Pathway to Japanese Literature

I On December 12th, Kikuji-san, a poor farmer, accompanied the Monk of Unkaku-ji as he made his rounds collecting the first rice offerings. The first rice offering referred to new rice harvested that autumn, which the villagers would offer little by little to the temple, entrusting their afterlife concerns to Buddha. When the monk stood at the doorways of the village houses and recited a short sutra, the villagers—already well acquainted with the custom—would bring out new rice measured in a masu from the interior. Receiving that rice, putting it into bags, and loading them with a woven basket was the duty of Kikuji-san, the attendant.

Now, since that autumn had yielded a bountiful rice harvest, the farmers gave generously without holding back large amounts of their first rice offerings. And soon two bags would fill up each time Kikuji-san had to take them to empty into the rice chest in the temple’s priest’s quarters. By nightfall Kikuji-san had made five trips. And just as another bag was about to fill up again night fell and they had just finished visiting all houses in village.

“It’s already gotten dark—what should we do about Urotani?” The monk said while tilting his head. Urotani was a hamlet at the bottom of a valley about fifteen *chō* away where only five farmhouses stood. Yet its villagers brewed remarkably fine sake.

“It seems we’ve gathered quite a bit of rice already, but what should we do about Urotani?”

The monk said again. “Weell...” Kikuji, who was not averse to sake, answered in a drawn-out manner. “If we go to Urotani, we’ll end up returning after dark—but should we go? What’s to be done?” And—as expected of one likewise not averse to sake—the monk said for the third time, fingering his prayer beads.

“Weell—”

And Kikuji-san answered, drawing out his words even longer than before.

“Very well，let’s go then．Kikuji-san，if you don’t want to，you can head back alone．”

With that, the Monk started walking toward the valley.

“Why would I go back? If I’m accompanying you, Monk, even into the cauldron of hell, I wouldn’t refuse.” While saying this, Kikuji-san hurriedly followed after the Monk.

When they arrived at Urotani, sure enough, at one of the farmhouses there, they were treated to delicious sake poured from a barrel into a one-shō masu. The Monk, “Letting a sake lover drink—there’s no harm in this.” “This is precisely the mercy Buddha himself preached.” ...delivering sermon-like remarks, “Was this sake brewed with water from the west spring or the east spring?” “What? With the west spring’s water?” “Exactly! It’s bound to be delicious.” “That west spring’s water tastes sweet even if you drink it plain, you know.”

praising such things and drank heavily. Kikuji-san, for his part, sat down on the threshold and, wringing a hand towel with both hands, “No more for me—I’ve had plenty. I’m just here as your attendant,” saying things like, “Well, since you’ve no luggage, Monk, you can drink all you like. But I’ve got these bags—if I take too much, I won’t be able to move,” saying things like that—they still drank a great deal.

When they left that house—though one more household remained—the Monk, belching, declared they should head back and began ascending the narrow path.

It was already night. The moon that had hung in the sky since daytime began to shine, and the sasanqua flowers blooming at the corner of the narrow path appeared cold and white. The path wound and twisted through the fields as it ascended toward the village. When they had climbed four or five *chō*, the two heard a voice calling from behind.

“Please wait—Monk.” Someone called from the direction of the valley floor. “What could it be? Did we forget something?” And the Monk stroked and pressed around his own body to check.

“I’ll be right there—please wait—” said a voice that sounded like an old person. Before long, in the moonlight, a figure that looked like a person came into view. “That’s a limp, isn’t it.”

And then, after another moment, Kikuji-san said. Because the figure was limping closer and closer. “Ah, painful, painful!” “Oh, I’ve kept you waiting—my apologies.” “Oh, it’s nothing. I came chasing after you to have you take this.”

What the limping old man, who had climbed up while panting, presented to the two of them was a bowl filled with rice. “Hmm, I see. I thought it was something else again.”

The Monk received the bowl with apparent disinterest and said.

