.

Three

“Here—” Lord Tsukinowa Zenkō advanced from amidst the throng of people to stand before Master Hōnen. “Oh,” Even Hōnen, when he saw that figure, felt reluctant to part. For a while, his aged eyes glistened with tears. “The time has come for us to part,” he said. “…………” The elderly lord remained silent. The sorrow of unspoken words outweighed any speech. “For years, Lord Tsukinowa, you have granted extraordinary aid to the nenbutsu teachings—both openly and in secret.” “Though I claim this was solely for Buddha and all beings, our profound Dharma bond—even should I perish in a distant land—I shall never forget your noble kindness.” Hōnen clasped the lord’s hand.

“Shinran’s departure is also scheduled for the Hour of the Rabbit, I hear.” “The hour must be drawing near.” “Please convey to him that he must take every care to preserve himself.” “And at the same time, since you, Master Hōnen, are under the Buddha’s divine protection, there is certainly no need for concern.” “Understood.” “Then…” The palanquin was lifted once those words had ended. When they exited the gate of Hōshō Temple, there were monks and lay followers who had received teachings directly or indirectly from the Master over many years, parishioners, and men and women from the capital who had flocked together out of admiration for his virtue,

“Oh…” The nenbutsu they involuntarily chanted under their breath turned into tears and voices; they stood blocking the path so that even the palanquin could not pass. “Please step aside.” “Refrain from chanting the nenbutsu.” Among the disciples, Kakubari Jōa Zuiren—renowned for his strength—took the lead, while twelve or thirteen attendants persistently persuaded their way through the tearful crowd to clear a path. When they had advanced fifty meters from Hōshō Temple, “Let us bear that palanquin,” said the disciples, wresting it from the exile convoy commander’s bearers to carry their master’s palanquin forward with only their own attendants.

—west along Shichijō. They descended Ōmiya and proceeded straight along Toba Road—and at every crossroads, ridge between rice fields, and eave of houses along the way, crowds of people had gathered to see off the Master’s palanquin. “Oh, how pitiful!” “How undeserving!”

“Namu Amida Butsu—” People of all ranks pressed together indiscriminately, while some ran up to the front of the palanquin, “Even if your body is exiled to a distant land, your life—the nenbutsu—will never vanish from the soil of Japan!” screamed a young man, “Please take this for the Venerable Master—” came from an elderly woman offering sincere offerings such as rice cakes, paper, and flowers, “At least, let me have the soil touched by your footsteps,” said a woman scooping sand from where the palanquin had passed into paper, and indescribably sorrowful scenes of parting were depicted everywhere.

“—Farewell.” Joining the people who sat prostrating in worship upon the earth, Lord Tsukinowa Zenkō followed the procession to Ōmiya-guchi, saw off the palanquin, then immediately turned his ox-drawn carriage around and hastened toward Okazaki. At the latter Hour of the Rabbit—a mere quarter-day after bidding farewell to the Master with eyes still wet from tears that had not yet dried—he now had to send his own daughter’s husband Shinran onward to the northern snow country.

Hino Zenshin

One

It must have been the glow of flowers; faintly, the world outside the eaves was white. Soundlessly, with no human voices yet, amidst only the faintly drifting floral fragrance, dawn drew near. "...By now, the Master of Yoshimizu must have—" Shinran exited the Buddhist chapel and stood on the veranda. Gazing up at the predawn sky, he suddenly muttered to himself and grew despondent. "........" His gaze reached outward from there, seeing off through his pupils the future path of the Master who was departing the capital this morning. At the same time, he thought of how he himself would soon have to leave this hermitage in Okazaki and set out along the snowy Echigo road.

Between tending to their nursing infant and—attending to her husband who was to be sent into exile—his wife, Tamahime no Mae, had surely not slept a wink the previous night. Yet—in the narrow kitchen, she had already lit a meager lamp and, while the nursing infant Fusa-maru remained asleep—seemed to be preparing the morning meal. The sound of washing ceramicware and quiet indications of meal preparations could be heard there. By now, even if she had grown accustomed to water-related chores, when one considered that she—born into Tsukinowa’s Former Regent Household and reared in utmost seclusion—[endured this]—

(How pitiable...) Shinran could not help but feel an anguish akin to that of any ordinary person tormented by worldly suffering.

—And then, outside the hermitage, two figures approached with stealthy footsteps, and—

“Is this not the Master’s hermitage?” they called out and pressed both hands firmly to the ground before the veranda.

When he looked, it was Kohata Minbu—now at Mudō Temple in the Eastern Pagoda—and Shōzenbō, the two of them. “Ah.” A smile spread across Shinran’s face. The dawn’s light, brightening moment by moment, grew vivid as it graced his face and figure. “It has been too long… And yet, for one condemned by imperial decree to manage attending his own departure…” “Through Lord Tsukinowa’s various arrangements—” “Then your father-in-law too—”

“After humbly seeing off the Venerable Master of Yoshimizu this morning—he is expected to graciously come here directly.”

Then Tayūbō Kakumyō arrived as well, and about ten close relatives—though limited to just that number—gathered at this hermitage to lament the parting. In the room, the farewell meal Tamahime had prepared with her own hands was already laid out. With Shinran seated in the place of honor, the relatives—amidst their loneliness—found themselves struck by a refreshingly pure sentiment as they settled around the meal. Not a trace of anything ominous or anxious lingered in their hearts—for Shinran regarded today’s departure as

(—A holy envoy setting forth under Buddha’s command—) he considered this an unlooked-for blessing, while Tamahime in the background too, (Her husband had set out this morning on his missionary journey—to spread the nenbutsu graciously in the remote northern provinces—) she believed, which was why no shadow of misery, no exile-like sorrow or anguish could be seen there. The pale light of dawn added brightness to the faces of the relieved people. Tamahime, too, without combing her hair and holding Fusa-maru, sat beside her husband to serve. ——Then, Shōshinbō,

“Lord Tsukinowa has graciously arrived,” Shōshinbō announced from the next room.

Two

The face of the old lord who had made his way there was not the least bit somber.

“Ah.” “Ah.” With each exchanged glance, unspoken emotions welled up intensely in their chests. Shinran spoke once more: “Having shown no filial devotion until now—only causing you trouble all this time, Father-in-law—this matter alone has been Tamahime’s and my constant regret.” “Moreover, now that such an imperial decree has been issued and I must depart for Echigo, I fear I shall never again behold your face morning or evening while life remains in me.” “I implore you—graciously accept your twilight years and entrust my affairs with an open heart to the world’s currents.” “As for Tamahime and Fusa-maru—since I who bear this imperial censure cannot bring them into exile—I humbly beg your mercy regarding their pitiable circumstances.”

Lord Tsukinowa Zenkō silently nodded repeatedly as he listened, but— “Tamahime and Fusa-maru’s well-being—I will take charge of them and protect them. You must not worry.” Shinran laughed wryly and, “Hearing that, I too have no worries.” “Only, you yourself—as you travel down to Echigo where the climate and customs differ—must take care not to harm yourself.” “Please do not trouble yourself. Fortunately, Zenshin has trained himself since childhood.”

“Hmm.” “…when I consider the path of hardships you have walked until today.” “This current exile is of no consequence whatsoever.” He realized he had been speaking at length—

“Tamahime,” Shinran turned to his wife,

“I will make the preparations,” he said and entered the inner room. In a room, Shinran removed his monastic robes. He changed into a hitatare robe of russet color and placed a nashiji-lacquered eboshi hat upon his head. As Tamahime tied his waist cord and arranged his belongings to bring out, even she could no longer hold back her tears. This time they spent together was their only chance to mourn their parting, but they could say nothing. “…Stay well,” was all she said before collapsing in tears at her husband’s feet.

“I leave Fusa-maru in your care.” “Yes…” “To your father-in-law—I entrust you to fulfill filial duties in my stead.”

“Yes.” “From the place of exile, correspondence will hardly be possible. Even if years pass without word, this Zenshin has the Buddha’s protection—you must not worry. When sorrow arises, reflect on neglect of nenbutsu. In the skies of Echigo, align your heart with the nenbutsu that Zenshin chants; you too, in the capital, should continue chanting nenbutsu. Spend each day in spiritual bliss and joy. That, for Zenshin, is what I most earnestly entrust to you.”

Across the distant sky over flower-adorned Kaguraoka, at that moment, a bell tolled. “Oh... the Hour of the Hare.” Shinran remembered. The words Jin’yū had spoken when he had come there to bid farewell before. —the sound of the bell of Shōren-in Temple struck by his younger brother.

III

The bell continued to ring. With each toll and resonance, Shinran felt in his heart the emotions of his brother Jin’yū standing in Shōren-in Temple’s bell tower. Tamahime gently said, “Please hold him,” and handed Fusa-maru to her husband. Shinran held the child,

“There, there,” he murmured, pressing his cheek against the guileless face. “Grow up healthy and become a proper Yasuko. This father leaves for a distant land this dawn, but his heart shall ever remain with you as your father.”

In the meantime, outside was in an uproar. The people who had been inside had also all gone outside.

“It’s time!” boomed a loud voice at the hermitage gate— “The time has come.” “Depart swiftly.” A rough voice resounded once more.

It was a group of warrior escorts. The sounds of horse hooves and clattering armor plates suddenly filled the place with unrelenting severity, “What’s taking so long?!”

“What delay!”—the spewing of such harsh words could be heard as clearly as if grasped in one’s hand.

The exile convoy’s expediting officer, Otsuki Kuranushi Yukitsura, “Step aside!” he barked, galloping up on his horse and, from the saddle over the hermitage’s wall, “Zenshin! No—from today onward, I address you by your secular name, Hino Zenshin.” “It is already the Hour of the Hare!” “We cannot brazenly wait for you to indulge in farewells with your wife and child any longer—hurry up and prepare!” Shinran, at the same time,

“Right,” he answered and appeared at the front. At the gate, the criminal’s palanquin had been set down, and subordinates of Uemon no Suke Kaneari, the exile convoy commander,

“Please enter here.” “Were they securing against any contingency?” they said while surrounding Shinran’s sides with iron spears and sword hilts. “Your efforts are appreciated.” Shinran quietly bowed to the officials and withdrew into the palanquin.

A stifled sob flowed forth from someone at that moment—there were those who choked back tears.

In that hushed moment, “Lift the palanquin,” said Uemon no Suke Kaneari. Tamahime, losing herself, “Wait—” Holding Fusa-maru, she staggered beneath the palanquin.

“One look—just another look.”

“Out of the way!” scolded the officials as they shoved past, “Move! Move!” they barked, prodding the reluctant palanquin forward. Fusa-maru—still wailing in his mother’s embrace— With those cries fading behind them, the clamorous procession of horses and men departed the hermitage. Shōzenbō, Kihata Minbu, Kakumyō, and the other disciples—though barred from following far—trailed their teacher’s palanquin as long as permitted. Yet Seishinbō alone lingered, unable to tear himself away from the sight of Tamahime—her heart still tethered to the receding figures—cradling the sobbing Fusa-maru while weeping silently herself.

“Now, Lady Urakata. While your grief is understandable, to continue like this would go against the master’s wishes. Please come inside, and let us quietly chant the nenbutsu together with Seishinbō.”

Taking their hands, he led the tearful mother and child into the hermitage.—Now lay as desolate as after a great storm, every room of the Okazaki house evoking emptiness.

IV

On the palanquin was affixed a placard written in jet-black ink: Grand Council Decree Echigo Exile Hino Zenshin

On the palanquin was affixed a placard that read "Grand Council Decree Echigo Exile—Hino Zenshin." Shinran was being jostled within that palanquin. Clattering—enveloped by countless hoofbeats, the clangor of armor plates, and dust churning up from the feet of people and horses—

“(Tamahime…)” he cried out inwardly, yet still feeling his child’s voice lingering behind him, he turned back repeatedly toward Okazaki’s woods. When they passed beyond the restricted enclosure, over a hundred people connected through karmic ties waited there. Through Kakumyō and Shōzenbō who had accompanied the palanquin, the crowd surged forward in a wave: “Venerable Zenshin!” “Stay well—” “Please await the season of your return.”

“Farewell.” “Farewell.”

Countless people chased after the palanquin, waving their hands. Shinran bowed his head in silent acknowledgment to the crowd; as he did so, each and every face before him evoked various memories of the past. "This is farewell," he thought with conviction. Igadera Sadakata and Asakura Shuzennokami, who had been specially assigned by Lord Kanezane, were on horseback, positioned among the vanguard to prepare for any contingencies. The "contingency" referred to rumors that had spread that morning of wild monks from Mount Hiei and rogue priests among them who had been planning to take disruptive actions.

(Exile was too lenient. Drag Shinran down midway. Then after giving him thorough private punishment, it would be best to expel him from the capital)—such was the widespread rumor that certain agitators were inciting. However, official constables, exile escort guards, and others who revered Shinran's virtue had surrounded the palanquin so densely it became invisible to view. As they progressed further, their numbers swelled by fifty, then seventy people along the way—so even if such a plot had existed, there remained no opportunity to carry it out.

From Okazaki to Awataguchi—and then as they ascended straight along the highway and reached Keage slope, by then, both the roadside and the gaps between the trees were packed with people. The people watched the palanquin in silence. But in their hearts, there was not a single person who did not think of the *nenbutsu*. Since they couldn’t voice it aloud, they chanted it within their hearts.

When they reached Ōsaka Mountain Pass, the escort officials turned back having completed their duty. The many people who had followed from the capital also began returning, each leaving their own parting words. They arrived at Ōtsu. The ship lay with lowered sails waiting for the party.

Shōzenbō, Minbu, and all the close associates also had to abandon their teacher there and return.

But Tayūbō Kakumyō alone insisted to the officials that he wished to follow his teacher Zenshin wherever he might go, and ultimately succeeded in having his request granted.

“What has become of Seishinbō?”

He should have been allowed from the start to accompany them as the teacher’s attendant, but since he was nowhere to be seen, people grew suspicious. The escort guards, “Raise the sails!” They allowed no delay.

“Farewell—farewell—” they called across the water between ship and shore as the waves swiftly widened the distance between them.

Then, Seishinbō—who had readied himself for travel with a backpack on his shoulders—came running up from behind, breathless. He had fallen behind the palanquin procession because he had been comforting Tamahime, who was among those left behind. “Wait! Hey! Wait for that ship!” Seishinbō waded into the water up to his waist with a splash and waved his hand at the exile ship gliding across the lake.

Snow Falling on the Desk

Part I

With each whoosh of the wind sweeping through, the trees shuddered, and leaves danced through sky and earth like rain. When night fell, the Sea of Japan coast would be enveloped in lacquer-black darkness, but on moonlit nights, a terrifying bluish hue could be seen from beneath these eaves. “It’s getting cloudy.” One of the disciples, overwhelmed by loneliness, spoke out loud like this. In the hermitage, a certain monk who had been striking a flint since earlier clicked his tongue,

“It’s no use. However hard we try to light the lamp, with this fierce wind, it won’t last a moment.” “We should stop trying.” “But… in the darkness…” “The moon will rise soon.—We should make do with its light.” “But unfortunately, there are rain clouds tonight.” “If only this hermitage’s north entrance had a wooden door—any sort would do—instead of a straw mat, it could block the wind and let us sleep a little warmer at night…”

“We submitted a petition back in summer, but that obstinate magistrate Hagiwara Toshikage still refuses to grant it.—This dwelling’s worse than a prison cell.” “Shh… You mustn’t speak so loud about such things. If word reaches the guards’ ears and gets reported to Magistrate Toshikage, we might be moved to somewhere even worse than this.” The pine pillars—still clad in bark—stood crudely thatched with miscanthus grass. Few plank walls interrupted the structure, while both front and back entrances merely hung with straw mats.

When it rained, wind would blow in not only through the bamboo-mat flooring beneath the eaves but even as far as the inner floorboards, leaving no place to take shelter within the hermitage.

This was Takeuchi, the provincial capital of Echigo Province. The disciples of Zenshin, the exiled monk who had been banished far from the capital, had already spent two years there. Uemon no Suke Kaneari, the senior escort, delivered Zenshin’s party there and, as a matter of course, handed over their custody to Magistrate Hagiwara Toshikage of the provincial capital before immediately returning to the capital. (—What a blasted nuisance had arrived.) Toshikage muttered. The culture of Echigo lagged incomparably behind that of the capital. Therefore, humans were uncultured, scholarship was disdained, and only power held absolute authority above all else.

Magistrate Hagiwara Toshikage was the man who held that power there. Greedy and selfish, he acted far more arrogantly than the high-ranking officials in the capital. What? Is that the rumored nenbutsu monk Zenshin? I detest the nenbutsu. That monk I so despise has been exiled into my jurisdiction—truly a man struck by Buddha’s wrath. Treat them as roughly as possible—I won’t tolerate any pity being shown! From the very beginning, Toshikage had been of this disposition, so one could well imagine his subordinates’ attitudes.—Not a shred of what might be called mercy had been shown to this day.

And—even as the dark bluish-black winter winds of the Sea of Japan coast began to surge, they could not build a single wooden door because he had not granted permission.

“...Oh, it’s so cold.” “The moment the sun sets, the weather turns abruptly.” “Who went to town begging for alms today?” “Venerable Seishinbō and Venerable Kyōjunbō—the two of them.” “They should return soon.... If this keeps up, tonight’s rain might well turn to snow.” The people huddled in the lamp-less room, listening to the wind’s howl.

II Those three disciples were all new followers who had come to admire Zenshin's virtue and follow him during his journey from Kyoto to this Echigo Province. People such as Nyodō from Ōmachi, Shinsei from Wada, and Entei from Matsuzume also gained the chance to meet Zenshin and abandoned their old teachings to become adherents of the nenbutsu sect. Wherever he walked, his faith invariably spilled forth in some form. It seemed a power naturally inherent in Zenshin—like how a mindless wind scatters pollen, creating in every patch of soil the womb of the next flower.

When they came to Shinkawa Village in Echizen, such an incident occurred. In Jōganji Village of that region, there was an abbot of Emmyō-in Temple who was exceedingly fond of debates. When he heard that Zenshin, an exile from the capital and a disciple of Hōnen, would be passing through there, Ah, so I have indeed heard of Hōnenbō and Zenshin before. Once they pass through here, I’ll crush the arrogance of those presumptuous Nenbutsu adherents—he waited eagerly, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

And then, when Shinran’s group reached a place called Hyakkan Bridge, [the abbot] appeared and initiated various theological debates. When Shinran, finding his childishness amusing, explained each of his misguided beliefs and instructed him thoroughly on the essence of direct entry into enlightenment for ordinary beings, the abbot knelt before Shinran’s palanquin, (To think such a person exists in this world—and still so young!) he seemed to reflect with heartfelt shame, and not only did he follow the group all the way to Echigo Provincial Capital from there, but ever since, he had attended to duties at the crude hermitage in exile, devoting himself wholeheartedly to the nenbutsu teachings.

This was the man called Kyōjunbō—who, just today, had gone out to the provincial capital for alms-begging together with his fellow disciple Seishinbō. At Emmyō-in Temple in Miyazaki, Echizen, where he had originally resided, there were branch temples, and the three disciples who had been studying under Kyōjunbō were there; but when their teacher Kyōjunbō followed the exiled monk and departed straightaway for Echigo, (Had some fox spirit bewitched him?) they wondered, and followed after him. And when they came to the provincial capital and saw their master serving Zenshin, they too were convinced and ended up remaining at the hermitage in exile.

One was Jōsō, one was Sekinen, and the other was Nenmyōbō. Thus, this place of exile had now become a family of seven with Zenshin at its head before anyone realized it.

“Oh.” Jōsō pressed his face against the bamboo window—

“Finally, something white is falling—it’s snow!” “Oh…” The other two also leaned in, “It’s this year’s first snow.” “Even so, what could have happened to Venerable Kyōjunbō and Venerable Seishinbō? Their return is taking longer than usual.” They were in the midst of worrying. A sound came from the direction of the hermitage’s entrance. And then came the voice of Kyōjunbō, who seemed to have returned from outside— “Someone, hurry and bring water—not for washing feet—Venerable Seishinbō has been injured, so we finally managed to carry him back.” “Please hurry and give him a sip of water!”

III

It was Kyōjunbō’s voice. Startled and wondering what had happened, the people went out to look and found Seishinbō, who had gone out for alms-begging with Kyōjunbō. With both hands pressed to his face and supported under the arms by his companion, he staggered to the veranda and prostrated himself there. “Ah! What happened, Venerable Seishinbō?” When the people clamored,

“Shh… Quiet… The teacher will hear… Quiet,” Seishinbō said, waving a hand stained crimson with blood before prostrating himself again. “Water—” “Venerable Seishinbō, please drink some water.” Powdery snow glistened softly as it fell upon the backs of the Dharma friends gathered around him. Some searched for medicine while others tore cloth to wipe the blood from his forehead. “This wound is severe.—How did this happen?”

“I-It’s… It’s nothing serious.” “On the way back, I fell off a cliff at Nurukawa and struck a rock.” Seishinbō dismissed the puzzled people’s concerns with these words and crawled painfully into the dark room. Fearing that the cold wind might reach the wound, they brought straw mats and torn folding screens to surround him.

As soon as the wind began to die down slightly, the snow also stopped almost immediately, and the sky cleared as if the earlier weather had been a lie. The Sea of Japan, vividly visible between the pine forest and the mountain’s edge as though dyed into view, was likely due to the moon shining somewhere. “……Thank goodness. The wind seems to have died down at last.” Relieved, the people forgot to light the lamps and gazed upon the nocturnal stillness under the white moonlight. Then, from one of the inner rooms of the teacher’s quarters, Shinran’s voice resounded.

“Is anyone there?”

“Yes.” “It seems we’ve been granted a fine moonlit night. Would you kindly raise this hanging reed screen?” “Yes…” Sekinen, who had been sitting at Seishinbō’s bedside, stood and approached. “Is this position acceptable?” “Ah… Perfectly so… Truly, this must be the Night of the Later Moon. How different from autumns in the capital… To witness the first snow already scattering beneath this crystalline moon.” “With your permission—does this scene often make you recall your days at court?”

“Oh, well—if the capital’s autumn has its own charm, then Echigo’s autumn has its own features.” “If one lives in harmony with nature, humans can find joy wherever they are.” “Were you reading, my lord?” “Hmm… The pleasure of reading is exceptional.” “Selflessness, non-self—without form, transcending past and present—unwittingly makes one forget even the long night.” “Since we have no lamp, it must have been quite difficult for you to read in the darkness.”

“Ah, when facing this Moon of Suchness and the snow’s glow, even a blind heart feels as though its eyes might open.” “Shall I prepare the evening meal?” “Ah yes—I’d forgotten. I’ve yet to take supper.—Have Seishinbō and Kyōjun returned from their alms rounds?”

IV “Kyōjun-dono and Seishinbō-dono have just returned, but Saihōbō-dono has not yet come back,” Sekinen answered. Saihōbō was the name Tayūbō Kakumyō had adopted upon leaving the capital. Though he had once been a fierce general who commanded three armies under Lord Kiso, he now wholly embraced Shinran’s Dharma teachings. In this place of exile, he was not only Shinran’s foremost disciple but also the one who always enlivened his fellow disciples sharing their quarters. “No wonder—” Shinran nodded,

“I thought it was a quiet evening—it must be because Saihōbō has not yet returned.” “This evening, he went into the mountains saying he wanted to make chestnut porridge for you, Master. But given how carefree that monk is, he probably got caught in the earlier snow flurries and ended up holed up in some charcoal burner’s hut, chatting away.” “That may be.” Even in exile—receiving no constraints befitting an exile and feeling no discontent—as Shinran contemplated Saihōbō’s way of living, he thought to himself,

He smiled wryly, as if to say, "Indeed." Sekinen suddenly, “Master, snow has piled up at the edge of your desk. Please be so kind as to stand for a moment—I will clean it.”

“Not just the desk—it’s reached my knees as well.” “By midnight, it may snow even more; if it doesn’t melt like this, it will make good lamplight—let’s leave it be.” To Shinran, the snow on the desk was dear, and he felt it a pity to sweep it away. As he gazed at the snow, memories arose of his arduous studies at Mount Hiei, his ascetic practices at Hōryū Temple, and his youthful days of learning. Even now, that heart was not lost, and fortunately, there was also an effort not to lose it. At that moment, a hearty voice was heard under the eaves at the front. No sooner had this thought formed than loud footsteps seemed to approach.

“Ah, Saihōbō-dono, you’ve returned,” someone inside the room said. Saihōbō,

“It’s cold tonight,” Saihōbō said, then added as if suddenly remembering— “Ah—I heard from the townspeople that Venerable Seishinbō was injured, did I not? How fares Venerable Seishinbō?” he asked casually. “Shh…” Those present waved a hand, wary of their teacher in the inner chamber overhearing. “Huh? …” Saihōbō furrowed his brows,

“Is the injury truly so grave?” with a troubled expression,

“To the back,” someone waved a hand once more. But that voice immediately reached Shinran’s ears.

“Sekinen.” “Yes.”

“I hear that Seishinbō was injured—is this true?”

“Y-yes...”

“Why are you keeping this from me?” “I beg your forgiveness. He said he didn’t wish to trouble you.” “How does he fare?” “He rests quietly.” “Bring him here—if it causes no suffering.” Having spoken thus, Shinran himself went out to the evening meal room where all were gathered.

Gutoku

I

The master said, “Call him.” The fact they had concealed had finally come to light through a slip of Saihōbō’s tongue. What manner of rebuke would they receive?

The disciples fell completely silent, and none rose abruptly. Shinran repeated, “Call him,” he said. “Yes.” They could no longer refuse.

Jōsō stood up and entered the dark room. Before long, Kyōjun emerged timidly. From behind, Seishinbō, pressing the bandaged wound on his forehead, stepped out quietly and sat before his teacher.

He was bowing his head. The group gazed at his pitiful figure and then quietly looked up at their teacher’s stern face. “Looks painful...” It was a voice that had naturally escaped from the teacher’s lips—and then he spoke again.

“A deep wound?” “No, it’s merely a shallow wound.” Seishinbō, who was usually so vigorous, answered weakly. “What have you done now? Have you cast aside the heart I had restored to Buddha and returned to your old wicked ways?”

At this, Seishinbō’s expression shifted. There was nothing that pained him more than that single word: “past.” He—the self who once took pride in his superhuman strength and grand larceny under the alias Amagi Shirō, who made people tremble in fear—still endlessly regretted, lingering at the edge of his thoughts, the terror and wretchedness of what he had done in those days. “Am I wrong?” “Yes.” “Then—” The teacher’s voice pressed onward.

“It was just a horse’s kick—nothing serious.” “By a horse?” “Yes.” “Careless.” Shinran continued to gaze intently at him, who remained bowing his head,

“That alone isn’t all there is to it.” “That’s all.” “Don’t hide it.” “Ah...” “I can well imagine what happened, but if you keep hiding it, you’ll only suffer more. Just say it.” After a moment of hesitation, “My apologies. Actually, today…” Seishinbō began. “It was like this—when I made my alms round to Shinkawa Village, the Genzaemon couple from Mikkaichi, who through a chain of misfortunes had become truly wretched people that Your Reverence once visited and conducted missionary work for, happened to see me and came stumbling out into the street.”

“Hmm.”

“The couple explained that ever since Your Reverence instructed them in the path of nenbutsu chanting, their hearts had completely changed—their home grew brighter, the husband worked diligently, illnesses ceased, and now their former household felt like a distant dream. Morning and evening, they revered Your Reverence’s virtue.—Shedding tears of joy as they spoke, they pleaded with me: ‘Please let us perform a good deed today—we must share this wondrous teaching with our neighbors and nearby villagers!’ Though the magistrate had long forbidden proselytizing, moved by their fervent pleas, I hung my sacred name scrolls on a pine trunk near their home and began an awkward Dharma talk.”

II The people listened intently to Seishinbō’s earnest manner of speaking. And all those who knew of his former self thought inwardly— (This reverend had changed so much—) they marveled silently.

Seishinbō quietly lifted his eyes to his teacher’s face, “And then, as I was preaching—it was in the middle of that sermon,” he continued. “Unfortunately, though it was not the time for inspecting the rice fields, Magistrate Hagiwara Toshikage arrived at the row of trees there, accompanied by seven or eight retainers.” “When looking at the warriors’ attire, it appeared they might have been returning from a hunt.”

“Hmm...” “And then,” Shinran nodded firmly for the first time. “They were all on horseback.” “The villagers, cowed by their imposing presence, abandoned the sermon and scattered in every direction.—Then the samurai raised their whips and pursued them, bellowing, ‘Anyone who listens to sermons spread by exiles under imperial condemnation shall face equal punishment!’” “—they gave chase while roaring like this.”

“Hmm…” The people, their eyes glinting with bitter frustration, moaned in unison. Seishinbō, too, paused his words there for a moment and clenched his fists on his knees— “As I was watching—oh, how pitiful—someone suddenly reined in their horse’s hooves right before me.” “When I looked, it appeared to be Magistrate Hagiwara Toshikage, whom I had heard rumors about; he glared down at me from his horse and—‘You damned monk!’” “That’s right—he called me a prisoner monk.” “Listen! Did you not spread heresy in the capital, commit crimes, and get yourself exiled to these northern provinces?” “And yet, still unrepentant even after coming to this land, you dare spread your heretical teachings here? Such insolence toward your Magistrate! The very sight of these things”—here he scolded, suddenly reaching down from his saddle to tear off the sacred name scrolls I had hung on the pine tree—“disgusts me to nausea… How sacrilegious… To the ground with them!” Before he knew it, he had become so engrossed in his own story that large teardrops were streaming down Seishinbō’s face.

Suddenly realizing, he hurriedly wiped his face with the sleeve of his monastic robe. “Since I am different from others, I stood in the way, saying ‘Wait, stop!’ and tried to prevent that violence.” ―the next moment, I was kicked down. “When I put my hand to my forehead with a start, black blood had already stained my face.” “It seems I was kicked somewhere by a horse’s hoof and then struck about two times with a whip.”

“……” With pained expressions, the people swallowed hard. A heavy hush fell, leaving no room for voices. With a start, Seishinbō turned his large eyes to one side,

“You bastard! … . I shouted that.” “I was once Amagi Shirō.” “Had I given in to that surge of rage, I could’ve snapped the magistrate’s neck right then—but at that moment, I suddenly saw the sacred name scrolls still fluttering on the pine trunk in the wind, untouched by his hands.” “The instant I saw them, with a start—unaware of the blood flowing into my eyes—I lay there on my back, staring into emptiness as I chanted the nenbutsu.”

III

He said nothing. Shinran simply remained silent after hearing everything, “Do not let wind into the wound. Take good care of it,” he said.

Even though the teacher said nothing, it seemed the people of that night had been deeply moved upon hearing Seishinbō’s story. They all wore devout expressions, “Now, you should get some rest,” they said with concern for Seishinbō.

After several days passed, the wound healed, and his fever subsided. Seishinbō cheerfully left his sickbed and was talking with a friend about wanting to go preach in town again tomorrow. “Seishinbō-dono, our master is calling for you!”

“Huh? In his room?”

“No—rather, he is seated upon that rock.” “Ah…” Seishinbō turned his gaze toward the rear of the hermitage and laughed. The teacher was outside savoring the early winter sunlight.

“Did you summon me?” As he approached, “Have a seat,” he said cheerfully, and even the teacher’s face shone today like the sun on a late autumn day. “As for my wound—” “It has completely healed.” “I’m sorry for causing you concern.”

“Now, regarding that—” Shinran began, changing his tone, “Seishinbō, the light of the nenbutsu has finally reached you as well. That story from before—Shinran also listened with gratitude. I shall rejoice together with you in the fine spiritual practice you have undertaken. Never forget this heart henceforth,” he said, taking [his] hand, and Shinran rejoiced like a mother whose child had done well.

“Yes…” Seishinbō’s eyes grew hot. He wondered why he had become so tearful of late. Yet those tears did not seem ordinary.

(—Zuiki) That’s right—these were tears of sympathetic joy. Seishinbō thought this as his tears glistened. “Well then—I’ve been thinking about this for some time now,” Shinran began in an unusually relaxed tone today, as if intending to share a reflection. He covered his eyes and lifted his face toward the sky. “Shinran…” “…This is my name, but to me it feels too genuine—too immaculate a name.” “Lately, I’ve come to feel this name no longer suits me.” “As I approach forty—now that this self has turned thirty-nine—some change may have stirred within my heart.” “In any case, Shinran seems an unfit name to represent me.” Seishinbō looked at his teacher’s face—he was speaking of something unexpected—

“Is that so? For someone like myself—I have not felt that in the slightest,” he said.

IV

A profound shift had occurred in his state of mind—amid Shinran’s ceaseless self-contemplation and unrelenting striving to grasp the truth, there had indeed welled up within him these past days a feeling akin to what he had expressed to Seishinbō. “When I look back now—from the gate of self-powered holy paths to the path of other-power easy practice—all the wanderings, agonies, ascetic practices, and even joys that lay between… today, at thirty-nine years old, they truly culminate in nothing but the single word ‘foolishness.’” “What folly—even I am now astonished at my own foolishness.” Shinran said this as if muttering to himself.

At the teacher’s words, Seishinbō naturally bowed his head. And, sensibly enough, he felt ashamed that someone like himself had lately been putting on airs as if he had come to understand the truth of the nenbutsu teachings. Shinran continued. "Lately, I have come to deeply understand myself—that I am, through and through, a human who remains an ordinary being. The other night, whenever I heard you speak, I was reminded of this. When I see how you—once the wicked and ruthless bandit Shirō—have now grasped the nenbutsu without ascetic practices or struggles, as naturally as an infant crawls and stands, there lies within that the truth of my teachings: the direct path for ordinary beings is close at hand. Compare me—who has endured thirty years of torment—with you, who took refuge in the nenbutsu just yesterday… What difference could there be? …I find myself being taught by you instead."

"I too shall return to my true form of foolishness," he resolved within himself. "And guide others more earnestly to the true nenbutsu - the direct path for ordinary beings. From this day forth, I shall rename myself Gutoku. Last night while gazing at the moon of suchness, I deemed 'Shinran' a fitting companion name. Combined, they become Gutoku Shinran - how perfectly this suits me!" "Yes..." Seishinbō sank into profound introspection, unable to offer further response. From that day forward, Shinran began calling himself Gutoku and formally adopted the name Shinran. He announced this change to all his followers.

Winter came. At last—spring came. With his grown-out black hair and wearing a woven sedge hat, Shinran would often go into town. A tattered monk’s robe—the only garment he wore—marked him unmistakably as an exile, his demeanor heavy with gloom. But on his cheeks, there always shone—for everyone—a friendly, warm Gutoku smile.

Centered around the provincial capital, Shinran traveled unhurriedly on his missionary journeys from areas like Niikawa and Kubiki to, at times, regions as far as Akaishi and Oda no Hama. When his figure was spotted approaching from afar along the road,

“Oh, Gutoku-sama has come!” “Look—the Venerable One is here!” The children from the shore and the women from the fields, all familiar with him, gathered around him.

“What story shall I tell today?” Shinran sat down in the fields or on sandy hillocks. Where he sat, people would gather without him raising a hand to call them. Before they knew it, they would form a round circle like a single family. “Venerable One, please let us hear that sermon again.” Fishermen and farmers alike enjoyed listening to Buddhist sermons. The reason was that Shinran’s talks were easily understood by everyone, and this Venerable One did not approach them as an eminent monk but became like a friend, kindly teaching them everything.

V Jealous wives and their wayward husbands alike submitted to him. Families mired in misfortune for years due to their karma, gripped by the specters of hunger and disease—whenever Shinran’s bright countenance came to visit them, the household had transformed so dramatically into a home where healthy, cheerful families lived that even the neighbors began to wonder aloud: “Lately—how’d your lot start workin’ in such high spirits?”

