Pathway to Japanese Literature

“Have you ever walked a night path? ...What’s that? If you mean those city night paths you’ve strolled a few times—don’t be absurd. With streetlights glowing everywhere—even if everything’s asleep, human breath lingers in the air, drunks and thieves and policemen and dogs and cats loitering about—do you really think sauntering down some city avenue at midnight counts as walking a night path? What I mean isn’t anything so soft. I’m talking about trudging alone down a desolate country night path—nothing but mountains and fields and paddies stretching endlessly, not a single house for miles around, not even a stray kitten—utterly silent and lonesome. You city folk could never grasp it, but nothing equals the absolute hush of a rural night. Not one sound breaks through. Then there’s how pitch-dark nights swallow everything whole—you couldn’t see your own nose if you pinched it—while moonlit nights lay everything bare for miles, and starry nights make the sky’s countless lights glare down eerie-bright. But what chills your bones most is how every solid thing, every familiar shape humanity clings to vanishes into shadow, while formless strangenesses prowl about in that perfect silence. ...Ah, but enough explaining. Let me share some real experiences instead. Listen if it interests you; nap if it doesn’t. Someone like you wouldn’t grasp the truth anyway. ...First though—I’ll have a smoke.”

I

It was when I was in my first year at higher elementary school.
At that time, the system wasn’t like it is now—where ordinary elementary school lasts six years followed by a two-year higher course—but rather, ordinary elementary school was four years, and after consolidating several ordinary elementary schools, there was a four-year higher elementary school.
In the countryside, ordinary elementary schools existed in each village, but higher elementary schools were extremely scarce, typically located in the central town—one serving a town and six surrounding villages, for instance.
Therefore, after finishing ordinary elementary school and entering higher elementary school, I had to commute one ri from my home to that town.

It was autumn during that first year.

There was a school excursion.
The destination was a mountain about two ri from town—though “mountain” might be generous for a seven- or eight-hundred-shaku elevation. We were to climb it, traverse the ridge to another peak, then return. But that morning’s thick fog made judging the weather impossible, delaying our departure by two hours. When we dawdled on the slopes afterward, night had already fallen by our school return.
Of course, they’d likely never planned an early return from the start.
They’d forewarned us—those living nearby could participate normally, but distant students needn’t join. Anyone determined to attend despite the distance was told to arrange with their parents beforehand: either stay with town relatives or at the school if delayed.
Reckless as it sounds, that’s how schools operated back then.
So while all my village classmates stayed home, I stubbornly attended. Planning to lodge with relatives if delayed, I’d actually stayed at their house the previous night and departed at dawn.

And sure enough, by the time we returned from the excursion, the sun had set.
The teacher lined up the students on the school grounds and, while holding his paper lantern's flame close to each of their exhausted faces one by one, asked in a judge-like manner whether those who lived far away would stay at the school or find lodging somewhere in town.
When it came to my turn, I briskly answered that I would be staying with relatives in such-and-such place.

After we were dismissed, I started heading straight for my relatives’ house when suddenly—I don’t know why—an intense longing to return home welled up within me.
Perhaps it was lingering discomfort from their excessive hospitality the night before, or perhaps loneliness from being separated from my parents in an unfamiliar home... Whatever the reasons—now blurred in memory—an irresistible longing to return seized me, and I resolved to act.
Without a word to my relatives, I bought a paper lantern at the town’s outskirts and set off alone down the one-ri path through the paddies.

The relatives, since I showed no sign of returning no matter how long they waited, became extremely worried and went out of their way to inquire at the school, then dispatched a messenger to my house that very evening.
And later, I was severely scolded by my father and the schoolteacher.

But none of that mattered now.

I walked back along the one-ri path utterly alone, carrying a paper lantern.
The sun was completely set, and the moonlight shone crystal-clear.
It might sound odd at first—carrying a paper lantern on a moonlit night—but country people always light lanterns when walking night paths, no matter how bright the moonlight.
It might be partly caution against entering forests or sudden cloud cover, but more than that, that solitary candlelight—that feeble glow illuminating just two or three feet around my feet—somehow felt like a guiding beacon leading me onward.
So much so—the vast rural plains were a lonely, eerie expanse.
Even if moonlight could illuminate a thousand ri with its brilliance, unlike cities where light and shadow stand distinct, here its radiance spilled uniformly across everything visible—perhaps because of this, the ground turned strangely hazy beneath the bright sky, as though filtered through some ethereal sieve, leaving my footing unnervingly precarious.
For instance, direct electric light possesses vivid strength, but drape gauze over it—even the brightest candlelight leaves tatami seams blurred despite lighting the room.
It was, so to speak, a blinded light.
The expansive countryside’s moonlight proved no different.
Bright as it was, my footing felt unnervingly unsteady.

And so, relying on the paper lantern’s flame, I hurried my tired legs with all my might as I walked.
For about half a ri from town, it was a decent main road with houses scattered here and there, but beyond that point, the road forked into a narrow, remote path—one that passed through a large forest and crossed wide fields before reaching the village—where even in daytime, travelers were few.

