Pathway to Japanese Literature

As I gazed blankly at the cabin ceiling with eyes still open, the ship rocked heavily.
Slowly tilting, then slowly righting itself.
Even when I strained my ears, I could hear neither waves nor wind.
The female passenger with a child lying right next to me merely vomited from time to time in an utterly exhausted voice.
When I raised my upper body and looked around, all people in the cabin lay quietly with not a single soul smoking.

When I left the cabin and climbed to the deck, a fine rain was falling.
The offing lay shrouded in clouds veiling a faint white glow, while to the left cliffs loomed as if freshly sheared off, waves rising whitely against them.
Around eight or nine in the morning, a freshness that seemed to immerse my entire being drifted through the damp air, sharpening both eyes and mind of their own accord.
As I focused on the continuation of the grove atop the cliff that had turned a deeper green in the light rain, I noticed what appeared to be a whitewashed structure resembling a lighthouse on a rock at its farthest edge.

“Ah, so this is Shionomisaki Cape.”

And then, the map I had been studying earlier rose clearly in my mind.
As I continued watching, the area behind the lighthouse became a verdant plain where numerous cows grazed.
It appeared to be pastureland.

As I clung to the railing dampened by the light rain, the ship was rounding the tip of this protruding cape. The chains operating the steering engine creaked and clanked incessantly at my toes as the shapes of cliffs and rocks before me gradually transformed. Before long, the edge of Ōshima I had studied on the map appeared to starboard.

“This here is Japan’s southern tip, indeed.”

I hadn't noticed, but an old man had come and was standing by my side. And then he suddenly spoke up in this manner—to no one in particular (though there was no one nearby but me).

“So this is it, huh? This place.”

“That’s right—this here’s the famous Kumano Shionomisaki Cape, a notorious spot since ancient times.”

As I pondered how this might indeed have been considered Japan’s southern extremity back when Taiwan and the South Seas were not yet concerns, the old man launched into various stories—precisely here where the great offshore current (which I assumed was the Kuroshio) flows past, there were accounts of foreign bonito boats being swept away upon passing through, tales of abundant catches, and how a Turkish warship had sunk at this very spot some years prior.

After considerable time had been spent passing the edge of this large cape, the steamship's rocking gradually subsided. And before long, it called at Kushimoto Port, then stopped at Koza Port before heading toward Katsuura.

Aboard ship at dawn's break—a light rain falls mist-cloaked over the cape where sacred Kumano comes into view.

Though we've passed Hi no Misaki and Shionomisaki capes, how distant still—the wave-split shores of Shima.

In a sea where rain clouds hang low on all sides, scraping light and shimmering, my ship resides.

When entering Katsuura Port, the rain still fell steadily. The steamship that had initially struck me as oddly slow now reduced speed further, threading through countless islands of curious shapes and rocks both large and small that crowded the harbor entrance. As I stood transfixed on deck - having forgotten all preparations to disembark while marveling at these formations and the deep indigo tides pooling between them - something suddenly surfaced in my memory. Scanning the horizon where instinct directed, my eyes found what they sought: through gaps in heavily banked clouds emerged mountain slopes dotted across the vista, their very center marked by a stark white presence gleaming through the gloom. Nachi Falls. The great Nachi Falls others had warned me about with their admonition: 'Take care when entering Katsuura Port - better viewed from here than up close.' Clear indeed it stood visible now. Though hanging lower on the mountainside than imagined, I remained motionless in the rain's embrace, gazing with that peculiar reverence reserved for unexpectedly encountering something profoundly sacred.