In one village, if Shinran’s figure was not seen for even three days, (Could he be ill?)

(Thinking, “We must offer some solace,” they brought mugwort rice cakes to Takeuchi’s hermitage and quietly left vegetables there—since Shinran and his disciples were all away—) “This part is broken.” “The fence is overgrown too,” they would say as they repaired the roof, pulled weeds, and even cleaned—taking pleasure in serving. Subordinates of Magistrate Hagiwara Toshikage came to patrol the place of exile, “Hey! You commoners! You are not to tend to the hut of exiles banished from the capital or even approach it!” he barked, driving them off.

“Look, the devils are coming!” they scrambled to flee, yet by the next morning they would return again, “Please give this to the Venerable One,” they said, leaving behind warm food and such. Shinran would always say,

“This place is a blessed Buddha-land. In the capital, one rarely encounters such Buddhist fruits,” he said, clasping his hands in gratitude for their alms. But he accepted only what sufficed for their modest daily needs, leaving the rest to be distributed by his disciples to impoverished households with ailing members. Magistrate Hagiwara Toshikage declared, “That corrupt monk deceives the ignorant masses,” and began treating the exiles with increasing cruelty. Yet Shinran and his disciples paid no heed whatsoever and complied fully with the provincial governor’s laws; thus, though he loathed them, he could do them no harm.

—Shinran passed through a fishing village about four ri from the provincial capital today as well and walked along the blue Sea of Japan coast.

Then, in this area, an unfamiliar woman with refined features was making her way dejectedly along the shore from afar—they passed each other—when suddenly, “Hmm… somewhere—” Shinran tilted his head slightly and turned around. The woman, without even noticing the person she had passed by, walked on along the water’s edge with her head bowed. “Excuse me…” When he called out like this, the woman—as if startled for the first time—looked this way.

“Ah…” Her eyes opened wide. As Shinran approached, the woman suddenly started running headlong in the opposite direction. Shinran raised his hand. Fortunately, as two or three fishermen came into view in the distance, Shinran called out to them. The fishermen caught the woman who was fleeing toward them. When surrounded by the people, the woman threw herself down onto the sand and collapsed in tears. VI

“Oh, it’s Lady Yamabuki!” The fishermen knew the woman well. With surprised expressions, they all began to speak in unison. “This lady is the magistrate’s concubine—Venerable One—what could have happened?” “I do not know either… but when we suddenly passed each other, a chill ran through my heart.” “I sensed that this woman was wandering in search of a place to die—so when I called out to stop her, she suddenly broke into a run.” Shinran, because the fishermen had gathered around with curious eyes to gaze at her as she lay collapsed in tears,

“But that may only be my own thought—it could be mistaken. You must have work to attend to. Please withdraw.” When he made his request, “Right, we’ve gotta head out to sea now. Well then, Venerable One—”

Each person bowed their head respectfully. And when they boarded the fishing boat, before long, on the beach behind them, only Shinran and the woman called Yamabuki remained. “It’s windy here.” Shinran guided Yamabuki and walked to the shade of the sand dune.

“Please sit,” he said, and sat down himself. Behind them, surrounded by sand dunes, the late spring sun’s warmth enveloped everything in quiet embrace. Yamabuki sank down onto the sand as if collapsing, sitting with her head deeply bowed. “Venerable Monk—are you the holy one from the capital who came to Takeuchi’s place of exile?” “Yes. I am Shinran.” “You were once called Lord Zenshin, were you not?” “You knew of this?” “At Yoshimizu’s hermitage—once or twice.”

“That explains it,” he said. “When I thought I’d seen you somewhere before—was it in the capital? Then you must have come to Yoshimizu’s hermitage to hear sermons too.” “When I still lived in Kyoto,” she began hurriedly, “people kept saying how wonderful nenbutsu was, so half out of curiosity—I was brought by someone to attend. That’s when I heard your Dharma talk.”

“That must be why you remained in my memory. You likely attended out of curiosity, following others who went to chant the nenbutsu as if it were a passing trend. Yet even to someone as transient as that, the Buddha has deigned to form today’s merciful bond.”

“Really…” Yamabuki began listening deeply to Shinran’s words for the first time. “Had I not turned to you then and simply passed by, you would have been one who never again saw tomorrow’s sun.”

“Yes, just as you say—today, I had resolved to die, even leaving a suicide note at home before coming here. But Venerable One, how could you have known I was in such despair merely from passing me by?” “How could I not know? Your soul and my soul—there are not two souls among humans; they are one and the same, undifferentiated between self and others, innately pure, clear and untainted. It is merely that this oneness becomes wrapped in such things as physical form, appearance, attire, and superficialities, causing you and me to appear as separate beings—to be seen as enemies, to be hated, envied, shrouded in all manner of love and hatred’s mists—from which arises the notion of ‘others.’ The self-attachment called ‘oneself’ also arises from there…”

VII

Yamabuki was listening intently. The warm sunlight of the sand dune began to slightly brighten her cold, stiffened dark face. “...Then, Venerable One, if I were to tell you anything, would you listen as though it were your own concern?” Then Shinran, as if he had been waiting for this, “Oh, please speak of whatever you wish.” “Thank you, Venerable One. In this world, I had no one to whom I could speak of the suffering that filled my heart. —In this lonely world, all that exists are demons of wicked wisdom and fiends who curse me…. That is why I resolved to die.”

“Dying… that’s something one can do at any time. Well, speak your reasoning.” “Ugly—shameful—it mortifies me to speak of such things before the Venerable One, but the truth is,” said Yamabuki, fidgeting with the sand beneath her— “I was once a shirabyōshi dancer in Rokujō, Kyoto. At that time, Magistrate Hagiwara Toshikage of this provincial capital summoned me, sweetly promising that if I came to his residence in Koshi Road, he would make me his lawful wife and grant me lifelong peace. So without forethought, I followed Toshikage.” “—Yet upon arriving, I found Toshikage not only had a wife and children but kept multiple concubines in his provincial residence. Those women vied bitterly for his favor—their jealous quarrels knew no end.”

“I see…”

Shinran recalled the voices of the villagers’ curses and Toshikage’s way of life, then nodded.

“But once I came to this distant land, there was nothing I could do.” “I endured for several years.” “But the day has finally arrived when I can endure no more.” “Toshikage has grown tired of me and treats me cruelly, while the other concubines clap their hands and tattle about every little thing.” “As if such a thing could ever happen—they are spreading rumors that I, with Toshikage’s servant, a dwarf named Kumota, have been having an illicit affair!”

“Kumota?” Shinran tilted his head slightly. “The Venerable One would not know someone like him. That dwarf named Kumota was someone who often wandered the streets of Rokujō, Kyoto, back when I lived there. Having lost his master and fallen into destitution, I pleaded with Toshikage to take him on as a servant when we journeyed to Echigo Province—that is how he came to be employed. Thus Kumota shows me kindness—he weeps with me and shares my worries.” “That very kindness proved ill-fated, giving rise to these baseless rumors. Though his nature may have endearing aspects—with his comical face and being a disabled man barely four shaku tall—how could I possibly engage in such impropriety?”

“I roughly understand.” “So you resolved to die?” “I’d rather die!” “…choked with frustration…” Yamabuki threw herself down onto the sand and wept. “…Poor Kumota. Because of me, he’s been thrown into the punishment hut and is being tortured for things he knows nothing about.”

The Family of Flames

I

On a small hill in Kokufu Hill of the provincial capital stood an opulent mansion with fine garden trees and stones collected such that it could serve as a small fortress during wartime. It functioned as both the magistrate’s government office and residence. Hagiwara Toshikage reigned at its center with absolute authority. The residence itself was divided into two sections within a single compound: the inner quarters housing his family members and the lower building accommodating his concubines. Thus, within that compound, they engaged daily in all manner of flattery, slander, attacks, lies, and petty conflicts vying for Toshikage’s favor.

However, Toshikage trusted his political acumen even in managing his household and the group of women. “Lady Haginōi,” said one of the women. The woman who had been lying down,

“What is it?” She gave a cloyingly sweet reply and raised her face from the mat. The woman who had been gazing outside from the window turned toward the two’s conversation and repositioned herself as if to join in.

In this lower building, five or six women were living in the connected wing. They were all in the circumstances of beautiful creatures kept by Toshikage. When vying for Toshikage’s favor, they would sharpen their claws and scatter sparks with their venomous tongues; yet these ignorant and fickle women, wearied by the long tedium of daytime, would eventually gather in one room like this to exchange jokes, share food, and trade barbs about the inner quarters, consoling one another in their boredom.

“Lady Yamabuki hasn’t been seen today, has she?”

“…Now that you mention it, indeed.” “Did anyone check her room?” “No.” “Hasn’t anyone gone to check?” “But…” “It doesn’t matter.” One of them crossed the long wooden veranda and disappeared from view. After a while, she returned and,

“She’s not here,” she said, shaking her head. “There was nothing out of the ordinary.” “The room had been neatly cleaned, with only incense burning on the small desk.” “Incense was burning.” “That’s strange.” “...someone who’s never burned incense or anything like that.” “She’s gone, hasn’t she?” “Where to?” “To the journey to the afterlife.” “Hohoho.” One of them laughed furtively, “That might be it. “She had been doing nothing but cry every day, after all.” “But she reaped what she sowed—there’s no helping it.”

“What a twisted woman—to sneak a deformed dwarf like that into the Lord’s bedchamber behind his back… I can’t fathom it.”

“Wait… is that really true?” “But everyone’s saying it—where there’s no fire, smoke doesn’t rise.” “But who was the first to raise such smoke?” “What does it matter? After all, she was always saying she wanted to die—she must have gotten her wish.” With those words, they spoke playfully as though it were none of their concern, yet even so, they seemed troubled by something,

“She really isn’t coming back…” they murmured, their eyes beginning to show unease.

2

“Shall we go look again?” said one of them. The women all stood. When they peered into Yamabuki’s room, the scent of incense still lingered, and when they looked under the small desk, there was something like a letter. Suddenly, one of them—

“Ah, a suicide note!” she shouted. “What? A suicide note, you say?”

“Well…” “Oh, no!” They shuddered and suddenly exchanged flustered looks, “What should we do?” “What do you mean…?”

“We must inform the Lord—”

As though something in that room frightened them, the women stepped outside,

“Someone, please come!” they shouted. A maidservant came running. The young retainer also came there.

Immediately, one of them ran off toward the magistrate’s office.

Before long, Magistrate Toshikage arrived, his face somewhat flushed with agitation. "What's this? Yamabuki isn't here?" he said as he entered.

The women had all gathered in one place and remained silent, as if none of it were their fault. Toshikage had opened Yamabuki’s suicide note addressed to himself, but it was filled with curses. Immediately, he tore it up and stuffed it into his sleeve, his complexion utterly clouded as he wore a look that made it seem he wanted to strike something nearby in frustration. “Idiots!” His anger finally exploded as he suddenly began to roar like this. The women, who knew full well his violent nature, flinched as if startled and narrowed their small eyes.

“Why aren’t you all being careful?” “Did none of you know?” “…………” “I told you all to keep an eye on her since she’d been acting strange lately, but every last one of you—” he snarled, stomping past the women with heavy footsteps. “Hey—you!”

“Yes…” one of the concubines replied, “I didn’t call for the likes of you.” “Genji! Genji!” he called his retainer to the veranda. “I’m feeling a bit unwell today. Take care of the office work as I instructed, with the others. Listen. I’ll be resting here for a bit.” “Yes,” said the retainer as he began to leave, “Hey, don’t tell the inner quarters such things. Tell them I’m at the magistrate’s office.” With a thud, Toshikage laid his large frame down in the middle of the room. He kept opening and closing his restless eyes. Clearly, he was not in good spirits; something within him—blaming, confusing, and angering himself—had turned his facial skin a murky blackish hue.

“Bring me some sake! Hey… sake!” he shouted, pressing his hand to his forehead.—From the inner building came the sound of his wife and children guffawing somewhere. He sat up abruptly. “Hey, has someone gone to search for Yamabuki?”

III The concubines exchanged glances. When everyone remained silent without answering, a vein swelled on Toshikage’s forehead. “Seeing how silent you all are, it seems no one has gone to check on her out of concern—you lot just stand there laughing at someone who left a suicide note and walked out.” “…………” “Every last one of you—what heartless wretches you all are! Yamabuki might already be dead.”

Toshikage groaned as if unable to endure his self-torment, “Ah—she might already be dead. I didn’t truly hate her from the bottom of my heart. It’s because you lot kept making all sorts of accusations that I too began to regard her with suspicion. Yamabuki must have died hating me.” Once again—he thudded onto his back. And he snatched the cup that the concubines had brought out. The concubines had always known that giving Toshikage alcohol in such situations was akin to pouring oil on flames; each of them held a trembling fear deep within their eyes.

“Gulp!” he thrust out his emptied cup, and when one of them timidly brought the sake flask closer, “You flatterer!” He flung the poured sake into that concubine’s face. The cup immediately flew again toward another concubine’s face like a spinning top. “You poisonous weeds—every last one of you! All poisonous flowers! How can there be any law that lets you brazenly watch Yamabuki—who lived day and night alongside you—die before your eyes after she left a suicide note? Why haven’t you split up to search or sent servants running? Don’t you care?—You vile wretches. You heartless fiends—how dare you all wear such shameless faces!” Toshikage raged, as though this whole unpleasant affair were someone else’s fault.

“Get out!” someone shouted in a voice that shook the room. “As of today,” he declared, “I’m dismissing all of you.” “Every last one—out! No exceptions!” “Women fall from heaven like rain in this world.” “Truth be told—I’ve grown sick to death of you fine ladies.” “And seeing your ugly mercenary hearts laid bare—that makes me despise you all the more!” This fury defied containment. Not reason—this was Toshikage’s sport. When every whim bent to his will too easily, only such violent theatrics could rouse his jaded nerves. As if on cue renewed,the concubines shrank into a corner,pale tremors clustering. Toshikage seized the sake flask—

“Get out!” he shouted, hurling it at them. Then, outside the house, in the branches of a towering tree that stood shading the eaves, someone was mimicking Toshikage’s voice.

“That’s right—get out!” Toshikage remained oblivious, “Get out already!” he roared, surging upright and miming a kick before—

“――Get out already!” came the same voice from the treetops, like an echo. “Who’s there?” Stepping out onto the veranda, Toshikage looked up at the branches to find a grotesque dwarf—whose face blurred the line between old man and child—grinning through the leaves with bared white teeth.

IV

That dwarf was a man called Kumota whom Toshikage had hired from Kyoto and employed as a garden cleaner, but due to strange rumors between him and the concubine Yamabuki, Toshikage, enraged, had recently confined him to prison. That Kumota?— Toshikage was shocked. With a start, he raised his face and for a moment, his eyes were captivated. How had he gotten out of the prison? Like a monkey, he had climbed up the tree and was looking this way. He was baring his teeth in a derisive sneer.

“You bastard!” Toshikage stomped on the veranda boards. “You fiend—come down!” Then Kumota— “Monster—open those eyes!” he mimicked. “Hey there, Magistrate.” “Wh-what’s that?” “As long as I was employed, I revered you as my master. But now that it’s come to this—no master, no servant—I’ll show you by becoming Amagi Shirō’s underling again!” “You bastard—are you a bandit?” “Oh, sure—I used to be a thief by trade. But when my boss had a change of heart and entered the priesthood, he kept nagging me to become a decent man too. So ever since then, I cleaned up my act and served meek fools like you until today—but I’m done now.” “Trying to be decent—I’m sick of it.” “Where in this world do you think decent people exist?” “When I see a corrupt magistrate like you, our old friends are far more honest and compassionate.”

“How dare you say that! I’ll haul you down and give you the sawing punishment!”

“Don’t mock me,” Kumota retorted, still composed there— “If I wanted to escape,” he sneered, “I could break out of some backwater magistrate’s jail anytime.” “Fine! I’ll cut out that tongue of yours!” Indignantly, Toshikage ran into the house and leaped down from the veranda with bow and arrows in hand. His face flushed with drink and rage, he nocked an arrow against his bowstring—drawing it taut with a sharp snap—and took aim through the branches at empty sky.

“Hey, wait! ――Are you trying to shoot me?” “…………” With a whizz, instead of a retort, the arrow soared into the sky—but in his haste, it missed Kumota’s body. Only two or three young leaves scattered down in disarray. “What a pitiful shot! Thinking you can bring someone down with those pathetic arrows—that’s pure delusion. ――Instead of that, hey Magistrate, why don’t you use that arrow to pierce your own chest? There’s a far stranger demon living inside you than there ever was in me.” “That demon’s name is Zōchō.” “How dare you slander me, Kumota, and Lady Yamabuki! I’ll make sure you pay for this—mark my words!” Even as he spoke, Toshikage was nocking his second arrow. With a sharp snap, the bowstring rang out. The arrow flew more true than before—yet in that instant, Kumota had already leapt to another branch.

“Assemble, retainers! Capture the jailbreaker!” At Toshikage’s shout, the estate grounds were thrown into disarray by the clamor of footsteps. But on the government office’s roof, only once was a figure seen leaping away with fierce momentum—after that, no matter how much they searched, Kumota’s shadow had vanished to who-knows-where, never to be found again.

V Scolding his retainers and servants, “Search for that Kumota bastard!” Toshikage commanded, standing in the garden. Some were climbing up onto the roof; others were poking around beneath the floorboards with bamboo poles. Then, from somewhere, pebbles came raining down.

“Ouch!” they cried out, and once again looked up at the tree. A murder of crows burst into flight—yet Kumota’s shadow remained nowhere to be seen. “He hasn’t slipped outside yet,” barked Toshikage. “He must be lurking somewhere! Find him and pin him down!” Toshikage himself raced about wildly until he reached the inner quarters where his family lived— “You.” A voice—cold and shrill, like needles woven into silk—pierced from the nearby residence.

(It's my wife.) Without even turning around, Toshikage had already sensed who owned that voice—

“What?” After answering curtly, “There’s something I need to discuss. Please come here,” his wife said. His wife, known as Tayumi no Kata, had raised as many as seven children. Toshikage clicked his tongue, “This is no time for that!” he barked,

“What do you mean, ‘This isn’t the time’?” “Even when I, your wife, rarely ask to speak with you, you won’t grant me an audience?” “My official duties occupy me day and night.” “How could I possibly have time for my wife?!” “Hmph…” Tayumi observed her husband’s flustered movements and laughed derisively. “How often you’ve hidden behind your precious duties.—You’re in a frenzy because your concubine Yamabuki has vanished, aren’t you?” “Y-You idiot!—What nonsense are you spouting?”

“Yes, that’s exactly right.—A woman from the shore who came as a messenger just now reported it clearly to me.” “Yamabuki apparently went to the beach intending to drown herself.” “There she was rescued by an exiled monk called Shinran and walked weeping through the town—what an utter disgrace!”

“What… Shinran took her…?” “Look at that! And you still claim you’re busy with your duties instead of over Yamabuki?!” “Shut up!” When he tried to leave, Tayumi chased after him from the veranda into the garden. And grabbed her husband’s sleeve,

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Let go!” “Enough already—why don’t you open your eyes? With such conduct, do you think you can fulfill the duties of a provincial magistrate?” “Shut up! How dare you speak to your husband like that? Women should obey their husbands and focus on nursing their children.” “Even those children have all grown up already. They’ve grown old enough to frown upon their father’s conduct. What do you think you’re doing, acting this way at your age with your white hair multiplying?”

“Tch! D-disgraceful, making a scene here!” “Isn’t the disgraceful thing your own conduct as a human being? You keep five or six of those beastly women caked in white powder around—” “Still talking?!” When he slapped her cheek with a sharp crack, “You hit me, didn’t you?” Tayumi shot back, clinging fiercely to her husband’s chest.

VI

As was customary in such households, Tayumi could not have remained a chaste wife. She possessed, in full measure, the frailties common among women. "Yes, you beast of a woman!" Toshikage barked, forming his open hand into a fist before striking her cheek again— "How humiliating!" Tayumi cried blindly, pressing herself against him. "Go on—kill me! Strike harder!" Toshikage floundered helplessly. "You lunatic!" he cursed.

“Who made me a madwoman? With five or six concubines kept before your very eyes—could any wife remain sane?” “And with that, you call yourself magistrate of this province?!” “The people resent you!” “Wh-why resent me…?” “No—your wringing of the peasants’ lifeblood to pamper your women has reached even the neighboring governor’s ears.” “Mark my words—when troops from the neighboring province attack, every peasant and townsman you call your subjects will raise rebel banners and come storming this mansion.”

“You wretch!” “Let you speak, and you’ll spew nothing but ravings!” “But that’s what we call evil causes begetting evil effects—if only from the curses of your wife and children.” “You’re waiting for your husband to meet such a fate?!” “Because when that day comes, your eyes will finally open.” “Get out!” He kicked her away. Tayumi let out a piercing cry and crumpled to the ground weeping. At that instant, she jerked her head up sharply and dashed into the room where her child lay sleeping.

“Ah!” Toshikage chased after her. For Tayumi, now in her usual half-mad state, was embracing the two innocent children playing peacefully there with a murderous look that suggested she might strangle them at any moment—and in her hand, she had drawn a dagger.—Rushing in, “Wh-what are you doing?” As Toshikage snatched the dagger and hurled it far into the garden, a monk who had been standing in the shadows of the trees there— “...Dangerous,” he said quietly, gently sidestepping the glint of the flying dagger. Wearing a torn straw hat and leaning on a bamboo staff—Toshikage started and glared at the monk.

“...Are you the master?” The monk politely bowed his head without removing his hat. “Who are you… What are you, you there?” Toshikage was infuriated that a complete stranger had seen a part of himself he wished to keep hidden. He stood rigidly on the veranda and haughtily rebuked him. “Why did you barge into this place without permission?!” “What kind of beggar are you?” “I am Shinran of the place of exile… I have been trying repeatedly to visit at the back entrance for some time now, but no one has come out to meet me.” “That is why.”

“What? Shinran?” Toshikage suddenly recalled the words he had just heard from his wife and— “What has that Shinran come here for?!” he snarled with a demon-like face.

VII

No matter how intense the ill will directed at him, Shinran’s state of mind did not waver even as much as a ripple. His eyes were calm, like a clear lake. “I have come to beg alms.” When he said this in his mask-like quiet voice,

“What? Alms-begging?” Toshikage’s voice grew even rougher and more prickly as he— “Th-that’s absurd! This is no ordinary house—it is the official residence and dwelling of Magistrate Hagiwara Toshikage. Exiled monks have no business coming and going here.” “Are you unaware that for those who have left secular life, there are no gates? The gates of the powerful, the gates of the wealthy, the gates of the poor—to a monk, they are all one and the same.” “You came to lecture this Toshikage with sophistries?” “No, it is for alms-begging. And while I receive alms, there is something I wish to offer you as well.”

“What could I receive from a beggar monk? Insolent fool!” “Hear me—through these eyes of Shinran, you appear as nothing but a pitiable pauper.” “I am a pauper?” “Do you not understand, Lord Toshikage, how meager is the wealth of visible things?” “How wretched stands this mansion built from the lifeblood of gaunt peasants in this northern land’s poor village.” “Even the government offices and rich mansions around Suzaku and Nishinotōin in the capital appear to our eyes as mere sandcastles—fleeting shelters for human hearts that invite pity.” “How much more laughable then for a petty northern magistrate’s pretentious displays—they can only provoke derision.”

“Convict!” Toshikage kicked the ground and raged. “You—an exile—dare insult me, a magistrate!” “I merely stated what should be obvious.” “If you do not understand now, you will come to understand later.” “Under these circumstances, I will cease my useless sermons.” “…But I must fulfill my errand and return.” “Lord Toshikage—regarding the woman named Yamabuki whom you have sheltered—I, Shinran, have brought her from the coast. Might you grant this humble request?”

“You hurl abuse at someone and then make a request—I have no ears to hear it.” “So you mean whether this woman you’ve cherished for years lives or dies matters not to you?” “Even Shinran finds this sorrowful.” “Don’t meddle in what doesn’t concern you.” “It is not I who meddles—the Buddha Himself intervenes.” “Yamabuki wishes to hide in my hermitage and shave her head, but Shinran stands here an exile.” “To defy imperial decree would be improper.” “Since her wish could not be honored, I counseled her to return to her kin’s land—the capital—and thus brought her.” “With your own hands, I ask you return Yamabuki to her native Kyoto.” “…What say you? Surely you’ll grant this request.”

“...Leave her and go!” Toshikage snarled through gritted teeth. That his own concubine had been delivered by Shinran’s hand was not something to be grateful for—rather, it was unbearably detestable. “You brought Yamabuki here without being asked?” “If you’ve brought her, then so be it. Leave the woman here and be off with you—quickly.” “Linger here with that covetous look, and I won’t tolerate it!” It was a front to conceal his embarrassment. Toshikage said this and, while berating his still-chattering retainers, vanished into his residence.

The Spider’s Laughter I

I

Sekinen had a habit of grinding his teeth in his sleep; he was often cautioned by Jōsō and Nenmyō, among others, but it did not improve.

Already, in the neighboring room, Saihō and Kyōjun were asleep. The inner master’s room was also silent and dark. Shōshinbō alone had made it his duty never to leave his master’s side even in sleep; flopping down just outside the straw mat partition of his master’s resting room, he lay beneath a thin quilt— This single building of the exile residence—on rainy days, it might indeed let in rain; on windy days, it might indeed rattle and shake in the wind—yet every night, it cradled truly blissful slumber.

Now, it seemed especially blissful.

A faint moon shines in through the torn eaves. From the flowers of the rapeseed field behind, a sweet scent also steals in—

“Mmm…” During the day, they walked leagues upon leagues for alms-begging—so Sekinen, Jōsō, and the other young ones slept restlessly. They thrashed about incessantly. Sekinen ground his teeth again. “Hey.” Suddenly, Jōsō, who was sleeping beside him, poked Sekinen’s shoulder. “Look at you—you’ll catch a cold rolling out of your bedding like that.”

“Ah… thanks.” Sekinen woke up and awkwardly readjusted his bedding— “—Oh?” he said, raising his head, “Jōsō.” “What?” “It’s awfully bright outside, don’t you think?”

“Must be moonlight.” “This winter’s snow wrecked all our eaves and shutters—moonlit nights make everything bright inside now.”

“Well, get up and see.” “It’s not moonlight—it’s red!”

“Red?” Jōsō sat up abruptly, “...Ah! It’s a fire!” “It is!”

“Where could it be?” The two went out. A rattling sound echoed as they slid open the ill-fitting storm shutters. When they stood up and looked around from there, the sky to the west was entirely red, and sparks flickered and danced in the night air like golden flakes being sprayed. “Goodness...” “If it’s the town… Could all the houses we visit for alms be burning down one after another?”

“Let’s wake everyone up.” He did not want to disturb his master’s sleep but resolved to inform Saihō and Kyōjun. Soon, everyone had woken and gathered. “There are many acquaintances there—I’ll go check on them.” The impetuous one was Saihō. As for the one whose eyes grew restless at the sight of flames—as if his blood vessels were being roused—that was Shōshinbō. The two of them had already run toward the town, aiming for the flames before anyone could notice.

When they came to the hill path leading from Takeuchi to Kokufu, the flames appeared before their eyes. “Ah! The magistrate’s residence!” “Toshikage’s…?” Shōshinbō stood transfixed, mesmerized by the fire’s terrible beauty—then suddenly remembered that distant time when Magistrate Hagiwara Toshikage had whipped him, kicked him with a horse, and nearly stripped him of the sacred name scrolls. *(Divine punishment.)* He felt a faint twinge of satisfaction, but immediately scorned himself for it.

That’s right. Saihō was no longer by his side. What he felt in that moment—he too raced headlong after Saihō beneath the crimson sky.

II

The location was a modest hill facing sea winds head-on, leaving the entire area encompassing the Kokufu magistrate’s office and Toshikage’s residence at the mercy of raging flames that blazed like crimson lotuses, their fury unchecked. “Demonic flames!” “How…? There’s no fire source here—it started from the document archive?” Even the officials and underlings stood idly by, overwhelmed by the ferocious blaze’s terrifying force as they merely watched. By the time someone shouted “Fire—!”, the building at the rear of the magistrate’s office—packed with documents—had already been completely engulfed in flames. The fire’s cause remained unknown.

Because it was night, only three or four minor officials were on night duty at the magistrate’s office. Many of the magistrate’s subordinates lived at the eastern foot of the hill, but since the fire was spreading there as well, each of them was fully occupied with their own homes and families, so no one came rushing here. The provincial residents too, at first,

They were shocked—"This is terrible!"—but soon,

(Oh—the magistrate’s office.) Their initial alarm gave way to cold composure. (This must be retribution for treating us like oxen or horses while extorting harsh taxes—those crimson flames are the burning resentment of poor peasants cursing the magistrate’s compound. Let’s laugh at that pompous official who’s always swaggering about.) Though none voiced it aloud, such sentiments smoldered in every resident’s heart. Like spectators at a distant blaze in another province, these people made no move to rush toward the fire.

A large pillar of fire roared as it consumed an entire building. Every great tree within the compound had caught fire, their flames blooming in the sky like fiery leaves and blossoms. Beneath them echoed the screams of women and young children. The flames had long since spread to the building housing Toshikage’s concubines and family. “Hey… Hey…” A choked wail reverberated through the smoke. The voice unmistakably belonged to Toshikage.

“Hey—underlings! This way! Get over here and help!” he called hoarsely.

But—where on earth had the minor samurai and underlings who served in the inner quarters gone? Less than half of them were visible. Yet they had been the first to act with riotous courage, vying to carry out valuables and important furnishings from the inner quarters—but now neither those items nor the servants themselves were anywhere to be seen. Toshikage finally noticed, “Hmph! You scoundrels!” “Taking advantage of your master’s distress—all those bastards stole the household goods and ran away.” “Just... just you wait and see what happens!”

Stamping his feet amid the smoke, he—along with just two or three servants—desperately ran back and forth in confusion. Due to his official duties, he had to retrieve from the magistrate’s office—even at the cost of his life—items such as land survey records, documents exchanged with Kyoto, and other politically vital documents.

But the flames had already blocked the escape route. More than his own panic, he was driven to a frenzy by the screams of his family members coming from within the smoke. The bundle of documents he was holding had also caught fire. “—Isn’t there anyone here?! I don’t care about myself—get my wife and young children out of the flames!” “Someone... Someone...” As he screamed, somewhere— “Magistrate, Magistrate. “Crying Magistrate,” a voice laughed.

III “Hey!” When he looked up at the cry—the sky from which the voice came was a blanket of smoke—there stood a large oak tree still untouched by the flames. “Hey, Crying Magistrate! You’ve finally come to understand tonight what I meant when I said ‘Just wait and see,’ haven’t you?”

The voice came from those treetops.—When he looked closely, a monkey-like figure was clambering up through the foliage. “Ah! You!” Hagiwara Toshikage ran up to the base of the tree, “It’s you—Kumota!” “That’s right—I’m Kumota.” “Was it you who set tonight’s fire?” “What’s there to say? If others are cruel to me, I’ll be cruel in return—I set the fire, but tonight’s suffering is all your own doing.”

“Grr… You devil!” “Who’s the devil here? You are!” “What a pity.” Toshikage called his subordinates and shouted a servant’s name.

But there was no answer—the only thing audible was the ferocious roar of flames raging ever more violently in the wind. “Look at yourself! — Look there! They say a parent’s karma curses their children—in those flames, your kids and wife are screaming, scrambling to find an escape.” “……Ahh, what a beautiful fire.” “You devil! You heretic!” “Say what you want—to my eyes, this blaze looks so damn beautiful I can hardly bear it.” “If there were sake, I’d make this fire my drinking companion and down a cup or two.”

Swish—a white light shot from Toshikage’s hand toward the treetop. It was the dagger he had been carrying. When that missed, he drew his long sword and threw it. A shrill, monkey-like laugh rang out, and the leaves in the air rustled. Stones, tiles, wooden fragments—Toshikage gathered whatever he could get his hands on and hurled them into the air, but they all only returned to his own head. Kumota was no longer in that tree—how he had escaped was unclear.

Then, a single valiant figure came leaping over the mansion's enclosure that had become entirely engulfed in flames.

He was neither one of his retainers nor someone from the magistrate’s office. When he saw the shadow running through the crimson flames, it was clearly a person in monk’s attire. “Oh…!” Toshikage turned around and was startled.—It was unforgettable—the exiled monk from the place of exile who, once while returning from a hunting trip and inspecting the fields under his jurisdiction, had hung a nenbutsu name plaque on a pine tree and had preached to the villagers. At that time—he who loathed nenbutsu above all else and feared no consequences for his passage—had thought the monk standing defiantly in his path was a detestable wretch. When he had tried to tear down the nenbutsu name plaque from horseback, the monk resisted, had fallen beneath his horse’s hooves, and had sustained injuries to his face or elsewhere—that very monk now stood before him. Later it was said—this was a man who even among Shinran’s disciples had had the most extraordinary past: once a notorious bandit called Amagi Shirō he had now become a nenbutsu practitioner and taken the name Shinshinbō—

It was this Shinshinbō who now suddenly rushed into the midst of these flames. Toshikage’s body trembled violently.—In that instant, what pierced through his head was the terror that he had come for revenge.

IV Already before that moment, Hagiwara Toshikage—overwhelmed by a tumult of emotions: rage, annihilation, panic—had lost even his sense of self. (That exiled monk from before,) he thought—and upon seeing Shinshinbō before his eyes, he turned pale, his body trembled, his mouth went completely dry, and no scream of terror could escape. (—Now I’m being avenged—forced to fully taste this torment, to meet my end as a human here—) With this thought, attachments to life, desperate struggles to survive, regrets, and all manner of human weaknesses surged forth. His ugly eyes darted about frantically in his dazed state as he began behaving like one seeking an opening to flee.

“Lord Toshikage!” Shinshinbō said in a panting voice as he rushed over. Even that sounded like reality to Toshikage’s ears. “…………” “Is that not Magistrate Hagiwara?” “Oh, that’s right! You must be Lord Toshikage.” “…………”

“What are you doing standing there dazed?” Shinshinbō admonished him and tapped his shoulder. “Have all the important documents from the magistrate’s office been carried out? …Ah!… Beyond the flames—I can hear the screams of women and children. Aren’t those your family?” “Th-that’s right.” Since there was no sign of harm being done, Toshikage finally nodded. Shinshinbō was aghast. “What?! Your family members still haven’t been rescued? What?! If you keep standing around, you’ll burn to death! What on earth are you doing? Those screams—aren’t they your child? Your wife?”

“But... there are still important documents in the magistrate’s office. I can’t go rescue them over there, and this place is also engulfed in flames.” “What’s a little fire? Where one proceeds with conviction, even flames will part.” “Right! I’ll go to the inner building and rescue your children and wife. As for you—in your role as magistrate—retrieve the official documents, seals, maps, and other vital governance items from within the fire!” With that declaration, Shinshinbō headed toward the inner mansion, plunging through the smoke.

Between the magistrate's office and the residence called the inner building stood a wooden fence. There should have been a gate there, but it was lost in the smoke. The women and children screaming inside were likely in such panic that they couldn't find the gate and ran about in confusion. Having thought this, Shinshinbō hefted a thick chestnut log lying nearby and smashed through the wooden fence. He broke through two or three more spots using the same method. Over the collapsed fence came a surge of women driven by the smoke. Those who fell became piled beneath others who fell.

“Lady Toshikage!” Shinshinbō searched around. Those fleeing in confusion were all servant maids and concubines; Toshikage’s wife, who should have been holding a child, was nowhere to be seen. Then, amidst the smoke, the wailing voice of an infant was heard. Looking, Toshikage’s wife, leading her young child by the hand, was screaming something toward the flames as if deranged.

