Pathway to Japanese Literature

*History of Devils*

*Devils Dictionary*

*Classical Magicians' Vocabulary Book*

*Classical Magicians' Vocabulary Book*

At that time, I was poring over dictionaries with titles such as these:

*The Christendom Tale*

*Dr. Faustus’s Wanderings*

*Siegfried’s Expedition Chronicle*

*Saint George’s Chronicle of Heroic Exploits*

along with various other stories of similar nature.
When I consulted these dictionaries, the origins of various monsters and magical terms appearing in most tales and legends became clear—so much so that no matter how extraordinary a monster appeared, by etymologically dissecting it or cross-referencing famous phrases from magical history through the dictionaries’ categorized tables, I found myself not merely sweating palms as a mere reader enthralled by heroes battling monsters—but being drawn into an entirely different kind of fascination.

For instance, even in scenes where Saint George fell prey to the honeyed words of a blue-tongued Witch in the Forest of Temptation, if one searched for “Elm”—the name of this Witch—under the “E” entry in *Devils Dictionary* (here paraphrased into Japanese), it stated: Elm was the illegitimate child of a Witch and a Wizard, cursed from birth and herself deeply cursing her own existence, whose nature compelled her to lure virtuous travelers into bottomless abysses as sacrifices to her eternal curse. Yet the origin of her name derived from how Elm’s beckoning posture—reminiscent of witch-elm-tree branches trailing and swaying in a gentle breeze—was personified by the Angles tribe during their piratical era.
Then there was Dr. Faustus’s soliloquy:

“To investigate nature’s secrets, one must visit hell.”
“To visit hell, one must await the devil.”
“To await the devil, one must rely on the power of magic.”

When I looked up this famous phrase in *Classical Magicians' Vocabulary Book*, I found it in the journal of a certain theologian named Johann Gast from the 1540 edition:

“When I held the professorship at Krakow University, I was plagued by a delinquent student from Clingling who habitually neglected his studies, obsessed solely with magic, until he finally met the misfortune of expulsion. Upon departing, he left behind these words. Later, when I related this to my friend Faustus, he struck his knee, exclaiming, ‘A profound saying!’ and set out on a wandering journey before even waiting for the next morning.”

...and so on were also recorded.

“Mephistopheles—(Me) corresponds to the Greek equivalent of the Latin ‘In,’ signifying negation; (Phis) similarly denotes ‘light’; (Pheres) denotes ‘love’—that is to say, one who negates light and love—a synonym for the devil.”
“The appellation ‘Mephistopheles’ was first employed in a book published in the latter half of the sixteenth century by Johannes Spies, a writer of romances.”

At that time, I was—on maps—a great traveler whose footsteps had reached every corner of the world’s nations, yet in daily life, I inhabited a truly “box-like small world”: a humble hamlet nestled in a mountain gorge, omitted from any map of any kind, where even securing a stagecoach ticket to town was no easy feat—a life of such constraint.

And so, while I found purpose in brandishing a resplendent longsword in a room of the village’s dilapidated house, chasing turbulent dreams of heaven and hell, it was not long before a terrifying winter arrived—scattering my dreams with the lightness of goose down.

Our village, surrounded on three sides by hills shaped like folding screens, would invariably experience a violent phenomenon: when southerly winds began assaulting us from late autumn into early winter, the swift gusts that surged up from the estuary at the village outskirts with tsunami-like force—blocked in their path by the encircling hills—would roar skyward, whipping into ferocious whirlwinds.
Undoubtedly, the name “Tornado Village” must have originated from these fearsome winter whirlwinds’ nature.
As winter approached, the villagers would each carry stones from the riverbed—large enough to fill their arms—up to their rooftops, busily preparing to keep roofs from being blown away.
As I gazed out the window at the distant scene—villagers forming a serpentine line along the road stretching from the riverbed to the village inn, all laboring in unison while chanting a poignant anthem—their toil evoked visions of Egyptians erecting pyramids.

By all rights, I too should have promptly joined this labor—yet I clung stubbornly to my desk, leafing through *Devils Dictionary*, for I rather hoped to witness the house being engulfed by the wings of a great whirlwind and blown away like a leaf to some distant corner of the sky in a sudden awakening—.

