Pathway to Japanese Literature

Even if Margaret's lips were to touch the sacred object, I wouldn't feel jealous! ——Faust

I These days, the mild late autumn weather persisted day after day, basking in brilliant sunshine. My lodging in Mita no Teramachi - situated at the edge of a row of tenement houses clinging to the cliffside - stood undoubtedly as the most poorly constructed among them, yet only the expansive view served to comfort my sorrow-filled heart. Yet I had never dreamed of glimpsing distant mountain forms from a window in such a location. But one day, when I chanced to gaze northwestward from the second-floor window at skies bathed in serene sunlight, I discovered the Tanzawa mountain range undulating their backs majestically along the whitish hem of heaven - so resembling cloud peaks they might be mistaken for such - and unwittingly cried out in astonishment.

From that day onward, I would crouch all day long on the rattan chair by the veranda edge, recalling as if holding them in my hands those recent days when I had grown accustomed to living in that remote mountain village nestled at the foot of those distant, undulating peaks—days spent leading an utterly peculiar existence.

“I’m merely gazing at the mountains—though I’d rather not have these accompanying associations, but there’s no other peak to look upon here.”

In front of others, I would speak as if so absentmindedly, but I had no such leisure as to gaze at mountains with an empty mind. I was pining solely for Meiko at the foot of those mountains.

“Oh my, they really are visible! I had always assumed they were merely part of your sentimental dreams...” I had spent those days with my cheek propped on my desk gazing endlessly at mountains—having written quite a lengthy letter in this vein to my young friends Tsurumaki and Ginhara—yet whenever they visited together, they would exchange pitying remarks.

Snatching the telescope from Tsurumaki, Ginhara too seemed to be hiding a bitter smile. “Indeed, they’re visible,” he said. “By all means, we must counterattack that village one more time...” Around that very time, those two companions had developed a peculiar habit—whether in jest or earnest, they would frequently exchange words using theatrical lines delivered in strident tones, as though it had become their customary practice. ——“If only we could let you have one glorious bloom there...”

That remained their peculiar habit only when conversing with me. Those unaccustomed to them would be struck dumb by the sheer oddity of their speech, yet from that very period onward—as their behavior grew increasingly strange—this manner proved most natural when confronting me, who sat fixing them with my gaze, through their perpetually indignant bearing and thick-skinned disposition. Moreover, though I had recently strayed far beyond normalcy, for me who dwelt solely in those realms of memory, this had become mere protective coloration like forest beetles lurking in shadows—my eyeballs would roll fiercely like those of a scheming stage villain, glaring skyward. My shoulders angled sharply upward, and though my arms were slender, they crossed over my chest with iron-like weight while my voice perpetually rumbled from my gut. This transformation of mine had occurred entirely of its own accord since precisely that time.

“If matters had progressed to where one could actually go there, I would’ve gone alone long ago—”

“Is there really no way to secure funding?” “False words and forms, transform our senses and the world! Appear here, and there as well—is what I’d like to say.” “Faust again? I’m no good with that. Saying such incomprehensible things might serve as deception during these agonizing times, I suppose.” Ginhara spat out his words as though retaliating against a pretentious tough guy with a single arrow. “After all, our failure was no ordinary tragedy, you see. As for that defeat being accidental—I still believe it! Not money, but strength alone!”

I found myself striking the bulge of muscle on my left arm with a fist while turning stiffly to the side and glaring at the photograph of a horse on the wall. "A tragedy, you say?" The two, unable to match my exaggerated solemnity that surpassed even their own dramatic postures, grimaced in discomfort and sneered. And Tsurumaki, blushing with a look of bewilderment, "Is this your agonizing fixation over having left behind someone you long for? "If you must put on such theatrics, I’d prefer you practice them to your heart’s content during your solitary hours, I must say…"

He sneered. "Do you harbor such suspicions about me?" I started in surprise, wondering if my heart had been seen through. Unable to grasp jokes or wit, I had always been compelled to tremble at others' laughter in general, but most of all, my very body shuddered at the derision raining down upon me. In short, due to my ingrained habit of constantly feigning solemnity in both actions and demeanor to maintain an air of importance, I would all too readily plunge into dire straits like some false dignitary. Therefore, I—fearing above all else that every aspect of myself might be perceived as ridiculous—clung desperately to preserving my dignity.

“Sufficiently—”

The two further raised their voices in unison. "I'm afraid there's decidedly no one who would consider that a tragedy." "Do whatever you want!" I slammed the desk and shouted.

“Please don’t be angry. We have absolutely not come to laugh at you. We came solely to discuss revenge, going through considerable trouble to procure this single bottle of sake for the occasion. We want to propose a toast for Mei-chan’s sake.”— Once spoken to like that, I could no longer maintain my usual theatrical composure. “If we were to lose to Gorō and Daijū just like that, we might as well be dead, I tell you.”