V When she saw Shinshinbō’s figure, “Please help me!” Toshikage’s wife clung to him. The infant at her breast cried; the several children holding her hand also cried. “Oh! In that inner room of the building—Kazuko has been left behind! She’s calling her mother’s name.” “Oh! I can see a shadow…” “What should I do… Kazuko’s calling… Kazuko…” She was in a state of near madness; abandoning both the child at her breast and those clinging to her sleeves, her face looked as though she might dash into the crimson flames to rescue that one remaining child.

“It’s all right.” Shinshinbō grabbed her shoulders.

“It seems the fire hasn’t reached that building yet.” “I’ll carry her here for you.” With those words, Shinshinbō plunged into the flames. Toshikage’s wife, “Oh, Buddha!” She cried out through tears, her gratitude toward the very flames bordering on madness. Indeed, Shinshinbō’s valiant efforts within that great crimson lotus of blazing light appeared as nothing less than those of a living Buddha. Soon after, Shinshinbō came sprinting back—the hem and sleeves of his priestly robes singed—clutching a three-year-old child. On his back he carried another child of about seven,

“Quickly! Hurry!” he urged, fleeing to the foot of the great tree they had sheltered under earlier. Toshikage’s wife,

“I will never forget—never forget—even in death, this mercy—” she pressed her hands together. The children still wept. “Father!” “Father… Father…” With heartbreaking earnestness in her small eyes, she searched about. Then Saihōbō’s figure reappeared. From Saihōbō came word that Hagiwara Toshikage—having seen Shinshinbō go to rescue his family—had plunged resolutely into the blazing magistrate’s office, becoming a living torch as he now carried vital documents from within to the outer grounds.

“I see. Then I’ll also—” said Shinshinbō, starting to rush to help. “No—you take these women and children to a safer place.” “I’ll assist Magistrate Toshikage,” said Saihōbō as he hurried off in that direction. Before long, the wind grew increasingly fierce, and plank-like embers tumbled and rolled across the parched ground. The child cried out. Even onto Magistrate Toshikage’s wife’s hair, flames fell and began to burn.

Shinshinbō himself was nearly engulfed by the smoke, but desperately carried each one out of the compound. And as they fled through the hot wind at their backs to a field far from the flames, he occasionally turned around to count heads, fearing that even a single child among the many might have gotten lost along the way. Then, among the children following from behind, there was a single dwarf with a short stature and bulging eyes; this dwarf continued running with one of the frail girls on his back.

VI Among the many servants, the only one who continued to follow was that dwarf. Shinshinbō, (he had thought him a remarkable man), but once they had moved quite far from the flames and deemed this area safe enough, he had the people rest at a certain wayside shrine,

“You there—set down Kazuko whom you’re carrying at the hall’s edge,” he directed.

“Yes,” said the dwarf as he obediently set down the child he had been carrying on his back, then strode up to Shinshinbō. “Leader, it has been some time,” he greeted.

“Huh?!” Shinshinbō was aghast and suddenly recalled his own past. “Kumota?” “Yes, sir.” “Wh-why are you here…?” Kumota explained the circumstances of how he had been there all along and declared proudly, without hesitation, that tonight’s fire was his act of revenge against the evil magistrate Toshikage. In astonishment and—within a sigh laden with profound sorrow—Shinshinbō finished listening, and soon, a single tear trickled down.

“Kumota… Do you still harbor such a dreadful heart? Even after all I told you, you still refuse to abandon your wicked deeds?” “Leader—no, Venerable Shinshinbō—I’ve never forgotten the counsel you gave when taking monastic vows. But that vile magistrate—that loathsome wretch—he subjected Lady Yamabuki, whom I regard as my benefactor, to such cruelty that I resolved to exact vengeance. Though I knew full well the sinfulness of it.”

“Ah, what a dreadful thing you’ve done… Though now it’s beyond mending.” “……” “But Kumota—why would you set the fire yourself yet flee here carrying Kazuko among Magistrate Toshikage’s family? This act defies understanding.” “When I saw you plunging into those flames to save the women and children, and that monk Saihōbō helping Toshikage haul out vital documents from the magistrate’s office… somehow, I suddenly couldn’t bear myself.” “…And what I truly grasped then was this—that hurling myself into fire to save others felt… well, strange as it sounds, more thrilling than setting blazes to watch folk suffer. More right. Like I’d finally understood something real.”

“So you’ve finally realized that.—But it’s too late… If only you’d realized it sooner.” Yet even as he spoke these words, Shinshinbō recalled what had been taught to him by Hōnen Shōnin and his master Shinran—that even someone like himself, who had committed such grave sins, could attain Buddhahood immediately after shedding a single tear of remorse, just as he was—“No—it’s not too late, Kumota. If you truly have the resolve you spoke of earlier, you should turn back at once, face Magistrate Toshikage, and accept your punishment.”

“It is my wish.” Kumota declared resolutely and dashed off once more toward the distant flames. In his form there already shone the Buddha’s light. —Shinshinbō pressed his palms together and prayed wholeheartedly that the Buddha’s compassion would guide Kumota’s path.

Grass Moon

I

A woman who appeared to be a farmer’s wife, “Venerable Master,” she said, peering in from the veranda. “Today being the day of the deceased infant, I have prepared some memorial rice cakes. Please partake of them, Venerable Master.”

“Ah, from the esteemed household of Sagi no Mori, are you?” From the back came Shinran’s voice— “I am grateful—though I am unworthy—please offer them before the Buddha; Shinran will partake later.” As the farmer’s wife offered the rice cakes before the Buddha and struck the small bell with a *ting*—, “Venerable Master, the grass has grown quite long, so if you don’t mind, we’d like to cut some of it,” they announced, and three or four village men came and began cutting the summer grass around the exile’s house. One of them again—when had they noticed?—was talking about how the western sun shone on the Venerable Master’s chamber window, so perhaps they should build a tall fence there and plant gourd seedlings.

Shinran came out to the veranda. He turned toward the group and performed a solemn gesture of respect, in the same manner as one would pay homage to the Buddha,

“Good people, please wait a moment—I do not mean to slight your kindness, but Shinran is a criminal in exile under imperial decree; this house is a place for atoning for sins.” “Therefore, the cold of winter is good, and it is precisely the heat of summer that becomes the rectification of an exile.” “You must not cut the summer grass as others do and take pleasure in cool mornings and evenings.” “—It goes against the imperial decree. I beg you, please refrain from such actions.” “Oh, come now, Venerable Master—you are far too reserved. It’s merely cutting a bit of grass.”

“No—it is not so. Even should the authorities not reprimand me, Shinran’s heart would suffer.—Moreover, I ask you to consider: does a person dwell within a house, or within one’s heart? Since Shinran ever dwells within his heart, I think to cut the weeds therein—but the grass about the house matters not.” “Hoho, you speak of curious things. What does it mean to dwell within the heart?”

“There are rice cakes we’ve just received. You all should eat them for your snack and rest here awhile.” “I’ll explain it while I eat too.”

By now, this country too entered June, a month of fresh greenery. After the rainy season ended, the heat suddenly intensified, and both grass and trees seemed to grow several inches each day.

Spring—the provincial office, ravaged by demonic flames, now showed new walls and buildings upon the hill ahead. The reconstruction had been unexpectedly swift. According to rumors, Magistrate Hagiwara Toshikage had stood at the burned site without even loosening his belt since that incident, urging on carpenters and plasterers; he swiftly rebuilt the office first, re-examined documents lost in the fire, and devoted himself to renewing governance within his domain— To the point where people muttered, “That magistrate has been acting strange lately,” his attitude became completely different from before.

“Venerable Master, is everyone without exception out for alms-begging today?” “So it seems. It appears everyone is absent.” “It must be quite inconvenient for you, being all alone.” “Not at all... I have never considered it inconvenient. Shinran’s heart is always free and unobstructed.” “Ah yes! Please allow me to hear more of your teaching that human beings do not dwell within houses but within their hearts.”

“Oh, everyone, gather round,” he beckoned the people to the veranda and was about to speak when one person suddenly started to flee, “Ah! The magistrate’s here!” one of the men announced with fearful eyes.

II

When they heard the magistrate had come, the peasants scattered in a rush to flee through gaps in the fences and around the back, leaving Shinran alone on the veranda. At the front, at that moment, “Is the Venerable Master at home?” came the visitor’s voice. Magistrate Hagiwara Toshikage had brought no attendants, and there was no sign he had brought a horse; he stood in a simple outfit of nothing but straw sandals, “Since the Venerable Master is at home, I have come hoping to have an audience with you.” While the master’s voice and figure remained unseen, Toshikage bowed courteously toward the dilapidated eaves of the ramshackle exile’s dwelling and announced, “I am Hagiwara Toshikage, magistrate of this domain.”

“Yes,” Shinran stood up. He stepped all the way out— “Who might you be?” “Have you forgotten? It is Toshikage. Taking this opportunity, I humbly wished to have the honor of beholding your revered presence and thus have come to visit.” “Ah, you’ve come at last. This dwelling is so open that the wind blows freely through—no need for guidance. Please, do come in.” “Pardon me,” said Toshikage as he ducked under the roof while still bowing, but upon seeing the mats rotting in the heat, the holes in the walls, and the sunlight leaking through the roof, he sat there despondently, unable to lift his face for some time.

Once again, Shinran spoke, “I am Gutoku.” When he offered this greeting, Toshikage started back in surprise and prostrated himself fully.

“Though it may be unbecoming to call upon you here in broad daylight like this, today I have come to offer my renewed apologies—and also to humbly present a request born of Toshikage’s remorse.” “I beseech you, bestow your great mercy and grant this request,” he pleaded, his words drenched in sweat from head to toe. “I do not know what it is, but if it is something within my capacity, I will accept it.” When Shinran said this, “Even now, you have surely witnessed it—how the people of the domain adore you like a parent when they see your revered form, yet flee as if from a demon when they behold Toshikage’s visage—.” “Toshikage has grown so lonely because of that.”

“Hmm,” Shinran nodded deeply for the first time, opening his large eyes wide—as he did when something met with his approval— “What have you come to seek from this Shinran?” “Ah…!” Toshikage’s shoulders quivered violently, and scalding tears spilled from both eyes. “……What? “Well… I do not know what that something is.” “However, having concluded that you alone, Venerable Master, are the one who can deign to save this humble self, I have come here enduring shame after days and nights of anguish these past many weeks.” “What is there to conceal? I had seven concubines.” “The day after that fire, I sent them all back to their respective families in their home provinces.” “Also, I dealt with Yamabuki as you instructed.” “I pressed both hands to the ground before my wife, apologized for the past, and we pledged henceforth.” “I also apologized to my children for my years of unfatherly conduct.” “As for the people of the domain—starting from the coming year—I intend to lower their taxes.” “With the money I once spent on my concubines’ lavish attire and indulgences, I resolved to reward my servants’ merits and relieve the impoverished people.” “But even so—my heart finds no solace in these acts alone.—Venerable Master—how can I atone for my past?” “I wish for you to teach me that.”

III Shinran listened in silence with his eyes closed. The initial joyful radiance of his countenance gradually transformed into silence—. Clearly, Toshikage’s words had begun to weigh heavily on his heart. “I fully understand.” Having said this, he fell silent once more. Toshikage remained with his face buried in tears of remorse. “That you are tormented by such thoughts—Gutoku has observed this from afar since that fire. Yet when one’s heart grows too burdened by remorse to rejoice in pursuing good deeds…” “A mind that seeks to bury countless regrets with countless good deeds is not the Buddha-mind.” “You should despise such form-bound conduct yourself.” “People call evil despicable—but is not the innermost heart of those who perform good deeds for virtue’s sake still more base?”

“Ah… Yes…” “When the people see the exiled Shinran, they adore him like a parent—yet when they behold the magistrate’s form, they flee as if from a demon. You spoke of this loneliness earlier. That very heart of yours is bodhi. With Buddha already dwelling in your breast for that reason alone, why do you now suddenly torment yourself, piling up worries like stones?” “It is nothing but shame; it is nothing but remorse.” “And in order to escape the anguish of self-reproach even a moment sooner—”

“Do you not consider it foolish to plunge back into anguish for that very reason?” “The heart is not such a thing.” “From the very moment one awakens to bodhi, the heart becomes clear, the brow serene—whether sleeping or waking, one cannot remain in this Pure Land.” “Can I become like that?” “Because you possess superficial knowledge, you instead cling one step before the Buddha’s seat and have been unable to take your place upon the seat of peace.” “For example, just as you passed beneath this hut where Shinran dwells, advance straightforwardly to the Buddha’s lap with a mind free of all attachments.” “To do that, shed all petty wisdom, minor delusions, and the foolishness of small-minded people—and remain as nothing but a bare, single human being.”

“Yes.” “Being an official, being a magistrate, being a father—such distracting thoughts are unnecessary.” “Simply clasp your hands in prayer and chant the *nenbutsu*.” “Return home as you are—meet your wife, embrace your children, attend to governance at your office—and whenever remembrance comes upon you, chant the *nenbutsu* thus.” “What you resolve to do with care—that alone suffices as your duty to Buddha.”

“Understood… I am utterly ashamed. These palms were joined together under your guidance, Venerable Master. I will surely serve in this way for the rest of my life.” “On your path ahead lies Buddha’s light—do not neglect it. Cling to that alone.” “I shall do so—through this opportunity, deign to consider me one of your lay devotees. My wife also wishes to soon have the honor of an audience and express her gratitude.”

While they were talking, Saihō, Kyōjun, Shōshinbō, and the others returned from their alms rounds.

Toshikage placed both hands on the ground before Shōshinbō and apologized for his past offense of disrespecting the sacred name scrolls from horseback along the tree-lined path. “Though I thought you must have harbored deep resentment against me… When disaster struck recently, you saved my family from beneath the flames… Your divine appearance at that moment… Such gratitude—I could never forget it.” “No—please, such formal thanks are unnecessary,” said Shōshinbō, flustered. Confronted with Toshikage’s overwhelming gratitude, he even wore an expression of embarrassment.

IV Toshikage also expressed his gratitude to Saihō for recent events, “Thanks to you, we were able to rescue most of the important documents from the flames, and because of that, official matters have proceeded without delay,” he reported.

Before long, a meager light came on. When he found himself among these people who had returned from a day’s alms-begging and were enjoying a simple supper together, Toshikage forgot to return home. “Ah yes—there remains something I must tell you.” “It concerns that Kumota.” When Toshikage said this, recalling the matter, it seemed Shōshinbō too had been carrying it heavily in his heart— “...What became of that Kumota?” “He turned himself in.”

“Hmm…” “He turned himself in?” “As my duty required, I bound him. Yet when applying those bonds, I found myself doubting—whether these restraints were truly meant for Kumota or for this Toshikage.” “—whether these bonds were truly meant for Kumota or for this Toshikage.” “…………” The group gazed intently at the magistrate’s face, their eyes shining. While marveling at how a mere shift in the human heart could so alter the very light one emanated—

“However, I remain the magistrate. Binding him complied with national law. I imprisoned Kumota. Then, as there chanced to be a monk bound for Sado, I entrusted him to that monk and sent him into exile. Since Kumota likely repents his past wrongs more deeply than I do himself, he will either become a Buddhist disciple or an upright townsman—and in some years hence, there will surely come a time when he pays a visit.”

Shōshinbō’s brows brightened with relief.

“Thank you.” He expressed gratitude as if it were his own. “Well, as the night has grown late…” With these words, he soon took his leave of the Venerable Master and walked back along the dark path to the provincial office.—That night was a joyous one. “The places where we live all become the Pure Land,” the people said, but “No—rather, what we are is the place where the voices of *nenbutsu* arise, however presumptuous that may sound—it is.”

While living in such terrible thatched huts and with such food, not a single person fell ill even during summer.

Bon arrived—the summer moon rising from the grasses consoled the people of the place of exile each night. In the village dances, the jovial Saihō joined in dancing, and Shōshinbō sang songs. Before anyone realized it, into those songs flowed references to the Venerable Master and the joy of nenbutsu chanting, and the spirit of Buddha infused itself even into the very blood of the local people. When autumn came and the morning dew upon the hearts of the bellflowers grew beautiful,

“We humbly request that you relocate your residence to Komaru Mountain,” said the officials of the Provincial Office, arriving with solemn courtesy as Toshikage’s envoys. No one had known. They had heard that something like a temple had been newly built on the bright land of Komaru Mountain, a few *ri* away from there, but it had never even crossed their minds that this could be a residence Toshikage had constructed with his personal funds to dedicate to Shinran.

Shinran, being under imperial censure, had firmly declined at first, but it was reported that Toshikage had already submitted documents to Kyoto. “With that—” he took six or seven disciples and moved from the place of exile in Takeuchi to the new house on Komaru Mountain that smelled of fresh wood. After several years, for the first time, his body and desk were placed beneath a roof that seemed fit for human habitation.

Melancholy Spring

I

When winter arrived, the snow was beyond imagination. In this northern land, everything lay beneath the snow. Beneath the immeasurable depths of snow, the faint voices of nenbutsu chanting could still be heard.

When they experienced several such winters there, for these disciples and their master, winter became rather a favorable period for introspective training. They could even feel gratitude for poverty and cold and hunger. Thoughts like (If only spring would come quickly) or (It’s too cold to endure)—such feeble voices that wasted today while vainly yearning for tomorrow were never heard in Komaru Mountain’s Dharma hall.

Each day was a day of spiritual bliss. It was so much so that one might doubt whether this was truly a place of exile for banished individuals. And so, once again this year, spring—the spring of another year—came around— “Sekinen, we’ve gathered quite a bit.”

“That should be enough.” “The Venerable Master is fond of chives.” “During the winter seclusion, he has been partaking only of dried foods, so if we offer him these fresh green tree buds and herbs, he will surely be delighted.” Snow still lingered in the valley, but on the south-facing slopes of the cliffs, from beneath the decayed leaves, butterburs and young greens had begun to sprout faintly.

“Let’s take a break.” Placing the basket filled with harvested chives and butterburs beside them, Sekinen and Saihō sat down halfway up the cliff. The village at the foot of the mountain was hazy with purple, and the buds on the trees glowed faintly red, kindling with the power of heaven and earth.

“Venerable Saihō.” Sekinen, his eyes narrowed against the glare as he gazed up at the sun, suddenly spoke.

“Spring is a painful time.”

“Why?” “Without any particular reason, when spring comes, I feel this pain.” “The young blood within me grows restless.” “I see…”

Saihō was elderly, but in Sekinen’s words—those of a twenty-six- or twenty-seven-year-old—he found something relatable. “Aye, I know that feeling,” he said. “In my youth, I threw myself into Lord Kiso’s campaigns and spent my fill of days in battle…” “In monastic life,” Sekinen continued, “there’s no venting one’s spirit, no exerting brute strength, no labor that wrings sweat from your brow. So compared to ordinary youths, I think we end up with something like pent-up vigor festering deep in our bodies—pooling in our blood—and when it grows too much, it curdles into gloom itself.”

“When that happens, you should go wild with all your might.” “Even if you tell me to act wild, I don’t know what I ought to do.” “Just do anything to sweat out that pent-up gloom. …That’s it,” he said, looking back. Likely left by villagers digging for clay or such, a section of the mountainside had been sheared off straight upward from midway up the cliff for about two jō*.

Saihō pointed and said, “You climb all the way up there and jump down.” “Do it dozens—no hundreds—of times! Think of climbing as cultivating discipline and leaping down as shattering your ego—make this struggle your life’s work! Keep at it till you collapse.” “That youthful gloom will crystallize into sweat’s salt.”

“I see.” Sekinen, evidently having considered the matter quite deeply, became serious and—seeming intent on carrying it out—stood up. Then Saihō also rose to his feet together,

“Oh… I wonder who that is.” He gazed intently toward the foot of the mountain, his expression turning to one of surprise,

“Sekinen, look at that,” he said, pointing.

Two

“What do you mean?” “…I can’t see anything.” “Can’t you see? Those figures approaching over there.”

“Where?” “At the foot of the mountain.” “...No, no—not that direction.” “Further, toward the highway that leads from the village to the provincial capital.” “Oh…” “Do you see now?” “Truly,” while placing their hands on the trunk of a large white birch, Sekinen and Saihō gazed intently from that cliff at the distant road below. From the direction of the provincial capital, winding through mountains, hills, forests, and cultivated fields, along a single path that continued into the embrace of this Komaru Mountain, two small figures trudged forward like tiny specks.

“Hmm.” Saihō looked quizzically, “They do not appear to be dressed in the local manner here. I wonder where those women might be from.” “They must be women from the capital. The scarlet tassels on their hats, the sleeves of their robes—even among capital women, they cannot be mere townsfolk’s daughters.” “But where could they be going? Beyond this highway lie only mountain dwellings.” “Could it be… Her Ladyship’s—?” Sekinen said, looking at Saihō’s face.

“I think so too. Perhaps they’re coming to the master’s quarters with a message from Her Ladyship of the capital—”

“That may be…” “No—that’s it.” Sekinen held a basket filled with picked garlic chives and wild parsley. Saihō was already heading toward the base of the cliff, clinging to scrub trees as he slid unsteadily downward. As the two traveling women approached the foot of the mountain, they too noticed Saihō and Sekinen, stopping their staves by the roadside to wait. “Excuse me, ladies—” Saihō called out as he approached, “Oh—it’s you!” one of the women cried out as she ran forward.

“Might you be Lord Saihō?” “Huh… Oh! You’re Man-no, aren’t you?” “It has been an age.” “And the other one?” “She is also an attendant of Lord Kanezane who served Her Ladyship—a woman named Suzuno.” “Ah, so they are from the capital—” “Is the Venerable Master’s residence already in this vicinity?” “Just a short distance from this village called Toriyano.” “You can see a bamboo grove in the embrace of that mountain—the grove behind the residence in Komaru Mountain Village,” he turned around and

“Sekinen, guide them afterward—I’ll run ahead to inform the master’s quarters about Her Ladyship’s envoys from the capital at once. He will surely be astonished.” Leaving those words behind, Saihō hurried ahead. His heart throbbed more with thoughts of his teacher Shinran’s joy than with his own. For it had been four years since coming to Echigo—years of separation from the capital’s tidings—and surely he would want to hear of Her Ladyship and the children’s subsequent affairs, of Lord Kanezane’s circumstances, friends, and acquaintances—and though the master had never let such words escape his lips, Saihō thought how deeply his heart must yearn for them within—.

III “Shōshinbō, are you there?” When he reached the front of the hermitage, Saihō turned toward the interior and shouted involuntarily. This place differed from their previous exile dwelling in Takeuchi—a structure Hagiwara Toshikage had wholeheartedly contributed—and though humble, it bore the semblance of a proper monastery. “What’s this, Saihō?” Shōshinbō walked over from beside the narrow stream running along the hermitage. “Ah, there you are! Quickly now—two envoys from the capital have come to this honorable hermitage. Go inform the master’s quarters at once!”

“Huh? Is it a messenger of the honorable pardon?” Shōshinbō jumped to conclusions, his flesh quivering as if trembling violently. “No—they are envoys, but not nobles. They are ladies-in-waiting serving within Lord Kanezane’s household who have come.” “Women?” he said with slight disappointment, yet even so, their arrival echoed like footsteps in a desolate valley to this place of exile. Urged by Saihō’s “As quickly as possible,” Shōshinbō hastened up to his teacher’s chamber. When he glanced back, Man-no and Suzuno of the Tsukinowa household—guided by Sekinen whom he had left behind—were already revealing themselves there—

They finally reached their destination, and upon realizing it, their tightly strung hearts suddenly eased. Blankly, they stopped their staffs there, “Ah…” they exhaled and exchanged glances. Sekinen gazed curiously at the two figures as they stood there. He was a young monk who did not know the capital. To eyes accustomed only to the mountains, trees, and country folk of this northern land, the figures and complexions of the two women must have appeared dazzlingly beautiful.—But then, suddenly aware—

“This is Komaru Mountain where the Venerable Master dwells—his honorable hermitage. Please come this way.” As he spoke, Man-no gazed intently at the building’s form, “When they called it a place of exile, I imagined some wretched dwelling—yet contrary to expectations, how unexpectedly grand.” “No no—we moved here later. Until then, our residence in Takeuchi was like a beggar’s hut.” “Is the Venerable Master present in his chamber?”

“He is present. …Now, please wash your feet here.” Hearing the voice, Shinran came out from his chamber onto the veranda. He was silently watching the two approach the stream and wash their feet. Man-no was a faithful maid who served Lady Tamahime since before her marriage—a woman who knew all manner of things about Shinran’s younger days. “...Man-no has aged,” Shinran suddenly recalled his younger days to himself. Man-no suddenly turned around,

"My!” she exclaimed, looking up at Shinran’s figure. And with nostalgia, “How you’ve changed,” she said, running up. But by the end, her words trailed off into tears. Shinran took her hand, “You have come all the way to this distant province—such a long journey indeed. You must be exhausted. At any rate, you should rest your bodies,” he said without asking anything, showing concern for their fatigue.

IV

The room was bright.

A soft spring-scented breeze gently blew upon the two female guests from the capital, quietly passed between them and Shinran who sat there, and rustled the bamboo grove behind. “First and foremost,” he said, “what I wish to hear is news of my teacher, Venerable Hōnen. Though the Venerable Master of Sanuki must have sent occasional messages to Lord Tsukinowa’s residence—how has he been faring since then? Is he still well?” Shinran asked. Having combed their dust-covered hair and untied the sashes of their traveling robes, Man-no and Suzuno sat before him,

"(What should I say first?)" they seemed to think, their chests tightening as they remained looking downward, their fingers resting for a short while. In the next room, Saihō, Shōshinbō, and others sat with their knees pressed firmly, waiting eagerly for news from the capital. “Yes, regarding the Venerable Master of Sanuki—in your lordship’s domain of Komatsu no Shō in Awaji District of Sanuki Province, a new temple has been built and named Shōfuku-ji. It is said he continues his teachings unchanged.” Upon hearing Man-no’s answer,

“Oh, I see.” Shinran gave a deep nod of relief. That reassurance manifested in his complexion, his eyebrows brightening. “Hearing this brings me initial solace.—Now then, regarding your father-in-law Lord Kanezane—he must surely remain in good health?” “Yes… His Lordship…” As Man-no’s voice thickened with hesitation, Shinran abruptly adjusted his kneeling posture,

“Is he ill?” “He has passed away.”

“What?” he jolted upright. “Lord Kanezane has passed away? …And when was that?”

“Last year—on the fifth day of the fourth month of Shōgen 4.” “It was due to a lingering illness he had been suffering from even before that.” “Ah… I had no idea,” Shinran unconsciously lowered his voice— “Though I am in exile, until today I remained unaware of it.” “The great benefactor of the Nenbutsu sect—my teacher Venerable Hōnen in Sanuki must surely have been disheartened as well.” “That is not all…” “There is still more… things that will startle you.” Man-no had come to feel she could no longer bear to tell Shinran any more sorrowful things. Man-no spilled what she had been holding back from her eyelids and pressed her sleeve against her eyes.

“What more could startle Shinran?” ...This weighs on my mind. “Man-no—has some further calamity occurred beyond this?” “Y-yes…” “Shinran vows not to be startled by anything. Speak without restraint.” “The household’s Lady Tamahime...”

“Tamahime?” “After your exile, she protected and raised Lady Wakako, received the name Hōi from her uncle at Shōren-in temple, and—while devoting herself to Lady Wakako’s upbringing in hopes she would surpass even her father as a renowned monk—also spent mornings and evenings yearning for Echigo’s skies. But with Lord Kanezane’s passing and other sorrows weighing upon her, this winter she suddenly caught a chill, which became the cause—” When she reached that point, Man-no burst into tears, covering her face with her sleeve.

V

Still wracked with sobs, Man-no could not continue her words. Shinran’s face suddenly filled with shock, turning pale and stark. Moreover—the disciples who had been waiting in the next room, straining their ears for news from the capital, also fell as silent as an icehouse. A chill caressed every figure. Amidst this, Man-no was still sobbing quietly. “—It was precisely the twenty-sixth day of the eleventh month.” Taking over from Man-no, Suzuno continued the rest of the story.

“Despite all the devoted nursing care and the administration of medicine, Lady Tamahime ultimately passed away.” Leaving behind Lord Hōi, still so young. “When we imagine what was in her heart—how it must have been—even we…” Suzuno’s words too soon became lost in tears.

These two had remained by Tamahime’s bedside until her final moments, tending to her care. The two had thought they must personally inform Shinran of Koshi about this matter. —And so, waiting for the snow in Koshi to melt and carrying the lady’s belongings, they had departed the capital on their long journey. “...Tamahime as well... And Lord Tsukinowa too.” “...Hmm... So that is how it was...” Shinran murmured. Looking back, his own life had already reached the slope of early old age. He felt as though he could clearly see the flow of time before his eyes.

In the silence, what welled up in Shinran’s chest was not sorrow but the nenbutsu. When the nenbutsu suddenly ceased in his chest, thoughts of sorrow—like water breaching a dam—threatened to drown him in tears.

A spring day heavy with sorrow came to an end. The people sent their hearts afar to the capital and spent several months praying for the repose of Urakata-sama’s soul—and for that of the late Lord Tsukinowa. Man-no and Suzuno, after spending several days there, lost all desire to return to the capital.—Even if they were to return, the capital was now a place of strife with no one left to serve. “Please allow us to stay in a corner of this humble hermitage.” “If you will not permit us as disciples, then even as your servants for a time…” Shinran granted their request. Of course, this was only after he had reported the details of the matter to Magistrate Hagiwara Toshikage.

The lesser cuckoo sang. From spring to early summer, Shinran the exile’s hair grew wildly unkempt—throughout these months, he had many days of illness. “It could not be helped,” murmured Saihō and Shōshinbō, tears quietly welling in their eyes. The master’s sorrow became his disciples’ grief. When they contemplated their teacher’s heartache, their own chests tightened with pain, and even the cry of the midday cuckoo in the mountains behind them felt gut-wrenching. Yet when Shinran saw his disciples’ somber faces—recognizing them as reflections of his own sorrow—he appeared to regain his composure. He placed a woven sedge hat over his unkempt hair and set out once more to spread his teachings through nearby villages.

That figure now radiated an ever more noble light, one wholly devoted to living through the path of nenbutsu chanting. Shinran’s back—as he approached forty—bore in its bearing a dignity distinctly different from that of the Shinran who had first arrived in Echigo. On summer evenings wearied by their proselytizing labors, Suzuno and Man-no would simmer field vegetables to comfort Shinran and his disciples after their daylong toils. In those fleeting moments at evening meals, every heart overflowed with the joy of faithful living, Komaru Mountain’s dwelling becoming like the Pure Land itself encircled by evening-faced blossoms.

The Disciple Who Saw Buddha

1 “Hmm?” As if he had just noticed something, Jōsō began to mutter.

The three disciples were on the veranda burning a withered kaya tree as mosquito repellent. "What is it，Jousou?" Kyojun asked suspiciously. Nenmyo also joined in. "What are you thinking about?" he laughed.

“What’s got you thinking?” he laughed. Jōsō had a serious expression. “Well, it’s about Sekinen... Was Sekinen with everyone at the evening meal, partaking of the vegetarian fare?”

“Well, I think he was there, but then again, maybe he wasn’t…” “He’s a suspicious one.”

“Why?” “Why do you ask? Don’t all of you find Sekinen’s recent behavior suspicious?” “Now that you mention it, there are indeed some strange points.” “There is—but that’s not all. Lately he’s been acting strangely—no, *extremely* strangely—as if possessed by some spirit.” “Hmm… Is there some reason for that?” “That may well be.” “What on earth… this talk of Sekinen being possessed by a spirit—”

“No—that cannot be said; it’s not something to speak of lightly.” Jōsō pursed his lips bitterly within the mosquito-repellent smoke. The other two nodded in silent agreement. These were feelings they ultimately couldn’t voice aloud. To their fastidious sensibilities, this matter felt utterly abhorrent—to acknowledge it would mean recognizing the depravity within their own fellow devotees of the Dharma. Yet even before those two women from the capital had come to dwell among them, there had been something intrinsically agitated about Sekinen’s nature.

They vaguely knew that this restlessness had turned into flames—into love for Suzuno. To these three who utterly despised—nay, even deemed repulsive—such an attitude as romantic love toward women from a Buddhist disciple, every subsequent action of Sekinen appeared utterly absurd and foolish; indeed, the mere presence of such a man among their fellow disciples provoked in them a peculiar irritation. These three disciples, beginning with Kyōjun, were not originally Shinran’s longtime followers who had accompanied him from Kyoto. They had formed a karmic bond with Shinran during his journey to the northern provinces. Precisely because of this, within these people lingered a strong taint—the concepts and stench of the old teachings, the Shōdōmon.

“Perhaps he’s gone into that bamboo grove again, lost in solitary contemplation,” people said, looking up at the cool summer moon. Under the moonlight, the deep bamboo grove hung heavily with night dew. “That may be…” Jōsō gave a wry smile. And then,

He looked with lamenting eyes and muttered, “A man beyond saving.” “Shall I go check?” “No, it’s better not to. While possessed by a demon, how could others’ words reach his ears? Sooner or later, there will be a reprimand from the master’s chamber.” In Shinran’s room, the light had already gone out. The three disciples, thinking of tomorrow’s alms-begging under the blazing sun, closed the door and went to sleep.

Two

Sekinen had sneaked back late at night. It was after all his fellow residents had fallen asleep. (...Where had he been?) Jōsō noticed and watched through half-opened eyes as Sekinen slipped into his bedroll, deliberately withholding any words. "Ah..." That muffled sound was Sekinen's sigh. Even after lying down, he kept tossing restlessly in his bedding.

He suddenly sat up and seemed about to go somewhere again. Jōsō, "Hm?" He suspiciously raised his head, but upon seeing Sekinen drinking water in the kitchen, pretended to be asleep once more. Before long, Jōsō's vigilance toward him also grew lax, and he fell into a deep sleep.

Kyōjun and Nenmyōbō had already been snoring loudly for some time. ……But Sekinen alone seemed unable to fall asleep, tormented and at odds with himself. The breathing of those sleeping soundly beside him was enviable, yet at the same time— He even tried scornfully looking down on their simplicity—like animals—in irritation. But in the end, his inability to sleep was unbearably painful, and he himself knew that this anguish of his was by no means righteous.

(Why is this? If I keep suppressing myself like this, I might go mad.) His earlobes burned crimson with blood-heat—abruptly lifting his face from the pillow, his pupils gleamed with an inner light as he scanned the darkness. His soul controlled him like that of a sleepwalker. (That's right—I don't care what becomes of me anymore. Let me fall into hell—anything is better than being scorched by these flames tormenting me now.) He seemed to have resolved himself to something terrifying. Listening to the breathing of those around him, he crawled up.

With a creak, the ridge beam groaned. At even that faint sound, he involuntarily flinched and cowered. (No… I mustn’t…) Coming to his senses, as if ashamed of his own ugliness, he once again hid himself within the bedding. But in the end, it was nothing more than a ceaseless repetition of the battle between reason and instinct within his veins. That had been an excruciatingly prolonged agony. After a quarter-hour had passed, he once again quietly raised his body and, like a hermit crab emerging from its shell, began groping his way out from within the pitch-dark room, stealthily heading somewhere.

“Mmm… Ugh…” From behind came Nenmyōbō’s groaning in his sleep. Sekinen whirled around with eyes like those of a pale thief, but finding nothing amiss, he now rallied his courage—though still minding even pin-drop sounds—and groped his way out inch by inch until he emerged from the room. He had finally escaped the sleeping quarters. Here existed neither habitual self-reflection nor Sekinen as he knew himself. Feeling his way along pillars, doors, and walls—stealing down the corridor step by muffled step—he reached the endmost chamber where Suzuno lay asleep.

Three

He trembled. A violent, hot-and-cold trembling ran through Sekinen’s entire body.

