Pathway to Japanese Literature

Moonlight

Recently, I occasionally received letters (ghostwritten) from Otoroku Kaku, which was how I first came to know the surname Otoroku; until then, I had simply assumed her name was Ikariyama Kaku—or so I had thought.
However, Ikariyama was the name of her village.
Speaking of which, people came to realize they had been referring to her as Ikariyama no O-Kaku.
Moreover, it became clear that not only O-Kaku but also the townspeople had been using village names instead of surnames to distinguish those villagers.
In any case, I felt a strange awkwardness when seeing “Otoroku Kaku”—the name that appeared in the letters I had recently received from her.
Moreover, it wasn’t consistently written as Otoroku—sometimes it became Ondo, other times Onda, or even changed to Otori.
When I met O-Kaku and asked about her surname, after she remained dazed for some time,

“Ondoru… that’s it.”

She would respond, but whether it was "ru," "ri," or something else entirely—I could never discern, and it vexed me terribly. Asking about the characters was futile. Whether because Ikariyama’s resonance was clearer or due to habit, I had come to feel it suited O-Kaku’s appearance and demeanor far more familiarly—but before long, even the indistinctness between "Ondoru" and "Ondori" ceased to bother me. In that small, remote mountain village, something like a surname was truly unnecessary. After all, there wasn’t a single person in the entire village who received anything like mail—. The parasitic tree where I resided, neighboring Ikariyama, along with five other place-name subdivisions, were hamlets within what was called Tatsumaki Village—local designations that carried no official registration.

O-Kaku brought the ghostwritten letters to me herself, but their contents were invariably ambiguous.

“What exactly is Bukurin’s real name?”

In the letters, he was referred to as Yukichi, Yushichi, or Yuta, so even when I pressed her again, O-Kaku’s replies remained evasive.

“Bukurin’s always up to no good…”

O-Kaku would only say things like that.
Bukurin was the nickname of O-Kaku’s son, but there was no one who knew any name other than this nickname.
As for what “Bukurin” might mean—though it likely held no discernible meaning beyond mere wordplay—his perpetually swollen, bluish face gave the impression of someone either seething with anger or brimming with grievances. Yet when you assumed him angry, he proved otherwise, maintaining that same expression while producing laughter-like sounds deep in his throat. The very appearance of one-eyed O-Kaku’s son made him look every bit a “Bukurin.”
This was by no means unique to Bukurin; for some reason, in this area since ancient times, most men had been better known by their nicknames, and it wasn’t uncommon for even the individuals themselves to eventually forget their real names.
The name Bukurin brought to mind Guderin, the ghostwriter.
Of course, I still did not know his real name either, but observing his demeanor, there was nothing particularly listless about him—he was rather a refined-looking man who always wore a pale yellow silk handkerchief around his neck, yet for some reason never looked directly at others during conversations.
He tilted his face slightly sideways, kept his eyes downcast, and yet remained quite talkative—all while maintaining a fixed smile.
And it was his habit to pull his chin tip with left fingertips; when he did this, his face appeared elongated, but when he turned frontward unexpectedly, it transformed into a rather flat shape.
His complexion—neither blue nor yellow like a loofah’s—was said to occasionally bear traces of light makeup.
Moreover, while his speech seemed leisurely, he never listened fully before nodding carelessly left and right.
He appeared eager to demonstrate quick understanding.
Yet despite this habit, they said he had never once kept a promise.
His walk adopted a carefree gait—feet moving lightly from tiptoes—while his upper body swayed like a languid loofah as he surveyed all directions through downcast eyes tilted sideways.
If I explained each detail endlessly—he possessed something like a virtue compelling trust face-to-face while remaining undeniably deceitful in essence.
In other words—could that be Guderin?

There were countless others who could not be recognized except by their nicknames.
Whether among family members or on debt ledgers, no one found it strange that everyone bore nicknames—save for Mr. Morohoshi Genjuu, leader of the fire brigade, who alone passionately declared that "these corrupt practices must be reformed from their very foundations."
Mr. Genjuu often delivered indignant speeches condemning these utterly vulgar customs, but habits entrenched over years could not be overturned overnight, and he repeatedly grew hoarse from berating those who used the nicknames in his presence.
Thus, the nickname far more widely used than Mr. Morohoshi's real name was "Yuagari."
The reason for this was that Mr. Morohoshi's complexion remained constantly flushed a shiny red, as if he had just emerged from a bath.
He was a stern and upright country samurai who abstained from even a drop of alcohol, having long busied himself with moral reform efforts in Tatsumaki Village's hamlets without respite.
In the surrounding area, it appeared Mr. Morohoshi was the sole person who had completed middle school.

