Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

On June 30th, in the staff room of S Village Elementary School, the wall clock just then let out its usual lifeless, languid scream—likely this clock too had been influenced by the teachers' monotonous existence—to announce the third hour of afternoon. It must have been nearly four o'clock by then. The thing was—and this was typical of country schools—though I had been working at this school for three months already, there had yet to be a single instance where this clock properly matched the large clock at K Station. "It was at least thirty minutes slow—sometimes as much as one hour and twenty-three minutes," said the female teacher who returned every Saturday from that very station to her nearby hometown. According to Principal Tajima's own explanation, this was because most students at the school came from farming households, and strictly observing punctuality might make it difficult for them to assemble by start time—though in reality, the diligent farmers in this area took their morning meals considerably earlier than ordinary households. Yet not one colleague dared implement corrective measures against this clock's negligence—conduct wholly unbefitting their professional duties. As for morning arrival times—if they were to run late, that would be one thing—but it seemed no one took pleasure in them being even a minute early.

And me? Though I myself am no exception—in truth, through years of habit, sleeping in has become second nature...

At three in the afternoon, all regular classes had ended an hour earlier. On weekdays I should have been standing at the higher grade lectern midway through two hours of extracurricular teaching, but today there came a request from Principal Tajima—though irregular—saying that since we had end-of-month reports and his wife was severely debilitated by a headache, he wanted to dismiss students early; would I cancel the session? For I knew well the circumstances—that his family of four had long occupied the school's guardhouse as their residence, that a village-funded janitor did their laundry, and that a hen heralded dawn there. One could well imagine—given rumors that when his wife's mood darkened, this school head treated students harshly—how things stood. I choked down disgust rising to my tongue's root and reluctantly canceled today's session. To begin with, I'm a substitute teacher for second-year regular classes, graciously receiving eight yen monthly—a princely sum. Considering two extracurricular hours beyond duties—which others might see as unpaid labor or undercompensated effort—I myself harbor no resentment. For this extracurricular teaching was what I myself—having first taken up the lectern upon entering this profession, one week after joining this staff room's lowest rank—had initiated more from my own zeal than student requests. Elementary English and foreign history served as mere pretext; in truth, all my knowledge (meager though it be—yet I style myself Japan's finest substitute teacher), all grievances, experiences, thoughts—my entire being—would during those hours watch for moments to gush forth as rockets from my tongue's tip. This wasn't shooting arrows at phantoms. Be they boys or girls, these fifty-odd youths of thirteen to sixteen—were their breasts not veritable braziers of crimson oil awaiting ignition? Rockets fly! Fire meets oil! Ah, the smoky perfume of life's beacon fires crackling ablaze! "If you speak English, you'll face no obstacles anywhere worldwide"—even this plain phrase became for me a bowstring taut to launch a million rockets. There was once a land called Greece. Christ was crucified. At birth we own nothing but spirit. Rome named both city and ancient world. Rousseau blew a trumpet echoing through Europe. Corsica birthed Napoleon. There lived one called Byron. Tolstoy lives.

Gorky was once a wanderer and now suffers from tuberculosis. Russia surpasses Japan. We remain young. Where does a bloodless human exist?...Ah! Every issue holds incendiary potential. I too am fire. In over fifty chests, conflagrations ignited. The twenty-by-thirty-foot classroom became a deluge of blazing heat. My skeletal fist thudded against the desk. Some leapt up, others waved hands, voices shouted "Banzai!" This was nothing less than outright insurrection. As a single tear of fervor spilled from my eyelids—here and there rose voices weeping; faces flushed crimson yet voiceless, standing like stone idols of revolution; altogether materialized a vivid tableau of living rebellion. Tears are not water—they're resin pressed from the heart's core, they're oil. The flames only intensified, spreading wider still. Though future histories may never record "1906...On this day month, rebellion erupted in S Village Elementary School," this fearsome scene would likely be engraved upon the breastplates of myself and fifty-odd Jacobins in eternal golden script—indelible against time's erosive tides. Undoubtedly these two hours comprised my day's most fulfilling span—the very reason I passed through these school gates daily existing solely for this extracurricular teaching. Yet on June 30th, through His Excellency Principal Tajima—that paragon of 'education' who for fifteen years had prostrated himself before the Imperial Rescript, parroted loyalty and filial piety ten million times, whose thoughts reached pinnacles of moderate propriety, whose rustic appearance embodied supreme banality, whose surplus virtue of peace-loving obedience let him endure lying beneath his wife's buttocks without shame—who now drew eighteen yen monthly, S Village's highest salary—by his single decree I reluctantly canceled class. Thus performing the indignity of appeasing Madam Tajima—that potato-faced matron—before retreating to a staff room corner to add/subtract abacus beads while glaring at attendance records, compiling monthly reports destined for bureaucrats resembling starved hounds. Nor was this all—performance reviews, absence reasons, meal provisions, school supplies—impressive titles masking meaningless tasks. Here I realized: hell and paradise aren't religious fictions—they exist palpably in our world. Yes—on this day through Tajima's word, I'd been cast from paradise's path into this sweltering hell where even time diverged by one hour from mortal clocks. The abacus beads' clatter—was this not precisely the netherworld chant that chilled even Dante Alighieri, that late-medieval voyager through Inferno-Purgatory-Paradise: "Pape Satan, Pape Satan, Aleppe!"

In truth, when faced with these calculations, I couldn't muster even a smirk—like some stingy rich geezer counting his hoard. From paradise to hell! Who issued this eternal verdict? Who, I demand to know? The answer: the Principal. I'd never closely examined the ugliness and flaws etched across Principal Tajima's face during this occasion. First, that handlebar mustache beneath his nose utterly lacked luster—irrefutable proof the man hadn't an ounce of vitality. And how it dangled at both ends toward his chin like some eel's whiskers—no doubt symbolizing a spirit that'd forgotten upward striving entirely. A mustache of national ruin—fit only for Koreans, Han scholars of yore, and modern schoolteachers. Three moles in total—the largest beneath his left eye glared like some ill-starred constellation, unbearably offensive. This so-called 'tear-stain mole'—mercifully absent from both my kin's faces and those I've ever respected. How fitting! This wretch clearly expects no better days ahead... Though flaws abound, we reach the final equation: Principal Tajima = 0. In conclusion, not one microscopic trait aligned with my standards.

When the full account of this unlawful coup reached all members of my Jacobin faction through my own words in a corner of the student waiting area, a mass of dark clouds instantly veiled over fifty youthful, innocent faces—a leaden mist sealing shut paradise's radiant gates. Clearly, they had swallowed the same bitter draught of discontent as I. Though I'd never mentioned Madam's headache affair, the moment my words ended came a thunderous kick against floorboards—"Principal Idiot!"—followed by other voices: "Eel!" "Let's broil him!" Until finally some joined that trite peculiar cry: "Three Cheeeeers!" I cast them a fleeting smile and quietly turned toward hell's gate. After fifteen-sixteen steps, when the clamor behind abruptly ceased, came a battle cry shaking the schoolhouse itself—"One! Two! Three! Mud Eel—!"—pierced by a silk-rending soprano from the girls. Turning back revealed over half these revolutionary stalwarts already storming outdoors through the student entrance like tempest-driven leaves. No doubt today too an untimely hail of fists pummeled the small head of the principal's child playing before the gate. Yet in the waiting area lingered those unable to leave—eleven or twelve souls scheming special requests, among them two-three long-haired youths. The janitor's second son and the female teacher's boarding-house child—both enjoying Principal Tajima's leniency through their connections—had tailed me since earlier, now standing sentry-like at hell's entrance to monitor developments within.

