Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

“The governance of Genroku surpasses Engi,” wrote Kitamura Kigin, and indeed, when viewed superficially, its cultural artifacts and legal systems shone brilliantly—a zenith of civilization. Yet once you peered beneath the surface, there were unexpectedly various dark aspects, places festering like maggots.

A man named Kamamonjūrō, a Police Captain under the South Town Magistrate, was stealthily patrolling the city one night with two assistants in tow.

As it was the Hour of the Ox, even the shogun’s seat of Edo lay hushed and desolate, with only a waning moon over twenty days old hanging in the snow-laden sky—not even a dog walked the streets.

When they reached the top of Hongō Yushima hill, Kamamonjūrō came to a halt.
From the base of the slope, a women’s palanquin came up with a soft patter.
Around the palanquin, ten samurai pressed their bodies tightly together, walking in silent lockstep.
What was strange was that all ten samurai were heavily masked with white cloth, and their gait was so delicate that they seemed unlike men.

Having deemed it suspicious, Kamamonjūrō signaled to his two assistants and hid himself in the shadow of the trees.
The entourage of the women’s palanquin soon finished ascending the slope, and after pausing briefly to catch their breath, they began resolutely moving past.

Abruptly emerging was Kamamonjūrō.

“Ah, pray wait a moment.”

In a courteous yet guarded voice, he called out to stop them from behind.
The women’s palanquin came to an abrupt halt, and the ten samurai turned around.

“Though it is late at night and especially severe cold—where might you be going, carrying a women’s palanquin?”

Kamamonjūrō first inquired.

The ten samurai masked in white crepe did not offer even a reply when thus questioned for some time.
They stared silently at Kamamonjūrō.
Their demeanor carried an air of utmost insolence, as though mocking him.

Though he was a prudent samurai, Kamamonjūrō’s youth caused his blood to boil at their demeanor.

“Such insolence!”
“Utterly unconscionable!”
“I won’t let you escape!”
“State your identity!”

“Silence!”

Suddenly, one of the masked individuals sharply rebuked.

“And who might you be—the one to talk?”
“Be it bitter cold or dead of night—if duty calls, we go where we please! That’s our prerogative!”
“Before accusing others, first declare your own status!”

“Urk—” Kamamonjūrō choked back his words when interrupted, but continued: “I am Police Captain Kamamonjūrō of the South Town Magistrate’s office. And your group’s status?”

“Hah! So you’re one of those defiled officials.” Without answering Kamamonjūrō’s question, they muttered mockingly,

“We are not ones who would reveal our status to defiled officials like you.” “It would be better for your own sake to withdraw without pressing charges.”

“Silence!” Kamamonjūrō snapped back. “To neither declare your status nor state your destination—you grow all the more suspicious! Should circumstances demand it, I may yet bind you in ropes and subject you to the shame of restraint!”

Yet even when addressed thus, they showed neither surprise nor fear.

"Fool," one of the masked samurai muttered pityingly, then silently drew close to the palanquin's side.
"As you have heard, these defiled officials have halted the palanquin's path. How shall we proceed?"

With respectful words, they requested instructions from the palanquin’s occupant in this manner, but for some time there came no reply whatsoever. Suddenly came an air of laughter—a beautiful, noble voice lightly amused—

“To spare them transgression,” spoke a gentle voice, “you may discreetly reveal our standing.”

“Understood,” came the reply. “Very well—this ‘Kamamonjūrō’—we shall disclose our station.”
“The one gracing this palanquin is none other than Her Ladyship’s chief attendant, who serves Lady Oden-no-Kata of the shogunate’s inner chambers.”
“Moreover, upon her lap rests the Honorable Dog Genjitarō-sama.”
“Do you still presume to interfere?”
“Not even senior councillors may question those of Honmaru’s inner palace.”
“For town magistrate underlings to detain this palanquin—such insolence!”
“Should this become public knowledge, grave consequences will follow.”
“Yet through special mercy, we shall overlook this—once only.”
“Henceforth take heed… Bearers! Make haste with Her Ladyship’s palanquin!”

