Pathway to Japanese Literature

Long ago, during the reign of Emperor Kazan, there was a man called Murasaki no Dainagon.
His corpulence had by chance taken on human form, so exceedingly fat was he.
Though he had already reached fifty years of age, his renowned amorous nature showed no sign of waning, and night after night he visited women here and there.
On his way back at dawn's first light—perhaps lingering over the scent left from a lover's dawn parting—if he glimpsed a woman standing unhesitatingly on a veranda, enraptured by the morning scenery, he would creep to the fence's base and peer through gaps as was his custom.
When challenged under suspicion, imitating chicken or mice cries had long been his practice, but at times he would utter uncouth remarks unbefitting a connoisseur—such as "What delightful fun!"—and feel thoroughly pleased.
In the bushes by the fence, he never troubled himself over matters like soaking his lower half in dew.

At that time, there was a wicked man named Fujiwara no Yasusuke—the fourth son of Sakyō no Taifu Tadatada. He enlisted his nephew, a young man called Uhyōe no Jō Sakiakira, gathered a gang, and became a bandit leader. They established bases in Mount Suzuka of Ise Province and Takashima in Ōmi, spread across numerous provinces, surged into the capital as well, killed people, abducted beautiful women, burned houses, and plundered treasures. This was none other than the now-notorious Hakamadare no Yasusuke.

Hakamadare’s gang were not only powerful enough to scatter punitive forces but their lawless methods reached extremes of cruelty—devoid of any refined elegance and utterly lacking in sentimentality. Because they divided their forces and rampaged through the capital, fires broke out in both its eastern and western quarters in a single night, while on the northern and southern roads, people of all stations—noble and commoner, rich and poor, old and young, men and women—were cut down indiscriminately. The spectacle resembled demonic winds sweeping through; people trembled in terror as dusk’s shadows encroached. The capital’s thoroughfares lay devoid of human presence save for numerous bats flitting through twilight’s stagnant air.

Although they were sensitive young men of Heian-kyo who contemplated nothing beyond love, neither their single-minded dedication to refinement nor pride's beguiling power could withstand the perils of night paths leading to their beloveds' dwellings.

In days of yore, even in Hana no Pari, there was said to have been such an age.
Since this occurred in the seventeenth century, compared to our tale's setting, it was not so distant a past.
There existed a celebrated beauty named Scudéry who captivated her generation through talent and charm.
There is said to be a famous anecdote where devoted lovers—responding to their king's jest that none should visit paramours in these troubled times—answered with a two-line verse declaring any suitor fearing bandits unworthy of love's name.

Murasaki no Dainagon leapt back from the two-inch centipede, but being a man utterly unafraid of ghosts he had never encountered, he felt little fear toward bandits he had yet to meet.
Thus, during that time when sensitive young men—their hearts elsewhere—often neglected their lovers’ duties, this man alone never questioned the desolation of night paths; walking while imagining various nocturnal pleasures, he remained wholly untroubled by distracting thoughts.

One night—it was a summer night.
As he walked along the valley path from Fukakusa to Daigo, thunder suddenly began to rumble.
The surrounding mountains blazed in lightning’s glare, appearing bright as day only to vanish again—but when the lightning flashed, he saw something glowing strangely in the bushes by the path, as if answering its call.
The Dainagon picked it up.
It was a small flute.

Just then rain came roaring down as though to wash away the earth’s axis itself, forcing Dainagon to shelter beneath a great pine tree and wait for the storm to break.

The rain stopped.
The valley path and all the surrounding mountains were already clearly illuminated under the bright moon.
And there, in the path where Murasaki no Dainagon walked, stood the figure of a woman clad in a sheer white robe, backlit by moonlight.

“Please return my flute.”

It was a voice like the sound of a bell.
It brimmed with the dignified chill of a command.