“If they let matters remain as they are while you keep gazing at those mountains—that’s precisely what would make it a comedy,” he said. “The situation is undoubtedly a tragedy.” “Then you should’ve phrased it that way from the start—” Wasn’t I the one being ridiculed?! When this realization struck, I pursed my lips tighter than anything—yet why was I still secretly obsessing over such theatrical posturing? I lamented, yet found myself foolishly intoxicated by Ginhara’s words.

My most secret longing (secret because speaking it aloud risked nothing but ridicule) was what might be called a "warrior's pilgrimage" in this modern age. Yet my physique stood in inverse proportion to these grand aspirations - frail as a mosquito's frame. My body had never surpassed eleven kan (about 41kg), nor could I keep a five-fun-do iron dumbbell (roughly 19g) level for three minutes. For over twenty years I'd secretly yearned after judo and kendo, driven by desperation to repeatedly challenge others - yet none who saw my form would ever cross blades with me as equals. However my appearance might deceive, surely decades of training must count for something - this I told myself while stroking pencil-thin arms deep at night, lost in fantasies of mortal combat. In the end I'd collapsed into nervous exhaustion, convalescing in Tatsumaki Village.

Suddenly, in that village, I had unexpectedly and brilliantly dispelled the dream of despair, becoming utterly intoxicated in a frenzied ecstasy. Though now mercilessly shattered, whenever I recall those resplendent scenes, even now a surging confidence wells up through my entire body. I refused to believe in the word "deception". I did not think I had been deceived by Daijū and Gorō. It had been a defeat born of backlash.

――For two months now, I had been lying prostrate over a sheet of paper bearing the title "Warrior Window Diary," unable to pen a single character—and though I strove to use it to suppress my raging heart and dispel the foolish dreams of my dim, withered seclusion—I found myself lured by those once-savored resplendent memories, leaving no room for any other thoughts.—Those memories steadily gushed forth from the tip of my sword—that sword filled with honor, which knew neither enemy nor doubt during the dazzling autumn harvest of the previous year, like some demonic bell guardian.

II

Even with the reins left tied to the brake handle, the horse had already fully discerned its familiar homeward path, merrily matching its hoofbeats to the jingling bells as it galloped along the rice field path drifting with evening mist. I sat leisurely upon a sake barrel, "This night, why does my heart—fantasies welling up without cease…" I sang. Tsurumaki slid his trombone's slide, Ginhara squeezed chords from the accordion, both accompanying the song of this self-styled general who prided himself on his voice. Day by day as orange prices soared, we would return triumphant from town markets—always clattering like tambourines, lugging enormous money bags swollen with endless sweet dreams, loaded with splendid souvenirs, parading back with all the swagger of pirates. When our commotion-laden carriage crossed the bridge at the village border and finally entered the main road, people working these fields and those terraced farms yonder would catch the racket at once—raising unified cheers as they came swarming toward our festival float-like carriage.

“They’re back! They’re back!” “The Great Master’s triumphant return!”

“We’ve been waiting! Our hearts have been pounding with anticipation all along, hoping to behold your beautiful voices and splendid techniques again tonight, esteemed masters.” “Clear the way, clear the way—” The people shouted such things in unison; some took Dorian’s bit and kissed its cheek, while others lined up behind the carriage and pushed with all their might—and with such momentum as if our carriage had grown wings and taken flight through the air, they all surged toward Meiko’s tavern in one breath. Meiko, no sooner had she spotted me than she flew up like a heron and tumbled into my arms while,

“Look closely at my face, Master—I’ve applied my makeup with such meticulous care.” “Does this look good?”

While cooing such sweet nothings, she spared no effort in displaying her most charming coquetry. "This is seven-hued face powder used by capital ladies and actresses—this is called lipstick—and this isn't scissors, mind you—it's a curling iron to adorn your hair like a princess from fairy tales! If you dance made up like this wearing such a light skirt, our very souls would surely ascend to heaven!" When I once uttered such things, Meiko donned the paper-made eighteenth-century-style bonnet we used at masquerades and fastened Rococo skates resembling parachutes (mistaking them for current metropolitan fashion—), withholding none of her charms. Yet unexpectedly, those costumes suited her form so perfectly—wafting an elegant air reminiscent of hibiscus blossoms embodying nobility—that they transported my already dubious eyes, thoroughly tipsy atop the carriage, into distant visions of a chivalric Warring States era. Her figure dancing forth through the milky twilight haze that enveloped both the familiar visages of villagers and the well-worn rural scenery possessed an unimaginable allure for the daughter of a backwater tavern.

“Oh, what a majestic arrival by Her Highness the Princess!” “Above your head, a golden halo blazes resplendently, and from nowhere in particular comes the sound of a stork’s wings beating.” As Ginhara blurted out such lines, I reverently took the girl’s arm and,

“I don’t want to show this beauty to Otonashi Daijū. If that bastard catches even a glimpse of you like this, he’ll be spellbound in an instant and start honing his venomous claws. Let’s go inside.” I urged.