The entrance was demarcated by two torn paper shoji screens separating this room from the student waiting area, lying immediately to the left when ascending straight from the school gate through the main entryway. Passing through this threshold into our immediate hell—the staff room with its oppressively low ceiling, walls mottled with stains across ten tatami mats' worth of space, antiquated small windows, and leather chairs warped with age, all exuding life's weary essence—one found four desks arranged in a U-shape facing inward. Of the two desks aligned at the far end, the right belonged to His Excellency the Principal, the left to the senior teacher—a veteran promoted through certification exams. Beside the principal sat myself, while opposite us stood the solitary desk of the female teacher. When speaking of our school's faculty, there existed only these four members; that I occupied the lowest rank among them required no elaboration. Even were there a hundred staff members, substitute teachers would by nature ever be consigned to the humblest seat. These vaunted regulations amounted to such a hackneyed jest. Now, directly behind me lay nothing but a single shoji screen partitioning this space from the night duty quarters.

When the wall clock behind the female teacher in this staff room let out a languid wail to announce 3:00 PM, all four staff members were entrenched at their respective desks. Although the desks stood close together, the present state of affairs truly manifested an Age of Warring States. The anguished voices chanting "Pape Satan, Aleppe!" that had persisted for twenty or thirty minutes ceased abruptly three or four minutes prior—like frogs in a rice paddy whose song suddenly falls silent when startled by approaching footsteps. At the same moment—(no doubt the aged venerable guide, steady-handed, had led Dante onward into another circle of asura)—a fresh wave of murderous intent struck like a gust, painting an entirely new scene within this room.

To explain in detail would make for a rather trivial tale, but the matter at hand is as follows. A couple of days prior, spurred by an unexpected turn of events, I had conceived of and composed lyrics—a sort of school anthem—for the students of S Village Elementary School to recite daily. When I composed this piece—my first such attempt in the twenty-one years since my first cry at birth—I must confess with some embarrassment that upon having my clear-voiced wife sing the finished work, I felt it was rather skillfully made. I still think so now... Even my wife praised it. That night when two or three students came to visit, I taught them while playing the violin myself, and they too praised it—finding it tremendously enjoyable—and declared they would sing it every day from now on. The lyrics consist of six stanzas with six lines each, while the melody is in C major with a 2/4 time signature that changes to 3/4 time for the final two lines. “The way it changes makes it even more enjoyable,” my wife said. “No, putting that aside—in any case, it remains an undeniable fact that I have not a single thing to feel guilty about regarding this.” Composing lyrics and music should by no means be equated with the acts of thieves, hypocrites, or any manner of shameless scoundrels. Surely there exists no regulation stating that someone like a substitute teacher lacks the qualifications to compose music. Thus I remain eternally upright and honorable; a stalwart who faces heaven and earth without shame. However, alas—who could have foreseen that this very majesty and unadorned nature would instead become the target at which the enemy loosed their arrows? To avoid exaggeration, let me clarify—that night I had taught the song to merely three students (whose names I distinctly remember). Yet whether due to the wildfire spread caused by uniformly parched lips among Jacobin faction members—their hearts all burning with the same hue blending youthful life’s pale green and churning spring founts’ bloody crimson—or some other reason, within days of observation it became transmitted through singing. Now today, though not without some variations in melody, nearly two-thirds—nay, four-fifths—of higher-grade students undoubtedly know it. During lunch breaks, without anyone taking the lead, a snaking porridge procession would begin in the playground. There must have been nearly a hundred of them—though a crowd of onlookers had also gathered among them—and what they were all singing was none other than the aforementioned newly composed school song by Mr. Shinden Kosuke. However, just because my own creation was being sung by the masses did not mean it was shameful or sinful—rather, it was something delightful, something to take pride in. When I actually witnessed that procession, I too felt somehow elated—my entire body tingling as if being lightly tickled—so much so that I nearly became one among their marching ranks myself, albeit for a mere five minutes.... The true crux of the matter lay beyond this point.

Three or four minutes before 3:00 PM, Principal Tajima Kinzo—who until now had been clumsily dancing his fingers across the abacus while repeating "Pape Satan, Pape Satan"—appeared to have finished calculating the attendance register entries. He slowly raised his head and took up his tobacco pipe. A thud against the desk edge; then an indescribable clang—like a tanuki’s difficult birth, like a straw sandal bursting from a water pipe’s faucet, or more precisely, like the neighbor’s pig catching influenza midsummer—this peculiar resonance (if one dares call it resonance), likely some aborted cough upon closer analysis, issued from the vicinity of his enormous Adam’s apple. Then another subdued one followed. Thinking this might be all, I bit the tip of my brush lightly as I prepared to enter the number 84.79—now displayed on the abacus—into the boys’ attendance rate column of the monthly table. In that instant, there came a voice as grim as the ghost of last year’s dead black cat emerging from an afternoon nap’s dream—

“Mr. Shinden.” Principal Tajima called. It was His Excellency the Principal's summons.

I abruptly raised my head. At the same moment, the other two—the senior teacher and the female teacher—also looked up. From this very instant came the abrupt silencing of voices chanting "Pape Satan, Pape Satan, Aleppe!" The female teacher watched the principal's face in silence. The Chief Senior Teacher hunched his body sharply and prepared to smoke tobacco. He seemed braced for something. Indeed, after these mere three seconds of silence erupted a storm of rare intensity.

“Mr. Shinden,” the principal called again. He appeared to be affecting an exaggeratedly strict demeanor. But the pitiful truth was that this physiognomy—cast from mediocrity and ugliness into an "educator" mold—contained no void capable of accommodating any other expression. It stood as perfect "absurdity." Should one forcibly assume such sternness, the result could only provoke in others both ridicule and thin-strained pity. Yet he remained wholly oblivious; his faltering speech—like a cracked bell's toll—advanced one laborious step.

“I would like to ask you something, if I may.” “Well... ‘the forest of life’s...” “Now, what was it? The opening verse?” (He looked at the Chief Senior Teacher, who—wearing an air of great discomfort—looked down in silence.) “Ah yes yes! ‘When spring lies fresh and moon hangs young/Through night’s fragrance in life’s forest grove/We wander forth...’ or some such lines—that school song of yours.” “That, Mr. Shinden—is it true that you secretly composed it and had the students sing it?”

“That’s a lie.” “While it’s true I composed both lyrics and melody, the assertion that I did so secretly is false.” “I abhor covert dealings.” “Yet according to our earlier discussion—wasn’t that the case, Mr. Furuyama?” He turned again toward the Chief Senior Teacher beside him. A shadow of vexation clouded Furuyama’s countenance once more. Silent as before, he cast me a fleeting sidelong glance before expelling smoke through his nostrils with a muted snort.