I woke to human footsteps drumming on the roof.
Engrossed in *The Christendom Tale*, I had forgotten dawn entirely. In my shuttered room illuminated by lamplight alone, I sat slumped in my chair when an unplanned nap seized me—the story had reached its zenith: there lay an open page with a three-color illustration of valiant Saint Andrew straddling a winged zebra, vaulting deep into the castle to rescue fair Princess Helena from her Cyclops prison—and there I sprawled face-down upon it, drool pooling beneath my cheek.
And beside me lay the *History of Devils* dictionary,

“Cyclops—a monster’s name first cited in the elegies of Euripides of ancient Greece, its origin lies in a Dämonen worshipped among Caledonian pirates who haunted the Mediterranean. This monster possessed a single blazing eye akin to a sunflower at the center of its massive brow. Though its form eluded detection by ordinary folk, pirates believed the radiance of that eyeball served as a navigational aid, and it is said that within a chamber of their ships, idols of Cyclops were reverently enshrined. Their preferred drink was a liquor called (Demon’s Nectar). From around the early Middle Ages, they built castles on land, abducted passing travelers, and sucked their fresh blood from rooftops to make them prey. ‘However, if one discovers Demon’s Nectar and a traveler drinks it, they may easily discern the form of the otherwise invisible monster—so goes the legend of Serapis.’”

The passage containing this description had been left open, underlined in red pencil.

Indeed, after Andrew was informed by Helena of the Demon’s Nectar’s location and drank it down from the ram-horn-shaped wine vessel, he drew his sword and ascended the watchtower…

Ah, I—in the gloomy lamplight that erased all distinction between night and day—I, this wretched soul who had remained a captive of delusion, had at last become the “Brave Knight” who could no longer mock La Mancha’s ingenious gentleman.

I was a man in ruin who, night after night, secretly pored over these books—driven by the fervent wish to feel even a fraction of their fantastical absurdities as plausible dreams within my grasp—adorning my walls with a longsword crossed in a crucifix, donning homemade armor clad in silver paper, and by candlelight, letting my thoughts gallop unbridled into the world of "resplendent bushidō."

Hearing footsteps on the roof, I involuntarily raised my face and—in a trembling voice—
"There you are!"

With a growl, I swiftly took down the sword from the wall and glared resolutely at the ceiling. By now, I had so fully taken on Andrew’s psyche as my own that the blood coursing through my entire body surged, compelling me to immediately seek the Nectar and uncover the true form of the Cyclops.

“Helena—Helena—your humble servant Andrew, who has arrived upon the zephyr of Zebra from the isle of Iolas…”

Of course there was no hope of a reply; arrows of sunlight leaking through door cracks crisscrossed the dim room, making a winged zebra appear to stand at my side, while ahead in the corridor—where shafts of light were blocked and haze swirled like smoke—the phantom of Helena swayed, holding aloft a candelabrum as she timidly beckoned me. With the sensation of treading air, I stealthily made my way to the attic storage room by relying on a single beam of light, and when I discovered three sake bottles on the table—their halves illuminated by slender backlight leaking through the ceiling—I instinctively dropped to my knees beneath them and drew a solemn cross over my chest.

(My wife was waiting anxiously beneath the skies of the capital for me to arrive bearing the money pouch I would obtain by selling these properties.) In this vast hollow cavern of a space, my only housemates besides myself were two young horse traders, R and Z. It appeared they had recently started holding secret drinking sessions in such locations out of deference to me, who had suddenly developed an aversion to alcohol—though at that moment I hadn't yet pieced together this reasoning.

Both sake bottles stood completely empty, but when I fearfully shook the remaining one and felt the heavy liquid sloshing inside—Andrew dropped both knees to the floor and, following Serapian doctrinal rituals with palms pressed to his chest, received drops of nectar into his throat from the silver Zealand that Helena tilted…….

Just as the story described—with that very same fervor—I reached out a hand toward Helena’s imagined gesture, seized the simple, rustic flask, tilted it high into the air, and greedily gulped down its drops.

“Once it passes into others’ hands, he can’t even bother to come out and help secure the roof—that scholar’s esteemed judgment truly isn’t something to marvel at, is it now?”

“Don’t say that.”
“We’re just day laborers hired by Otonashi-san anyway…”

“Ah hah… What splendid weather we’ve been having.”
“With a sky like this, can you even imagine such a terrifying tornado arising before long?”

“It was last winter.”
“The stone from Nioh Gate that got swept up in the tornado killed Otonashi’s stallion—”

“Exactly! If only it’d landed on that landlord’s head instead of the horse!”
“That’s what everyone was whispering, you know.”

“They say that landlord’s greed has no bottom to it.”

“When you think on it, that scholar downstairs is pitiful—old man Otonashi pulled strings ages ago to forge the documents and register everything behind his back, yet there he waits for the estate to sell. Now that’s what you call beyond foolish.”

The resounding conversation from the roof reached the ears of the Serapian believer in the attic storage room, poised with a halberd as he attempted to rise.

