Pathway to Japanese Literature

It was quite some time ago that I heard a most peculiar tale from someone.
And I still have not forgotten that tale, but the personal names and place names have now already drifted away like smoke from a woodland bonfire to some unknown place.

Among the friends of the person who told me the tale was a man called Bōkō.
The man was of an exceedingly ordinary yet well-formed type; though a late starter in his studies, he had managed to reach his second year at university. This was because having been born into extreme poverty, he could not obtain proper teachers or pursue learning as he wished. After graduating from a rural elementary school, he soon entered self-sufficient life—assisting as an elementary school teacher’s aide, working as a minor clerk at the village office—all while continuing his own studies through years of hardship and diligence that seemed the very model of such struggles. As his scholarship gradually advanced and people began recognizing him, some connections formed until he finally moved to the capital. There, enduring days of tribulation straight from a self-improvement manual, he attained entry to university—making him not merely the eldest among his peers but five or six years their senior.
Because he had earnestly pursued his endeavors with the slow, deliberate persistence of ants building a tower, the wrinkles wearied by worldly interactions were already folded upon his brow, and within his heart had formed intricate creases that other students had yet to develop.
However, the savings he had built up through terrifying frugality and diligence—just enough to cover his university expenses—made him feel he had finally become a true student. Harboring a pure, almost touching joy and pride, he listened with undivided attention to eminent scholars' lectures, immersed himself in the abundant library, and considered nothing more delightful than being able to study undisturbed in those pristine morning and evening hours free from worldly affairs—all while feeling deeply satisfied at being able to bask in what is called "the delights of scholarship."
And thus he meekly accepted the nickname "Bansei Sensei"—bestowed by his younger, guileless classmates due to both his age difference and elderly-like demeanor—with a timid smile, all while serenely maintaining his distinct place within the academic community.
In reality, Bansei Sensei's academic conduct was beyond reproach by anyone—excepting his divergence from the guileless, or rather vulgar and meaningless social dining among classmates, and vigorous, or rather mere spillage of youthful courage through athletic interactions.
Thus, naturally, while his classmates excluded him from their circle, they secretly came to respect him, and excepting one or two notorious jokers like Chamekichi, were not stingy in offering silent sympathy.

However, Mr. Bansei—whether due to a slackening of spirit now that his years of arduous labor were being rewarded with prospects of a smooth, bright future ahead, or perhaps because of scholarly efforts pushed beyond reasonable limits—was unfortunately struck by some inexplicable illness.
This occurred during that era when the medical term "neurasthenia" had only just begun circulating in society. Whether it was truly what we call neurasthenia or rather a genuine chronic gastric ailment remained unclear—the physicians' diagnoses proved as hazy as morning mist, leaving him assailed by this indeterminate malady that differed between examiners, gradually weakening day by day.
As he possessed only a severely constrained budget, he found himself doubly distressed; yet since no manner of effort could overcome his illness, obeying the recommendation to temporarily abandon academic pursuits and devote himself to physical and mental recuperation, he left Tokyo's dust behind to breathe in the vital energies filling heaven and earth within a tranquil mountain retreat.

Since he was not of a station affluent enough to frequent the pleasure resorts and health retreats of Izu or Sagami, he had initially chosen the Bōsō Coast; yet the seaside still carried an air of commotion unbefitting to Mr. Bansei’s sensibilities.
Yet apparently finding it equally distasteful to return his ailing body to the flat, desolate villages of his homeland, he continued his aimless wandering—now lingering a day or two in Yashū and Jōshū’s mountain regions and hot springs, now drifting like white clouds buffeted by winds or autumn leaves tossed in empty skies—all while carrying this chafing restlessness within his vagrant frame. Clad in faded school uniforms beneath wool-silk blend parasols and shod in sturdy box-toed shoes, he walked five or seven ri on some days, rode trains for ten or twenty ri on others, sustaining this endless peregrination without resolution.

Pitiable Mr. Bansei—being not of the station that carries ready money in his pouch—wandered through regions where prices were not high and unpretentious inns with his severely constrained purse; then, whenever chance or circumstance allowed, relying on affluent households that welcomed guests or unassuming mountain temples, he finally traversed Fukushima and Miyagi Prefectures to vanish into the remote mountains of Ōshū.

Mr. Bansei, being an exceedingly earnest man, believed haiku to be the frivolous playthings of impudent elderly idlers, regarded reading novels and historical tales as akin to sinfulness, and even dismissed *Tsurezuregusa* itself as “not particularly commendable”—so his journey must have been dreadfully tedious. Yet in one small mercy, he found solace in composing a modest amount of Chinese poetry, making this his sole travel diversion as he trudged in solitary silence along sunset-lit mountain paths and dawn-breezed grassy trails.