Witnessing this scene—Ah! So that's it—I had already intuited everything. Regarding my song—that upright, unadorned composition without shame before heaven or earth—the protest now being brought against me surely did not spring solely from the brain of His Excellency Dojō Kinzō. It was entirely the result of collaboration with Furuyama. Or perhaps Furuyama himself had been the instigator. No—that made sense—with just the principal alone, such vigor could never have emerged. The fact remained: this Furuyama, being native-born to the village, had managed to stay at this school over ten years in this manner. That he still remained content with thirteen yen just as five years prior—even after passing forty—made clear what a spineless man he was. A man notorious for marital quarrels (in this regard somewhat lacking the principal's virtuous meekness), whose conversation topics—if one could call them that—were limited to alcohol, youthful anecdotes involving women, and one more thing: his fishing hobby. That was all. Yet this fishing hobby alone ranked among the village's finest; he himself believed—and others permitted him to believe—he'd reached mastery's realm. Consequently he possessed neither principles nor convictions—(it being long established that fishing masters harbor neither)—thus as a twenty-one-year-old, I found no common ground with him. If I may say so myself: both Principal and this man resembled magnolias withered naturally from malnutrition—had they been pines, even dead they'd retain some dignity in their boughs—but these held not an ounce of grace. They and I even smoked different tobacco daily. What they smoked was powdered leaves of withered oak—neither spicy nor sweet, devoid of aroma. Mine might have been bargain-grade at five momme three sen, but it was genuine through and through—richly aromatic, pungent yet sweet—the very essence of vibrant life's smoke. "When I smoked one Lily cigarette I grew dizzy"—Furuyama's statement days prior had likely been factual. Thus I remained ever the alien element within this staff room—a stepchild regarded as peace's disturber. Were I to seek conversation partners in this small world, truly none existed save the female teacher alone. Having slightly passed youth's bloom at precisely twenty-four—three years my senior.

Thus still unmarried, a devout Christian, skilled at hymns, educated in new pedagogical methods, ideologically sound—as for her face? Her face held no particular distinction after daily exposure—peach-colored cheeks, red hair, eyes retaining youthful vigor beyond her years that occasionally flashed with discernment. Though she taught first grade in the elementary division, she remained truly a kind nurse. She generally understood what I said and invariably sympathized where reason resided. However, being a woman after all and possessing a slight tendency toward excessive prudence, she deliberately refrained from uttering a single word in situations like today’s. But the slight movement of her eyeballs had already told me plainly that she was my ally. Moreover, I had indeed heard this woman humming the song I composed just moments earlier—though who she could have learned it from?

Now, here I explained in detail how that song had been created and how it came to be sung. And when the final words left my lips and reached the three pairs of ears—those of Principal Tajima, the Chief Senior Teacher, and the female teacher—at that very moment, the wall clock lazily called out: Clang. Clang. Clang. Suddenly an “Aah” arose from behind me, beyond the shoji screen. Likely weakened by a headache, Madam Potato had—as had become her daily routine—tied one end of a string to her three-year-old daughter’s obi and fastened the other to her own leg to prevent the child from wandering into danger, lying sprawled beside the kotatsu until roused from midday slumber by the clock’s chime. Another “Aah” sounded.

Three seconds, five seconds, ten seconds—a terrifying silence dragged on. The four staff members were each entrenched at their respective desks. The first to break this silence was Furuyama the Magnolia.

“Did you obtain the Principal’s official approval for that song?”

“No, certainly not! Absolutely not! I have no recollection whatsoever of granting approval.” The Principal answered of his own accord.

I calmly held my pipe between my lips and let a faint smile slip toward the female teacher. Furuyama too began smoking. When I glanced at Principal Tajima, he had already flushed crimson, steam billowing from his nostrils. “To speak plainly—this exceeds all bounds of liberty.” “Mr. Shinden, though you’ve no doubt received this ‘new education,’ I must observe... this smacks of rather excessive self-indulgence on your part.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh, is that so? You can’t possibly not understand that!” “To begin with—er—I believe it was April 4th of this year when I paid respects to Mr. Hirano of the County Superintendent’s office.” “Yes, that was precisely the time.” “Regarding your appointment—it was through the County Superintendent’s recommendation that I ultimately admitted you to this school. Out of deference to his position, I’ve shown considerable restraint and leniency until now. However—” He paused mid-sentence, leaning back slightly. “—when such self-indulgence oversteps bounds, I too, as principal entrusted with this school’s governance—” Seizing this opening, I spoke.

“Please, don’t hold back on my account.” “Outrageous! You don’t give a damn about the Principal!”

This voice was slightly high-pitched. A clenched fist struck the desk with a thud; the abacus, as if startled, fell to the floor and let out a clattering noise. I had never known until now that the Principal could be so animated. Perhaps, as if making a confession, he had been restraining himself until now out of deference to the County Superintendent. However, what he said was true. I truly don't give a damn about this principal, after all. At that moment, there came a swishing sound from the shoji screen behind. Madam Potato crawled out and seemed to be listening intently to how things were going.

“From what I have just ascertained,” Furuyama interjected with feigned neutrality, “it does appear that the Principal’s position is fundamentally sound. “However, Mr. Shinden has committed no particular wrongdoing in essence—it is merely that composing this school song entirely at his own discretion and instructing students without authorization constitutes a failure to observe due process. This procedural lapse strikes me as being significantly—no, moderately erroneous.” “Does this institution possess anything designated as a school song?”

“There has been no such thing until now.” “And now?”

This time, Principal Tajima answered. “You’re precisely the one who composed this song, are you not?” “The issue lies precisely there.” “There’s a proper procedure for everything—” Without letting him finish, I raised my hand to stop Furuyama. “There’s no issue whatsoever here, is there? Aren’t you already calling that piece I created the school song? I have no recollection of composing a school song for this S Village Elementary School. I merely attempted to create something of the nature of a school song—the sort that students here could recite morning and evening without causing complications. Yet you are the ones calling it the school song. So, you are approving it as the school song then. Thereupon, all the students sing it—that school song. There’s no problem or anything of the sort, I should think. There would be nothing more perfectly peaceful than this.”

Principal Tajima and Furuyama exchanged glances. A satisfied smile floated in the female teacher’s eyes. At the entrance, besides the two guards stationed there, stood a new arrival. The rear shoji swished open to reveal a spectral figure standing motionless—a thin cord tied loosely around her waist with no obi fastened, wearing a grimy striped cotton-lined kimono in disarray, her chest exposed as she let the infant in her arms nurse at her breast. It was Madam Potato making her grand entrance. The lined kimono bore a black satin half-collar that glistened darkly with sweat. However one looked at it, her appearance was decidedly unwholesome. From eyes narrowed to needle-sharp points at their outer corners came a glare that pierced through me before she planted herself directly beside Principal Tajima. Had one sought to give form in our world to that sound—the crunching grind of bone between teeth—from hell’s deepest pit where a white-haired bramble-thin corpse clutched my child’s remains in both hands—that form would surely have been this woman’s gaze when she fixed me in her sights. Considering this, one might find some sympathy for Principal Tajima’s predicament—his heart skewered morning and night by such a stare.

A living goddess—poverty’s? —stood rigid as a stone statue, silent. A lightning-like change then occurred within this room. Principal Tajima, as if attempting to reassume the strict demeanor he had forgotten until now, imparted movement to two or three areas of his facial muscles. Whether he had regained courage or felt terror with the arrival of reinforcements remained unclear, but in any case, it must have been some violent impulse that seized his heart. Furuyama also raised his face. However, it was already too late. The offensive and defensive positions had already been reversed after all. I felt an even greater sense of triumphant swagger as enemy forces were reinforced. The female teacher, upon catching sight of the goddess, seemed to have her pure chest sealed by an indescribable mist of discomfort and immediately looked down. Seeing this—whether she felt shame, pity, or anger—her ears reddened to their roots as she tapped the desk with the tip of her pencil in sharp, rhythmic clicks.

Furuyama was the first to speak. “However, everything has its proper order. Unless one follows that procedure... well, you see, one cannot leap directly to becoming an army general.” Truly an unparalleled stroke of genius across all ages. Principal Tajima continued. “As long as you do not follow the proper procedure, even if what you created were suitable to be adopted as a school song, it cannot yet be recognized as such. Even if you lack a proper teaching certificate—for someone employed in education who even draws a monthly salary to disregard procedural order—this is excessive by any measure.”