“I am not of this mortal world.”
“I am one who serves the princess in the Moon’s Realm, but having carelessly dropped her cherished flute, unless I retrieve it and return, I cannot dwell in heaven again.”
“Show compassion and return it to me.”

“Well now, this is a most curious chance,” replied the Dainagon in feigned astonishment.
“I had heard tell of how my grandfather’s aged retainer once found and ate a rice cake made by the moon rabbit, gaining night vision for three days—but never in dreams did I imagine I myself should be fated to find the very flute treasured by the Moon Princess.”
“If this be truly your flute, what conceivable reason could exist for me to commit such inhumanity as withholding it?”
“Yet to let slip this miraculous bond in a fleeting moment—save within dreams—is no custom known to we of this earthly realm.”
“First let us hold leisurely discourse on tidings from our separate worlds.”
“By fortune, there lies nearby in Yamashina Village a dwelling of one who serves me.”
“Though humble it be, your brief sojourn shall want for no comfort.”

The Celestial Maiden jolted in shock, terror vividly apparent on her face.

“I cannot delay any longer.”
She was desperate.
“Her Highness waits in anxious longing.”

“What’s this about three days or five?” Dainagon creased his nose in an insolent smirk, thoroughly pleased to see the Celestial Maiden’s sorrowful state.
“Is it not the tale that Urashima stayed three nights at Otohime’s palace, which equated to three hundred years on earth?
Moreover, in the Moon’s Realm, three thousand years on earth would not even amount to three days.
Not to mention five days—even a ten-day or month-long stay here would, in the Moon’s Realm, merely span the time it takes Her Highness to indulge in a sneeze.
It is said that doubt resides in humans—compared to the Moon’s Realm, the earthly world may indeed be base and filthy, but it also has its own charms and pleasures.
One may be led astray in love’s darkness, and even sulk at a beloved.
I have heard it said that the celestial realm is a place filled with maidens like you and devoid of men—well now, that would be quite unbalanced.
See here.
The moonlight from your realm hanging over that mountain’s edge—why, here in our earthly world, it becomes the thread that binds a maiden’s and a man’s distant yearnings, and even serves to transform love’s tears into pearls.
I would never presume to speak of reciprocal intentions between us.
In five days’ time, I shall surely return this flute to your hands.
First, until then, why not let yourself be blown by the winds of this earthly realm and make the ephemeral endeavors of mortals into jests for your later amusement?”

The Celestial Maiden’s tears welled up.

“Do you not desire a robe that lets you soar the heavens?” she shouted desperately. “It is a robe that lets you leap across that vast sky in a single bound! If you return the flute, as thanks, I will surely deliver it to you by the next moonlit night. There is no falsehood in a celestial maiden.”

“I’ve heard of the Dainagon of the Hidden Cloak, but a Sky-Flying Dainagon would be quite the novelty,” Dainagon smirked. “If it were you, being so slender, that might be one thing—but for someone as fat as a boar like myself to soar through the sky would lack any semblance of grace. For me, walking all over the capital like this is more than enough. If I were to concern myself with women from Tang and Tenjiku as well, I’d have no time left to sleep at all. Oh, come now. As the saying goes, ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do’—in this country, when young maidens see a man’s face, they make a smile.”

The Dainagon’s sensuality began reaching a state of intense intoxication.
Swaying unsteadily, he approached the Celestial Maiden, grasped one of her hands with his own, and with his free hand made to flick her cheek.

The Celestial Maiden leapt back, stood resolute, arched her willow-like eyebrows, and drew herself upright.
“You will find no recourse for regret afterward.”
“Do you not fear Her Highness the Princess’s punishment?”
She glared at Dainagon and stabbed.
“You will face the Moon’s Realm’s retaliation.”

“Bwahahaha.
“Ah, so the celestial maidens’ army comes marching forth? Do they?”
“No—with eager valor, I shall meet their challenge!”
“The clan and vassals will surely rise up in valor to fight.”
“If they exhaust their strength, they’ll have no cause to regret defeat.”
“Since it’s come to this, I will no longer return this flute.”