In autumn’s early embrace within Ōshū’s mountains—somewhere in what they called Nanbu territory—the man bore his crane-like emaciated form toward an unimaginably remote village temple, veering two or three days’ journey sideways from the main highway. This was because he had been instructed by a wandering traveler he had befriended during his journey—one of those figures common in those days who could compose a chapter or two of regulated verse on the spot and possessed enough skill to deface white sliding doors with Mi Fu-style landscapes or Huaisu-esque cursive calligraphy, capitalizing on such talents to traverse from place to place with an air of authority. “If you are walking for such reasons,” came the advice, “there is a temple in this area—though its history is illustrious, it is now an impoverished temple—and within its precincts lies a small waterfall whose waters form an unparalleled holy spring.”

“I cannot speak to Yōrō’s holy spring,” the traveler continued, “but this one’s renown has spread far—there are those who make special journeys of twenty or thirty ri to that waterfall, and others who cannot reach it directly yet have farmhouses near the temple draw its water to heat baths for them. Strange to say, chronic ailments are cured here, even illnesses whose nature eludes physicians—there are countless attested accounts of such recoveries.”

“Since Tokyo’s famous doctors claim your illness would cure itself if they dawdled about,” he added with a dismissive wave, “and since you yourself are sauntering through this unremarkable countryside in such a leisurely mood, you might as well try staying there for a while.”

“The head priest—though I say ‘priest,’ he’s just a simple fellow in cotton robes with a work sash, swinging a manure ladle in potato and barley fields—and his two-year-old disciple are the only ones there. So if you pay twenty or thirty sen a day, they’ll probably let you stay at the temple.”

“Though old and warped,” came the final enticement, “the guest room isn't half bad—settle in there and have them prepare a bath daily; it might prove quite intriguing.”

The scenery held nothing remarkable, yet it was serene and quite pleasant. Having heard these detailed accounts, he felt somehow compelled—though upon reflection, it seemed a rather whimsical curiosity—and so he deliberately made his way into the mountains toward that temple he had been instructed about.

The path ascended along a ravine of considerable size.
The mountains on both banks would sometimes recede to the right or left, other times draw near to the right or left, and at moments both sides would converge until a river churned white with foam flowed far below an enormous rock.
In some places where the path shifted to the opposite bank, he crossed perilous makeshift bridges spanning vertigo-inducing rapids, then after a short while crossed similar ones again as he pressed forward.
A terrifyingly large, towering crag lay blocking his path ahead. Following what seemed barely a trail along this rocky terrain—a path so uncertain he doubted it truly led forward—he had no choice but to inch through like an ant or crab, occasionally heaving sighs of relief after passing particularly treacherous sections. Unable to avoid feeling some regret at having come to this so-called remote extremity where no human soul would venture, he rested beneath the shade of a great tree grown dim with dense foliage, continuing his gloomy silence when suddenly—Hee!—from overhead, a nameless bird dropped its incomprehensible song.

As the path finally gentled, he saw across the ravine a preposterously high cliff wall beneath which a river flowed, while on this side the mountains naturally opened up to reveal small terraced mountain fields. Where millet and foxtail millet should have drooped their ears, there instead stood desolate bean fields likely ravaged by rabbits - withered blackened beans stripped of leaves drooping dejectedly as if they might weep. Beyond these, two or three ancient thatched houses with steeply angled roofs appeared scattered mournfully across the slope.

The sky had been dimming for some time when, with a whoosh, a slightly chilly wind swept down. In an instant, yellow oak and beech leaves came scattering from the sky—and not just this leafy rain but actual droplets began pattering down as well.

Looking up at the upper reaches of the ravine, pale white clouds pressed steadily forward, swiftly engulfing peaks, rocks, and pines—even momentarily devouring the high cliff face across the gorge with painterly voracity—which would have made for splendid viewing had those clouds not then descended so low they seemed to smother even the now-opened Western-style umbrella he held overhead. Unbearable—the rain erupted into a deluge, and forest trees joined voices to assault this outsider who had wandered into their mountains without purpose, as though tormenting him for sport.

Even Mr. Bansei, usually unflappable, broke into a panicked run. Fortunately, the farmhouse he had spotted stood nearby. He dashed through the downpour and rushed into its earthen entryway—only for his umbrella to catch on a pole beneath the eaves, sending a bundled sheaf of hung corn crashing down. At the impact, two or three white yard fowls that had been crouching near a mortar in the corner screeched and scattered in alarm.

“What the—,”

A dull voice called out as a white-haired head emerged from the tea room on the left side of the earthen entryway - an old woman of sixty or seventy with parched hair that stood frizzed as if ready to combust, her face a yellowed mass of wrinkles.