Having finished speaking, he pressed his lips tightly together. The unfortunate part was that the 'he' shape they formed didn't look particularly good.

The goddess's gaze pierced my face like icy arrows. She seemed to be demanding his response. From hair bundled not so much carelessly as downright rudely—a comb clattered to the floor. She didn't deign to retrieve it. I spoke with a laugh. "Though I deeply appreciate this talk of proper procedures—might I inquire what specific protocols actually exist?" "It's mortifying to admit, but I remain utterly ignorant of such matters." "...For should I remain uninformed about these school song adoption procedures and someday blunder into a principalship somewhere—committing some catastrophic error—that would prove disastrous indeed. Might I humbly request your instruction now?"

Principal Tajima answered with a thoroughly pained expression. “The procedure isn’t particularly complicated." “First,” (he said with emphasis) “the principal must certify it and deem it acceptable before submitting it to the district superintendent. Then, once we receive approval stating that this song may be sung by the school’s students without issue—only then does it officially become the school anthem.” “Ah! So what you mean is—since the one I created didn’t go through all that proper procedure rigmarole, it’s essentially failed for being too hastily conceived.” “Splendid.” “For the author himself, whether it gets adopted as the school song or not is a matter as trivial as a fart—the mere fact that all the students are singing this song I created already brings more than enough honor.” “Ha ha ha ha.” “There’s nothing left to debate here, I suppose.”

“However,” Furuyama interjected. This man’s stock-in-trade was interjecting with “however.” “However, if one wishes to have students sing it, I suppose it would be more prudent for either the Principal or myself to first explain the song’s meaning or present it upon completion—such measures would ensure smoother proceedings.” “Not only that—he goes around declaring school lesson plans are mere formalities unworthy of documentation—yet upon returning home immediately scribbles novels or such trifles.” “That one could call himself an educator—it can only be met with astonishment.” “Indeed, this is truly…” “However, well—this is a separate matter.” “Mr. Shinden! This school operates under detailed curriculum guidelines established through august directives from the Minister of Education!” “Arithmetic, Japanese language, geography, and history go without saying—even singing and sewing have meticulously detailed guidelines.” “From the perspective of those long engaged in educational endeavors, current guidelines are truly exemplary—one might say exhaustive in scope and penetrating in detail.” “This dates back over a decade—when we were still studying at the Normal School—under the supervision of that renowned Assistant Instructor Mr. Kohara Gintaro, who already earned forty-five yen even then. We compiled elementary curriculum guidelines, but comparing those with today’s—why, it’s beyond words—enough to make one break into a cold sweat.” “Therefore—ahem—true educators must conduct lessons by strictly adhering to these flawless guidelines without deviation. Should they fail, on a minor scale it proves inexcusable to both students’ parents and the village office funding our salaries; on a grand scale, we become guilty of disrupting Great Japan’s education. Precisely this constitutes our most crucial duty as educators—or so I believe—and I myself have striven diligently for over ten years—though only four years and three months here—to uphold this principle.” “Of course, this doesn’t mean never teaching unlisted material.” “Well—as Mr. Furuyama insists—everything requires proper order.” “Follow due procedure and obtain approval first—then naturally you may teach it.” “Otherwise, we face the circumstances described earlier, and as appointed principal, responsibility may ultimately fall upon me.” “In that case, mutual inconvenience ensues.” “Not only that—it would tarnish our school’s honor.”

“This will lead to quite the predicament,” I remarked with perfect nonchalance. Admittedly, during this sermon of yours, I found myself frequently unable to suppress my laughter, though I went through no small effort to stifle it. “So in other words—the song I created isn’t listed in those flawless curriculum guidelines of yours, I take it?” “Of course there’s no way it would be there,” said Furuyama. “There’s no reason it would be in your guidelines. I only created it two or three days ago, you see. Ah ha ha ha! So all this talk since earlier ultimately boils down to one perfectly clear matter: that song must not be sung by the students. Having cut away all these procedural branches and detailed leaves, I’ve laid bare my innermost convictions—that’s what it comes down to, wouldn’t you agree?”

There was no response to this. "So according to those guideline codgers you mentioned, substitute teachers mustn't teach students anywhere outside the lectern—is that it? Or perhaps there exists some detailed provision about instructing pupils outside school premises?"

“Would such absurdities even be codified in the guidelines?” Principal Tajima barked. “Then my conscience is clear.” “What do you mean ‘clear’?!”

“But that’s how it is, isn’t it? As I explained in detail earlier, I only taught that song to three students who came to my house two or three days ago—that very night I finished composing it. There’s no reason I should receive a scolding from that old codger of guidelines for this. If that song contained any dangerous ideas or language unfit for students to utter, that would be another matter, but… Well, I was quite worried, but with this, I’ve been gradually exonerated under clear skies.”

The crown of total victory rests upon my head. The enemy has retreated north of Tieling in utter defeat. With swords shattered, horses fallen, and arrows spent, there has never been any reason for the battle to continue.

“I also borrowed what Miss Sakae wrote yesterday and copied it myself.” “Though someone like me doesn’t understand much about such things, I truly thought it was a splendid composition. In fact, I had planned to teach it during tomorrow’s singing class.”

This was a beautiful wreath of glory, hurled like a freshly loosed arrow into my triumphant chest. It was the first time the female teacher had spoken.

II

At this moment, Principal Tajima Kinzo was so overcome that he nearly wept. He had initially glared resentfully at the female teacher's face, but now abruptly turned to gaze up at the grime-tinged goddess beside him—this migraine incarnate, this Madam Potato adorned with satin collar trimmings. Though normally as dull as a dead gengorō crucian's eyes, his own now retained lingering sparks of battlefire, slightly dampened by profound contrition and entreaty. Here lay the very image of history's most pitiable husband pouring forth his soul's devotion while his wife sought not even a glance of mercy. Yet the goddess's countenance—marble smeared with mud—remained immobile. Then came her sole utterance: "Hmph." Ah, who in this world could fathom the meaning behind that "Hmph"? She bent to retrieve her fallen comb. The infant at her breast still refused release—a most covetous child indeed.

Furuyama was staring at me with a vulgar gaze suffused with indignation. This must be what it feels like when a white buoy on the water’s surface teeters on the brink of sinking, watched with bated breath. The admirable and kind-hearted female teacher Miss Yamamoto Takako had once again begun her Pape Satan.

Looking toward the entrance, there stood four closely cropped heads and two tied with ibis-colored ribbons. When I turned around, they all smiled bewitchingly. Among them was Miss Sakae—a clever girl boarding at the female teacher’s lodgings—who fluttered her large eyes to send me a kind of coded congratulatory telegram. She was a remarkably clever girl. I also sent a return signal. This time, all six pairs of eyes fluttered at once.

Suddenly, a youthful and vigorous chorus of voices could be heard. It was coming from the second floor.

Spring still young, the moon nascent Amidst the nocturnal fragrance of life's forest My soul breaks free to wander, Dreaming without meaning to dream— Ah, this song—it was what caused the Russo-Japanese War. I felt as if struck by lightning. At the same moment came a clamorous noise of footsteps on the ladder steps, and the voices faltered momentarily. No sooner had I thought Don't come down! than figures appeared. A troop of five stalwarts—their leader being Ryosuke, the village head’s eldest son. Though not tall in stature, he reigned as the school’s foremost mischief-maker while maintaining top grades, serving as leader of the Jacobin faction’s most radical wing—what might be called the bomb faction. They had likely gathered on the second floor to avoid detection, holding some secret council of revenge for today’s canceled extracurricular session. Judging by their vigor, they seemed already to have some stratagem in mind. I could only hope they wouldn’t revert to their old ways and commit some violence like pelting the night-duty room with a hailstorm of stones at midnight.