The Celestial Maiden's taut strength gave way, and she began to sob quietly.

Dainagon gazed at this and, drunk on self-satisfaction, let his dissolute face melt into a smirk as he emitted a guttural noise from his throat.

He took hold of the Celestial Maiden’s robe hem, pretending to brush away mud while reveling in its otherworldly fragrance.

“Here now.
“You need not worry yourself.”
“I do not mean to devour you.”

Dainagon sucked his index finger and maliciously poked the Celestial Maiden’s bare foot.
While she wept, he savored the Celestial Maiden’s form—instinctively recoiling, freezing, trembling—and reveled in the electrifying sensuality of it all.

“In any case, in these mountains you likely cannot open up and speak freely.”
“Given that this marks your first descent to the mortal world, I can well imagine your trepidation runs deep—but even so, as is this world’s way, the demon’s envoy called Forgetfulness should wipe away your tears within a single night.”
“If you desire it, I shall have a dwelling constructed to rival even the Moon Princess’s palace.”
“Oh—it seems the moon has risen quite high without our noticing.”
“Well then, let us now make our way to the intended house.”

Dainagon took hold of the Celestial Maiden’s arm and pulled her up.

The Celestial Maiden grieved and lamented, but before Dainagon’s resolve, it proved futile.

In accordance with Dainagon’s words, she had to walk to the dwelling of those he commanded.

And so, when under the lamplight he could finally see the Celestial Maiden’s appearance, face, and form for the first time, her striking beauty left Dainagon feeling as though his very soul were vanishing.
Even were one her bitterest foe, it seemed none could witness this beauty’s sorrowful state without being moved.

A subtle fragrance that even kyara could not rival softly filled the room and drifted into the night sky.

At times, even as he grew entranced and succumbed to strange fancies, Dainagon would notice the cold shudder that interrupted them and doubt his own heart.
Never before had he known such a heart.
It was a cold, small fear—like a pain stabbing through his chest.

Dainagon fought against his own heart.

He ordered his servant to fetch an over-robe and had it draped over the Celestial Maiden, yet in that moment, he wanted to firmly embrace her beneath the garment and revel in a crystalline, bestial sensuality.
No—pretending to drape the over-robe over her, he wanted to strip away even her white silk robe.

But Dainagon’s legs were heavy and did not move forward.
Nor did his hand reach out to drape the over-robe over her.
The over-robe fell clumsily onto the Celestial Maiden’s shoulders.
It slid down, revealing its crimson lining, and lay there helplessly.
The Celestial Maiden’s shoulder, wrapped in a white silk robe, emerged futilely—cold, vivid, and beautiful.

“The mountain nights grow cold.”

Dainagon stood frozen and spoke to the cold, motionless figure.
It was a hollow, gutless resonance that seemed unlike his own voice.

Driven by grief, in that anguish, Dainagon felt as though his body might rend apart.

“Five days!
Just five days!”

Dainagon blurted out as though wringing out his guts.

“Beyond that, I will never detain you.
I will not lay a single finger on your body.
I will not stay overnight in this house.
I will not even entertain strange thoughts.
It’s your fault for dropping the flute!
The karmic fate that compelled me to pick it up—there’s simply no helping it.
Five days!
That—there’s no helping it!
Tomorrow, around the time you awaken, my servants will visit there to comfort your heart, bearing various goods and earthly delicacies.
Those people are all your loyal servants.
Nothing will defy your will.
As for me, beyond the promise to return this flute in five days, I shall do nothing to defy your will.
And then, late at night when your heart has settled, I will come to visit there.
To see your smile and hear your voice—as unreserved as when you speak with friends, parents, and sisters in the moon’s realm—is satisfaction enough.
Please do not make me grieve.
Your tears tear at my guts.
But it’s only five days, isn’t it?”