Simultaneously with the voice, the women's palanquin began moving with solemn dignity.
The ten samurai in white crepe masks surrounded it and walked on with brisk steps.
They did not even attempt to look back.

Before long, both the palanquin and its attendants vanished into the night's darkness, yet their footsteps could still be heard.
Before long, even that sound faded, and the night of Edo drew near to dawn.

Kamamonjūrō and his subordinate remained silent with each other, their already lowered heads sinking even further.
They looked utterly shaken.

“That was an extremely close call.”
Kamamonjūrō muttered this while gazing intently at the palanquin that had vanished into the darkness for some time, then tilted his head and crossed his arms.

There must have been something he couldn’t quite grasp.

II

Several months had passed since that incident, and spring arrived.
When it came to spring in the Genroku era, it was truly magnificent.
“At cherry blossom banquets, they spread kosode-patterned curtains and burned aloeswood to warm the sake,” as recorded in documents from that time—and it was exactly as described.
Above all, the liveliest place was Yoshiwara, where extravagance knew no bounds.

In the pleasure quarters, those who reigned supreme were none other than the patrons from Ginza—for in this era, Ginza had become a veritable fountainhead of gold and silver. Even apprentices of nineteen or twenty earned thousands in gold and silver day and night, only to squander it all like water.

However, even those extravagant Ginza patrons could not match Kinokuniya Bunzaemon.
Nor could they surpass Naraya Mozaemon.
And regarding the extravagant ways of these two men, it is recorded in the Magnate’s Revelry Ballad as follows.

"As for the origin of great patrons—though we know not of Korea or Cathay—in all Japan today, it rests with Kinokuniya Bunzaemon."
"As for the next tycoon, it rests with Lord Naraya Mo."
"In Shinmachi, none could rival the renowned Kagaya’s Lady Urari—he first redeemed her contract."
"In Fukagawa’s Kuroechō—where none could rival—he built a mansion, likened to Midosu Palace! And who were the jesters attending him? Itchō Minbu and Kakuchō! (...Haaho! Behold the Tycoon’s Revelry!)"

Now, this was on a certain spring day before Naraya Mozaemon had redeemed Urari’s contract, when he was drinking at an ageya in Shinmachi, Yoshiwara, accompanied by his entourage.

They were now engrossed in casual conversation, having just finished singing the cherry-blossom viewing song created by Itchō—set to music by Kenshō Ichikawa and accompanied by Kenshō Shindō’s biwa.

“In this age of peace, there are truly strange things afoot, indeed.”

It was the calligrapher Sasaki Genryū who uttered this as if speaking to himself.
He was indeed one of the entourage, but given his status, he was called “Master” by those around him.

“What is this strange matter you speak of?”

The master sculptor Minbu immediately asked.
He was also known as Sen'yū and was a close friend of Hanabusa Itchō, but he was a bold and violent man who had even killed people.

“Oh, nothing really—just that I happened to recall those much-discussed pranks of the White Crepe Group everyone’s been talking about lately.”

“Ah, would that be those scoundrels?”
“Well, they’re quite the amusing characters, aren’t they?”
“It seems even Lord Hōjō Awa-no-Kami cannot lay a hand on them, does it not?”

“When your opponents are ladies-in-waiting from Chiyoda’s inner palace, even the town magistrate cannot lay a hand on them.”

“But to declare that and then idly let matters lie would show a lack of wisdom, would it not?”

“Truly, there’s no wisdom at all.”
The one who interjected from the side with these words was Hanbei, a merchant who also practiced medicine.
Murata was his family name—a man well-versed in the refined arts of incense appreciation, tea ceremony, kemari, flower arrangement, and all matters of elegance. Being the peerless handsome man of his age, he was even compared in popular ballads to “Middle Captain Narihira of the Murata clan,” famed for his allure.
He was indeed one of the entourage.

