Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Toriumon stood in the center of a vast courtyard holding his bow and arrows while mounted on a white horse. He was waiting for his servant Heiji to appear leading a dog. Toriumon did not particularly like this servant Heiji. Heiji was a short, bony man of few words who had been hired and brought to Toriumon’s mansion about two months prior. He claimed not even to know where he had been born. Since ignorance of one’s birthplace was deemed proof of foolishness, those at Toriumon’s mansion had settled on labeling Heiji a half-wit. Yet Heiji remained utterly unperturbed. Still, Toriumon would occasionally startle at the sharp clarity in Heiji’s eyes. At moments when others’ eyes grew intoxicated with joy or ecstatic to the point of losing composure—Heiji’s gaze would instead turn cold and clear as an autumn dusk marsh. If one looked closely then, faint smile wrinkles might appear around his tightly pursed lips. Whenever those eyes fell upon him, Toriumon felt something drain from his body all at once. For instance—when opening his mouth to berate someone only to meet Heiji’s cold stare—he would abruptly lose all vigor for shouting and instead dismiss them with a curt “Never mind—go away.”

The most unpleasant thing for Toriumon was that precisely when he engaged in his beloved dog hunting—and only then—Heiji’s eyes would pierce his heart as if reproaching him. The game of dog hunting—releasing live dogs and shooting them dead from horseback—was Toriumon’s favorite pastime above all others, and every three days without fail, he would practice alone in his mansion’s courtyard. Though it was called practice—since it involved shooting live dogs—a dog had to be found somewhere every three days. This duty had been entrusted to Heiji. Heiji would silently lead the dog in and release it from its neck rope with his master’s arrow tip, but even when his master’s arrow splendidly pierced the dog’s vital spot, he never praised him like the other servants did with phrases such as, “What magnificent skill you display.” After pulling the arrow from the dog’s corpse, he would take the dog as if cradling his own infant, shoot a cold glance toward his master, and leave. To Toriumon, those eyes seemed to be saying this. "Of all things, what a cruel game you choose to engage in." For this reason, Toriumon had come to regard Heiji—who would soon appear—with displeasure.

Before long, Heiji entered from the middle gate. Today, he had brought a large dog. Unlike most dogs brought here—which would try to escape, resist being led, or plop down on the ground—this one kept its head low to the earth and followed obediently behind Heiji. In the center of the courtyard, a large double circle had been drawn with rope. Heiji entered the inner circle. And he held down the dog’s neck and crouched.

And now, the dog hunting practice was about to begin. Toriumon nocked an arrow and took position atop his horse. “The dog takes flight.” said Heiji. However, he had not yet released the dog’s neck. Toriumon also remained silent. “The dog takes flight.”

And again Heiji said. When he said "The dog takes flight" for the third time, that was when he was to release the arrow. Toriumon drew his bow to its full extent. “The dog takes flight.” The third time, Heiji said. “Release it at once!” Toriumon called out. Heiji released the dog’s neck. The dog, contrary to expectations that it would dart off and flee, instead lowered its head and remained motionless in the same spot. Toriumon was left dumbfounded.

“What is this? Isn’t this a sick dog?” “I apologize.” Heiji apologized. “How could I shoot such a thing?” “Your anger is entirely understandable.” “However… today… no matter how much I walked around searching… there was none besides this dog…”

“Enough of your backtalk! Toriumon may be withered and worn, but I’m still a samurai—I won’t have people saying I shot a sick dog.”

Then Heiji fell silent. And with that usual cold, clear gaze, he stared up at Toriumon. Toriumon found himself confronted by that gaze and, against his will, became flustered. The fact that Heiji was witnessing this flustered state was even more unbearable to him, so to conceal it, he drew himself up tall and bellowed. “Enough! You insolent wretch!” "For a mere servant to glare at his master—such insolence!" “I’ll make an example of you for all time…” Having said that, he aimed the arrow—which he had drawn back with all his strength to shoot the dog—toward Heiji. “I’ll shoot out that detestable eyeball of yours.”

Heiji fell over onto his back. The arrow had destroyed the right eye. In the corner of the garden, where bees buzzed around the tachibana blossoms, it was a quiet afternoon.