As I approached the forest, I stared fixedly at the paper lantern’s light, freezing at the creeping dread advancing from behind, and plunged forward with bated breath.
The deep shadows of the tree grove enveloped the surroundings, and dappled moonlight that seemed to spill through the treetops—no matter how much I fixed my eyes on the ground—sent dark shapes and pale glimmers flickering into the corners of my vision.
If I looked that way, it grew even scarier; if I tried not to look, it became even more eerie. My feet, which I’d intended to move as quickly and quietly as possible, now felt like they were clattering through empty space.

Nevertheless, having finally emerged from the forest and caught sight of the bright moonlight over a field that had suddenly opened up, I quickened my pace with a mind to dash in relief when I noticed the candle flame sputtering... as it began to burn out.
When I left town, I had lit a new candle and thought it would safely get me home—and indeed, it should have been enough—yet somehow it was already nearly gone.
From that point onward, though it was a bright rice field path, as I’d mentioned earlier, it still felt daunting without the lantern’s flame.
I felt like crying. Stealing a furtive upward glance at the village grove—thickly clustered about a kilometer ahead—I quickened my pace as much as I could and started walking.

Then came not so much a distinct shadow from the forest's great darkness as some amorphous, eerie shape—an entity of unknowable form—keeping perfect pace just behind me.
Silent as wind, it pressed close against my back.
Walk slowly and it slowed; quicken my steps and it matched my speed.
Fear gripped me—such fear that turning to look became unthinkable.
The lantern flame I'd staked my life upon sputtered... its final moments approaching.

Never before had I felt such terror as I did in that moment.
But what kept me walking was knowing Father had grown used to walking that path late at night.
My father was always out roaming—often drinking in town—yet no matter how deep into night he lingered,
how near dawn he staggered,
or how thoroughly drunk he became,
he always walked home alone along that one-ri path.
Uncharacteristically for country folk,
he’d stride through pitch darkness without even a lantern,
a white-sheathed dagger tucked into his robe.
I’d overheard Mother fretting over this countless times,
their arguments seeping through closed doors.

And so I kept walking, clinging to that single thought as I repeated in my mind: This was a path Father had traversed many times, a path he was thoroughly accustomed to walking late into the night. Yet relentlessly, the terrifying shadow clung tightly to my back.

After such things had continued for quite some time—when I was more than halfway to the village—the shadow on my back vanished as if wiped away.
The moment I thought "Huh?", a pure white fox darted out onto the grassy bank of the potato field.
Then, with a bewildered look, after glancing briefly in my direction, it raised its front paw near its forehead as if shielding its eyes and made a beckoning motion—waving its paw two or three times—before leaping nimbly back into the potato field.
Its entire body was pure white with glossy fur, shimmering a silver more beautiful than dewdrops spilling from potato leaves.

Then everything fell completely silent.
I was startled and looked around me.
It was a brilliantly clear night, moonlight spilling down across everything.
Suddenly, everything around me grew bright—so bright it seemed to illuminate even my very heart.
I no longer felt any fear at all.

The white fox was a messenger of Inari-sama. The Inari-sama enshrined within my estate had sent a white fox to meet me—when that thought came to me, I suddenly felt bold and stopped caring about the candle nearly burning out.

When I later told her about it, Mother said it was likely a white rabbit.
But I insisted it had been a white fox.
To this day, I still believe it was a white fox.

That’s all there is to the story, but…

“You might say such fairy tales aren’t interesting—and perhaps you’re right—but you see, life begins with fairy tales.”
“So then, this time I’ll let you hear a slightly more interesting one.”
“But wait—let me have a smoke first.”

II

It was one or two years after the previous story.

It was when my father had contracted lung disease and was bedridden.

Though my father was thin, he had always been exceptionally robust by nature—even with quite an irregular lifestyle, it never affected his health.
Then he had suddenly been stricken with tuberculosis and confined to bed.
There was talk that he had a friend with tuberculosis whom he had cared for from their deathbed through the funeral, thereby contracting it himself, but whether that was true remained unclear—and in any case, it had nothing to do with this story.

And so, because my father had taken to bed with lung disease, my mother’s concern was immense.
She summoned renowned doctors from a city ten ri away, ordered every medicine advertised in newspapers, ensured a steady supply of soft-shelled turtles and eels through helpers, kept goats to milk them—providing all possible medicines and nourishment—yet my father’s illness showed no sign of improvement.
Eventually, she heard that there was a secret miracle drug for lung disease in a place about thirty ri from the village and set out herself to purchase it.

The shortest route there involved walking four ri along country roads from those undeveloped days when transportation networks hadn't yet opened up, then boarding a steam train—with still a considerable distance remaining beyond that after all.
Relying on dubious handwritten characters scrawled on the back of an old medicine pouch—which a certain village elder who claimed this wondrous drug had cured his illness had dug out from his drawers—she set out with only vague bearings, making it a story akin to clutching at wisps of dreams.
And this so-called miracle drug proved truly uncanny.
When taken, within twenty-four hours all germs in the body would perish—their toxins and waste expelled wholesale through diarrhea—while any remnants emerged as abscesses that ruptured outward.
Now that I think about it, that substance might have been concocted from human brains or similar matter secretly obtained from crematory attendants and prepared.