“Truly, there’s no wisdom at all.”
“Moreover, first and foremost—it’s utterly improper!”
“That ladies-in-waiting of the inner palace would stoop to hiding their faces with white crepe, breaking into townhouses at midnight to extort ‘loans’ under such flimsy pretexts and go unpunished—this defies all reason!”

“It does indeed defy reason—yet nothing can be done about it.”
Genryū forced a bitter smile to his cheeks. “There are manifold reasons why this stands beyond remedy—reasons that cannot be spoken aloud.”
“To voice them openly would cost a man his head.”
“At the very least, it would mean exile.”

“Huh—would that mean exile?”
“No—this is intolerable!”
Hanbei shrank his head. “What strange times these are.
“I can’t make sense of it at all.”

Then, in the corner of the room, Hanabusa Itchō—who had been engrossed in conversation with Takarai Kikaku—turned his shaved head toward Hanbei.

“The fire’s reached Ishimachi.”
“That you don’t grasp this—astounding.”

“Do you claim to understand this?”

“Understand? Perfectly.”

“Enlighten me then.”

“The Edict on Compassion for Living Things.”
“Meddle with that, and you forfeit your neck.”
“Surely even you comprehend this?”

“What of it?”

“This is truly astonishing! Even after all this explaining, you still don’t grasp it? The White Crepe Group we’ve been discussing—they carry out their schemes just as Nanto’s evil monks once raised grievances by parading Kasuga Shrine’s sacred tree! They bring forth Oden-no-Kata’s pet dog as their shield, do they not? That’s why they can’t lay a hand on them openly. If someone carelessly injures that damn dog—as Master Genryū said—at best, it’s exile.”

“Hmm, I see. Now I understand.” Hanbei nodded for the first time.

The fifth shogun Tsunayoshi had been an intelligent man, but having lost his beloved child to grief, he abruptly grew deeply superstitious. Taking itinerant monks’ words at face value, he began showing excessive compassion toward animals and—being born in the Year of the Dog—took particular care of dogs.
People were exiled for abandoning sick horses and executed for killing dogs—once such punishments began occurring, one can only imagine how bitterly the populace resented this unlawful edict.

Three

Even the cherry blossoms that had bloomed but three days prior had scattered, and Edo had transformed into a world of fresh green leaves.

Naraya Mozaemon was once again immersed in poor-quality sake in the brothel’s banquet room, surrounded by his usual sycophants.
Just when her redemption was finally at hand, Urari abruptly shook her head and refused to comply with his wishes.
This was why the sake tasted so bitter.
That Urari—who had grown so close and familiar as to entrust her heart to him—would not obey his wishes without any particular reason filled him with unbearable dissatisfaction.

“At least this—I beg your forbearance.”
“For there remains a sliver of hope,” was all Urari would say, no matter how insistently pressed.
Having placed absolute faith in this woman until now, being met with such a response filled him with a sense of betrayal that left his heart unsettled.

Moreover, he had lately heard an odious rumor—that some impudent youth now defied him to frequent Urari’s chambers with brazen regularity—which served only to heighten his agitation further.

“If anyone dares defy me, it can only be Kinokuniya.”

Just who the hell was he?
His prideful nature only amplified the intense resentment he felt toward this unseen romantic rival.

Because Naraya Mozaemon was in a foul mood, Hanbei and Minbu felt distressed and tried to lift his spirits by saying all sorts of clownish things; however, the more cheerful their surroundings became, the heavier his heart sank.
He was doing nothing but swilling sake, thoroughly bitter.

Though Itchō and Kikaku were part of the entourage, being men of discernment, they did not become flustered in the manner of Minbu and Hanbei.

“Even gold’s might cannot command all things.
The heart of a woman stands first among them.
One might even call it intriguing precisely because it cannot be controlled.
To rage against this would mark one a dullard.”
In his heart, he secretly reasoned thus.

Sasaki Genryū had business to attend to and had not come to his seat today.

“Master, what do you make of the Red Crepe Group’s methods?”
Itchō spoke to Kikaku.

“Well now, that’s truly fascinating, isn’t it? Seeing that such characters emerge to rival the White Crepe Group, the world isn’t yet in such an age of decadence after all.”