“What the hell are you barking about?” “Putting on airs over some piddling settlement money from orange bales? What a goddamn joke of a man.” “There you are—seems you’re the only shitheads who don’t know our mettle.” The moment we caught Daijū’s guffawing as he drained a giant cup in the tavern corner with two or three lackeys in tow, we curled our lips in a sneer right under the bastard’s nose while shielding the girl behind us. “Say it a thousand times if you want! “If you’ve got time to be mooning over some nursemaid brat, why not haul your ass to the watchman’s hut in the orange grove...”

“You philandering usurious moneylender damn bastard—” At the same moment I hurled insults, a sake bottle flew from the bastard’s hand and shattered against the ceiling. The tavern suddenly fell silent, transformed into the stillness of water’s depths. The people were deathly afraid of incurring the bastard’s resentment. Many villagers were indebted to the bastard.

The light went out—and then I heard Meiko's scream outside. In my frantic dash out, I witnessed under the moonlight—upon my carriage hurtling forward—the sight of Meiko thrashing with the ferocity of a swan beating its wings.

At the riverbank where evening primroses thrived visibly even at night, swaying in the gentle breeze, I finally managed to cling to the back of the carriage. The whip's lash resounded through the air with painful clarity.

“Don’t hit Dorian! Our Dorian isn’t some broken-down nag to be whipped into galloping by the likes of you!”

However, the carriage kicked up a fierce cloud of sand and raged wildly. Dragged along like a centipede, I fought desperately.—Before long, Daijū and I slid down the soft grassy embankment and tumbled onto the gabions along the riverbank. Though I was being swung around like a scarecrow by six-foot burly Daijū, when he—thrown off by the utter lack of resistance—looked up at the moon, I instantly grabbed a stone the size of an iron kettle that had tumbled from the gabion's mesh and hurled it with all my might at the bastard's back. The bastard grabbed at empty air.

Dorian turned toward the village, changing direction.

“Truly, Master’s skill is unmatched!” “I saw it—the moment Daijū’s legs stretched skyward under the moonlight.” “It was too quick for the eye to follow! I saw it—Master’s body twisting around Daijū’s waist, and in that very instant, applying the hip-throw technique…”

When engulfed by such praises to my left, I noticed for the first time my own figure briskly withdrawing while holding Meiko.

The people seemed to misperceive my figure being swung around by Daijū as something else—though when I thought about it, I broke into a cold sweat inwardly—but as they tossed me up amid their raucous cheers, my head grew even dizzier until—Ah! So I truly had been strong after all! That confidence welled up within me. Moreover, right beside me, Daijū—who had been restrained by Ginhara and Tsurumaki—finally regained his breath, "I underestimated you as some small-fry and crossed spears, only to find myself facing an unexpected demon—ended up crying uncle without lasting a single round." “I surrender.” “Give me some damn sake—feels like I’ll cough up blood any second.”

As he surrendered while scratching his chest, my confidence grew ever clearer, “Break open the lid of the souvenir barrel!” I boasted. And I, having accepted the honorable title of “Jones of Tatsumaki Village,” dazedly felt my eyes mist over. The reason the villagers addressed us with honorifics like “Great Master” was because they regarded us with reverence as peerless swordsmen of unparalleled skill. Of course, not a single one of them had any way of knowing that we were young literary scholars. Indeed, we devoted ourselves to Western-style fencing whenever we found spare moments while engaging in labor at the watermill and citrus fields to earn our livelihood.

The villagers would gather around curiously whenever our practice began, their eyes wide with astonishment. "Look there! The sword tip flickers like a serpent's tongue—they say that's how they dazzle their enemies' eyes! Truly, Western swordsmanship is like magic! None could stand against such masters!" they exclaimed in awe while fighting. "And see how they wave one hand overhead like frantic drumbeats while standing bow-legged as Yajirobe! That single-leap technique—making opponents laugh before seizing their heads in that unguarded moment—utterly treacherous!" Needless to say, there could never have been any refined scheme on our part to make the spectators laugh. No, no—far from it! Far from seeking to amuse, we desperately wanted to display our most solemn swordsman’s bearing, radiating dignity to the utmost. Rather, my sole aspiration was to brandish a dashing longsword with brilliant form that would make spectators’ blood run cold, but in truth—despite my unrefined technique—I grew so frenzied in adopting nothing but pretentious stances that I likely produced precisely the opposite effect. Thus if they had simply laughed at us outright and pointed fingers behind our backs, all would have been well—yet precisely because they remained awestruck by our grotesque swordplay, these villagers who harbored such fear could not help but burst into uproarious laughter while nevertheless straining to find profound meaning in it, their eyes fixed upon us with nothing but fearful awe. Above all, for a small-framed man like myself—wielding a standard sword as if it were a spear, nearly succumbing to the weapon’s weight and inevitably performing some disgraceful pirouette—yet they misinterpreted even such conduct as nothing less than masterful technique verging on divine skill, sparing no breath in their exclamations of awe. "Look there—how his sword handling remains vigorous yet seamless!" or "How his body moves more freely than the blade itself, like the wind!" or "That war cry brims with unfathomable fortitude—why, most monsters would surrender at hearing that alone!"—they would heap such praises upon him,

“Like a tengu!”