“Oh, I’ve kept you waiting—my deepest apologies.” “But when I heard you’d already come to Urotani for the first rice offering and returned, Monk, I thought it wouldn’t do for Buddha if I alone didn’t offer my first rice.” “I humbly ask for your kind consideration.” The limping old farmer, like one who had fulfilled a weighty duty, went back down the slope with a radiant face. Since the other two bags were already full, Kikuji-san placed the bowl as it was in the corner of the basket. Having drunk three or four gō of sake, he didn’t consider himself such a clumsy hand as to spill that rice.

However, after having gone just a little way, Kikuji-san stumbled on a stone. The bowl overturned, and white rice scattered across the ground. "Oh no! This is bad!"

Kikuji-san frantically gathered the rice with both hands. And put it into the bowl. Then the Monk took that bowl in his hands, looked at it, and flung the rice onto the ground. “This is no good—it’s got dirt mixed in.”

Kikuji-san was vacantly staring at the rice scattered across the ground. “There—this should take care of it.”

And the Monk scattered the rice with his foot. Kikuji-san widened his eyes. What in the world was the Monk doing? To think he would kick and scatter rice with his foot! But Kikuji-san was also a bit too eager to please. Moreover, the alcohol had reached all the way to his head. Kikuji-san also awkwardly stuck out one leg and ended up imitating the Monk.

Thus, the bowl of rice that the limping old man had brought while panting was trampled underfoot by the two drunken men and vanished from sight. “Ah, that’s a relief.” And the Monk said this and began to stagger off. Kikuji-san threw the empty bowl with all his strength over there. At first, the bowl flew straight and dark, but just as it seemed to glint, it changed direction and plunged diagonally into the bamboo thicket.

Kikuji-san, now feeling somewhat relieved by this, shouldered the basket once more.

II

Two days later, on a cloudy, cold day, Kikuji-san went to help with the cleaning at Unkaku-ji. At Unkaku-ji, since the memorial service was soon to be held and many worshippers came daily as part of the preparations, they polished until gleaming the various implements placed before Buddha.

Kikuji-san had lunch at Unkaku-ji and returned home. Kikuji-san’s small house stood in a cultivated field surrounded by mukuge trees before Unkaku-ji’s gate.

When Kikuji-san reached the well, there stood his son Seizō beside the ash storage room plucking at the wall’s moss over and over. When he looked, Seizō wasn’t wearing either geta or zōri. “Sei, what’re ya doin’ there in this cold?”

When Kikuji-san said this, Seizō began to sob. “You got scolded by Grandma again, huh? Come on, come on. Dad’ll apologize for you.” Kikuji-san led the sobbing Seizō into the house.

Then inside the house were Kikuji’s elderly mother and Kikuji’s wife engaged in quarrel. Okami-san was protesting that Grandma scolded Seizō too severely—that striking his back with fire tongs seemed downright cruel. Meanwhile from her side came Grandma’s retort—voiced with the clangor of hammering a dented metal tray—that this daughter-in-law spoiled children rotten: “Indulge kids or cats and they’ll only turn wilder!”

When Kikuji-san asked what had caused such a quarrel, it turned out that while Seizō had been eating his lunch, he had spilled two grains of rice. The grandmother saw this and said, "Divine punishment will strike—pick them up and eat them." But Seizō refused, saying he didn’t want to because they’d gotten dirty, and in the end, he rubbed those two grains into the weave of the straw mat. So the grandmother got angry, struck Seizō with the fire tongs, and chased him outside—so it was told.

“Grandmother is going too far.” “She’s telling him to eat the rice grains that fell into the dust in the gaps of the straw mat, you know.” Okami-san said pleadingly to Kikuji-san. “Whether it’s got dust or sand on it—what’s he supposed to do if he doesn’t eat it? It’s blessed rice we’re talking about.” “If he throws it away，divine punishment will strike!” The elderly mother shouted, flapping her large mouth open and shut. Kikuji-san listened in silence, but in his heart, he was angry at his mother. Despite being an old woman, she kept putting on airs and found every excuse to bully her daughter-in-law—he thought she was a nasty old hag. He thought that when people spoke of a heartless old hag, they meant his own old woman here.