Kikaku laughed boisterously,

"If I were to award points, I would place them with the Red Crepe side."

“Even I would struggle with that.
The Red Crepe would make for a fine painting.”
Itchō tilted his head at this,

“Still, who could those fellows be?”
“It’s said they always operate in threes.”

"No, no—they say it’s usually two."
“One’s a young lord, the other a manservant—masked in red crepe, appearing night after night.”
"Though I’ve heard tell of a young woman joining them in like disguise now and then."

“Ah yes, yes, that’s how it was… They say that young master among them is a brilliant swordsman.”
“They call him Akatsuki Hototogisu-no-Suké, or so I hear.”

“Though it’s undoubtedly an alias, it’s an amusingly seasonal name.”
Kikaku pondered for a moment. “‘Dawn with a cuckoo,’ hmm? That could make for a fine verse.”

“If you can compose a verse from that, I’ll add a brushstroke to it.”

“Ah, splendid! Splendid!”

At that moment, Nishu Ban Kihē—another of the sycophants—appeared, and suddenly the banquet room became noisy.

“Hey, Kihē! So you finally showed up!”

Naraya Mozaemon’s temper flared up violently the moment he saw Kihē.

“Someone catch Kihē!”
Naraya Mozaemon stood up by himself.

“Hurry up and bring a razor!”
“I’ll shave that bastard bald!”

Kihē, clutching his head, rolled around the banquet room while letting out mournful cries.

“Help! Help! Please help! I won’t let them shave my hair! Surely you all could intervene even without seeing this for yourselves!”

“Hey you! Kihē, you two-faced traitor! You couldn’t have forgotten! Back in January at that Kyōmachi brothel—when I was snow-viewing—wasn’t it your doing under Kinokuniya’s orders? Scattering koban coins across the snow so people’s geta would trample it into mud while scrambling for them! You’ve been hiding guiltily ever since—never giving me a chance to settle scores! But now I’ve caught you—the day’s finally come! I’ll shave you bald no matter what! Come on everyone—pin that wretch Kihē down! I’ll take the razor myself and scrape him smooth as an egg!”

IV

Despite his tearful apologies, Kihē finally had his topknot removed and was driven out of the banquet room.

Amidst such commotion, the day ended, and as lamps were lit in splendor at intervals, it turned into a seductive spring night.

Today, Urari did not even once show her face in the banquet room.
Naraya Mozaemon’s mood grew increasingly foul, and even Minbu and Hanbei’s flattery could do nothing to remedy it.

It was precisely during the Hour of the Ox on this night that a trio walked quietly along the Komagata embankment by the Sumida River. Masked in red crepe and wearing gleaming long and short swords at their hips in lowered scabbards, they moved with such composed strides that their confidence in skill became evident.

Leading the way was a youth who appeared resplendent in a long-sleeved kimono fragrant with perfume, crimson underrobe sleeves trailing at his wrists, russet hakama hems sweeping the ground as he walked with noble bearing.
The next to walk was a woman.
Her figure—clad in a long-sleeved kimono embroidered with cuckoos crying amidst irises spanning five feet, a brocade obi tied voluminously even to nocturnal visibility—appeared noble, beautiful, and seasoned.
Bringing up the rear was a giant of a man in servant’s attire, towering as if to pierce the clouds, his sturdy calves boldly exposed in a manner befitting his formidable presence.

In the sky, the first-quarter moon of early summer cast a hazy, misty light, while the midnight wind crossing the river surface scattered a refreshing fragrance as it rustled through the young leaves of cherry trees lining the banks.

The trio walked on in silence, not exchanging a single word.
Crossing Umayabashi Bridge to the south, they soon approached Honjo.

Then, the youth at the front stopped dead in his tracks.
The three exchanged glances.
Like bats in flight, they darted as one to press themselves against the front door of a house.
Whether the eaves blocked the moonlight or not, the area where the three hid was sealed in jet-black darkness.