Closing his eyes, Sekinen reached out his hand to the wooden door at the end of the hallway. It was now potent enough to make Suzuno’s sleeping breath permeate his skin; his hand—tangled in terror and sweetly dreaming excitement while trembling with frantic urgency—finally groped its way to the wooden door’s pull-handle. All the blood in his body surged poisonously to his head alone. ——He pressed his ear against it. He could hear her breathing... There was the scent of black hair, soft skin, and steamed cloves—the fragrance of a woman.

Scrape, scrape, scrape... Sekinen’s hand slid the door open two or three sun. ——And in that instant, a white lightning-like light flashed through his eyes. In the dark room where he had believed only Suzuno’s sleeping form lay, there existed such a manifest light—like the radiance of Buddha—that Sekinen found his heart utterly crushed. “Ah—!” he involuntarily covered his eyes—. Next, words of shame spilled involuntarily from his mouth—

It was an unconscious cry of “Namu Amida Butsu!” At the noise, she woke up— “Who’s there?! Who is it?!” Suzuno had awoken. Panicking, he fled thudding against the corridor walls— “What’s this?” “What was that noise…” All his fellow occupants had thrown off their bedding and stood rigidly. “Ah… Sekinen!” The people found him flattened like a rag on the wooden floor and could only let out heavy sighs.

“Y-You... you... you damned fool!” The eldest, Kyōjunbō, his face contorted with anger and trembling, involuntarily clenched his fist as he pressed closer to him. "You utterly appalling heretic! “Ugh… I’ll wake you from your heretic’s dream.” Forcefully pulling him close by the collar and about to strike, Sekinen suddenly sprang up and fled outside, bursting through the kitchen door as if tearing it down.

That morning, from the very start, people's complexions were clouded by a heavy sense of unease. Suzuno said nothing. Yet the fact that her small chest was gripped by an eerie, indescribable terror and doubt was evident to all.

“……Should I tell him?” “No—how could we let such a matter reach our teacher’s ears?”

“Where did that wretch go?” “It would be best to leave him be.” The people continued to whisper among themselves, but eventually left unobtrusively to set out for their daily alms-begging.

Shinran remained secluded in the inner room today. It was not particularly due to poor health— Suzuno seemed to be harboring some secret, her chest aching unbearably on her own.

The sound of cicadas cried clear and cool at the noon window. The banana leaves occasionally swayed violently in the wind. Before he knew it, Sekinen had come to that shade and was crouching motionless.

IV “—Who is there?” When he glanced out the window, Shinran quietly asked toward the shade of the banana leaves.

“Is that not Sekinen?” “Y... yes.” “What are you doing?” “...I... Master! I am an impure human unworthy to enter the master’s hermitage—a man who has fallen into heresy.” “What are you saying?” A smile spread across Shinran’s face, as though hearing of some trivial matter,

“Please come in,” was all he said. “……” Sekinen remained crouched there motionless, but after a while, as if resolved— “Is it... permissible?” He stood up fearfully. And before long, bowing his eyes like a convict’s from the veranda, he sat in Shinran’s room and awaited the iron hammer of sin that would fall upon his head.

“...What is it? What troubles you?” It seemed Shinran still knew nothing of the matter. But that only deepened Sekinen’s agony. To broach this new matter to his teacher’s quarters—who remained unaware—was excruciating.—Yet Sekinen steeled himself and confessed the truth.

“I struggled for many days, time and again trying to mend my own heart and single-mindedly drive away evil thoughts through nenbutsu chanting.” “But once these worldly desires, captivated by Lady Suzuno’s beauty, would not depart me no matter what I did.” Shinran closed his eyes—listening intently as he quietly awaited the next words. “And so—” “During the day, walking about to spread teachings under the blazing sun, I could forget the torment in my heart.” “But when I let myself unwind in the night’s cool breeze, the flames within me burned fiercer than any midday heat.”

“Hmm...” “This is wrong! “How can one’s practice ever succeed with such conduct!” “I scolded myself like that—dousing myself with water, chanting nenbutsu all night in bamboo groves, prostrating myself on rocks—but I could not overcome it. In the end, I crossed a barrier I should never have transgressed.” “I sneaked into Lady Suzuno’s room.” “……”

“At that moment, my own heart was beyond my comprehension… Even I myself was entirely consumed in a trance-like act.”

“Sekinen, wait.”

“Yes.” “In your voice lies truth—that voice without falsehood. Let Suzuno hear it as well.” “Huh? To Lady Suzuno?” “...Is there anyone there? Please summon Suzuno here.” When he said this toward the back room, someone seemed to have gone to call Suzuno.—Upon seeing Sekinen and his teacher sitting face-to-face there, Suzuno’s face flushed crimson.

“Master, do you have any business with me?” “Please sit there.” “Just listen to Sekinen’s words.” “…I too shall listen. Sekinen, speak.” “Yes,” he responded, but with Suzuno there—perhaps wishing he could vanish into the ground—Sekinen stiffened and remained silent for a while, his hands on his knees.

Five “I will confess everything.” With these words, Sekinen continued earnestly, now speaking with a mind free of obstructions—even what he intended to say flowed smoothly. “At that moment, I was a beast consumed by passion’s flames. If Lady Suzuno were to reject my love, I resolved I would resort to force. I placed my hand upon the door. Then I opened it two or three inches. At that instant—my vision blurred! Pressing both hands over my eyes, I fell prostrate. For within Lady Suzuno’s room shone a shaft of white light—radiant as Buddha’s own glory.” His voice held grave solemnity.

The sound of water from the bamboo channel echoed faintly. Neither Suzuno nor Shinran were present there, leaving only Sekinen muttering as if soliloquizing in the stillness. "When I later considered it carefully, that light was simply dawn's rays entering through the slightly open window of Lady Suzuno's room." "But through that night of feverish tossing, I never imagined daybreak had come." "My eyes—believing themselves still in total darkness—were suddenly pierced by terrifying radiance. Prostrating completely, I instinctively cried out the nenbutsu." "Then in panicked remorse—thinking 'What have I done?'—I fled." "I felt there was nowhere left to hide."

“…………” “Master, please expel me as of today. I have fallen into heresy. Once I have redone my training, I will come again to apologize at your feet.” Shinran slightly opened his eyes—which had been closed in meditation—and gazed at Sekinen’s form as if at a beloved child. When he saw this young monk—still lacking in spiritual resolve—crushed by remorse and filled with shame, he felt as though he were looking at himself around the age of twenty.

“Sekinen.” “Y-yes…” “It’s all right to cry. Well, well—you have encountered a once-in-a-lifetime miraculous manifestation of the Buddha.” “What… What do you mean by ‘manifestation’?” “The moment Okoto laid his hand upon the door of sin, the light that pierced his eyes was none other than the radiance of Amida Buddha himself.”

“……?” “Do you not understand? You called that light dawn’s rays through the window—yet did you not cry out the nenbutsu in that very instant? It was no window’s light—it was Amida Buddha’s own radiance! You were tested by his precious manifestation! The nenbutsu that arose then—that true nenbutsu—you must never forget it in your lifetime!”

“Understood, Master!” Sekinen said, clasping his hands. “What a fortunate one I am! With these very eyes, I have seen the Buddha!” he exclaimed in rapture. Shinran continued, “You spoke of leaving this thatched hut to redo your training, but there is no need. For practitioners of the Easy Practice of Other Power, authenticity is what is precious—if you are a prisoner in exile, remain a prisoner; if you are a layperson, remain a layperson. Simply always see—and never lose sight of—the true form of Amida Buddha—”

It was a teaching like that of a compassionate father. Sekinen’s wounded heart was cleansed—nay, transformed into profound joy. Not long after that, Sekinen and Suzuno were united in marriage through their teacher’s mediation. Some were astonished by Shinran’s magnanimity and resolute judgment, but from then on, Sekinen’s spiritual journey had indeed advanced one or two steps. The fellow monastics wholeheartedly blessed this young couple for his sake and for the sake of the Nenbutsu sect.

Metamorphosis

One

The smoke from the evening meal crept over the dew-drenched grasses. Manno lit the fire in the kitchen hearth while Suzuno washed vegetables in the twilit stream. It was already early autumn. When dusk fell abruptly across these mountains, shadows swallowed the sunlight and chill gripped the air. "Hmm...?" Having followed villagers' directions straight to Komaru Mountain, the elderly traveling warrior stood perplexed—gazing at this woman of refined bearing laboring before him—unable to reconcile such domestic tranquility with his expectations of an exile's hovel or monkish dwelling.

He had tied up the hem of his hunting robe for travel, beneath his collar glinted small armor plates, a long silver-forged tachi was slung horizontally at his waist with a leather cord, yet the hair beneath his eboshi court cap was pure white—he must have been around sixty years old—yet his legs and body remained as sturdy as a young warrior’s. “Pardon me—I wish to inquire…” Having said this, the old warrior approached Suzuno. Unusually, those words were in the Kansai dialect. Suzuno gasped and stood up, her hands still wet.

“Yes… What might that be?” “If I may presume to ask—is this the place of exile of Venerable Shinran…”

“It is here.” “Oh… Indeed,” the old warrior said with relief, “Is the Venerable Shinran at home?”

“The Venerable Shinran is present.” “Is that the entrance?” “No, that is the kitchen. Please come this way.” At a trot, Suzuno hurried ahead—even as she did so, (Who could he be?) She could not help but be suspicious. When she showed him to the entrance, the old warrior untied his hem, brushed off the dust, and adjusted the tilt of his court cap while— “I ask of you.” He solemnly approached. Kyōjunbō, who happened to be there, “May I ask who you are, sir?” Kyōjunbō stared wide-eyed.

The old warrior was courteous—with a demeanor that, in some way, bespoke cultured refinement and worldly experience— “Though my sudden visit may seem suspicious, I am Sasaki Saburō Moritsuna, a resident of Ōmi—one who has come alone from afar with an urgent matter to seek the Venerable Shinran’s understanding.” “If this is a time when His Reverence is engaged in his duties, I can wait without any trouble in another room—I only ask that you announce me,” he said, accompanied by a considerate bow.

Kyōjunbō gasped—he felt as though something large had struck his chest. When it came to Sasaki Moritsuna of Ōmi, he was a Minamoto-aligned samurai clan leader widely known even in these remote regions. When someone hurried off to inform those inside, Saihōbō—who had just collided with them in the corridor—heard this and,

“What? Lord Sasaki has come?” He hurried out to the entrance and peered through the faint evening light beneath the eaves at the figure’s silhouette. “Ah,” he said with nostalgia. “Could it be Saburō Moritsuna? Well now! If it isn’t the former Tayūbō Kakumyō from Kiso’s retainers!”

“Huh?!” Moritsuna exclaimed, surprised at having discovered an unexpected old acquaintance. “So you’re Kakumyō of Kiso… Ah, indeed—the world has changed, but to find you in such a place! Truly, the passage of time brings unforeseen turns.”

Two “First, come inside,” said Saihōbō to his old friend from afar, using his former warrior-class speech, “The Venerable Master is also present in his quarters. Let us leisurely reminisce about old times.” Leading the way, he eagerly guided Moritsuna to the inner chamber. Saburō Moritsuna untied the cord of his tachi and held it in his left hand, “Very well,” he said and followed behind him. Though not spacious, there were several tranquil rooms that bore no resemblance to a place of exile. Upon crossing a short bridge corridor of about two *ken*, Saburō Moritsuna felt a noble air—as if something extraordinary resided there—and, without being told,

(This must be the Venerable’s residence—) he thought, instinctively straightening his collar as he stood waiting respectfully. Saihōbō knelt outside the latticed door, placed both hands on the floor, “Venerable Master of the Chamber. Would this be an intrusion?” From within the room beyond—where a faint scent lingered—Shinran’s voice answered immediately with a sniff. “Who seeks entry?” “It is Saihōbō. In truth, my old friend—whom you may recall, Venerable Master—Sasaki Saburō Moritsuna of Ōmi’s Sasaki Manor has journeyed far to request an audience. He wishes to humbly present his petition after paying respects. Should you grant this meeting, it would be most gratefully received.”

………… He seemed to be either silently contemplating something or tidying his desk; for a time, there was no response—but then—

“Please,” came the reply. Saihōbō turned around and saw Saburō Moritsuna’s joyful nod. And when he quietly slid open the latticed door and peered inside, the hem of a russet-colored robe immediately came into Moritsuna’s view. Ah, after all these years of longing to meet the revered one—might I finally do so now? thought Moritsuna, feeling a youthful flutter in his chest as he crouched slightly and advanced quietly. From right behind, Suzuno brought a short lamp and quietly arranged the light between host and guest.—Then, with eyes that held both reverence and curiosity at whether this old warrior was indeed the famous Genji samurai, she retreated.

The flow of time was tumultuous.

The turbulent eras of Jishō and Juei seemed like only yesterday, but now even the term "Kamakura Shogunate" had lost its novelty among the people. Even within the Kamakura Shogunate itself, various forms of abusive governance, conflicts, intra-clan strife, and the emergence of unsavory elements were brewing, with the first buds of self-destruction beginning to sprout. When the Genji clan had risen to prominence and subjugated the Heike across the eras of Jishō and Juei, there was no battlefield where the armies of Genji and Heike crossed halberds that the name of Sasaki Saburō Moritsuna did not shine in the records of merit.

But even this man of auspicious military fortune—after his final battle in old age at Torisaka Castle, where he defeated Jō Sukemori—abruptly began to feel the impermanence of his warrior’s life, steeped in blood day in and day out. (For what reason?) A great anguish and confusion arose within him—slaying parents who had children and children who had parents—until the hearts of warriors who boasted of such deeds as the gleam of the Hachiman crests on their helmets became detestable to him, and the daily life surrounded by all those bloodstained things—armor, horse gear, weapons—had become an unbearable torment.

Three

There was nothing as deadly earnest and blood-soaked as each moment of a warrior’s life.

Over fifty years had passed like a dream. Why had he lived such a blood-soaked life, toiling like a beast?—Why had he taken killing others as his path to survival? Could that truly have been for the nation's sake? For the people's sake? Did my lord ever accept it as such? After the Heike's fall, had Genji governance truly brought greater happiness to the people? Saburō Moritsuna agonized. (Terrifying. Despicable. People remain unaware—were one to cleave open the depths of his own belly, there lay a warrior's resplendent path. Though devotion to his lord's house certainly existed, what most fiercely emboldened him had been lands and rank—the hunger for advancement.) Upon reaching this realization, he could endure it no longer. And finally,

"If only I could escape this hellish realm of screams for even one day in my old age—to live peacefully like a true human being—" From the moment this realization struck him, Saburō Moritsuna abruptly redirected his once-fiery temperament and began earnestly yearning for just that. ——Truly, it had been his decades-long aspiration. "What meaning do fiefs hold? What value do court ranks hold?——How wretched! I let myself be lured by these things..." "What value do court ranks hold?" "How wretched—I spent my whole life slaughtering others for these empty prizes!"

In his eyes, his mansion and treasures now appeared as nothing but dust. But already, he had become a daimyō of grave domains; his clan branches were not few, and his dealings with Kamakura could not be easily concluded. He might never know how much prolonged torment he had expended in trying to cast it all aside. ——Then, in Kamakura, they had already keenly perceived these manifestations of his anguish. There were those who gossiped that Saburō Moritsuna seemed to harbor recent dissatisfaction toward Kamakura, and others who added embellishments to these rumors, spreading word that he was a man not to be underestimated—one who must be dealt with now to prevent upheaval.

Suddenly, the Kamakura Shogunate forcibly confiscated the territories he had built over nearly forty years through the blood of thousands of subordinates and the efforts of his own and his clan’s blades—without disclosing any reason whatsoever. If it had been the former Saburō Moritsuna, (Had he been met with such unreasonable methods,) he would have been enraged and resorted to battle, but Moritsuna could now watch the scheming of those people with a smile. (Now is the time!) He—having stripped himself of all possessions—bid farewell to his territories, court rank, clan, wife and children, everything; then headed straight to this distant northern province to visit Shinran, whom he had long admired from afar.

“I believe Amida Buddha has taken pity on this unworthy one’s awakening and extended His guiding hand.” “With your compassion, I beg you to grant these old bones peaceful abode henceforth.” The unfeigned account Saburō Moritsuna gave before Shinran was thus. Shinran had listened intently throughout. “Forty or fifty years of unconsciousness are but an instant within a dream.” “Should you open your eyes, you will surely feel a single year’s living as though it spanned centuries.” “No awakening comes too late, regardless of the days counted.” “Welcome to where destiny has brought you. Now I, Shinran, shall bestow upon you the fellowship of Buddha’s bond.”

That very night, Shinran took up the razor for him. And then, he selected and bestowed the name Hōzenbō Mitsuzane.

Four “How does it feel, Lord Moritsuna… no—Venerable Mitsuzane.” “You must feel like you’ve been reborn.” After four or five days had passed, Saihōbō spoke thus to Mitsuzane—the newly joined Sasaki Saburō Moritsuna.

“I am grateful—so utterly grateful that my heart feels full at this moment,” Mitsuzane said earnestly. “Why on earth was I so confused and tormented by those fetters until now? It’s utterly baffling.” “That is the secular world—as long as one dwells within its turbid currents, they cannot discern the path to escape them.” “Not only that—every single word spoken by the Master sinks deeper into my being and brings me greater joy than any reward for martial deeds I ever received from the Kamakura Shogunate. What Yoritomo gave me was nothing but my own share, meant solely for myself. Yet the Master seeks nothing for himself—his only intent is to equally bring happiness to all reflected in his eyes. Even when I look upon these tranquil mornings and evenings in this humble hermitage, I wonder why I clung so desperately to domains and castles, surrounded by blades and iron and men and horses, unable to rest my head in peace—and for the first time, I feel as though I have emerged from the darkness of ignorance.”

“Too late, too late! Only now realizing such a thing—this Saihōbō here—” Saihōbō boasted cheerfully of how early he had attained awakening compared to Mitsuzane, but— “Hahahaha! Isn’t that because your lord, Lord Kiso, perished early, and you too failed to find your ambition in the martial path?” retorted Moritsuna.

“Ah, indeed, that is also partly the reason,” Saihōbō conceded with a hearty laugh.

When night came,

“It must be lonely while you’re still unaccustomed to things. Shall I warm some country sake?” Saihōbō showed unending kindness to his friend. Gathered around the hearth, they savored the tranquil spirit of the early autumn night, “By the way—I’ve long meant to ask—how fares your younger brother Lord Shirō Takatsuna these days?” “Well… Though it’s been an age since we last met, worldly gossip suggests he lives discontentedly—much as this elder brother once did.”

“I tried sending a letter addressed to Bizen Kojima Castle around springtime this year, but no reply has come back.”

“His stubbornness troubles me—should matters turn ill, he might take the opposite path from this elder brother and loose his arrow of resentment toward Lord Kamakura.” “Well… Having caught wind of such rumors in the world, and fearing some calamity might befall him, I—bound by old camaraderie—poured out my heart in a letter to him… But that mulish Shirō Takatsuna may well have flown into a rage upon reading it and torn it to scraps.” “Nay—though fiercely stubborn, my younger brother holds deep camaraderie in his heart. Though I risk sounding boastful of kin, he is not one to disregard an old comrade’s sentiments.”

“Then, could it be that due to some circumstance, he has forgotten to reply?” “He likely cannot bring himself to write—he is not one to feign his feelings.” “…But if only things remain uneventful.” Saihōbō briefly regretted having broached such ill-omened matters. Mitsuzane, ever mindful of his younger brother, bowed his head as if fretting over Shirō Takatsuna’s distant Kojima Castle. Even at sixty years of age, his familial affection remained unchanged from childhood. “…Well, it’s warmed now. Won’t you have another cup?”

The autumn grasses were already being caressed by the autumn wind at the door, while outside, the insects’ cries resembled rain.

Maggot

One The southern sea’s tide glared a fierce blue like the back of a mackerel.

――It was still early summer.

The main keep of Bizen Kojima Castle.

Lord Sasaki Shirō Takatsuna, master of the castle, possessed greater martial prowess as a warrior than his elder brother Moritsuna; his hair had not yet turned white, his joints still withstood drawing a mighty bow—and precisely for this, he overflowed with an indomitable spirit. To that indomitable spirit of his, he poured sake into a large cup. His blood and sake, when they ignited each other, became something of considerable danger. This was something that even his retainers watched with bated breath, but as it concerned their lord, there was nothing they could do about it.

“Listen, Genba!” His tone seethed with irritability. Such irritability might have scattered across battlefields had there been wars to fight, but the realm now knew peace. “Yes... I attend,” said Asakura Genba, the senior retainer—precisely because he understood the depths of his lord’s heart, precisely because he recognized this noble temperament’s darker aspect—feeling only a poignant sorrow as perplexity shadowed his features. “I am...” Takatsuna began, licking his parched lips.

“...I’m not saying this out of baseless desire, Genba.” “Is it acceptable for one who bears the name of Shogunate to maintain such an attitude? Can the sworn oaths of martial houses be so untrustworthy? I say this for the sake of justice.”

“I understand—my lord’s feelings—this Genba fully comprehends them.” “If you understand, then why offer opinions? Think back to the past—was my demand unreasonable?” “Yes.”

“To begin with—the Battle of Ishibashiyama. “At that time, I—together with my elder brother Saburō Moritsuna—rushed to aid Yoritomo when he was still green and not yet twenty. “In that first battle of his uprising, Yoritomo was utterly defeated and fled from Ishibashiyama to Doi’s Sugiyama. “The retainers who followed him could be counted on one hand. “Even those who’d made this young commander their general judged no great cause would come of it and fled for their lives.” ——He was isolated. “He’d been left with nearly no choice but to take his own life.—Then when this Shirō Takatsuna and Saburō Moritsuna—we two brothers—came galloping to his aid with over a thousand horsemen, what do you think Yoritomo said to us?!”

“...My lord, you need not recount it—this matter is known to all under heaven, far too renowned a tale.” “You need not say it—” “Silence!” “If I don’t speak of it, who will?” “How could the likes of the Hōjō and Kajiwara flatterers—or those timid daimyo lords cowering in fear of that power—ever speak of this?” “The face of that young lord Yoritomo—how he took our brothers’ hands and rejoiced at our aid—I can still see it before my eyes even now.” “And Yoritomo said this—‘If I should take hold of the realm, I will split half of Japan in two and have the brothers take it’—so he declared...” “Genba.”

“Yes!” “Where has this oath been fulfilled? —I still hold only these seven provinces of Chūgoku.” “But… my lord.” “Do you dare talk back? —Are you taking Yoritomo’s side? Do you think Takatsuna’s words are false? Yumiya Hachiman bears witness—Hōjō Tokimasa and all others present had indeed heard it. ……Yet since Yoritomo seized the realm, not one of those flatterers has so much as hinted at such words. The cunning Yoritomo wiped his mouth and sought to bury those words with an innocent face— No—that Yoritomo has already died. However, even if he dies, the public vow of the realm should not die.—Is that not so, Genba?”

Two “You are absolutely correct.”

As a retainer, Genba had no choice but to say that. “But my lord… Now that Lord Yoritomo of Kamakura has already passed away, to bring up anew and dredge up the words of the late shogun…” “What’s wrong with saying that?”

“With all due reverence, it is the misunderstanding of your noble heart by the common masses of the realm that Genba fears.” “Do not say that—I had been declaring this since Yoritomo was still among the living.” “—That one statement he made—‘If I take the realm, I will split half of Japan in two and let the Sasaki brothers take it’—how many times did I resolve to inscribe it on war banners and march upon Kamakura! Yet each time, you and those senior retainers intervened with your meddling objections, making me miss a once-in-a-millennium opportunity—leaving this rancor to fester endlessly in Takatsuna’s breast!”

“It is precisely because we consider the sake of the house—both this unworthy one and the senior retainers.” “Both this unworthy one and the senior retainers.” “What is this?” “My lord’s grievances—we, down to the lowliest of retainers, have taken them deeply to heart.”

“Genba, Genba—don’t put on that knowing face and listen well to what lies in my heart. “I am now governor of seven provinces in Chūgoku—wanting for nothing, and no shameful status as a descendant of the Ōmi Genji.... Yet it would gall me if this Shirō Takatsuna—who led the charge alongside Kajiwara Genta during that glorious moment at Uji River—were mocked until the end of time as a man skilled in martial matters but shallow in wisdom. “To lay bare Yoritomo’s true intent—once he had seized power over the realm, whether Takatsuna harbored grievances or he discarded his promises or refrained from acting, he looked down upon this Sasaki family and feigned indifference. “How utterly distasteful! —Even after the deaths of Yoritomo and Sanetomo, this matter of legitimacy must be clarified. “If the general’s lies are allowed to pass unchallenged with such brazenness, the trust of samurai on the battlefield will sink into the mud.—For the sake of martial houses, I must assert this.”

“Until today, you have endured—why now do you suddenly speak so decisively?” “Genba, too, was utterly perplexed by this matter.” “It is not just me—look at the fates of the many daimyo and samurai who staked their lives on their spearpoints and served!” “After peace came, were we all not driven to desolate backwaters—while smooth-tongued flatterers who slithered their way up through slippery words now stand in the halls of power, usurping governance? —And most recently—what crime did my brother Moritsuna commit to have his domains confiscated?” “It is plain as day that their hand will soon reach me as well.” “Staying like this is akin to waiting for my own destruction.”

“In such an event, we retainers need not await your command—we would raise the Four-Eyed Banner at the vanguard and chastise the Hōjō and Kajiwara factions in one stroke.” “Then it becomes too late—a reactive stance.” “Then what would you have us do?” “We must deploy troops unexpectedly from here and strike at their vulnerabilities.” “On the contrary—that would align perfectly with Kamakura’s designs. We would be denounced as rebels.”

“Wh-what?” Shirō Takatsuna’s face flushed crimson as he spoke. “Would you call an army that rectifies an oath a rebellion?!” “Even if it were by imperial decree, such an ill-advised military endeavor—” “Very well! Do not involve the senior retainers—send out the mobilization orders!”

“My lord—” Genba’s voice trembled with tears, “have mercy on those who rejoice in this peace. An army should not be mobilized for personal grudges... your wise judgment,” he pleaded, clinging to his sleeve—when a young retainer approached bearing a document box and placed it before them, saying, “A letter for you, my lord.” Suddenly, he noticed— Hokuriku Komaru Mountain Place of Exile Saihōbō

The sender’s name caught his eye.

Three

“Saihōbō… Saihōbō… Hmm… I don’t recall that name at all.” Shirō Takatsuna muttered. He took the document in hand, squinted his bleary eyes at the name on it, and tilted his head slightly in puzzlement; yet when he broke the seal and looked inside, the letter within bore the alias Tayūbō Kakumyō.

“What’s this—that Kakumyō?” He let out a hearty laugh—perhaps recalling someone from the past—and glanced at Genba as he said this. “He was a wild monk who once served under Lord Kiso long ago. He now seems to have changed his name to Saihōbō and resides in Hokuriku... What could have prompted him to send this letter?”

With a cup in one hand and his languid body leaning against an armrest, Takatsuna read it. At first, he faced it with a smile, reminiscing about an old comrade from the battlefield—but suddenly, as if biting down on something bitter, he pursed his lips and began repeating the same passage. "Ugh…" he groaned, as though his heart were being gouged out. His brows—now cleared of drunkenness—were etched with deep anguish and self-reproach. The urge to tear it apart in mockery and the oppressive weight of his true heart that could not do so waged battle across his countenance for some time.

Small fish in stagnant water, Devouring food greedily, At times knowing no thirst; Defiled insects in excrement, Scrambling over their dwelling, Knowing not the purity beyond.

In Saihōbō’s letter, written in skilled calligraphy, there were also such phrases. Takatsuna repeatedly read through that passage, poring over it each time.

“Small fish in stagnant water, defiled insects in excrement—how spitefully apt the metaphor was." "That detestable bastard—it seems even in Hokuriku, rumors of this Takatsuna have spread." He glared up at the ceiling. His face no longer bore any trace of drunkenness. His bloodshot eyes were brimming with tears.

“...But there’s no mistake!” As Saihōbō had laid bare, when he reflected upon it, this Takatsuna too was a defiled insect in excrement; this body that had writhed among the world’s squirming maggots was itself a maggot. “Ah! How long I have simmered in vexation over such worthless things!” Abruptly, he shuddered. Tears coursed down his cheeks without cease. “Maggots, maggots, maggots... Ah, maggots that know not the purity beyond.”

Abruptly, he stood up. —it was while Genba and his attendants stood dumbfounded. He quickly hid himself in a back room.

In that state—no one was permitted to approach his chamber. Shirō Takatsuna hardly emerged from it for roughly four days. Unusually, within lay Takatsuna’s figure in serene meditation, having abstained from his wine cup. Yet by the sixth morning, that figure too had vanished from the castle grounds.

The castle lord’s disappearance! The castle of Bizen Kojima was temporarily thrown into chaos, both in the castle town and within the castle walls—Shirō Takatsuna’s whereabouts had become unknown from that point on.

But before long, after about a month had passed, rumors of this sort began to spread throughout Bizen and beyond into Chūgoku. (True to being Ōmi Genzaburō Hideyoshi’s son, Shirō Takatsuna did get angry but also made a resolute resignation. He had blamed Yoritomo’s distrust, but suddenly gaining some enlightenment, he cast aside the seven provinces of Chūgoku as if they were worn-out sandals and, it was said, had recently entered Kōya to take monastic vows... How resolute—wasn’t that a samurai-like approach?)—it was said.

IV

In society at large, "How pleasant!" they rumored, but the retainers and clan members who had lost their castle lord—

"Oh!" Panicking, they rushed toward Kōya where Takatsuna was said to have ascended. Shirō Takatsuna was there.

However, he was no longer the Takatsuna of recent days. Having shaved his head and become one of the Kōya ascetics, he was now the monk Takatsuna. When his retainers saw his appearance, “This is too much…” they lamented resentfully among themselves, and Takatsuna found even their lamenting now to seem comical— “Distribute the domain and Kojima Castle’s assets among all of you as you see fit. You may deem me a capricious lord, but I will not return to the warrior class.” “I feel that I have made you all serve in vain for a long time, and I apologize for that above all else.” “Convey my current words truthfully even to those former retainers who did not come here.” That was all he said.

Seeing the unshakable resolve before them, the retainers—who had come hoping to somehow persuade him to return once more to Kojima Castle—could do nothing but abandon their efforts. Dejectedly, the people of the Sasaki family had no choice but to leave behind on the mountain the man known as Shirō Takatsuna, whose martial fame had resounded across the land, and return home. Takatsuna became a new novice, joining that year's cohort of Kōya ascetics as he devoted himself to spiritual practice. "Defiled insects in excrement," "scrambling for their dwelling," "know not the purity beyond"— He had not forgotten that searing passage from Saihōbō's letter. And when he found himself enveloped by Kōya's vast wilderness and the Seven-Treasure Grand Temple Complex, beginning life anew there,

“This here lies beyond the dwelling of maggots—” he thought, drawing a deep breath as he alone offered his gratitude to heaven and earth. Yet here too existed a realm beyond his imagining. At that time, upon this mountain, the faction of Kōya ascetics and another called the Gakutō stood opposed in all matters—their strife fierce not only in scholarly pursuits but in struggles for dominance. In their upheld faith, they clamorously extolled—to extremes—a path of self-powered sainthood through unrelenting asceticism and austere discipline; yet from what Takatsuna witnessed, this existed solely in outward form, while within the monks’ private lives festered multitudes of contradictions—ugliness concealed.

Because they were conducted in secrecy, it made one all the more acutely aware of human wretchedness. Not only that, but Takatsuna himself found that the external asceticism and austerity merely compounded his confusion and weariness, making him feel that the true spirit of monastic life could not be attained here.

“It’s no good.” He looked around the mountain. “This place too was not outside the realm of excrement.—Ah, where could it be found?” Suddenly, he remembered Saihōbō’s whereabouts.

Hokuriku—Komaru Mountain’s thatched hut. There were no golden halls or pagodas as splendid as those in Kōya, yet there seemed to be something endearing about it. When he probed the heart of that endearing quality, Takatsuna realized it was none other than the name Shinran—a name he had unwittingly heard spoken of in the world. "That’s it." He descended from Kōya—abandoning without regret the splendor of the Seven-Hall Temple Complex and the thriving Buddhist realm of over nine hundred temples—and journeyed ever northward, seeking a dwelling for his soul as his solitary figure entrusted itself to the journey’s winds.

V

The wind of the Japan Sea coast already carried winter’s arrival, stinging the skin. The mountain range at the Echigo border was entirely clad in silver robes.

They gathered firewood, stored provisions, and beneath the snow shelter’s eaves, the village made preparations to hunker down for winter. “I humbly request an audience… I humbly request an audience…”

It was the hour of twilight.

Before the hermitage on Komaru Mountain, Shirō Takatsuna stood, having removed his woven sedge hat. Shinran—it was he who, drawn by that name, had descended from Kōya, crossed a long journey over many mountains and rivers, and now at last had arrived here. (Ah, so this is where you reside...) Takatsuna looked around absently, mentally contrasting Kōya's golden walls of the Seven-Hall Temple Complex—with here, these crude earthen walls and humble kitchen. The name Shinran had, in this land, grown immense over time—yet how small and crude was the house he lived in compared to the grandeur of that name. Moreover, as Shirō Takatsuna thought how true Buddhism had already been lost within Kōya’s golden halls and pagodas, while here beneath this thatched roof weighted with stones and these rough walls might lie enveloped the true light of Amida Buddha that would save Japan’s suffering people—even as he waited at the gate for his visit to be answered, he felt somehow grateful, somehow joyful, somehow awestruck—and before he knew it, he had knelt there upon the ground.

And he, facing inward, first pressed his palms together and closed his eyes, then once again spoke thus. “I humbly announce—this is a pilgrim who has descended from Mount Kōya in Kii Province, and I have come wishing to have an audience with the venerable master of this place. I humbly request that this message be conveyed from the attendants up to the venerable master.” Until just recently, he had been the lord of Bizen Kojima Castle—this was the same knee that had never bent even to Minamoto no Yoritomo, the hegemon of Kamakura, not until Yoritomo’s death.

Takatsuna planted his hands on the ground and said this. —When Suzuno, wife of Sekinen, holding a paper lantern and passing along the veranda from the direction of the kitchen, suddenly noticed a figure crouching at the entrance, “Who might you be?” When she said this, Takatsuna stood up and once again stated his purpose. The voice must have been heard inside, for no sooner had the sound of someone’s footsteps coming out been heard than—

"A traveler?" A monk of about sixty years stood at the edge of the dimly lit house and asked Suzuno. The small light of the paper lantern in Suzuno’s hand flickered and swayed across the old monk’s face.

Shirō Takatsuna, from the entrance, casually looked up at that person. “Ah!” With a shout, he propelled himself and leaped forward. “Brother!” “Eh?” The old monk stared in astonishment, his gaze fixed for a while upon the traveler who was clutching the sleeve of his monastic robes. Gaze and gaze—in that instant, the powerful affection of blood kinship surged between them. Without blinking, for a time they did not even breathe. Then from Shirō Takatsuna’s eyes and from Saburō Moritsuna’s eyes alike, scalding tears streamed down in torrents.

“Oh... Oh... Shirō?” “I am Takatsuna.” “Brother.”

“Brother.” The two bodies tightly embraced each other.