“This karmic bond is beyond remedy now.”

Dainagon howled into emptiness, clawed at the void, and found it all unbearably heartrending.

Having let the sorrowful Celestial Maiden rest behind the curtained screen, Dainagon stepped out onto the veranda. He gazed up at the quiet moonlight. For the first time, he felt he had truly come to understand that sorrow existed in this world.

And so—why was it that now, simply gazing up at the moonlight had come to feel the same as this inexplicable sadness? The pure fragrance adorning the Celestial Maiden instantly transformed into moonlight’s fragrance, pierced through his very core, and he thought that were any tears to flow forth, they would fall to earth as jewels. Whenever he verged on sinking into strange fancies, a mysterious sadness would well up—and driven by anguish that made him want to collapse weeping—he would run down the path.

At last, Dainagon—his breath breaking, in pain as though he might burst—was thinking of the Celestial Maiden’s bestial sensuality.
A numbing eeriness swept over all of him once more.
Sensuality burned; his body was a flame of madness.
He ran.
As if in a dream, he passed through forests and crossed valleys.
He reached his Kyoto residence and collapsed as if crumbling.

The next day.

Dainagon was consumed by scheming thoughts and writhed in agony.
The dawn did not come to calm his heart; it arrived bringing love, anxiety, schemes, and the beast’s surging blood.

Dainagon wavered and suffered over the flute for an entire day.

If only this flute would vanish from the earth—then perhaps she would give up on returning to the moon’s realm—

He considered smashing the flute into dust and burning it away.
He considered throwing it into the rapids of the Kamo River to wash out to sea.
He considered digging a hole and burying it.
But he could not reach a decision.

It must be precisely because he believed the flute would be returned in five days that she remained on earth.
If the flute's loss became certain, there was no guarantee she wouldn't return to heaven.
Such thoughts came to him as well.

To keep that person on earth, he must always have the flute in his grasp. And to obtain that pure white sensuality—such thoughts came to him.

That pure white sensuality had now become all of Dainagon.
No matter how atrocious the acts he might dare commit, he thought he must make that sensuality his own.

Let heaven, the gods, the bright moon, and even the demons bear witness to this terrible atrocity.
I will accept any punishment.
If I were to obtain that person’s sensuality—then even if my life were taken in an instant—I would not fear it.
I will feel no regret.
If this were a love worth staking one’s life upon—even should it merit ten thousand deaths—still I felt there must be someone who would offer for it: a single tear; dewdrop tears upon grass blades; the fleeting pity of insects rustling in thickets.

At twilight, Dainagon left his home carrying the small flute.

Emerging onto the road, his heart swelled with courage for the first time, and there was serenity.
His mind had returned to dwelling on the night’s bounty in all its forms.
He thought of lucid, voluptuous sensuality.
He thought of the soft bosom and the face drenched in lamentation.
He thought of lushly extended hands and legs.
He thought of beseeching eyes, stiffened flesh, rustling hair, and trembling small fingers.
He forgot the surrounding mountains, the forests, the darkness—even the feel of his own treading feet.

The sun set, and the moon rose.

He had no means to hide from the moonlight reaching over the mountain's edge, yet strength to fortify his faltering heart overflowed within him.
He felt a terrifying emptiness where nothing existed.
He did not fear the moon witnessing the small flute.
The day before, he had drawn near to where he found the small flute.

And then came a disturbance that shattered the valley’s stillness.
From the tree shade, figures leapt forth into the moonlight and blocked his path.
Four, five, then another one.
Those who had appeared drew their swords and had already surrounded him.

Dainagon did not even notice he had collapsed into a sitting position on the spot.
He reflexively dropped the small flute.
He gazed vacantly at what he took for lunar envoys.
Then found himself voiceless.
Yet when recognizing them as Hakamadare's band, relief plunged him into blank stupor.