At that moment, from far down the road, a group of figures appeared, advancing clatter-clatter-clatter with a women’s palanquin at their center.
As they drew closer and looked carefully, it was a group of ten samurai with their faces concealed by white crepe.

The White Crepe Group, while keeping watch in all directions, were just about to leisurely pass in front of the houses.

It was the red crepe youth who swiftly blocked their path.

“Stop that palanquin!”

A voice like tearing silk rang out.

The palanquin clattered back.
The ten samurai formed a tight circle around it and halted.
All of them had their hands on their swords.

“Ah, so you’re the wretch they call Hototogisu-no-Suké of the Red Crepe Group.”
“To persistently show up yet again and dare to obstruct us—what an impertinent fool!”
“Quickly, step aside from there!”
“Step back!”

“It is you who are the fools.”
“Despite having encountered you at the foot of Ueno’s mountain last night for the first time and admonished your brazen misconduct, you dare to reappear tonight and commit the wicked deed of forced borrowing—you scoundrels who fear not heaven!”
“This night, I shall show no mercy!”

The youth’s voice resounded with martial vigor, its force enough to quell even demons.

The White Crepe Group momentarily fell silent under its pressure but rallied by cloaking themselves in authority.

"How dare you speak irreverently of the august personage within this palanquin!"

"Would a man of valor fear a single courtesan and dog? What foolishness!" The youth laughed brightly, shrugging his shoulders.

"You called Honorable Genjitarō a dog!"

"Do you take issue with me calling it a dog? Then shall I call it a beast instead?"

“You dare bark ‘brute’ at the Honorable Dog!”

“If ‘beast’ displeases, shall I say ‘brute’ instead?”

“No more debate! Men! Cut down these edict-defying rebels! Cut them down!”

“Hah!” Beneath the shouted cry, ten pale blades bathed in moonlight flashed like ice.

The youth took a step forward,

“Though you masquerade as samurai, since I see you’re but women serving the Inner Palace—last night I deliberately struck with the blade’s back to spare your lives—but tonight not one shall escape!”

With his hand still gripping the sword's hilt, he pressed forward inch by inch.
Pressed forward upon by the youth alone, the ten men of the White Crepe Group gradually retreated and had already begun to move away from the palanquin when—perhaps deeming their efforts futile—one man suddenly charged in.

“Divine retribution!”

The youth’s sharp voice rang out.
What seemed like a meteor striking the ground was the flash of a suddenly drawn sword, and the one who cried “Ah!” was the samurai who had charged in.
All occurred simultaneously.
Uncertain whether dead or alive, one figure lay face down on the ground.

“Avenge our comrade!”

With that cry, two men charged in from both sides.

“Hah!”
Two cries of “Hah!”
Thus the outcome was decided.
On the ground lay two White Crepe Group members, still gripping their swords.

The seven men who remained all at once drew their swords close and could only defend themselves.

At that moment, no sooner had the palanquin’s curtain fluttered up despite the absence of wind than what darted out like lightning was a white-haired dog.

“Ah, the Honorable Dog!”

The White Crepe Group let out cries of astonishment.

5

As expected of a famed dog, Genjitarō did not immediately leap to attack.
Lowering its snout to the ground while glaring up at its enemy with upturned eyes, it let out an ominous growl and began circling around the youth.
This was likely meant to wear down its opponent.

The youth positioned his sword in a low stance and began circling in tandem with the dog.
At intervals he called out “Hah!”, trying to provoke its anger.
When a deliberate opening appeared in his taunting, the dog leaped over five feet upward like a kicked ball before lunging straight for his throat.

Without even a battle cry—just a single flash—he swept his sword sideways. With a sharp “Yelp!”, Genjitarō’s torso was split in two, both halves falling to the ground.

“He cut! He cut down the Honorable Dog!”

A shout of shock and terror welled up simultaneously from the mouths of the seven White Crepe Group members.

Suddenly at that moment, the palanquin door was opened soundlessly from within. A sharp whiff of matchcord smoke pierced the air as a single delicate woman emerged without a sound. Swinging the tanegashima she held aloft, she took aim at the very center of the youth’s chest.