II

Seven years had passed. Heiji had long since been forgotten from Toriumon's heart. Heiji had received treatment for his destroyed eye at Toriumon's residence for about two months, but before it had fully healed, he took his leave and gone off somewhere.

Now, on a certain day, a great river, brimming with water, flowed gently along.

The ferry was filled with passengers. Being a small boat, even when full, it held only eight or nine people. Thinking it was about time to depart, the boatman set his pole against the shore.

At that moment,

“Hey! Wait, wait!”

With that, a samurai descended the embankment, accompanied by a servant.

The boatman waited. The people in the boat gradually scooted closer and made space for the two. The samurai and his servant finally managed to board the boat. However, as it was packed tightly with people, the samurai had no place to put his bow. “Hey! You there!” The samurai called out to the street performer who was carrying a monkey. “You’re in the way. Get off.” Both the monkey handler and the monkey, startled, looked at the samurai with identical expressions. The surrounding people also muttered something under their breath.

“Enough! I said get off!” Everyone thought to oppose the samurai for the monkey trainer’s sake. Yet when they saw the samurai’s handlebar mustache—so thick it spilled beyond his nostrils—they reconsidered opposing him. Both monkey trainer and monkey appeared to conclude silence was wisest after glimpsing that mustache. The passengers watched mutely as the monkey trainer sprang nimbly from the stern onto the narrow gangplank. At that moment, someone—

“The one who came later should be the one to get off.”

he said in a low voice. That was the boatman. Because the boatman was standing facing forward with a woven sedge hat pulled low, his face was not visible. “What?!” And the samurai glared at the boatman’s back. However, because people were crowded between the samurai and the boatman, he merely ground his teeth in frustration and restrained himself. When the boat reached the middle of the river, the people saw a flock of white herons flying low across the upstream area. Seeing this, the people who had been silent until now whispered, “They’re white herons,” and “Oh!”

The samurai watched for a while but soon took up his bow, nocked an arrow, and with a swift hiss let it fly toward the flock of white herons.

Then, from the flock of white herons flowing sideways, only two fell straight down and floated on the river. Even after falling into the river, they continued to flap their white wings. “Oh... Oh...” With that, the people in the boat let out voices of admiration. And they praised him, saying that taking down two birds with a single arrow was a rare and splendid feat. Then the servant who accompanied the samurai, wrinkling his nose, began boasting—for his lord, taking down two birds at once was nothing; he could shoot a waterfowl that had caught a fish, then shoot the fish itself before it hit the ground, or bring down even an ox-like beast with but a single arrow.

“Today as well, there was a dog-hunting meet at Gongen-sama across the river—we’re just returning from it now—and truly, not a single soul could match my lord.” “Ohh, ohh.” And the people were impressed. And, “If I may ask, what is the name of your lord here, this renowned master?”

When asked, the servant, “He is addressed as Lord Toriyama Toriuemon,” he answered. “Oh, Lord Toriuemon. That explains it! That explains it!” “If it’s Lord Toriuemon you speak of, he is a renowned master whose name echoes through every neighboring village. A great man.”

Here and there, the words “great man” were whispered. Toriumon wore an expression as though he weren’t listening and remained silent. However, in his heart, he felt somewhat proud. He snapped his folding fan against his knee.

And then, at that moment— “What’s so great about that?” “You’re only called great when you do things that benefit others.” “Taking the lives of birds and beasts—what purpose could that possibly serve!” Someone grumbled in a low voice. It was the same boatman as before.

The people fell silent. They were stealthily watching his handlebar mustache, wondering if Toriumon would erupt in anger. Indeed, Toriumon began to rage. The tips of the handlebar mustache began to tremble. “Y-you... How dare you spout such nonsense.”

He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, but they were still in the middle of the river. If he were to kill the boatman now, there would be no one left to steer the boat. If the boat were to drift far away, that would be a grave problem. "Alright, something good will come of this," he muttered in his gut as Toriumon lowered his raised knee.