Ill at ease, Mr. Bansei closed his umbrella and offered a slight bow while inquiring about the temple’s location. The old woman observed him from his dripping head down to the umbrella tip, yet showed deference to his unfamiliar Western-style black coat with gold buttons—uncommon in these parts—and withheld any reproachful remark.

"If you keep heading upward, you'll naturally come out before the temple," she said. "Since this is what you might call Monzen Village, once you pass through the houses, the temple will be right there."

After expressing his thanks, Mr. Bansei left the house.
The rain grew increasingly severe.
As he opened his umbrella and glanced back, the old woman with the face like weathered woodcarving still watched this way—strangely, her visage had seared itself into his eyes.

He passed before seven or eight houses standing at intervals.
All the houses stood in profound stillness, as though devoid of people.
When he emerged from that place, sure enough, the temple gate came into view.
Roof tiles had grass growing on them.
Now soaked by the rain, they looked thoroughly ancient and heavy; nonetheless, one could still imagine their former grandeur even as their current futility became starkly apparent.
Upon passing through the gate, the temple grounds proved unexpectedly vast and sprawling. What might have been pine or cedar—monstrously large trees that had apparently been felled several years prior—now had their massive stumps revealed by the falling rain, which visited those remnants as if to demonstrate their continued existence.
To the right stood a bell tower, its slightly elevated foundation surrounded by wind-gathered leaves showing yellow and russet hues dampened by moisture. A moderately large bell hung in the gradually encroaching dusk—its lower portion bright with verdigris corrosion while its dragon head crown receded into shadow—exhibiting a quality of lonely desolation.
Given the temple’s scale, one would expect to see a main hall with towering roof ridges, but whether it had burned down or met some other fate remained unclear—no such structure entered view. Instead, there stood what appeared to be priests’ quarters upon a modest rise.
Advancing toward it, several foundation stones became visible precisely where the main hall or Buddha hall should have stood. The kind rain—likely visiting each time it fell—now met its latest visitation with water pooling in pillar sockets like grateful tears of joy overflowing in welcome.
Understanding now why the temple grounds felt unnervingly desolate—realizing what should have been present was absent—he entered the priests’ quarters.
Since the front was tightly sealed with large wooden storm shutters, he entered through what appeared to be a kitchen entrance left open into an absurdly vast earthen floor. In the far corner loomed a large clay stove; near the entrance lay about two pairs of dirt-caked rotten straw sandals and two or three old geta—one missing teeth lay upturned like a dead creature exposing its belly—evoking in Mr. Bansei a desolate feeling.

"Please."

He spoke in a voice not particularly loud, yet it echoed through the cavernous earthen floor. Yet because of this, not a speck of dust stirred, and it remained utterly silent without a single sound. Outside, the rain was falling with a whoosh.

"Please,"

he called again. The voice echoed. There was no answer. The rain was falling with a whoosh.

He pleaded,

and called a third time. The voice he had called echoed back to his own ears. However, no answer came from anywhere. Outside, the rain was falling with a whoosh.

“Please.”

He called again.
As usual, there was no response for some time.
As he grew somewhat impatient and was about to call once more, there came a sound like a weasel or large rat moving somewhere.
Then, sensing human presence, the warped large sliding door that had been shut on the left-hand stairway creaked open, revealing a young monk of eighteen or nineteen—dressed in a mousy grey homespun kimono with a once-white obi now dulled to greyness, wrapped repeatedly in the so-called monk's style, his hair neither freshly shorn nor fully grown out but at medium length, resembling a student servant.
Having grown rather accustomed to his travels, Mr. Bansei thought it would be unbearable to be refused lodging here. He concisely explained his purpose and pressed into their hands a white paper packet containing some coins.
Even so, the young monk maintained his monastic demeanor,

For a while,

With an air of solemnity, he reserved his greeting and entered the inner quarters.
The inner quarters were considerably deep, and no sound could be heard from within—an utter stillness reigned.
Outside, the rain was falling with a whoosh.

Just as a sound came from a different part of the earthen floor, the young monk descended into the space from another entrance, drew water into a small basin, and brought it over.

“Well now, at any rate please wash your feet and come up.”

Feeling relieved, Mr. Bansei removed his muddy boots, washed his feet, and followed as he was led through.
The entrance room appeared to be a tea room—a fifteen- or sixteen-tatami space with a large hearth built into it.
They passed through there into a dimly lit room resembling a veranda—five or six mats laid lengthwise at single-width—wherever they stepped in either chamber came strange hollow pops from warped floorboards that had loosened and risen.

