Pathway to Japanese Literature

Ah, when I recall it now, it has already become a memory from fifty years past.
As you can see, though now I am this snow-crowned Pickled Plum Old Man with wrinkles creasing my brow, my complexion faded, flesh withered, strength sapped, and voice grown hoarse—even I once had my youth. In those early days of life’s journey, when vitality still bloomed, there were indeed many amusing things. Among them was the first person who stirred my heart—yes, precisely in the spring when I was fourteen. That must have been what they call a first love, I suppose. Well then, let me tell of that.

It was mid-April when one night my mother said to me and my sister: “This time Uncle from Shimizu will be bringing Oyuki-san to stay with us. As Oyuki-san was raised in Edo and differs from the country folk around here—being refined in her manners and composed in her greetings—you must take care not to behave rudely and be laughed at as boorish provincials.”
Then she went on at length about how gentle Oyuki’s heart was, how sincere her temperament, how graceful her figure, and how beautiful her features—praising her to the skies.
In childhood, everything seemed novel and fascinating, but especially when living deep in the countryside where there was little to see or hear—even trivial matters appeared tremendously interesting; so what manner of person could this 'Edo lady'—this girl whom Mother praised so extravagantly, this graceful woman from the capital with whom one must mind one’s speech—truly be?
How I wanted to meet her soon, to see her—there must surely be fascinating stories to hear—and so within my small chest arose first a sense of novelty, and each day I spoke of nothing but this with my sister as we awaited the day our rare guest would arrive.
As the day before finally arrived, even the lowly maids were somehow buoyant, chanting “The guest from Edo! The guest!”—how much more so Grandmother and Sister, and how much more so I, for whom each day felt like a thousand autumns.

On that day, I went to spear practice starting from the eighth hour and a half after finishing my studies, but strange to say, neither my mind nor spirit were in archery—I simply kept repeating in my heart, "Has she arrived yet?" When practice concluded, I burst from the training hall with such haste that it would put a fleeing rabbit to shame—only to encounter Kanzaemon Karasuyama, a subordinate in Father's group, along the way.

Kanzaemon was an exceedingly humorous man, and I was quite fond of him; whenever we met along the way, I would rejoice at having a good companion, and it was our custom to walk together while exchanging jokes. Today too, when Kanzaemon saw me, he greeted me with his usual grin—"Young Master, are you returning now?"—but I merely grunted "Hmph" and barged past without so much as a glance; Kanzaemon stood there dumbstruck, mouth agape watching my retreating back—even now I can still see that expression of his.

I entered through the middle gate and carefully surveyed the surroundings, but there was no sign of the guests' arrival. Still in my practice clothes, I went to my sister's room wondering what could have happened, and we speculated about the delay. After a short while, hurried footsteps clattered outside the room, followed by a maid’s voice:

“Young Lady, Young Lady! The guests—from Edo—”

I was about to rush out when—"Quiet!" my sister told me—and so I quietly went toward the entrance and saw the girl named Oyuki.

The girl who had followed her uncle into the entrance hall, accompanied by a maid and moving with refined grace, was indeed as beautiful as my mother had praised—tall and slender, her complexion strikingly fair, her eyes clear and bright—a true beauty. Those who only become beauties through applying eyebrow ink and rouge, through lavish adornments—those are not true beauties. A genuine beauty remains lovely without embellishment or pretense, in natural innocence.

At this time, the girl still wore her traveling attire—a simple outfit without affectation—yet her innate loveliness radiated forth, effortlessly illuminating those around her.

Moreover, however beautiful one's features might be, should their bearing prove vulgar, they would lack true elegance—but within this girl's grace resided both gentleness and chastity, carrying such innate nobility that she might have passed for a princess of highest rank.

And no matter how beautiful their features might be, no matter how splendid their attire, country folk lack that ineffable quality—call it spirited grace, supple elegance, or refined charm? Country folk lack that certain graceful elegance, but the girl possessed even this quality.

Uncle from Shimizu was my father's younger brother and Grandmother's second child; thus the girl was Grandmother's grandchild just like me—and moreover, her most beloved one, it seems.
That evening, our whole group gathered in the guest hall and began exchanging stories; being a gathering of blood relatives, no one held back formalities. The talk ranged from domain affairs and Edo gossip to personal tales of kinfolk and scattered rumors about children—not particularly riveting topics themselves. Yet within them pulsed both familial affection and bonds of kinship, bringing sighs at times and uproarious laughter at others—a rare pleasure in those days.
Grandmother beckoned Oyuki to her side with a glance that seemed to say “Come here,” inquiring and chatting about various matters; her voice thrummed with unceasing adoration. Though Grandmother watched Oyuki’s smiling face with evident delight—as if still yearning to embrace and caress her like a child—Oyuki, now eighteen and a proper young lady, could hardly permit such doting. She simply rested a hand on Grandmother’s shoulder and murmured, “You’ve truly become splendid.”
I felt oddly heartened seeing how Grandmother loved this girl as she loved me—and how this girl cherished Grandmother just as I did.