Upon hearing about that medicine, Mother apparently clung to it with single-minded faith—like a drowning person grasping at straws.
And of course keeping it secret from Father and everyone else, she went out herself to purchase the medicine.
But she secretly confided it only to me.
After Father was made to drink it and suffered violent diarrhea, on a certain dark night, Mother had me carry a paper lantern and buried it in the shadow of the bamboo grove at the corner of our estate.
And while glaring at me with her terrifying look, she emphatically told me, “Don’t you dare tell anyone.”
And so I had kept silent until today, but I ended up letting it slip.
But this story isn’t about that medicine.

Mother had gone alone to buy that medicine, but with Father bedridden and it needing to be kept secret from everyone, she seemingly had no choice but to return home that same day.
So she devised some pretext and set out around two or three in the morning.
Speaking of two or three in the morning—isn’t that precisely the time for the Hour of the Ox pilgrimage?
At that very moment, Mother must have felt as diligently dutiful as if undertaking the Hour of the Ox pilgrimage.

I no longer remember what path the four-ri country road from the village to the train station took.
But I clearly remember only this: about half a ri from the village stood an immensely long embankment, through whose center—flanked on both sides by reeds over ten feet tall growing thickly—one had no choice but to pass.
The reason being, I had followed Mother all the way there.

Why Mother took me that far remains unclear to me now, but regardless, I walked hurriedly, sticking close to her side. It was summer, and since dawn couldn’t be far off, we hadn’t lit the paper lantern. The sky was beautifully clear, stars scattered everywhere, their faint glow dim in the darkness. Mother had tucked up the hem of her kimono and was walking briskly in silence, dressed in leggings and straw sandals. And she never once took my hand. Even so, I did not complain. The mere fact that I was walking this night path with Mother to buy Father’s medicine filled my heart completely.

“Mother, let’s go faster, faster….”

“There’s no need to rush—we’ve been out since midnight…”

We came upon the long embankment.
The tall reeds growing thickly on both sides had arched their leaves over the path, forming a tunnel-like passage.
Spider threads stretched here and there across our way clung to my face with unpleasant stickiness.
Dew from leaf tips soaked through our kimono sleeves.
Yet strangely enough—though we pushed through those reed leaves—there came no rustling sound at all.
The night hung silent and crisp; through gaps in our green tunnel’s ceiling glittered countless stars.

“This embankment is really long, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s long.”

After that, Mother fell silent again and continued walking.
I too quickened my pace so as not to fall behind.
Yet no matter how far we walked, it remained the same embankment, with no end in sight.
As we lingered there, I grew increasingly anxious that dawn might break before long.
What would become of us if we stayed forever on this embankment where I’d heard bandits once roamed?

“I wonder if dawn isn’t breaking.”
“Not for a good while yet.”

Still, I thought the eastern sky was already beginning to pale faintly. And indeed, when suddenly the reed thicket ended and from atop that high embankment lotus fields dotted with pure white blooms came into view in the distance, upon looking back, the hem of the eastern sky had become faintly tinged with pale red.

“Look.”

As I stopped to look, Mother too stopped to look.
Since Mother suggested we rest there for a while, I sat down with her on the dew-chilled grass.
Though the eastern sky had begun to color, the surroundings still remained a hazy moonlit night.

I had nothing to say and silently crouched beside Mother.
While passing through that long tunnel of reed leaves, I dimly recalled how Mother had never once taken my hand during that time.

After that, I had no recollection at all of how I parted from Mother and returned home alone. Or perhaps even following Mother that far might have been a dream. Yet it was far too vivid for a dream. The events of that time would float up in my mind in vivid relief, down to the smallest details.

Whether it had been reality or a dream, I kept thinking of asking Mother, but since it hardly seemed worth specially writing to inquire with her living so far away, it remained unresolved to this day. Yet according to my own sense of it, there was no doubt it had been real.

"What, you think it's all just some dream? Well hold on—it'll grow more intriguing as we go."
"But let me have a quick smoke first."

III

It was during my third year of middle school.
I once walked about two ri along a mountain path on a dark spring night.

At that time in our school, remnants of old barbarian customs persisted—at least superficially—where speaking of women was deemed contemptible, resulting in somewhat deteriorated conduct among boys.
That said, this was largely lip service; in reality matters weren’t so severe, and practical affairs still inclined toward women.
Yet all female students maintained secrecy about such things, while among us boys, rumors chiefly concerned who harbored interests in whom.

If I tell you this, you might laugh—but even I once had a certain upperclassman take a liking to me, with this face of mine... But back then, I did cut a better figure, you see. On my part though, I had my eye on a certain classmate——though putting it that way might give the wrong impression. Let's just say I was fond of him. I knew full well he felt the same way about me. Had he told it, one might say it was actually I who'd caught his eye. We would often talk in corners of the schoolyard and visit each other's homes. Both of us being the gentle sort, we shared a love for literature and sentimental leanings.