The room he was shown into measured about ten tatami mats. There sat a work-clad man around forty—his sun-burned reddish face suggesting robust health—who had turned sideways a large low desk to face this direction. Perched upon an absurdly lavish yet faded crimson-and-violet futon—ridiculously large and thick—he sat motionless with small round eyes opened as wide as possible.
The Billiken-like head—which looked ready to dance on a summit if given a straw hat—was solidly filled out; even its hair, not close-cropped but grown out to medium length, revealed a thick-skinned reddish scalp showing through.
Having firmly planted that proportionally small yet splendidly sturdy neck upon well-developed shoulders as broad as a fattened pig's, he cast a swordsman’s precisely poised gaze at Mr. Bansei—who had entered swaying like a willow in wind.
Though slightly flustered, Mr. Bansei—being inherently an upright gentleman whose benevolence knew no rival—showed no surprise; calmly sitting down, he succinctly explained his purpose before mentioning rumors about the traveler who had directed him here.
When the priest heard his full name—perhaps having grasped the situation—he suddenly relaxed his demeanor and,

Ah, did you hear about this place from that Kazefukikarasu?
“Very well, you may stay as long as you need.”
“Feel free to settle in any vacant room you like, though the rain might leak in a bit.”
“There’s plenty of bedding.”
"The cotton's hard, though."
“I won’t provide any special treatment—consider host and guest as equals.”
“Zōkai, have Old Man Yahē at the gate handle the bath arrangements. Starting tomorrow, make sure it’s prepared daily.”
"It wouldn't be right without payment—arrange to have three sen spent daily."
"He must be exhausted—see that he stretches his legs and is allowed to rest."

Zōkai opened the sliding door, stepped out onto the veranda facing the garden, and guided him.
Following behind and turning along the veranda, they found three or four empty rooms facing the same garden—utterly devoid of decoration. The sliding doors along the veranda were left ajar just three or four inches solely to admit light, leaving the interior already quite dark.
Following Zōkai’s suggestion that this room would be suitable, he stood before it, whereupon Zōkai slid open the storm shutters at that spot.
The garden trees all suffered under the rain’s assault.
The rain now fell in even more terrifying quantities than before. From aged, zigzagging plank eaves, rainwater cascaded down in chaotic torrents. The tile reeds growing at the gutters’ edge—beaten by the downpour—bowed repeatedly like penitents begging forgiveness, their forms flickering in and out of view.
The sky lay chained by rain, and though already dark, night pressed closer still.
The far side of the spacious garden had darkened into blurred obscurity.
The whooshing rain alone filled Mr. Bansei’s near-empty heart to bursting—until he suddenly noticed another distinct whoosh beyond it.
When he listened carefully, there was indeed a separate sound.
“Hmm—over there perhaps?” he wondered, turning his head toward the direction of this new sound where rain and mist hung thick. Just then, Zōkai—now seemingly at ease—lightly touched his shoulder,

“That sound you hear is the waterfall—the one whose waters you draw for bathing…”

Having said this, he paused for a moment,

“The rain is too heavy to see it clearly now, but when skies clear, it becomes part of this garden’s scenery.”

he said.
Indeed, in the garden’s left corner protruded a mountain spur, from whose dense trees a single stream of water seemed to fall.

Night fell.

Led to the tearoom, the Head Priest, Mr. Bansei, and Zōkai shared a meal together.
Indeed, there had been no feast.
The meal consisted solely of cold hulled rice, miso soup with daikon greens, salt-stewed wheel-shaped wheat gluten, and pickled mountain herbs of indeterminate origin. While served on what appeared to be a black-lacquered Sōwa-zen tray—its surface riddled with scratches—the chopsticks were cheap bamboo implements coated in sickly yellow lacquer that left one ill at ease.
Zōkai, being a young man with scant contact with society in these mountain depths, seemed eager to glean some fresh anecdotes from the newly arrived guest. Yet the Head Priest maintained an attitude of neither desiring to hear nor share idle chatter—though he would not begrudge what he possessed if asked—and thus even during the brief period when the three of them drank tea after finishing their meal, he made no effort to enliven conversation. Mr. Bansei managed only to learn the barest geographical outline: that this temple had once been splendid; that beyond its garden lay a mountain stream whose opposite bank formed towering cliffs; that hills rose to the garden’s left; and that the temple and village houses before its gate occupied a great basin. But what lingered in his mind was how Zōkai and the Head Priest would exchange glances with darkened expressions whenever wind conditions caused the whooshing roar of torrential rain to grow audible.

Mr. Bansei withdrew to the assigned room.
Stiff cotton bedding was provided.
He lay his aimless self directly within it, turned down the flame of the lamp by his pillow, and tried to sleep, yet somehow found himself unable to drift off.
The scene floated up before his eyes - that meager meal taken in silence within the lonely room where rain sounds echoed, dim lamplight illuminating the spacious tearoom, shadows of inscriptions seeming to watch over them like guardian spirits. He felt he had somehow become not his former self, a different self from another world - not that he thought he'd truly died and entered some new realm, yet nevertheless experienced this strange sensation unlike anything before.
However—what nonsense—trying to dismiss it as trivial and sleep, yet still sleep would not come.