The very next day, I had no sooner returned from my studies than I wondered, "How is the girl doing?" When I looked, I found her in Sister's room with the maid they had brought along—the three of them poring over some book. They noticed me and smiled, and I too found myself drawn out by those smiling faces to smile back for no particular reason.
I had swordsmanship practice coming up, so I immediately donned my training jacket and hakama, wedged my kote armor onto the tip of the bamboo sword, and hoisted it over my shoulder as I left the room. In my heart I thought: This gallant figure—should I call it vigorous or majestic?—I wanted the girl to see both this dynamic bearing and my dedication to practice. Then recalling Miyamoto Musashi setting out on his warrior pilgrimage, I entered Sister's room. This pint-sized Musashi cunningly asked Sister with an innocent face, "Where's Uncle?" Though Sister offered some response, I paid no heed, pretending not to look while stealing a glance at the girl before leaving—only to hear laughter trailing after me.
I happily thought they were talking about me, though upon reflection now, that likely wasn’t the case. From evening onward, relatives, connections, Uncle’s friends—a great many gathered, and as there were female guests among them, Mother, the girl, Sister, and I all joined the gathering.
Before long, with flowers adorning the candlesticks, the banquet commenced, and at the guests’ request, the girl played the Tsukushi koto—indeed proving quite accomplished in string and bamboo instruments. Though I naturally couldn’t fully grasp her plectrum’s melody’s charm when her performance concluded all those present praised her lavishly.
The girl seemed embarrassed by the praise—as if she found her presence at this gathering burdensome—and did not engage in conversation; whenever addressed she would only reply briefly keeping her gaze downward Yet her demeanor remained so gentle and modest without slightest cause for reproach exuding an ineffable refinement; I found myself utterly captivated by her bearing.

My father was both shrewd in martial matters and exceedingly strict; summer or winter, he would rise between the first strike of the castle’s sixth-hour bell and before its second toll could sound, spending the time until breakfast studying military texts. Thus he permitted me no late rising either, having always instructed me to devote myself to martial arts.

I was fortunate that through my father’s influence, I practiced not only archery, horsemanship, spearmanship, and swordsmanship—all the martial arts considered essential for a samurai—but among these, what I loved most was archery. Inspired by Yang Youji, who could shoot willow leaves from a hundred paces away, and Chinzei Hachiro, whose skill in night battles at Ōidono allowed him to shave the star from his brother’s helmet and chill the enemy’s courage, I devoted myself daily to shooting at straw targets in the backyard until breakfast time.

Once again today I went out to the backyard, aiming at my intended target and straw bale to loose several dozen arrows. Having grown somewhat weary from this, I paused to catch my breath when the refreshingly cool morning breeze began chilling my sweat-beaded face, body, and tensed right arm—a sensation most agreeable indeed.
Anyone would find food and water delicious when hungry or thirsty, but that morning breeze felt truly far more pleasant than any sustenance, and my spirits were refreshed.
I stood in bow-staff posture—though "stood" scarcely conveys the vigor—planting that so-called bow-staff stance, then pivoted to eye the standing trees as imaginary foes and struck a defiant pose.
Two silhouettes suddenly materialized before me, having passed overhead. I turned and saw the girl with my sister.

The girl stopped in her tracks and smiled at me with clear eyes, her expression suggesting admiration as if to say, “How diligently you practice.” I acknowledged her with a glance, then tossed aside my bow and went to stand by my sister.

“How very diligently you apply yourself!”
Indeed, the girl had praised.

“How can you say that?
He’s always getting scolded because he doesn’t apply himself properly.”

When Oyuki had gone to such lengths to praise me, Sister interjected with unnecessary remarks—I felt resentful. Yet Sister being Sister, with her inherent kindness, seemed genuinely pleased that her brother had been complimented; smiling, she began praising me using “Even so, you adore it despite being unskilled” as her preface. Though this contradicted her earlier words, such was a woman’s way—I paid it no mind.
As Sister effusively praised me—how I had mastered the Four Books at such-and-such age and the Five Classics at another, how I rode horses well, loved swordsmanship, demonstrated prowess with the spear and archery skills—the girl listened while smiling and gazing in my direction; after listening to it all,

“How truly admirable, especially for someone so young.”

This remark came from the heart, and I felt happy to be praised; more than being commended by others for piercing the target’s bullseye, I found joy in being praised by her.

“Let’s go to the garden. Shu-san, come along too.”

Standing between my sister and the girl, I circled around toward the outer garden and found deutzia flowers blooming beautifully under the far hedge, their petals holding dew and glistening in the morning light.

“Sister! Sister! Sister from Edo!”
“Look here!”
“This flower—I planted it myself. It nearly died when first planted, but through great effort I nurtured it.”
“Isn’t it beautiful?”

“How lovely!”
“Do you like flowers too?”
“And martial arts?” she said, lightly resting her pale hand on my shoulder, giving me a little shake before patting my head. Yet strangely—the moment her fingers touched me—my chest began pounding wildly. I rushed to hide this reaction,

“White ones are lovelier, don’t you think? More so than reddish ones.”

“Yes, they’re understated and...”
“Why do you dislike the red ones?”

“Why?!”
“Red’s the Heike’s banner color, and white’s the Genji’s—since the Genji were stronger, that’s why…”

While spouting this nonsense, he approached the lattice door between the inner and outer gardens.
There beneath five or six white peonies blooming in their full glory, our cat Koro sat crouched with his back bathed in morning sunlight—basking in warmth or feigning sleep?
“Beneath peony blossoms naps a cat whose heart dances with butterflies”—this ever-watchful creature’s pretended slumber drew a butterfly fluttering toward dewdrops on the flowers. Soon it rested its wings upon a blossom, utterly entranced by the glistening droplets.
The great adversary saw his chance—this whimsical hunter meant no malice—and crouched with forepaws drawn tight before pouncing! The butterfly darted back in panic, wings fluttering wildly just above the ground—nearly caught in Koro’s claws.

“Oh my!”
“Such mischief!” The girl rushed over as she exclaimed.

“Stop that! That’s cruel!”

The girl nimbly bent down, restraining Koro while letting the butterfly escape.
Then she picked up Koro and gently swirled her hand around his head in circular strokes. Perhaps thinking he was being scolded, Koro closed his eyes, shrunk his body, and drew in his neck until he looked adorably small. The girl held her face a few inches from Koro’s, scrutinizing him intently—those clear eyes of hers must have been brimming with tender affection.
“You mustn’t go catching insects anymore,” she said, pressing her beautiful rose-colored cheek against the cat’s forehead and revealing pearl-white teeth in a leisurely smile—how utterly innocent and adorable that beaming expression was!
I found myself utterly captivated, envying the cat as I gazed without distraction.
The girl lifted her face—still faintly lit by a lingering smile—to look at mine, and in that smiling countenance I thought I detected an unspoken question: “Why do you stare so?” Though perhaps it wasn’t truly there, this conviction made me flush crimson before I fled in haste to the inner garden—yet within me stirred a strange mix of embarrassment and delight that set my heart racing.