Upon entering and looking around, this port revealed an unexpected spaciousness.
At the tips of capes that curved out from both sides as if embracing the enclosed waters, those familiar islands and rocks stood lined up one after another, their lush trees on full display, forming a shape reminiscent of a mountain-encircled lake.
And appearing to be quite deep as well, the steamship that had gradually made its way into the inner depths finally docked at the pier.
Having heard it was Kumano’s foremost port and now finding that indeed reasonable, I disembarked from the steamship absentmindedly holding up a Western umbrella and carrying a handbag.
I had disembarked, but the plan from there onward had not yet taken clear shape in my mind.
And while feeling a childlike restlessness, I started wandering aimlessly along the coast.
The rain suddenly intensified, and the Western umbrella started leaking profusely.
The town, surprisingly, did not seem particularly large or bustling; after walking a short while, he soon found himself entering a fishing quarter reeking of medium-sized fish.
It appeared to be a bountiful catch of bonito; everywhere, vividly bluish-purple ones with lively eyes were scattered about.
In some places they were busily loading them onto carts; in others, boiling them in large cauldrons.

No matter how much I walked, there seemed no end in sight, so I stopped at a teahouse that had caught my eye—one jutting out over the water—where I had them slice up one of the bonito discarded at the shopfront and began drinking a cup. As I pulled out the map from my damp handbag and questioned the teahouse owner about distances to Nachi and Shingu, I unexpectedly noticed hot spring symbols marked near this Katsuura area. When I asked him, he opened the window and pointed around the circular inlet—explaining what lay over there was such-and-such, what could be seen here was such-and-such, and beyond that cape lay something called such-and-such. Hearing that numerous hot springs lay right before my nose, I found myself growing inexplicably happy. Standing by the window next to the owner while shifting my gaze about, when I asked what that place visible straight ahead was called, he said it was Akashima. Amidst the dense seaside grove, a house stood quietly visible. Since going there required a boat, when he offered to summon one for me, I promptly made arrangements and decided to head over.

After being rowed in a small boat for five or six minutes, I arrived immediately.
From the hushed house, a maid came out and received the luggage.
I had thought there might be several houses, but this one turned out to be the only one.
Led to a second-floor room facing the sea, I sat down with a sigh of relief only to find the surroundings utterly still, seemingly devoid of other guests.
The water was lukewarm yet utterly still; resting my head on the edge of the bath, I could faintly hear waves lapping nearby.
When I got out of the bath and stood at the water’s edge in front of the garden, countless small fish were swimming all around there.
Among them were those sporting indescribably vivid hues—as is common among rocky shore fish—mixed in with the rest.
The algae swayed faintly, and along with that, the fish’s bodies also appeared to sway.
The rain had cleared some time ago, and white clouds gradually drifted upward from mountain to mountain across the opposite shore, allowing even from here a view of that familiar large waterfall.

In the utterly calm harbor, the sound of motorboats running continued incessantly.
They were all bonito boats, apparently coming and going with particular frequency these past two or three days.
In the evening, I specially ordered a large quantity of generously cut bonito.
And having sent the maid away as well, adopting the tranquil heart of one who had come to a distant hot spring resort on his journey, I sipped my sake cup little by little until late into the night.

Let me eat heartily—the renowned Kumano Bay now in bonito season

In Kumano where bonito run, our chance-met tales now come to pass—so let me feast!

Now spare no thought for scant coins—with all your heart devour this bonito!

Feast not till your belly rends—these mighty cuts of bonito, oh how savory!

Marvel! These bonito mingled with cucumber pickles—should we leave one morsel uneaten?

June 3rd—having slept soundly through an entire night for what felt like ages—when he awoke once more to rain.
When he opened the door,the entire port area lay shrouded in hazy mist; even nearby mountains couldn't be clearly discerned.
Only engine sounds pierced sharply through.
For breakfast he ordered sake again and resolved to spend this rainy day resting slowly while listening to its rhythm.

I had left my Tokyo residence on the 8th of last month, and the journey I embarked upon with a two-week itinerary was already nearing one month in duration.
When I entered Kii Province after circling through the Kyoto area, Osaka, Nara, and Hatsuse, both body and mind had grown thoroughly exhausted.
Moreover, until now I had done nothing but meet crowds of poetry-related people wherever I went—day and night—many complete strangers among them, leaving not a moment's peace for my heart.
It was last night when boarding this Kumano-bound steamship from Wakanoura that I first felt the ease of traveling truly alone—unwittingly slipping into relaxation.
In my original plan I never intended to stay near Katsuura; I thought only to disembark directly from the steamship and ascend to Nachi, circle through Dorokyo Gorge, then proceed to Shingu.
But having come upon this unexpectedly quiet hot spring that felt like a secluded island, moving my body according to schedule grew increasingly burdensome.
With this rain besides, I resolved instead to pass the day in cheerful idleness.