Thereupon, Kikuji-san finally spoke up.

“Would divine punishment really strike just for throwing away a few grains of rice?” The elderly mother, finding her son speaking up with such unsettling composure and uttering something so strange, had her courage drained and stared fixedly at his face. Then, “Are you saying that even if you waste rice, divine punishment won’t strike?” She asked. Kikuji-san remained composed,

“Ah, that’s right,” “As proof of that, I trampled white rice underfoot with the Monk of Unkaku-ji the other day, but no particular punishment seems to have struck us.” “Both I and the Monk did.” he said. When she heard that, the color drained from Grandmother’s face. “Th-that… ’twas the day of the first rice offering the other day, was it?” Grandmother asked, her voice trembling. “Yes, yes.”

Kikuji-san replied jokingly. The elderly mother gulped audibly, fell silent for a moment, then forced out with a strained breath: “Wh-which leg...?” “This one.” Casually, Kikuji-san extended his left leg before Mother’s knees. Mother—her face drained of color—stared at his left leg as though beholding a severed head. Then—

“May divine punishment not strike you.”

she said in a low voice, as if praying. “Divine punishment strike? As if! Both I and the Monk trampled white rice like this. If divine punishment were to strike, then this leg would hurt—but it doesn’t hurt a bit.”

“May divine punishment not strike.” Mother continued praying in a low voice, as if uttering a supplication. “As if it would strike! Not a twinge…” Just as Kikuji-san said this, he felt a sharp twinge of pain in his left leg. But thinking it must be his imagination, “Not a twinge…” As soon as he started to speak, pain tens of times worse than before shot through his leg like lightning. Thinking this couldn’t be happening, he tried to endure,

“Damn! Not a twinge...” As he started to say this, a pain as if a drill were being twisted into his leg surged through him, becoming unbearable, “Ow ow ow, shii—t!”

He said, cradling his leg. “There, you see? I told you so—divine punishment has struck.” The elderly mother declared triumphantly, having proven her words true. But she quickly realized this was no time for gloating—her precious son sat clutching his leg, groaning in agony. Then began total chaos in Kikuji-san’s household. To soothe his left leg’s pain, they soaked hand towels in scalding water to wrap around it, kneaded mustard powder into paste to slather thickly over the limb, placed moxa cones like fava beans below his knee, split roasted seed eggplants still sizzling hot to press against his soles—every remedy a poor farm family could muster. When desperation peaked, they even moistened a straw strip scrap with spit and stuck it to his forehead—a charm meant for when numbness fades.

They tried all sorts of things, but none had any effect. Kikuji-san could no longer walk. He lay in the futon, cradling his aching leg and groaning. Given this state of affairs, he had no choice but to accept that divine punishment for trampling the rice had indeed struck him. Then Kikuji-san said: “So it’s finally happened—divine punishment has struck.”

And when he considered how much sweat and toil we farmers shed to produce even a single grain of rice, he concluded that it was only natural for the foot that trampled such precious grains to ache under divine punishment.

Three Even when people face misfortune, having companions can make things somewhat bearable. Kikuji-san, too, realized that he wasn’t the only one who had trampled the rice—that the monk of Unkaku-ji was his companion in this—and found that the pain in his leg became somewhat bearable. So Kikuji-san waited quietly in his heart, half-expecting that soon the monk’s leg would start to ache like his own.

Two days, then three days passed. In the futon, Kikuji-san, “I thought I heard someone climbing Unkaku-ji’s stone steps earlier—wasn’t that the doctor?” he would ask Okami-san about such things. On warm, windless noons when the veranda was bathed in sunlight, he would crawl out there and keep watch on Unkaku-ji’s gate with his own eyes. He waited in secret, wondering if at any moment the attendant or the acolyte would come rushing out from there to fetch a doctor.