The troop of stalwarts, raising their crystal-clear voices like a spring dawn bell, continued singing while marching valiantly, first tracing a large circle at the center of the spacious waiting area. No sooner had I noticed this than they began marching grandly toward our staff room.

“Autonomy’s sword held high in their right hands,” “Love’s banner raised high in their left hands,” “riding Freedom’s steed,” Marching along the path of ideals, Tonight beneath life’s forest canopy By the water’s edge we make our camp. Towering mountains—monuments to heroes’ deeds, Monuments honoring their legacy, A soundless river flows through millennia, It flows with fragrant names through the ages. Where lies this place? If I should ask,

The moon answers: "Thy homeland." The gallant steed's neighing and Yet when I reflect, the dream does not abruptly fade. White-plumed shield of argent armor Though all else fades away, Here remains one undying soul He stands upon the path of ideals. Iwate Mountain crowned with snow Even the name of the gentle princess deity, Through the mountains' midst it flows In the northward flow of Kitakami’s waters of antiquity, Cleansing the soul…… When they had sung this far, Ryosuke’s right foot was just then stepping into the staff room entrance. The song stopped. As for the scene that had unfolded in the room during those few minutes—I had known nothing of it. I was simply staring intently into Ryosuke’s eyes as he approached, singing along in my heart all the while. Moreover, straining my heart's voice to its absolute limits.

When he suddenly noticed, it seemed as though the grand drama of the world’s destruction was bearing down upon them in a mere second. The principal’s face was a raging mountain fire. And his entire body was trembling so violently it was visible to the eye. Furuyama had already shot up from his chair and was trembling as well, his fists clenched like a famine-stricken Niō guardian deity. Thick blue veins were bulging out all over his face. Sakae was bringing her mouth close to Ryosuke’s ear and whispering something. Ryosuke was listening intently, his eyes opened as wide as an elephant’s nostrils. His was a voice that tended toward natural loudness, so his response became audible even to me.

“...What? This song?” “Hmm... Did we win? Hmm, yeah, sure... Wanted to see it... You’re not drinking? The sake?” "But it’s red... Red Eel Mr." The final voice rose slightly in volume.

Furuyama said in an agitated voice,

“Principal.”

He shouted. The principal stood up. The chair fell backward with a violent jerk. The principal’s wife still hadn’t moved. But the terrifying sight of her face! “Go away.” “Kindly remove yourself from these premises.” I and the female teacher said this simultaneously, moving our hands and signaling with our eyes. Ryosuke’s eyes and my eyes met. I bore down with my eyes.

Ryosuke finally broke into a run.

Towering mountains are the hero's A monument mourning the departed,

Singing as they went. The other children all followed after him.

“Victory to the teacher!” The battle cry could be heard—voices of five or six students. Among them, Ryosuke’s resonant tone and Miss Sakae’s soprano rang out distinctly. My eyes and the female teacher’s eyes met midair with a metallic clang. Her gaze overflowed with fervent emotion. That this intensity didn’t spell misfortune for me was clear from their luminous quality—Just then,

Just then, voices sounded at the entrance. They seemed to be arguing about something. However, at first—perhaps because I too was agitated—I couldn’t make out what they were saying. One voice belonged to the janitor. And the other? It truly sounded like a voice from beyond recorded history. “No matter what ya say, a beggar’s still a beggar, ain’t they?” “As I’ve been tellin’ ya, a school ain’t no place for beggars.” “The Principal’s been sayin’ for days—once beggars start comin’, it becomes a habit—so any that show up gotta be chased off quick.” “Get movin’ already—we both ain’t got time to waste here,” said the janitor.

A young man’s voice resonating with dignified tension responded. “I may be a beggar among beggars, but I’m no ordinary sort.” “What? Are you calling me a fraud?” “Enough! Just show that letter to Shinden!” “Didn’t I tell you he’s here?” “It’s addressed to Shinden Hakugyū.” Huh? I wondered. The janitor spoke again. “There’s a young Mr. Shinden Kosuke here alright, but nobody by some funny name like Hakugyū.” “Mr. Shinden don’t got no beggar kin.” “You’re mistaken.” “This here’s plain mistaken identity.” “Take this back.”

“You’re quite the difficult one, aren’t you? I have absolutely no business with you. “If I can just meet Shinden, that’s all I need.” “If I can just meet Mr. Shinden, I’ll be satisfied—it’s all I ask for.” “Do you understand?… Please—that letter—I beg you.… If you still refuse, I’ll go up myself and meet the person I seek.” At this moment, I thought of getting up to go see. But for some reason, I resolutely did not rise. I had likely been utterly intoxicated by that magnificent, beautiful, majestic voice flowing unimpeded from the depths of a broad chest. For no particular reason, I recalled the face of Napoleon holding a child that I had occasionally seen in photographic prints. And I thought that the person now standing at the entrance calling my name and asking to meet me must undoubtedly resemble that Napoleon.

“Wha—what good’ll that do ya?” “I’ll get scolded by the Principal.” “Alright, just wait here a moment.” “Anyway, I’ll go show this letter to that teacher.” “...You’re dead wrong ’bout who he is.” “In all my sixteen years at this school, ain’t a single teacher ever been shown a letter from some beggar.”

My heart was now seized by a strange sensation. When I looked around, both Principal Tajima and Furuyama had already taken their seats. Madam Potato still maintained her immovable posture. The female teacher also remained as she was. And the four pairs of eyes were all focused on me, as if expecting something. In days of old, from the marble-paved galleries of splendid amphitheaters, spectators gazing down with keen fascination at innocent bare-handed slaves—perfect 'powerless' gladiators—testing what resistance they might muster against the beast incarnating violence, that lion called divine-right emperor: such gazes must have been like this, I imagined within my heart.

The janitor—known throughout the village by the nickname "Buddha" for his good nature, who would answer "Aye" whether called "Chuta" in rain or wind—entered the staff room while muttering something through thick lips.

“There’s a beggar here says he wants you to look at this, Teacher.” “Here.” With strange eyes and restless glances toward me, he placed a sealed letter on the desk. Then, while pointing toward the entrance, he closed his left eye, twisted his mouth, and mimicked a chick’s peep—

“He’s a strange one. “Be careful.” “I’ve tried every which way to send him packing, but he just wouldn’t listen.” he whispered with a complaint. He silently took up the sealed letter. On the front, a bold and vigorous 〆 character occupied nearly the entire space, with six faintly smudged characters in thin ink below—『Hachinohe, Shuuun』—written in a rough hand he recognized. There was no date. "Ah, it's from Shuuun!" I exclaimed before I knew it. Turning it over revealed 『Iwate Prefecture, Iwate District, S—— Village Elementary School, Shinden Hakugyū-sama』 written on the reverse side in earnest semi-cursive script. I remembered something, but at any rate hurriedly opened the envelope. The gazes of everyone were likely fixed upon the inexplicable tremor in his emaciated fingertips. A sudden pounding in the chest—the roar of youthful life sent lightning-like ripples through his entire bloodstream. What his trembling fingertips drew out was a single sheet of hanshi; as the characters were large, the message was naturally extremely brief.

Since then, greatly estranged—my discourtesy,

Only this much was written across two lines.

Ishimoto Toshikichi will take this letter. You must give this person as much assistance as you can. I have written what might be called a letter of introduction for the first time in my life.