However, unbeknownst to me at the time, I discovered that a nickname had been attached to me too—a revelation that shocked me and filled me with outrage matching Mr. Morohoshi's own indignation.
I detested that nickname just as vehemently as he did—refusing to acknowledge or permit its use—and even now, merely recalling it stirs such violent anger within me that I can hardly bear it; yet for this account's progression I must reluctantly divulge it.
Please forget it at once.
My nickname was Tongarashi of the Watermill.
They said it had spread spontaneously from my perpetually bitter expression—as though someone had forced me to lick chili peppers—though none could name its originator.
When I first heard this explanation, I involuntarily—

“What the hell is ‘Tongarashi’?!”

I shouted with a shudder.
It was at the Mud Turtle tavern during the village festival banquet.
Everyone fell into an awkward silence, and I kicked over my seat and left—but moments later, a raucous cheer erupted from across the room.
They had apparently jeered, thinking Yuagari was the only fool who’d get angry at his nickname—how amusing that another tactless Tongarashi had now appeared!

The more high-handedly I tried to counter it, the more rapidly it spread from person to person, until I found myself helplessly swept up in the tide with no means to stem it.

Please allow me to share just a brief recollection about Otoroku Kaku.
I was one of two brothers—my younger brother being about fifteen years my junior—and we were both raised by Otoroku Kaku from early childhood.

To anyone familiar with Bukurin, she was a mother whose features so closely resembled her son's that even upon suddenly encountering her for the first time, one would immediately think, "Ah, this must be that boy's mother."
I had known O-Kaku first and been acquainted with Bukurin for five or six years, but even without being told, I recognized at once that he was her son.

O-Kaku had rarely ever spoken since long ago—always “Bukurin!” She would just call out “Bukurin!” and even now I cannot begin to imagine her age. While she was undoubtedly an elderly woman by then, to my eyes she appeared no different from the O-Kaku of old. O-Kaku possessed an astonishingly enduring nature that knew no opposition in any circumstance, making her undoubtedly a rare and ideal guardian for children. When children asked for stories, she would plead ignorance and sing something called a grinding song. As for that song’s melody—it was one of unparalleled leisureliness, something as listless as a yawn. Even now, unchanged from times past, when autumn’s harvest ended and winter’s work began, voices singing could be heard from house windows here and there alongside the rumbling grind of stone mills—but no matter how patiently I strained my ears, the song’s tempo proved too languid, and before I could discern any lyrics at all, I would find myself drifting into a drowsy haze. Even when I asked what the words were, there was no one who could recite them together with the melody. In other words, no one clearly knew the lyrics.

During my younger brother's early childhood, I was a middle school student, but O-Kaku and the infant would play in the sunlit clearing behind the mandarin orange grove on windless winter days.
From the window before my desk, that scene could be viewed like a painting framed within its borders.
Even though the infant had long since fallen asleep while listening to the grinding song, O-Kaku would continue singing without picking him up.
It seemed the song required moving one's upper body much like turning a millstone to keep rhythm, and so O-Kaku kept singing endlessly with the bearing of one grinding flour.
And even when the child woke again, she would still be grinding the millstone and singing.
Given that he slept for such long stretches, one might think she could at least pause her singing during those intervals—yet once she began singing at his pleading, she would never cease of her own accord until her listener grew bored and proposed another activity.
Then again, when he crawled out across the lawn toward the field's edge, O-Kaku made no move to pull him back but instead laid a straw mat ahead of his path.
In whichever direction his arms stretched—whether over crops or into shaded thickets—she spread straw mats from one spot to the next, never once obstructing this infant who crawled wherever his limbs carried him.
The arms and legs of a crawling child showed remarkable endurance, and I watched transfixed as he scuttled round and round like a hatchling turtle beneath the mandarin grove, crossing fields until he crawled toward the main house itself. Forgetting algebra entirely, I wondered how far he might travel across an open square unimpeded—utterly captivated by this spectacle.
Otoroku Kaku would roll up each mat after he passed and continue laying them ahead, muttering something under her breath as she followed his movements.