So one time when there was suddenly a clamorous noise inside the gate—thinking that surely now the monk’s leg had begun hurting—Kikuji-san forgot his own leg pain and stood up; he even rose onto his tiptoes to look out. But upon realizing it was merely some stray dogs from nearby fighting in the temple grounds, he sank back in deep disappointment. The next morning at last came what he’d been waiting for—the acolyte emerged from Unkaku-ji’s gate. Yet this acolyte had only come to hang an enormous lantern—nearly as large as a four-to barrel—from beneath its eaves. Upon its surface was written “Memorial Service.” Today marked its beginning.

Kikuji-san knew that during the Memorial Service, the Monk would climb onto the platform in the temple hall and deliver a sermon. If he carefully watched the Monk going up and down the platform, he would surely understand the state of the Monk’s leg, Kikuji-san thought. When he thought this, Kikuji-san wanted to go see the Memorial Service.

Worshippers began gathering in droves. The worshippers were all elderly people with bent backs. They all came leaning on canes, dragging their chins along the ground as they approached. And though the stone steps were not particularly high, they would rest three or four times along the way as they climbed. Therefore, even though Kikuji-san leaned on a cane and dragged his aching leg as he climbed, it did not particularly stand out or draw anyone’s attention.

In the temple hall, Kikuji-san sat in the shadow of a thick pillar polished to a gleaming shine. For his purpose was not to listen to the Monk’s sermon, but to secretly observe the condition of the Monk’s leg. Those who seek to covertly watch others’ circumstances are precisely those who desire to hide their own presence.

Before long, the Monk appeared at the side entrance of the temple hall wearing a beautiful persimmon-colored kesa robe. And with a crisp rustling of fine cloth rubbing together, he proceeded to the innermost area before the main Buddha statue. He showed no sign of limping. After solemnly pressing his hands together and bowing toward the main Buddha statue, he then emerged into a brighter area and effortlessly ascended a platform about three shaku high where he sat down.

Kikuji-san, who had been watching the proceedings up to this point with bated breath, sank into disappointment and thought—Ah well, it seems there’s nothing wrong with the Monk’s leg after all. So it turned out that the divine punishment had struck only me. When the Monk ascended the platform, low voices chanting “Namu Amida Butsu,” “Namu Amida Butsu,” arose from the crowd of old men and women filling the temple hall, like wind rustling through a thicket. Kikuji-san too found himself swept along and ended up chanting “Namu Amida Butsu.” In truth, when the Monk sat upon the platform wearing his persimmon-colored kesa robe, he appeared splendidly venerable, like an emissary of Buddha or something of the sort. It was simply unthinkable that this splendid and revered Monk—drunk as he had been—could have trampled rice underfoot.

The Monk first looked all around the temple hall, then let out two thunderously loud coughs—*ahem, ahem*. It was as if a tiger had roared twice. Among the old men and women, some—perhaps recalling Lord Yama—once again chanted *Namu Amidabu, Namu Amidabu*, hunching their already rounded backs even more.

Then the Monk slowly opened his mouth and, “Grandpas and grandmas, you’ve all devoutly attended today, Oh.”

said the Monk. This marked the beginning of the sermon.

The sermon continued for a long time. The Monk raised his voice loudly and spoke of hell, the Pure Land paradise, and Buddha. When reaching what seemed like crucial points, the Monk slapped the platform with his hands, his eyes bulging like a crab’s, and spoke in a booming voice that seemed ready to devour the elderly sitting right below the platform. Moreover, when speaking of Buddha, he would stretch out the word “gracious” as “graaaacious,” elongating it like taffy, making it sound utterly reverent—and each time he did so, the elderly chanted the Nenbutsu prayer.