June 25th

Respectfully, Shinden Kosan And in the upper margin, written horizontally: (One-Eyed Dragon, I tell you.) —a single line.

If ever there were a letter epitomizing supreme discourtesy and brusqueness, this would surely be its very definition. Moreover, this was no ordinary correspondence. Was this not what one might call a letter of introduction—akin to a sacred ceremonial proclamation to be recited before the altar of the gods—when someone compels one individual within their sphere of trust to shake hands with another unknown? Should such a letter reach those gentle, earnest gentlemen of society who revere universal moderation—like our Principal Tajima—they would likely perceive its bearer as a tiger at their gate without even looking, fleeing through the back door with one sandal half-on before any wolf could block their path. Moreover, were one to learn that this letter had been written by Amano Daizuke—a twenty-seven-year-old Japanese citizen born in this S—— Village who received his Meiji-era elementary education at this very school (then half its current size with but one teacher—a shabby single-class institution predating higher grades) from an educator who supremely revered rules, order, year-end bonuses, the Ministry of Education, and his wife while remaining moderate and brusque—by what words could such astonishment be expressed? In truth, this was no proper letter of introduction. It was an order—a thoroughly brusque order—demanding maximum assistance for some unknown One-Eyed Dragon. Yet having read these astonishing lines with my chest reverberating, I felt nothing of the sort. I dared ask—where in any corner of this letter lurked even a speck of the superficial formalities flooding our world? One gold coin, three ryō hereby. Horse Fee. To pay or not to pay—what say you? If you consent to pay, then so be it; if not, we shall not press the matter. Your arm has bone. If Miyoshi’s ancient horse fee request—that naturalist student’s note—truly constituted an eternal masterpiece as Arai Hakuseki claimed, then my revered friend Shuuun’s introduction letter must likewise be declared a masterpiece for the ages. Not only this—that he and I could calmly write and read such correspondence meant our bond must be one of true unity where hearts beat as one and entrails lay bare. Sweeping away all foliage and garments while brandishing six feet of divine nakedness—this very letter pressed calmly against its targeted castle gate. Within that composure overflowed infinite trust and friendship filling heaven and earth. I read this letter in three or four seconds. And in that moment sensed my revered friend’s vibrant essence and heard his trust’s warm whisper.

“Very well. Have him shown into this room.” “A beggar?!”

Principal Tajima bellowed. “What do you mean by that? That’s going too far! Mr. Shinden! Bringing a beggar into the school’s staff room, of all things!” The voice that thus cried out held an indescribably loathsome quality—piercing enough to make the windowpanes shiver, as if millions upon millions of voiceless caterpillars from time immemorial had swarmed together in some chaotic rain-summoning ritual. The terrifying force of Madam Potato’s first utterance—a sudden volcanic eruption from one who’d seemed tongueless. Janitor Chuta’s acorn eyes whirled round and round three times. He stood frozen, still unable to move.

At that point, intimidation became necessary. “Show him in.” I barked a sharp rebuke. Chuta scrambled out only to immediately return. Behind him trailed a single figure. He must have already removed his straw sandals and entered through the front. “Mr. Shinden! Is this acceptable?” “You there! This isn’t your personal school!” “Who does he think he is—a mere substitute teacher acting so high-handed?!” “Just look!” “That creature!” Madam Potato kept shrieking. I refused to turn around. Instead, I focused all my attention on the figure emerging behind Chuta—the “Napoleon” with a booming voice she’d derided as “that creature.”

Madam Potato shrieked vehemently. He did not so much as turn around. And at this very moment, he directed his full attention toward the resonant-voiced Napoleon—referred to as "that creature"—who was about to emerge from behind Chuta. Though Shuuun's letter bore the headnote "One-Eyed Dragon, I tell you," he had simply assumed it meant the man had accidentally lost an eye during the Battle of Waterloo, and never believed this could diminish by even a single iota the dashing majesty of Napoleon Bonaparte—that true-boned hero of the ages. He wondered if perhaps it had instead intensified by one degree the stern dignity of autumn frost and blazing sun. Chuta stepped aside and bowed his head meekly. No sooner had he done so than he fled from the room as if making an escape.

With no refuge left beneath heaven, the hero of our age now stood resplendent before my very eyes, abruptly towering within arm’s reach. I also stood up. At this moment,I was suddenly startled and nearly cried out. Alas! At this rarest of moments—this very month, day,and hour—had my own eyes suddenly ceased to function? A misfortune this catastrophic should never exist again in this world. I blinked two or three times with all my might then strained to open my eyes as wide as possible. But it was no use. Napoleon Bonaparte—who should have gained an added layer of autumn frost and blazing sun severity after mistakenly losing an eye to a stray bullet at Waterloo—had now long since become something Shinden Kosuke could no longer look up to. My widely opened eyes now stared at the very spot where seconds before I had imagined a hero of the ages standing—here instead stood a single individual as desolate as a gaunt dog from a dust heap. Truly this is a miracle under heaven. It is said that any great hero upon death leaves behind nothing but a skeleton. When I looked closely what now stood before me might well have been Napoleon’s skeleton.

Even if it were a skeleton, this was indeed a pathetically shabby specimen of one. He stood precisely five shaku tall without an inch to spare, wearing a striped cotton robe whose pattern had become invisible under layers of dust and grime, cinched with a narrow leather belt from which protruded seven or eight sun of thick white kogura trousers. He was of course not wearing tabi socks. His hair had grown two sun long, looking exactly like a Tamba chestnut burr rolled through a muddy path. Eyes? Indeed, the One-Eyed Dragon. However, it was certainly not lost at Waterloo. Likely congenital; the left one lay firmly asleep as preserved from when it had died in a past life. The right eye wasn’t a complete one either. Somehow, the placement of his pupils seemed slightly different from that of ordinary people. The nose was passable; the mouth twisted slightly to the left. And his cheeks were thin, his complexion extremely poor. Amidst these assembled features, the broad forehead that alone appeared imposing bore not a few glistening beads of sweat. He didn’t look the least bit cool. Of course—he’s a traveler wearing layered robes on June thirtieth. That Chuta had clucked like a chicken in mockery, that Madam Potato had cried "That creature!"—this might well stem from their inability to see their own faces, yet he couldn't deny there was some truth to their reactions.

That I had felt this way was, of course, but a fleeting moment. That I—Japan's Best Substitute Teacher—had harbored such petty thoughts within my breast, even if only for a fleeting instant, constituted truly an unbearable moral failing; what delivered the awakening lash to my spirit was the first utterance that burst forth from this eccentric man's twisted mouth.

“I am Toshikichi Ishimoto.” Ah, that voice alone was truly one Napoleon himself need not have been ashamed of. It was a manly, dignified voice—so splendid that one might wonder where such a thing could be stored within this body—flowing unimpeded from the depths of a beautiful, majestic, broad chest. In a single oyster shell, they say, if a poet listens, dwells the primordial roar of distant oceans. So then, this man too—though his body may be nothing more than a haphazardly carved fragment of flesh—perhaps deeply harbors here within him the thunderous peal of a great temple bell that shakes the very foundations of life's grand edifice, a single strike resounding with ten thousand voices. If that were indeed the case, then what rescued me from that moment’s shameful vice was not this faint-shadowed Napoleon’s skeleton, but rather the tolling bell of life’s innermost sanctum—a sound untouched by age. That’s right—indeed, that’s exactly it. At this moment, I was awakened to the great path of life by that eternal voice. And thus I resolved myself—here I stood, at the moment when I must make my first greeting to Mr. Toshikichi Ishimoto, who had been introduced through the immortal prose of my revered friend Shuuun.