The boat reached the shore, and everyone disembarked onto land. The riverbank was thick with reeds, and within them a reed warbler sang. When they had gone all the way through the path within them, it became an embankment. When they had finished climbing the embankment, Toriumon looked back toward the boat.

The boat was still moored to this shore. The boatman was slumped at the prow, listlessly waiting for passengers to come. The water behind the boatman reflected the sunlight, sparkling brilliantly.

“Hey, Boatman!” Toriumon called from atop the embankment. “Turn this way.” The boatman turned this way. “Oh, you have one eye. “Oh... oh... You’re Heiji.”

The boatman had no right eye. “Just because you’re Heiji and have one eye—do you think that excuses you? “The slander you just uttered—as a samurai, I cannot let it pass!” “You’ll pay for this!” The arrow flew straight. With a plop, a spray of water rose where the light glinted on the opposite side of the boat. There was no one on the rocking little boat.

Three

The servant walking alongside Toriumon noticed a deer climbing a cliff path near the top of a small hill. It appeared to be a deer that had come down to the village to forage and was now returning to the deep mountains.

“Ah, there’s a deer over there. It’s just within arrow range, sir.”

The servant informed Toriumon. "What? A deer?" With that, Toriumon, who had been walking with his head slightly bowed, looked up and gazed in the direction the servant was pointing. As soon as he saw the deer, he adjusted the bow, nocked an arrow, and drew it taut. "Now? Now?" The servant waited with clenched fists. However, Toriumon did not release the arrow for quite some time.

Finally, the deer rounded the base of the sheer cliff that rose like a folding screen and disappeared from view on the opposite side.

Toriumon let out a sigh, loosened the drawn bow, and lowered it.

The servant felt a strange sensation. This was the first time he had seen Toriumon appear so dejected. That was only natural. Toriumon was, for the first time in his life, deeply contemplating matters.

Toriumon took aim and shot at Heiji's remaining eye—the eye of the man who had become a boatman. There had indeed been resistance. One who speaks ill of a samurai naturally deserves such retribution.

However, in Toriumon's mind's eye, Heiji's two eyes—which should have been destroyed—were clearly visible. Heiji’s eyes were cold and clear, staring unblinkingly at Toriumon. And yet Heiji’s words lingered in Toriumon’s ears. "It’s only by doing things for others that you’re called great." Doing things for others… Toriumon had, up until now, heard many splendid words from people and read them in books. Therefore, even these words spoken by Heiji might have been heard somewhere before. Or rather, now that I think of it, I feel as though I’ve heard those words many times before.

However, today, these ordinary words muttered from Heiji's mouth had lodged in Toriumon's soul like a thorn. Toriumon's soul seethed. "It's only by doing things for others that you're called great." "It was truly so," Toriumon thought. And looking back on his life, he felt ashamed. I had truly, truly not done a single thing for others' benefit. I had acted entirely selfishly. I had done nothing but cause trouble for people...

Toriumon and the servant soon reached the top of a pine-covered hill. Standing there and looking southward, they saw terraced wheat fields with heavy ears stretching continuously. Where the hill's base met the plain stood a large mansion encircled by white-plastered walls. That was Toriumon's residence. Beneath that roof lived Toriumon's wife and children.

It was a peaceful view. Shadows fell upon the white walls, and sparrows flitted from the storehouse eaves. Toriumon stopped on the hilltop, placed a hand on a pine tree, and gazed for a long time at his mansion. “You may return ahead of me,” he said, glancing back at the servant. “I will return after inspecting the hunting grounds.”

The servant descended the terraced fields. After walking about a hundred meters, he looked back. Toriumon was still looking this way with one hand resting on the pine tree. The servant, for some reason feeling awkward, plucked some wheat and made a flute. He walked another hundred meters or so while playing it. And then, he quietly looked back. Toriumon was still standing in the same posture as before. When the servant entered the mansion gate, there was a sharp sound, and an arrow lodged itself in the trunk of the pine tree in the garden. That was the arrow Toriumon had been using. And attached to it was something like a letter.