The rain was falling ferociously.
It poured as though a great river had been flowing from antiquity to time's very end—not that rain fell on some day within his brief life, but that his short existence had been momentarily inserted into this ceaseless deluge.
This realization now preyed on his mind, making sleep impossible.
He found himself wishing mice would rustle or a dog bark—anything to fracture the silence—yet no sound came.
Neither Head Priest nor young monk seemed present; all lay quiet.
No—they were utterly absent from the world governed by my five senses.
I had always thought what we call 'world' vast, yet now—what manner of thing was this? The world was nothing but—

Whoosh—

At times I thought it was nothing more than that whoosh—then reversing course, considered how this very whoosh might constitute the entire world. Within this mental oscillation lay my birth wails and others' startled cries; my own book recitations and other children's readings; hymn-singing; laughter of joy and shouts of anger; shrieks, bangs, thuds, crashes—every clamor from various commotions; then too the neighing horses and bellowing cattle, rumbling carts, roaring steam trains, wave-splitting steamships; even the faint clink of a single needle dropping on plank flooring—all coalescing into that whoosh. When I listened intently, I clearly recognized how these manifold sounds indeed resided within that singular whoosh—Ah, so that's how it is!—I mused, until imperceptibly the whoosh itself faded from hearing, the listener's consciousness dissolved, and I fell into sleep.

Sleep was shattered.
When Mr. Bansei opened his eyes, he thought the world had become filled with red and yellow lights—but this proved different from the dimness he remembered, for he realized through sleep-blurred vision that both the Western-style lamp inside had been brightened and a lantern now illuminated his bedside from outside, making everything vastly changed from when he had fallen asleep.
But when he looked, both the Head Priest and the young monk were at his bedside.
He couldn’t comprehend what had occurred or what it meant.
Feeling an uncanny sensation, he sat up wordlessly and looked at the two men, whereupon the young monk spoke first.

“I apologize for disturbing your rest, but the rain since nightfall has grown severe as anticipated, causing the mountain stream to swell abruptly.”
“As you know, floodwaters from the deep mountains rush with fearsome speed—already we see them encroaching upon the temple grounds themselves.”
“Of course this flooding may not prove catastrophic, but you must understand this valley’s upper reaches form a terrifyingly vast plateau with gentle slopes.”
“When it was dense forest long ago, such troubles were few. But after they clear-cut everything a decade past, it became a bald wilderness—now even one night’s storm makes the stream rage fiercely enough that during the first flood, our main hall was struck by massive drifting timbers that shattered one corner and led to its final ruin.”
“Since no large timber remains upstream now, even when waters rise repeatedly it causes little real harm—though they surge quickly, they retreat just as fast, leaving nothing by next dawn.”
“With yesterday’s rains already making the stream overflow, we cannot predict how high the waters might yet climb.”
“But we are accustomed to this and bound to protect this place—we’ve no thought of fleeing. While you likely face no immediate danger, we wish to spare you undue anxiety.”
“Fortunately, the high ground to this garden’s left—where that small waterfall descends—is perfectly safe. There stands our temple’s retirement hermitage with its thatched hut.”
“We would have you relocate there at once while time permits.”
“I shall guide you directly—please prepare yourself with haste.”

The young monk at the end now spoke commandingly, rapid-fire words launching into an eloquent tirade.
Following behind, the Head Priest strained his usual small round eyes wide open—

“If the water comes up to your knees you won’t be able to walk—hurry and prepare yourself.”

he warned urgently.
Mr. Daiki Bansei immediately lost his composure.

“Yes yes—thank you for your kindness.”

With somewhat flustered manner and a feeble reply that made even himself cringe at the thought he might be trembling, he hurriedly donned his garments and made ready.
Of course, with just a slightly large shoulder-hung bag, one furoshiki-wrapped bundle, an umbrella, and a hat, his preparations were quickly completed.
The young monk took a lantern and led the way.
It was only now that he finally looked at his attire—still the same mouse-colored garments from before—but when they reached the dirt-floored entryway, several sets of straw raincoats and sedge hats had been prepared there.
The young monk first tucked up the hem of his own straw raincoat high and efficiently put it on; then assisting Mr. Bansei, he helped him into another raincoat, placed a bamboo-sheathed hat upon his head, and tightly fastened its cord.
It had been tied so tightly that he could barely open his mouth—quite painful—but when he endured it in silence, the young monk donned his own hat and—

“Come,”

He led the way.
The lantern flame swayed weakly, casting its pitiful light through the vast, desolate blackness of the kitchen.