And they crossed their arms in admiration, tilting their heads. In truth, defying my dragonfly-like frame, I consciously let out a full-throated battle cry and bolstered my unsteady stance—the sort that might have been knocked askew by even a gust of wind.

“No matter what, our shit-strength’s useless before a real master—today of all days, I got force-fed that truth good and proper.” “Now I’ve always bragged about my skills, so when I went to… y’know… show my stuff—swingin’ down like an eagle’s claws—the moment sparks near flew from my eyes, I got whacked so hard on the back it near knocked the wind outta me.” “Didn’t even put up a fight—just swatted me aside like nothin’.” “Arms skinny as yours, Master, but that fist’s packin’ stone-crushing power—hells yeah—I was done for.”

Daijū tilted the surrender cup, heaved a sigh, and gazed up at me in dazed admiration. “With money flowing aplenty and strength like a hundred men’s combined, no wonder every village girl enshrines you Masters as their ideal men—why, even if this Daijū were to harbor some illicit longing for Mei-chan here, it’d be naught but a kagura farce’s bit part—serving only to prop up your manly reputations all the higher! That’s how it stands, eh?”

As Gorō said this and tapped Daijū’s shoulder,

“Off! Took it all off—helmet and head both!” With these words, Daijū prostrated himself before us in a ridiculous posture.

Tsurumaki, Ginhara, and I grew utterly enraptured by our affectation of being the supreme martial artists across three provinces, "Could it be there are no challengers?" "At least permit us to mediate quarrels..." "At the coming boar hunt, we'll stage a spectacle surpassing even Nita Shirō and feast you all grandly!"

"And so on," they puffed out their chests in unison with deep, affected voices.

“Only a boar or wolf from Yagura Valley would be foolhardy enough to challenge the Masters to a duel, eh?”

Gorō muttered such things, his lips changing color. “You think so?!” I swelled with genuine pride from the depths of my heart, my eyes gleaming solemnly as,

“They say there are wolves at Yagara Peak – is that truly so?”

I leaned forward. “You don’t know, sir? When we start hearing the winter winds, packs of wolves come ravaging the fields, so we can hardly get a decent night’s sleep. Even when I take aim like this with my gun”—he mimicked aiming—“the moment I spot those bastards under the hazy moon, my whole body starts trembling uncontrollably—can’t keep my sights steady at all.” Katō Kankichi, the orange warehouse guard, closed his eyes and hurriedly drained his cup while illustrating the terrifying scene with hand gestures.

“That sounds thrilling!” I roared, then pointed to the longsword hanging on the wall. “With just this single blade, I’d have more than enough—five wolves, ten wolves—I’d make them swallow a rosary of lead beads and capture them alive!” My heart truly began blazing with blood at such storybook visions. As long as they believed so thoroughly in our capabilities—why, wolves would prove easier prey than that Daijū or Gorō—I bit my lip while accepting Meiko’s poured drink and fixed my gaze on the mountains through the nearby window. The silent mountains stood beneath the pale night sky, their peaks rising like great wings.

“Now then, Masters—let’s set aside such dangerous talk. Won’t you favor us with one of your usual poems while spirits are high?” “Just seeing that intense gaze of yours would be enough to sober us all up.” “Mei-chan, if we were to exterminate the wolves and return…” I slipped my arm around the girl’s shoulder and made my eyes gleam unnervingly. “Please, I implore you—abandon this wolf hunt. I know full well how strong you are, Master, but if you were to venture there and suffer even a scratch… why, I’d surely perish from worry before your return.”

Meiko lowered her eyelids with feigned sorrow and clung to my chest. "I see. If it's an action that would bring sorrow to Mei-chan, I possess the prudence to refrain from any such undertaking." "But what a pity!" Never in all my experiences had I received such words from a beautiful maiden, so when Meiko unexpectedly spoke thus and leaned against my chest, my very blood suddenly froze throughout my body, struck by teeth-chattering tremors of delight that left my jaws unhinged. Caught off guard by this unforeseen turn in conversation yielding unforeseen rewards, I found my soul utterly intoxicated with sweet delirium. Just as Daijū and Gorō's group had said, she too was now properly recognized as one who placed full faith in our warrior conduct and harbored profound goodwill.