The servant pulled it out and took the arrow with the letter attached to the mistress’s quarters. When the mistress opened it, the letter simply read as follows: “I have realized that until now I have been living a mistaken way of life. However, I still do not know what the correct way of living is. Therefore, I will now set out on a journey to learn the correct way of living. I do not know when I will return. You and the children must live diligently. Toriumon.”

Four Toriumon intended to try anything to find the correct way of living. The first thing he tried was becoming a blacksmith’s apprentice. Toriumon, now completely blackened, stood facing the master and struck the anvil with a clang. On the anvil, strong, splendid swords and halberds were forged. The master sold them and made money. Therefore, Toriumon was able to do things that benefited the master. However, Toriumon desired to do things that would benefit a greater number of people. Moreover, one night, he heard a story that a group of bandits had attacked a capital noble’s mansion and cut down numerous innocent servants, women, and children with their swords. When he heard this, he grew to dislike the work of forging swords as a blacksmith.

Next came sake brewing. Toriumon, who was fond of sake, thought that producing such drink in large quantities to please people was indeed a most beneficial thing for others. However, one time, when he saw a man - drunk and stubbornly insisting on wrestling a bull - being restrained by his weeping wife and children, he began to doubt whether sake truly benefited people.

Next came comb-making. He pulled a thin saw and carved each comb tooth one by one. Ah, this was work that benefited many men and women. Yet for a man like Toriumon—one of rough temperament—how utterly tedious this task proved. Toriumon, his shoulders growing stiff, would pound them with his clenched fist dozens of times daily, blink repeatedly, and let out heavy sighs.

In addition to these, he wandered about from place to place while engaging in various tasks—horse trading, charcoal making, eboshi hat crafting, mirror polishing, and the like. However, there was not a single job that suited Toriumon perfectly. There were jobs that benefited people. But such work was something Toriumon could not come to like. There were also interesting jobs that he could come to like. But such work was not very beneficial for people.

Five Toriumon had no intention of trying only monkhood or beggary. He thought becoming a bandit would be better than turning into one of those. Yet Toriumon ended up becoming that very monk he detested. It was something born of a minor mistake.

Toriumon had just then left his job and, without a single coin to his name, was walking aimlessly along the highway without properly eating anything for three or four days. His hair and beard had been neglected for so long that they had grown wild and tangled, with only his eyes darting restlessly within, giving him a sinister appearance. However, Toriumon came to understand that being in such a state was doubly disadvantageous. The first was that people feared him and kept their distance; the second was that lice bred in his matted hair.

There, at a peasant household, Toriumon borrowed a razor and shaved his beard. Then he shaved off his hair as well. It wasn't that he meant to become a monk. This way, he figured he wouldn't need to tend to his hair for some time.

Then, from the shadow of a pine tree along the highway, a man called out to Toriumon like this.

“Excuse me—excuse me—Reverend.”

Toriumon stopped and looked around, but seeing not a single monk-like figure, realized it was he who was being called. “I am not a monk.” “Even so, it seems you have shaved your head.”

The man from the pine tree shadow bent at the waist and said. “This shaving—I shaved it for a specific reason.” “I am not a monk.” “If I must be called something, I am a samurai.” “In other words, I’m like Benkei.”

This peasant-like man had come from a small village nestled among mountains, about ten ri inland from the highway. In that village, as there had been no temple until now, they all discussed it and built a small hall in the thicket on the rear mountainside. However, given that it was such a remote backcountry village—an impoverished one at that—there was no monk who would come to tend the hall. Therefore, this peasant-like man—having been sent by the village headman—had come out to this highway early this morning to search for a monk. However, while artisans, samurai, and peasants passed by in great numbers, monks were rarely seen. When he finally thought one had come and clung to their sleeve to plead, it turned out that the monk—having a splendid temple of his own—coldly dismissed him, saying he had no intention of becoming some lonely hall keeper in such a mountain backwater. Thereupon, as the sun had sunk far to the west, the peasant-like man was disheartened.

“Given these circumstances, I beg you, Monk-sama. If you would deign to save me, please become our village’s hall keeper.”