"What? Acting on it? Don't be absurd. Not once did anything happen—neither active nor passive. First of all, homosexuality in those days was truly an innocent, foolish thing—a fantasy built upon the vague yearnings of adolescence. It lacked both the strength to progress toward actualization and any inherent aim toward realization. To put it another way, we were simply using each other as stepping stones for fantasy. The true object of our fantasies existed in some distant realm shrouded in ambiguity."

Now, there was one boy in my class with whom I shared mutual affection.
And during spring vacation, we made plans to take a four- or five-day trip together.
I went to invite that boy to his family home in the countryside, and then we intended to go mountain climbing together.

Now, that day, though the weather was fortunately good, the delayed rural petrol-powered railcar caused us to miss our connection to the proper train.
The trains there being infrequent, we were made to wait at the station for two and a half hours.
Moreover, when we got off at the station ahead, there was a thunderstorm.
The day was already approaching dusk.
In an unfamiliar land, I found myself utterly at a loss, completely alone.

Fortunately, there being a customer needing transport, a carriage was available, and I was jolted along for about twelve miles in that slow-moving carriage.
But beyond that point, the carriage couldn’t go.
It was said there were still another five miles or so to my friend’s house.
Over two hours had already passed since sunset.
It was a dark night under a cloud-covered sky where not a single star could be seen.
The flickering lamplight of a shabby inn in the small post town seemed to beckon.
I seriously considered going inside.
But imagining my friend waiting anxiously for my arrival, picturing that bright yet sorrowful smile of theirs, I wanted to reach them that very day even if it meant arriving late.
I wanted to hurry there and talk through the night.
So finally resolving to leave the inn behind, I set out along the two-ri path with a small paper lantern dangling.

Though I had inquired in detail about the route at the lantern shop, being in unfamiliar territory on a dark night—as the road gradually ascended toward the mountain's base and the roadside grass grew thicker—I sank into an unbearably lonely state of mind.
Not knowing whether it was a high mountain or low hill before me, enveloped in pitch-black darkness along a sloping path through continuous mixed woodlands—relying solely on my lantern’s flame while cautiously trying not to stray from the instructed route—I walked onward through this lonely state of mind, picturing my friend’s form in my heart as if they were a lover, repeatedly bolstering my own spirits as I went.
Even so, the two-ri path proved absurdly long.
How interminable that first country path felt—you probably can’t even imagine.

Before long, the road sloped downward this time, and after walking some distance, it leveled out.
Yet green grass grew halfway across the path, and judging by the shallow cart ruts, it seemed to be a little-traveled road.
Before I knew it, the path had left the foothills behind and continued on and on into the distance, following a gentle river in a narrow, meandering course.

When I suddenly noticed, there was a strange sound up ahead. While wondering at this strangeness yet feeling emboldened, I quickened my pace to pursue it—and there was a man pulling an empty cart. A man of farmer build in a jet-black kimono and straw sandals, wearing no hat but only a hand towel tied around his head, pulled the empty cart clattering through the pitch darkness without a single light. It was completely empty; not a single rope was loaded on it.

I felt an odd sensation and followed at a slight distance, and then—perhaps noticing the light from my lantern—the man suddenly turned around. Although I couldn’t make out his features, his manner suggested he had been startled. I too found myself startled and instinctively began to ask.

“Ah, just one quick question...”
Then I stated the name of my friend’s village.
“To reach there, should I follow this path?”

“Yep.”

“Is it still far?”

“Soon.”

Though his reply was curt, its unmistakably human tone reassured me and lifted my spirits, so I briskly walked past him.
As he passed me by, his eyes glanced back with a piercing look that seemed to glow strangely in the darkness.
But paying it no mind, I hurried along, and from behind came the clattering of the empty cart over the pebble-strewn path.
The faster I walked, the more it clattered along at the same pace.
Eventually this began to bother me, and thinking I should at least try to make conversation, I slowed my pace a little but still kept facing straight ahead without turning around, and asked if he knew my friend’s surname.

“Dunno.”

He tossed out the words curtly, after which only the sound of the empty cart resonated through the hushed darkness of the night.
I tried speaking again.

“It’s impressive how you can pull the cart without even a lantern on such a dark night.”

“’Cause I’m used to it.”

After that, there was no more conversation, and we walked on in silence for a long time.
The empty cart alone kept up its mindless clatter-clatter-clatter.
The more I grew accustomed to hearing it, the more the sound gnawed at me.
What on earth was this man? I began to wonder.
Before long, from far away came the roar of water from the weir.
At first I couldn’t discern what it was, but as we drew nearer and it became unmistakable, a strange chill ran down my spine.
My legs grew heavy of their own accord—clatter-clatter-clatter—the empty cart’s sound closed in right behind me.