Outside was pitch-black, and the sound of rain whooshed as usual.

“Make sure to look after him properly now.”

And the Head Priest was kind.

With his trousers rolled up high and old straw sandals forced upon him, Bansei followed the young monk out into the pitch-black rain—destination unknown.
Stepping outside, he started.
The rain drove sideways; the wind blew.
It must be the river's roar—some tremendous, unidentifiable sound reverberated.
He thought they had circled toward the garden, but upon moving a short distance from the building, sure enough, water had already come.
The soles of his feet turned unbearably cold.
Big toe submerged; ankle submerged; entire shin submerged—and when it reached around the calf, the force of water flowing from mid-valley began distinctly pressing.
The air grew intensely cold, the night rain's force seeping relentlessly into his body.
His feet felt terribly cold.
The soles ached.
Full-body shivers came over him and wouldn't cease.
When Mr. Bansei's toes caught on some unknown painful object and he nearly tumbled—grabbing the young monk for support—the lantern lurched with a heavy jolt. For an instant, it illuminated glinting raindrops streaming across the straw raincoat's fibers—then whether from intruding water or splashing droplets, it sizzled out completely.
Wind's sound, rain's sound, river's roar, trees' rustling—the entire world whooshed within darkness black as lacquer.
Mr. Bansei wanted to cry.

“Well then—we can’t turn back now, and relighting the lantern is impossible. You might as well take out that umbrella you’re just holding onto.”
“Very well, very well.”
“I will hold this side; you grasp that one and must never let go.”
“Even in darkness I can find the way, so there’s no need to fear.”

Mr. Zōkai was truly reliable.
Though Mr. Bansei normally maintained no small measure of self-possession, here he had become a complete adherent to brute force—now his sole anchor in this world was this single umbrella. Clutching his end desperately in pitch-black darkness where he couldn’t discern whether the other side was held by a true benefactor, a fox spirit, some shape-shifting apparition, or a demonic being, he followed its lead as though clinging to salvation itself.

The water gradually ceased to reach their feet.
The slope seemed to tilt upward steeply.
Before long, the incline progressively sharpened.
It became clear they were now climbing a slope.
Even through the rain, the waterfall's roar sounded near enough to touch.

“All we need to do now is climb this part.”
“It’s a narrow path, you see. I might step off the trail, but as long as we don’t fall, there’s nothing to fear beyond some scrapes from grass and trees.”
“Don’t fall now—I’ll walk carefully for you.”

“Y-yes, thank you.”

His voice was utterly trembling.
No matter how he tried, his legs simply would not move forward.

“At times like this, having eyes isn’t something to be grateful for—blindness would prove far more handy! Ah ha ha ha.”
“I’ve also made quite a collection of scrapes from small tree branches.”
“Ah ha ha ha.”

That Zōkai—true to one who’d passed through Buddha’s rice gate three times—spoke like a grand Zen master, but Mr. Bansei simply quivered and trembled; any capacity for critique would remain impossible until long after the terror had passed through his system like excrement.

The path abruptly steepened and narrowed further, creating a sensation that stabbed at his chest. Though Mr. Bansei kept his left hand clamped on the umbrella, his right hand—now indifferent to pain or filth—began groping the ground with each step until he walked like a three-legged quadruped.
He felt they had trudged for an eternity, though hardship stretches time's fabric—the actual duration was likely less considerable.
Yet they had undoubtedly ascended over a chō.
As the slope gradually eased and he thought they'd finally crested the rise—

“Here we are.”

Zōkai said.
And at that very moment released his grip on one end of the umbrella.
Left utterly stranded in unfamiliar darkness, Mr. Bansei stood motionless as a stone Jizō statue in the pelting rain, counting each pulsebeat while awaiting—without expectation—whatever might unfold with the next throb.

The young monk seemed to be doing something nearby; after disappearing for a time, he soon produced a clattering noise.
He must have opened the storm shutters.
Following a brief interval came match-scratching sounds—then sudden flame—revealing him squatting in a building's earthen entryway as he attempted lighting the lantern's candle.
After squandering four or five matches, fire finally caught.
Likely scratched by thorns or prickly ash branches, blood seeped from his rain-drenched cheek and scattered—the candlelight casting ominous patterns across it.
Mr. Bansei finally approached—

“You’ve been injured. How dreadful for you.”

When he said this, the young monk took out a hand towel and, while saying "This should be the place," wiped his face.
It was about the size of a slightly large earthworm swelling—nothing serious.