The villager spoke earnestly in plain words. "I see—your story does sound pitiful." "But I am not a monk." "If I must be called something, I am a samurai." "A shaven-headed samurai—in other words, something like Benkei." "Even if I were to become the temple keeper, I’d be of no use." "Moreover, I’ve always disliked monkhood."

So saying, Toriumon tried to take his leave. “Ah, please don’t say that, Reverend Monk. “Please, if you’d be so kind as to do something for the sake of the villagers.” Toriumon stopped in his tracks when he heard the words “something beneficial.” For was it not precisely in search of that “something beneficial for others” that Toriumon had fallen to such ruin and wandered the provinces? “Hmm. “So you’re saying that if I just become the temple keeper, that alone would be beneficial for the villagers?” “That is indeed without mistake.” “Very well. In that case, I shall become the temple keeper and serve.”

The villager suddenly perked up and smiled. And guiding Toriumon, he set out on the return journey. “However, since I am not truly a monk, I do not know the duties of one—is that still acceptable?”

Even so, Toriumon’s anxiety continued to grow, and midway along the path, he asked the villager. “Not at all, don’t you worry about it.” “The duties of a monk ain’t nothin’ complicated at all.” “Recite sutras morning and evening…” “I do not know those sutras.” “Oh, there’s no need for you to know them.” “Just mumble somethin’ like ‘Travelers pass along the narrow path ahead…’ under your breath and ring the bell—that’ll do the trick.”

“I see.”

“And then, you’ll give Buddhist sermons two or three times a year.” “That is something I cannot do.” “No, even if you call it a sermon, the listeners ain’t nothin’ but uneducated illiterates like us. Hell’s a fearsome place with pools o’ blood an’ mountains o’ swords where blue, red, ’n black demons roam—them demons howl just like Taro’s dogs barkin’ on a moonlit night. You tell folks some simple tale like that, they’ll listen all grateful-like.”

“I see.”

Thus, Toriumon became a monk.

VI

A small village nestled in a valley, surrounded by mountains on three sides and open only to the south. Bamboo thickets were scattered here and there, and wherever one went, the sound of clear flowing water could be heard. In the mornings, the first light streamed down from the eastern mountain peaks, gently touching the trees, houses, and gravestones. By day, the village passed in such silence that one could hear nothing but the hungry lowing of its sole cow, the buzzing of bees visiting loquat blossoms in sunlit spots, and the cawing of crows quarreling between the cedar above the shrine and the treasure storehouse roof. At dusk, the last light gently shone from the western mountain edge onto trees, houses, and gravestones, then faded one by one as blue shadows and evening mist settled in.

There were about twenty houses in all. In capricious places, in capricious forms, they stood. In those houses lived poor, beautiful-hearted, unknowing people who grew flowers in their gardens and such.

Toriumon took a liking to this village. By the way, Toriumon's monkhood worked out. However, this was not because the villager who had brought Toriumon managed to deceive the villagers as he had thought. It worked out precisely because he had failed to deceive them. For Toriumon, standing before the villagers who had gathered at the temple hall, immediately confessed that he was not a true monk. When the villagers heard this, they were at first disappointed. What they had wanted was a monk, not something like Benkei. However, the villagers decided to put up with Toriumon. Because they understood that no proper monk would come to such a lonely, poor mountain village deep in the mountains. Moreover, Toriumon possessed a noble dignity befitting one who had once been a samurai.

Toriumon's life as a monk began. It did not go smoothly from the start. First, devising his own name alone proved a task. Having become a monk, he needed a suitably monastic name. After much consideration yielded no good options, he took two characters from his former name Toriumon and settled on Toriu. Even this name failed to impress. Moreover, whenever required to gather elders for sermons, a warrior's tremors would grip him before he even mounted the dais. Upon climbing onto the platform, his vision would blur and his heart feel lodged in his throat. Though he delivered his talks in booming tones, the elderly comprehended nothing. And because he finished so quickly, they lacked time to eat the rice crackers they'd brought.

However, the villagers gradually grew accustomed to this makeshift monk, Toriu-san. Before long, they came to realize that while Toriu-san was poor at sutras and sermons, he was indeed beneficial to the villagers. When it came time for the farmers’ busy season, Toriu-san would come to help households that seemed short-handed. And though it was called help, Toriu-san did the most labor-intensive tasks—operating the foot-powered mortar, plowing fields, shouldering rice bags—so the farming households were greatly relieved.