Whether it was my younger brother’s time or my own, her child-rearing methods were exactly the same—and despite the significant age difference between us brothers, she would often mistake one for the other and call us by the wrong names.
Oh, so it was then that I suddenly realized—when the child passed beneath my window, O-Kaku had—

“Ton, ton, ton-ton—”

she sang in rhythm with the child’s crawling movements.

“Ton-ton-ton-ton, Tongarashi…”

Only that fragment of verse echoed clearly before and after, but when O-Kaku saw my face in the window—Ah! Had she misspoken?!
She blinked as if to say,

“Scallion Monk… Green Onion Monk…”

and changed the rhythm.

Upon reflection, the nickname Tongarashi wasn’t something recently foisted upon me—whether I’d made such a bitter face since infancy or whether my skull’s structure evoked chili peppers—but in any case, the impression I gave O-Kaku was Tongarashi, and it amounted to none other than her own naming.
Just as with Bukurin and Guderin, there was no particular meaning to it—nor was there any part of this man resembling a chili pepper—but since it had sprung spontaneously from O-Kaku’s lips based on some vague impression she conveyed to people, there was no helping it.
Moreover, O-Kaku called my younger brother "Scallion Monk" and "Green Onion Monk," but when spoken thus, there was indeed no mistaking that my brother’s essence matched those names.

In that town stood an old-fashioned bell tower.
Every hour, it would announce the number corresponding to the time, then strike three extra tolls called "discarded chimes."
That is to say, at eleven o'clock it struck fourteen times, and at twelve o'clock fifteen times.
This practice was later revised after the Taishō-era earthquake reforms and now reduced to twice daily—morning at six and noon—with the discarded chimes apparently abolished, though it is said to have been struck continuously since the Hōjō clan's Warring States period hundreds of years ago.

The children would stand beneath this bell tower and take pleasure in counting the resounding tolls of the bell.
O-Kaku stood beneath it with the children and chanted “one, two” along with them as the bell tolled.
When the bell stopped ringing—the children,

“More~~!” they would insist.

In the morning, I would leave home with O-Kaku and the children as I headed to school, and when I returned there in the afternoon, O-Kaku would still be waiting beneath the bell tower’s stone wall with her lunch basket hanging down, counting the tolls.
The figure of O-Kaku holding a child’s hand beneath the bell tower, vaguely looking up as she waits for the bell to toll, remains the most vivid impression in my mind.

Not long after my younger brother entered middle school, O-Kaku welcomed her first grandchild and was summoned back to Ikariyama to care for the infant—but around that time, Bukurin—the child’s one-eyed father—had abruptly vanished without a trace.
It is said that even when raising Bukurin, O-Kaku would spread out straw mats and let him crawl about as he pleased while chanting "Bukurin, Bukurin" in a singsong rhythm.

In front of the stable, many chickens were let loose and pecking at food.
Bukurin scuttled into the flock of chickens, but the birds remained unperturbed, climbing up and down the straw mat as they pleased.
Otoroku Kaku had been watching over this while singing a song when suddenly, the infant let out a piercing scream; even she was startled, and looking over, she saw that a chicken’s beak had struck the child’s left eyeball.
The child’s eyeball plopped onto the ground, but in the blink of an eye, a chicken snatched it up and, with a clatter of wings, dashed into the bamboo thicket—or so the story goes.

That is why his left eye is a glass eye.
That it lacked harmony with his right eye and glared so conspicuously might, I thought, be one reason for his nickname—but as it turned out, O-Kaku’s father had originally borne such a nickname himself, and since Bukurin closely resembled his grandfather, he had already been called Bukurin since childhood.
His right eye was as narrow as an elephant’s, and when the two eyes were placed side by side, they seemed to be taking precise aim at something.
To speak of the left, O-Kaku’s eyes were always as narrow as if asleep, seemingly pressed upward by both her plump cheeks.

The true intent of O-Kaku’s letters was to have Bukurin’s conduct admonished through my forceful opinions, but the texts ghostwritten by Guderin always utterly failed to achieve any coherence in his characteristic manner—and now, the very sight of that writer’s recklessly slanted yet uniformly aligned penmanship made my skin crawl.