As we neared the weir—where the path rose slightly above the rice fields—the clatter of the empty cart abruptly ceased. Thinking "What now?", I turned around to see the man supporting the cart's shaft with one hand while lifting the front of his kimono with the other, urinating so vigorously that it streamed white and distinct even in the lantern's faint light. I was momentarily stunned, but found myself inexplicably needing to relieve myself as well. Stepping off the roadside toward the lower rice field, I let loose with equal vigor.

Having finished relieving myself, I found myself oddly developing a slight sense of familiarity toward the man and had barely paused to collect my thoughts when he—his sun-darkened face with prominent cheekbones (it was then I first properly saw his features)—came clattering up with quickened steps, a friendly gentleness softening his expression.

“Thought you was someone I didn’t recognize and kept my guard up, but seems I was wrong.”

Suddenly starting to say that, he proceeded to explain the circumstances.
“At that weir, a young traveler had died—whether by throwing himself in or falling.
“And sometimes, whether it be that ghost or the kappa that devoured his entrails, they’d harass folks passing through late at night.
“When you’re pulling a cart through here, it’ll gradually get heavier.
“Turns out that’s ’cause it’s riding on your cart.
“So tonight when I ended up walking with you,” he said, “I figured maybe you was that thing in disguise. Kept my mouth shut at first, but once we got near the weir, thought I’d test it by taking a piss.
“If it’s a monster, it won’t piss together with you. But if it’s human, folks mostly take a leak side by side, see?”

“Since you took a piss with me, I could finally ease up.”

Then he started talking to me about all sorts of things—asking where I’d come from and why I was so late—before declaring that he actually knew my friend’s house well and would take me right to its doorstep.
Since he’d already steeled himself for a monster hopping onto the cart anyway, he even offered to let me ride in the empty wagon.

I felt as though I’d been bewitched by a fox, yet my mind gradually settled, and I passed by the terrifying weir with seven or eight ancient cedars standing in a row alongside it without feeling particularly afraid.

Still, when walking together along a night path, as long as they’re ordinary humans, isn’t it somewhat amusing how if one person urinates, the other will usually do the same?

Do you understand that feeling too, I wonder.

"What? 'I don't get it but it's interesting'—so you've finally taken an interest in my story for once. Well then, next time I'll tell you something less crass—something more refined. But first, kindly allow me to have a smoke."

IV

This occurred long after the previous story, when I was nearing my university graduation.

At that time, I was continuing to grow in every direction—so to speak, my vital functions were operating at their peak.
I would go around drinking late into the night, wander about seeking delicious foods, sometimes visit brothels while also writing earnest love letters; on the other hand, I studied seriously and maintained curiosity about everything.
My body was also in excellent health.

During that summer vacation, to work on my graduation thesis, I went to a secluded hot spring deep in the mountains.
But graduation theses turned out to be notoriously troublesome things. Though I'd initially underestimated them as nothing difficult, when it came down to it, the work proved unexpectedly cumbersome—by September I still hadn't even written half.
So I postponed my original plan to return at August's end and decided to stay through late September.
After all, Tokyo would still be sweltering if I returned, my motivation for university lectures wouldn't properly kick in until October anyway, and staying settled in that mountain retreat through September seemed the wiser course.
Once resolved, I grew carefree once more and settled into writing my thesis gradually while taking my time.

However, around the 20th, I was summoned back to Tokyo by telegram—SAKAMOTO SHISU SUGU KAERE, it said.
Sakamoto was my close friend and someone I deeply respected.
An exceptionally sharp-minded man who had graduated that year from the university's philosophy department, he possessed insights into literature and other arts that surpassed even my own specialized knowledge.
Though chronically sickly, he had seemed to suffer from nothing more serious than pleurisy.
That he had died left me profoundly shocked.
It later emerged he had contracted typhoid fever in late August and passed away suddenly.

As I thought about Sakamoto in all sorts of ways, I immediately began preparing for my return to Tokyo.
The telegram had arrived around four in the afternoon, so if I got ready and left then, I ought to have been able to catch the night's last train.
But as ill luck would have it, the mountain path had been damaged by the previous day's torrential rain, and even the rickshaws that had barely managed passage were now impassable.
So I resolved to walk instead—preparing straw sandals and a lantern—and set out.
I arranged to have my luggage sent later from the inn.

From the hot spring to the station stretched a five-ri downhill path; though I had departed just past six o'clock, I remained confident of reaching there by the train scheduled around ten.
Though it was a formidable mountain path along a mountain stream, I was accustomed to such things—enough that I’m here telling you these night path stories—and besides, the moon was due to rise soon.

I walked briskly down the mountain path that had been washed by the previous day's torrential rain.
Along the way it grew completely dark and I briefly lit my paper lantern, but before long a large moon emerged over the eastern mountain ridge.
The sound of the mountain stream resounded through the deep valley.
Every time I emerged from the dark tree shadows, the view of the valley spread out immediately below my eyes—pale moonlight flowing over thin mist.
From that area, the chilly night air began creeping up.
Speaking of late September, in the mountain depths it was already autumn.
The scenery of the autumn moonlit night was a beauty so intense it seemed almost terrifying.