Yet what truly made the villagers grateful to Toriu-san were these moments: when he shot dead with an arrow the wild boar that had ravaged their mountain fields for about ten days straight, and when he chased a wandering yamabushi—who had tried to steal seventy-eight persimmon fruits from the village’s persimmon tree—for about one *ri*, retrieving seventy-one of them before returning. (The yamabushi had eaten seven persimmons while walking one *ri*.) Thereupon, the villagers thought as follows.

“That Toriu-san was not a real monk proved to be such an immense blessing for the village.”

Thus the days passed. On a warm early spring day in his third year in the village—the moment he sneezed in the sunlit spot—Toriu-san realized he had lately ceased trying to seek the correct way of living. Why had he so utterly forgotten about that correct way of living—something he had once strived so desperately to seek out? However, upon careful consideration, he realized that the days he was now living were indeed the correct way of living. I have been making myself useful to others, even if only little by little. And the work I did for the villagers was enjoyable to me…

Toriu-san recalled Heiji. Heiji might no longer be alive. Even if he was alive, he was blind. Toriu-san had shot out both eyes. But if Heiji was alive, he thought, he wanted to meet him once and apologize for his own cruel deeds. And I wanted to let Heiji know that I had finally found a way of living that would not incur his reproach.

VII

It was a villager who had gone to the deep mountains to gather brushwood that first conceived the idea of acquiring a single hanging bell for the village. The villager crossed several small hills, entered the deep mountains, and there cut brushwood. Then from afar came a sound reaching his ears. He stopped working and listened intently. He realized it was the sound of a bell. Oh what a bright, gentle sound it must have been. The villager realized there existed something like a soul within himself. The bell's sound coming from afar softly and warmly enveloped that soul. As if spring light had flowed in to enfold a peony blossom.

After returning to the village, the villager told Toriu-san about it. And he said, “If our village too had a hanging bell so we could hear that sound morning and evening—who knows how much it might benefit everyone’s afterlife.” Thus it was decided Toriu-san would procure a bell. Upon hearing it was for the villagers’ benefit, he couldn’t keep silent.

However, this was no easy task. The village was poor. Each household could contribute only a small amount of coins. By the village's strength alone, they could not have made even the smallest of bells—they absolutely needed to receive contributions, little by little, from people of other villages. Toriu-san had never wanted to imitate a beggar in the first place. Yet such protests could no longer be voiced now. Had he not even become what he once despised—a monk? When it came to matters benefiting others, there was no choice but to endure.

Toriu-san then hung an alms bag around his neck, took up his iron alms bowl, and left the village, saying, “Well then, villagers, I shall not return for some time.” And for eight years, Toriu-san did not return to the village.

VIII

On the roadside embankment stood a single holly tree. Under that tree rested an aged, shabby monk.

Autumn had deepened to that cold-edged season when even midday shade chilled the bones. Holly blossoms scattered like rice grains across the hunched monk's lap - this shabby, weathered figure being Toriu-san, who after eight years of wandering provinces to collect alms for a bell, now sought to return to his mountain village. Time's passage with its rains, winds, and sunbeams had ravaged Toriu-san's body. Yet his heart brimmed with joy, for he had finally gathered enough pure donations to cast a single bell. How the villagers must be waiting. How they would rejoice.

From here to the village, if one went straight, it was now only about two ri away. However, Mr. Toriu intended to take a slight detour and stop by a village along the large river. That riverside village was the first one Mr. Toriu had visited eight years prior when he began his alms-begging. And the people of that village were all kind-hearted souls; when they heard Mr. Toriu’s story, they gladly placed their offerings into his alms bowl. Over the next eight years, Mr. Toriu passed through countless villages here and there, but none were as generous as this riverside one. And so, at last, he resolved to visit this village once more and receive offerings. If things went well, Mr. Toriu secretly mused, perhaps he could make a bell just one size larger than he had envisioned.