At the seventh hour that day, I returned from horseback practice and thought to go to the room where the girl was, as had become my habit—but wait—how peculiar! I felt this mix of embarrassment and fear—wanting to go yet not wanting to go—until I became utterly conflicted about what to do. Flying into a rage at my own unmanliness, I resolved not to go and even swore an oath to that effect. But human emotions are strange things—suddenly it felt as if some invisible force were tugging me along, and before I knew it, my body had moved of its own accord until I stood before the room where the girl was. The sliding door stood open; I didn’t so much as glance toward the room itself, yet somehow knew—knew with that peculiar certainty of youth—that she had seen me. And so I hurried past with purposefully brisk steps, feigning urgent business elsewhere—only to halt at the neighboring room’s veranda instead, clutching a pillar while pretending to gaze at the garden. Then from the room where the girl was came a sound like someone rising—and soon that sound drew nearer. My heart quickened; all attention converged on that singular noise as my mind painted her image vivid before me. Yet though this vision stood clear as day before my eyes, she herself now stood at my back—mischievous fingers tugging at the nape hairs—

“Shu-san, come here—I have something nice to give you.”

“You have something nice?”
Thinking “Something nice must mean something wonderful,” he became nearly overwhelmed with delight and followed her into the room. When she handed him a paper-wrapped parcel, he opened it to find ordinary sweets—yet coming from this cherished person, they somehow felt precious. Rewrapping them carefully as if gently stroking the paper to avoid tears, he tucked them into his sleeve. The girl watched intently before breaking into a soft smile,

“Shu-san, I’ll make something nice for you.”

“Please do.”

The girl took out countless sheets of hanshi paper,

“Now then, do you see? What do you suppose this will become? This here...”
She began speaking in a leisurely tone.
“Now, this—look, you fold this part like so, then do this here... There we go! One crane is made. See? It’s done now. There—finished!”

The girl folded a crane, then proceeded to make a boat, an incense box, a chrysanthemum dish, and a ceremonial tray for him.
While the girl was bent over, absorbed in her folding, I found myself captivated by her snow-white neck, her glossy black hair with hints of green, her slender, lovely fingers, her beautiful flower-like form—assailed by the fragrance wafting from her sleeves, I forgot everything, simply entranced, so overcome with joy I could have clapped my hands.

“Sister, please teach me how to fold.”

Then I learned the folding method and tried it two or three times, but couldn't manage it, so the girl laughed while saying "You really are an awkward one," and struck my hands until I'd had more than enough. It hurt—the pain seeped into the tendons of my hands—yet along with the pain, joy too seeped into my being. Was I hurting because I felt joy, or feeling joy because I hurt? Perhaps it was because the pain brought joy… Well, never mind that—I gently rubbed the spots she’d struck, as if to keep the ache from fading.

Here, my sister came in,

“What are you doing, Shu-san?”

The girl smiled and turned toward his sister,

“I’m afraid he’s just too clumsy.”

“Who needs to make something like this anyway!”

“If it’s fine that you can’t do it, why did you ask me to teach you? You spoiled brat!”

The girl smiled at the corners of her mouth while pretending to glare from under her bangs—I would have rather had her call me by any name other than “spoiled brat.”

That night, shortly after dusk had fallen, I went casually to Grandmother’s room. There sat Grandmother along with my parents, uncle, and the girl, all engaged in conversation. When Father noticed me, he furrowed his brows and said sternly, “Go elsewhere. This isn’t talk for children’s ears.” Yet I hesitated to leave, both suspicious of the gathering’s gravity and intrigued by its novelty. As I lingered, the girl lifted her face and fixed me with those clear eyes of hers—eyes that seemed to implore, “Leave quickly now...”

That fleeting glance from her carried more force than Father’s solemn command. I obeyed her unspoken will and left immediately, though not before catching a glimpse of everyone’s demeanor as I entered.

Father was telling Uncle, “Indeed, he’s quite remarkable for his age,” while the girl sat with downcast eyes, stroking her knees as Grandmother and Mother leaned in from either side to peer at her face, whispering some inquiry.

After leaving the room, I wondered—what were they discussing? Why was my presence considered improper?

But no—it wasn’t some weighty conviction—merely a wisp of tobacco smoke passing before my eyes, vanishing with a single blink.

From the very start of that day, I had been inexplicably happy and bustling with energy—yet why I felt this happiness remained unknown to me. Still happy without cause even after retiring to bed, I found myself disliking sleep itself, feeling as though something awaited me—though when pressed about what this awaited thing might be, there was nothing—nothing at all I knew of—and therein lay the peculiarity. Caught between dream and reality, convinced something tangible lingered there, I grew utterly averse to lying down. Thus seated upon my bedding—there!—the girl's figure began flickering before my eyes.
The face when she smiled brightly while striking my hand; the face when she glared from under her bangs with smiling eyes and lips; those intense eyes—and above all, her beautiful figure began flickering before my eyes.
Smiling at the memory while holding my breath still—lest her image flee away—moving not a muscle, I slowly burrowed into the bedding, gently pressed the spot on my hand where she’d struck me during the day beneath my cheek, lay down just so—and slipped into sweet slumber without even knowing when sleep took me.