However, I had no leisure to gaze upon that scenery at length.
If I missed the ten o'clock train, I would be delayed by an entire night.
I descended the twisting path that fell away beneath my toes as quickly as possible.
In various places, landslides had collapsed.

And about halfway there, roughly two and a half ri from the hot spring, stood a single wayside teahouse.
It was just before eight o'clock, but eight in the mountains might as well have been midnight. The old woman who ran the teahouse seemed to have gone down to the village, leaving the place utterly still, with a single bench pushed askew against the tightly shut front door.
I borrowed that bench to smoke a cigarette, intending to take a brief rest.
Given that there was a wayside teahouse here, it must have been a spot with a good view; when I craned my neck sideways to look, everything from the mountains ahead down to the lower valley lay clearly visible under the moonlight.
On the opposite bank's edge hung a waterfall that glimmered faintly white in the night.

I stood transfixed by that view for some time.
Then someone strode briskly past my side.
Startled, I turned to see a young woman walking by without even a glance.
The lantern light flickered across her feet clad in white tabi socks and straw sandals before vanishing around the distant bend.
What remained was a hushed nocturnal stillness—moonlight gleaming, only the mountain stream’s murmur echoing.

I remained dazed as if dreaming, but after considerable time had passed, an odd shudder violently shook my body.
It was a feeling indistinguishable between terror and irritation... Only later would I realize—from the hot spring onward, I hadn't met a single person, nor had anyone overtaken me or been overtaken.
From this I reasoned she must have either left the hot spring after me and passed me by, or come from some distant path.
Yet either way, it defied reason.

But at that time, I didn't consider such things.
On an autumn night's mountain path, overtaken by a young woman—I was filled with that indescribable emotion.
With a sort of desperate resolve, I stood up and started walking briskly.

When I thought I had walked about five or six hundred meters, the woman was sitting on a rocky outcrop by the roadside. With the dim lantern light beside her and moonlight slanting across half her body as she faced outward, her figure gave the impression she’d been sitting there unchanged since time immemorial. I found myself breathless and rigid as stone, passing by after casting a fleeting glance. She didn’t so much as look my way.

After walking on awhile, an utterly unexpected feeling welled up within me. Now it was I who needed to rest and wait for her... Though I didn’t understand why, I felt compelled to wait—this seemed only natural. To put it plainly, I felt powerfully drawn to her. But don’t misunderstand—not in any ordinary sense of attraction, but literally drawn as if by physical force. After all, I’d never even seen her face—hadn’t I merely perceived her as a young woman through her bearing?

As that feeling gradually grew stronger, I eventually sat down on a moonlit rocky outcrop to wait.
Then she arrived with astonishing speed.
Then she slowed her pace, peering at the lantern hanging from one hand resting on her knee, not looking at my face, and began speaking in a slightly trembling voice.

“Um… Excuse me, but could I borrow some light from your lantern?”
“I tripped and it went out.”

I had thought all along it would be something like that—that was the feeling I had at that moment. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, I took out a match and lit her paper lantern. In that sudden flare of light, I saw her face for the first time. Her features were ordinary... neither beautiful nor ugly, but the lusterless pure whiteness emerging from beneath her large coiled hair struck me as somehow uncanny.

Then we set off walking together, each carrying our own paper lanterns.

"How far are you going?"

“I’m heading to the town at the foot of the mountain.”

With just that exchange, we both fell silent and continued walking briskly, minding our footing by the lantern light.
The path wound through pitch-dark tree shadows and emerged into bright moonlight.

And when we had walked about one ri, she said her foot that had stumbled earlier was hurting.
So I had to take her hand and lead her.
In the end, I took her by the arm and walked while supporting her.

“I somehow feel as though long ago, I was led by someone like this along a night path.”

“She said in a heartfelt tone,”
When she said this, I too began feeling as though I’d once walked a night path in exactly this manner long ago.
But in that memory, it was my arm being supported—the one supporting me hadn’t been this woman, nor had the path been in these parts.
Who had it been? Where had it been? These questions churned relentlessly through my mind.

Then gradually, her arm—initially warm and pliant—began stiffening and turning cold.

“Is something wrong?”

She merely shook her head without saying anything.
I tried asking various questions, but for some reason she wouldn’t utter a single word, only shaking her head repeatedly.
I began to feel strangely unnerved, yet couldn’t just abandon her there, so I quickened my pace—and though she’d complained of foot pain, she kept up without falling behind.
In the end, I too fell silent, feeling as though I were dragging a log or stone.

Gradually, the path began to level out, and on the gentle foothills ahead, the station and surrounding town's lights became dimly visible through the haze of moonlight.
When I thought I was finally safe—perhaps because my guard had suddenly dropped—my legs grew unbearably heavy.

Suddenly noticing, I turned around thinking of her—and to my astonishment, the woman I should have been supporting by the arm was nowhere to be seen.
The moment I thought, "Huh?" a shudder ran through me, making my hair stand on end.
And then I began running frantically.