At last, Mr. Toriu rose to his feet. And from the fork in the road, he proceeded to the right. If he went that way, it would lead him to the riverside village. After walking a short distance, he found himself traveling alongside a villager carrying a green bamboo pole.

“You’re headin’ to Kawana too, monk?”

the man asked. Kawana was the name of the riverside village. “Ah.” “You got relatives there or somethin’?” “No, nothin’ like that.” “So what brings ya here?” “I aim to collect alms.” “To make a bell for my village.”

“Alms?”

The man, surprised, looked again at Toriu-san’s face and said: “So you don’t know a thing about it, do you.” “Did something happen?” “Oh, it sure did. Kawana had a big flood this summer—levee collapsed, all houses washed away, rice fields and farmlands buried in sand.” “What?!”

Toriu-san, too, stopped in his tracks, surprised. “Is that really true?” “Would I tell lies or jokes about something like this? Many people died or were swept away. But those who survived have come back again—they’re putting up huts, clearing fields, trying to rebuild the village. Me, I’m aiming to put up one hut today myself—got this bamboo from relatives, see. Monk, if you’re heading to Kawana planning to get something out of them, you’d better do right by them. If you mean to take even one sen from them, you should go. The folks in Kawana have become penniless, with nothing left to their name—surviving day by day on the kindness of others.”

“I see… No—I didn’t know,” said Toriu-san. Yet his feet would not move. For a time, he stood there. Something within him seemed to be in conflict. The villager too had stopped, waiting for Toriu-san to declare, “Very well—let us go help them.” Instead, Toriu-san spoke again. “No—I must press onward. I cannot divert to Kawana. I shall turn back here.”

And, pivoting on heels, he headed toward the holly tree.

The villager hurried off toward the riverside village with a disappointed look.

To the vicinity of the holly tree was perhaps not even half a chō. That short distance took Toriu-san an exceedingly long time. For Toriu-san would walk one step and think，walk two steps and think. Something was pulling at him from behind. He couldn’t advance in one go. The thought of “Should I go to Kawana to help the people?” and “No—no，I should return straight to my own village” were contending within Toriu-san’s heart. Kawana was a village of kind-hearted people. Those kind-hearted people were now suffering. Helping them was a good deed. But helping them would mean giving away all the money he had painstakingly saved up until now. In that case，the intended bell would not be completed. It was a bell that he had finally managed to create after eight years of traveling through various provinces to bring joy to the people of his own village. If this bell were not completed there，there was no telling when the villagers would ever attain the fortune of hearing it morning and evening.

At last, Toriu-san reached the fork in the road beneath the holly tree. His mind was made up. He would return to the village and make the bell. As if trying not to think about Kawana, Toriu-san briskly proceeded along the left path.

Nine

Three months after Toriu-san returned to his beloved village, a not large but well-shaped hanging bell was hung beside the plum tree in front of the temple hall.

In the morning and at dusk, Toriu-san would go out into the garden and strike the bell. When heard up close by its side, it emitted a clear, piercing clang. And when listened to from mountain peaks or valley streams—they told Toriu-san—it spread softly like mist, becoming a most nostalgic and beautiful sound. Toriu-san was intensely pleased by this. A warbler had come to sing in the plum tree of the garden. A thin mist veiled the mountains, making them appear freshly revived. On one such day, Toriu-san uncharacteristically made rice balls and hung them at his waist. Then he went to a nearby farmer’s house and said: “Today I wish to test how this bell sounds from afar. When noon comes—apologies for troubling you—would you ring it in my stead?”

Of course, the villager there agreed. Thereupon, Toriu-san climbed up the eastern mountain of the village.

Passing through a grove where birds were chirping and steadily climbing upward, near the summit there was a sunlit spot. Toriu-san lay down on the withered grass there, basking in the warm sunlight as he waited for the bell to ring. Before long, the bell rang. Gong, once.

“It rang, it rang!” Toriu-san abruptly sat up. Gong, gong. In the spring fields and mountains, the bell resounded beautifully, gently, and purely. Gong, gong.