From the shadow of a pillar, Kikuji-san stealthily watched the Monk while steeling himself not to be taken in by his words. No matter how virtuous a face the Monk put on or how splendidly he spoke, it was all empty talk—Kikuji-san affirmed in his heart that he knew exactly what sort of person the Monk truly was. However, when the Monk— "When a daughter-in-law and elder quarrel—oh, grandpas and grandmas, mark this well—it's not the daughter-in-law at fault." "It's you elders who're wrong." "No matter how much nenbutsu you chant, elders who torment their daughters-in-law shall never reach the Pure Land, I tell you."

When the Monk preached this, Kikuji-san too truly thought it was right. And he thought he wanted Grandmother to hear such a sermon. That Grandmother had gone to Mae Mountain today to trample barley in place of Kikuji-san, with his bad leg. Then, the Monk also spoke about how one must take good care of everything. And he said something like this: "In a single candle, a sheet of paper, a drop of hair oil, or a grain of rice or wheat—though unseen by the eye—Buddha himself resides within them all, I tell you." "If you waste a single sheet of paper, you are treating Buddha himself with disrespect, I tell you." "If you spill even a single grain of rice, divine punishment will strike you for it, I tell you."

Kikuji-san thought it was completely correct. His own foot that had trampled the rice was still hurting. But even so, Kikuji-san thought, how could the Monk have said such a thing so hypocritically? How could divine punishment not strike him for this…? As he gazed at the Monk’s thick neck and face glistening with greasy sweat, Kikuji thought: This man is fortunate indeed—to do such wicked deeds, spout such hypocritical lies before others, and yet suffer no divine punishment at all. But that heaven would strike only me while sparing him entirely—this is unjust! Heaven’s ways are one-sided!

Having no longer had the heart to listen any further, Kikuji-san leaned on his cane and returned home.

Kikuji-san felt lonely when he thought he'd suffered misfortune completely alone, without any companions. And he resented heaven for striking only him with divine punishment. At dinner, Kikuji-san finally could no longer hold back and blurted out. "This kinda foolish nonsense ain't right." "The Monk and I did the same thing, yet only my leg went bad, and the Monk's still hale and hearty, ain't he?" "Heaven's a bit foolish—I can't help but think it's blind."

When she heard this, the elderly mother placed her hands—one holding chopsticks and the other gripping a rice bowl—on both her knees, “What kind of deluded thinking are you harboring?” “How can you blame heaven when you’re the one who did wrong?” “Saying such things and resenting heaven—even if you do that, it won’t achieve anything, I tell you.” said she.

That night, after extinguishing the andon lamp, Kikuji-san lay awake for a long time in the darkness.

In Kikuji-san’s eyes, there appeared black soil. On top of it were scattered a handful of faintly white things. That was spilled rice. It was precious rice. While gazing at the phantom of spilled rice, Kikuji-san suddenly understood why divine punishment had struck only him.

Kikuji-san was a farmer. Because he was a farmer, he knew how much hardship was involved in harvesting rice. And he also knew how delicious the rice harvested through such hardship was. In other words, he knew the value of rice—its true value. That Kikuji-san had trampled rice with his foot was why divine punishment had struck. Now, the Monk was not a farmer. Even if he preached with words like “Rice is graaaacious, I tell you,” since he had never grown rice himself, he knew neither the hardships of rice cultivation nor the true deliciousness of real rice. Therefore, since he had acted unknowingly, even when trampling the rice, divine punishment likely did not strike the Monk...

Kikuji-san, having come to understand things this way, no longer felt any resentment toward heaven. —Instead, he felt he ought to thank heaven.—He knew the value of rice. The Monk had been born to different circumstances and did not know rice's true worth. If that were so, there was no need to grieve over his leg hurting from divine punishment. Wasn't this proof that Kikuji-san understood the value of rice?