From this time onward, while looking upon the girl's face, while listening to her voice, I felt truly happy and delighted, passing time entranced as if in a dream. Even so, my dreams were in no way diminished by her absence. Whatever others might say, I was still a fourteen-year-old boy—never considering how great the age difference stood between myself and the girl, that she counted several years my senior while I remained but a child before her; never pondering how she was merely a temporary visitor soon to depart these lands; never questioning whether I loved her or she loved me. All these matters held not a dewdrop's weight in my thoughts, my mind wholly captured by present joys that seemed delightful indeed—yet those very joys would take on the quality of smoke, of mist, of haze, until melancholy would rise unbidden and tears sometimes fall. But ah—such spells proved fleeting things! Soon enough I'd be leaping and cavorting once more, sleeping soundly through nights unchanged.

Uncle had been granted barely a week's leave, so those seven days passed like a fleeting dream.
When only one final day remained tomorrow, I found myself somehow reluctant to part from the girl, but fortunately Uncle submitted a three-day extension request, allowing them to stay two or three days longer.
That very night, Mother and Grandmother began a most delightful discussion—for with Uncle's impending return to Edo in another few days, they wished to have the girl experience some novel amusement worthy of being an Edo souvenir before her departure. Thus commenced their consultation about what diversion to choose.
Yet in this deep-rural countryside, enjoyable pastimes meant either the Five Festivals, Tanabata, or Imperial celebrations—otherwise just mushroom hunts and bracken gathering. With April twentieth being no festival day nor seasonal observance, bracken gathering alone remained. Not that bracken plucking itself held particular charm—but for country children raised in bowl-like microcosms of limited experience, it counted as grand adventure; while for Edo-bred souls who found wilderness novel, it offered delightful recreation. Thus bracken gathering was settled upon—a decision met with unanimous cheers when announced.

And so that night, each of them retired to bed in anticipation of the morrow, but with summer's arrival shortening the nights, soon the eastern sky paled and dawn broke.

Around four o'clock that day (approximately 10 AM), with preparations ready, they set out for Nagaiido Forest, located about half a ri from the castle town. The party—comprising Mother, Sister, the girl, myself, two maids, and one manservant, making seven in total—was joined by Kanzaemon, who added himself to our company with “I’ll accompany you too,” swelled our numbers to eight and departed noisily.

The estate's—?

Upon exiting the outer enclosure and leaving the castle town behind, they came to what was commonly called the Senma Dote embankment—a massive structure crucial for containing summer floods from the Tone River, protecting vast swathes of paddies and serving as the lifeline for thousands of farming households. The embankment's upper surface alone measured up to eighteen meters across at its widest points, requiring over a hundred-meter descent from crest to base before reaching level ground—truly an immense construction.

The embankment's sides were flat grasslands where violets, dandelions, and clover flowers nodded their heads through lush green grass in the spring breeze—perhaps finding this amusing—butterflies fluttered gracefully about.

To the right stretched nothing but paddies and fields; on this side, white blossoms dotted the green adzuki bean leaves as if beckoning passersby, while over there an azure sea of wheat rippled in the wind where cheeky sparrows flitted about the scarecrow, pecking at bitter grains. Distant woods scattered sparsely across the horizon, their shadows cradling farmhouse roofs that gazed serenely over the fields. Serpentine paths wound through cultivated plots as villagers came and went—a procession of small carts trailing behind, country girls plucking weeds from paddies, men sowing millet, old anglers casting lines, children chasing dogs. To the left flowed the Tone River's waters; ahead loomed Mount Tsukuba; northward rose Mount Myogi like a ceremonial stone basin; neighboring peaks layered Haruna and Nikko—all composing a scene straight from a painted scroll.

To the eyes of the Edo-bred girl—unaccustomed to such rural sights—this scenery indeed appeared fascinating, and she repeatedly exclaimed praises like "What a lovely view!"

Along the way, we rarely encountered people.
The first person we met was a farmer staggering under a heavy load, who nevertheless made a point of removing his straw hat to bow as he passed by.
Next came village girls likely gathering mulberry leaves from the embankment, each clutching baskets overfilled with leaves under their arms. When they noticed us, they sidled toward the embankment's edge and paused to whisper: "Whose young lady is that?" and "Where might they be taking her?"
Then we spotted farm children intently picking something along the embankment. At one child's shouted signal, they all scattered like startled quail. After scrambling halfway up the slope, they glanced back from afar—only to go shrieking down again when Kanzaemon waved from above.

Kanzaemon's arrival added fuel to our excitement.
As he walked alongside us making constant jokes throughout the journey，we never felt bored，and before we realized it，had reached Sakai Station’s ferry landing on this bank.
The ferryman，catching sight of our party，suddenly rushed from his hut，kowtowed thrice，and pushed his boat into the water.

Here，the river stretched six or seven chō wide—at its broadest point where it splits into Ōtone and Kotone，expanding upstream to fourteen or fifteen chō.
“I recently read The Eight Dog Chronicles by Bakin，”the girl said to Young Lady，“where two warriors fall from Hōryūkaku Pavilion...” She continued describing how Inukai and Inuzuka had washed ashore near Gyōtoku，wondering aloud if these very currents bore them here—all while our boat made landfall on the opposite bank.
Disembarking，we turned sideways past Sakai Station’s boundary into a forest path flanked by cedars，cypresses，and oaks standing sentinel-like，their interlocking branches weaving a canopy that cast shaded gloom below—into this path we ventured.

“We’ll be entering there soon. Come now, everyone—let’s start gathering!” Kanzaemon declared with roused enthusiasm—quite intentionally.

“How are you faring, Shu-san?”
The girl laughed—“I won’t lose to you.”

“Yes indeed!”
“There’s no way I’d lose to you women!”

I can’t quite recall how many ri Nagaiido Forest stretched across, but it was an immense woodland indeed. After proceeding along a small path through the forest for about two or three chō, we came before a tiny shrine—whether it enshrined a leaf-protecting deity or a mountain god remained unclear—marking what served as the forest’s entrance.