The crowd collectively held their breath.

The world fell utterly silent; not a sound remained.
Then the delicate woman sneered derisively,
"You lowly cur! How dare you trespass!"

...called out—but smirking, her alluring face now held an aura so ghastly it chilled the bone.
The youth shuddered violently.
Was it a shudder of fear from the firearm?
Or was it a trembling born of rapture—his breast pierced by the unearthly beauty of this delicate woman who surpassed all others of her kind?
He kept his sword positioned in a low stance, drawn close into a seigan posture, and remained utterly motionless for what felt like an eternity.

Thus, an instant passed.

With a sharp hiss, sparks scattered from the tanegashima as it nearly discharged its shot—but at that critical moment, a shout of “Hah!” echoed from the night’s darkness. No sooner had this cry resounded than a metallic clang rang out, and the delicate woman’s tanegashima slipped from her grasp to clatter upon the ground.

A thrown stone from the eaves of a house by a large man in servant attire saved the youth from peril.
The youth threw down his sword and leapt in like a swallow.
He pinned the delicate woman beneath his knee.

The large man in servant attire also drew his large sword and appeared, then charged into the seven White Crepe Group members, slashing without hesitation.

The youth placed a hand near the delicate woman’s chin, lifted her face, and gazed intently at it in the moonlight.
Lips like crimson peonies, eyebrows arched like lotus petals—though these were antiquated comparisons, they suited this delicate woman perfectly.
Disheveled black hair—cut in the shimogami style—spilling across cheeks and nape evoked pitiful allure, while beneath the Shokkou brocade vest, the wisteria-purple robes revealed shins whose skin appeared boldly luminous and smooth as polished jade.
Her eyes of resignation were tightly closed, and within her resolute stillness—utterly devoid of even a tremor—there lay a certain nobility.

Even for an official serving the shogunate, she was too beautiful and noble.

A flame-like sigh escaped from the youth's lips.
He quietly withdrew his knee and gently helped the delicate woman to her feet.
Then he stood up, crossed his arms, and gazed silently.
Truly at that unearthly, bewitching figure of the delicate woman.

The servant-attired man, having chased off the seven opponents and rushed back, no sooner recognized the scene than he swiftly approached and thrust forward his bloodied sword.

“Stop!”

It was the youth who had issued the command.
He picked up the thrown sword, snapped it into its scabbard, then brushed the dust from his hakama with brisk swats,

“What happened to Chiyo? Go and see.”

“Ah, yes. Young Mistress…”

As he was about to proceed, three samurai solemnly emerged from beneath the eaves of a house.
While surrounded by the three, the one walking with her head bowed was a woman.

“Chiyo?” the youth called out.

“Ah, Lord Akatsuki Hototogisu-no-Suké. While I dutifully hand over your younger sister, please relinquish that woman to us.”

One of the three samurai stepped steadily forward and spoke these words with utmost courtesy.

“Who might you be? Do you mean to command this?”

The youth also stepped forward.
The two came face to face.

The samurai lowered his voice, but

“I am Police Captain Kamamonjūrō, under Hōjō Awa-no-Kami.”

“Hmm.”
“So you are Lord Kamamonjūrō—and who might that woman be?”

“That is none other than Lady Oden.”

“……”

The youth nodded silently.
And then he looked at the woman anew.

“Indeed, I shall relinquish her.”

“Will you relinquish her?”
“You honor me.”
“Now then, I shall deliver your honorable sister.”

“Chiyo, Sodehira—shall we go?”

The youth proceeded with leisurely steps.

VI

“Lord Yui!”

Suddenly, from behind the youth, Kamamonjūrō called out.
Startled, the youth stood frozen.

“A token of gratitude. Please do accept this.”

He thrust forward a single sheet of paper.

The youth silently received it and held it up to the moonlight to examine,

“Ah! This is this one’s wanted poster!”