Suddenly he snatched up the fallen flute and thrust it foremost toward the thieves.

"I'll give you this!"

Words surging through him like floodwaters, he shouted in a voice that leapt unbidden.

“Though this is a treasured item I cannot trade for my life—surrounded as I am—I have no choice! Take this and make it your first prize of the night!”

The bandit carelessly snatched the small flute from Dainagon’s grasp and struck his sagging cheek with it in one sharp crack using the same hand that took it.
Dainagon finally noticed what had happened and panicked.

“I’ll give you the sword too! I’ll give you everything you want!”
“The robes too—hand them over!”

Dainagon was running along the moonlit path wearing only an underrobe.

Gazing up at the halo-less bright moon, an anguish that longed to voice its full plea to that celestial body pierced his chest and threatened to overflow. Such was how things stood. Ruthless bandits had appeared and stolen the flute. What means could there be for one as powerless as I? Behold. The sword too was taken from me. The robes too were taken from me. What remained was a single underrobe and life alone. There was nothing I could do. O gods. Let them bear witness to my agonizing sorrow. Hot tears streamed down cheeks. A childlike lament—one that felt almost entitled to receive comfort from the Celestial Maiden—intensified.

Upon stumbling back to Yamashina’s house, he cried out.

“The pure moonlight of your homeland—it should have seen everything.”
“The flute was taken from me.”
“Right around where I found your small flute, several ruthless bandits appeared and suddenly took it.”
“And then, they took the sword and the robes.”
“It is strange that my life was not taken.”
“No, I do not hold my life dear in the slightest.”
“If that can serve as atonement, I would not hesitate to end my life immediately.”
“In the sorrow of having your small flute—as precious as your very life—taken away, the fact that my tears do not turn to crimson blood is agonizing.”
“Having to witness the sight of your grieving sorrow again tonight is more agonizing than losing my very life.”

Dainagon writhed in agony, threw himself to the ground, and wailed.

The Celestial Maiden stood.
Looking down at Dainagon, her anger froze within her tears.

"If you declare you will end your life as atonement," she said, "why did you not discard that life to protect the small flute?"
"There is nothing as foolish as insincere tears."
The Celestial Maiden choked back a sob.
"No."
"The small flute was not stolen."
"You yourself cast it away."
"Do not utter such despicable excuses."
"Return the flute."
"Now—this instant—return it."
"The small flute is Her Majesty the Moon Princess's most cherished possession above all things."

“And now I must hear such sorrowful words from you,” Dainagon said, glaring at the Celestial Maiden with resentment. “Am I not one for whom seeing your sorrow is more grievous than witnessing the demise of heaven and earth? If I had indeed discarded the flute, I would offer no excuses. It is true—I did harbor the desire to discard it. Had that flute vanished and thereby made you an earthly person, I thought I would smash it to pieces and burn it away. I also thought of hurling it into the Kamogawa’s rapids. I also thought of burying it at the bottom of a thousand-foot pit. This whole day I spent contemplating such things. But that... I could not do. Because seeing your sorrow proved more agonizing than witnessing hell’s torments. In my tears lies not a drop of falsehood.” O Heaven. Bear witness. “Were my life exchangeable for the flute, I would choose to have it taken this instant and become the flute here.”

Dainagon closed his eyes, awaited the thunder’s judgment, and stood rigidly.
Tears streamed down.
The sound of insects in the thicket could be heard.
A refreshing scent of summer night breeze wafted through.
The nostalgic sound of footsteps from the mortal world, blending with the wind, pierced through the chest.

“Now that matters have reached this pass and the small flute will not return, unless my single-minded remorse transforms into a flute to carry you back to the moon realm, resign yourself and endure this sorrow.”
“Your lament strips my flesh and drenches all the earth in darkness.”
“In our earthly ways, resignation parches men’s tears until forgetfulness comes bearing second blossoms for this grief-laden world.”
“If by fortune your celestial realm could adopt this wretched earth’s lonely customs, pray endure this unendurable sorrow and deign to remain below.”
“Atonement shall be my earthly task.”
“I shall summon the River of Forgetting and Field of Resignation to drain your tears dry.”
“To spare myself the sight of your sorrow’s form and falling tears, I would become a shoe beneath your tread or a flower adorning your hair without regret.”