“Hey, hey—your voices are too loud! Speak of the devil—and here he comes, right on cue.”
“Otonashi the Greedy’s lookin’ up at us from the riverbank, I tell ya.”

“Tsk! Makin’ only us do all the work while you’re over there with your hands behind your back… Look at ’im—countin’ on his fingers like he’s tallyin’ somethin’. Bet he’s schemin’ how much profit he’d rake in if he sold off this estate—storehouse, horses, fields an’ all!”

“How ’bout that damn face of his—stuffin’ his cheeks out like a blowfish under that top hat…”

“That baboon-faced old bastard! He’s been plotting lately to assault Hachiroumaru’s O-Tae…”

The moment I caught wind of this, it was as if a blazing flame erupted from my mouth.

I yanked the skylight cord of the storage shed with all my strength.—The blue sky blazed open above my head. When a cylinder of sunlight swiftly enveloped my body, I,

"What... That beast! O-Tae, O-Tae, O-Tae... My closest friend, the destitute fisherman Hachiroumaru—that kind Hachiroumaru's sister..."

I shouted while frantically beginning to climb the rope.
(At first, I had merely intended to indulge in this stifling pantomime of solitude within the dim room—at best, to startle the Cyclops on the roof by raising my voice alone—and yet!)

In a frenzied state, I—clad in absurd armor—danced out onto the sun-drenched rooftop, into the blinding daylight.

The two men, settled like crows on the ridge of oni-faced roof tiles and engrossed in arranging stones, let out an “Agh!” No sooner had they cried out than they vanished in that very instant. I heard the sound of a massive object crashing near the serene river flowing beneath the far eaves—though at that moment, it seemed I was gripping one of the iron-kettle-sized clods of earth brought up for roof-securing work. Then, oblivious to the commotion, when Otonashi’s top hat—having climbed the ladder likely to scold the men for their apparent idleness—suddenly appeared over the eaves, the damp clod flung from my hand struck him square in the face.

And I—hearing a sound as if a giant monstrous fish had leapt above the garden pond—immediately leapt down from the skylight into the shed and yanked the rope to plunge it into darkness.—The entire spectacle had unfolded in less than a minute.—With the haste of a quick-change artist, no sooner had I stuffed the discarded paper armor behind the rice bales than I leapt from the ladder steps to the corridor in a single bound, dashed back to my room, locked the door, and burrowed under the covers.

“……It’s so cold, so cold… I’m freezing to death, I tell you! Lend me clothes—clothes…”

A mournful voice resounded from the direction of the pond.

So it wasn’t a dream after all!

I slowly raised my head and muttered.
The lamp was lit!
The page's illustration—depicting Andrew poised to charge up a watchtower, glaring sharply at one corner of the ceiling—was bathed in the dim lamplight.……Suddenly, when I looked up, I wondered—had all that commotion just now been a dream!
I thought—but—.

“Ohh, this cold—words might freeze solid. Someone come! Oh, a terrible wind’s gathering force! Save me…”

The voice outside warped into a scream that seemed ready to expire.

More than that, the question of whether all those events had been a dream or not turned the pit of my chest cold and pale.
I lost all confidence in my actions, gripped by boundless anxiety at being bathed in daylight’s glare—on the brink of collapsing into a blizzard of delusion—and as I was dragged along by the thought of my body, like a candle, turning to smoke before my very eyes, I could no longer endure the hollow terror of those ghastly cries for salvation that grew ever louder and softer, winding incessantly around my ears. And so, with footsteps like a cowardly ghost—the very antithesis of the valiant knight I had been moments ago—I pushed open the door and...

"Did some kind of fight break out?"

With a deliberate show of sleepiness, I rubbed my eyes and opened the storm shutters.
If the rooftop brawl had not been a dream after all, then perhaps this was the enemy’s scheme—using the screams as a pretext to lure me out and force me to swallow their revenge in the form of watery gruel. Therefore, I concluded that I must first put on a show of having feigned sleep to gauge their movements before steeling myself with fresh resolve.

Could this be the appearance of the rumored Blizzard Man?
The moment I realized this, a violent trembling erupted throughout my body, accompanied by an uncontrollable chattering of teeth that refused to meet.

From ancient times, a terrifying legend of the "Blizzard Man" had been circulating in this village.
It was a tale comparable to the “Snow Woman” superstition of snowbound lands—when whirlwind season arrived, a large man resembling a crow-tengu would abruptly materialize from nowhere in forest shadows, riverbank edges, or pondsides, call out to people, suck their fresh blood, and scatter their bones to the winds.
Therefore, when this season drew near, people—terrified beyond measure by this superstition of the blizzard spirit—would not walk alone even in broad daylight.
The Blizzard Man primarily targets solitary men.