“I present this as tonight’s token of gratitude—having been chastened by your deeds this evening, I believe the White Crepe Group’s misdeeds shall naturally be eradicated. These scoundrels whom we of differing jurisdiction could not police—to have Heaven’s judgment delivered in our stead—I must offer thanks, else my conscience shall find no rest. As this is but a token of gratitude, please do accept it.”

The youth was deeply moved but hung his head without a word.

“I gratefully accept your gracious kindness,”
he uttered, imbued with emotion.

It was the dawn of that same night, but Kikaku sat upright on the futon in the second-floor tatami room of the brothel, deeply immersed in thought.

This was because he had promised Itchō earlier to compose an inscribed verse but found himself unable to do so; he tried drinking three cups in quick succession of the sobering water left by the young attendant, but neither did his drunkenness lift nor any brilliant ideas emerge.

A faint, pale dawn light streamed through the gaps in the door, and the time had come when early-rising flower sellers could be heard calling out their wares, yet his anguished composition showed no sign of ceasing.

“With others it might be one thing, but when it comes to Itchō—he’s quite the wordsmith.”
"I can’t show him some strange, poorly crafted verse."
Thinking such thoughts, he sank even deeper into contemplation.

At that moment, people seemed to suddenly enter the adjacent room, and there was a hushed air of whispered conversation.

"This was truly insufferable."
"If they kept up this clamor in the next room, he'd never compose that accursed verse."

He pulled a sour face while half-heartedly straining his ears toward the neighboring voices.

It seemed someone was suffering, for moaning voices could be heard.

Then came a woman’s flustered voice,

“Brother!” called a voice.
Then, in a man’s voice,

“Young Master! Steel yourself!”

And a voice that seemed to encourage also came.

“Ugh… ugh…”

The pained groans continued; it seemed he was vomiting something.

The light of dawn gradually grew bluer and brighter as it streamed in.

Then came again a woman’s flustered voice.

“Brother!”
“Brother!”

“Young Master!”
“Lord Hototogisu-no-Suké!”
“Hold fast to your resolve!”
A man’s voice followed it.

“What?”

And Kikaku’s eyes widened.

“Did they say ‘Hototogisu-no-Suké’?”
“Hototogisu-no-Suké!”
“Hototogisu!”
*And now it was dawn!*
In the adjacent room，someone was vomiting.
“Yes!”
“It’s done!”

And involuntarily shouting, he took up the nearby poem card.

The verse he had fluently written...

The dawn's

Is that vomiting next door?

Cuckoo

As a masterful verse that combined both the emotions and scenery of the pleasure quarters, this "Hototogisu" haiku—which stood out prominently among Kikaku's countless excellent verses—had been precisely crafted under such circumstances.

The next day, in the adjacent room, a young samurai had drunk poison and died alone.
He was a handsome youth with a forelock who had frequented Urari's quarters as one of her clients; whether because of this connection or not, Urari herself assumed the role of chief mourner and conducted an elaborate funeral service, causing rumors to flare up like wildfire.
Yet before long, Urari too was uprooted by Naraya Mozaemon and disappeared from Yoshiwara, leaving none who did not sigh over the loss of the quarter's most celebrated figure; as for such celebrated things, even Edo's famed Red and White Crepe Groups ceased making appearances in the city from that time onward, until gradually their very rumors dwindled into nothingness.

Even so, who was this beautiful youth declared as Akatsuki Hototogisu-no-Suké?
Why had he committed suicide?

When examining old records from that time, the following matters are recorded.

“Grandson of Yui Shōsetsu—ringleader of the Keian uprising—who harbored resentment against the shogunate, emerged in the city to harm women and children.”
“Being pursued, [he] took refuge in the pleasure quarters; realizing [his aims] could not be accomplished, [he] commits suicide, and so forth.”
However, the true cause of his suicide was undoubtedly that he had been captivated by Lady Oden’s beauty and grieved over the dulling of his samurai spirit.

It was said that Chiyo of Urari had sealed away the vigor from those days when she and her brother sneaked out of the pleasure quarters late at night to roam the city freely—alongside her brother’s death—and now served Naraya Mozaemon solely as a chaste wife.