The Celestial Maiden was weeping bitterly.

Dainagon’s sensuality flared up in an instant.
He panicked involuntarily and searched the sky with a beseeching gaze.
There was no sky, no moon.

The only thing that existed was a poor household’s dark, filthy ceiling. A faint lamplight flickered. He cast his beseeching gaze into the darkness. The surroundings abruptly receded, leaving neither heart nor mind in the desolate plain. Blood flowed. Dainagon flung himself at the Celestial Maiden and seized her in his arms.

Dainagon stumbled into the night path.

The distant pledge formed in a dream—one he could not clearly recall—now seemed remote and doubtful.
It became a river of sorrow, circling his body and flowing endlessly.

The moon had already passed the zenith and was sinking toward the western mountain ridge.

Infinite love and regret alone were everything.
That too drove his heart mad with boundless rage.
To receive every punishment, he even thought of hurling his body against the rocks.

“O Heaven! O Moon! Do you not think to strike down this villain’s life?” He shouted toward the sky.

“I do not fear that.”
“All retributions are as you will.”
“I will gladly let myself be torn asunder.”
“I would not begrudge even being consumed by kalpa fire.”
“Yet I have but one wish.”
“I must reclaim the flute.”
“No—I shall reclaim it and deliver it unto her hands.”
“Until this is done, I cannot truly perish.”
“O thunder!”
“Show me mercy.”
“It is not my life I fear losing.”
“Grant me but time enough to retrieve her flute.”

He resolved to exhaust every means, endure every hardship, and surely retrieve the small flute.
His steps had naturally led him back to the very place where the small flute had been taken.

However, on the path through the valley, there was no longer any trace of the bandits.

Dainagon was at a loss, but a heart that wandered aimlessly was no longer permitted to him.
If he pressed deeper into the mountains, he thought, he might eventually encounter the bandits.
Parting the grass, breaking branches, he walked on frantically.

He no longer had any idea where he was walking.
He was wandering deep into the mountains.
Along the path ahead, something was always fleeing through bamboo thickets; a cicada leaped up overhead, darting about in confusion as it collided with branches.

Then, far ahead, he thought he heard sounds of curses and commotion carried by the passing wind.
When he stopped to listen carefully, it was clearly no figment of his imagination.
Creeping closer toward the sound, he saw shadows of numerous figures gathered around a bonfire beyond the trees—there could be no doubt they were the bandits.

They were in a drunken stupor.
The banquet seemed to have ended, and the area was in utter chaos—some were cursing, others singing, and still others dancing in wild abandon.

Bandits and mice, like the god of Miwa, took their pleasure in the night through a single strand of silk thread.

Dainagon sneaked closer to the nearest tree shadow and peered out.
He rummaged through what seemed to be their loot, but in the dimness of night at a distance, nothing could be seen clearly, and he was unable to pinpoint the small flute’s location.
Moreover, there was no way to tell which of the bandits had taken his small flute.

Dainagon stepped forward and shouted.

“Is there no one here who recognizes me?”
“The one who was robbed of the small flute, long sword, robes, and such on the path through the valley earlier—that was me.”
“That was undoubtedly your gang, was it not?”
“Whoever stole the small flute—step forward and identify yourselves!”
“I don’t need the long sword or robes—only the small flute is what I desire.”
“In exchange, I will give you whatever you desire.”
“That small flute holds particular significance—to others, it may be nothing more than an ordinary flute, but for me, I would not hesitate to exchange it for all the treasures in the world.”
“If you desire it, I will not begrudge delivering an ox-drawn cart’s worth of treasures to this place tomorrow.”