“It rang, it rang!” Beaming, Toriu-san laughed like a child. Toriu-san was profoundly satisfied. I made a bell that makes such a fine sound. For the villagers' sake, after eight years of hardship, I had finally created it. This bell would bring immeasurable comfort to the villagers’ hearts. It was not only for the villagers alive now. Since the bell would not vanish even in a hundred or a thousand years, there was no telling how many people might hear its sound from this time onward.

With a bright and buoyant heart, Toriu-san descended toward the village.

Then, at the earthen bridge of the village entrance, he came upon the village children tormenting a blind beggar—throwing sand at him, hurling pine cones.

“Hey now!” From afar, Toriu-san scolded the children. The children abruptly stopped their mischief, threw the pine cones they were holding into the river, and ran off that way. The blind beggar had lost his cane and was crawling around the area searching for it. Toriu-san was startled. It was a man he recognized. He went closer and stared intently at the blind man crawling around. It was indeed Heiji, whom he had parted with long ago. Once again, Heiji appeared before Toriu-san.

Toriu-san retrieved the cane from the roadside and brought it over. And gently extended it toward Heiji’s hand. Heiji grasped the end of the cane. Someone was holding the other end. As if wondering who it could be, Heiji tilted his eyeless face upward in thought.

“Heiji, do you know who this is?” Heiji seemed startled at having his name called, but eventually smiled faintly and, “Ah, Master Toriumon, how nostalgic it is to encounter you.”

he said. “Yes, it’s me. It’s been some time, hasn’t it.” “How very nostalgic this is.” “Hmm.” “But I—” Toriu-san said in a heavy voice. “I’m not happy to see you.” Heiji formed a faint smile on his face. “For what reason might that be?” “Because whenever I meet you, nothing good ever comes of it.”

Heiji did not answer anything. He merely smirked faintly. “You’re a hateful wretch. Hating you, I crushed both those eyes. But even now, I still detest you!” Toriu-san said in words that seemed to revert to the old Toriumon. “Master. I have no eyes left. Where will you shoot me next?” “You hateful wretch. A wretch like you—no matter how much I shoot, it’ll never be enough. But even if I were to shoot you dead, it would be no use. You’d come back to life and torment me again.”

Heiji smirked faintly again. “That smirking of yours—it pierces my heart.” “You’re going on about how what I did was wrong, aren’t you?” “You’re saying it would’ve been right to give alms to the Kawana villagers.” “That’s exactly right.” “I’ve now come to clearly understand that too.” “The moment I saw you, I understood.” “Ah, I thought I’d done work that served the people—yet my methods were wrong.”

Even when Toriu-san tried to take Heiji to his hall, Heiji refused, saying he would part ways there.

X

The villagers found it strange. From that evening onward, the bell ceased to toll. Wondering what had become of Toriu-san, the next day the villagers went to check the hall. Yet despite it being midday, the hall’s doors were tightly shut. However, when they peeked through the gap in the doors, they saw flickering light inside and heard a voice shouting something like sutra phrases, so they understood Toriu-san was there. So the villagers decided to let Toriu-san do as he pleased and all returned to their homes.

Finally, one day, Toriu-san opened the door and came out. His eyes darted restlessly, and his face had turned pale.

“Ah! That bell has vanished!”

he said while looking at the bell tower.

However, in reality, the bell was right there. In the spring breeze, the bell hung quietly. “Where has that bell vanished to?” Toriu-san walked along, restlessly gazing at the rooftops of the houses.

Then suddenly,

“Ah! The bell’s screeching as it flies!” “It’s circling through the sky while screeching.” “Ah! What an awful sound!” “It’s the voice of a cracked bell.”

And with that, he covered his ears and stared at a corner of the sky.

However, in reality, there was no bell flying through the sky. Only spring clouds floated here and there, basking warmly. Then, after some time had passed, Toriu-san suddenly began running while covering his ears. Whether on roads, fields, or through thorny thickets, he ran headlong southward without hesitation. And soon he vanished from the village.

And so, Toriu-san came to wander through various provinces once more. Chased by the form of a bell he could not see, surrounded by the sound of a bell he could not hear, he ran this way and that like a spring whirlwind.