“Well then, once you hear my poem, there’ll be no resisting its pull.” “Kankichi and Gorō say my voice makes folk forget their worldly cares—lures them into dreaming they’re floating down some gentle spring brook. But mind you, that same spell would redouble your drunkenness, leaving your homeward path fraught with peril.” “Even braggadocio finds its pinnacle in such carefree complacency—” I muttered while slowly stroking my chest.

“That’s absolutely right! If we’re made to endure that voice singing any longer, our drunkenness will swell a hundredfold!” “Encore! Encore! But keep it brief, or we’ll be done for.” And there arose applause like a tempest. “Master will sing—and these two Masters here will—”

As Meiko began to speak, Tsurumaki and Ginhara—who had apparently been rubbing their arms since earlier—

“Let’s perform the sword dance passed down from Munich’s forest!” They squared their shoulders and stood up, took swords from the wall, and tilted their hats at an angle. I, swelling with peerless pride, slowly rose to my feet, assumed the stance with what Daijū called his rock-like fist positioned diagonally across my lower abdomen, and thundered: “... ... ...” My self-indulgent kabuki pose—utterly enchanted by my own voice—gradually reached its crescendo, and the poem—

“...Horses neigh as the white sun fades—” “...Clashing swords herald autumn’s chill—” When reaching such climactic moments—more violently than Ginhara and Tsurumaki’s grand sword dance executed through utterly improvised choreography—I would truly snap open my horse-like maw, strain my throat in undignified neighing, envision swords clashing as I unwittingly raised my arm to slash empty air, all while my fist’s tip collided with demon-like Daijū’s face with detestable frequency, all in rapturous frenzy.

“Under moonless darkness wild geese soar high, Xiongnu flee far away. If we wish to pursue with swift cavalry— “Heavy snow—bows and swords fill the plain.” As I sang thus, my movements—now grazing Kankichi’s nose tip, now lunging toward Gorō’s chest—would each time send the crowd into exaggerated shrieks, further enshrining us within that invincible castle atop distant mountains. Truly, these ferocious sword dance spectacles directly symbolized our influence in Tatsumaki Village - so formidable they could fell birds mid-flight and halt cascading torrents in their course - as day after day and night after night we faced no adversaries, sheathing our halberds in wakeful composure while indulging in the leisurely bearing of generals. We would drive our carriage to market, gather obedient Xiongnu every night, and lavishly perform sword dances throughout the long nights with barrel-lid mirrors. —After all, whenever word came that a fight had broken out and we rushed to the scene,

“Well, well—if the great masters of Tatsumaki-ryū were to appear, we’d lose all face.” Scratching their heads, the Asura-like men withdrew, and when we—having received word that Daijū’s gang was assaulting a tenant farmer’s household to claim lives—raced there straightaway in our market-returning carriage, “Now then—could these be Munich-school noble brigands honoring us with their visit? How blessed we are!” As both victims and wrongdoers aligned their heads in prostration, we promptly nodded with outlaw dignity, and—

“Here, take it—” we would open the money bag’s mouth and rain gold fragments upon their heads like hail. And we seized the perpetrators by their collars, “Shall we show these fiends a taste of our skills?” When we uttered such words, those bastards would pale and flail about in panic. And as our fingertips brushed their collars—there were red demons shrieking and somersaulting skyward, while blue demons in death throes howled and clawed at empty space,

“Help! Help!” The sheer delight of them screaming while fleeing for their lives was, to us, an unearthly spectacle beyond worldly affairs—truly a delight beyond exchange for any treasure. And we, worshipped as extraordinarily benevolent great swordsmen, made our way back to Meiko’s tavern. “If such a great master would stay in our village, all disturbances in Tatsumaki Village would soon cease, and a peerless utopia would emerge.”

“Behold the arrival of the great tengu!” “How grateful! How grateful!” Amidst a whirlwind of prostrating kowtows, we drowsily half-closed our eyes and ceaselessly popped open barrel lids, threw wide the watermill doors time and again, and displayed generosity as boundless as the open sky. No matter what was exchanged, our swelling confidence in being strong let us frolic upon clouds of delight. For us who were blessed with such renown, such extraordinary wisdom, such magnanimity, and such peerless skill, gold and silver treasures meant no more than dust. Once the harvest season ended and the watermill passed into others’ hands, we would gather in Yagura Peak’s mountain recesses to realize Robin Hood’s dream—we would raid Otonashi’s sake warehouse, overturn Daijū’s vaults! All those bastards’ treasures would equally become ours—we turned somersaults through a dream of security vaster than the sea,

“Making my body a light boat—as the setting sun reaches the western mountains—”

“Ever following sail-shadows departing—connecting with distant heaven’s force—” Singing thus, we strode down the main street, shoulders cleaving through wind, “Not even lotuses match this beauty’s adornment— “Water palace—winds bring pearl-jade fragrance.” While chanting these verses, I pillowed my head upon Meiko’s lap.