“I am Shinden.” “Our first meeting.” “Our first meeting.”

They exchanged formal bows. “Thank you for Mr. Amano’s letter.” “Not at all.”

As I spoke these words, I suddenly felt a peculiar thrill. The truth was that this man who had materialized in the staff room like a wayward breeze—despite encountering fierce resistance—stood not as some ordinary fellow of conventional five-shaku-two-sun stature, but rather as an extraordinary figure radiating exceptional brilliance. Then I myself pulled out a chair for Ishimoto and, drawing up straight, surveyed my surroundings. The female teacher stood frozen for some reason, gazing intently at the newcomer's retreating figure. The expressions of the other three required no explanation. I stood undeniably in the position of a conqueror.

“Allow me to make a brief introduction. This is Mr. Toshikichi Ishimoto, who has come all this way bearing a letter of introduction from someone I consider an older brother.”

Everyone was silent. This only grew more exhilarating to me.

Madam Potato clicked her tongue “Tch!” and shot me a glare but again said not a word，immediately fixing her stare once more upon Ishimoto．She was likely thoroughly exasperated by Ishimoto’s strikingly unconventional demeanor．Ishimoto likewise made no move to bow．And yet，toward this unpleasant scene that even he with one eye should have immediately comprehended，he remained almost insensitively calm．This was quite amusing．He must have been a man who had seen considerable battle．Even if thrust before a raging lion，he seemed to possess the courage and composure to remember exactly how many bowls of rice he’d eaten that morning．

With a triumphant smile, I returned to my seat. Ishimoto also sat down. Their eyes met in midair. At this moment, I discovered that his right eye possessed an eyeball of exceptional quality. It was not the eye of one with agile intellect, nor that of someone brimming with intellectual vigor. Yet it must be acknowledged this was an extraordinary eyeball. And I realized this remarkable orb gazed at me not as a stranger might, but with the familiarity and unreserved warmth of a decade-old friendship. Simultaneously vanished from my heart were all thoughts of his twisted mouth, One-Eyed Dragon epithet, skeletal resemblance to Napoleon—even Chuta’s mocking “attention drill” remark. My impressionable heart, without pausing to calculate advantage or loss, drank directly from the cup of my breast the goodwill overflowing from his gaze. However much bitter draughts this fleeting world may force one to swallow, youth’s actions ever follow this course. Prudent folk might laugh. Let them laugh—it concerns me not. I am young, after all. Ah, how long can such youth persist? Though my scalp grow bare, I resolve to preserve this ardent youthful spirit through countless days yet unborn. Why must we now rush to distill our hearts into lifeless water? Toshikichi Ishimoto and I had become fast friends within two minutes of meeting. I was twenty-one; he, appearing both weathered and boyish, stood perhaps a year or two my senior. Both remained young in years. No sooner had initial greetings concluded than their eyes collided midair.

In this instant, two young souls snapped into perfect contact. The necessary formalities for becoming close friends ended right here. I believe he too is a man of spirit.

But what of his appearance? Ah, that countenance! To confess the actual state of things—from earlier, during this time of constant battle, I must admit I had somewhat lost my inner composure. Consequently, regarding this new guest as well, I could not claim there were no aspects left unobserved. Now, facing each other across a small table—when I came to look at him carefully without reserve as if with the heart of a ten-year friend—I found myself moved anew. Ah, what a countenance this was! Though when he opened his mouth, his voice rang out resonant and truly gallant, when facing him like this in silence, I felt I could no longer bear to look directly. Alas—beyond this exclamation, my youthful friendship could find no other words to swiftly express this feeling. "Though my words may be truly rude," I had earlier described him as "a dejected figure like a skinny dog in a dust heap." However, even this metaphor likely remained inadequate. "Rather than 'a figure,' it was more 'dejection'—" It might have been more accurate to say that the thing itself had taken form.

The arrangement of his facial features had utterly lost all harmony—bizarre, excessively cluttered. However, perhaps because of this clutter, nowhere did it carve out a single coherent impression. If one were to inductively draw conclusions from each individual feature of his facial arrangement, one might instead arrive at an X that stood diametrically opposed to "dejection." But given that this man’s dejection was an undeniable fact, there was nothing to be done. While the long dirty hair, the old cotton kimono streaked with grime and dust beyond discernible pattern, and the pallid emaciated face undeniably constituted each component of this "dejection," these elements alone would not necessarily be without parallel in the world—indeed, I myself had encountered them not infrequently. But a countenance so utterly dejected—this was my first encounter in twenty-one years. Though it might be a forced expression, if such phrasing were permissible, he was but a fragment of flesh bearing an inharmonious form—nothing more than an ordinary fragment of flesh at that—but the invisible atmosphere surrounding this fragment must have been one of extreme dejection. Yes, he himself was, to the very end, himself. It was indeed a cloud of congealed gloom, sorrow, and misery that constituted the surrounding atmosphere. And though this might have been temporary, the considerable emaciation of fatigue created shadows that deepened the air of "dejection" in this atmosphere. Or perhaps the pale trace of hunger also dwelled here.

Unbridled wings of imagination flashed like lightning. Could this man before me be that so-called child of wilderness—forged through Nature's cruel jest, abandoned on a stone in cricket-chirping fields knowing neither parent nor sibling, nourished by earth's chill seeping through hell's iron walls, ever darting shadow-like beneath winter-bare willows along life's metropolitan moats; that fragment of flesh cast straight from the Merciful God's hand into desolation? If so, then that resonant yet mismatched voice might have been learned from some prophet who—on some chance day—ate locusts and sipped wild honey while crying out in wastelands wrapped in camel's hair. Nor does it seem unreasonable that Shuuun—who shunned main roads with their black-lacquered carriages and drivers' boisterous "Heave-ho!" shouts, ever wandering life's back alleys—might have befriended such a man. Yet how ill-suited seems this splendid gentleman's name "Toshikichi Ishimoto" for such a being! Or perhaps—a child once nursed at a tender mother's breast, cradled in a devoted father's arms, bathed in love's sunlight and kissed by purity's moonlight—this child, through misfortune that common usurer, had parents stolen and home seized, every drop of untainted sweat-blood wrung out until like an unripe plum fallen on cold moss, perpetually denied heaven's light, through cruelty and want and shame and hunger, frail-limbed yet unarmed, sustaining endless struggle till flesh withered and bones gaunted—a warrior of life's brutal wars—might this man be such? Amano Shuuun had once drawn nine yen monthly guarding at a prison—those warriors' transient haven. Thus these two might well have found means to meet. Now I recalled his words: "To deem prisons dens of evil is grievous error—tragic error! Prisoners who should be demons instead call us guards—government-salaried swordsmen—the true fiends. Naturally! Would real demons snare themselves in man-made law-nets? Prisoners have tears and blood—they savor life's essence; splendid warriors all—save that they lack weapons. In this world, wine-sipping scoundrels wield arms of gold and rank, while noble men don persimmon-hued robes merely for lacking such arms and losing battles. You—were you minister, could you not commit any crime unchallenged by common police? I too was a guard—quarreled with colleagues but never laid finger on prisoner's cheek. Some colleagues roared like demons dawn till dusk—but how could I do such?"