He slept through the morning and afternoon, and while struggling to write even a single postcard, night arrived.
The rain continued to fall all day, growing fiercer by night.
There seemed to be three or four other guests, yet the stillness remained unbroken.

The next day was also rainy.
I decided to stay another day.
Though my travel funds had grown considerably questionable, I resolved to forgo Dorokyo in exchange for lingering here.
The afternoon cleared.
I borrowed a fishing rod and cast from the garden's edge.
I caught nothing at all, yet for nearly two hours never grew weary.
When I gazed into the clear sea's depths, truly all manner of fish were moving about.

June 5th—it was raining again.

But I thought today I would finally depart.
While abandoning Dorokyo crossed my mind—and even considered just viewing Nachi Falls from here—some lingering reluctance made me resolutely set out.
I asked the old boatman to row us through the deep waters between harbor islands we'd seen from the steamship.
The more I looked, the more magnificent this harbor's scenery appeared.
I went ashore at the opposite port town and headed to the station.
With rain lashing down, I left everything—hakama trousers, haori coat, hand luggage—and boarded the light railway between Katsuura and Shingu.
Soon came Nachi-guchi Station—second stop—where I disembarked.

The rain was falling in a veritable downpour.
No matter how much I had steeled myself, this was excessively dreadful, so I entered the inn before the station to wait until the rain let up slightly before setting out.
And though it was somewhat early, as I was ordering lunch, suddenly a man came rushing out from the back and planted himself before me.
His eyes were oddly gleaming, his voice even unsteady.
“You’re from Tokyo, aren’t you?” he said while looking me up and down from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes.
When I absentmindedly answered that was correct, he asked what day I had left there.
When I answered truthfully, he nodded as if declaring “Just as I thought!” and grew more insistent, pressing further: “And where exactly have you been traveling from and to?”
Before long, from both the back rooms and the kitchen, what appeared to be family members and what looked like maids came trooping out.
Moreover, the group of people who had been resting at the front of the shop since earlier—also seemingly Nachi-bound—stood up and came peering over here.
I found myself compelled to look back at the thin, tall, sharp-eyed forty-year-old man who had rudely planted himself before me and was peering fixedly into my face, all while feeling an indescribable sense of unease.
And when I simply answered “Kyoto, Osaka, Nara,” he suddenly cut in and said, “You went up to Koyasan, didn’t you?”
He was truly breathless with intensity.
I had already grown uncomfortable with answering honestly.
And I said, “That’s right.”
In truth, I was supposed to have gone up there but had come without doing so.
Hearing this, the man straightened his posture with an air of final relief, leaking his first sinister smile as he said: “Just as I thought—exactly as I believed! Now, please do ascend to the second floor. In truth, someone has come from Tokyo searching for you.”
This time, it was I who was surprised.
And I rose to my feet without thinking.

“What? Who? What are you saying… I’m Wakayama, but—”

“Heh-heh, who might you be? He’ll be returning here shortly… In truth, since he went to check around Nachi Falls first while searching for you, he will be back any moment now. So please—do proceed upstairs.”

he said.

It was during this New Year's season; I had traveled along Izu's eastern coast and lodged at a hot spring town on the second night.
Then on that very night, in that same locale's inn—in a room separated from mine by but a single sliding screen—one of my friends had coincidentally taken lodging too, yet both of us remained unaware until we went our separate ways the next morning.
Listening to this suspicious clerk-like man's account now brought that incident abruptly back to mind.
Moreover, my recent passage through Kumano en route to Nachi had been common knowledge among close acquaintances in Tokyo for some time.
That someone might have whimsically followed—that they might have come through here today—could not be entirely dismissed.
Indeed, this place's abnormally charged atmosphere made such thoughts all too plausible.