VI The brothers had met for the first time in many years. As if they had wandered lost through a lifetime from battlefield to battlefield—it was a reunion long in coming. And in changed guises. The elder brother Moritsuna, now sixty, and the younger brother Shirō Takatsuna, who had passed fifty years of life—the two of them, remembering the blood of their brotherhood from childhood, embraced each other endlessly. Eventually— “Brother, why are you here...?” Takatsuna questioned with bewilderment. Moritsuna too,

“Why have you come here... and in the guise of a monk?” he murmured as if in a dream, gazing at his brother’s form. Suzuno must have gone to inform them. From the depths of the hermitage, Saihōbō— “What? Sasaki’s younger brother has arrived.—Is that true?” “—Is that true?” hurriedly came out and, upon seeing the unmistakable figure of Shirō Takatsuna,

“Oh!” he said, reaching out his hand. “Ah, Tayūbō Kakumyō!” Takatsuna extended his hand. “Nay, now I am Saihōbō of the Nenbutsu sect.” “Right—so you became a disciple here.” “How enviable.” “Lord Takatsuna—did you see the letter I sent long ago to Kojima Castle?”

“I saw it!” he answered firmly. Shirō Takatsuna continued with deep sorrow: “What one needs most are friends. Had that letter not reached me, I might still be trapped in Kojima Castle’s karmic flames—enduring day and night in that wretched suffering.” “Even a maggot wallowing in filth like me—your incisive words opened my eyes at last. They made me see the purity beyond and brought me here.” “…Brother, Saihōbō—please convey this to the Venerable Master. Through both your intercessions, I beg—let this small fish trapped in stagnant waters be lifted into his boundless spring of mercy.” Truth saturated every word he spoke.

Moritsuna quietly wiped his eyes. Of course, if Saihōbō too thought that the single letter he had sent had created this Buddhist connection, he was unbearably happy.

The next morning—with the refreshing clarity of dawn—Shirō Takatsuna met Shinran, whom he had long yearned to revere. Of course, Shinran— “You have come,” he said—brief though his words were—and together they rejoiced at Takatsuna’s awakening of faith; from that day forward, he showed not the slightest hesitation in accepting him as one of his disciples.

Shaku Ryōchi. That was the name of rebirth—Shaku Ryōchi—bestowed upon Shirō Takatsuna by Shinran that morning. Moritsuna, the elder brother, had earlier received the name Mitsuzane.—Mitsuzane and Ryōchi—the two renowned Genji warriors now spent their days in religious bliss under Shinran’s guidance with a camaraderie so enviable to outsiders that when the people of Echigo and neighboring provinces saw them, their devotion to Shinran grew deeper still. And so, at Komaru Mountain’s hermitage, even when there was but an evening sermon, people who braved midwinter’s heavy snow to gather and listen had visibly multiplied.—From beneath endless white snow, the voices of nenbutsu sprouted like butterbur shoots.

Spring heads southward.

I

Days dawned with snow and ended with snow, one after another. In the gray sky, whenever one looked up, white flakes danced ceaselessly. Komaru Mountain's hermitage lay buried beneath fathomless snow, its presence betrayed only by wisps of cooking smoke rising at dawn and dusk— Yet. On nights when northern moonlight pierced blizzard skies, resonant chants of the Immeasurable Life Sutra would sometimes carry from within. Shinran had risen. His disciples too joined in observance, enduring cold-weather austerities.

November of Kenryaku 1—it was a certain day’s daytime. Unusually, the snow had stopped, and a blue sky was visible. “Oh—someone unfamiliar approaches from the foothills.” Manno and Suzuno stood there uttering these words.

And then, three warriors wearing straw boots came climbing up, panting for breath. They were retainers of Hagiwara Toshikage. “Lady Suzuno! “Lady Manno! Quickly inform the people of the hermitage! There is good news!” they bellowed. “What...? Good news...?” “It’s an imperial envoy—the imperial envoy has arrived and will be here immediately.” “What? The honorable arrival?” The two of them rushed into the inner room as if tumbling. Toshikage’s retainers circled around to the front and went about loudly proclaiming to the hermitage as if announcing the arrival of spring.

“Everyone! Everyone! Rejoice—the Imperial Envoy Lord Norimitsu, Middle Counselor of Okazaki, has made his honorable arrival! Master Toshikage guides him here even now—they shall appear before us momentarily!” With that declaration, they kicked up snow as they immediately turned back and descended toward the foothills. Having heard this news,

“Ah, it must be the issuance of the imperial pardon!” The people of the hermitage suddenly grew agitated.

Saihōbō and the others fluttered about like children, "It's the pardon! The imperial pardon!" they cried, dashing around in excitement. Shōshinbō, who still knew nothing of this, was startled by Saihōbō's excessive exuberance. "You fool!" he barked in rebuke. But when he heard the reason,

“Huh? The imperial envoy of pardon? Th-that’s… true?” he stammered, plopping down and beginning to cry tears of joy.

What remained quiet was—still containing Shinran—the inner room. Along the northern province’s post road where the imperial envoy’s party had passed, rumors of the imperial decree’s issuance naturally spread through the people’s eyes and ears. And thus was the prosperity of the Nenbutsu sect extolled. Gutoku Shinran Humbly Reports

Having submitted one copy of the petition, the imperial envoy’s party—Middle Counselor Norimitsu of Okazaki and his retinue—departed on the journey back to the capital the very next day.

And so, amidst that joy, the first spring of Kenryaku 2 arrived.

To welcome such a new spring—it was a year that Shinran, and indeed no one, had anticipated.

II

Since he had received the imperial decree of pardon, it was certain he would return to the capital before long— The disciples speculated thus; of course, in Shinran’s heart too, a longing for home burned fiercely. (If Tamahi had lived...) He would have wanted to share even a single word of this joy with his wife. Through all their days together they had fought against every hardship; after being united, body and soul found no rest before being torn apart—and then—to that ill-fated wife who left this world while separated—and next,

(And to Tsukinowa’s father-in-law’s residence as well,) he thought. How was that person faring? What of the capital? Now—when encountering such joy, Shinran too was a common mortal. In myriad ways, he thought of people, thought of his hometown, and as the year drew to a close, his heart grew restless. But—observing his demeanor and the disciples’ preparations, those who began to grieve as though losing a father were none other than Provincial Governor Hagiwara Toshikage and the guileless peasants of this land. “I hear the Venerable Master is returning.”

“Really?” “Why would he remain in this remote countryside even after receiving the pardon?” When they heard this, they came to the hermitage day after day, “At least one more year,” they pleaded, trying to stop him as if in prayer. Shinran had a weakness he found difficult to shake off when it came to such innocent peasants. Feeling that he could not dismiss the poignant emotions of the local people, he found himself unable to bring himself to announce his plan to depart the northern province in early spring.

And so they welcomed the New Year at Komaru Mountain hermitage. The sinful black hair that had grown over four years since his arrival now hung down to his shoulders. Now he had become one who could openly shave it off. Shinran chose New Year's Day for the razor. Saihōbō took up the blade. The disciples sat transfixed, overwhelmed by profound emotion as they witnessed Shinran's transformed appearance. That year Shinran reached forty years of age. As Confucius said - he too had arrived at that age of forty without confusion.

On the morning of the second day, a letter arrived from an old friend at Yokawa on Mount Hiei in the capital, congratulating him on the pardon. Letters from other people also began arriving here suddenly in greater numbers. From those tidings, Shinran came to know what he had been worrying about in his heart through every action—walking, standing, sitting, lying down—the well-being of his teacher, Venerable Hōnen. And according to what he had learned, it was said that his teacher Venerable Hōnen had already received the imperial decree as early as late November of the previous year, departed by boat from Sanuki—his place of exile—and returned to his former residence at Yoshimizu Zenbō.

“I wish to see you.” When thinking of his teacher, Shinran could no longer restrain himself—like a child overcome with longing. *At once—* he thought desperately— *With all these accumulated words to share—* His heart burned with such yearning that he could not keep still another moment. “I depart for the capital,” he declared abruptly. “Make preparations for immediate departure.” This sudden pronouncement came on the twenty-fifth day of first month—when even villagers could no longer traverse snow-blocked paths.

III "Huh? Right away?" The people doubted in disbelief.

Shinran’s determination was firm. “That’s right—I must meet with Venerable Hōnen no matter what. If we wait for the snow to melt, it will be March. If we must travel while there’s still snow, then now is the time…” he said. In his entourage were Shōshinbō and Saihō—along with the brothers Sasaki Mitsuzane and Shaku Ryōchi, who had newly become disciples. The master and disciples together numbered five. As caretakers for the hermitage on Komaru Mountain, they left behind Kyōjunbō as the head, along with Sekinen and his wife and all the others. Their preparations amounted to nothing more than straw hats and straw sandals.

“In this snow, you will not manage to walk even as far as the provincial capital,” said Sasaki Ryōchi, and true to samurai custom, he promptly led forth a horse he had readied and urged it upon Shinran. Then the brothers Mitsuzane and Ryōchi took hold of the horse’s bridle and pressed onward.

The snow fell ceaselessly that day too. The master and disciples’ shadows vanished into whiteness as if instantly buried in snow. “Take care—” “Master”

“Everyone,” The people remaining on Komaru Mountain gathered at windows and doorways, watching until their shadows had shrunk to the size of beans. Someone—it wasn’t clear who— “I hear the Venerable Master has departed for the capital…”

Evidently, word had spread even to the villages, for when they reached the provincial capital, a crowd undeterred by the snow had already gathered before his horse. Hagiwara Toshikage came running through the snow, "Why did you not grant even one night’s farewell?" he lamented, his voice filled with nothing but regret. "There will surely be another chance—please grant forgiveness for Shinran’s longing for his teacher. Even if Shinran departs, the tree of Buddhahood has already taken root in this soil. I entrust its future protection to you." Toshikage wiped his tears upon hearing this. And then, along with two or three retainers, he followed along the highway for many leagues without end, but

“An endless parting...” he said, bade farewell, and finally turned back along the path he had come. From Kotahama, the road curved southward. Leaving the Japan Sea coast behind them, they gradually entered the Shinano Road. The hardships of crossing the provincial border along that treacherous path far exceeded anything they had imagined. Shinran’s hands—and those of his disciples too—were red and raw with frostbite. When they finally reached Zenkōjidaira, the group felt some measure of relief. But after arriving at Matsumoto Village and inquiring about the Kiso Road route, they learned that even now, hunters could not pass through the snowdrifts. Someone warned that even risking their lives might not get them as far as Fukushima.

The Sasaki brothers voiced their concerns—"If something were to happen to your precious health..."—and Saihō, who knew the Kiso Road well, Since there was a suggestion to turn back and take the Tōkaidō route instead, the group made a futile return to Zenkōji once more, changed their path again, and pressed onward toward Usui Pass, guided by Mount Asama's smoke. And when they had finally crossed the pass with great difficulty and looked down upon the southern plain of Kōzuke Province below them, it was already late February; suddenly wrapped in warm southern winds, the five felt as though intoxicated by spring.

IV

Above the haze, the rugged silhouette of Mount Myōgi loomed in a pale lavender hue. Traced along the Usui River’s flow, past Matsuida, they arrived at a hamlet known as Yotsuji.

“Oh,” a traveling monk who had brushed past turned on his heel and approached. “Hey—” he called out. Shinran and his five disciples turned around as well, for the monk’s appearance suggested he was a Nenbutsu practitioner—though they couldn’t quite say why.

“Oh!” When their eyes met, the traveling monk rushed to Shinran’s feet, “Might your esteemed self be Venerable Shinran, currently on your way to the capital from the Echigo route?” Shinran had not recognized him, but Saihō remembered, “Ah, but you who address me—aren’t you Myōchibō?” “Oh, Venerable Saihō! …I nearly failed to recognize you.”

“It’s been a long time. And here before us is our teacher, the Venerable Master.”

“So it was you after all,” said Myōchibō, hastily moving to press both hands against the ground—but urged by the others, they shifted to the edge of the nearby Jizō hall where each settled down as they pleased. Shinran inquired of him. “Have you heard any tidings from the capital? What I desire most to know is news of my teacher, Venerable Hōnen.” “Well... Concerning that matter,” “In truth, after being expelled from the capital over the Nenbutsu ban, I built a thatched hut at Mount Akagi’s foothills ahead here. But hearing recently that our revered teacher Venerable Hōnen had returned to the capital from Sanuki, I hastened there at once—only to have just now returned again to this place.”

“Oh… So you went up to the capital for my teacher’s return and are now on your way back.” “…Then you met the right person.” “And after Venerable Hōnen safely arrived in the capital, where did he go?” “Is he residing at the original Yoshimizu, or elsewhere?” At the sight of Shinran’s nostalgic demeanor,

“Please wait a moment,” said Myōchibō, his face darkening as he looked down. “…Regarding that matter—in truth, I had no moment even for my seat to grow warm in the capital. I hurried down the Tōkaidō Highway at once to deliver this message to your esteemed self. For I had received word from Zenkōji that your party had turned back from the snows of the Kiso Road and emerged at Usui.” “What?” Shinran opened his eyes wide with a look of doubt,

“Then, has Myōchibō graciously come down solely to deliver a message to this Shinran?”

“That is correct.” “From my teacher, Venerable Hōnen?” “No—” Myōchibō seemed increasingly at a loss for words, but,

“It is not from Venerable Hōnen—it is from Saint Kakuhōin of Anjō-in,” he said and hurriedly began untying his travel bundle. Then he took out a letter and handed it to Shinran.

“The details are in this letter,” he fell silent, then stepped back and stood there, his back showered by the pattering pine tree droplets.

V Ha――a look of shock drained the color from the disciples’ faces. Even on the brows of Shinran―whose composure had never once faltered in the face of any matter― “What? From Saint Kakuhōin… this letter?” A shadow of unease flickered, and as he continued reading, the hand holding the letter began to tremble faintly.

"(This is no ordinary matter)," pressed something heavy upon the people’s hearts. Tears glistened clearly in Shinran’s eyelashes. Who had ever seen the tearful eyelashes of the Venerable Master before now? "...While your grief is profound, we may at least take solace that he received the imperial pardon's grace and deigned to tread upon Kyoto’s beloved soil once more before passing away." At Myōchibō’s words,

(So it concerns the Great Founder Hōnen-sama...)—the disciple monks realized for the first time that the letter from Saint Kakuhōin of Anjō-in had brought news of Hōnen’s death. Myōchibō continued his account— “The first time he took to his sickbed was precisely on the second day of the New Year. Though it had seemed nothing more than a slight chill at first, his condition suddenly worsened. Given his advanced age of eighty, his breathing grew fainter as his illness progressed until—on the twenty-fifth day of the New Year—he attained a great passing as though falling asleep,” he said, covering his eyes.

“As Saint Kakuhōin has surely written in detail in that letter, the dharma brothers gathered at Ōtani are now lost in varied deliberations over how to proceed with propagating the nenbutsu teachings hereafter.” “Now all that remains is this: people earnestly await the day when Shinran of Echigo will enter the capital and devise a wise course of action. Saint Kakuhōin of Anjō-in has also urgently conveyed this plea—that you return to Kyoto without a moment’s delay.” Like stone, Shinran lifted his face—eyes tightly shut—toward the sky.

The row of pine trees rustled mournfully. Something surging up and pressing against his chest would not let his heart find calm. Simultaneously, the sorrow, disappointment, and aimless wandering of the capital's nenbutsu practitioners—bereft of their lodestar, the Great Founder Hōnen—and all their surrounding turmoil appeared vividly before his eyes. Myōchibō shifted forward on his knees, "Saint Kakuhōin of Anjō-in said you must surely be disheartened." "But just when people thought the imperial pardon's divine grace had finally come to determine the Nenbutsu sect's fate, this tragic news has left them groping through darkness." "You must be weary—your spirit surely shaken—yet I implore you from my very soul to return to Kyoto without delay." "I beg all of you—together—to urge the Venerable Teacher onward and make haste."

With that, he turned toward Saihō, Shōshin, Mitsuzane, Ryōchi, and the others as well.

But Shinran— “No—” he faintly shook his head and said. “At our parting in Komatsudani, Hōnen declared that even if his tongue were torn into eight pieces, he would never cease the Nenbutsu Chanting—that voice will never be heard again.” “What joy could there be in returning to that Kyoto now? Henceforth, Shinran shall not make the journey to the capital.” “Ah, how deep yet fleeting were the bonds of this transient world…”

VI

How would the people of the former Yoshimizu hermitage act now that the Great Founder Venerable Hōnen was gone—and how would Enryaku-ji and other adherents of the old sects scheme to exploit this opportunity?

Shinran was now filled with sorrow. He was so lonely he felt detached from himself and the world. Even just thinking about the turmoil of the capital was wearisome.

"There was no longer any purpose in returning to Kyoto"—these words were his truth. His feelings were unfeigned. Urged by the imperative of "as soon as possible," Myōchibō—who had descended from Saint Kakuhōin of Anjō-in as a messenger bearing a letter to urgently summon Shinran—now confronted the reality that his own efforts would become entirely meaningless, while he could not help envisioning the depth of disappointment among those in Kyoto who anxiously awaited Shinran. "I implore you to reconsider. Should the followers of the Nenbutsu sect—already plunged into mourning over losing the Great Founder Venerable Hōnen—hear that you too have abandoned the capital and refuse to return, the Dharma light of Ōtani will be utterly extinguished. On behalf of the surviving disciples of Yoshimizu's lineage, I entreat you: summon the courage to honor Master Hōnen's final wishes by gloriously propagating his teachings anew in the capital. I beseech you—take the Tōkaidō Road back at once."

“No—that is not Shinran’s role to fulfill. In the capital, there remain many other disciples who will inherit and carry out such final wishes. Rather, Shinran now wishes to dwell among country folk in remote regions lacking cultural refinement—to live alongside the soil while further nurturing his own heart.” “This path better suits the nature of this foolish Gutoku…” His words remained calm, yet his conviction showed no sign of wavering.

Reluctantly, Myōchibō had no choice but to turn back from there and return to Kyoto to convey Shinran’s words.

The journey of the master and five disciples had suddenly lost its purpose from that day onward. It seemed to reflect Shinran's very essence—one who persisted in wandering, surrendering himself to the caprices of the wind. For two days, then three, the five walked in silence along that purposeless path. "Might you be Lord Chamberlain of Kakuma?" By the Usui River, a group of travelers called out thus. He was a rustic samurai-like figure who commanded three packhorses and was accompanied by four or five men.

"Kakuma's...?" murmured the people accompanying Shinran in unison, wondering whom they were referring to.

The rustic samurai-like man who had dismounted from his horse came near Saihōbō and tapped his shoulder. "Aye, just as I thought—Lord Chamberlain of Kakuma! We're from Hosomura Village, y'know. We've known you since your younger days. Well, can't say how many years it's been now..." Saihō remembered. His hometown was Kakuma Village in Shinshū; in those days, he had been called Chamberlain of Kakuma, but it was such a distant past that it no longer felt like his own name.

Encountering these people became the catalyst for Shinran, Saihō, Mitsuzane, and Ryōchi—the four of them—to cross Usui once more and make their way to Saku District in Shinshū. The reason Shōshinbō alone departed was that he too seized this opportunity to return to his hometown after a long absence, pledging to cleanse his many years of ill repute and devote the remaining half of his life to propagating the nenbutsu teachings for his homeland. Shinran permitted this, and thus they parted ways at Usui River—some heading north, others south.

Field Songs Chapter

The Second Bridal Flame

I Where a single seed falls, there will soon sway verdant ears of Buddha’s fruit. The flowers scattered their pollen naturally into the wind, and insects—acting through nature’s will—bore fruits, dropped seeds, and filled the earth with countless blossoms. The causal bonds between mountains and rivers, between seasons, between people—these never change. The power of one saint dwelling in that soil became the proliferation of great spirit-flowers.

It had been less than two years since Shinran had moved to the mountain villages of northern Shinano, and such was already the case. From Kakuma to Saku District, in the fields, plains, and mountains, the faces of people delighting in life could be seen everywhere. Songs that vividly celebrated life merged with voices of Nenbutsu Chanting, and the vegetable fields, the color of wheat, even the horse stables themselves appeared as the Pure Land.

―Shinran-san. To speak of him—woodcutters, farmers, and townspeople alike cherished him as their own loving father, and his figure was welcomed warmly wherever he went, like the sun upon the earth, with affection and respect. Having seen the fruits of his efforts in spreading the teachings throughout that region, Shinran would often take his staff and cross the mountains into Echigo and Etchū provinces whenever he had time. He also frequently journeyed beyond Usui Pass to areas like Kōzuke and Shimotsuke.

“It has been a while.” Suddenly, after two years, it was Shōshinbō—who had returned to his hometown of Amagi—that showed his face at the Kakuma hermitage, saying this. “Ah, Shōshinbō! Just yesterday we were talking about you—good to see you’ve returned.” Saihō and Mitsuzane welcomed him with their usual unchanging warmth. “The Venerable Master…?” he asked first of all. “He remains well. “He is in ever better health.”

“Hearing that, I felt relieved,” Shōshinbō said calmly, and soon began recounting what had transpired afterward. He had left his elderly mother behind in his hometown of Amagi, but since her birthplace was originally Shimotsuma in Hitachi and she wished to spend her old age there, he carried her on his back and returned to Hitachi for the first time in decades. The people of Shimotsuma all looked upon Shōshinbō—who had returned bearing his elderly mother on his back—with expressions of astonishment, for they had long heard rumors that this mother’s only son was none other than the heinous bandit known throughout the realm as Amagi Shirō.

(That son of hers, Shirō—a man of undisguised notoriety—must have shaved his head and feigned meekness in an attempt to deceive the people of his elderly mother’s hometown.) (Who would fall for such tricks?) they thought, and none engaged with him. Yet as six months passed, then a year, not only was there no negligence in his devotion to his mother, but he also showed deep consideration toward all people—gentle to old and young alike, indulging neither himself nor withholding generosity from others—so that

Just as people’s gazes began shifting with puzzled murmurs of “Hmm…?”, his elderly mother fell ill and passed away. Shōshinbō’s grief struck onlookers as so visceral that he refused food for days while obsessively tending her grave—a spectacle they witnessed until society finally acknowledged his transformation with reluctant approval: He’s genuine now. Yet this acceptance bred new questions—How could that notorious gang leader have been reborn as such a man?—which gradually compelled villagers to interrogate his past. When they discovered his discipleship under Shinran Shōnin, whispers spread: “Come to think of it, there’s talk of a virtuous master building a hermitage in Shinano who preaches even in Shimotsuke—could that be him?” Before long, these rumors reached Magistrate Kojima Takehiro of Makabe in Hitachi Province.

II

Moreover, in the land called Shimotsuma in Hitachi, there were other deep connections to the Nenbutsu sect as well. For instance, Utsunomiya Yoritsuna—a close friend of Kumagai Renshōbō, one of Venerable Hōnen's personal attendants and Shinran's fellow disciple—had been a local warlord in that region. —And this Yoritsuna, encouraged by Renshōbō, had taken refuge early in the exclusive practice of nenbutsu, coming to be called Jisshinbō. Furthermore, beyond this Jisshinbō, among the renowned figures of the Kantō martial houses—such as Inada Kuro Yorishige and Kasama Nagato no Kami Tokitomo—those who had taken refuge under Yoshimizu Zenbō were not few,

The rumor that "Amagi Shirō of old had now become Shōshinbō, a virtuous disciple under Shinran’s guidance" spread with profound impact, reaching not only the common folk but even those upper echelons. As a result, The hope—"We must invite Shinran Shōnin to Hitachi"—became voices, became a movement, and at last could no longer remain unrealized. Shōshinbō received a directive from Magistrate Kojima Takehiro of Makabe,

“By these aforementioned connections, I have been ordered to respectfully invite you, Venerable Master, and thus come as an envoy to receive you… I humbly beseech you to bestow your teachings upon Hitachi for the sake of the beings in the Eastern Provinces.” Shinran expressed gratitude for that opportunity. Moreover, how overjoyed he felt that Shōshinbō—once reviled like a venomous snake by both his hometown and kin—had now acquired such virtues.

“From what I hear, this appears to be a land of deep karmic bonds,” said Shinran. “I must indeed go there. As for continuing Shinano’s spiritual cultivation hereafter—entrusting it to those two, Sasaki Mitsuzane and Shaku Ryōchi, should suffice.” He gave ready assent. Then added: “Tomorrow I shall begin tilling new wasteland once more. To guide those beyond Buddha’s radiance and beings unknowing of Dharma’s joy—this is the duty fitting for such a foolish shaven one as myself.”

It was the very next day. What remarkable lightness of being! With Shōshinbō as their guide, Shinran—accompanied by Saihō, Mitsuzane, Ryōchi, and himself as five—had already abandoned the Kakuma hermitage, leaving Shinano behind. Now they crossed the mountain pass southward toward Usui, where Asama’s smoke drifted. However, the brothers Sasaki Mitsuzane and Ryōchi saw them off as far as Usui Pass and returned to their original land. Of course, this was to continue cultivating and protecting the converted lands in the Shinano region that had been developed by Shinran.

Shinran, Shōshinbō, and Saihō soon removed their straw sandals in Shimotsuma, Hitachi. And in this land—where flowed the Tonegawa River, where blew the Akagi winds, where to the south lay Shimousa’s border meeting rough seas—they gazed quietly upon the Bandō Plain. Here they discovered a people still culturally backward with crude customs, their hearts starved of Buddhist connection. ("I shall plant my staff here,") Shinran embraced this secret vow and resolve. In Shimotsuma, there was a ruined temple called Sangatsu-ji that had already fallen into disrepair.

Kojima Takehiro—the first patron who had invited him—promptly offered to arrange proper lodgings and expressed concern about their residence, but Shinran declined, saying, “Let us live there,” and requested the abandoned temple of Sangatsu-ji. Thus, master and disciples began their life under a leaky thatched roof.

III

On clear days, Saihō and Shōshinbō would set up ladders to climb onto the roof, lay fresh thatch over the decayed reed roof that had gone years without maintenance, and repair the structure. Furthermore, wielding carpentry tools, they mended the damaged sections of the main hall and the inner sanctuary that had been trampled by bandits, ultimately creating just a roof under which they could live and an altar to place the Buddha. "Farmers toiling in the fields—" Shinran called out from there. “You eat under the sun and toil amidst your sweat. “Your bodies are well-fed, your strength robust. "But alas, when I observe the inner lives you lead, you too are human." “When human beings dwell under one roof, build villages, create a society, and live within it, what inevitably arises is perverse wisdom, jealousy, animosity, traps, confusion, and anguish—all the karmic suffering inherent to living beings. These too must dwell within every household.” “The wealthy suffer because of their wealth; the poor suffer because of their poverty—though the forms of their heart’s afflictions may differ, they take root in every breast. Even those free of mental anguish may have bodies plagued by illness or kin lacking vitality; conflicts between daughter-in-law and father-in-law, parent and child, sister-in-law and siblings, neighbors—such are the troubles humans are fated to endure and struggle with.” “For that reason, you work hard and grow stout, appearing robust indeed—yet all your hearts within are desolate and dark.” “Impoverished in both clothing and food, you are paupers even in spirit.—Knowing not how to enrich your hearts—knowing not that hearts should ever be happy and unhindered, freely delighting in this world—you toil on, dull and uncomprehending, accepting this as your fate, eating and working like cattle or horses.” “Truly, it must be called a pitiable life.” “Even birds and beasts have their heavenly blessings when it comes to food, yet humans—called the lords of all creation—work solely to eat and know not how to enjoy this world. Is this not a pitiful thing?” "What is life without enjoyment? That is the question. If you ask how we can enjoy each day and live with gratitude for this earth and life, we must first transform this world of ours into a Pure Land." “To transform this world into a Pure Land, first each and every human being must excise the disease festering in their hearts—without this, its realization remains difficult.” “Even if we seek happiness only for ourselves, we cannot attain it.” “Those who realized this would invite their wives, their fathers-in-law, and even their neighbors, and after finishing their daytime fieldwork, spare just half a moment to come to this temple of Shinran’s—Shinran will become a friend of the heart in place of the Buddha for all who suffer under any heavy affliction—”

As if chewing and savoring each word, Shinran expounded in plain language. His voice carried across the fields to the people. Yet to these culturally backward folk—spiritually parched as sun-baked earth—his voice seemed only an unwelcome clamor,

“Hey, have you heard? Lately, some strange monk came to Sangatsu-ji Temple in Shimotsuma and started spouting nonsense like he’s talking in his sleep.” “Ain’t even worth listening to—doesn’t earn you a single penny. If chanting the nenbutsu makes you happy, then singing songs oughta make you a rich man, eh?” “Exactly! You can become a Tathāgata even while yawning!” “If you’d twist some ropes instead of wasting time chanting the nenbutsu, you’d save enough coins for your nightly drinks.” “That way, the divine benefits would be so much greater!”

Such was the response from the fields.

IV Shinran was perseverant. His great perseverance, against all mockery and the unconscious ignorance of the unenlightened, demonstrated an unyielding resolve akin to his battles against the learned masses of Mount Hiei and Nara, never wavering in his determination.

If an opportunity arose—even for just one or two people—he would teach them with meticulous care, as if chewing food to feed infants. His fundamental doctrine had always been the path of direct attainment for ordinary beings. It was "faith in one's present form." Yet in this region where the formalistic Buddhism of the Holy Path school had long dominated people's preconceptions, Shinran's teaching of the Easy Path—which proclaimed that one could attain Buddhahood exactly as they were—proved difficult for the people to accept, no matter how earnestly he expounded it.

Faith in one’s present form—how was he to make such people understand the truth of lay rebirth in the Pure Land? Theories wouldn’t work. To teach it through scholarship and learning to these rustics toiling in fields would only breed resentment—Shinran concluded.

Rather than preaching—it was to actually live out his daily life and show by example—

But Tamahime had already passed away. Their only child, Hannen, was being raised in the capital. If he were to remain clad in priestly robes, maintaining this solitary existence in quiet seclusion within the temple, then even while preaching about lay Buddhahood and expounding the accessible path to the Pure Land through faith as one is, his way of life would inevitably appear no different from that of traditional Buddhist monks following the Path of Sages. Ordinary people found a contradiction here and, (What is that monk saying?) It was only natural they harbored deep suspicions.

First, realizing that he must demonstrate through his own life that there was no difference between himself and these peasants, he—

“I wish to take a wife,” he mentioned to those around him.

Saihō and Shōshinbō, who had long shared their teacher’s sentiments, promptly informed the temple patron Kojima Takehiro. When Takehiro heard this, “Did His Reverence truly speak such words?” he exclaimed with joy. There had already been a marriage proposal brought to Takehiro’s attention prior to this. The candidate was a noblewoman named Asahime—daughter of Miyoshi no Tamenori, the governor of Mooka. As these developments—events beginning to stir around Shinran—coincided with the subtle turning of human destinies ripening from all directions, local authorities among the Nenbutsu adherents such as Inada Kuro Yoshishige and the Utsunomiya clan simultaneously—

“It would not be good for Your Reverence’s health to remain in such an abandoned temple forever.” “Even should it go against your will, we must—by all means—have you move to a place where people actually live, or our hearts will find no peace.” Thus united, they built a new temple complex at the foot of Inada Mountain—near Shimotsuma Manor in Fubukigaya Valley—and urged him to relocate there.

The spring of Kenpō 2. In a corner of the Kantō Plain where rapeseed flowers began to bloom, with the sound of skilled carpenters' axes commencing their work, Shinran's life in Inada—a step into the prime of his forty-two-year existence—began.

Before long, the hermitage was completed. To the new temple fragrant with the scent of wood, Shinran and his disciples moved from Sangatsu-ji Temple. Before long, through the mediation of Kojima District Governor Takehiro, the bride arrived. As for the daughter of Miyoshi no Tamenori, Governor of Mooka and Hyōbu no Tayū—her family background was indeed distinguished, and the matchmaker was truly suited to the task—but Shinran’s purpose lay in demonstrating through his own example the life of direct entry for ordinary beings. It was to put into practice the Original Vow of lay rebirth. And of course, that wedding ceremony was conducted in an extremely modest manner.

One Thought, One Planting

I For Shinran, Asahime was his second Tamahime. In the very next year after her marriage, his wife gave birth to Masahime, who would later be known as Oguro’s wife, and then two years later bore a son, Myōshin. A life of an ordinary commoner—just as Shinran had hoped—unfolded there. From the eaves of Inada’s thatched hermitage where the infant girl’s swaddling clothes dried, Mount Tsukuba could always be seen hazed in pale purple. From the window stretched the peaks of Mount Kaba, and on clear days, the folds of Mount Wagoku appeared as distinctly as if one could reach out and touch them.

His wife would often go out into the sunlight, holding their child. And her lullaby, riding on the mountain stream that flowed right by the garden of Fubukigaya Valley, carried out across the vast fertile plains— A cool breeze, crossing the vast green rice fields of Inada and Fukuhara that spanned thousands of koku, ceaselessly refreshed this household where monastic and lay life were one. In June of Kenpō 6 (1218), a boy who would later be called Zenran was born. In August of the following year, Arifusa was born, and Shinran—now forty-nine years old—when combined with his eldest son Hannen, who had been left in the capital, had exactly become the father of five children.

(When did this happen—) he sometimes wondered to himself. He had likely never expected he would end up with so many children. But through their upbringing, he discovered many new forms of learning and living teachings. Having a wife had indeed been the right decision, he thought. He felt grateful to have children. And he could not help but give thanks to Amida for this dharma benevolence. “Father, Father… Please sing those many-day rice-planting songs again!”

The seven-year-old Masahime would often cling to the hem of her father’s priestly robes and plead like this. His wife, while nursing Arifusa, gazed happily at the innocent child and her father in their natural state. “Hohoho. Masahime truly adores your rice-planting songs.” Then Zenran, who had been mischievously playing alone like a boy, “Father, sing! Let me hear it quickly!” joined in and clung to his father’s shoulder.

“Hahaha, hahaha…” Shinran was simply happy. Why was it that humans could be so full of joy? Laughter welled up within him as if this present happiness were too precious to bear. “Let go… I’ll sing it for you, but that rice-planting song isn’t a lullaby for Masahime or any of you.” “Those out in the fields—they’re working like that, you see.” “...It’s meant for those farmers to hear.” “But Father,” Masahime was said to have asked with childlike doubt, “the farmers are all adults, aren’t they? They’re not children—why do you sing for them?”

“What?” answered Shinran as he prayed that even in this child might dwell the sprout of knowing the Dharma’s joy. “To this father, the farmers are all no different from you—they are my children as well.” “……Well then, today’s another fine day. Shall I go outside for my beloved children and sing the rice-planting song?” As Shinran began to rise, “Father, please take Masahime along too.” “Me too,” said Zenran and Masahime as they hung from both sides of their father’s robe hems.

II “Are you coming along?” said Shinran as his two children pulled him along and he put on his straw sandals. His wife Asahime too, “Well then, shall I escort Father to the gate?” came out holding her nursing infant at the back entrance. Shinran stepped out behind the thatched hermitage and walked a short distance before removing his sandals by the well to go barefoot. When he hitched up the hem of his priestly robes high—exposing his hairy shins—the children rejoiced at their father’s appearance,

“Father has become a farmer! Father has gone rice-planting!” they clapped their hands. Shinran turned toward the monk’s quarters window. “Is Shōshinbō here?” Immediately, Shōshinbō came outside. “Ah... Will you be going out again today?” “When I tread barefoot upon the earth, it feels so pleasant that I cannot bear to go a day without doing so. Please tell Saihōbō to follow later.” “Yes,” said Shōshinbō as he hurried back to prepare. In that brief moment, Shinran had already donned a large cypress hat and was striding briskly toward the fields.

The expanse of rice fields spanning thousands of koku could be taken in at a single glance. The planted fields—those not yet planted—appeared as alternating stripes. Here and there, rows of rice-planting hats stood neatly aligned. Both these orderly lines and the shadows of grey herons flying overhead were reflected in the paddies' water.

“The Venerable Master has arrived, I hear.” The farmers spotted his figure and immediately relayed it to one another. “Oh, truly!” “When you see him come like that, there’s no telling him apart from us at all.”