“I was truly in the wrong. “I was truly in the wrong….” Kikuji-san apologized to the faintly white phantom of rice. Then he apologized to the elderly farmer who had come chasing after them up the slope dragging his lame leg—the one who had delivered that single bowl of rice. He apologized to heaven and to earth. He apologized to Mother. He apologized to his father who had died fifteen years prior. He apologized to everyone in his heart.

Then, the next morning, Kikuji-san noticed the pain had left his left leg. Like someone who had suffered a stroke, no strength entered that leg. Therefore, he had to drag that leg with each step. For taking away the pain while leaving it thus, Kikuji-san offered immeasurable thanks to heaven. Kikuji-san became as if reborn, his heart now beautiful.

And from that day on, in place of the elderly mother, he went out to trample the barley at Maeyama.

Four

After that, Kikuji-san lived for forty years. During that time, various things changed. With the Meiji Restoration, he removed the topknot he had kept tied at the back of his head until then. Along the highways too, the palanquins that once carried people vanished, replaced by rickshaws now running in their stead. Yet Kikuji-san remaining a poor farmer never changed. And his left leg remaining crippled never changed either.

After dragging his left leg throughout his long life, working diligently, gradually aging, and his wrinkles deepening, Kikuji-san finally passed away on the afternoon of May 3rd of a certain year. Now, on the very same morning, the Monk of Unkaku-ji, who had been deeply connected to Kikuji-san, had also died. The Monk of Unkaku-ji, just as Kikuji-san had thought, appeared to be a man of remarkably strong fortune; he never became lame at all, always remained vigorous—his face glistening with oily sweat as he chanted sutras with alcohol-tinged breath—grew old, and even on the night before his death drank about one shō and two gō of sake, passing away without any suffering at all, simply dropping dead in the end.

Well, I had told this story spiritedly up to this point, but continuing further now felt disagreeable. This was because I thought you all would not believe me. If it were merely disbelief, that would be tolerable—but I feared you might find it so preposterous you'd burst into laughter. Yet since the tale remains unfinished, stopping here simply wouldn't do.

……Kikuji-san was walking. It was a long road with purple iris flowers blooming on both sides. It was an exceedingly long road. Kikuji-san thought he had already walked quite a long way, but there was no sign at all that the road would end. When he looked back, the road he had walked was bordered by purple iris flowers, stretching straight ahead. The farther it went, the narrower it became, disappearing into a milky haze. The road ahead that he was about to take was also in such a state, ultimately disappearing into a milky haze. All the while thinking what a peculiar road this was, Kikuji-san walked on.

The sun was shining brightly. However, even when Kikuji-san looked around—as he often did when working in the fields and growing hungry—wondering where the sun was, there was no sign of it anywhere. And the light alone streamed in from nowhere in particular, making everything pleasantly bright and clear. Even when Kikuji-san looked at his own shadow, there was nothing resembling a shadow at all, which left him quite startled. But even as he comforted himself in this way, Kikuji-san kept walking. "A change of place brings a change of fortune," he told himself.

Kikuji-san noticed he was still dragging his lame leg. There, he muttered to himself, “I should be dead, but seems even in death this limp ain’t changed from when I was alive.” And he found it utterly absurd.

Before long, a human figure came into view far ahead. It appeared the figure was seated on a stone by the roadside, waiting for Kikuji-san. Thinking it would be wonderful to have a companion, Kikuji-san began to hurry, causing the sound of his left leg dragging to grow louder. When he drew closer and looked, it was the Monk of Unkaku-ji. The Monk of Unkaku-ji looked at Kikuji-san with sleepy-looking eyes and spoke.

“There’s the sound of water gushing around here. Kiku, go scoop a cupful and bring it to me.” “I’ve had too much sake last night and my head’s still all foggy.”

Kikuji-san said, “Right away,” and went to search for the spring by following the sound. Beside the spring, as is often found by springs near roadside Jizō statues, a small dipper had been placed. From this, it appeared that travelers passed along this road as well, and when their throats grew dry, they would quench their thirst at this spring and continue on their way.