“Who is it? What man has come?”

While rapidly envisioning two or three friends likely to do such a thing—this one or that—I felt my heart race as if already seeing one of their faces dissolve into laughter, and pressed my questioning.

This time, the man completely regained his composure.
He proudly surveyed the maids, family members, and guests who had formed a circle with curious eyes, all while repeating “Anyway, let’s go upstairs here because—” and lowering his voice conspiratorially,

“In Tokyo, everyone’s terribly worried—especially your mother, who says she’d spend thousands, tens of thousands of yen to find you…”

he began.

Having heard this far, I was struck dumb once more.
Wearing a smile too bitter to name,

“Ah—then you’re mistaken. I may hail from Tokyo, but I’m not your man. A case of mistaken identity.”

Feeling both the farce of it all and something like crushing disappointment, I tried settling back into my seat—but they’d have none of it.

“Ah, but there must be various circumstances at play… In truth, through the postcard you sent from Koyasan, we were certain you would come here—indeed, we’ve even obtained a detailed description of your appearance…”

“What? A description of his features? Then you should know at once whether I’m that man or not!”

“Since it matches you perfectly down to the pattern of your garments... In any case, I must humbly ask you to wait upstairs awhile—having made strict arrangements with those who went to the falls, it would become this humble one’s failing if I didn’t detain you here...”

I had already decided to refrain from replying to the man. And then, to the maid-like person who had come and was standing there,

“Hey! What about my meal and sake?”

When I said this, they flusteredly exchanged glances.
Due to the earlier commotion, they had made no preparations at all.

“Ah, please do enjoy some sake while waiting upstairs at your leisure...”

And then, the man finally took my hand.

The gallbladder of rage that had been simmering within me since earlier finally burst.

“Don’t be absurd—you’re mistaken!”

With that, I grabbed my Western-style umbrella and bolted from the place.
And then I began striding through the relentlessly pouring rain with large steps.
That man dashed out to the eaves, but even he didn't pursue me from there.

Fortunately, the path I started walking was indeed leading to Nachi.
It was truly a fearsome rain.
Though Kumano Road supposedly sees frequent rains due to its steep coastal mountains exposed to oceanic winds, today's downpour stood apart.
Before walking far, my entire body became thoroughly drenched.
Though driven by lingering irritation from earlier events to rush frantically, I soon grew weary.
Then an irrepressible sense of absurdity and desolation seeped into my very bones.
I shouldn't have come at all—should've remained viewing it from Akashima's hot spring—what good would seeing this waterfall drenched like this do—might as well turn back even now—such thoughts pressed upon me.
Some physical fatigue had eased during three nights resting at Akashima.
I'd imagined how tranquil it would feel ascending Nachi this way—secluding myself in that mountaintop inn to gaze at falls veiled by fresh leaves—how that would make this arduous journey worthwhile. Nurturing such wistful fancies I'd set out through rain—yet before even nearing mountains came that earlier commotion—leaving no trace of calm or composure.
Walking aimlessly half-choked by tears came a carriage from behind.
The boatman drew near urging me aboard.
When asked our destination he said we'd go to Nachi Falls' base.
Raising its canopy promptly then boarding left me startled—
There sat that trio from earlier inn now riding within.

They seemed to have recognized me from earlier; exchanging knowing glances with one another, they fell silent.
Under normal circumstances, I would have exchanged at least a greeting, but seeing their faces animated with curiosity, discomfort welled up within me again; without offering even a nod, I sat down silently in the corner.
The interior of the carriage—wrapped in black oilpaper on all sides—was eerily dark.
And because we were traveling along a road like a muddy rice paddy, the jolting was beyond anything I could have imagined.
When we had gone about four or five hundred meters, the boatman turned around from the small glass window in the front driver’s seat and called out to me.
“Are you making a pilgrimage in this downpour?”
When one speaks of Nachi, I had associated it solely with the waterfall, but there stands the grand Kumano Fusumi Shrine—whether imperially or nationally funded—along with Seiganto-ji Temple, that ancient sanctuary serving as the first pilgrimage site of the Thirty-Three Saigoku Temples.
However, I immediately sensed that the driver had deliberately asked this question with a meaning beyond the literal words.
“This guy must have heard about me at the station-front inn,” I thought curtly, and replied curtly:

“No, the waterfall.”