“If you were in the capital, you could remain in your noble station—so why would you willingly join us and enter these muddy fields?” “Thanks to the Venerable Master’s merit, this autumn’s ears will surely swell thick with grain!” Beneath such words, recalling the evening’s teachings, voices chanting the nenbutsu welled up. Shinran arrived there, “Everyone,” he called out warmly. “He’s come to trouble us again! ‘Help’ sounds grander—but truth be told, since Shinran’s still green at farmwork, ‘nuisance’ fits better.”

“Come now, Venerable Master—step into this row here and plant for us.” “Give us the seedlings.” Shinran sank his shins deep into the muddy rice field.

And then, holding bundles of seedlings, he planted four or five stalks at a time into the paddy fields as he moved along, “I’m getting better at this—looks like my rows are neater than Shōshinbō’s,” he teased.

Shōshinbō became determined not to be outdone, “Master, but in return, I am much faster than you at planting seedlings.” “Hahahaha! But come autumn, which of us will bear more rice ears?” “…While Shōshinbō and the others seemed to merely thrust the seedlings’ roots into the mud, Shinran was not so—he possessed the heart of single-minded devotion with each planting.” “Therefore, come autumn, the seedlings I’ve planted will not fall even in storms and will surely bear rice ears more abundantly.”

III

“Well now,” even Shōshinbō couldn’t understand. To the farmers, Shinran’s present words were difficult from the start. “Venerable Master, what exactly does ‘single-minded devotion with each planting’ mean?” “Therefore… Even when planting seedlings in the same manner as this, if one were to plant them absentmindedly or reluctantly resentful of the work, the seedlings would never firmly take root in the earth, absorb the sun’s blessings fully, and grow.” “When I plant seedlings, it is not merely moving my hands—each time I lower a pinch of seedlings’ roots into the field, I think: How grateful I am! Through these seedlings, we do not go hungry today and live each day in happiness. Moreover, they sustain me and nurture my children.” “To put it more broadly—through the merit of this sweat and these seedlings, we sustain the people of this land of Japan.” “How grateful I am for the seedlings’ benevolence! May they grow tall and bear fruit abundantly—I pray they may nourish my family to grow strong and healthy, and become sustenance for the people of this land of Japan.” So spoke Shinran as he planted rice seedlings, his shins muddied and unaware of the leeches biting him, speaking fervently all the while.

And then, pausing his words and slightly lifting his hips, he noticed a leech had bitten his shin and hurriedly brushed it off with his mud-covered hand. “Ahahahaha!” “Hahahaha!” “As expected, the Venerable Master truly is capital-bred,” laughed all the farmers lined up beneath their rice-planting hats. “Since you deliver such long phrases and plant each seedling with single-minded devotion, no wonder the planting is so slow—.” “If we farmers spent our days doing such things, we’d never get our meals ready!”

“No, no, everyone—that’s a misunderstanding. Even Shinran doesn’t recite such lengthy words in his heart each time he plants a pinch of seedlings—what he spoke of earlier is what he recites in his heart when stepping into the field, but when moving his hands to plant seedlings, a much shorter phrase will suffice.” “If it’s a shorter phrase, what should we recite?”

“Haven’t I been telling you every evening?” “Namu Amida Butsu.” “That’s all there is to it.” “If we say ‘Namu Amida Butsu,’ does it replace those long phrases you spoke of earlier, Venerable Master?” “Indeed it does. Within these six syllables dwell gratitude, sincerity, and hope more boundless than any words.” “Then it’s settled—we’ll chant it while planting.” The people straightened their hats and practiced what Shinran called “single-minded devotion with each planting.” All their complaints about toil, life’s neglects and gloom melted into those chanted syllables, until the farmers brimmed with pure joy in their labor.

At that moment, Shinran, holding a bundle of seedlings in his left hand and distributing them little by little with his right as he planted them into the paddy water, sang with tranquil heart—in a quiet, clear voice—the rice-planting song he himself had composed for the farmers: In the seedling bed of five kalpas' contemplation, As eternal rice fields spanning measureless eons, Planting shoots of single-minded devotion, Sprinkling waters of ceaseless recitation, When autumn of Pure Land rebirth arrives, How joyful to behold this ripened harvest!

IV

Entranced by the joyful melody of Shinran’s song, the farmers too, Planting seedlings of single-minded devotion Sprinkling water of ceaseless recitation When the autumn of birth in the Pure Land arrives How joyful indeed to behold the harvest! Behind where the song passed onward and onward, green rice fields formed. A fresh blue breeze immediately stirred through the planted seedlings. “Ah,” he reflected inwardly. “I too am taught through this work—and this teaching will surely take root among others as well.”

Shinran gave thanks to the muddy rice field. This very muddy rice field, he thought, was a place of teaching that surpassed any majestic teaching hall or temple complex adorned with the seven treasures.

With such a living place of teaching existing, has there ever been an example of the virtuous sages of the past—any one of them—engaging in this kind of living teaching amidst soil and sweat?

Shinran’s original vow—abandoning his ascent to the capital upon hearing of Master Hōnen’s death en route and departing into the wilderness—had now at last been fulfilled. In the life he had wished for—as he was, in his foolishness, with the people—there was now no restlessness. The farmers had found such great joy simply in having the Venerable Master among their midst, yet until just yesterday, they had thought of work as nothing but loathsome and painful, and as for sweat—

“Not only can we eat with peace of mind through this labor, but by this sweat, our families prosper and society grows wealthy.” “Not working and complaining—what foolishness that was.” “Farmers are the treasure of the nation—farmers are the great treasure of the nation.” “It truly wasn’t a lie.” “Working and working—if we keep chanting the nenbutsu ceaselessly, this profound peace of mind will be ours…” Farm work—something they themselves had demeaned as lowly labor, belittling their own vocation—had now become their pride. It had become filled with happiness and purposeful tension. Sweat became hope and light, and throughout the day, they had no moment to recall their aversion to work.

Straightening their backs and looking up at the sky, they found that before they knew it, there was the evening moon. "Oh, it's getting too dark to see our hands—let's get out of the fields and have supper with the wife and kids." "Once we've finished supper, let's stop by the Venerable Master's place—I do want to hear more of his precious teachings." Then, one of them, "Venerable Master! Venerable Master!" he called out. "Hey," answered the Venerable Master as he washed his muddied feet in the stream along the ridge, using the rustic speech of the farmers.

“What is it, Yomosaku?” “Lookee there! From beyond them rice paddies—the young lady ridin’ on Urakata-sama’s back be lookin’ this way an’ wavin’ her darling little hands, ain’t she?” “Hoh... hoh... That’s so.” Shinran smiled. “How precious—seein’ her pa right there, she’s callin’ for ya to come up from the fields quick-like! Pa, you do oughta wave back to ’er.”

“Like this? Like this?” Shinran waved his hand as instructed. ――Sprinkling water of ceaseless recitation When the autumn of birth in the Pure Land arrives, With that, the farmers shouldered their farming tools and returned home in small groups, singing. ——And whenever they passed before the Inada hermitage in the rice fields, no matter how young they were, without exception, “Namu Amida Butsu,” they would chant, facing the Amida Buddha within the hall, bowing from outside as they passed by.

V

The shadow of Mount Tsukuba fell upon the water in the rice fields. Shinran washed his muddy feet, "Ah, I was allowed to spend another good day today," he said, stretching his back. Even when returning to the thatched hermitage, "For this foolish bald-headed Shinran, though it is a great responsibility of which I am utterly unaware, today as well, through Your divine power, I was allowed to spend a day of good teaching." He lit a lamp at Amida Buddha’s altar and, while giving such thanks, chanted the nenbutsu. Peering into the lamplight, "Venerable Master, thank you very much."

“Venerable Master, please rest now.”

The departing farmers too called out, paid their respects, then scattered and disappeared into the evening gloom.

And then—there.

It was Ren’i, a disciple, who served as the intermediary. “Someone from Kakioka has come with an earnest request to make…” he reported. Shinran turned around, “Please show them to the cooler area over there.” When Shinran stood up there, shortly after, the village headman of Kakioka and two or three others timidly came around to the front garden.

“Please come right in. Why stand on ceremony?” The village headmen crouched at the edge of the veranda, “Nay, as night has fallen, we beg leave to state our petition here.” “What manner of request brings you all before this Shinran?” “Lately, word spreads through the land that Your Reverence expelled the dread demon-lord dwelling in Ōsawa Pond through nenbutsu’s sacred power—a most wondrous tale indeed.” “In our Kakioka too, all have built a preaching hall, saying none may reach paradise without nenbutsu, and they earnestly entreat Your Reverence to visit periodically and grant them the blessing of your dharma talks.” “…How might this be… It is the united plea of all our villagers,” they pressed with bowed heads. Shinran consented at once,

"I will go," he answered. Because he had agreed so readily, the village headmen who had come as messengers were taken aback, but Shinran explained that this was naturally his duty to perform—that if there was a village where people held such feelings, he would willingly go no matter what arrangements needed to be made—and so the village headmen, “Indeed, you are just as the rumors say, Venerable Master,” they said joyfully, made arrangements for the day and other matters, and hurried back cheerfully.

In the room with the Sumeru altar, as was customary, eight or nine farmers had already gathered around the Venerable Master to listen to his evening talk. But once the people from Kakioka had departed, they immediately surrounded Shinran. “Venerable Master, why did you agree to go to Kakioka?” “You should find some pretext and decline later—it would be wiser,” they said with eyes brimming with unease. Shinran shook his head,

"Why, with such a request, even a journey of a thousand ri could not be refused.—And why do you all seek to stop me?" "But..." they faltered, exchanging glances, before one man edged forward on his knees and spoke. "Venerable Master, there exists one who aims for your life... You must not grow careless!"

VI

“Oh? My life—” Shinran smiled as if hearing something curious, “That must be some kind of mistake. What merit could there be in targeting this foolish bald head of mine?” “No,” said Ren’i, who had remained silent until that moment, now edging forward on his knees in place of the villagers.

“Venerable Master, that rumor holds truth,” said Ren’i. “I too have long been aware of it, but given that you have not ventured far afield of late, and deeming it futile to disturb your composure, I remained silent until today…” The farmers, having found corroboration in Ren’i’s words, added in unison: “—Well, it seems he’s a mountain ascetic living in a place called Tōno in Naka District.” “—He proclaims himself the Bishop of Buzen, descended from En no Ozunu’s lay practitioners, and in those parts, they say he’s a mountain ascetic with many followers who puts on grand airs of authority.”

“Hmm… And why would that mountain ascetic be lying in wait for this Shinran’s life?” “From what I have heard—” Ren’i stated. “I believe he holds a grudge against our sect because of you, Venerable Master. Originally, that mountain ascetic served within Kyoto’s Shōgoin Temple, where I understand he was considered an accomplished senior practitioner of both learning and ascetic discipline. Thus, Lord Satake Suetaka—Provincial Governor of Naka—summoned him all the way from Kyoto to a prayer hall within his domain, revered him as supreme commander of all mountain ascetics in the province, and entrusted him with governing the twelve branch temples of their sect.”

“Hmm… I see…” “For this reason, the mountain ascetic in question had, for several years, gathered the respect of all and wielded power formidable enough to make birds fall from the sky—but just as the Venerable Master graced this Inada with his presence and devoted himself solely to spreading the teachings of nenbutsu, from that time onward, day by day, nenbutsu devotees have only multiplied across this entire region, while the mountain ascetics’ faction, including all twelve branch temples, has visibly declined.”

“…………”

Shinran slightly lowered his chin and smiled bitterly. Now that he thought of it, he could only feel a fly-like nuisance—was there indeed envy from petty-minded individuals here as well?

However, it seemed both Ren’i and the farmers had long intended to bring the matter to the Venerable Master’s attention and devise countermeasures. “Though they may have declined, with the Satake clan’s protection, the twelve branch temples’ power remains formidable—nay, undiminished. Moreover, recent rumors say that the Bishop of Buzen and his lay practitioners from those temples, deeming this Inada hermitage their doctrinal foe, now incite commoners along highways and counties to ‘subjugate this heresy,’ while on Itashiki Mountain they’ve built cursing altars where bands of ascetics burn goma fires night and day, vowing to exhaust all their spiritual might until they annihilate nenbutsu and destroy you, Shinran!” The villagers, taking up where Ren’i’s words left off,

“Well now, they are truly terrifying mountain ascetics.”

“People say he’s the reincarnation of En no Ozunu—and he himself proclaims it.” “Once a curse ritual begins—even if the mallet striking earth misses its mark—they’ve long said the Bishop of Buzen’s subjugation never fails.” “Please—we beg you—refrain from coming to Kakioka.”

“How could you possibly cross Itashiki Mountain and reach Kakioka safely?” To the people voicing their concerns one after another, Shinran nodded in acknowledgment to each and thanked them, then spoke thus. “But everyone— “When you plant seedlings in the fields, would you abandon a field simply because there is a snake in it? As I told you today—each seedling planted with single-minded devotion—before such acts of faith, there is nothing to fear. Do not worry—Shinran does not go alone. Hahaha… I walk with the Buddha—yes, I walk with the Buddha.”

Peacock Wisdom King

I

“Hey there!” came a gruff voice, shoulders squared aggressively. Then, like a mountain spirit’s echo, “—Hey there!” answered a voice from somewhere.

This was Munezuki-zaka slope on Itashiki Mountain. From that slope stood a man facing toward the rock, shielding his eyes. He wore a persimmon-colored sasa-uchiki robe, black kyahan leggings, a tokin headcloth, and tightly secured eight-eyelet straw sandals on his feet. Needless to say, another mountain ascetic—one of their lay practitioners identically attired—stood alone atop a sharply jutting rock from that spot. He shouldered an oi backpack, gripped a half-bow in his hand, and had been intently watching the footpath at the mountain's base for some time.

“Ogawabō, can’t you see him yet?” When the person below spoke, “Not yet!” The upper ascetic shook his head. After some time had passed again,

“Hey!” “What now?” “What of Kōgabō?” “Ah, that Kōgabō went to Tsukuba to gather mountain warriors for any contingency.” “True, their numbers may be few, but we’d best make watertight preparations… Soon enough, that Kōgabō should return.” “Understood. Then keep watch there.” “You at the pass—stay sharp!” With a parched laugh, the man below strode up Munezuki-zaka slope. Then suddenly,

“Hitachibō!” someone called down from high in a pine tree. When he looked up, there on that tree too sat a mountain ascetic perched like a cicada, keeping watch. “Oh? What is it?” “Hasn’t he come yet—Shinran?” “Strange for a lookout to be questioning others.” “From there, the streamside path should lie clear in your sight—” “They’ve been gone too long. I fear they might have taken another back route.”

“Nonsense. As long as the conch shells haven’t sounded at the pass, there’s nothing to worry about.” Hitachibō dismissed the words and quickened his pace further ahead. And then—at the peak of the pass, a prayer site came into view, with bamboo poles erected in all directions, sacred ropes tied, and an unpainted wooden altar prepared. Harima Kō Ben’en—chief of Naka’s Ubasoku-in, who had lately been burning goma fire rituals for Shinran’s subjugation and performing desperate austerities for seventeen days—now sat upon the mat there, his silver-inlaid precept sword laid out before him. The Bishop of Buzen, who was said to have been invited by the provincial governor’s Satake family to descend from Shōgo-in in Kyoto—this was Ben’en.

Around him, mountain ascetics in identical attire were solemnly arrayed. Roughly at that spot alone, there were twelve or thirteen. When combined with those lurking here and there, one could not tell how many individuals lay concealed among the trees and rocks of Itashiki Mountain. "Oh, Hitachibō. There are no oversights in the lookouts and signals along the way, I trust?"

“It’s already about time Shinran and his disciples should be visible.” “Do not fret. It’s certain he will head to Kakioka today... Our seven days of prayer have manifestly borne fruit. Drink up—a preemptive celebration.”

II

Unglazed sake bottles and unglazed cups were being passed from hand to hand among the mountain ascetics. “For now, conserve your strength until we receive word from the lookout,” said Ben’en, who had already downed several cups himself, his face flushed like red clay, while the others were thoroughly drunk, as if poison had spread through their veins.

The sake’s influence took form as words, and one of them spoke. “When I think about it, that Shinran is a man whose karma has come to a boil. He came drifting from a remote village in Echigo and in just eight or nine years ravaged the followers of sixteen Ubasoku-in temples, stripping the light of our ascetic practices from this province.”

“It is not only that,” declared Ben’en, their leader. “For one bearing the title of Lord Harima Kō Ben’en to be whispered inferior in ascetic power to some fallen monk like Shinran—to have my foothold in this province stolen away—above all else, I cannot face Shōgo-in’s head temple.” “This shame extends to every Shugenja across Japan! Today—with Kujaku Myōō as witness—I shall strike off that corrupt monk Shinran’s head with this evil-destroying precept sword and offer his living blood upon this altar!”

“Despite burning ten thousand goma fires over seventeen days, praying fervently and cursing relentlessly to no avail—that Shinran, who still dares to cross into Kakioka to deceive foolish men and women—will meet his end once he treads upon Itashiki Mountain’s perilous path.” “Exactly! He who once became son-in-law to the regent and chancellor flaunts that fact, strutting through the capital’s avenues in broad daylight—we will not let him parade through this eastern land in such fashion.” “Back then, even I let him slip away, and again at Kawachi’s Prince’s Mausoleum we fruitlessly allowed that wretch to escape—but today I will permit no such failure.” “What began as my personal grudge has now transcended self—this day marks no mere vendetta.” “This is the struggle between Shugendō and the Nenbutsu path!” “The hour has come to determine whether his Other-Power or my ascetic might shall prevail! When those deluded fools—their eyes clouded by tearful gratitude over lay rebirths and Nenbutsu drivel—see Shinran’s corpse devoured by birds and wolves in Itashiki Mountain’s ravines, their dreams of Pure Land salvation will shatter! This bitter medicine alone constitutes true salvation for all beings!”

It was an unending torrent of abuse. From the tip of his tongue flickered purple poison flames—as though visible to the eye.

At that very moment, from afar— “Ah… The conch.” Everyone fell silent. From the foot of the mountain, the faint sound of a conch shell drifted up.

“That’s the signal!”

Grabbing their staffs and gripping the hilts of their precept swords, the mountain ascetics rose to their feet in unison. —But that was all; the conch’s sound ceased at once. From there, the lookout on the pine tree waved his hand, (Not yet, not yet)—he seemed to indicate. At that moment, one of their spies who had been sent to Inada’s Zen hermitage since morning came running up the slope, gasping for breath, his staff tucked under his arm.

III “What was the situation?” the group pressed urgently.

“I’ve seen it through—as always, Shinran left Inada’s thatched hut at daybreak today to attend the sermon at Kakioka and will return by dusk while daylight remains.” “Inada’s disciples were waiting with their necks stretched long in anticipation.”

“Then he’ll have no choice but to pass through this Ken Checkpoint when heading toward Kasama Shinji.” “Given the sun’s position—no time to waste. Should we start dividing our roles?”

“Wait—our spy has gone to Kakioka’s sermon hall too. He’ll report something soon,” said Ben’en, his murderous expression intensifying by the moment. “Kōgabō—the abatis at the arrow position?” “No oversights. We’ve stretched plain ropes in eight-layered crosses along the abatis path and set pitfall traps atop them.” “Hm. Thorough work.” Would years of pent-up frustration finally be vented here? Perhaps that was why blood-red clouds now streaked Tsukuba’s sky— “Ah! Speaking of Tsukuba—those approaching must be the ronin we dispatched to Kakioka.”

At the place where they lay in wait, four or five rough men clad in fur vests and bearing wild swords came panting heavily,

“Lord Ben’en—here you are!” “I’ve been waiting. What of Kakioka?” “The sermon has ended, and he has already departed.” “Just to be safe, we followed him partway here while staying hidden.” “Right now, Shinran is coming through the ravine ahead, riding a wild horse.”

“What? He’s already reached the lower ravine path?” “…And how many disciples protect Shinran—five or ten men?” “One.” “Huh? Just one?” “Shōshinbō—what remains of Amagi Shirō, who once spread infamy from Kyoto to Chūgoku and Kyushu—now shaves his head as a disciple monk. He holds the reins for Shinran and crosses here daily to travel to Kakioka.” “Ah… So it’s Shirō,” murmured Lord Ben’en of Harima, recalling that man from the distant past while stoking anew in his breast the old grudge from their final parting at Kamo River Embankment.

Shinran—and that Shirō’s Shōshinbō—both were sworn enemies who fanned the poisonous flames in Ben’en’s heart. That these deeply resented men should come together now struck him as a peculiar destiny ordained for this day of dispelling pent-up grievances. “Hmm... I see.” Ben’en groaned deeply and, to keep his body from trembling with warrior’s agitation, tested the bowstring of the half-bow he held—twang, twang—two or three times while—

“The first unit is Kōgabō. The second and third units—let none slip through!” he commanded. Like deer hunters, the group surged forth in a flurry, each concealing themselves at their assigned posts. The Tsukuba rōnin became the third unit; waving their field swords, they hid their shadows among rock hollows and grassy clumps. Thus they waited for Shinran’s approach—utterly silent, as if every blade of grass and tree on Itashiki Mountain held its breath in anticipation.

IV

“Guh—” Ben’en felt blood surge violently beneath his ribs. Separate from the people who had fortified the pass with the first, second, and third barricades and lay in hiding, he had climbed onto a rock in a slightly elevated spot and was concealed by kuma bamboo grass taller than his back. And there he was, nocking a poison arrow on his iron-stringed half-bow, lowering the arrowhead, and taking careful aim at the mountain pass. (Today at last)—in his heart, he prayed for the divine protection of Kujaku Myōō— A rustling sound... now occurred.

Between the cliff covered with kuma bamboo grass and the forest along the winding path. But that was not the sound of Shinran’s approaching footsteps. With its tail trailing like a rainbow, a pheasant flew up from the bamboo thicket. Crunch... crunch... crunch... The sound of soil somewhere shattered the stillness.

As he strained his bow—This time for sure—the sound continued endlessly into the valley behind him. It was a natural landslide. Now? Now?—While keeping his nerves taut in anticipation, Ben'en grew weary. When fatigue set in, an undefined irritation welled up within him; he felt compelled to roar at those patiently maintaining their silence, yet still he restrained the pulsing agitation, fearing Shinran might detect them.

As if mocking them, a pheasant flapped its wings noisily without restraint as it danced off into the valley.—The echoing water sound roared through the ravine depths below, shaking the earth as it flowed. Then, “Damn you!” A voice shouted. A cry reverberated through the mountains as someone leaped from the second barricade. It was Kōgabō—like a startled hare fleeing, he dashed toward the first unit gripping his ritual sword. “He’s here!” “Don’t let him escape!” Lured by Kōgabō’s charge, five or six men from the second unit brandished their tachi like swaying pampas plumes,

“Where is he?!” Creating a fierce whirlwind, they swarmed forward. “Where is he?!” The first unit members rose up in unison with a sudden surge at these similar words. Colliding with the oncoming second unit members, they became entangled in chaos while— “Where is he? Where is he?” they shouted. Ben'en observed the commotion from his position and, realizing his arrows would be of no use now, flung aside his half-bow and rushed to the scene. To make matters worse, even as he drew near, the first unit members and second unit members—all of them—continued acting without coordination: some were entering the woods, others attempting to climb cliffs or search ravines, merely wandering about.

“You fools! What are you dawdling for? “Shinran—Shinran!” “We are searching for him.” “You fool! “Did you let him escape?” “No.” “Then what happened? “Who was it that stood up first?” “It was Kōgabō, sir.” “Kōgabō—did you see Shinran?” “I saw him.”

Five

“Even though you claim to have seen him—why is Shinran’s figure nowhere to be found?” “No—certainly—” “Then where—” “From around that cutting board-shaped rock—now that I think of it, he might have gone down toward the marshland.” While listening to Ben'en and Kōgabō’s heated exchange, the others restlessly darted their eyes about in search of Shinran’s shadow. “How suspicious…” they murmured to each other. “Was it an illusion?” He felt as though he stood lost at a maze’s crossroads, a chill running down his spine at his own delusion.

――Then, shattering that illusory sensation and the eerie stillness of the air, a horse’s neigh rang out loudly somewhere. Clearly, it was a horse’s neigh—and along with the clatter of hooves striking pebbles, the hoarse voice of a horse handler barking “Shh… shh!” echoed along the road leading to Kamobe far below the valley.

That place was also a road leading to Ishioka. Of course, they had set up an abatis there as well in case of any eventuality— “Damn it!” a man shouted in panic from a treetop as he looked down toward the valley road.

“You fool! That’s just a packhorse loaded with charcoal heading to Ishioka.” “They’re sweating buckets trying to pull out a horse that fell into a pit trap.” “They’ve completely wrecked the abatis we set up here!” “Damnable horse handlers!” “Sacrifice them to blood!” Whizz— A poisoned arrow flew from someone’s hand, slicing through the bowstring’s twang. A piercing horse’s scream echoed through the valley once more, and the horse with an arrow embedded in its belly leaped into the mountain stream, turning the stream water crimson.

The horse handler, looking startled, blindly ran and clung to the opposite cliff. As they watched, there seemed to be a logging path there as well, and the horse handler’s figure vanished in an instant. Ben'en ground his teeth, “From what I can gather, it appears Shinran and Shōshinbō have taken some hidden path we failed to notice. Split up! Search the valley below, the peaks above—every narrow path in all eight directions—and capture them!”

Like hunters, the mountain ascetics dove into the dwarf bamboo and trees. The sun had hidden behind the mountain ridge before they knew it, and a pale chill began to descend. Their sleeves grew damp and soaked, and the scattered members—each having lost their way—called out to their comrades with loud shouts, but received no answer save echoes. “Lord Ben’en! —Lord Harima!” Receiving no answer to his shouts, one mountain ascetic who had been calling out so fervently blew a conch shell from atop a rock—loudly, twice, thrice, four times.

What was happening? Realizing it must have been Shinran, the mountain ascetics gathered again from all directions at one spot on the pass. Among them was also Ben'en's face, with pale anxiety etched between his brows. "What's this, Sagamibō?"

“That’s regrettable.” “What happened?” “We’ve just received word from below the mountain. Shinran and Shōshinbō returned to the Inada hermitage long ago and are now laughing merrily with their disciples and families... What exactly were all these layered barricades along the valley roads prepared for?” “Gah! Shinran has already returned to Inada... Th-that’s... Is that true?” Ben’en demanded with a look of disbelief.

VI

Facts that could not be doubted were reported one after another from the foot of the mountain to Ben'en. How had they slipped through this watertight defense and safely traversed the perilous paths of Itashiki Mountain? For Ben'en and the mountain ascetics, it was unbearably suspicious, but the fact that Shinran had already returned to the Inada hermitage was now unshakable. “After all, could it be that that monk possesses some mysterious spiritual power?”

“If we wield spiritual power, Shinran wields spiritual power to awaken; if we lay curse-ropes, he surely casts counter-spells to blind our eyes.” From today’s failure, the mountain ascetics found their terror and reverence for Shinran only deepened. They truly began to regard him as an extraordinary being—and grew terrified at having nocked poison arrows against such a virtuous monk. The divine retribution they’d always mocked now loomed real in their minds. Not only had they lost their initial fervor, but in the chill evening wind sweeping through the pass’s bamboo thickets, they shuddered violently with a terror that struck deep within their hearts.

“—Outwitted.” It was Ben’en who, alone, groaned and raised his eyebrows in uncontrollable rage.

“To think they’ve mocked us to this extent—how dare I show my face as the sovereign of Jūroku-bō, Harima Kō Ben’en! —Very well! Now I’ll trample Inada’s heretic monk hut and twist off Shinran’s head! —Just watch me!”

With a clatter, he threw down the bow in his hand and dashed headlong toward the base of the mountain.

The other mountain ascetics—already assailed by cowardice and having lost their initial vigor—could only stare dumbfounded as they watched the terrifying retreating figure of Demon King Ben'en.

From Itashiki Mountain, Ben'en dashed over thirty chō in one breath. Releasing a flame-like breath, he approached the glimmer of light visible in the distance. “This is the place.” The moment he recognized it as the Inada hermitage, Ben’en kicked the brushwood door open with his dirt-covered feet and, without waiting for an invitation, stomped into the dark garden. And, standing imposingly,

“Is Shinran here?!” he roared. That night no villagers had gathered—or rather, as the hour had grown late, those who might have come had already returned home, the disciples in the meditation hall lay asleep in their quarters, and Shinran’s wife and children might well have slipped into dreams.

Silent—the hermitage interior was quiet—only a single flame of the low lamp swayed within its lattice shutters in the night wind.

Drenched in sweat, his voice like a hundred thunders crashing down, Ben'en transformed his entire body into a lump seething with rage and roared again. “Isn’t Shinran here?! Where’s that bald fool?!” “You must have already returned here!” “I, Lord Harima Ben’en—overseer of Shugendō for all Hitachi Province—have come to bestow the vajra staff’s initiation upon you, this shameless precept-breaking chant-selling monk!” “I am Buddha’s true envoy—the bodhisattva who destroys falsehoods and reveals truth—one who comes bearing the Peacock King of Wisdom’s decree!” “If you won’t come out—shall I break in and strike off that bald fool’s head?” “Face me, Shinran! Come out!”

Making the three-shaku precept sword lying before him curve its blade, he advanced toward the solitary lamp in the hushed hermitage like a great demon roaring.

VII

“Ah,” Shinran’s clear answer resounded through the heavy bamboo curtain. Next— “Who goes there?” That too was Shinran’s voice. From beyond the curtain near the lamp came signs of movement as someone began rising. Ben’en, “Hmph! Show yourself here and it’ll be your end—” He edged forward on his eight-eyed straw sandals along the veranda edge, the hilt of his ritual sword rattling violently as if thirsting for blood.

With a rustle, Shinran lifted the bamboo curtain with one hand, revealing half his body from behind it. He fixed an unblinking gaze on Ben'en's face—a visage like a demon-god painted in vermilion—then carved a long, gentle crease of a smile at the corners of his eyes. "Ah," he said without any hesitation—as if greeting someone dear—and stepped firmly out to the edge of the bamboo veranda. "Oh, it's you." Shinran's demeanor was such that he did not even reach out his hand. Ben'en, faced with his spring breeze-like figure—from the tips of those hands—involuntarily took a step back,

"(To such deceit—)" he rebuked himself in a breath. "I'm not one to be caught by soft tricks," he thought, gathering killing intent throughout his entire body into his eyes as he glared like a torch flame. Yet somehow, as if the sinews had been plucked from his limbs, even his eyes could no longer sustain the hatred and violent momentum that had carried him here. "…………"

“…………” Shinran did not say anything further, and Ben’en too fell silent. They merely breathed, standing motionless as they faced each other across the veranda—one above, one below—like fire and water. Everything combustible—Ben’en now burned it completely from his internal organs to every limb. Every strand of hair stood on end like needles as he wiped away sweat, the toxic fire within billowing up like steam.

"Ungh…" Like a fierce tiger that had bared its claws to charge only to suddenly hesitate mid-leap, as if blocked by some invisible force, Ben’en found himself exhausted by his own fruitless intimidation. In that instant, the Shinran reflected in Ben'en’s eyes bore no resemblance to the Shinran he had always hated. His hatred had abruptly dulled its spear-point. At Itashiki Mountain’s cursed altar, where he had burned goma fires for seventeen days while channeling maledictions, the Shinran he had visualized—his sworn enemy—had appeared as nothing less than a demon cursing him. Yet when he now looked upon the Shinran before his eyes, there he stood—smiling like a bodhisattva adorned with the thirty-two marks of perfection.

Ben'en could do nothing about himself gradually losing strength from the soles of his heels that he had planted firmly.

He too was a Buddhist practitioner—a disciple of Buddha with monastic registration at Shōgoin. He was not one unable to distinguish between the face of a bodhisattva and that of an evil person. Why had Shinran possessed such a benevolent face all along? Could this smile truly belong to a human being? His murderous intent gradually cooled. “……Ah……” He involuntarily groaned. In Shinran’s face as seen in Kyoto’s streets long ago, there had been greater severity—there had been combativeness, there had been sharp eyes that refused to yield to the world, there were lips that overwhelmed others when he spoke fervently, and when he stood, there had been awe-inspiring dignity that made lesser men shrink under his gaze.

But in his present form, not a trace of that fierce intensity remained. This was a memory that now surfaced in Ben'en's mind for the first time. ——The serene countenance Shinran now bore perfectly resembled his childhood face from when he had been called Jūhachi Kimimaro. After passing forty, Shinran had imperceptibly drawn closer to his youthful visage—or so it appeared.

VIII

“Ah! I was wrong.” With a heavy thud that made the earth rumble, Ben’en sat down. He covered face with both hands and cried out. “Blind! Blind! The failure of a lifetime! For decades, that I saw you as an enemy was the work of demons dwelling in this Ben’en’s heart… Ah, I spent those irrecoverable years in enmity—wandering forty years in vain through a labyrinth.” The eyes that had been bloodshot with rage transformed into tears streaming down in torrents.

Shinran, his gentle eyes filled with compassionate warmth, kept them steadily directed toward him. "What troubles you, Lord Ben'en? When I heard you had been welcomed by Lord Satake and come down to this region as Superintendent of Shugenja, I had long thought to find an opportunity for leisurely conversation when the time was right—yet the right moment always seemed to slip away." "But here we are—childhood faces remain unforgettable however old we grow... How nostalgic... I rejoice to see you well." In those words of his, not the slightest trace of calculation or artifice could be discerned. They were words spoken from the heart. What shattered Ben'en's formidable resolve was precisely this unadorned sincerity of Shinran's.

Ben'en, like an old man who had regressed into foolishness—or perhaps an adult reverted to childishness—covered his face with both hands and wept uncontrollably while, “Perhaps you remember… In those days I was the orphaned son of Narita Hyōe—the one called Jutarōmaru.” “Ah… I wish I could vanish from existence.” “What karmic bond binds us? Though we were study companions since the days when you were still addressed as Jūhachi Kimimaro in Hino Village—even then, I despised you. I found you insufferable. Your scholarly talents grated on me, and in all matters, I thought only of tormenting you.”

“That’s right… It’s already forty years since those days passed into history, yet when I shut my eyelids, it feels like yesterday once more.”

“Though they say the soul of a three-year-old endures a hundredfold, after that, I lost my father, wandered the streets, was expelled from Mount Hiei, had no home—knowing only the coldness of people… and my heart grew ever more twisted.” “By then, you were already called Lord Hannen Shōnagon—renowned as the Northern Peaks’ prodigy—and watching you ascend to become Shōkōin Temple’s head priest at such a young age, this twisted wretch began cursing you in every way imaginable—both openly and covertly.”

“...Mm.” Shinran nodded in acknowledgment, “I bear no ill will—indeed, there may have been times when you found encouragement for your own sake.” “No—rather, it is I who have received the unseen effects.” “I have now clearly realized that.” “Even as I constantly cursed you and regarded you as a temporary enemy, I strove to make the path you advanced along a goal for myself, determined not to lose.” “Now that I think of it, precisely because you were the true saint of the Other-Power Path, even this twisted wretch and slacker—this Ben’en—nonetheless drove his dull talents with relentless diligence, rising from the ranks of Shōgoin Temple until he came to be called Lord Harima Ben’en.” “As for all the rest… Now that I have reached fifty years of age, I have no words of apology left. For the first time, Ben’en has come to know you and recognize his own foolishness. To awaken from the dream of delusion—this must be what it means.” “Forgive me.” “Lord Shinran, clasp your hands like this… For the first time, Ben’en prostrates himself thus at your feet to offer his deepest apologies.” “...Please forgive the great sins I have committed up to this day.”

Bowing his face to the ground, Ben'en was sobbing.