III

Before long, the harvest season ended, the waters of Fubukigawa River froze over, and the watermill’s operations entered winter closure—so the tavern banquets too stretched from every three days to five, then seven, then ten days apart. Along with this came all manner of unfavorable rumors about us—for instance, seeing how they had promised Meiko a necklace and fox-fur scarf yet still hadn’t delivered on it—perhaps people’s initial perception of them as tengu was mistaken; might they actually be dead grass-colored foxes? or that they supposedly put up a dorian as collateral to fund their drinking expenses, isn't that right! ...that ever since discovering the mandarin orange fields had been re-registered under Daijū’s name, they’d started practicing burglary—how dangerous! —We heard these rumors drifting from nowhere and doubled over laughing.

"If we turned into night bandits, that'd be like arming demons with iron clubs! Just picturing those bastards quaking in fear—what a thrill!" "Though they feigned ignorance, plenty of scoundrels exploited our drink-blurred eyes to parade their greed." "You lot are the real thieves here." "They must be piss-scared we'll lay siege with pillaging tactics—that's why they've started these baseless rumors." "My muscles are twitching for action!"

Around the hearth, we discussed such matters while roasting our proud muscle knots over the blazing flames.

“Hey, look! A crescent moon hangs over Yagura Peak, and the wintry wind sounds just like wolves howling.” “It’s like a painting—first, in the manner of that Zen parable where one subdues a poisonous dragon through tranquil focus, shall we carry out the wolf extermination? That should help us reclaim our reputation.”

“But they say this wolf business is all lies,” I said. “Those bastards just pretended to be scared of wolves to humor us.” “Lucky for us,” Tsurumaki replied. “No matter how strong we are, we’d be no match for real wolves. But listen—I’ve got a plan.” He leaned forward like a chessmaster revealing checkmate. “Doesn’t Otonashi keep that Great Dane—more fearsome than any wolf? The bastard uses it to intimidate debt collectors and harass tenants. What if we kill the brute first, then spread word we exterminated those field-ravaging, man-and-beast tormenting wolves on Yagura Peak? People would marvel at our cunning!”

“That bastard’s ulterior motive in buttering us up at our banquets and swilling liquor was apparently to secretly count empty barrels and inflate our tab, I hear.” “Just how low will Jiyuu sink without learning humiliation?” “Even so, those bastards sure guzzled their fill—downing Mikan Mountain, swallowing the waterwheel—until they finally made all this their own, didn’t they?” “Kankichi and Gorō came as errand boys to collect seals and such, but seeing how hard they’re working is almost pitiful.” “This time during the sword dance, why don’t we make a point of cracking their skulls?” “After all, it’s downright laughable how they’re too terrified of our skills to lift a finger against us!”

Beside Tsurumaki and Ginhara, who were slowly breaking into hearty laughter and boasting with vigor, I stood with arms firmly crossed, gazing at the north wind-swept mountains above. And, "I definitely think there are wolves in those mountains." I growled. Given that we possessed such skill in effortlessly manipulating Daijū’s underlings, I burned with visible determination—we simply had to hunt real wolves to vent our indignation. Then again, should we—but would wolves even be edible? Their meat must surely be tough—worrying over such matters, we spent those frigid nights talking idly, no longer able to drink freely as before—

“Master, Master—it’s me! Please open up! Daijū’s drunk and saying all sorts of vile things—I had to flee here…” Meiko tumbled in, clutching the hem of her Rococo-style skirt now faded to gray. “Magnificent!” Tonight we’d finish off those bastards without holding back—let’s seize their sake barrels! We tightened our matching snakeskin belly bands once more when suddenly—why today of all days?—“Shelter me! And take me with you when you depart!” To Meiko’s piteous pleas as she tried to block our path—we instead grew energized, bursting into the north wind-lashed street as if we’d awaited this moment all along. ―We squared our wrathful shoulders beneath the slanting crescent moon’s glow—for it seemed too trifling to make them surrender instantly with our usual single strike—so first we’d chant poetry from afar, lull their spirits into proper slumber, then deliver the final blow,

“To the villains bound for the guillotine—as your parting gift…” So we gathered our resonant voices, “Whose house’s jade flute sends voices flying through the dark?

“When scattered, they join the spring breeze to fill Luoyang...” We chorused with such fervor it might have summoned wolves from their dreams. Then before our eyes we found them—Daijū, cruel as some hybrid of horse, demon, and ox, raising an eerie laugh like a stallion’s whinny, flanked by Gorō, Kankichi, and other monstrosities arrayed in grim procession.

“Bastards, quit your howling—gathering those out-of-tune briny voices to scratch at our ears? Know your place, you clattering bug brats!” “You think I pretended to sleep ’cause I couldn’t stand it? Not realizing guzzling your swill was part of my plan? Some ‘greatest swordsman in three provinces’ you are!”