I replied.

“The falls? The falls are dangerous on a day like this, sir.”

he said.
I could see his face grinning slyly from behind there.

When the silence had continued for a while, this time the portly old man sitting across from me began to speak.
Beginning with questions like “Is this your first time visiting this mountain?” then moving on to “Where did you come from today?” and “Where will you go after leaving the mountain?”—that sort of thing.
As I gave terse replies to this, the other two joined the conversation.
These were different from the old man—a vulgar middle-aged couple whose baseness showed at a glance.
I had resolved not to respond unless absolutely necessary, maintaining complete silence.
Gradually their conversation drifted off among themselves, and eventually the driver joined their company.
Their talk centered mostly on the waterfall—how there’d been so many jumpers lately that it was causing real problems for the village. The plunge pool measured thirteen fathoms deep, with what appeared to be an underwater cave. Once someone leaped in, their body never surfaced again. Though knowing retrieval was hopeless, villagers still couldn’t leave them be—their Youth Association had been working almost exclusively on recoveries lately. And if someone jumped during rice planting season like this? That’d be salt in the wound! All this they proclaimed in theatrically loud voices.
Next came stories about each person who had recently leaped to their death.
When they began recounting recent cases—an Osaka geisha and her lover, a Wakayama clothier (what could have driven him to leap?), a fisherman from a certain nearby village—each with their speculated motives for suicide, tension thickened palpably inside and outside the carriage.
Even the old man who until now had been silently listening like me now spoke up with utmost gravity—when people take their own lives, it’s mostly demonic possession at work; thus through witnesses’ eyes, one can clearly see death spirits’ shadows trailing behind such people.

I gradually shifted from bitter amusement into genuine unease.
It felt as though a death spirit had fastened itself to my side, my rain-soaked body growing freshly chilled.
Now in the eyes of those stealing glances at me flickered a seriousness absent before.
As I imagined how this sodden figure hunched in the corner must appear through their gaze, an involuntary laugh clawed at my throat.

When I noticed, the road had gradually become an uphill slope.
The rain had let up somewhat, but even when I looked toward the direction I hoped to see, there were only pure white clouds sealing the view—not even a glimpse of the mountain's shadow.
Taking advantage of the lull in the rain, rice planters who had gone unnoticed until now began appearing in great numbers across those terraced fields.
Here and there, summer mandarin orange fields came into view, their large yellow-stained fruits hanging heavily from the branch tips.

Before long, the carriage came to a stop.
With a sigh of relief, I was the first to alight, and sure enough, a densely wooded mountain loomed right before my eyes.
Though the waterfall remained out of sight, I judged that the broad path plunging straight into the mountains led precisely in that direction. After handing over the fare, I immediately strode forward.
Then, even as he hastily received the other passengers' fares, the boatman followed close behind me.

“Where are you going?”

I asked.

“Heh heh, I’ll be glad to guide you to the falls, sir.”

“No need. I can go alone.”

“Heh heh, but with this rain, the path is dangerous, sir...”

“I’m fine. I’m used to mountain paths.”

“Even so...”

“Hey, even if you tag along, I won’t pay any guide fee.”

“No, not at all—such a thing as a guide fee...”

"Do as you please," I resigned myself and hurried onward. But when I finally realized matters had reached an irresolvable state, the mountain's form and cloud formations alike vanished from my awareness; even having come at last to this peak I had yearned after for years, I found myself half-unconsciously doing nothing but driving my legs forward.

"There, you can see it."

At the boatman’s voice, I involuntarily raised my head to look, and there between mountains thickly covered in jet-black foliage, the waterfall came into view. It was indeed immense. The cascade’s brink shone pure white like frozen ice, faint ripples visible in its flow; descending further, it gradually widened into mist-like veils of spray. Unintentionally, I let out a cry of admiration. And for the first time, I addressed the boatman beside me in an ordinary, human-like voice.