Probably because they were in a hurry, the young monk immediately used that hand towel to roughly wipe his muddy feet and, still holding the lantern, thudded his way up.
No sooner had he glimpsed the 4.5-tatami tea room—with its approximately 36-centimeter hearth cut into the floor and its soot-blackened bamboo adjustable hook suspending a small kettle that gleamed darkly—than the young monk bent his body into a reverent posture only to immediately slide open the partitioned fusuma door and barge into the adjoining chamber.
From the earthen entryway where Mr. Bansei peered furtively, his eyes perceived within a six-tatami room an old monk sitting rigidly on a thick meditation cushion as though deceased.
He resembled a painted statue to such a degree that one could scarcely believe him alive.
He was an emaciated man around seventy years old with silvery hair cropped to about an inch and a half, his slender face finely proportioned—yet despite this sudden intrusion, he neither stirred nor showed any surprise, maintaining such composure that he might have been awake all along.
What particularly surprised Mr. Bansei was that Zōkai said nothing to the old monk.
And after lighting the Western-style lamp near where the old monk sat, Zōkai turned back and attempted to pull Mr. Bansei up.
Mr. Bansei hurriedly wiped his feet and ascended, whereupon the deaf elder monk fixed his narrow eyes intently and stared at his face.
Mr. Bansei suddenly found himself unable to produce any greeting and, before he knew it, had been made to kowtow with meticulous formality.
And when he raised his head, Zōkai was busily moving his hands, pointing toward the darkness of the foothills and such.
The deaf elder monk was nodding but did not utter a single word.

Zōkai moved his fingers in intricate patterns.
The astonishing speed with which he formed Shingon Buddhist ritual hand seals left Mr. Bansei utterly transfixed, able only to blink rapidly.
The deaf elder monk nodded with glacial deliberation.
Then Zōkai turned to address Mr. Bansei directly,

“This gentleman cannot hear at all.”
“However, he is a deeply compassionate person, so please rest assured.”
“Then I will take my leave now.”

Having said that, Zōkai offered a reverent bow to the old monk—completely different from his initial presumptuous attitude.
The deaf elder monk nodded lightly.
No sooner had he given a brief nod to Mr. Bansei than the young monk—composed yet brisk—took his lantern and descended to the earthen entryway. The instant he donned his straw raincoat and hat, he slipped outside, quietly pulled the door shut behind him, and vanished as if taking flight.

Mr. Bansei had a truly rare thought.
He wondered in bewilderment: Had the deaf elder monk been awake or asleep? Had he been practicing zazen in the pitch-black midnight? Sitting while sleeping? Sleeping while sitting? Was this state merely coincidental tonight? Or was he always like this?
In the realm of true attainment, even the barrier between life and death ceases to exist; moreover, there is no distinction between waking and sleeping, nor between sitting and standing—these states become a single plane. That monks must never fall into indeterminate sleep, as taught in the Buddha's Sutra on Abandoning Sleep, was something he had not known.
Moreover, he had not known that even people from relatively recent times never lay down on their sides to sleep except at the moment of death, so his astonishment was hardly unreasonable.

The deaf elder monk remained completely indifferent to whatever Mr. Bansei might be thinking.

“Mr. □□, take the lamp and go rest over there as you please.”
“There should be something in the closet—take it out and lay it out. It can’t be much past three o’clock yet.”

The deaf elder monk pointed toward the inner room and spoke with utmost calm and gentleness.
Mr. Bansei was naturally made to kowtow and had no choice but to comply with those words.
He took the lamp in hand and stood up unsteadily.
After this, everything would return to pitch darkness, but voicing such observations struck him as an unnecessary discourtesy; thus he simply rose from his seat, slid open the fusuma door, and entered the inner room.
That space was indeed of a narrowness equivalent to about six tatami mats.
Closing the intermediary fusuma door, placing the lamp upon the small desk that was there, and settling himself on the likewise present small meditation cushion—only then did he feel a sense of relief returning to himself.
At the same time, the cold seeped deeply into his body, and he was seized by a full-body shiver.
And though he felt somewhat flustered, when he finally began to calm down, he became acutely conscious of having been addressed as “Mr. □□” and by his surname.
For even though neither the young monk had informed him nor had he introduced himself—particularly considering this person seemed completely deaf—he wondered how [the elder] could have known [his name].
However, interpreting that Zōkai must have conveyed it through fingertip communication, he first settled on this explanation and put it to rest.
Should I sleep, or should I imitate the deaf elder monk and persist until dawn? he wondered while gazing at what appeared to be the closet that had been mentioned to contain something, but coming to his senses, he took out his pocket watch to check.
The hands of the pocket watch indicated that it was a little past three o’clock.
It was a little past three o’clock because it was a little past three o’clock.
There was nothing to be surprised about, yet Mr. Bansei was surprised again.
He stared fixedly at the pocket watch’s face, then finally pulled out the watch and placed it beneath the Western-style lamp on the small desk.
The second hand made a tick, tick, tick, tick sound.
Because there is sound, it can be heard.
There was nothing to be surprised about, yet Mr. Bansei was surprised again.