One of them stepped forward and, without a word, struck Dainagon.
And then, one of them kicked Dainagon in the back from behind.
Dainagon became a single black mass, flew through the air as if plunging into the earth, and rolled beside the bonfire.

“To offer what we desire—this one here says something quite clever!”
One of them pinned Dainagon down and, while striking him, spoke.
“If you’ve got an ox-drawn cart loaded with treasures, then by all means, deliver it here tomorrow.”
“If a thief were to return what he’s taken, then the demon king of hell might just return the lives of the dead.”
“First, why don’t you enjoy a thief’s feast?”

They each took firebrands in hand and struck down Dainagon indiscriminately.
His robes tore，and flying embers scattered onto his back，but by then，Dainagon had already lost consciousness.

Seeing the motionless state of Dainagon, the bandits had at last grown weary of striking him.
One by one, they let go of their firebrands.
Then, the one who had kept hold of his firebrand until the very end lit its tip and thrust it against Dainagon’s bare groin.
Though Dainagon was likely fleeing desperately, when the bandits saw his trembling reaction—no more than the squirming of an inchworm—they laughed in unison with raucous jeers and kicked him into the shade of the trees.
Satisfied with the unexpected drinking bout that had suddenly appeared, their speech growing sluggish, the bandits gathered their belongings and departed to parts unknown.

In time, Dainagon regained consciousness.
The bonfire was already on the verge of dying out, barely leaving behind embers as darkness began reclaiming the surroundings.

Dainagon could not comprehend where he was or his current situation.
Before long, understanding had begun dawning naturally, but he felt no compulsion to grasp it and had lost all strength to pursue that thought.
His vision blurred and hearing sealed—only cold darkness stretched taut.
Single-mindedly he saw—vividly in darkness’ hollow void—the Celestial Maiden’s form and bearing along with her grief’s piercing sorrow.
When he realized his hand could move, he searched around himself for where the small flute might be.
He groped and clutched at every place his hands could reach.
And then despair’s sorrow seized him.

His throat was parched, burning as if scorched.
If he could become a drop of water, he would have wrung out even the soil to drink.
He crawled forward frantically.
And then, at last, he heard the babbling sound of a mountain stream.

Dainagon crawled, guided by the sound of the stream.
Collapsing sideways, crawling again, collapsing once more—amidst this cycle, his vision finally began to return. Yet the stream’s murmur seemed to echo from the right, the left, and even behind him, its direction impossible to discern.
If it was not the mischief of the wind, then perhaps it was merely a ringing in his ears.
He thought that everything was hopeless.

Dainagon clung to the roots of a tree and crawled to his feet, but he had no strength left to walk.
He sat down on the roots of a tree and covered his face with his palms.
He felt no sorrow at dying.
It had been a short life.
A drunken life, a dreamlike death.
That was all there was to it.
However, he felt no remorse over it.
Yet, as long as he did not return that flute to that person, there would be no end to this sorrow.
He cried.
He simply wept quietly and steadily.

Then, sensing a sudden presence before his nose, Dainagon lifted his hands from his face and raised his head.
Right before his eyes atop a thicket sat a child cross-legged.
Though unmistakably a child in form, its shabby garments and wrinkled face with features bunched together resembled an adult—no, rather an elderly man.
Hair hung like a kappa’s disheveled mop as it sat arrogantly cross-armed, wearing a mocking smile while peering intently at Dainagon’s face.
Their eyes met, yet it remained unperturbed—merely staring fixedly at his countenance.

“Whose whereabouts are unknown—”

And then, the child-spirit opened his enormous mouth and suddenly sang.
It was an extremely large mouth.
Perhaps because of that, his eyes and nose had shrunk even smaller, crumpled into a tight cluster.

Dainagon was startled.
And in that instant, the child-spirit extended his simian arm and lightly pinched the tip of Dainagon’s nose with two fingers.