“Mei-brat will soon be my kept woman.” “If it burns you so much, why don’t you crack open your money bags for Mei-brat’s old man’s debt like you always do?” “Once you’ve spent it all, it becomes ours.” “If you want to see our groveling bows, you’d better haul that treasure-laden carriage here again, I tell you.” Once a full circuit of vile remarks had made its rounds, he reverted to his original Daijū self, “Poetry is our specialty—to form bonds with people requires gold—”

Then, with a voice far more resonant than ours that made the moonlight tremble, Kankichi followed, “If gold be scarce, bonds cannot deepen—that’s how it is!”

With that, he thrust a magnificent hateful face right before my nose, and then Red Ogre Gorōsuke—

"Though we may grant temporary accord, "Finally, this is the heart of an unhurried journey—or so we crow!" As they concluded, the group turned their gaping mouths—flapping open and shut in half-amusement—toward the moon, “Gyah! Gyah! Kyoo!”

and so on—thoroughly mocking us, they raised their voices in perfect jay-like screeches. Having had no chance to demonstrate our skills for some time, and surmising we must be growing bored, I thought they had come to give us another taste of that brawl— “Finish them off!” we exchanged glances. Simultaneously, I flipped my body like a soaring bird, attempted what should have been his vulnerable back stance, slipped under his arm to grab his collar, then with my right leg bent hook-shaped—Hiyah!—kicked upward into his lower abdomen. …and I—unlike usual—felt a sudden “failure” as if I’d kicked a massive boulder, my leg remaining bent and horribly numb. *This is…!* The moment I realized this, everything coalesced—the moon in the sky seemed indistinguishable from its reflection in a swamp, my entire body spinning like a ball in frantic motion—yet still I felt certain I had that bastard fiercely within my grasp. And soon, lulled by the lukewarm wind as if falling asleep—but they had properly driven us away! I muttered. …And yet truly their voices glowed resplendent, their fascinating interplay of sounds so mesmerizing that before I knew it, I found myself lured into this drowsy, dreamlike state—but what in blazes had happened here? Having realized this, when I tried to rise slowly under the overcast skies that had lingered for days—with spring stealthily approaching—I discovered my own form stretched out like a hatchling turtle in the lukewarm, thawed genge mudflat.

“We were done in without even a fight!”

“There was no way we could lose—but we got so entranced by their poetry that they splendidly swept our legs out from under us... Still, those thieves have voices worth regretting.” With a groan, Tsurumaki and Ginhara—now mud effigies from head to toe—burst forth beside me crying “Yah! Yah!” as they clumsily helped me up. As echoes of that poem still seemed to reverberate from afar, we—pressed against the ridge path—raised our heads like kappa to see the silhouettes of the Gyōyoku Gang withdrawing along the embankment with Meiko in their midst; bathed in hazy moonlight, they appeared to dance lightly with foxtrot steps. It looked for all the world as though Meiko too had dissolved into their gallantry and harmonized with the poem’s rhythm.

There had been times when we'd swung our skills and manipulated them like puppets—witnessing them genuinely writhing in agony, truly knocking themselves unconscious against pillars, clutching at empty air when struck in the flanks. Setting aside all else, we'd believed our martial prowess alone made us peerless—but had even that been mere theater performed by those bastards to deceive Daijū's eyes? Ginhara and Tsurumaki trembled and were even impressed by the sheer audacity, but I adamantly shook my head and insisted it was Hazumi’s defeat.

And so each of us insisted on our own perceptions without yielding, but having plunged headfirst into the mudflat, we had all become indistinguishable clay figures; moreover, when we staggered forward, we were merely three mud frogs—our faces stiff with mud mumbling complaints in voices scarcely distinguishable from the croaking of actual frogs in the surrounding paddies.

IV

Our appearances were so wretched that our theories about the departure day varied—some suggesting night would be preferable, others insisting a rainy day more fitting, or at least choosing a magnificently clear morning—and so on. In the end, utterly worn-out, we—not long after that, on a serene morning when peach buds verged on blooming—

“My throat’s parched!”

And so, while rubbing our lives that we'd sustained solely on potatoes, we leaned on our canes and climbed the hill. Even so, when I barely managed to look back from the mountain pass, I spotted Meiko alone at the foot of the bridge, gazing vacantly in our direction—perhaps trying to send us off while hiding from others. The previous night I'd stealthily visited her window, but driven back by the jeering chorus of "a thousand scorners" before I could set foot near the tavern, I spread my arms wide—from atop the hill against the blue sky, I pantomimed with exaggerated gestures that next time I returned, I'd bring fox-fur stoles and peacock dresses, gold coins heaped in sacks like this, that I'd stop Daijū's breath for good, that no matter how Daijū tugged at my sleeve, I mustn't go "Hmm"—nodding cloud-swallowing assurances, striking my chest—then threw a burning kiss like a rainbow through the sky.