However, in this day and age, those foolish folk who believed in such absurd legends had gradually vanished into obscurity—relegated to mere fodder for laughter around winter hearths. Yet suddenly, I was seized by a terror so intense it raised gooseflesh across my entire body.—For it was customary in every household, as winter approached, to display at their gates a nameplate boldly inscribed “House of Minamoto no Tametomo” alongside crabs with carapaces fashioned into scowling samurai visages—eyes and mouths painted on in stark relief.
Needless to say, these were symbolic threats against the Blizzard Man.
Within the village, the houses that did not display those nameplates and masks were mine alone.

Suddenly, such a thing sent a lightning bolt of dread flashing through my mind.

I had thought it midday, yet outside was twilight filled with wind that began swaying with fierce intent—I stood astonished.

...Even so—if only that earlier commotion had been a dream, this anxiety might lessen—I willed while peering toward the voice, only to find a jet-black man standing abruptly at the pond’s edge, trembling.
And there he was—arms like Witch-elm branches drained of strength, buffeted by wind—wasn’t he desperately beckoning to someone?

(I’m prepared to die!)

When I muttered that, an unnatural calm welled up within me—one that even I found jarring—and without thinking, I bent down to pick up the Native American atlatl throwing spear I’d dropped at my feet,

“Even if struck, the blunted tip won’t kill—but it’s packed with enough force to bruise and knock someone out cold!”

I shuddered.

“I’m no monster, nor a thief—I’m Otonashi the Landlord! The owner of this house, blown into the pond by a gust that caught the wings of my coat!”

I ordered my underlings to carry stones to weigh down the roof—but no sooner had they hauled up three stones than they began slacking off and started gambling on the roof! How could three stones secure this roof?—I grew terribly anxious and rushed over in haste. I climbed the ladder and was about to berate them—the moment I let out my first shout—but in my extreme agitation, I flipped head over heels and tumbled into the pond…

“It was satisfying to see those two wretches panic and jump into the back river when they caught sight of me—but when they first noticed my figure, they suddenly tried to pretend they were working by each lifting a stone… only to flee with the stones still in hand!”
“Therefore, not a single stone should remain on the roof anymore.—Ah, I’m tormented by worry—isn’t a wind about to rise? If the roof flies off, I tell you—it’ll be more painful than death!”

Otonashi trembled and agonized.

(So, after all—had that been a dream?)
Though still half-convinced and half-doubting, I had regained some measure of confidence,

“So—are you scheming to spend tonight on the roof acting as a substitute for the weights?”

He growled with relish.

Then, Otonashi nodded deeply with earnest seriousness,

“I’ll pay ample daily wages—so won’t you, R, and Z all three spend tonight sleeping on the roof for me? Hiring night guards for winds that may or may not blow is as frivolous as buying a lame horse’s ticket to aim for a long shot—but no matter what, unless I get fifteen guards up on that roof, I simply won’t be able to sleep soundly at all, I tell you!”

As he continued to agonize, I stealthily peered at the southern sky and, seeing patches of scaly clouds along the hem of the sky tinged with an eggshell hue, felt reassured,

“Depending on the case, I might be willing to take it on.”

I answered.
“We’ll gather the rest of our men here, so why don’t you leave the payment?”

When there were no spare robes in my room, I threw out several shirts like rags, and Otonashi frantically began layering them on himself,

“It still seems cold—perhaps I should put on another layer of that and go—”

With an uncharacteristically red face, he pointed to the armor cabinet in the corner of the room.
It was said to have been used by my ancestor—an infantryman of ancient times; during my childhood, whenever the anniversary arrived of that armored ancestor’s deployment to some battle or other, we would solemnly fashion a human figure from the armor to display in the alcove—under my grandfather’s direction, we were made to prostrate ourselves before this treasure—but together with the strange books scattered about here and there, for me—a melancholia sufferer—it was equivalent to life-sustaining nourishment, an object I could not part from my side even for an instant.

“No way. There’s no way I’m lending this one out!”

Upon flatly refusing, I clung to the armor cabinet with a bloodcurdling expression.

There was no need to recall—whether it had been last night, ten days prior, or something that had recurred countless times; I, who had completely lost track of day and night, could not tell—but it always occurred in those sleepless depths of midnight.

The wind was blowing—even when lit, the lamp’s flame was snuffed out, and the book left open on the desk was tossed about by wind seeping through gaps, rustling in the darkness.—I sat staring into the void, cheek propped on my hand.