“You said it was how many jō high, right? That height there?”

“They say it’s eighty jō, but the actual height is forty-eight jō.”

“Ah, I see. Jump into that and your bones would turn to dust.”

As I spoke, I let out a loud laugh—a feeling as though my chest had cleared, the sensation of genuinely laughing for the first time in years.

It took no more than ten minutes from there to reach the base of the waterfall.
While hearing the thunderous roar of water directly overhead, I passed through a deep, dark cedar grove where numerous large and small stones were piled on both sides.
The boatman pointed at them and said they were all memorials for those who had jumped into the waterfall.

“Well then, maybe I should add one too.”

He laughed loudly again, but his voice was already almost stolen away by the waterfall.

At a spot where one could view the waterfall directly from below stood a hut positioned for upward gazing. Teashops would normally be open here, but today's rain kept everyone away. The waterfall had swollen tremendously from two or three days of rain. Large droplets of spray struck cold and swift against the face. As I stood motionless looking up, what seemed a uniform white cascade revealed itself as massive rounded water masses tumbling down one upon another. Enveloped in sounds shifting between rock-splitting sharpness and wind-like distance, I stared blankly until the entire mountain seemed to stir, an indescribable chill seeping into my bones.

“From here, it’s still two chō to the waterfall basin.”

The boatman spoke while standing vaguely by my side in that same manner.
Hearing this, a mischievous impulse arose in me—what would this boatman do if I went all the way there?

I hitched my kimono hem high, removed my geta sandals, left my Western-style umbrella behind too, and began climbing the rocky path toward the waterfall basin.
True to form, he anxiously stuck close to my side without letting an inch between us.
Attempting to crawl from rock to rock with a wry smile proved utterly futile.
The entire area seemed an extension of the waterfall itself—violent spray scattering everywhere while winds swirled fiercely enough to threaten blowing me off the rocks.
Still I pressed halfway forward before finally conceding defeat and turning back.
The boatman followed along wearing an expression of relief—or perhaps dashed expectations.
I found myself pitying the man.
As I resolved to clarify his mistaken identity and offer him a drink too, we returned to find the carriage group had just arrived at our starting point.
Though meant to visit the temple first, they’d likely come here instead to check on us.
They stared at us in surprise and laughed.
Wanting no further company with them, I tried leaving immediately.
When I called out to the boatman, he merely gave a curt reply while laughing with that crowd.

After getting somewhat lost on the path, I eventually ascended toward where the temple stood. After all, my stomach was empty and my body was chilled, so the inn took precedence over the temple. Standing at the entrance, I requested lodging for the night, whereupon the old woman of the place made a pitying face and said, “We’ve been turning guests away this season since there’s so few of them. The day’s still young—you’ll surely find somewhere else to go.” In truth, I myself had already lost any desire to insist on staying, so I immediately reconsidered that perhaps this was for the best. Then, when I said, “In that case, could you let me have a drink?” she replied, “We have no side dishes, but plenty of sake,” and as she began preparing it, her eyes suddenly lit up.

“Aren’t you from Tokyo, sir?”

Well now, I thought.
Even so, having already resigned myself, I obediently replied “That’s right” and settled at the shopfront.

“In that case, please do come up. The second floor is vacant—the waterfall can be seen clearly.”

she said.

Finding this acceptable, I dutifully removed my sodden tabi socks.
Meanwhile, several people came hurrying over from both the rear rooms and kitchen.

When I went up to the second floor, sure enough, the waterfall could be viewed head-on.
The inn, built halfway up the slope, had a small bamboo thicket below it. From the thicket extended a deep cedar forest, and above them all it could be viewed head-on.
The sound—now distant, now near—resonated with such intimacy that the waterfall's form, which had been gazed upon from directly below, appeared all the more beautiful when viewed from this degree of separation.
For it hung upon a broad, stratified cliff that looked as if hewn by blades, with deep forests flanking both sides.
Thin clouds drifted through the forest, when had they formed?