In my fervor to make those gestures, sweat cascading from my brow blurred my vision. Frantically, I wiped the corners of my eyes sideways with a fist and strained to look again, only to find that Meiko’s figure had already vanished, the peach blossoms scattered here and there like wisps of smoke. It was a truly peaceful village scene. I believed that Meiko—who had comprehended everything—must have vanished because she was unable to endure the sorrow of parting, and immersed myself in a parting sentiment as beautiful and sorrowful as a flower.

From the station in the distant rice fields ahead, a steam whistle gave a "Bwooht" blast.

“What a gut-churning disgrace! — Ah, I want to eat my lunchbox!” Someone cried out in a voice mimicking the steam whistle’s blast. Yet being able to believe in Meiko so absolutely felt like happiness—I thought—but whenever I recalled how Daijū and his gang’s voices were clearly superior to mine by anyone’s measure, this sorrow born of faltering confidence would surge up until tears nearly spilled over, making me hurriedly sing: “For water that spills forth unbidden, nothing stays—it simply flows…”

Then Tsurumaki, as if consoling my defeated self, joined in, “Here at this place, the government soldiers of Iga and Ise provinces—their horse-raft formation smashed through—over six hundred cavalry came surging forth—” And so we continued reciting our beloved passages. Ginhara, who had been leading the way, continued reciting without even turning back. “Chartreuse-laced, scarlet-laced, crimson-laced—the many armors rose and sank in tumult, like maple leaves on Kannabi Mountain summoned by the tempest at its peak…” “The autumn dusk at Tatsuta River—wasn’t that how it continued, Gin-chan?”

Tsurumaki was called upon. "The autumn dusk at Tatsuta River—snared upon the weir no differently than an irresistible current... There."

“Ginhara—did I forget what comes next?”

I inquired while clinging to my cane.

“Within this scene, three warriors clad in scarlet-laced armor were tossed by the currents—now rising, now sinking—when a certain lord beheld them and thus composed this verse.”

—We sang in unison.

"The warriors of Ise, all clad in scarlet-laced armor, have come to engage at Uji's Ajiro."

“Having recited thus, they slashed their bellies and perished—or so the tale goes...”

While listening to Ginhara’s voice, when I looked back over the village once more, the peach blossoms now glowed in the sunlight as if at their peak, creating a scene where multicolored armored warriors truly appeared to rise and sink. “Enough! That’s an ill omen—”

Tsurumaki, chasing after Ginhara, reached the hilltop— “What a view! What a view!—” he declared. I instinctively intervened between the two of them, wrapped both arms around their shoulders like wings, and then—for no reason at all—covered their mouths. With my legs dangling in midair like that, I hung between the two of them as we began our descent. Even so, those two still—“A spring view worth a thousand gold coins a glance? That’s cheap!” They had tried to raise their voices in unison like that, but compared to the magnificence of Daijū and his gang’s singing we’d heard that one evening, it only made increasingly clear how starkly different we were—as different as night and day. When I realized that beautiful girl had been watching our proud performances all along while fully aware of everything, and when I recalled how she maintained that reverent face as if enraptured by our poetry, cold sweat gushed forth from my entire body like a spring.

V

And that thought persisted unbroken—autumn had come again—yet still no plan for vengeance rose in my mind. "I love strong, rich men who sing beautifully."

In our prosperous days, she would often say this while staring intently at my face—the face of one who postured as a strong, wealthy man and self-styled maestro of song. Ah—this was nothing but my shameless delusion! For was I not in truth weak, impoverished, and possessed of a raucous voice unmatched in its harshness? Such resigned realizations could not help but arise. And now, her admiration might well be directed toward Daijū. Each time I thought this, I would leap up as though I couldn’t hesitate another moment—yet from that spring through this autumn, day after day, countless times I leapt like the frog observed by Ono no Tōfū—but the brilliant plan never brushed my fingertips like a willow branch.

In stark contrast to those resplendent autumn memories, these days my residence in a corner of the capital had grown utterly desolate and forlorn—so much so that not even my diary could find words worth writing. Even when they came to visit, there was scarcely anything to eat, the alcohol never lasted long, and on top of it all, no matter how long I waited, my vengeful resolve refused to kindle—so the impatient Tsurumaki and Ginhara grew bored enough to set out for a walk. When they left, I finally sat at my desk thinking I couldn't remain like this any longer and took up my pen—but the pen resembled a sword, Meiko's faint smile seemed to linger about me, and no will to write stirred within. That great face of mine that appeared to simultaneously suffer, rejoice, and grieve—my form agonizing between gazing up at mountains and lowering eyes to pen tip—was observed by those two from beneath my window,

“What a view! What a view!” Did they mock me?