The people of these villages—whether one calls them feudalistic or something else—tended to look upon those who had come from other lands with cold disdain and did not care to engage in direct conversation.
One reason may have been that their dialect was exceedingly localized, but even O-Kaku—who ought to have been a caregiver—still did not engage in free conversation with me, for example.
O-Kaku had no means of verbally conveying that request to me and thus asked Guderin to ghostwrite it—but given that Guderin himself had originally been a significant player in these circumstances from the start, this could not truly be called complete ghostwriting.
Guderin never liked to express his own will in others’ presence and had a habit of weaving deceptions under borrowed names.
So when faced with situations where someone was held accountable, he evaded by saying, "No, that was merely something I was asked to do and has nothing to do with me."
Bukurin had returned from five or six years of vagrant wandering, but O-Kaku had already transferred the family headship to her grandson and remained as indifferent as the wind blowing past a horse’s ears, leaving him seething with discontent.
And he would frequently intrude into the Ikariyama family home with the intent to embezzle household assets; however, when it came to physical strength, he was no match for O-Kaku and would be swiftly subdued by her without putting up a fight.
His wife had assisted at Mud Turtle’s establishment for many years when Bullet—a wealthy man from Ikariyama—took her into his household as a second wife.
O-Kaku considered it an utmost honor to have become kin with Bullet.

Bukurin was initially an employee at my watermill, but he spent all his time idling and rarely showed up.
To begin with, being tied up with this watermill wasn’t getting me anywhere, so if only Bukurin’s conduct could be reined in, I was determined to hand it over to the Otoroku household as it was out of obligation to O-Kaku and make Bukurin work.

When I told O-Kaku about that,

“If it’s given to Bukurin, it’ll be ruined…”

and shook her head.

“However, even Bukurin can’t mean to idle around forever—and given the rumors say he’s got a woman like a wife now—if someone were to approach him kindly from here on out, he might turn out to be a surprisingly diligent worker…”

I kept pressing my case this way, yet when phrased like that, it seemed O-Kaku couldn’t help but feel some affection for her son after all—she began to waver. But rather than confiding this distress directly to me as she should have, she instead turned to Guderin.

“…In that case… perhaps we should designate it as O-Kaku’s grandson’s.”
“Anyway, I want to leave this place as soon as possible, so…”

I stated my position regardless.
Guderin told O-Kaku that designating it as her grandson’s property would be preferable; when he cornered Bukurin, he said, “Well, since Tongarashi insists on this approach, just put on a mask of compliance and bow for now—once it’s ours, I’ll take charge and make us a profit,” swearing to broker its sale. Then when encountering Yuagari, he boldly insisted, “We must make every effort to turn that watermill into village public property—I’ll personally handle the campaign for that transition.”

When my thoughts in that vein leaked out, part of the village had already begun proposing to donate it as public property and convert it into a firefighting equipment storage space.
I didn’t particularly have an opinion, but if pressed, I opposed that proposal—regardless of what might happen afterward, I had wanted to at least present it to O-Kaku’s family first.
Therefore, whenever I met with O-Kaku, I would try to involve myself in all sorts of matters concerning her, but the more earnest I became, the more vacant she grew, maintaining only that expression of listening to the bell.

Taichi was still only thirteen—or perhaps O-Kaku meant to wait for Guderin to change his ways while she and Taichi operated the watermill together?—I simply couldn't grasp what O-Kaku was thinking on that matter.
Truly, when it came to the vexing nature of illiteracy and ignorance in such situations, it defied all description.

“There’s no need to go running off to that useless Guderin every single time! What exactly do you plan to do about Bukurin? However much you despise him—he’s still your child—you could at least say you want to give him something like this eventually! That much ought to be possible to put into words!”

As I gradually grew more impatient and resorted to a somewhat brusque manner of speaking, O-Kaku seemed already intent on seeking Guderin’s assistance, casting a gaze that seemed drawn toward the painted government office downstream.
There was nothing more I could do but stand idly by with folded arms, yet all the while, I couldn’t help but find it audaciously brazen how casually we called the child by nickname right before the parent—no matter how renowned that parent might be.
Moreover, wasn’t I myself a supporter of the “Nickname Abolition Movement”?!
I realized this, but even as I tried to recall various people’s faces, I now found myself unable to remember even a single person’s real name.