One never knows what brings happiness.
Thanks to my frantic running, I caught the train I had nearly missed.
Even so, no matter how much I think about that woman, I still don’t understand.
It’s not like I was tricked by a fox or anything…

Well, sure—it’s exactly the kind of story where one might say someone was tricked by a fox, but the impression left on me isn’t such a trivial matter.
But never mind that—this time, I’ll tell you something even stranger.
After smoking a cigarette...

V

This was something that happened just two or three years ago.
I began to feel strangely bored with life—the daily grind of doing dull work steadily every day seemed like a drab, lifeless existence, and I found myself craving something bright and extraordinary—something that would flare up suddenly.

From my second-floor window, through the thicket of Chinese parasol trees, I could look down directly into the tatami reception room of the immediately neighboring house. They hung a bulb of wilted Welsh onions from their veranda eaves. In that cramped, dimly lit space—likely a mother around forty and her fourteen- or fifteen-year-old daughter—they diligently sewed through the summer heat each day. When night fell, a mustached man would join them along with a boy of four or five whose parentage was unclear, and they would all eat and talk together. Illuminated by electric light flaring into view through my window, their lives appeared all the more small and pitiful.

Yet, this sensation of observing the neighboring household’s life from my second-floor window suddenly began reflecting onto my own life.
When sitting down to meals with my wife and children, when leaning over my desk working, when sprawled on the veranda reading newspapers, when even the maids gathered to give fireworks to the children—in all these varied moments, through some fleeting state of mind that made me imagine a hole opening somewhere in the roof through which someone might peer down, I would think how pathetically small my life must look from above... Then I would become that very observer, feeling as though I were looking down from a great height upon my own existence, until this wretched shabbiness filled me with miserable disgust.

So I thought.
When looking down on people's dwellings from a high place, even the most splendid lives appeared miserable.
Yet when I stepped outside, even the beggars wandering the streets seemed to take on a bright, expansive aura.
No matter how high up you looked down from, it was all the same.
Why was this?

As I pondered in this way, I found myself both envious of and astonished by the vigorous growth of young buds sprouting swiftly from the base of a peach tree in a corner of the narrow garden.
When I traced the direction of the young buds' growth and looked up, during the day the boundless azure sky stood perfectly clear, while at night countless stars twinkled.

The sky clears, stars sparkle—yes—that sensation was precisely what I wanted to cherish deep within my heart forever.
But as for my life...
No—external existence aside—I wanted to make at least my inner life something luminous.
When I thought about it—had there ever been a time I maintained such radiant clarity of mind that I wouldn't flinch even if observed from above? Would such a time ever come?
What on earth should I do?
The sky clears, stars sparkle—how could I ever cultivate a world rooted in such sensations? I pondered this way each night gazing skyward, losing myself in endless reverie.

And then what I suddenly thought of was the idea of climbing some high mountain.
Thinking that perhaps my mind—turbid with sordid human affairs—might naturally attain new clarity if cleansed by a high mountain's spiritual air, I tried inviting two or three friends. But as none seemed likely to accompany me, I resolved to go alone at least to the mountain's base and set off by myself.

I first went to the foot of a certain mountain in the Northern Alps.
And just by gazing up at the majestic mountain range with snow gleaming white on their peaks, I was filled with bright yet tense exhilaration.
However, when I saw climbers in their intrepid gear—being completely unprepared myself—I felt intimidated, and the thought of climbing alone with just a guide made me uneasy.
So I abandoned the idea of climbing altogether, stayed at the inn there for two or three days, and returned home.

It was during that stay.
Growing tired of just staring at the mountains, I took to walking around the vicinity every day.
After all, being a lone inn deep in the mountains far from any village—catering solely to mountaineers—even a short walk would immediately lead one into the heart of untamed wilderness.

One night, borne along by moonlight, I ventured far following a mountain stream. My choice to take a narrow mountain trail on the return proved ill-advised—through some error in navigation, I found myself emerging onto a low hilltop meadow where the path ahead vanished completely.
That alone might have been manageable, but when sudden fog descended, I lost even my sense of direction.

I recalled hearing that those who lose their way on mountain paths often circle endlessly in one place.
So first I crouched there, steadied my breathing thoroughly, then roughly gauged my bearings.

The fog was thin—perhaps because some moonlight filtered through—so while I couldn’t see far into the distance, nearby areas had a hazy glow to them. The sound of a mountain stream echoed in the distance. Since it could be heard both to my right and left, it remained unclear which direction would lead me out. Furthermore, I couldn’t tell at all whether I had passed beyond where the inn stood and emerged downstream or was still roaming about upstream.

If there was no other way, I would wait here for the fog to clear—I resolved—and kept crouching indefinitely.
But this was a fog that showed no sign of lifting, and with nothing but the inn’s yukata thrown over my undershirt, the night mist chilled me to the bone.
Still, thinking it was better than getting lost farther away, I kept enduring patiently.

As for my state of mind during that time—it was beyond description. The only sounds were those of mountain streams on either side, their undulating flow occasionally disrupting my reckless meditations. I entrusted everything to them, sinking into intermittent yet profoundly deep thoughts unlike any I had ever contemplated before.