When we entered the forest, bracken ferns revealed half their forms from beneath small grasses grown two or three sun tall and among mosquito-net plants, their shapes resembling elegant kana characters brushed by a gentlewoman. Upon seeing this—“Look there!” “Oh how plentiful!”
“Over here too!”
“Good heavens!”
—we began picking while shouting excitedly and hopping about. At first everyone gathered in one spot, but soon they spread four or five ken apart, then seven or eight ken apart as they started harvesting. When two people discovered the same bracken simultaneously, it caused quite a commotion.

“That one! I found it!”

“Oh my! Young Lady, that’s not fair! This is one I found.”

“Lady Oyuki, don’t let Kiyoshi outdo you!”

No sooner had this happened than over there, they were clapping their hands and calling out, “Where did they go?” and “Over here, over here!” While they remained absorbed in gathering bracken, they would be startled by pheasants suddenly bursting from underfoot; this very shock would turn into amusement, and unaware of time passing as they dissolved into laughter, they pressed ever deeper into the forest. Suddenly, voices became audible—where were they coming from? When we looked around in all directions, a thin wisp of smoke was rising from between the distant trees, coiling up exactly like a snake.

We drew near to where the smoke rose, moving without particular destination or purpose—when three human figures came into view between the trees.
The two men wore indigo leg wrappings and cord-fastened straw sandals—a thoroughly practical arrangement—along with white-collared happi coats patterned with floral designs. The man facing away had been difficult to discern from behind earlier, but his split-front haori jacket revealed both a long sword's scabbard and a dagger's pommel beneath it. Perched imperiously upon an elevated tree stump like a market-stall crab asserting dominance, his very bearing marked him as their leader.

Perhaps having noticed our approach, the man in question turned toward us—a familiar face. Upon closer inspection, it was Mori, the mountain magistrate, while the remaining two were his mountain workers.

The mountain magistrate was an official who spent all year making excursions into the forests with packed lunches, overseeing all matters related to woodlands—not a position suited to people of high status. Hence, they naturally maintained polite decorum even toward someone like me.

When Mori saw me, he broke into a broad smile and stood up.

“Ah! Shu-san!
Bracken gathering, is it?
Quite a party you’ve brought along!
Having any luck?
Come now—let’s see your haul!”

Soon the rest of our group drew near.
Mori advanced two or three steps, offering courteous bows to Mother, Sister, and the girl before turning to Kanzaemon—who was prostrating himself like a flattened spider—and remarked,
“Escort duty today? Must be rough work.”
He then glanced toward the maid without speaking, merely flashing a polite smile before addressing Mother again.

“How do you find yourselves? Might you care to rest a little while in the hut?”
“Though—ah—this is truly a most unworthy place… yet… I might at least offer some bitter tea.”
“Yasukichi! Gather what provisions you can and bring them—we’re heading to the hut.”
“Now then, allow me to guide you there.”

The time was perhaps around the eighth hour. This area consisted entirely of cedar forest, the branches of treetops so densely intertwined they nearly blotted out the sunlight. Now and then a capricious pigeon would let out its throaty coo—voices that reverberated through the tree spirits, though to speak of such things feels eerie—their echoes resounding through the surrounding trees until it seemed we had wandered deep into mountain wilderness, leaving us with an indescribable loneliness.
A makeshift hut stood in the forest—its pillars formed from standing trees, a plank roof hastily erected overhead. This served as shelter for mountain workers caught in sudden downpours, its front containing four or five tatami mats so worn and grimy they scarcely deserved the name, while the entrance area became an earthen-floored space with what appeared to be a hearth carved at its center according to the layout.

When Mother, Mori, and Kanzaemon had taken their seats on three-legged iron stools and begun exchanging casual banter about worldly matters, the attendants of similar status across from them had formed a cluster and started their own conversation. Meanwhile, I distanced myself slightly, slipped in among the maidservants, and took up position on this side.

“Shu-san,” the girl said with a laugh, “how much have you gathered? Show me.”
“Oh my, is that all? How meager! I have far more than you. Look here—I’ve won!”

At that moment, I saw my sister combine her gathered bracken with the girl’s.

“That’s cheating! You mixed in my sister’s!”

“Oh, such nonsense.”
“Ohoho, I would never mix them!”

"No, you mixed them in! You mixed them in—I saw you do it!"

"Oh!"
"How cowardly! So unmanly! You're only saying that because you lost!"

When bitter tea arrived, they made the sushi that had been brought by the retainers into their midday meal while continuing to exchange stories about various matters.

At that point in Kanzaemon's tale—this jester having accompanied an official crop inspection through villages—when taking a rest in one village, he decided to tighten his leg wrap cords and foolishly tied them around all four legs of the veranda bench before sitting down to drink tea as if nothing were wrong. When his superior eventually announced it was time to depart, Kanzaemon hastily rose and lifted his leg—only for the bench to tilt from the motion, overturning the tray and smashing the teacup. He presented this episode as a single self-deprecating anecdote, which our entire group paused their conversations to enjoy as a comical story—indeed proving this man was both a humorist and something of a bungler.