With a feeling like disappointment, I threw my body down in the tatami room—yet even lying there, the waterfall remained visible.
The clouds spread as I watched, and soon they had profoundly enveloped the waterfall, the cliff, and the cedar grove below the inn.
The roar of the waterfall grew even more distinct as it did so.

Before long, the sake arrived.
I was fully aware of the presence of those peering from behind the sliding doors, but gradually I felt my mind settling to the point where such things no longer concerned me.
In any case, this inn alone was situated precisely where I had long imagined it would be.
If only this morning’s incident hadn’t occurred, what a satisfying day could have been spent here—such thoughts brought forth unbidden complaints.

As I kept drinking cup after cup, the clouds moved ceaselessly before my eyes—the waterfall appearing only to vanish, fading only to reappear.
Spellbound at the windowsill where I rested my elbow; whether rain or mist came whispering through to dampen its edge.
With my mind growing calm came reluctance—this inn I could not bear to leave.
To stay but one night might let me carry from this place memories worthy of Nachi Mountain’s name; what lingered from morning’s trials felt too wretched—these thoughts took root.
Seizing upon rain now rustling through bamboo leaves below, I asked the young woman who seemed the inn’s daughter-in-law—might they permit me just this night’s stay?
To my surprise they acquiesced without demur.
At evening meal she served me laughing oddly—"That business today! Such mistaken identity they forced upon you—did you know?"

“Ah, so you’ve finally realized it was a case of mistaken identity? That’s precisely how things stood,” I said, laughing as I recounted the morning’s events. “What exactly did this description entail?”

When I asked, it stated: age twenty-eight with an older appearance—(I am thirty-four but am always taken for three or four years younger)—height five shaku two sun (I stand one sun two or three bu shorter), wearing a serge kimono with vertical stripes (I too happened to be clad in serge vertical stripes), having departed Tokyo on May sixth (I had left on May eighth), with all correspondence ceased and whereabouts unknown; however, a letter recently sent from Koyasan mentioned his intention to visit Kii Province and that he likely would not meet [his family] again—so it was written.

The missing man was apparently the son of a Western liquor merchant—their family operating a sizable establishment—and following this letter, a large search party had been dispatched. This group had retraced his steps from Koyasan, climbed this mountain once today to investigate various sites, then descended again. But upon hearing this morning’s account at the station-front inn, they had apparently returned up the slope come evening.

“When you were drinking sake, sir, they peered through the sliding doors there and left,” she said.

“You really had a dreadful time of it,” she added with a laugh.

“It’s all greed and partners in crime, you see.”

“Huh...?”

When I questioned her words,

“Oh, don’t you know? There’s a fifty-yen reward on that person.”

Mist clouds billow where Nachi's great waterfall thins to its end—there at extremity meeting vapor's birth.

White clouds drape—their whispered hush joins water's roar as churning mists convulse.

Gazing up at thunderous falls crashing down—my heart grows winter-cold.

Though Nachi's cataract towers before me—I turn my thoughts to distant matters.

Dusk deepens—ink-black mountains fold upon themselves—there in their creased depths hangs the fall.

The inn's railing in twilight gloom—leaning to view the cascade—unaware of rain-damp seeping through.

Rising to see morning mountains
serenely through soft rain falling
the waterfall's pure white

In dawn's stillness Nachi's great cascade
hangs resounding through five-hundred-fold mountains' hush

Startled by swift-moving clouds, I gazed at the clouds above the waterfall.

The next day, I descended the mountain and emerged once more in Katsuura.

And that night, as I went to the steamship waiting room bound for Toba in Shima, there was a man who appeared to be waiting for the same vessel and bowed whenever our eyes met. Since he was a stranger, I thought I was being mistaken for someone yet again here too; when I boarded the steamship, I found myself sharing a cabin with him. As the ship pulled away from port, the man came to me clutching a sake bottle, making a bow so awkward it seemed to radiate discomfort.

That man was the one who had peered at me through the sliding doors at the inn in Nachi yesterday evening and gone on his way.