And then, without knowing why, he had a sudden thought—
Then the sound of rain outside continued its relentless downpour.
The sound of the pocket watch abruptly vanished.
The movement of the second hand he observed had not ceased; it continued moving with steady precision.

He found himself in a peculiar state of mind and turned his head to look around the room. Where the Western-style lamp’s light hazily illuminated upward, a soot-blackened frame hanging there caught his eye. Characters in a clumsy style were inscribed there, though what phrase they formed remained unclear. He read each character with careful attention,

The bridge flows; the water does not.

it read.
"The bridge flows; the water does not," he mouthed silently. "The bridge flows; the water does not—hmm—the bridge flows; the water does not," chewing on the words within his breast, when suddenly there floated before his eyes the image of that makeshift bridge he had crossed by daylight, now spanning torrential rapids where the mountain stream raged.
The water roared as it flowed; the bridge was shakily spanned.
The bridge flows; the water does not.
Hmm, I can’t make sense of it.
As he sat silently lost in thought, suddenly—though he couldn’t tell who—someone let out an impossibly loud voice,

The bridge flows; the water does not.

there was someone who shouted right by his ear—it resounded with a thunderous crash.

Abruptly, Mr. Bansei mocked himself.
"What nonsense—such bizarre phrases are always written on framed panels and such," he dismissed, then looking around again, noticed not in an alcove but on a broad wall about seven or eight shaku wide, there hung an enormous aged painting scroll that nearly filled the entire wall surface.
It appeared to be a horizontal composition drawn with fine lines, though at first glance looked only hazy, as if obscured by smoke.
Red, green, blue and various other pigments had been used, yet he could not discern at all what the image depicted.
He thought it was probably some commonplace Nirvana depiction or something of that sort.
But as he gazed absently at the hazy painting surface dimmed by the lamp's faint light, he somehow perceived an extraordinarily intricate rendering of pavilions, dwellings, trees, water, distant mountains and figures—prompting him at last to rise and approach for closer inspection.
Upon examination, it showed age with stains and damage here and there, yet proved meticulously executed throughout. Though its artistic merit remained unclear, the style resembled works he had once been told were by Qiu Ying—for reasons he couldn't articulate, it was immediately evident this had been created through immense laborious effort.
There he specifically took the lamp in his left hand, positioned himself close to the painting, and while moving the light source, shifted its beam across each section he wished to examine under stronger illumination.
Had he not done so, this exquisitely delicate work—being aged and soot-darkened—would have made discerning its details nearly impossible with even the slightest movement.

The painting depicted a part of a splendid city overlooking a beautiful great river.
In the upper portion of the composition, beyond the river forming its upper half appeared distant mountains of pleasing emerald-green hues. Before them undulated hills, between which stood a multi-storied pagoda here and a tall pavilion there—crags shrouded by darkened thickets here, valleys brimming with bright blossoms there—until finally the riverbank spread flatly outward, where several elegant taverns stood alongside scholars, women, elders, children, equestrians, leisurely strollers, peddlers laboring at their livelihoods, and those weaving reed screens into waist-height structures serving as sunshades and rain covers.
While bracing one hand against what appeared to be a hearth and mooring post as they prepared to launch the boat, they raised their other hand and called out repeatedly, "Won't you ride? Won't you ride?"
Because the face was not clearly discernible, Mr. Bansei gradually brought the lamp closer.
Just as when approaching step by step from afar makes human faces gradually discernible, so too did the indistinct boatman’s features become gradually clear.
Wearing what resembled a workman's jacket with knees and elbows exposed, crowned with an exceedingly small sedge hat, his slightly upturned countenance possessed an indescribable innocence—one might have thought this unlettered man could have been some uncle-like figure to Han Shan or Shi De.
"Hey!" shouted the boatman, opening his mouth wide.
Mr. Bansei smiled faintly.
He nearly responded with "I'm coming no-o-ow!" without thinking.
The instant a cold wind leaked through a gap and blew in, the lamp flame flickered.
The boat and the boatman drifted near from afar, then drifted far from near.
It was but an instant, with no before or after.

Outside, the sound of rain—a relentless downpour.

Mr. Bansei related this entire account to a close friend.
All his illnesses had been cured.
However, that person was never seen again in academic circles.
He had likely resolved to bury his name among remote mountain valleys and riverbanks, becoming an ordinary person who would live out his days as such.
It was said that someone had seen that person in a certain place, having become a mere sun-blackened farmer.
Whether he was an unfulfilled great vessel or one already realized—such matters had likely ceased to be Mr. Bansei’s concern.

(July 1925, “Kaizō”)