An unrelenting blizzard of melancholy and anxiety swept violently through me, threatening to hurl my soul into the abyssal depths of hell without refuge.
All vestiges of confidence and sensation had completely vanished into shadow, and my entire body teetered on the verge of scattering like autumn leaves into some unknowable void.
I—with nowhere and no way to channel my strength—watched as my flesh turned translucent, assailed by a cold so intense I might become a ghost, trembling violently now.
Just as Otonashi the Greedy was driven by terror-induced neurasthenia—tormented by delusions of persecution over his roof being blown away by whirlwinds—so too was I equal to him in this state; soon I began raving like a person in a small boat tossed upon a stormy sea, sinking my teeth into desks, beds, pillars—anything within reach—as I desperately called for help.

“Someone help me—I’m about to be blown away!”

I screamed while clutching at empty air and collapsed onto the floor—imagining roof-weighing stones—then piled those weighty dictionaries and storybooks across my chest, belly, face—every inch of my body—and lay rigid beneath them, holding my breath. But as the tornado’s roaring grew increasingly violent against my ears (it’s all my nerves—though whirlwind season remains distant, as Otonashi the Greedy says too—when terrible blizzard sounds perpetually echo in your ears, you lose all sense of being alive), even remaining crushed like this made my anxiety mount.

"As if burning with love and in agony—as if burning with love and in agony—"

The organ inside the bookshelf began playing Auerbach's tavern song—but having no capacity to listen, I thrashed about like a poisoned rat, raving as if consumed by lovesick torment until, groping through this frenzy to locate the armor cabinet, I frantically placed the heavy helmet on my head, donned the armor, then buried my face in the black iron visor—and only when my breath struck its surface did I gain faint awareness that I still lived.—One might liken this to Otonashi's relief when seeing stones subdue a roof about to be torn by whirlwinds.

Often I would hold my breath like that and wait for dawn within the armor—but one night, after one of my typical violent fits, I finally settled into the suit. When I abruptly opened my eyes, I found myself standing at the edge of a riverbed where unobstructed moonlight streamed down in radiant cascades.
In the throes of such intense terror and anguish, I must have unconsciously made my way here.

The visor was roughly twice the size of my face, so through its rectangular opening, I could survey the outside scenery.
The entire suit of armor was so oversized that its skirt plates hung past mid-shin, while its sleeves draped deeply over my waist like bat wings—so much so that within its cuirass, I could move freely without disturbing its outer shell. To such an extent was this helmet and armor ill-suited for a small man like me—

"This was a blunder—I’ve stumbled into some preposterous place!"

Realizing this, I tried to hurry back in a panic—but far from running, I could only stagger forward in a spread-legged disgrace: propping up both ends of the helmet like a man balancing a washbasin on his head, minding my steps in fur boots as though trudging through skis.

How on earth had I managed to come all the way out here? It felt like a dream—no, more than that—and an unbearable anxiety welled up within me.
(Because of such experiences, I still cannot bring myself to believe that the earlier commotion on the roof was merely a dream.)
(Hypochondria has worsened, and perhaps it has progressed into sleepwalking.)

On such a splendid moonlit night as this, to be assailed by storm-filled dreams and cause such a commotion—the coming winter days filled me with dread—With tears welling up inside me, I staggered through the pine forest along the riverbank, setting my course for home.

Since my field of vision remained impaired, I occasionally stopped to reorient myself—and that was how I came to emerge from behind the Batō Kannon to the bridge's approach.

Suddenly—startled by my own armored form—I involuntarily made a great flapping noise like wings, leapt upward, then pitched forward in a dead faint—when abruptly before my eyes came a shriek—!
...a scream born of mortal terror rent the air.
Having collapsed upon hearing that cry, I couldn't grasp particulars, but when I later revived and removed my helmet to survey the scene, I found the shrine door kicked open within, dice and silver coins and drinking implements strewn about the hall.
And needless to say, regarding human presence—there existed none save my own armored shadow slanting beside the offering box beneath that dazzling lunar radiance where even insects' chirping had died away.

“You needn’t speak of such cruelty—just for tonight’s return journey, won’t you lend it to me?”

Peering into my face—ferociously clamped onto the armor cabinet—Otonashi pleaded in a wretched voice.

“No… Nooo…”

“I can’t bear this any longer—wandering this night path in nothing but shirts. If so much as a breeze stirs, my soul will surely fly straight to hell.”
“Unless I weigh myself down, there’s no telling where this body might be swept away.”
“It’s terrifying!”
“And I’m carrying a fortune besides.”
“The great sum I finally reclaimed from Hachiroumaru after forcing him to sell his boat and nets…”

“...No... Noo...”