“Ah, the path of love!”

The child-spirit appended the second verse.
Then he clapped his hands, slapped his own cheeks repeatedly, pointed at him, opened his large mouth, and laughed.

“Whose whereabouts are unknown… the path of love!”

Once again, the child-spirit pinched Dainagon’s nose.
It was a swiftness beyond anticipation.
There had been no time to dodge.
No sooner had he thought “Ah—” than the child-spirit was already clapping his hands and singing.

His face was dreadfully unclean.
It was a face with monkey-like eyes and nose all crumpled together into one.
And then, his entire face was wrinkles.
His movements were exceedingly vulgar.
He found it unbearable to look directly.

He must have seen the child-spirit rise lightly to his feet—but at that moment, the child-spirit grinned, and his eyes, nose, and large mouth suddenly crumpled into a single messy mass.
In that instant, his body shrank smoothly, and the child-spirit’s form was abruptly sucked into the ground.
In an instant, he vanished without a trace, leaving not even a wisp of smoke behind.
On the thicket spreading behind remained an unseasonably large mushroom.

Dainagon stood dumbfounded, doubting his eyes.
He instinctively crawled closer and tried to touch the mushroom.

Suddenly, laughter erupted from all directions.

Dainagon raised his face in surprise, but there was no sign of whoever had laughed.
The laughter suddenly closed in, arose from the tree roots and sprang up from the undergrowth at his feet.
The laughter eventually spread across the entire mountain in the distance, then resounded raucously from the branches overhead and right beside his ears.

Dainagon, disregarding the pain in his body, suddenly stood up and tried to flee.
However, even when jolted by this sudden terror, his entire body still refused to move as he willed.
Stumbling, rising, stumbling again—repeating this cycle of barely managing to stand—he lost consciousness once more and lay collapsed upon the cold tree roots.

When he regained consciousness for the third time, the mountains already lay verdant under broad daylight, reflecting their full mid-summer appearance.
Tiny shafts of sunlight streaming through the trees spilled over his body lying prostrate on the ground.

Dainagon was once again tormented by a scorching thirst that burned his throat.
Relying on the mountain stream's sound, he crawled desperately.
The stream babbled beneath the cliff.
Dainagon tried to descend and fell.
He struck a rock against his flank and groaned.

He tore at grass, grabbed rocks, crawled frantically.
When he finally craned his neck over the stream, crimson blood gushing from his face splattered into the water.
Dainagon nevertheless trembled.
He saw the face reflected in the stream.
It bore no resemblance to anything human—swollen black with a gaping crimson mouth.
In an instant, his heart froze and vanished.

Already, everything was despair.
A sadness that coursed down his spine surged up.

“I will die here now.”
Dainagon screamed.
“Am I supposed to die like this?!”
I do not cherish my life in the slightest.
What will become of you who are left behind?!
At least—one last look—I want to see you!
“If a person’s single-minded wish can reach you，please show your face in the water!”

Dainagon looked at the water.
There was only the face with its gaping crimson mouth.
Each time the stream babbled, the crimson mouth twisted and stretched, blood streaked through it, and the water flowed radiantly.

I have become such a wretched form here.
Moreover, I have been unable to lessen even a fraction of your sorrow.
Where are you now, and how do you exist?
You must have awakened by now.
Even in this filthy world, could there have been something that still offered your awakened self some gentle comfort?
It is no longer the season when cuckoos or lesser cuckoos sing.
At least, didn’t the bright sun dispel some of the night’s lament?
And did a night’s sleep not soften the sorrow even slightly?
Ah... I no longer know what to do...

Dainagon scooped water into his palm and, greedily trying to gulp it down in one go, brought his face closer.
And then his body slid headfirst smoothly into the water cupped in his palm, becoming nothing more than an overflowing handful of water that fell into the stream with a splash and was carried away.