After resting there for a while, our group urged the adults on, parted ways with the mountain magistrate, and set out again to gather bracken.
This time, as soon as we set out, everyone immediately scattered and began gathering.
I stayed close to the girl's side, each time she picked bracken comparing it with my own harvest, determined not to lose as I strove hard—yet this time I had become so absorbed in the bracken that I wasn't consciously thinking of her, though neither had I forgotten her entirely. Some primal instinct knew I was by her side; my very cells sensed it—the fluttering sleeves of her affected nonchalance, the kicked-back hem of her kimono, her graceful figure, her beautiful face, her gentle voice—all these flooded my senses—so that somewhere deep within I faintly perceived our proximity, making everything feel more vivid.
Suddenly I spotted an exceptionally lush patch under the dim trees ahead.
Overcome with excitement, I cried out and rushed over to gather them nimbly, but when the girl came running too, I blocked her saying she couldn't take these and tried to claim them all myself—only to fail spectacularly. Though I'd been carrying my accumulated harvest in a cloth bundle until then, I now completely forgot about it in my eagerness to compete with her. The bracken spilled out from the abandoned bundle and scattered everywhere—a grand debacle—and as I scrambled to recollect it, the girl laughingly snatched every last frond without leaving a single one.
"It's unfair to steal what I found! Give them back!" I protested, but she merely laughed obstinately with no intention of relenting. Frustrated and impatient, I scanned the area with saucer-wide eyes for another abundant patch—fortunately spotting one in a thicket's shade ahead, but unfortunately she noticed it too.
Ah, defeated! She dashed there first.
Suddenly she gasped "Oh!" startling me. When I looked, she stood pale beside me—her chest heaving—staring fixedly at the thicket ahead.
Following her gaze to the bushes where grass rustled and swayed, I saw a large blue serpent slither away lumberingly. After a moment she sighed deeply—"How terrifying"—then smiled faintly and glanced about before exclaiming "Oh?" again.
Before her initial alarm had faded from her face fresh surprise stirred within her—through some wordless understanding her disquiet immediately transferred to my own heart.
Looking around revealed no one nearby.
I called for Mother then Sister, but only tree spirit echoes and treetop birds answered—leaving utter silence in their wake.

“Where could everyone have gone?” she asked anxiously.
“I was simply being careless...” Her voice trembled with worry.
“Well...”
“We can’t just stand here. Let us search that way instead.”

Leaving the bracken behind, I took the lead ahead of the girl and ran while calling out repeatedly, but there came no answer.

“It wasn’t this way, was it?” The girl paused thoughtfully. “Perhaps it’s over there. Shu-san, let’s try going that way.”

They ran to check but found nothing. Thinking they might be over there, they ran in that direction too, but still found nothing. They were at a loss.
The girl, looking quite worried, kept pondering something, but in a timid, small voice,

“Shu-san, do you know the way?”

Even I had rarely come to this area before—there was no reason I should know the path—but I managed to roughly figure out our bearings.

“No, I don’t know it well—but since this way marks the boundary, if we keep heading steadily to the right—well—we’re sure to reach it. Once we do, there’ll be no trouble.”
“If we don’t find it, then let’s simply turn back early.”

The girl thought awhile but appeared somewhat reassured.

“If we return ahead of everyone, they’ll certainly worry.”
"And after we went to the trouble of coming together..." She paused thoughtfully. "Well then, let's try going this way once more. This time, we'll go as far as we need to."
“Oh! What are you spacing out for… Shu-san.”

They started walking again.

When you're young, venturing into forests far from human habitation feels daunting enough—how much more so when lost in unfamiliar woods after the boisterous company of a crowd has abruptly dwindled to just one or two companions, leaving you with an inescapable sense of vulnerability.
Had I encountered such a situation on an ordinary day, I surely would have felt uneasy; yet love is a peculiar thing—even if I hadn't consciously recognized my fondness for the girl at that moment—its latent presence kept fear at bay. Rather, the thought of being just the two of us, hand in hand within this deep forest far from any village, filled me with inexplicable delight. Somewhere within me lingered a strange wish that our companions wouldn't find us as we helped each other over tree roots and raced onward. For what felt like two blocks' distance, I ran ahead absentmindedly, nearly in a trance.
Then suddenly, a vast lake appeared before our eyes.

Gazing into the far distance, forests and groves stretched endlessly for miles, veiled in mist that rendered them immeasurably remote. Nearer at hand, trees mirrored their treetops upon the water’s surface, their reflections seeming to rise inverted from the lake’s depths. The water’s azure hue spoke of unfathomable depths. Boats and rafts laden with firewood crisscrossed the lake—likely transporting timber freshly hewn from the surrounding woods to distant places.
The sun had already sunk to the seventh hour, slanting its light across water and through trees to create a truly splendid vista—yet no heart remained to appreciate it, for the girl’s face bore clear disappointment as she offered no words, only gazing despondently at the scene before them.

"Oh my, with such a large swamp here... It seems this wasn’t the right way either. There’s no help for it—let’s turn back."

The girl sighed but resigned herself, turned around, and reentered the woods. After walking a little over two cho, they found a small path ahead, at the end of which stood a little white house.
When the girl saw this house, she slowed her pace slightly and appeared to be thinking, but—

“Shu-san, perfect timing. Let’s go ask at that house and have them search for everyone. Moreover, everyone might have already asked someone to check that house for us—if we come there, they might have told them to stop us. Well, let’s go to that house and see.”

I agreed without objection and suddenly rushed into the house.
At the house, an old couple had been spinning thread and making straw sandals, but upon seeing us, they looked startled; I turned to the old woman,

“Hey Granny, did anyone come looking for us?”

“Nay, ain’t been a soul come lookin’ for ye at all.”
The old woman answered suspiciously, “Would someone be searchin’ fer ya, Young Master?”

“We came to gather bracken but got separated from our companions.”
“Hey Grandpa! Can’t ye go search for ’em? Go take a look!”

The abrupt, disjointed request I’d made was supplemented by the girl, who explained everything properly and politely asked, “How dreadful—please go look for them.”

“They must be terribly worried. Now Grandpa, you go take a look for them, won’t you?”

The old man, who had stopped working earlier, was watching suspiciously, but

“Hmm, I’ll go look for ’em then,” he said. “Make it a quick dash over.”

Yet he remained utterly composed. With leisurely movements, he packed tobacco into his bamboo-root pipe, took two or three puffs—inhaling deeply before exhaling clouds of smoke—then gradually rose to plop himself down on the raised entranceway, where he slowly pulled on his straw sandals. After fastening them, he carefully tucked in the hem of his kimono before finally turning to me.