“I’ll beg you—lend it to me.”
“On top of that, isn’t there a rumor that the Blizzard Man appeared before Batō Kannon at the village border—even though there’s no wind?”
“No—that bastard’s likely just a watch-hut burglar; an unprecedented rogue who poses as the Blizzard Man to terrorize huts everywhere, stealing liquor and snatching up whatever cash they’ve got.”
“Since it’s money from illegal chō-han gambling, we can’t report it… Oh, I’ll confess everything.”
“The chō-han crew are all my underlings—what’s there to hide? With suckers lined up and easy money flowing, I’m the big boss skimming the cream off the top! But ever since that uproar, my gang’s been haunted by the Blizzard Man’s ghost—gasping like fish out of water.”
“—He’s sure to show up tonight.”
“If I’m holding the money bag under my armor, I won’t care if I’m stabbed or slashed.”
“Even in this state, I feel like I’m going mad.”
“If we don’t quickly gather my men and press them onto the roof, there’s no telling when the wind god might unleash his fury—”
“Ohhh, how pitiful… To have this poor catch, and then if even this house’s roof were blown away…”

“Hey—listen sharp! It’s the wind!”

“Disaster…!”

Otonashi suddenly lunged at me in a frenzy, trying to seize the armor cabinet.

“A blizzard! A blizzard!”

I shouted.
To my ears truly resounded the ominous blizzard noise reminiscent of a Cyclops’s whistle.—“How could I let this go?”

Then Otonashi,

“It’s over!”

No sooner had he growled than he clenched his teeth and fell onto his back.
And foaming at the mouth,
“I don’t care what—just put something heavy on me! Fly away—fly away! This light body of mine…”

he kept shrieking.

"He's saying the same thing as me—" This realization—that I shared an affliction with such a covetous man—lacerated my pride, yet the piercing anguish of his torment compelled empathy. So I gathered heavy tomes one after another and entombed the patient beneath them.

Otonashi appeared to sleep soundly beneath the weights.—When I strained my ears anew, the blizzard's howl had completely subsided. Throwing open the door, I beheld a moonlit night of resplendent clarity.

(This was something I only learned after fleeing that village—for you see, having grown up in the city and only realizing a year or two prior that my family home stood in this village—which compelled my reluctant relocation—I had been utterly ignorant of the village’s strange legends. But in Tornado Village, it was customary for outbreaks of mental illness like what afflicted both Otonashi and myself to occur every year as autumn drew to its close. Because the ancestral bloodline—terrified of those dreadful whirlwinds—flowed through all villagers’ veins, they paid little heed to this form of epilepsy they called “Blizzard sickness.” Yet since my ancestors were not residents of this village, why had such an illness arisen in me? I found myself tormented in seeking its cause.)

Be that as it may, though outside lay a tranquil moonlit night, when I turned my gaze inward to peer into my own breast, a storm of anxiety was newly stirring once more.—I began to worry deeply that Otonashi, who would soon regain his breath, would come lunging at this treasure with redoubled fury.

Having resolved I must hide it now without delay, I swiftly slipped my arms through the shoulder straps of the armor cabinet and—using Ashu’s spear as a crutch—managed with great effort to rise to my feet.
Having scarcely eaten properly and done naught but battle delusions, I now found myself drained of strength as never before, legs swaying like a drunkard’s—a pitiful state.
Yet leaning on my spear-staff, face contorted like the wicked old man from The Tongue-Cut Sparrow bearing his wicker trunk on back, I staggered toward the attic storeroom.
Groping through corridor’s winding turns, I finally neared the ladder steps—where a light spilling from the storeroom door met my upturned gaze.
And then came sounds of strife.

“You drank it and kept quiet—what nerve to claim you didn’t!”
“Don’t steal my damn lines!”
“Thieving bastard!”
“Greedy sneak of a drink thief!”

“You wanna fight?!”

“Try me—”

R and Z stood nose to nose over the sake bottle, eyes glaring wide.

(Demon’s Nectar.
It wasn’t a dream—I did drink it!)

I came to believe myself a sleepwalker.
I seemed battered by invisible demons' wings.

“If this is a fight over liquor, stop it—there’s this much liquor money I just squeezed out of Otonashi the Greedy.”

I threw the heavy purse onto the table. The two men snatched it up without hesitation and tried to leap out through the window to scramble down the ladder.

“Going to buy liquor?”

“We’ll take on Otonashi’s men under the Nioh Gate’s eaves.”—“That damn Blizzard Man who raids gambling dens has been tailing us, so we dug a hole under those eaves—money in hand, we do this every night now…”

“But do you actually believe in this Blizzard Man superstition? And have you ever truly seen him, even once?”