IX Shinran stepped down from the veranda as if uncertain how to offer comfort, tending to Ben’en who continued wailing without restraint. “What could there possibly be to lament? Lord Ben’en—you overestimate this Shinran too greatly. Though I have reached forty-nine years, I still harbor profound doubts between the two truths of sacred and secular; I cannot claim my heart’s devotion has settled upon any single teaching. At times I drown in the vast sea of carnal desires; at times wander lost upon the great mountain of fame and profit—I am but a common mortal. To call me saintly is praise beyond all reason. Hearing such words from you, my childhood companion—this foolish monk wishes he could crawl into a hole.”

“Lord Shinran,” Ben’en firmly gripped that person’s hand, “Since childhood—though I held one such as yourself as my friend—why could Ben’en not sooner touch upon your truth and virtue?” Even now, it was vexing. ...Not only that—even at this mature age—I had envied the prosperity of Inada’s humble hermitage, resented the decline of my own ascetic practices and sect as being solely due to your existence, and lain in ambush at Itashiki Mountain intending to shorten your life—even today, I had been sharpening poisoned arrows. ...How terrifying... When I thought of it, my own heart had been terrifying.”

"But—when I consider that the very mind which sought to harm Shinran became a true karmic bond, leading you to speak truth here and me to extend a hand in truth—I press my palms together in prayer to that malicious heart." "Truth be told, Shinran had believed that someday you would come visiting like this."

“What? You... you had understood this Ben’en’s heart all along?” “It seems there was something that connected us. In my heart, your heart was reflected, and I had vaguely felt such emotions—to think that day has come brings me joy.” “My good fortune has not yet run out. Since you say that—then you will surely grant my request. When I reflect, I realize that we were both granted this rare existence in the same era, and that I have met a truly enlightened teacher.” “Lord Shinran,” said Ben’en, lowering his knees to the ground and pressing both hands down.

“Starting today, please take this Ben’en into your disciples, even if only as the lowliest among them.—Even should you refuse, I will cling—I will hold fast.” “...Beyond this, there remains no path for Ben’en to walk.” “I humbly beseech you; please grant me this request.” It was a voice of truth.

Shinran lightly shook his head from side to side and, "No—your words are mistaken. "In my youth I cannot speak of, but in recent times, this foolish monk has privately come to think: rather than being said to teach others and keep disciples, Shinran therefore considers himself one who holds not a single disciple. "The people by my side are all honorable disciples of the Tathāgata—fellow practitioners of the Original Vow."

“Whoa!” he leaped back, “Your words… those very words…” Ben’en pressed his palms together and remained prostrated for a long time; eventually, he removed his tokin headgear and precept knife from his person,

“I will not leave this place,” he swore, showing his stubborn will. But Shinran scooped up that hand, “Now, do come inside. Stories from all directions, visits from those who have crossed over—enough to talk through until dawn—” And heading toward the back, Shinran barked casually, like an old man from a peasant household.

“Hey! Someone come out! My dear childhood friend is here.” “Please bring water for washing feet here.”

Kawada no Heiji

I

That place had been a marsh where reeds grew thickly until just yesterday. The scattered rice fields too had poor soil, their rice plants stunted. Far outnumbering the people were grey herons. Flocks of these gray pestilent birds boldly occupied the fields and pilfered tree fruits - so thoroughly that humans seemed inferior to herons, such was the absence of culture's light. It was in Yanagishima of Ōuchi no Shō in Haga District, Shimotsuke Province, that a single seed of nenbutsu devotion had fallen two or three years prior.

This event was the fruit of that seed. Around this time, Nenbutsu disciples from areas such as Hitachi, Shimousa, and Kazusa began arriving one after another in the Yanagishima region; even followers who had heard the teachings as far as the distant reaches of Mutsu came and shed their travel attire there.

A hut was built. People gathered there and began to let cooking smoke rise. Laborers and stonemasons began to assemble. Large-scale civil engineering works appeared ready to commence. Nearby mountains were soon scraped away, their red earth gradually spreading southward. Like ants bearing burdens, soil from the leveled mountains filled Yanagishima's reed-choked marshland. Reed plains and blue marsh waters—untouched since primitive times—were swiftly built up with fresh earth. Upon this foundation were laid twelve-ken square temple complex stones like planetary axes; ink lines for the pagoda's inner sanctum crisscrossed the site until soon thick hinoki pillars, massive ridgepoles, and solemn beams took shape.

“Human power is truly remarkable… No—rather, it is Buddha’s divine power. To think that until just yesterday, this was an ancient marsh where grey herons nested—even when I try to imagine it, I can scarcely conceive it.” Ōuchi Kunitsugu muttered.

He set up a camp stool on the newly laid earth of the construction site and spoke to Fujiki Gonnosuke Tadayasu, the construction magistrate standing beside him. Kunitsugu had been the lord of Shimotsuke Castle in this province. Having converted to Shinran’s teachings some time prior, he had visited the master’s hermitage there; but finding Inada’s retreat too cramped and inconvenient for attendants and children’s daily needs, he had gone so far as to welcome the Venerable Master to Miyamura within his own domain. Yet Ōuchi Kunitsugu remained unsatisfied. Not only in neighboring provinces but even as far as Mutsu, the Venerable’s virtue had already spread universally, while people’s faith in the Nenbutsu sect grew more fervent with each passing month. And it had become an unrelenting momentum ceaselessly seeking a focal point for their reverence.

It was there that Kunitsugu vowed with his own hands to establish the foremost temple complex of the Eastern Provinces Nenbutsu sect. Of course, Shinran had granted permission for this as well. “Gonnosuke.” “Yes?”

“At this rate, the ridge-raising may be completed sooner than expected—in the blink of an eye. Though they’d said it would take at least two or three years to finish...” “As you say.” “This is due to your diligence.” “Not at all,” said Fujiki Gonnosuke, the construction magistrate, waving his hand deferentially.

“With all due respect, while your lordship’s authority certainly plays its part, it is solely the Venerable Master’s virtue that urges people onward—as you can see over there at the construction site, where everyone from young children to white-haired elders works without seeking wages, joyfully carrying stones and hauling ropes for timber. Moreover, it is not only those from nearby villages—when rumors of this temple complex’s construction spread, countless devotees from distant provinces gathered unbidden, asking to be allowed to assist, and they too work here without any desire for reward. Truly, even I am inwardly astonished by this.”

II

“That’s right…” Lord Ōuchi Kunitsugu nodded, “Even if my domain were to perish in battle now, and I tried to rebuild Shimotsuke Castle here again, neither military might nor wealth could gather this sincerity.” “Since overseeing this construction project, I too have wholeheartedly devoted myself to the Nenbutsu.” “Gonnosuke, have you too come to think this way?” “The sound of hatchets struck under that sincerity—seeing the monks and devotees working in the very form of that belief.”

“You have built a temple of the soul within your own heart.” “I had heard your lordship would soon receive ordination from the Venerable Master you’ve devoted yourself to—” “Hmm. I resolved to transfer family succession to my brother Kuniyuki.” “This Yanagishima construction—I donated it to the Venerable Master as my first act of service after abandoning warrior life to enter priesthood.” “Ah...” Gonnosuke lifted his hands from the earth where they had rested before his lord and stood up,

“While we were speaking, look—the Venerable Master has arrived over there.” “I see…” Kunitsugu too rose from his camp stool and smiled into the distance. “It seems His Reverence truly enjoys it, for he frequently comes to the construction site.” “At times he would mingle among the carpenters to carry materials or assist plasterers with earthwork. His approach was so unassuming that initially, the craftsmen were awestruck. But now accustomed to his presence, whenever they catch sight of the Venerable Master, the construction site grows vibrant—even elders and children raise their voices all the more in hauling songs.”

“Despite being fifty-four years of age, how vigorous and youthful he remains…” “Ah—he’s noticed me! Laughing as he heads this way.” As Kunitsugu and his retainers stood gathered there, Shinran walked forward unceremoniously, his faded old monastic robe still flecked with wood shavings from the site, his very form now harmoniously merged with the land and people of the East as though they were one. “Ah, everyone’s gathered!” Kunitsugu paid his respects,

“The Venerable Master visits frequently too,” Kunitsugu remarked. “Hmm... I just feel compelled to come see,” Shinran replied, turning around. “Shōshin,” he called. “Yes,” answered one of the attending disciples, peering at his master’s face. “...My throat’s dry. Fetch me a bowl of plain hot water from that station.” “At once.” Shōshin hurried toward the water hut. Watching him depart, Gonnosuke inquired: “Venerable Master—that disciple who just left—is he not Harima Kō Ben’en, who until three years past commanded fearsome authority as chief of this region’s Shugenja ascetics?”

“That’s right—that Ben’en.” “He’s changed so much…” When Gonnosuke muttered these words, Lord Kunitsugu too gazed at the figure of Shōshin approaching from the distant water station—carrying a kettle of hot water and tray—and murmured with deep feeling, “So that was the former Ben’en…”

III

After drinking a bowl of hot water there, Shinran went to the scaffolding beneath the temple complex—by then nearly eighty percent complete—

“A splendid ridgepole, fine banisters… This is a bit extravagant,” he muttered, “Every time I come, I can visibly see that the construction has progressed.” “All this—the precious sweat of those bound by karmic ties—cannot be called extravagance; it is the accumulation of faith. Yet should this temple complex become Shinran’s solitary retreat, that would indeed be extravagance. To prevent such a fate, Shinran must dwell here bearing the weight of this ridgepole in spirit.” He said such things as if talking to himself. Shōshinbō, from nearby,

“By the time Venerable Shinbutsu returns from Kyoto bearing the imperial plaque he went to receive, we will have entirely accomplished the temple complex’s construction as well.”

“Hmm…” he nodded, “Yes, yes.” Shinran turned to Lord Kunitsugu and spoke as if suddenly remembering.

“—This Shinran too must soon make a journey to the Shinano region.” “Lord Kunitsugu, I shall be away from the Miyamura hermitage for some time.” “Oh… That is rather sudden—have you abruptly decided to embark on your pilgrimage?” “Well, no—it is to receive the principal Buddha image that will be enshrined in this temple complex and deign to guide sentient beings until the Latter Days.” “Ah, then to Zenkōji.” “I will go to receive it.”

“What about those accompanying you?”

“Welcoming the principal Buddha image cannot be done by Shinran alone. I shall take along Shōshinbō here, Kashima’s Junsinbō, and two or three others.”

They were in the middle of their conversation. Hirose Daizen, the master carpenter, and his subordinates came running in disarray, carrying a bloodied man. “Lord Gonnosuke, regarding this,” he said. Magistrate Fujiki Gonnosuke, seeing this commotion, wondered if it was some urgent matter related to their duties.

“What’s this?!” “And that matter—” Hirose Daizen and his subordinates began to say something, but upon catching a glimpse of the lord and the Venerable Master’s figures in the shadow of the log scaffolding there, “Ah… My lord and the Venerable Master as well—regarding this…” Suddenly, he hesitated and knelt down on the ground.

Kunitsugu strode over to them, “What’s this? What has happened?” “Ha…” He stammered— “As we have already consulted the magistrate, this matter is not worth troubling your lordship’s ears,” he said humbly.

“Is this some dispute over the carpenters’ wages?” “It is not such a matter.” Gonnosuke, from beside him, “Daizen, now that this matter has reached the lord’s ears, attempting to conceal it would only worsen things. You must report everything without reserve.” “……In truth, this is the roofing craftsman we brought here.” “Oh, you’re injured!” “With a sharp chisel—his arm was wounded—and while trying to evade it, he has just now fallen from that scaffolding.”

“A fight among those craftsmen?” “Ha…” “Who is the culprit? …Who is this insolent culprit?” Lord Kunitsugu raged.

IV

Hirose Daizen, the master carpenter, prostrated himself as if ashamed of his own negligence, “In that case—this roofer is an exceedingly mild-mannered man, but it seems during work he made some slight retort that must have provoked the other’s temper—he was suddenly assaulted and sustained injuries from a fall off the scaffolding.” “Then truly—this insolent perpetrator—what became of him?”

“We have apprehended him and have him bound over there at this very moment, but as for how to deal with him… we have now come to consult with the magistrate.”

“Hmm,” Kunitsugu made a stern expression—

“Is the other party also a roofer?” “He is a craftsman from the carpenters’ group named Heijirō of Kawada.” Then, Magistrate Fujiki Gonnosuke interjected, “Ah! Did that Heijirō wretch commit such violence again?” he blurted out. Kunitsugu grimaced bitterly, “In that case, this is a fellow who has done such things not once, but many times over.” “Ha… He is a young craftsman residing in Kawada up ahead—one who does nothing but drink sake daily, pick fights constantly, and is deemed an unmanageable troublemaker by both his village and comrades.”

“Fool!” Kunitsugu rebuked both the master carpenter and the magistrate. “Even though you knew full well he was such a disreputable ruffian with poor character—why have you employed him in this sacred work of temple construction? This negligence in your personnel management is also to blame!” “Ha… We deeply acknowledge our responsibility in this matter. However—as I have just stated—this craftsman Heijirō of Kawada is indeed a drunkard, a ruffian, and a violent man without a single redeeming quality. Yet when given a chisel, he possesses an uncanny skill—one might call it divine talent—for tasks like assembling coffered ceilings or carving transoms. His comrades, though they despise him, cannot help but respect this ability. No other carpenter could match him in such work.”

“Silence!” Kunitsugu sharply rebuked them,

“Even if this craftsman were indispensable to the construction work—why have you employed such a ruffian, who would defile with blood this sacred ground that reverently enshrines an imperial plaque and shall become a garden for all beings’ souls, even while it remains under construction? Do you forgive him? —It must serve as a lesson to the other craftsmen as well. I shall order severe punishment without fail.” “As you command.”

“Do it immediately. “Exactly—punishment cannot be administered within this region. Drag him out to that grassland and behead him.” “As you command!”

“Do not delay!”

“As you command.”

At the lord’s command, both Magistrate Fujiki Gonnosuke and Master Carpenter Daizen turned pale and started rising in panic. Then— “Ah… Pray stay a moment.” The words came quietly from Shinran.

He approached the crowd and sat on the edge of nearby timber, saying, "Let me hear that account once more—"

V

When Daizen and Gonnosuke once again recounted in detail Heijirō’s usual conduct and today’s incident, Shinran listened, nodding to each point, but— “What do you think?” Shinran addressed Ōuchi Kunitsugu, the lord. “Could we not somehow pardon this Heijirō fellow just this once?” Kunitsugu made a surprised face, “Despite your gracious concern, I am the very one who has just been reprimanding my retainers for their negligence. “Even with your great benevolence, Venerable One, this is a ruffian beyond salvation—I beg you to hear this.”

"But..." Shinran spoke with lingering reluctance, "Even among those we invite, there exist souls without karmic ties—yet one who has drilled but a single pillar hole in this temple's construction possesses, to my eyes, no shallow Buddhist connection." "If we do not chastise evil and clarify penalties, the provincial governor's laws cannot stand." "You speak most rightly." Shinran fully acknowledged Kunitsugu's words yet pressed onward— "However—the essence of national law does not hold punishment as its supreme purpose. Penal codes exist first as means for even the wicked to reform and walk the true path anew." "If this hall stands as a true living temple complex, then those laboring about it in construction must inevitably—through Buddha's karmic protection—receive Amida's merciful light within their spirits." "...Show him mercy—for my sake, I humbly beg you grant this plea."

“…………” Kunitsugu, deep in thought, did not give an immediate answer. Shinran began to take his leave, “Well then, Lord Ōuchi. As I have journey preparations to attend to—I shall return for today.”

“Are you leaving?” Lord Kunitsugu raised his face and followed five or six steps behind Shinran to see him off, “By your words just now, I shall grant clemency to today’s criminal.” Shinran—as if the pardon concerned himself— “I am deeply grateful,” he said, stopping in his tracks and bowing his head to Lord Kunitsugu.

When Shinran returned, shortly after, Lord Kunitsugu also returned to his residence.

The master carpenter Hirose Daizen and the magistrate Fujiki Gonnosuke Tadayasu, “You’re one blessed by fate, you wretch,” they came to where Heijirō of Kawawada was being held and earnestly admonished him, “Do not forget the Venerable One’s blessed teachings,” they admonished him before untying the ropes and setting him free. “Yes.” Heijirō, looking contrite, bowed his head and, as if fleeing, climbed up the log scaffolding. But once he was out of the officials’ sight, he immediately reverted to his usual vicious and perverse self.

“Tch, messing with me.” “Ain’t nobody tryin’ to save my life—they’re keepin’ me ’cause they’d be stuck without me on the buildin’. Don’t go puttin’ on airs about it—makes me laugh.” That day, he hardly did any work. The master carpenter who employed him couldn’t even scold him and pretended not to see.

VI

The willows’ verdant green hung mist-like, and the spring sun began to pale.

In the vast construction courtyard, many people, heedless of bystanders, were drenched in sweat. Those working in these miscellaneous tasks generally did not seek wages; whenever they found time from their household chores or fieldwork, they came to contribute their labor, even if only for half a moment. With single-minded devotion, Planting seedlings Watering with nenbutsu chanting Removing the weeds of sundry practices and mixed disciplines— Removing weeds— The rice-planting song that Shinran had composed in Inada was also being sung here amidst the sweat. Logs over six meters long were dragged along by the beads of sweat streaming from those people and hauled toward the construction site.

Clamps had been driven into the ends of the large timbers, and ropes were tied to the metal brackets. Over thirty elderly people, women, and children were holding onto that rope, chanting "Heave-ho! Heave-ho!" as they pulled like ants. With single-minded devotion—Plant seedlings—Sweat shone brightly on their faces. Enveloped in a great happiness unlike anything gained through cheap labor merely to stave off hunger or buy drink, they raised their voices.

Then, a young woman diligently tucked up the hem of her kimono and came running up. “Oh, everyone! Please—let me grasp even the end of that rope too,” she pleaded as she approached. The workers turned around. “Hey—Oki of Kawawada? You’ll be in real trouble if they catch you here again,” one interjected. “Best quit while you can.” The elderly laborers added their voices: “Truly, your kind heart’s admirable—but if you’re found out, even we’ll be made to suffer for it afterward.”

“Stop it now, stop it!” Oki clung to those refusing her, pleading as if in prayer. “No, today I’ve already finished all the laundry. From preparing supper to buying my husband’s sake—everything’s been seen to, truly I’ve no tasks left. It would be wasteful to nap... For my afterlife’s sake—though I can’t properly help with construction—please let me at least hold the rope’s end... As you see, I beg you—I implore you.” Tears welled in her eyes as she spoke. Moved by this sincerity,

“Then please return home as soon as you can,” they said with kindness, welcoming her into their group before resuming their hauling of the lumber.

“Thank you,” Oki said, radiating genuine happiness from her very core. Then, as she clung to the service rope and worked with desperate effort, a girlish flush rose to her pallid, careworn cheeks, and for that span of time, she seemed to forget entirely the hardships of her impoverished domestic life.

VII

“You damn woman!” It was sudden. With a blow that threatened to rupture eardrums, he struck Oki across the cheek and roared. He was a man of twenty-seven or twenty-eight with powerful muscles. His craftsman’s cap had been knocked backward, one sleeve of his work clothes removed, his sweat-glistening pores flecked with sawdust. This was Heijirō, Oki’s husband. “Ah—everyone!” Like a sparrow marked by a falcon, Oki staggered and hid among her fellow rope-pullers,

“Please apologize to him—everyone, to my husband!” she pleaded in a tearful voice. “You...” Heijirō approached his wife. “You worthless wench!” Heijirō’s hand swiftly grabbed Oki’s collar. And then, dragging her around on the ground, “No matter how many times I tell you, you keep doing this worthless shit—what the hell do you think my orders are?!” He raised his foot and kicked her.

“I’m sorry! I swear I’ll never come here again!” “It’s not just here—you know full well I hate the Nenbutsu, yet you keep doing things your husband detests!” “Enough! I won’t let this slide today—mark my words!” He pulled a chisel from his belly band and brandished it in his right hand. “Ah! Help—!” Oki fled in panic. The crowd grew frantic, “Stop, Heijirō! D-don’t do something so reckless!”

“What’re you bastards doing?!” Heijirō’s eyes slanted upward as he glared around at those blocking his path,

“I’ll discipline my own wife! It’s all because you lot keep setting a stupid example!” With that, “Hey!” he bellowed again, turning his terrifying visage back toward Oki. “No matter how much I tell you and discipline you, you still leave the house empty to come flaunt your pious nonsense here… Hah! I’ve got it figured out.” “Since that bastard Wasure’s working this site, you’re using your damn faith as cover to come see him… No—that’s it exactly! No mistake!”

“Wh...what’re you sayin’...” “Don’t play dumb! I knew you’ve been makin’ eyes at that bastard Wasure! Why else’d a broke-ass day-laborer like you work for free ’less you’re chasin’ tail?!” “......” “Why ain’t you fishin’ for my drink money instead? Or twistin’ rope? Or sewin’ for others? Any damn thing that pays! You good-for-nothin’ flirt!” When he swung the chisel, Oki thrashed wildly and shoved Heijirō back.

“You bastard!” Heijirō staggered, nearly losing his balance, then stood up and grabbed his wife’s obi from behind.

VIII He kicked, struck, and brandished a chisel as he chased Oki. The people had initially thought this was merely a threat, but given that Heijirō became uncontrollably violent when enraged and there seemed to be something akin to jealousy toward Oki involved, those nearby turned pale, wondering what would happen. “Hey, Brother! What’re you doing such a stupid thing for? That’s dangerous!” It was one of the fellow carpenters from the construction site who had seen this commotion and come running. He grappled with Heijirō from behind,

“I ain’t lettin’ go!” he said, twisting up the arm that held the chisel.

Heijirō thrashed violently, “Who the hell are you?! Don’t interfere!”

“It’s me, Wasure.” “What? So it’s you, Wasure?” “Oh, so you’re suspectin’ there’s somethin’ strange ’tween me an’ Oki-san? If that’s how it is, then poor Oki-san’s the one sufferin’ here.” “Let go, damn you!” “Nah—not ’til this gets sorted.” “Look, I do listen to Oki-san’s troubles, but it ain’t no love affair—she’s a woman with a proper husband like you. Why’d I do somethin’ that dumb?” “Even if I did have feelin’s, a chaste woman like Oki-san’d never betray you—not even if she died.” “Everyone ’round here admires Oki-san’s virtue an’ how she serves her husband—ain’t a soul who don’t.” “But you keep treatin’ her harsh an’ cruel at every turn—that’s why she’s wastin’ away from cryin’.” “On top o’ that, you swill more booze than your wages cover!” “Just scrapin’ together your drink money’s got Oki-san slavin’ away in secret.” “That’s why she comes to me for help sometimes—I pity her an’ lend a hand with small costs. But when you twist that into some shady business ’tween us, even I can’t keep my pride as a man!”

“Ouch!... Hey, Wasure.” “That hurts, damn it! Let go of me!” “Do you get it now, what I just said?” “I-I get it.” “Then, you’ll forgive Oki-san for today’s matter for my sake, won’t you?” “My wife’s matters are the husband’s sole decision. Others’ meddling ain’t needed.” “That’s exactly what you’re saying, Bro.” “Look—I’m your senior disciple from way back, and you’re my junior, but I’ve done this cheeky meddling for one reason: to get you and Oki to live together peacefully. Don’t get mad—just calm down and let it go. …And another thing—this ain’t just any construction site. It’s a holy place built by the lord’s decree, a structure even granted an imperial plaque! If you go spilling impure blood here of all places…” Although they were fellow carpenters, Wasure, his junior disciple, was a man of gentle disposition. With tears even welling up in his eyes, he earnestly persuaded him, and even the violent Heijirō began to calm down somewhat,

“Let go of me, damn it! …I said I ain’t gonna do anything rough anymore if you let go!” “So, will you forgive her?” “You’re one infuriating woman, but I’ll let you off for today. Hurry home and get my damn sake ready,” he snapped, then pivoted sharply and ran off into the shadows of the construction site.

IX “Now, Oki-san… you’d best hurry home.” Wasure and the others sighed in relief as they cared for her, brushing the dirt from her kimono.

“The Venerable Master once taught us,” “The power of the nenbutsu doesn’t improve just because you chant it at a temple. Shaving your head to become a monk won’t make its merit grow either.” “For lay followers too—if their hearts are truly devoted, Buddha’s protection will reach them wherever they chant…” “Now Oki-san, if your husband hates the nenbutsu, chant where his eyes and ears can’t reach.” “…Go home quick now—buy sake so he won’t grumble tonight.”

"I have caused you concern." Oki left there quietly.

The house in Kawawada was far. Along rice field ridges and through forest shade—she walked with bowed head, watching each step she took. "Ah... Why must I be like this..." Her misfortune drew forth tears; as she walked, they spilled at her feet until she thought the roadside grass might wither beneath them. When I came as his bride, my husband Heijirō had not been so rough. Though faithless, he had been a skilled craftsman and kindhearted man.

But then, their precious only child—a boy who had just reached that adorable age of smiling and crawling about—suddenly fell gravely ill. At that time, a wandering yamabushi ascetic who had come to the village declared, “Leave the illness to me—I will surely cure it,” so the couple devoted themselves wholeheartedly to his healing rituals, praying for their sick child’s recovery—yet the illness only worsened daily until at last the boy died.

It was from then that Heijirō’s disposition suddenly changed. (Do gods or Buddhas even exist?) Those bastards—gods and Buddhas? They’re just spreading lies about things that don’t even exist, swindling people to fill their bellies—charlatans, every last one of ’em! The Buddhist altar and the Shinto shrine—Heijirō carried them to the river and threw them in. From then on, he began drinking heavily—and whenever he drank, he flew into drunken rages. He neglected his work, spending every spare moment gambling, chasing women, and brawling until he became a man beyond control.

Oki, thinking her husband’s disposition was only natural, had been obedient at first, but theirs was a poor artisan’s household from the start. Whenever she ventured to say something on occasion, by Heijirō’s second word, (Get out!) Her body was never without fresh wounds. But, (Someday—someday, he will awaken…) Oki clung to this hope as she maintained her chastity. However harshly she was scolded, however deeply she was doubted, she quietly swallowed her tears within her heart.

That, too, had been a long time. The husband who had once tasted poison now seemed as though that venom had seeped into his very heart; far from recovering, he only grew more violent by the day. When she saw other people’s families, Oki felt envious. Everyone worked vividly and cheerfully, and when observing their lives, it became clear that during their breaks from work, they would all go to the venerable master’s hermitage in nearby Miyamura and chant the nenbutsu together as one.

Suddenly, even into her pitch-dark heart—the sound of that nenbutsu flowed in, began to feel like a faint glimmer of light. But her husband was a man who cursed gods and Buddhas as if they were his sworn enemies. Oki would steal away from Heijirō’s watchful eyes and go to the venerable master’s hermitage in Miyamura—though she never entered inside—lingering outside the fence to listen intently to the sermons and nenbutsu chants that drifted out from within.

*Little Bird of the Pure Land*

I

The autumn harvest had also ended.

“The Venerable Master has returned.” “I hear he’s returned from Shinano Province.” From Inada to the vicinity of Miyamura, on that day, people all came out to welcome them. Shinran welcomed the sacred Ikko Sanzon manifestation of Zenkōji Nyorai, which he himself had traveled to Shinano Province to request and obtain. Ōuchi Kunitoki, the great patron of devotion, also left his castle to welcome Shinran and his party. Lord Naoie of Oguri Castle had also come. From major and minor lords like Sōma and Kasama to their retainers, rural samurai, townspeople, and miscellaneous commoners observing them—it was a tremendous crowd. There was even an old man who said it was the first grand spectacle since the culture of this region had arisen.

The sacred Ikko Sanzon Buddha statue was decided to be temporarily enshrined at the hermitage in Miyamura until the construction of the temple complex was completed.

When night fell, farmers and field workers, wanting to worship it and listen to the dharma talks there, crowded in such numbers that they couldn’t all fit into the narrow hermitage. Night after night, the thatched hermitage was filled to bursting with brightly shining lamps and the knees of such people.

Autumn was deepening. The fields and paddies, the leaves of trees, rustled with whispers of winter’s withering, yet the light of Miyamura’s hermitage grew ever more filled with eternal radiance. The year turned, and spring came. It was as if there had bloomed a Pure Land mandala—a kaleidoscope of the Dharma in full flourish. “Thank you.” “I shall return tomorrow.” “Please excuse me, everyone.” “Well then, we too――” As the day’s gathering had ended at dusk, having been a daytime dharma talk, most of the attendees were townsmen’s wives who did not work in the fields, along with the elderly, the sick, and children.

Everyone, overflowing with joy, was trooping back from the hermitage.—Now, having finished the dharma talk, they came before Shinran one by one—he was letting out a relieved breath, his face faintly flushed as he drank hot water—greeting him thus as they did so—

In their midst, one woman remained facing the corner of the wall. All the people, as if they were about to stand and leave, were still sitting modestly.

The inside of the hermitage was already dark. Lamps were lit here and there. In the flickering lamplight of the night wind, stray hairs on the woman’s gaunt face—sharp as if chiseled—stirred with lonely movement.

“Ah.” The woman raised her eyes as if she had noticed. There was no one around anymore. As if suddenly overcome with shame, she timidly placed both hands on the ground before the Venerable Master. “Thank you very much.” And then, facing the altar of the Ikko Sanzon Buddha, she pressed her pale hands together,

“Namu Amida Butsu.” After chanting several times, she began to stand.

Shinran had been watching that woman for some time—no, it had not been limited to that night alone. He had long known of this woman’s presence—how at every dharma talk without fail, she would shrink into a corner of the wall and listen intently to his words. When her figure was suddenly absent on occasion, even Shinran would find himself wondering in some corner of his heart—she was a woman he always paid attention to, to the extent that he would lightly think, “What happened today?” when she was missing. “Madam—wait a moment,” Shinran called out to the woman he had never before addressed, speaking to her for the first time that day.

II When unexpectedly addressed by the Venerable Master in this manner, the woman trembled at the divine blessing, “Y-yes…,” she replied, soft as cotton, and remained prostrated.

“The fellow devotees have all returned.” “If it inconveniences you not, might you stay awhile longer to speak?” “Such graciousness overwhelms this unworthy one.”

“There’s no need to stand on ceremony. “Shinran is close with everyone—please come closer, without reserve, just a little more this way.”

“Yes.” “Madam.” “Is your home far?” “I am from Kawawada.” “Then it’s close….” “And your husband?” “Heijirō is my husband’s name; he is a carpenter working on the construction at Yanagishima.” “I am Heijirō’s wife, and Oki is my name.”

“Oh… Heijirō… So you’re the wife of that man who loves to drink and often picks fights?” “That is indeed the case.” Oki’s face reddened, her voice shrinking to near inaudibility. “I am sure you have heard the rumors about my husband, Venerable Master—a frightfully stubborn man who detests the nenbutsu.” “Because of this, even when I wish to visit the hermitage or long to hear your teachings, I can never act freely out of deference to him.”

“Hmm...” Shinran nodded,

“It must be quite a hardship for you to please your husband.” “N-no…”

Oki had heard such kind words from someone’s lips for the first time. The villagers who knew her all offered comfort, but within Shinran’s brief words dwelled a warm breath of heart-piercing compassion and great love. As if the ice in her tightly constricted chest had melted, she finally let her tears trickle down.

“Madam.” “Yes.” “Do not think you alone suffer at hardship’s depths. Your virtue, your anguish—all are witnessed by Buddha’s eyes. This Shinran too has watched them well. …Should any matter overflow your heart, now is the fitting hour—speak it to me.”

“...Thank you very much.” Oki remained prostrated on the tatami mat, pressing her hands together. “I consider these to be obligations entrusted to this self.” “That will not do—to resign yourself to obligations and fate, suppressing your heart with nothing but those thoughts. A frail woman that you are, hold your heart more lightly. Even this Shinran is no different from you—an ordinary person, a fool. It is only because I walk alongside the Buddha in all things that I can stand here with such resolve. …You should borrow the Buddha’s power. If anything overflows in your heart, cling to Him and speak of it.”

“Venerable Master… The unbearable truth is this—if I practice faith, I defy my husband’s will; yet if I abandon faith, I cannot even pretend to live as I am now. How should I reconcile this woman’s path with the human path? Please teach me that, Venerable Master.”

III “I see. I understand well.” Shinran nodded— “If you try to align with your husband’s heart, you part from Amida; if you try to rely on Amida’s will, you go against your husband’s will.—That is what you are saying.” “Yes…” Oki, while letting tears roll down her cheeks, inched her knees forward.

“Venerable Master.” “Oh.”

“There are already things so painful and terrifying that words cannot describe them, tormenting and chastising this body day and night. …I beg of you, Venerable Master—please make me a nun, even if only as the lowliest of your disciples, and deign to employ me.”

“A nun?” Opening his eyes wide, he gazed at her trembling black hair as she wept. “Wait… Do you not consider what would become of you were you to take vows?” “If I could but sever this black hair, even that fearsome husband of mine might awaken and regain his senses.” “For years I endured every hardship, clinging to the hope that my husband might become a true man—that we might one day speak of these present sorrows as mere tales from our past as a proper couple… Yet now I find myself unable to sustain even that frail hope.” “My body knows no respite from fresh wounds, my heart no relief from shadows. When dawn finds me weeping still with swollen eyes, it only fans the flames of my husband’s fury.” “To dwell beneath one roof now is to fashion a living hell upon this earth. For his sake—for this wearied flesh of mine—I believe taking vows offers the only true path.” “In your compassion, I beg you—grant me the razor.”

“Hmm, your request isn’t unreasonable in itself—but even if you change your outward appearance to that of a nun, how will that alter the state of your heart?” “Huh…”

“Merely cutting off your black hair cannot be said to have changed the state of your heart. If your heart is truly as you have just described, then your black hair can wait—why do you not seek to change that heart first?”

“Please teach me. If I can understand that, I will act exactly as you say, Venerable Master.” “Well spoken.” “If your resolve to serve the Buddha is true, then as I, Shinran, have always said, you must never forget to chant the nenbutsu morning and evening.” “If it is about chanting the Nenbutsu, one can do so even from the depths of the Blood Pool Hell or the peak of the Mountain of Needles.” “If it is improper to voice it aloud, then a single Nenbutsu whispered within your mouth holds no less worth than ten thousand chants recited after entering temple life.” “Only when uttered amidst each day’s worldly struggles does that nenbutsu reach the Buddha’s ears as the cry of a living soul.—O doubting Madam.” “Even the nenbutsu chanted amid your mundane labors will assuredly be received by Amida.” “...Indeed! Shinran shall now bestow upon you something precious.” With that,

He called out, "Ren'i, Ren'i."

Ordering his disciple monks to bring an inkstone, brush, and paper, Shinran wrote the six-character myōgō and gave it to Oki, “From now on, you should not come here either. The Buddha is now temporarily dwelling within Heijirō’s body and testing your faith. You should think of your husband Heijirō as the Buddha and serve him,” he admonished.

Brute Husband, Devout Wife

I “Oki! Oki!”

With a face as red as stamped vermilion and bulging blue veins, Heijirō of Kawawada—once again not bothering to remove his work trousers—returned home and immediately launched into his usual shouting at the sake set on the tray. “Hey! You here?” In the dimness of early evening, Oki appeared to be chopping vegetables somewhere, the delicate sound of a kitchen knife echoing through the space. “Yes,” she answered. “But you’re the one who told me to bring pickles just now! I’m serving them right this moment.”

“You fool! Even if you bring pickles out, the sake’s already gone.” “Is there any left?” “Oh… Has it run out already?” “Go get more!… Take something from here—pawn it at the market or borrow coin—and bring me sake!” “There’s no need for such measures—if you want to drink more, I’ve already bought plenty in reserve. Please drink without worry.” “Hmm… Lately you never refuse anything.” “How exactly are you getting money for this?”