From here on out… Hmm?

I started to say something but involuntarily rolled my eyes.
Why couldn’t I recall Mr. Yuagari’s surname?
That, uh—what was it called… Chie-tsu!

I grew irritated and began pacing around the hearth, but still—

"Mr. Yuagari and Guderin—"

There was nothing else to say.
“Even if you asked a mediator for help!”

I grew impatient with myself and blurted out.

“I don’t know.—When it comes to such situations, if it’s O-Kaku who was asked, then O-Kaku’s opinion would be set aside…”

There was no way such words could reach O-Kaku—“If I keep spouting my own opinions like this, I’ll end up unable to make sense of anything.”

I grew livid.
At this, O-Kaku grew as skittish as if being scolded by a police officer. She began fidgeting with her walking stick—or so I thought—but soon, as my irritation mounted and I started striding about the hut, she trailed after me in a daze.

"Everything is utterly incomprehensible.
There’s no way we can be optimistic—we are merely walking, walking as long as we live…"

I was pacing round and round inside the roaring watermill where the wheel turned ceaselessly.

Yuagari would occasionally visit me with Guderin in tow, bringing proposals about relocating the firehouse and appointing Bukurin as standard-bearer for land reorganization—yet he would raise far greater fervor over the “Nickname Abolition Movement” than those matters.
Since my opinion originally aligned with his, the moment I even slightly leaned in, he would become as fervent as a Sengoku-era warrior making a desperate vow,
“Even if we must battle the villagers’ uprising, first you and I shall stand upon this alliance and rally our comrades—”

—he would strike his chest and firmly grab the listener’s shoulder. And with such tremendous strength, my arm went numb like a pencil. Although I wholeheartedly agreed with the central idea, I found myself utterly daunted by this manner of camaraderie, and could not help steering the conversation toward talk of weather and crops as much as possible.

“Allow me to first introduce Mr. Ishiwata Enoshinosuke here as our comrade.”
“Mr. Ishiwata wholeheartedly agrees with our cause and wishes to devote himself fully to it.”

Yuagari turned sharply toward Guderin in his stiffly formal tone,

“Now, Mr. Ishiwata—you won’t make any mistakes here, will you!”

he pressed.
Then Guderin, still tilting his head obliquely and stroking his chin,

“Well, that’s already…”

Guderin nodded clearly—a rare occurrence.

Neither Yuagari nor Guderin had come to visit me for such business, but Yuagari—who delighted in all things ceremonial—grew entirely absorbed in those formalities, making Guderin and I shake hands, passing around sake cups he himself never drank from, and finally crossing his arms to sink into solemn meditation.

I could never quite discern what Guderin said clearly, but piecing it together, it seemed he visited me at O-Kaku’s request—and that soon he and O-Kaku would bring Bukurin along. Having forgiven Bukurin’s past negligence (though forgive or not, I’d never actually resented Bukurin to begin with—), he appeared to be asking me to let Bukurin work at this hut again. Yet everything about his phrasing remained circuitous—wrapped in impenetrable dialect—and just when he seemed about to say something definitive, he slipped into evasions like “We’ll discuss the details another time—” or “Once I bring Bukurin here later—”, never pressing for my immediate opinion or reply, instead endlessly postponing his own propositions as he spoke.

“If he wants to work, he can come back anytime—it’s not like I care enough to need apologies or explanations.”

Even so, when I said such things, Guderin seemed not to understand—"Huh?"
"Huh?"
"Huh?"
he would ask back again and again.
And from how he persistently continued, I inferred that if he intended to transfer this watermill to the Otoroku family, he likely meant to first put it under Bukurin’s name before donating it to the village—doing so would bolster Bukurin’s credibility and make it easier to spearhead the land reorganization movement. But whatever the case, I had no stake in it; if it benefited the Otoroku family even slightly, that was fine by me. Yet time and again, Guderin’s evasive demeanor and way of speaking became unbearable, so I ended up turning away.

Then came another letter.
As for those letters—they were an utterly inscrutable jumble, repeating the same points over and over yet never arriving at any clarity.

Wasn’t I the baby O-Kaku raised? She’s surely on my side—there’s no reason to involve outsiders at all. If there’s anything to say or ask, shouldn’t we just speak plainly without holding back…

I would make a pitiful face, beat my chest in lament, and mutter—but O-Kaku remained perpetually dazed.