Still carrying the wicker trunk on my back, I sat down at the table and asked with deliberate gravity.

“We think he’s some government stooge—yes, we’ve seen him. A pitch-black monster wearing a huge iron helmet—the Blizzard Man’s handiwork, sure—but that’s obviously some detective from town in disguise.”

“But do Otonashi’s men still have extra gambling funds?”

“Given their nature, they’ve always used tricks to seize their share, but ever since the Blizzard Man appeared, everyone’s been snatched away by that monster and left penniless—it’s sent Otonashi the Greedy and his whole clan into a mad frenzy.”
“Tonight the old man himself finally plans to go make an all-or-nothing gamble, but they say he first went to torment Hachiroumaru over some money trouble…”

Hearing this account, it seemed Otonashi had been tormented by the Blizzard Man’s ghost and developed epilepsy—and not only the master himself but all his underlings had fallen into neurasthenia.
Today as well, two underlings were engaged in stone-laying work on this roof when, suddenly entranced by a vision of the Blizzard Man, they tumbled into the river below.
The pitiful fools—even amid such sudden peril—could not forget their dread of their light bodies being blown skyward; each clutching heavy stones as they plunged in, they nearly drowned before we saved them.

“There, they’re lying right there.”
“They probably won’t regain consciousness for a while yet.”

At their words and pointing, I took the lantern from the table and shone it in that direction to find two men lying unconscious in a wretched state, their jaws clamped onto the rice bales like lions.

“This isn’t someone else’s problem—we too could be assailed by blizzard dreams and driven mad at any moment.”
“For patients to keep appearing like this since such an early hour—isn’t this something unheard of even in Tornado Village for seventeen years, or so the rumor goes?”

“It must be an omen of calamity.”
“What terrifying whirlwinds will arise this winter... Ah, I must not dwell on such ill omens.”
“Unless they hurry to the Nioh Gate’s eaves, stake their all in a grand gamble, and secure money pouches at their waists, they’ll be devoured by the Blizzard Man and torn to shreds like autumn leaves…”

R and Z slipped out through the window with faces like watermelons.

As I watched the two men’s retreating figures from the window, my chest began to roar once more. The distant sea’s rumble transformed into a gale that grazed the hazy night sky, whipping up lightning before crashing down to earth with a thunderous impact—whereupon the whole wilderness expanse erupted in black smoke and raged like furious tidal waves. The forest trees raised a unified battle cry and restrained the ferocious tornado. The house floated skyward, emitting a body-shaking scream like a cracked bell’s wail as it began its dizzying spin.

“It’s going to blow away!... Get up on the roof! Haul the rice bales up—”

It was Otonashi who came rushing in frantically.
He then ran further down the stairs—how had he even carried them here?—and hurled my books like hail from beneath the staircase toward the doorway, all while bellowing frantic cries from the depths of his chest.

Like a swarm of bats, the numerous books fell with an eerie fluttering of wings, scattering down upon us as we clung to the rice bales.

In the commotion, the two men who had regained consciousness,

“Hey—the old man’s here!”

“They’ve discovered you stole the gold!”

The two men, swatting away the swarming night birds, pulled the skylight’s rope and, clinging to it, swiftly escaped to the roof.
For reasons I couldn’t begin to fathom, I had burrowed behind the rice bales and was trembling violently, entrusting my life to the weight of the wicker trunk, when Otonashi soon appeared, clinging to the rope in an attempt to reach the roof. But in his excessive agitation, he had transformed into a massive pendulum—swinging uncontrollably, his body slamming violently against the walls on all sides.

In that moment, I gathered up as many books as I could carry and, leaving the commotion quietly behind in that room, sneaked out along the ladder to the river’s edge.
And when I held my breath in the shadow of the reeds for a short while, the tornado had already calmed completely.

"In any case, I cannot stay in such a terrifying village for even a moment."

I whipped my trembling legs and groped my way along the riverbank under cover of shadows. Moonlight flowed like water—I was terrified to find my own shadow. The thought that my shadow might appear before my eyes in the form of the Blizzard Man made me feel on the verge of fainting, so I fixed my course on the hill ahead where the moon resided and pressed forward through the reeds along the riverbank. When bathed directly in the white light, my entire body turned into transparent white paste—both light and air flowing through me unimpeded—yet I, relying on my cane and clinging to a mere thread of vitality through the weight of the wicker trunk on my back,

“As long as I carry this on my back, even if caught in a gale, I should be able to avoid being blown away.”