But as for that moment—it utterly cannot be captured in words. A meditation into which I poured my entire being—well, think of it that way, if you will.

And a long time passed. The fog showed no sign of clearing. Countless faintly pale wisps flowed and drifted across the entire expanse. I could bear it no longer and stood up to walk. It wasn’t that I had thoughts like which way to try going or which direction was which. Exactly like a sleepwalker, I had instinctively begun to stagger forward. Weeds five or six inches tall mixed with occasional taller thickets grew densely across the expanse—I could only perceive them through faint sensations at my feet. Even the ground beneath remained indistinct, and the lay of the land around me grew all the more unfathomable. But occasionally, vague shapes would materialize before my eyes—when I drew closer, they turned out to be spindly hemlocks or larches stretching upward.

Before long, without my noticing, a shadowy human-like figure had come to stand rigidly beside me.
When I turned and looked closely, it was indeed a human—wearing a single dark kimono with indistinguishable stripes, bareheaded with long, disheveled hair.
From the waist up it jutted out abruptly, its legs hidden within the fog.

Strangely enough, I felt no particular surprise and took four or five steps toward it.
Then the figure retreated four or five steps.
"Oh, this fellow’s afraid of me," I thought. As I stared fixedly at him, he too stared fixedly back at me.
That face seemed somehow familiar.
I couldn’t recall when or where I’d seen it, but there existed an extremely faint yet profoundly intimate memory.
It was a recollection both achingly close and indistinct—something known since before birth yet never clearly seen; thoroughly familiar in essence yet impossible to articulate—an all-too-near yet all-too-vague remembrance.

I took four or five steps closer again.
Then he too retreated four or five steps in the same manner.
When I stopped, he stopped; if I approached, he retreated.
Growing slightly irritated, I tried asking.

“Who are you?”

Then, in the same manner, he asked back.

“Who are you?”

So I stated my name and explained that I had gone out for a walk, gotten lost, and was in trouble, then asked how to get back to the inn.
But to this he gave no reply at all and stood there silently with a sorrowful expression.

A strange feeling came over me, and I began walking alone.
No matter how far I went, it remained the same endless grassland.
At first there had been a faint path I'd managed to follow, but even that eventually disappeared, leaving only desolate land scattered with waist-high shrubs growing in dense clumps.
Pushing through them a little further, I emerged atop a high cliff.
Gripping a tree branch and peering down, I heard the distant rush of water far below as cold mist billowed up from unfathomable depths.
The slope appeared like landslide debris—gritty sand forming a near-vertical drop where jumping seemed the only way down.

I stood there for a time, uncertain what to do.
When I suddenly noticed, about ten ken ahead to my right, the man from before was standing there faintly once more.
When I turned toward that direction, the man also turned toward me.
And we stared at each other for a long time.

At that moment, I knew with absolute clarity.
If I were to jump off the cliff, the man would undoubtedly jump as well; if I were to crouch there or turn back, he would undoubtedly do the same.

“Should I just jump off?” I said.

“Ah, let’s jump,” he answered from across the way.

So with every intention of jumping off the cliff, I began groping my way toward its edge.
Then I became intensely lonely and turned toward him.

“If you’re going to jump in, then let’s jump together—hand in hand.”

And I took two or three steps back and started walking toward him—he retreated the same distance I advanced.
At this, I just had to catch him and chased him endlessly.

“Why are you running away?
“Let’s hold hands and jump off the cliff together.
“Well, since it’s come to this, there’s no helping it.”

Even when I called from behind, he kept fleeing without responding.
Chasing after him, I walked along the cliff edge for what felt like ages.
Then he suddenly stopped and glared at me with a terrifying face.
I too halted in my tracks, startled.

“Why on earth are you chasing me?”
“But didn’t we agree to jump off the cliff together holding hands?”
“You’re such a fool.”
“Why?”

“Can’t you jump by yourself?”
“If you can’t even jump by yourself, then you shouldn’t have invited me.”

When I, stuck for words, was staring blankly, he—for whatever reason—suddenly tried to jump off the cliff.
Seeing this, I felt my head spinning and leapt off the cliff in blind desperation.
I seemed to slide endlessly down the steep slope of gritty sand, yet miraculously emerged without injury and plopped down neatly on a patch of turf.
But I no longer had the strength to stand up and remained crouched there blankly.
The man vanished without a trace.

When I finally came to my senses after some time, I found myself in a grassland beside the main road leading to the inn.
The fog cleared, and the moon was shining brightly.
When I looked back, where I had jumped down was merely a sandy slope of about two ken.

Even so, what remained mysterious was that man.
Given how clearly he had spoken, he didn't seem to be my own shadow reflected in the fog, nor anything resembling what you'd call a mountain spirit.

What's that? You say it makes no sense? Well of course—it makes no sense to me either. Walk enough country night paths and you'll stumble upon countless inexplicable things.
There's more where that came from, but since you've likely tired of listening and I've tired of telling, let's stop here for now.
Why don't we sit and savor a smoke?