“Ugh, what’s the point of looking at this damn letter?!”

I felt nauseated by Guderin’s handwriting and involuntarily barked out. Moreover, starting with the address on those letters—a complete mess of nonsense and phonetic substitutions—it all just put me in a foul mood from the get-go. Writing “Makino” as “Makinoshino” was bad enough—sometimes he changed it to “Makishima” or “Makiwara.” And when it came to given names—Nobunosuke, Shintarou, Shimpei—those too varied every time. Even so, just as I began to feel somewhat impressed that O-Kaku might at least remember the sound of the “Shin” in Shin’ichi, the next letter would be grandly inscribed to “Mr. Makihara Eitarō” or changed to “Eibei.” Well, perhaps it was a confusion of names—mixing up my younger brother Eijirō and grandfather Eikiyo—but even so, how could I, as myself, not feel utterly mortified?

“Hmm... So?”
“What was that Tongarashi’s real name again, Mother?”

After finishing the letter, Guderin asked O-Kaku like this.
I decided to try listening to O-Kaku and Guderin’s conversation, so one day I headed to the town office ahead of O-Kaku’s departure and smoked tobacco in the public scribe’s office and the janitor’s room separated by just a paper door.

O-Kaku’s reply did not come immediately.

“Writing the names of us villagers is my business, but even as I write them, I can’t make heads or tails of who they refer to… and what with the work being so busy, I tell you.”

Guderin was muttering something to that effect.
I had heard he was an extremely forgetful man, yet this was still not long after Yuagari had mediated our introduction as comrades in the nickname abolition movement and we had shaken hands—so I was secretly astonished that Guderin had already forgotten even my name. But then, when I tried to recall what exactly Guderin’s name was supposed to be, I found I couldn’t remember it either.

Guderin was respected for his swift penmanship—able to finish writing postcard addresses between blinks—but before onlookers, he would heighten this display of skill, drafting countless letters while holding entirely unrelated conversations with others.
In exchange, their contents remained monotonous and utterly irresponsible through endless variations.
Even then, the moment he saw O-Kaku’s face—before she could voice a single question—

“Ah, ah—that matter? I know, I know…”

he immediately took up his brush and

“Respectfully, as the bitter cold intensifies its severity and influenza spreads ever more rampantly each day—”

...he would invariably include a sheet or two of seasonal greetings stating, “With utmost deference, I humbly report that all members of my humble household remain safe and sound, and thus earnestly entreat your peace of mind.” —“This lowly one, Otoroku Yutai (the son), having repeatedly caused your esteemed self such inexcusable trouble to the point of profound mortification, shall nevertheless visit at dusk on the forthcoming ×× day in accompaniment [of others], whereupon all matters shall be exhaustively addressed. I most earnestly beseech you to prepare accordingly.”

He’d write this while conversing with other visitors about unrelated matters. With their phrasing so excessively pompous from start to finish, I—receiving nothing but letters of identical content—could do nothing but gape in disbelief. If you waited until evening that day only to be met with utter silence, then after a few days had passed, another letter of the same sort would come flying in. In it, he apologized for the previous breach of promise, offering excuses like my chronic asthma—or claiming I’d finally been struck down by influenza—but O-Kaku not only lacked any such chronic ailment, she had never taken medicine a day in her life.

“Ah, these letters’ll do well enough to keep that man’s feet tethered.”
“Before we’ve even laid proper plans—if he takes one of his whims and vanishes sudden-like, we’ll be in a proper fix.”
“O-Kaku here’s to play decoy and keep watch—”

I couldn't understand what it was about, but as I carried out my work, Guderin's voice—skilled in that dialect as he exchanged words with someone about such matters—found its way into my ears from next door.

Could Guderin be a dual personality deserving academic study?

The stories were as inexhaustible as clouds.
Stories were smoke—without before or after, vanishing into nothingness the moment they left one’s lips.

I was thinking about a journey.

When I stepped out from the back door of the hut to the river’s edge, it was a moonlit night resplendent with blossoms. Without any thought of who might hear, I began muttering drowsily inside the hut in a state of profound self-abasement. Noticing that my muttering was gradually turning into a speech and edging toward a plea, I startled myself awake in surprise. The clattering of several pestles rotated by the waterwheel seemed to seize upon my story one by one, as though responding to it.