I muttered.
And while hurrying along the path—relying on the books tucked under my arm and the weights atop them—I mentally compared myself to the illustration of that disreputable student expelled from Krakow University.
He was recorded as wearing a tanned leather Macpharson (“pseudo-poet”) mask plated in white-bronze and carrying a case sheathed in green velvet; yet trembling ceaselessly from these terrors, I thought my own grime-faced and wild-haired visage would pass for a “pseudo-poet” without need of disguise.

Then ahead, with lanterns held aloft—(What a magnificent moonlit night!)—a group approached bearing voices, so I crouched in the grass.

“Your greed’s admirable, but you can’t place bets up on a roof.”

“Bastard—you coming down or not?”

“Shout at their backs full force—point at the moon and they’ll snap awake!”

Quietly glancing back toward my house, I saw three black-robed monks sitting motionless on the roof ridge.
The group proved to be the same crowd who’d welcomed them down and herded them under the Nioh Gate’s eaves.
The Nioh Gate stood surrounded by deep woods at the hill’s foot ahead of me.

In any case, I had to pass through that forest and cross over the hill—that was the path before me.
——The houses, their roofs loaded full with heavy stones, had already sunk completely into sleep.
When viewed against the light, some roof stones were as robust as seated men, while others were arranged like a flock of birds at rest.

The lantern-bearing people were visible climbing up to the roof where Otonashi was.
The voices, being upwind, didn't carry at all, but from their bearing it became clear they were urging Otonashi who struggled fiercely.
——Surrounded by men striking poses of uproarious laughter with hands clutching bellies, others gesturing at the moon as if lecturing on "cosmic mysteries," and still more brandishing fists with resolute determination, Otonashi seemed to show resistance—but soon they slipped through the skylight one by one into the attic, leaving only three or four shadows remaining on the roof.
Then when a man peered down from the window opening and shouted something, the men on the roof pulled the ropes in unison and began hoisting an object of tremendous weight.

They were hauling rice bales up to the roof—apparently through Otonashi’s ingenuity using them as substitute weights—and before long, numerous bales lay arranged on the roof like livestock. And just as the group began descending the ladder while soothing their relieved hearts, I noticed the surrounding reeds starting to rustle. By then, the moon had sunk deep into the clouds and was only casting a dull light.

This time, I realized it was no dream or illusion—a sand-laden gust was truly blowing up from beyond the estuary before my very eyes. The river current at my feet—buffeted by the headwind—tossed about an empty boat blown up from downstream, its chaotic motion discernible through the gloom. A rain of sand and spray suddenly came bearing down over me, mingled with flashes of light. When I looked up at the sky—countless fragments entangled with tree leaves and impossible to pinpoint—were swirling madly across the heavens, whipped by a gargantuan tornado that had churned up the entire village as though it were a mortar’s bowl.

“Considering we’ve loaded that many rice bales, it’s a thousand-kan weight.”
“It’s safe! Completely safe! If that roof flies off now, it’ll be the day Tornado Village meets its end.”

“Boss, calm yourself.”
“Even the Blizzard Man can’t sniff us out under the Nioh Gate’s eaves.—Once we’ve wrung Hachiroumaru dry, tomorrow it’s O-Tae’s turn…”

“Bring out O-Tae—”

Buoyed by such comforting cheers, Otonashi—

“Don’t let go of my belt!”—“If you do, I’ll fly off with this fortune still in my grasp!”

Even as he shouted such things, firmly grasped by arms and legs by the group, he charged through the gust faster than a galloping horse and whisked past before my eyes. Though I could discern his limbs even at a glance—given my countless experiences—the illness’s attack seemed to have reached its peak, for they trembled like a hatchling turtle’s limbs and thrashed wildly in the void. But more than that, I feared my own seizure. Frantically lowering the wicker trunk, I pressed down on my head with the iron helmet and steadied my entire body—which threatened to scatter like scraps of paper in the wind—by deeply covering it with the sleeves of my armor. I had thought it too heavy for armor alone, but inside the trunk were packed sake bottles, a music box, money pouches, and such.
I packed my precious books atop them, shouldered the armor once more with its familiar weight, felt a strange confidence I had never known before, and rose abruptly from the thicket of reeds into the heart of the tempest.
Truly, I had been struck by magical power that had transformed into the spirit of the blizzard.

I thrust my spear into the ground with a thud, focused boldly on the footwork of my fur boots, set my course through the faceplate’s opening toward the forest of the Nioh Gate, and charged against the dazzling gust.
——Though I lack the ancestral blood that fears blizzards, why had I contracted such an illness?
This doubt had long haunted me, but now at last I grasped its cause.
It was simply that I had realized myself to be an extraordinary glutton for sin.