“Young Master—whereabouts’d ya lose ’em?”

I pointed in the direction.
The old woman saw the old man off as he went out, then pulled out a flower-patterned mat and,

“Come now, Miss. Do have a seat there—that spot’s terribly dirty, see.”
“And Young Master—’ave a seat there too.”

“Granny’ll fetch ya some hot water—sorry ’bout the trouble.”

“Hot water, ’bout? I’ll get it right up—jus’ wait a spell, gotta stoke the fire a bit more.”

While the old woman stoked under the kettle, I looked around the inside of the house.
The house was covered in soot and smoldering, a dilapidated hovel with not a trace of its former self—exactly like those lone mountain cottages you see painted in historical romances.
Before long, the water in the kettle came to a rolling boil, and the old woman ladled it into a cracked, grimy teacup before setting it on a chipped round tray to serve.
I was parched, so without a second thought for the cup’s filth, I gulped it down in one go and then knocked back three or four more cups straight off. The girl brought hers to her lips and hesitated a moment but still drank half. At that moment, I thought, “Now that’s what I call proper kettle water.”

This old woman truly seemed kind-hearted, and as she initiated various conversations, the girl kept her company.

I thought it was quite strange—some twist of fate—that the two of us had come to such a mountain house and were being looked after. This became the thread of my thoughts, and I began recalling various things. That is to say—here in these mountains, even in such a house with bamboo pillars and thatched roof—I found myself wishing to stay alone with the girl; then through this associative feeling, I began imagining us as neighbors living in a cottage beside this very house, as if we'd simply come visiting for a spell; whereupon the girl's figure before my eyes transformed into that of a mountain maiden straight from a painting—wearing a homespun linen robe washed to softness, a madder-dyed cotton tasuki sash across her shoulders, endlessly occupied with rustic tasks: gathering thread, weaving cloth, washing laundry, beating fabric smooth with fulling blocks—or rather, it somehow came to seem that way. Therefore, I had nearly forgotten that I was someone who had become separated from the group and come here now. Suddenly, there was a commotion at the front.

I unconsciously raised my face and looked at my sister.

"Oh, Shu-boy!"

First, Sister cried out.

Everyone hates pain and worry, but once relieved, there is no greater joy than looking back on past hardships in memory. Though their magnitudes may differ, the essence remains one.
Our daytime separation had been a momentary anguish for all, but that night at home, whenever someone mentioned the incident—when it became a source of laughter and storytelling—it instead turned into shared delight.
I felt inexplicably pleased seeing the girl’s joyful face as she recounted this tale, and when I thought myself the one who had shared her hardship, my joy redoubled—realizing that day’s bracken gathering had been a delight unmatched in my fourteen years.
Yet joys and sorrows are truly two sides of the same hand—for such is the world’s way: after joy must always come sorrow.
Normally I spent all day at martial practice, never home before nightfall, and thus remained oblivious—but tonight I first learned: during her stay, arrangements had been made through her caretaker to propose a match between the girl and a retainer of Daiu-no-kami Doi, lord of Koga Castle in our province then residing locally. With their ages and status matching well—and their concurrent presence deemed fortunate—a meeting was suggested. As she was marriageable, Uncle promptly consented. Not only did both parties agree, but the groom-to-be particularly pleased Uncle’s tastes—so upon returning to Edo, preparations would commence to wed her.

When I heard this, how great must my shock have been—before five minutes had passed, I was already in my room, burying my face in both hands and weeping without dignity.

That night after lying down, I had a strange dream—there I was with the girl, lost on some mountain path, wandering without direction. Then suddenly, from a dwarf bamboo thicket nearby, a splendid samurai appeared and, without a word, tried to snatch the girl away. The girl screamed; I, in a frenzy, reached for my sword; in my frenzy slashed at the man—a deep strike to his shoulder; the bastard fell but counterattacked with a draw cut to my torso… A gash four or five inches deep—I collapsed, breath extinguished; the girl plopped down beside me, cradled my head and called my name once; with a start I awoke… Only to find it a fleeting dream… Cracking open my eyes to survey the room confirmed it was fantasy—yet that lovely gentle hand embracing my bloodied head, uncaring of staining herself crimson; that face leaning her bud-like lips near my ear as she called my name burned vivid behind my eyelids; this neck still felt freshly held; tentative fingers touched warm skin; scanning the silent chamber—a lingering fragrance suggested her presence; such thoughts left no peace.

Sitting up on my bedding and straining to listen, I found the house lay silent save for the scuttling of mice… For some time I remained motionless and wordless, but suddenly recalling what I had heard earlier in the night, that vague sadness welled up once more.

The next day arrived. Since Uncle and the girl would be returning to Edo by boat tomorrow evening—tonight being their final chance for farewells—the reluctant group gathered in the guest room as night fell to talk through the night, feeling as though their thirty-odd mile journey to Edo were a parting at opposite ends of heaven.

Overwhelmed by grief and unwilling to join them, I claimed unwellness and sat alone in my room with only a lone lamp's shadow for company. Though I remained this way awhile, soon the thought—"What of her now?"—began gnawing at my heart.

I couldn't leave her be. Hesitating over whether to steal into the adjacent room, I peered into the guest chamber—there she was, chatting animatedly about something with evident delight.

She didn't seem to spare me a single thought, even in dreams.

At this realization, irritation surged through me. I wheeled about, returned to my room, and threw myself across the desk weeping without cause.

Some time passed before sliding doors rasped open—someone entered. Looking up revealed Sister urging me to come since Grandmother requested it. My true self wanted to go—her offer being timely assistance—and I should have gone straightaway, but that spoiled child's stubbornness in me... When gently told "You're not crying," it only made tears well hotter—the more she coaxed, the more I sulked,

“I said I don’t want to, so I don’t want to! You idiot!”