After the Monk had finished drinking the water with apparent relish, the two began walking.

“Monk, I’ve been thinking for a while now that something’s strange—something’s strange indeed, I must say.” said Kikuji-san. “What?” “No matter how far we go, irises keep growing on both sides like this, I tell you.”

“Yeah.”

“I just can’t make heads nor tails of this here.” “If this be Buddha’s road they’re sending us down, no call to line it with naught but irises like so.” “Seems they might’ve planted some lotuses too—what d’you reckon?” “Quit your fool talk.” With that, the Monk—eyes heavy with sleep—shut his lids. “Beggin’ your pardon.” Kikuji pulled a sheepish face. After a spell, Kikuji spoke up again. “Since I was knee-high to a grasshopper, never could tell iris from sweet flag from rabbit-ear—how come that is?”

“How old were you when you died?” “Oh, I lived until seventy-three.”

“Seventy-three.” “Seventy-three years you’ve lived—eh?” “Oh.” “So even after all that—still can’t tell irises from sweet flags ’n rabbit-ear irises—huh?”

“Oh.” “It’s because you’re a fool.” “Ah, that it is.” Kikuji-san thought he shouldn’t have brought up such things. Resolving to stay silent, Kikuji-san shut his mouth and walked on. Only the sound of his left foot dragging went thud, thud.

Then the Monk scowled, “You’re making too much noise! Can’t you lift your foot a bit when you walk? The dust is flying up something fierce!” he said.

“Oh, I’m truly sorry. With this leg, I’m trying my best to lift it as much as I can.” Kikuji-san apologized earnestly. “Now then, where might we be headed?” After a while, Kikuji-san asked again, “I suppose we’ll end up before Mr. Yama anyway.” “Yeah.” “Unlike you monks, when I stand before important folks, my tongue gets all tied up. Before Mr. Yama’s court, I’d be obliged if you’d put in a good word for me.”

“Yeah.” “Well, I’ll do my best to put in a good word for you.” “However, you didn’t visit the temple much when you were alive, did you?” “Oh.” “You probably didn’t make many rice or money offerings to the temple either.” “Oh, being poor, I had no time for temple visits, nor any money or rice to offer the temple.” “That excuse won’t hold water.” “I’m truly sorry.” And so, Kikuji-san had to apologize once more.

“Those who did bad things while alive still end up going to that place called hell, I suppose.”

After a while, Kikuji-san asked again.

“That’s likely how it is.”

And the Monk exhaled a breath reeking of sake and said curtly. Kikuji-san then tried to recall various things he had done while alive. However, Kikuji-san found himself recalling only bad deeds, starting with trampling the rice. For instance, such as when he made lion dance children from Echigo perform various tricks but then chased them away without payment under the pretext of having no coins to spare, or when he picked up a kitten under an earthen bridge while returning from the fields but later remembered that living creatures require food and consequently abandoned it back under the same bridge.

Then the Monk, laughing, tried to recall the things he had done while alive. However, whether because the Monk’s head was still foggy from sake or not, he simply could not recall having trampled the rice together with Kikuji-san. And indeed, as befitting a monk, the things the Monk recalled were all good ones—so much so that Kikuji-san became convinced he had led a splendid life.

In this state, he wouldn’t be able to accompany the Monk and enter that Pure Land paradise or wherever—Kikuji-san thought despondently. “Kiku, don’t drag your foot so much.” “The dust is flying up like crazy, I tell you.” And again, the Monk said.

“Oh, I’m truly sorry.”

Kikuji-san apologized while wiping sweat from his forehead. "But Monk, you're dragging one leg yourself." Kikuji-san added. That was exactly the case. The Monk had also been dragging one leg for some time now. "Now that you mention it, this leg of mine does seem to be hurting."

And the Monk frowned and said.

After a while, the Monk’s leg pain grew worse.