The mountains surrounding us were those same endlessly undulating hills as ever, yet even if I were a giant who suddenly lost my temper and tried to seize them by swinging my arms wide, there were no distinctive peaks to grasp—only that drowsy-colored haze encircling the village. The stream flowed white with reflected sunlight, meandering soundlessly onward with no scenery visible ahead. This river’s water—originally drawn through human artifice from the main current beyond the forest for irrigation—would mostly seep into field beds before returning to the main flow, becoming vapor; it was all so purposeless. There had been talk of bestowing even this rivulet with a name, but no diligent souls willing to bend their heads to such labor ever materialized. The people all grew nurtured by these waters, persisted in living, and knew nothing of wandering dreams.

I wandered aimlessly along the riverbank with my arms crossed. My chest was brimming with impatience. When I turned around, O-Kaku was standing behind me.

“Go home, please.”
“Because I want to walk alone…”

When I said that, O-Kaku replied in a voice like fragile bubbles—with Bukurin having vanished again and loneliness weighing on her—that if I were to disappear on top of it all,

“I can’t go on like this anymore.”

she sobbed.

“What? Bukurin’s run off again?”
“Then there’s even less for us to discuss.”

I wanted to chase after Bukurin.
In this village, I do not want to turn into water vapor.

“We have nothing more to discuss.”
“We don’t want any such watermill.”
“We just want to live together with Tongarashi.”
“If you space out, I’ll grab you by the scruff of the neck!”

“Don’t talk nonsense.
If I keep dawdling in this village, I’ll turn into another Guderin myself.
I hate catfish.”

I shuddered violently and recoiled.

“If you eat a cold catfish, you’ll stop spouting such nonsense.”

—Targeted by O-Kaku’s catfish remark, I bristled with every hair standing on end and began striding forward.
I thought of retrieving the watermill’s horse from the downstream blacksmith and trying to reach town before nightfall.

“Even if you go down there, Bukurin already took that lame horse out, and Garakura’s over at the firehouse holding some rowdy gathering.”

O-Kaku had already anticipated my intentions.

“That’s outrageous—Garakura has no right to let Bukurin take my horse!”

“Before Niwatsutori pecks you, get back to Ikariyama! If you hate the watermill, come to my Ikariyama and wring Niwatsutori’s neck!”

“Wring [its] neck” meant to eat a chicken, but the other Niwatsutori referred to Guderin’s older brother—a land broker with a voice like poultry.
For some reason, O-Kaku had grown close to Guderin but detested Niwatsutori.
It might have stemmed from the superstition that his son—having had his eye pecked out by a chicken—developed a contrary nature rich in wanderlust.

“Letting someone’s horse run loose without permission is beyond unconscionable.”
“I’ll go catch Garakura right now and make him guide me!”

I strained myself and turned my toes toward the firehouse.
The crowd, as indecisive as the surrounding scenery, filled me with genuine anger.
I had not even broken the seal when I carelessly noticed Guderin's letter clutched in my hand,

"There's a limit to treating people like playthings. I'll confront you to your face."

I shouted.

The firehouse was filled with people's clamor.
They held a drinking party around a large pot.
There was no mistaking it—they were eating catfish.
I feel nauseous at the sight of catfish dishes—and I mean this quite literally.
I wanted to call Guderin outside and, taking a deep breath as if diving into water to block the stench, opened the entrance door.
Looking in, I saw the group—while prodding at the large pot—were in heated debate over relocating the firehouse.

Guderin, as ever with his head slightly lowered, was busily scurrying around with a smirk to pour drinks here and there.
As I was about to call out to him, I suddenly met eyes with Yuagari directly in front of me. Startled, I reflexively covered my mouth and pulled back my leaning torso.
Despite having deeply agreed with his nickname abolition theory, it was because Guderin’s surname eluded me.

I was cross-referencing the people inside by holding the fire brigade members’ name tags hanging under the eaves up to the moonlight—while I had identified the sub-leader Yuagari as Morohoshi Genjuu and could easily count seventeen or eighteen others including Niwatsutori, Garakura, Dorokame, Kappa no Kin-san, Teppoudama, Yaneoto, and Guderin—the identities of Shinokura Zentatsu from the hose team, Mataoka Matahei and Otonami Magojuurou from the machinery team remained elusive.
Then Niwatsutori spotted me,

“Just in time—Mr. Tongarashi of the watermill has arrived.”
“There’s something I want to discuss. Come on over here…”
he beckoned.