Sister left in exasperation. With the chance to go now lost, as I grew even more frustrated with myself—angry at my own stubbornness—footsteps sounded in the next room, and the dividing shoji slid open.
Assuming it was Sister, I didn't even turn around and kept pretending not to notice, when the approaching person spoke in a scolding tone—

“What are you doing?” she said, grabbing my hand. “You mustn’t engage in such mischief.”

At that moment I was throwing a tantrum and carving the desk with a small knife... I tried to carve again.

“You must stop that,” she said, looking at my tear-streaked face. “Oh my, what’s happened? Why are you crying? Hmm? Hmm?”

I heard this and—for no reason or logic—grew sadder still, simply bursting into silent tears whereupon she placed her hand on my shoulder leaned against the desk opened clear eyes wide and peered at my face from the side.

“Why are you crying? Is there something sad?”
“Hmm?”
“Is your stomach hurting? Hmm?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you feeling unwell?”

I shook my head.

“That’s not it...”
“Then what’s wrong? You mustn’t cry now. Now.”

I abruptly wiped my tear-streaked face with my sleeve,

“Sister... you... are you truly returning tomorrow... no matter what?”

The girl stared intently at my face but, gently,

“Shu-san... so that’s why you were crying?”

She tilted her head and asked, but seeing that I remained silent, tried to pat my head—I brushed her hand away and thought to say something, but my thoughts wouldn’t cohere.

“Sister... you... you aren’t... sad at all... about parting with everyone?”

The girl frowned, looking at his face suspiciously, but—

“Oh? Why?”
“It’s not that I’m not sad... but Father must return as well... and there are... various matters...”
She tried to say something but stopped, pausing to think.

“Shu-san, since I too must return after tonight, let’s play together nicely. Okay?
“There, there. You mustn’t cry anymore. Come now—stop crying.”

How could I not weep? To my ears, each word from the girl resonated like a spring breeze gently caressing young grasses—there sat her tender form before me, those beautiful eyes gazing my way as she offered solace—how could I not weep?
Within five minutes, I found myself in the guest chamber, laughing and playing alongside Sister and the girl.

The following evening, I accompanied Father to see Uncle and the girl off as they boarded the boat. When parting, she gave me a delicate farewell and pledged we would meet again.
I stood on the shore beside Father, watching them embark—what turmoil must have filled my heart then? It felt like parting from kin. And when I wondered whose visage occupied her thoughts as she departed, my sorrow grew profounder still.
The girl crossed the pier and, just as she stepped toward the ship, turned back to face us.

“Uncle, farewell.”
“Farewell, Shu-san.”

With that final utterance—before the lingering echo of her voice had faded from the air—her figure vanished into the ship’s cabin.

The unfeeling boatman untied the mooring rope and thrust his pole against the shore’s rocks; the boat drifted from the bank—this marked their true parting.
Father stood despondent, watching the vessel grow increasingly distant... Then from the ship’s window emerged a figure—who could it be?—gazing toward us; might that be the girl?
You merciless evening mist, shrouding the entire river surface to obscure her form—all that remained visible was a vague white blur, so faint one could scarcely discern whether it was her face.
Ah—in the space of a blink, even that disappeared: the girl’s figure, her shadow, even the great boat bearing her away—all veiled in thin mist with each oar’s stroke. Ah—the boat receded! The oars’ rhythm faded… faded… until neither shadow nor form remained… No oar’s cadence reached our ears; all that met our eyes were Tone River’s waters flowing vast and unending…

＊ ＊ ＊

After returning to Edo, the girl soon married into Koga. Before long she became with child, and when autumn insects stirred the following year, she delivered a jade-like boy—only to meet cruel fate through poor postpartum recovery. At nineteen years of age, she made meaningless those words of reunion promised to me at our parting.
However, the cranes that the girl once folded for me, along with incense boxes and three-sided offering stands—these I still treasure as mementos.

Ah, dear friends—even in my old age today, I still vividly remember her beautiful features: those elegant clear eyes, that glossy green-tinted hair, above all her gentle, refined, flower-like grace... Yet... Alas, where now exists she who was admired as the moon itself, outshining even blossoms?
The moss-cloaked stone engraved with that cherished name still stands in desolate solitude, but the voice of her who sleeps beneath it will never again be heard in this world. Yet for this white-haired old man who speaks thus, it cannot be long before he too lies beneath a stone.
Truly, a human life is like spring blossoms, autumn maples, morning dew, evening lightning—the ancients already said as much, but now I understand it ever more deeply.
When I first felt that wistful longing for someone—of course during those budding years—and then when I finally came of age, became a man, and first ventured into society: ah, how carefree and unburdened I was! Everything I saw and heard seemed full of promise; my muscles groaned with power, my flesh trembled with energy, this vibrant vigor something even I couldn’t contain. Where should I test this strength? How might I unleash this courage? Rubbing my arms, I’d sing boisterously, recite poetry loudly—there was nothing fearsome in my eyes, nothing that seemed beyond my reach. “Let something happen,” I’d think, “so I can prove my mettle!” Believing my youth would last ten thousand years, making plans piled high like mountains—do this, try that—but ah, those youthful days were truly like a summer night’s dream.
Time flew vainly like an arrow; autumn winds rustled through the season of falling leaves; now that I've become a half-dead old man, when I recall those distant bygone days, the shameful things and sorrowful matters are too numerous—scarcely time to count them all.
Ah, among all the things I aspired to in my youth—what did I ever accomplish? Even in my prime I achieved not a single thing—now that I’ve become one leaning on a staff up the slope of old age, what could I possibly achieve now? It’s all futile.
Now its luster has faded, its color has withered—a withered flower awaiting only the wind, and when that wind blows…