“That’s why I’ve been working so hard like this—weaving cloth, carving combs, doing paid work—even after you’ve gone to sleep and during the day as well. Isn’t that so?” “She’s stopped joining the construction site’s rope-pulling crews, shows no sign of going to hear sermons, and even quit those teeth-grating Nenbutsu chants cold turkey—lately she’s turned suspiciously docile.” “After all… seems women need a good near-death thrashing now and then as medicine.”

“Now, I’ve warmed it—allow me to pour for you.”

“You fool!” He took a sip,

"What the hell? It's still lukewarm!" "If you've got a husband who drinks, you oughta at least remember how to heat damn sake right!" "I'm sorry—I'll reheat it properly." "No! No! Make sure the next batch's hotter." "And when it comes to side dishes—every night it's potatoes or lotus root." "Tomorrow grab your bow and go hunt some birds in the back mountain to roast." "I always think that way, but I end up begrudging even the time taken from my weaving." "Quit your excuses! If the sake ain't bad enough already—" "Havin' a dull woman for a wife sure makes everything a hassle!"

“Now, this one’s heated.” “Let me pour the hot sake for you.” “Hot!... Careful! Can’t ya pour without spillin’?!” “Ah, please forgive me!” “Uuugh...” Heijirō belched and, “Lately I ain’t swung these arms around in a good long while—my damn nerves’re bored stiff, makes me all itchy like this.” “Too much will wear on your body, and you’ve work tomorrow too—please lie down and rest now.”

“You lazy slacker! Tryin’ to put me to bed so you can kick back early yourself, huh? …Well I ain’t near done drinkin’ yet—go heat up another round an’ bring it here!”

II Her husband’s drunkenness had already far exceeded reasonable limits, and she was concerned for his body’s sake with tomorrow’s work ahead, “There is no more sake. Rather than that, please go to bed now.” As she spread the bedding over the futon, a small plate suddenly grazed past her face. The plate fortunately did not hit her face but struck the wall behind her and shattered into powder with a loud crash.

“You liar!” Heijirō glared fiercely and shouted. Oki didn’t quite understand what she was being scolded for. That dumbfounded expression of hers seemed only to further agitate her husband’s drunken rage, “Just now, you spat out that there’s plenty of sake bought so I could drink without worry, and now you say there’s none left—what kind of damn lie is that?” He rushed in, leaving her no time to make any excuses. Of course, Oki knew well that in such situations, making excuses would only further provoke her husband’s violent disposition.

“Damn you!” Grabbing her black hair, Heijirō yanked his wife’s body forward. Then, swinging her violently from side to side, he struck her profile fiercely with the flat of his hand. “Ah… p-please forgive me!” Oki said nothing more than that. Heijirō glared fiercely— “You wretch!” He too must have run out of breath; heaving deeply through his shoulders, he clenched his fists momentarily before collapsing onto the futon she had been laying out—unable to endure his drunkenness any longer—and fell asleep snoring like a beast.

"If... the pillow... the pillow..." Oki peered fearfully at her husband who had fallen asleep like Shuten-dōji - that drunken demon - gently laid his face on the wooden pillow, draped bedding over his legs, then turned back to herself with a sigh of relief.

After that, she finished tidying up the kitchen area, and once that was done, she sat down in front of the loom on the earthen floor. Burning pine roots for light, Oki then worked until late into the night to earn her husband’s sake money for the next day. She had to work through the night to earn the sake that inflicted fresh wounds on her own body and showered her with scathing rebukes. Yet even such unreasonable drudgery—as the night deepened profoundly, her tears forgotten, her complaints forgotten, placing the nenbutsu in her heart and moving the reed with single-minded focus—the sound of the reed took on a harmonious tone, like music that soothed her sorrows, until even the drudgery no longer felt like drudgery.

“Yes… now of all times.” She quietly peeked inside her robe. Listening intently to her husband’s snores, she carefully retrieved something from the depths of her undergarment. —It was the six-character myōgō that Shinran Shōnin of Inada had once written for her. Oki hid it from her husband’s sight, fashioned it into a small scroll, and always kept it close to her skin as a guardian of her heart. At times when she suddenly lost the will to live, or when she wanted to break down in tears alone—Oki would take out the myōgō and press her palms together. Then she would feel as though meeting Shinran’s figure brimming with compassion. Guided by Shinran’s hand, she felt herself being led near the knees of Mugekō Nyorai…

Even now, she recalled that. Then, with a *clunk*, a sound came from the dark depths. With a start, her heart racing ahead of her actions, Oki hurriedly hid the sacred inscription in her robe without even rolling it up. “What were you looking at?!” Heijirō, her husband, stood behind her with a terrifying expression, unbeknownst to her.

III

“Show it! Show me what you were looking at!” Battered by her husband’s roar, Oki turned white as paper. “You hid something! What was it?” “No...”

“What was that?! What did you just hide in your robe?!”

“...This is—” Clutching her chest, she cowered. “Hah! I’ve got it figured out. Lately, I thought it was strange how you’ve been acting too sweet toward me—now I see! You’ve been hiding a man, haven’t you!” “Wh—that’s absurd!”

“No way—it’s definitely true.” “You’ve got some hidden man, tryin’ to sweet-talk me into swallowin’ your lies!” “Wh-why would I ever... do such an outrageous thing?” “To say such a thing—how pitiful your suspicions are!” Oki’s temple hairs trembled as she bitterly resented her husband’s words. “Then show me!—Can’t show it, can ya? That’s proof it’s a love letter from some man!”

“That’s preposterous… It’s nothing of the sort.” “Shut up! Don’t you dare say another word! I know perfectly well. Your lover’s that comrade of yours—Wasuke, isn’t he?”

“What?!”

“How about it? There ain’t no madness in my eyes.” “You’ve been exchanging love letters with that bastard Wasuke, your junior disciple, haven’t you?” “Why would I… That’s too cruel!” “You stubborn wench!” Heijirō had become a demon of suspicion. He had long been harboring baseless suspicions, connecting even his wife’s tender affections and the meager earnings from her drudgery to that Wasuke. “How dare you… sully a man’s honor like this.” “Hmph… Just watch! You and that bastard Wasuke!” Thud—after sending Oki flying with a kick, Heijirō rushed into the inner room. And then, baring one arm to show his bulging muscles, he leaped out again,

“You filthy traitor!” What he raised was his work tool—a sharpened large hatchet. “—Aah!” Oki didn’t know how she had moved her body. She threw herself face down behind the loom. The blade Heijirō swung down scattered the thousand strands of thread on the loom, tangling them like a spiderweb over both his body and Oki’s hair.

“Wait!” Oki screamed, but— “Damn it!” Heijirō’s eyes narrowed completely like a Yasha mask, maddened as though he had guzzled a triple poison of alcohol, suspicion, and the gleaming blade. “I-I’ll tell—I’ll tell you—wait, wait!” “Yeah, now I ain’t got ears to listen. Suffer!” The gleaming hatchet swung two or three great times through the narrow earthen-floored room, slicing through the wind. Oki collided with the wall, collided with the loom. Again, she collided with the shutters and tumbled.

The shutters fell outward with a heavy thud, rolling her body along, and then were ripped apart by Heijirō’s rough feet. “Help! Someone—someone, please come!” While shouting into the darkness, Oki ran outside the house. Everything was a blur of panic.

Four

“You—!” Heijirō had become a Yasha. The hatchet gripped in that hand pressed close behind her,

“Suffer!” he shouted, swinging down with violent force. Was it the Buddha’s protection? By a paper-thin margin, the sharp hatchet blade merely grazed Oki’s black hair before veering sideways. “Tch!” Heijirō clicked his tongue like a demon. Still pursuing Oki as she fled stumbling, “Wench, I ain’t lettin’ you escape!” he roared, lunging forward. ――Oki ran. She had neither destination nor purpose from the outset. Through thickets, fields, and wild grasses, she ran only as far as her terror propelled her.

“……Aah…” However, the woman’s legs had their limits. Her heart felt as if it were being crushed painfully. Oki gasped heavily for breath and collapsed onto the ground. Then—the sound of pounding footsteps striking the earth echoed as they closed in. Oki jolted upright again—stood up—but her lungs could no longer endure running further. She staggered and stumbled. “Wait up, damn you!”

It was Heijirō’s voice—even his voice was now terribly hoarse, like the scream of a Yasha.

“Wh-what do I do?” Heat surged through Oki to the very roots of her hair. Her breath came in ragged gasps—who would answer a cry for help in this dead of night?

The rough footsteps approaching from behind had now caught up right behind her. —She could no longer see anything ahead of her. Her feet in the pitch darkness kept running onward—even if ahead lay an abyss, a cliff, or a pond—unable to stop themselves. And—her field of vision was blocked by a tall shadow like the wall of a valley. Oki tripped over something. When the tactile sensation of her hands told her they were stairs, she began climbing them again in a desperate frenzy.

As she steadied her staggering body, something cold and metallic brushed against her hand. That was the pillar with a bulbous finial at the top of the stairs. Oh, this is the Yanagishima temple complex under construction… Oh, the edge of the new temple hall. Almost without thinking, she suddenly thought of the Buddha’s embrace. If it were beneath the Benevolence Eaves—even in death, even if she were to be slain by her deranged husband’s blade—she might feel somewhat consoled.

By then, Heijirō had already reached beneath the temple hall. The hatchet blade gleamed fitfully as it prowled through the darkness. Eyes resembling a beast's, terrifying, were peering beneath the temple hall's floor. He then started to circle around the side of the corridor, but seeming to sense a presence, eventually with heavy tread ascended the stairs Oki had climbed. A strong woody scent struck the nose. This temple hall in Yanagishima had also been fully completed the day before. The log scaffolding and straw mat coverings had all been removed, and by yesterday evening every wood shaving had been swept clean. And in the temple hall's garden, sand had even been spread across the ground.

“Y-You resisted!” No sooner had a ferocious roar sounded than Heijirō spotted Oki’s shadow, leapt up with a clattering rush, and charged forward. “Ah— Wha—?!” “Shut up!” Oki fled through the twenty-odd-bay corridor with her black hair streaming behind her, and the Yasha’s hatchet relentlessly pursued her.

V

――It was no use. Oki resigned herself to that thought. Her entire body stiffened at the thought of death. Strangely, her will to run was crushed, (Honorable Buddha… Venerable Master) was all she could cry out in her heart. ――And before her eyes, she saw the deep abyss of death. Just at that moment—it was the turning corner of the temple hall’s corridor—Oki reached out her hands to the railing’s edge as though collapsing. “Serves you right!” With a “dah—!” Heijirō leapt forward, and the hatchet he swung from behind traced a diagonal flash—*p’yu!*—from her shoulder blade to her neck as if hewing a pillar.

“Kyaa!” This was—the tragic final cry she left for her husband. At the same time, her body fell forward from the railing and somersaulted down directly beneath the temple hall.

With a heavy thud—from beneath that darkness came a sinister tremor in the earth— “Got her!” Heijirō twisted his ashen smile and shouted. “I-I… got her…” With the hatchet dangling limply, he staggered and leaned against the temple hall’s door. For a while, he stared vacantly with wide eyes, his mouth agape like an idiot’s, until he noticed something cold trickling down from his forehead across his face,

“Blood... It’s blood...” With his palm, he rubbed his face. —And his drunkenness had completely worn off; a violent shudder ran up his spine— “O-Oki…” he called out in a hollow voice.

Suddenly, all the hairs on his body seemed to stand on end. Heijirō darted his sharp eyes restlessly into the darkness—he gazed at the white blade of the hatchet hanging from his hand. “Ah— I…” For the first time, he realized he had done something terrible. He could now see his own form with his own eyes. “Wh-whe-where… Where did you go, Oki?!” Fearfully peering over the railing, he saw his wife of many years—now a corpse—lying in the depths of darkness like a grave pit.

Staggering，Heijirō began to walk. Eyes，ears，and mouth remained vacant and hollow. Step by step，he descended the stairs of remorse. But now，there was no time left for regret or manly weeping.

The earth was bitterly cold. Could it be that this darkness through which he walked—was it not the realm of the dead they called the other world?—he wondered. He shuddered and looked back—the face of his deceased wife—blood-drenched—glaring with eyes filled with resentment from within her black hair—and time and again he felt as though her pale hand was reaching out toward his collar. “Th-that’s right.”

When he exited Yanagishima’s temple grounds, he dashed out without looking back like the deity Idaten. Gasping for breath, he returned home. He threw the hatchet into the old lotus-root pond behind the house with a splash. Then upon entering his house, he slammed the door shut and tried to sleep by pulling the quilt over his head.

Willow and Bodhi Trees

I

Somewhere in the distance came the sound of an infant crying. Heijirō, beneath the quilt, suddenly recalled—the voice of the child born between himself and Oki who had died years earlier. “……It’s similar.” He shuddered. The infant’s wail seemed to rise from the earth’s depths.—Moreover, he couldn’t dispel the sensation that Oki’s ghost—her face bloodied, killed by a single hatchet strike to the back of her head—had returned home with him.

When he desperately cried out “Forgive me!”—it had been a dream.—His body lay stiff in drenching cold sweat, still asleep. The cries of his dead child—the resentful face of his deceased wife—the fiery chariot, hell, demons, red flames, blue flames. Nothing but terrifying hallucinations—even when he opened his eyes—drifted before his eyelids. His bones clattered and trembled. The coming of dawn was longed for with every passing moment. “Oh!” Suddenly raising his face from the futon, he saw a red glow through the gap in the torn window shutter. “It’s sunrise!” he thought, and sprang up as if saved. And he flung the door open.

“Ah!” But the sky remained pitch black. In the distant plain came into view twelve or thirteen monk-like figures, each holding aloft bright crimson flames—pine torches of course—passing solemnly and silently. “Wh-what is that?” At the procession’s head were those carrying unpainted wooden boxes and others bearing glittering Buddhist implements and banners.

“……That’s right. I see. I’d completely forgotten—today was Yanagishima temple hall’s completion day and its Buddhist consecration ceremony.” Heijirō closed the door as if relieved—Whew—but fresh anxiety struck him immediately and he began fidgeting. “Wait… I left Oki’s corpse… just lying there… Today’s ceremony will draw crowds from dawn… Once they find her body… realize it’s Oki… then they’ll know who did it…” His eyes refused to stay still even for an instant.

"This is bad." He muttered, tightened his obi, and rushed out of the house.

“Once folks gather, it’ll be too late.” “While nobody knows...Oki’s corpse...Right—just hide the corpse itself...” He ran toward Yanagishima once more—but then from behind him, the blazing light of the great sun began shining forth, staining crimson the mountains of Shimotsuke.

“……Damn it… Night’s already over……” “Ah… What’ll happen to me now…?” Steeling himself, Heijirō pressed onward even faster.

By now, the temple complex was emerging in the clear light of dawn. Here and there, figures could be seen walking along the corridors and open courtyards. The large doors of the new temple hall were already open, and on the altar in the inner sanctum, the monks from earlier were busily arranging ritual implements, banners, lotus flowers, and incense burners. "Hmm... This was the area... Definitely from this corner railing..." Heijirō had been frantically searching for the corpse of his wife—the wife he himself had killed—but it was nowhere to be found.

II “This is bad.” He sensed his own peril.

If Oki's corpse had been taken by another's hands—it followed as night follows day that suspicion would settle upon Heijirō.

Suddenly, he fled from there; he did not go toward the house. He directed his feet toward another province, intending to abandon this land forever.

But—when he reached the village border and calmed down a little, he realized that would be problematic too. If I abandon this land and flee, I would be proving my own guilt in Oki’s murder. No matter how fast I ran, once the lord’s order was issued, I would surely be caught immediately at the gates of the county and village borders. I might not even be able to escape for half a day. “To the mountains…” he thought, lifting his gaze—but stubbornly, his stomach was empty, and even the charcoal burners and woodcutters would recognize his face.

“...That’s right.” He took a proper look at himself for the first time in the morning sun, which by then hung high in the sky. He had thought he must be drenched in blood, yet there was nothing resembling blood on his garments. Gradually his nerves steadied. Heijirō went down to the rice fields, washed his face and limbs with water, and slipped on straw sandals left behind a farmhouse. Without diverting to his own home, he turned straight back toward Yanagishima.

The bells for the consecration ceremony began ringing incessantly. This day fell in mid-April of Karoku 1 (1225). The rapeseed flowers hazed over the fertile fields; Mount Tsukuba and the mountains of Shimotsuke clearly outlined their purple folds from within the mist. Black-lacquered court caps, conical straw hats, white hoods—peach-colored veils and the like—moved across fields and ridges in droves. Mountain village girls, elders, and even young people—all dressed in new clothes—were heading to Ōuchi in Haga District—to see Yanagishima’s construction—on pilgrimage—resulting in a tremendous crowd.

Heijirō timidly blended into the crowd and entered. He was startled even by people who touched his sleeve. However, as he grew accustomed to the people, he became bolder. Before he knew it, he crafted a cheerful smile and feigned composure, “Fine weather we’re having,” he said to those nearby,

“Hey, mornin’,” he would say upon spotting his companions, deliberately greeting them first as he passed by. “Heiji, you’re still in your work clothes, ain’t ya? “Why ain’t ya wearin’ clean clothes today?” “You’ve got a good wife like Oki-san, yet you ain’t got no consideration.” When the old carpenter colleague spoke to him, Heijirō was startled, but... “But y’see, Oki went to her relatives’ house in the neighboring village last night and, for some reason, hasn’t come back even this mornin’.” “...Well, it was such a hassle that I just ended up comin’ in my usual work clothes. Is this really not okay?”

“There’s nothin’ wrong with that, but today there ain’t no work—everyone’s come to see the Venerable Master’s ceremony.” “I mean to sit in the main hall today myself and pay my respects at the consecration.” “Huh. So you’ve gone pious all sudden-like.” Heijirō flinched at even such offhand words.

III

Heijirō was hollow, merely swaying unsteadily as the human tide and Nenbutsu chants pushed him along. Somewhere in his heart, he ceaselessly feared exposure of the grave sin he had committed, his sharp wariness toward every person he encountered never resting. “Oh! The main temple hall!” “How magnificent!”

“And there’s the Imperial Plaque too!” Because every face in the crowd was looking up, eyes straining as they murmured, Heijirō finally realized he had come to stand directly before the main temple hall’s entrance. The twelve-ken-square temple complex glowed with the fragrance of fresh timber, purple curtains hung about its perimeter, while through the open sacred doors of the inner sanctuary glittered countless lamps. From Ōuchi Kunitoki—lord of Shimotsuke Castle—to Kugeta Tarō Hidekuni, Makabe’s district governor, Sōma’s castle lord Takasada, and other such eminent devotees, all had already positioned their retinues flanking the main hall that day, whispering joyous words to one another about the temple’s completion.

Heijirō gazed up at the scene from afar, but the provincial lords and warriors wearing long swords all soon appeared like demons who would bind him, and he could not remain still. “Is someone talking about what happened this morning?” His eyes sharpened by suspicion pushed through the crowd and timidly made their way back to the place at the corner of the corridor—where he had committed murder—to check. However, even there, it was just filled with people, and no abnormalities could be found,

There was no one murmuring, “Oki-san from Kawawada has been killed—”. Heijirō, in his self-conceit, “Ah, I get it,” he murmured to himself. “Today is an auspicious day—the temple complex’s opening and consecration ceremony, the most significant since this village’s founding.... So they—the temple people—must have hurriedly disposed of Oki’s corpse and quietly hidden any blood staining the complex.” Having settled on this self-serving interpretation, Heijirō felt both uneasy and yet somehow relieved.

“Calm down,” and “Wipe your mouth,” he sternly told himself. Suddenly, those around him began prostrating themselves on the ground in unison, so Heijirō hurriedly sat down too. No—not just those nearby but everyone from the main gate to the temple grounds—not a single person remained standing. Like pampas grass bowing before the wind, all people lowered their heads and chanted the nenbutsu in unison; then, with the tolling of the temple bell, a hushed silence swept over them.

“It’s… Shinran-sama.” “It’s… the Venerable Master.” At the hushed whispers, Heijirō quietly craned his neck to look toward the main hall. At that moment inside the main hall, the sacred image of Zenkōji Nyorai—recently transferred from Inada’s hermitage—had just been enshrined deep within the inner sanctum of the main hall’s shrine, and High Priest Shinran had completed his solemn worship. “Wha—?!” Suddenly letting out this shrill cry, Heijirō—the only one among all the bowing people—leapt up like a madman.

Beside High Priest Shinran gathered a multitude of revered disciples, but among them—directly behind Shinran—stood a single laywoman alone. “It’s Oki… That’s Oki, no mistake!” He staggered forward but tripped over the crowd and collapsed into their midst.

IV “What’s with this man?”

“How bizarre!” “Has he gone mad?” “He’s having a fit!” Frowned upon by the people, Heijirō came to his senses. (It’s my imagination.) How could Oki possibly be alive? Moreover, there was absolutely no way she could be attending close to Shinran on the main hall’s upper level where provincial lords, castle lords, and samurai retainers were arrayed. (Damn it… I’m practically confessing my own crime.) He furtively hid behind the people. However, he still couldn’t shake his unease. Once again, he quietly raised his head—steadied his nerves—and peered toward the main hall.

Beside Shinran’s figure, Oki’s form was clearly visible. High Priest Shinran, having completed the ritual, was seated at the center. Oki was in the back, pressing both hands firmly. Between the provincial governor and Shinran, some conversation seemed to be taking place. Oki, too, would timidly raise her face from time to time, appearing as though she were responding from behind Shinran. “She’s alive—!” “Oh, oh, Oki.” “—It’s Oki, ain’t it?!” As if possessed, Heijirō raised both hands and went into a frenzy again. This time, there was no stopping him. Stepping on the heads of the crowd, he recklessly approached the main hall’s steps, oblivious to everything around him,

“Wife! Wife!” Growling, he ran up the steps. “Insolent fool!” The provincial governor’s retainers lining the corridors all stood up at once, and the crowd collapsed into disarray with a collective gasp at this bizarre troublemaker. “Oh, you...” Oki turned deathly pale and screamed. Heijirō made gestures as if proclaiming something to the crowd, “She’s alive! She’s alive—!” he kept shouting.

“Stand down!” The samurai who had rushed forward grabbed his flailing arms from both sides and restrained him. They were Fujiki Gonnosuke and Hirose Daizen. “You unpardonable wretch!” “Do you not understand the dignity of this place?” they rebuked, “Heiji! This isn’t your usual worksite—unforgivable outrage! Today I’ll strike off that bare neck of yours! On your feet!” As they dragged him by the collar, Heijirō had already shrunk into himself like a starved dog.

Then, majestically from one side—

“Hold!”

Suddenly, a voice resounded.

Wondering who was interrupting, Gonnosuke turned around. It was the voice of Owari no Kami Chikatsuna, whose Buddhist name was Jōnenbō. Within his mind—

He directed a look at him that seemed to ask, *Why are you stopping this?* Chikatsuna—

“It is the High Priest’s will,” he said next.

At those words, everyone fell silent. A hush fell over them, and all eyes turned toward the High Priest. Shinran slowly adjusted the drape of his priestly robes,

“Bring that person here,” he beckoned.

Five There, he saw for the first time with his own eyes the figure of Shinran, whose existence he had only heard about in rumors. “Y... Yes...” He could not bring himself to lift his face. “You are Heijirō the carpenter, and I am Shinran of Inada. We have met at an auspicious time—there is nothing to fear. Nay—there is even cause for joy.”

Was it a human voice, or the voice of the Buddha? The High Priest’s words, steadily seeping through the gaps in Heijirō’s earwax, were all salvation, solace, and warmth to him. “You are trembling.” “I see. Perhaps there has been some misunderstanding. Then, let me first relieve you of that fear.” Shinran admonished him earnestly. “It was this morning—just as dawn was breaking—at the corner of this temple hall, alas, a wife lay collapsed.” “If someone were to treat her, it would be your wife—this Oki here.” “Oki-san often visited me in Inada to deepen her faith, but she abruptly stopped coming, fearing it might oppose her husband’s heart.” “I wrote and gave her the sacred scroll (*myōgō*) at that time. When I looked, even this morning when she had fainted, she was firmly clutching it to her breast. Then, through the disciples’ care, when she came to herself, she did nothing but weep bitterly.” “And so—before today’s ceremony—I called her to a separate room and had her explain the details in full.” “Mr. Heijirō, I can vouch for this—Oki-san is absolutely not the kind of woman you suspect her to be.” “She is a woman of Buddha-nature rare in this world—please forgive her, and cherish her.”

…… “Well now, do you understand?” “Y... Yes...” “Madam—to remove all doubt—bring forth the item your husband suspected and show it to him here.”

“Yes.” Oki edged closer—

“You… You…” Forgetting even the presence of those around her, it was Oki who stood drenched in tears. Before Heijirō—who hung his head as though crushed beneath a boulder—she unfurled the sacred scroll, grasped her husband’s hand, and spoke as if to rouse his dazed consciousness. “You thought I was being unfaithful—that I was secretly reading letters from a man—but what you suspected was this sacred scroll. … So reverently inscribed by the High Priest’s own hand—worship it! Worship it well, husband! Give thanks that you did not fall into the sin of murder!” Trembling with fear, Heijirō lifted his face and stared fixedly at the characters on the sacred scroll.

“Oh…” “Do you understand?” “…Mm.” Nodding, he gripped his wife’s hand in return for the first time. “But… Oki, I could’ve sworn I struck you with a hatchet… Are you hurt anywhere?” “No….” “Ah, I see—then it was you who hacked through the thick bamboo rain gutter hanging from the temple hall’s great eaves to the corridor’s corner! It became my substitute—split in two and dangling until this morning—but the monks removed it, saying it marred the memorial service.”

“Ah… So what I thought I’d chopped apart with the hatchet was…” “It was the rain gutter—you mistook it for me, that’s where you were wrong.”

“Ugh... S-so that’s how it was...” Groaning from the depths of his belly, Heijirō felt for the first time as though truly human eyes had opened within him.

Six Everything was an illusion—projected from his own mind—terrifying his heart and forcing it to curse. It was a dreadful shadow reflected in the water.

Heijirō returned to the water. Though he could not yet become that perfectly clear state, his original nature welled up from the depths of his heart, “I’m sorry… Oki… I’m so sorry…”

Placing both hands on the ground, he said to his wife. Oki heard words of truth from her husband’s mouth for the first time since they had become husband and wife. “Ah... There’s no need for that,” she scooped up her husband’s hands, “To my wife, there is no need for apologies or forgiveness.” “If that is your apology, then why do you not offer it to the Buddha rather than to me?”

“...?” ……” Heijirō fell silent, mutely. The blue veins on his forehead, swollen with shame, were vividly etched with the torment of his very nature. “Dear you,” Oki was now determined to reverse her husband’s longstanding feelings here and now.

“…?” “……” But Heijirō did not nod.

He remained motionless and silent. His stubbornly unyielding nature manifested itself in his two clenched fists resting on his knees as he kept silent. “Dear you…” He did not answer Oki’s gentle whisper at his ear. Before him sat the High Priest. There were disciples. Also present were the castle lord, the district governor, their retainers, and countless gathered townspeople. All were devotees of Buddha. Yet Heijirō still— It seemed he could not honestly utter even a simple “Mm.”

Why. It seemed Heijirō now hesitated to voice it aloud due to the people around him, but if he were to express his feelings honestly— There’s no Buddha—the one who had taught him that was a person who served Buddha, The one who had instilled in his mind that there is no god was also a person who served god. He believed that the beloved child he had with Oki had died because they had imagined nonexistent gods as real and put faith in nonexistent Buddhas.

Led by faith in unreliable monks and dubious mountain ascetics—those sorts of people—he and his wife had starved themselves, gone without proper clothing, and devoted all their earned money and meager savings to offerings and such things, all to lose their one and only beloved child. In the end, the child died. When Heijirō carried off an armful of all those things—talismans, holy water, household altars, and such—everything that appeared detestable in his eyes, and dumped them into the gutter like trash,

“You think this is funny?! If you can punish me for this, then go ahead and try!” he cursed up at the heavens.

From then on, Gods? Buddhas? Hmph... His character and beliefs became that way.

With anyone else, he would have stubbornly argued his beliefs without backing down. But with Shinran alone, he had felt something different from the start.

Seven “Please say it—for your afterlife.” “Why can you lower your hands to your wife but not to the Buddha?” “O… Oki.” “Will you say it?” Heijirō let his stiffened shoulders drop with a heavy thud, “I’ll... I’ll say it...” he said, covering his face. “Oh, you!” Oki, in her joy, lost herself and pulled her husband’s hand.

The two sat down side by side, facing the shining light. The emanation of Zenkōji Nyorai was reverently enshrined within the new zushi, gleaming brightly.

Heijirō suddenly looked toward his wife as if in shame and asked. “But… wife—what words should I use? How can I offer my apology?”

“Well…” She thought, “After all, simply ‘Namu Amida Butsu’—if you would say that, it will suffice.” “Is that enough?” “Yes.” “Will just that alone—will all the bad things I’ve done up until today—serve as atonement?” “It will fulfill your earlier vow as well.” “Well then…” Their palms aligned and pressed together in prayer. Brilliantly, the Buddhist lamps in the outer and inner sanctuaries all at once altered their light.

“Namu Amida Butsu—” “Namu Amida Butsu—” “Oh, you’ve done it!” Oki’s smile resembled that of a bodhisattva. Heijirō did not cease. “Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu—” Tears fell unceasingly. “That’s enough now—this isn’t our home.” Laughing from the heart, the couple abruptly withdrew behind Shinran. Neither the lord nor his retainers contemplated Heijirō’s past sins as they observed the pair. They simply gazed upon them as one would a thing of beauty. Fujiki Gonnosuke advanced,

“An official notice will follow from the authorities,” Fujiki Gonnosuke announced. Then drawing near to them, he whispered, “Be sure to express your gratitude properly.”

Heijirō hurriedly bowed toward where the samurai were lined up. He was informed that it was the retainers’ seats and hurriedly bowed again toward the lord. The temple bell began to toll.

The people rose from their seats. The memorial service ceremony had come to an end.

However, the crowd still did not leave and continued making a commotion. For on both sides of the garden facing the temple hall, there was to be a ceremony where the lord and Shinran would personally take hoes and plant two trees— The trees were a willow tree on one side and a bodhi tree on the other. Lord Kunitoki of Shimotsuke and Shinran stepped down to the ground, divided into east and west positions, and took up hoes. Above the trees being planted, countless birds had already gathered dancing and were singing songs of the Pure Land—.

VIII

The crowd, lingering in the temple grounds without leaving, blended their nenbutsu chants amidst the resounding temple bells— “Even that Heijirō—the Venerable Master saved him.” “Someone like Venerable Shinran must indeed be what they call a living Buddha.” “How blessed!” “With this, our spiritual mandala will take form.” “Let’s work with peace of mind!”

“Let’s live joyfully in this world!” “What life is there without joy?—so the Venerable Master once taught us.” “He also said we should chant the nenbutsu as our true selves and delight in this world.”

“There’s no day as joyous as this.” “What an auspicious day!” “What a blessed day!” Farmers with farmers, craftsmen with craftsmen, merchants with merchants—and their families as well—all the people together praised Shinran’s virtue, gave thanks for the lord’s benevolent governance, and voices of religious ecstasy overflowed to fill heaven and earth.

Lord Ōuchi Kunitoki declared, “Politics for politics’ sake will not do—today I learned that grasping the people’s true hearts requires rulers to become true-hearted and unite with them as one.” “The Venerable Master,” he continued, “is not only Buddhism’s supreme truth-bearer but also a great father of benevolent rule and the people’s salvation.” The neighboring lords—Takasada of Sōma, Hidetsugu Kurita Tarō of Kugeda, Makabe, Oguri, and others—all received profound inspiration through their participation that day.

And each of them, having pledged contributions commensurate with their means to this new temple complex, soon set out on the return to their respective residences with utmost satisfaction. “My dear—” Oki gently took her husband’s hand and whispered.

“...There’s no one left inside the temple hall now.” “The ceremony has concluded.” “Come now—you must go downstairs and properly express your gratitude to the Venerable Master once more.” “Mm, mm.” Like an obedient mute, Heijirō could only nod. After willow and bodhi trees had been planted on both sides of the temple hall, the husband and wife timidly approached the master—who was washing his hands—and pressed their palms to the earth.

“Thank you so much… Venerable Master. I… I am so overjoyed that I cannot find the words to express my gratitude.” The Venerable Master, enveloped in a joy greater than that of the husband and wife, smiled.

“Everyone returned.”

“You both should return home quickly and strive to brighten the house from today onward. Husband, Wife—neither of you alone can brighten the home. Listen—join your hearts in cooperation—” “I will not forget.” Oki pressed her palms together. Then, Heijirō scooted closer across the earth and, lifting his tear-soaked face, clung to the Venerable Master’s sleeve and cried out. “Please save me… I beg you, please save me. Eternally...”

“Heijirō, why do you agonize? Your wife has already fully attained the Buddha’s salvation.” “Then… please include me among the Buddha’s disciples.” “Even at the outermost fringe of the Venerable Master’s followers.” “Very well”—the Venerable Master nodded at once. And he chose for him the dharma name Yuienbō.

Nine

Yuienbō—

Yuienbō—

Time and again, Heijirō repeated it under his breath— the name bestowed upon him by Shinran, the teacher of salvation: his own name, from this day forth as a lay disciple. Oki too was there— “What a splendid name,” she said, radiant with joy. Heijirō became solemn, and called softly, “Oki—”

“Yes.” “It’s thanks to you that I’ve been reborn like this—” “You honor me too much.” “And also through our departed child—the one who forged the bond that led us to the Buddha’s guidance.”

“Truly…”

“Let’s live in harmony and have a fine child—Oki, bear one for me.” “Yes.”

“And forget everything I did up until yesterday.—From today onward, I—the reborn Yuienbō—will work twice as hard as anyone! I’ll lift us from poverty and make up for all the hardships I forced you to endure!” “With just those words of yours, I—I already don’t know what to say.” “...I, too, might as well have died once over at this dawn.” “From now on, as husband and wife, let us devote ourselves single-mindedly to chanting the name and serve the Buddha.”

“Oh—the Venerable Master planted them with his own hands—and they’ll spread to both sides of that temple hall—just like the willow and bodhi trees.”

*

Through Lord Kujō’s petition, the imperial plaque of Emperor Go-Horikawa—which Shinbutsubō, his disciple, had traveled all the way from the capital to present—was bestowed with the name Senshū Amida-ji Temple. The Takada Senju-ji that remains to this day is this temple. It was during Shinran’s ten years of agrarian life in Inada that this temple complex had been thus erected. However, during those ten years, it was not only here but also in the regions where Shinran and his disciples had tread—such as Echigo, Shinshū, Jōshū, and Bushū—that the sown seeds, as if meeting spring, sprouted in clusters, became buds, then trees and flowers, propagating the pure lands of the Nenbutsu mandala across each locale.

It was with an inevitable momentum akin to the natural force that makes plants grow from the earth—

Before this momentum and era, all the curses that had long maligned the Nenbutsu sect fell silent. The authorities, too, had no choice but to comply with it. But—Shinran, too, was human; before anyone noticed, he had become a kind old man. He was already nearing sixty. And he was the father of five or six children.—Though Norimochi—a single seed born between him and his former wife Tama no Hi no Mae—had died in Kyoto without ever knowing his father’s face—still, he was now happy as the father of a household.

However, he was not one to settle into domestic comfort beneath a bridal hood of contentment. His physical vigor remained undiminished; extraordinary spiritual energy brimmed within skin so radiant one would never guess he approached sixty winters. "When the snow thaws," he declared, "I shall embark again on missionary travels—to Shinshū and Echigo both. After all these years, I would even walk the Tōkaidō pilgrimage route once more." Thus he passed the winter speaking of these plans. Given his vitality, none could doubt that two or three more children might yet be born to him and his steadfast wife Asahime.