“Monk, please let me carry you on my back. Why, even at my age, I can manage one or two like you.” And Kikuji-san, forgetting about his own leg, crouched down before the Monk.

At that, the Monk did not hold back. The Monk was carried on Kikuji-san’s back. Kikuji-san staggered under the Monk’s weight as he pressed forward.

Before long, a rickshaw came from ahead. “Ah, you’ve come to meet us.” “Splendid, splendid! A rubber-tired rickshaw has come.” And the Monk said. “I have come to fetch you.” said the man who had pulled the rickshaw. And, “Who is the person who died on May 3rd in the afternoon?” the rickshaw puller asked.

“It must be May 3rd in the morning. “I’m fairly certain I died before noon.” And the Monk said. “Well, I was told it was May 3rd in the afternoon.” “Then, what about the one residing in front of Unkaku-ji Temple?”

And the rickshaw puller asked. “It must be regarding someone inside Unkaku-ji Temple.”

And Kikuji-san asked in return. "No, I distinctly heard 'in front of the gate.'"

And the rickshaw puller tilted his head. "You must have misheard 'inside the gate' as 'in front of the gate.'"

And the Monk said while climbing into the rickshaw. "I don't think that's how it was."

And the rickshaw puller raised his head and tilted it to the opposite side. "If you don’t listen more carefully, that won’t do." And the Monk scolded the rickshaw puller and settled heavily into the rickshaw.

With no other choice, the rickshaw puller began to pull, gripping the shafts.

Kikuji-san followed behind the rickshaw while limping. And occasionally, “Monk, does your leg still hurt?” he would ask. Finally, they came to where the road forked into right and left. There, someone else was standing.

When the rickshaw drew near, “Are you Kikuji the farmer?”

the figure asked the Monk on the rickshaw.

“No, I am the Monk of Unkaku-ji. If you mean Kikuji the farmer, that’s the one following behind.” And the Monk replied. “Then you’re mistaken. Monk, please get down from the rickshaw. Mr. Kikuji is the one who will ride.” Then the Monk said angrily. “Do you not know my leg hurts? Do you think I can walk with these legs?” “I am a farmer. I can walk any distance. Riding something like a rickshaw only makes me feel unwell, so I beg you to let the Monk keep riding it.”

And Kikuji-san also pleaded. There, the person standing at the crossroads reluctantly agreed. But he said as follows. “Mr. Kikuji will take the right path; Monk will take the left.” “That won’t do,” said Kikuji-san. “Back in life, I was always allowed to accompany you, Monk.” “For fifty years, I never once failed to make offerings of the first rice and first wheat.” However, no matter how much Kikuji-san pleaded, they would not grant this one thing.

“Is that so,” Kikuji-san said, his voice losing strength. “When I think about it, in life I did nothing but bad things.” “It may be only natural that someone like me—who can’t even properly recite a single sutra passage—and the Monk here, who served Buddha his whole life, cannot go to the same place.” And so Kikuji-san and the Monk parted ways—Kikuji-san to the right path, and the Monk, who had boarded the rickshaw, to the left path.

The Monk was jolted along in the rickshaw. After a while, he looked back. He thought that fool Kiku must still be watching him from behind, reluctant to part ways.

Then the Monk started in surprise and opened his eyes wide. As Kikuji-san trudged forward, his body glowed brilliantly golden. Kikuji-san was no longer limping. Nor did he walk like an elderly man anymore. It was the form of Buddha well-known in paintings and carvings. ...the Monk involuntarily pressed his hands together in prayer toward that retreating figure. “Ah,”

And the Monk sighed and said. “Now I finally understand…” “That road leads to the Pure Land—and this one continues on toward some wretched place…”

The sky in the direction Kikuji-san was advancing was beautifully clear and radiant, like the color of pearls. When the Monk looked ahead on his own path, there—as if a sudden evening storm were brewing—black clouds swelled and loomed, with lightning flashing within them. ……And once again, the Monk’s leg began to ache.