“What? Tongarashi’s here?! Don’t let that bastard get away—drag him in, Guderin!”

The one who growled from the left was Yuagari. I had recognized him as a teetotaler of utmost integrity—a country samurai who wouldn’t touch a drop of liquor—yet here he was, legs splayed wide, guzzling sake from a bowl: not just “Yuagari” (“Hot Springs Rise”) but a veritable boiled-octopus ogre, now so drunk he could barely form coherent words.

I staggered backward and stood at the edge of the rice field.—From under the hut’s eaves, steam from the pot billowed turbidly into the sky alongside the clamor of the drinking party.

"Since cold catfish gatherings always start fights, best keep your distance—though I’d have fed you catfish—" O-Kaku murmured while gazing at my toes.
I hadn’t known such banquets bearing those names were frequently held through winter.
The watermill relocation debates—weren’t they just drunken talking points masquerading as serious agenda items?—I realized.
On reflection,Yuagari’s nickname abolition crusade amounted to much the same—another transient notion confined to that moment.
Yet when he’d presented that theory, his fervent bearing had been undeniably earnest—or had it?
Thinking this through left me so thoroughly addled I couldn’t measure my own confusion.

A horse was returning from the opposite direction, and when I looked, Bukurin sat astride its saddle, his eye glinting. During the river hunt, when he tried to wipe off splattered mud, he had accidentally broken his glass eye—so he claimed he’d hurried to town to buy a replacement. I was dumbfounded once more. O-Kaku’s garbled way of speaking proved so vexingly unclear that I usually grasped her meaning without hearing her out—though I’d definitely caught “ran away.” Upon reflection, people here used “escape” to mean simply “go somewhere.” Yet even when I listened intently, their words never fully made sense—and given that, there was no telling how many such misinterpretations might have piled up over time.

Bukurin exchanged a few words with O-Kaku, then tied his horse to the fire watchtower and disappeared into the hut.

I was seized by trembling as though peering into an ancient swamp—a moment when my tenuous hold on reality wavered, plunging me into that abyss where clouds mirrored in watery depths seemed both within reach and eternally distant.

The moonlit sky stretched unshadowed above—spreading rounded wings from its zenith’s halo toward shapeless mountains—as if sliding light beyond their peaks, revealing this hollow mortar bowl’s bottom.

“Why does O-Kaku care so much about where I’m going? I’m not going anywhere anymore…”

“…………”

O-Kaku spread her arms and let out a groan.
That shadow at my toes resembled a straw mat.
“Where do you think you’re escaping to on that horse—”

Once again I’d misinterpreted “escaping”—I’m not running away! It’s because Bukurin left my horse tied up without even giving it fodder—I need to find the feeding trough! I shouted. Then even louder:

“The horse is alive—Bukurin!”

I fumed. Kick down the door! Then take on every bastard that comes out—no exceptions, one by one! And bursting through my groundless resentment, I leapt out from behind O-Kaku.

“You’re out of your mind…”

O-Kaku had shouted so vehemently.
(It was much later that I learned this—under suspicion of that kind of illness, I had been confined to that village, and O-Kaku had been employed as my nurse. No joke.)

When I collided with the door, something spring-like and powerful repelled me.—I leapt onto the Bikko Horse, but O-Kaku took hold of its bridle and made no attempt to move it.

I climbed the fire watchtower ladder while gazing up at the moon. Lonely and wretched, driven by single-minded determination to escape from the mortar bowl's depths of utter despondency—knowing no other recourse—I kept climbing until I reached the bell's side.

Looking down, I saw O-Kaku gaping upward, surrounded by squirming black shadows making oddly tender beckoning gestures.—I realized I'd done something preposterous, yet it felt too absurd to slink back down now—this cold was unbearable!

Muttering this, I curled beside the bell and peered downward at the scene below—face tilted diagonally like Guderin's.

The smoke billowing turbidly from the flung-open hut door carried considerable force, yet dissolved into moonlight before reaching beneath the alarm bell; meanwhile, the breaths rising from upturned faces below hung vividly in the frigid air like trails of incense smoke.