However, even this speculation could hardly be deemed accurate. For the right eye of this man now observing me—its friendly, nostalgic, unreservedly gentle light—though offering no explicit explanation, somehow seemed to insist, "That is not the case." Even I, who normally prided myself on my discerning insight, found myself prevented from rendering a fully precise judgment in this fleeting moment. Be that as it may, my Mr. Ishimoto's exceedingly distinguished demeanor and attitude undeniably demonstrated that he was by no means someone who had always trodden an ordinary path at an ordinary pace. Though I had not yet heard a single word of reminiscence or explanation, I felt compelled to offer boundless sympathy to this dejected man. With each hundredth of a second, Mr. Ishimoto and I grew more intimate in degree. And at this moment, a keen respect akin to what I had felt when witnessing a disabled veteran from the great Battle of Port Arthur—his legs broken, hands shattered, both eyes deprived of sight—pass by in a baby carriage adorned with a gleaming Golden Kite Medal upon his chest, surged like storm clouds within my heart.

Here, I shall employ a somewhat abbreviated style. In response to my questions, everything that Mr. Ishimoto kindly explained in detail using his resonant Napoleon-esque voice was roughly as follows. Toshikichi Ishimoto had come from Hachinohe (Aomori Prefecture, Sannohe District). However, his hometown lay far to the south in Shizuoka Prefecture. He had been born into a farming family of moderate means in the area, with an older brother and a younger sister. His sister had possessed an angelic beauty quite unlike Toshikichi’s own, but that very beauty proved a curse when three years prior—at seventeen years old, in the full bloom of youth—she met a tragic end. It was said that the beast-like greed of a man who had even held public office had thrust nine sun and five bu of cold iron—nearly eleven inches—into the chest of that innocent girl. His older brother had boasted a splendid physique but perished in battle at Jiuliancheng during the First Sino-Japanese War. “Because I alone am an ugly cripple, I have yet to be killed by anyone,” Toshikichi added. “My parents were quite diligent and never did anything wrong as far as I can recall, but after my brother’s death—though no particular misfortune occurred—our family’s fortunes gradually declined.” When Toshikichi turned fifteen that spring—around the time he graduated from the local higher elementary school—the mountains and fields had already passed into others’ ownership, leaving only a small parcel of rice fields and their house remaining. That autumn, he fled to Tokyo under cover of night with an older friend. When he arrived at Shinbashi Station, he had carried only two yen, thirty sen, and five rin in his pocket. Of course, this had been done with immense ambitions for the future. The humiliation he had endured since childhood due to his disability had stirred an irrepressible desire for revenge—this night flight ultimately served that purpose. For the same reason, after coming to Tokyo he diligently studied jūdō alongside labor and studies—now holding at least the first dan rank in Kanō-ryū. However, the miseries of those days could never be fully told in a single day—starving and weeping, lacking even travel funds to return home until February of the following year when saved by a certain person; he hadn’t so much as a settled place to stay. At sixteen years old, he entered a certain private middle school. After about three years following his guardian’s death, he was cast out again into the metropolis’s heart like a stone; nevertheless, through immense labor he obtained meager tuition fees and managed to enroll at that school. Last summer, after being ill for about a month and consequently losing his means of livelihood in Tokyo, he had no choice but to head east to Hachinohe at September’s beginning, relying on a friend while begging along the way.

"And until just one week prior, he had been delivering the daily 'Hachinohe Times' newspaper early each morning while enrolled in fifth grade at that middle school, then working four hours from three to seven in the afternoon employed by a confectioner friend to bake renowned Hachinohe senbei rice crackers—earning six yen total to sustain monthly livelihood while enduring a solitary, frugal student existence of self-cooked meals and threadbare bedding to cover tuition fees—or so he recounted." He was twenty-two years old; the reason for his frail, small physique and physical disability was considered likely punishment for having been unable to endure more than seven months in his mother's womb before being forcibly expelled into this world.

Today marked exactly six months since my association with Mr. Amano Shuuun had begun. On that unforgettable January 1st of this year, after completing the Shihōhai ceremony at school, I visited a gymnastics teacher—a reserve second lieutenant who had risen from Special Duty Sergeant—and received beer that tasted like nectar to a struggling student's palate. With my face still flushed from drink and buffeted by the northern New Year's wind that whistled like a blade sharpening arrowheads, I returned in high spirits—and around four in the afternoon, from beyond a certain town came a most extraordinary figure. On that New Year's Day of sake and formal celebrations, there he was—wearing an old padded kimono from whose hem cotton threatened to spill out just like mine, without haori or hat, hair wild as if crowned with a bear pelt yet walking with infuriating leisureliness while swinging a Western cane grandly about, eyes fixed on the snow-clouded sky... At first I thought him a madman. Upon drawing closer, a jet-black beard about five bu long nearly engulfed his entire flat face while his skyward-gazing eyes resembled glinting cavernous pits. As I tried to pass by this thoroughly uncivilized man indifferently, his thick Western cane—swung along a great arc—struck Toshikichi's shoulder like a loosed arrow.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” I demanded, falling into a defensive stance. The man halted and turned back. Yet he gazed down at me with perfect composure. My nerves bristled. As I’d noted before—for all that my jujutsu ranked merely first dan in the Kanō school—one second later that uncultured brute lay sprawled across the ice-crusted road with a thud. He rose at once. When I tensed again, expecting retaliation, he remained utterly unperturbed. Then in a voice like a cracked temple bell, devoid of any anger: “You’re quite the spirited fellow!”

All my strength fled somewhere in an instant at this single phrase. Back against the corrugated iron, “Interesting,” he said. “How about it—come with me.” “You’re quite the strange man yourself!” I ventured.

"I also tried saying," However, it had no effect whatsoever. The strange man walked leisurely ahead. I too followed silently behind him. The more I looked at him and the more I thought about him, the stranger he truly seemed. Until that moment, I had never seen nor heard of such a man. Guided by a mix of curiosity and something resembling being conquered, I had walked three or four blocks when,

“This is the place.” “Since I’m unmarried, there’s no need for formalities.” “Come.”

“This place” was in Hachinohe—a town not particularly large—and if one were to describe it as a location even Toshikichi the newspaper deliverer hadn’t known about, one could well imagine what sort of place it was. At the dead end of a dingy back alley—entered via a dimly lit path that remained shadowed even at noon—stood a rear tenement with a two-ken frontage, more wretched than any pigsty. On that day, Toshikichi returned from this place when night had already passed eleven o’clock. After that, he came to frequent this swine-like tenement nearly every night. The strange man was none other than Amano Shūun Daishuke. “Mr. Amano is my friend, my brother, my teacher, and my mentor,” Toshikichi confessed.

It had been nearly eight years since running away from home; the only time returning to my hometown was three years ago when my sister met her tragic end. The household declined year by year, and by that time not a single tsubo of house and land remained in Father’s ownership. Through a cruel sharecropping arrangement keeping only forty percent of the harvest, they were barely managing to keep smoke rising from the hearth. The aged mother then and there tried to persuade Toshikichi to stay. However, Father did not say a word. Two weeks later, he left home again. At that moment, Father said, “Become a strong and great man. “I’ll stay alive and wait until then.” “Restore the Ishimo­to house to its former state.” With these words, large tears fell from eyes wearied by over fifty years of hardship. And then, somehow managing to procure it from who knows where, he personally placed thirteen yen into the inner pocket of Toshikichi’s undershirt. This was Father’s final words, and his final act of mercy. Now I can never see this father in this world again.

To explain—my father, having reached his term of fifty-nine years, had passed into the next world two weeks prior. This notice reached Toshikichi on a rainy evening exactly one week prior. “This is the letter,” he said, taking out a single envelope from his sleeve. And he continued speaking in a tear-choked voice.

“I did cry.” “When I returned from that confectionery shop—having no umbrella, so I’d covered my head with a furoshiki—the letter the landlady handed me was this one.” “No matter how many times I read it over, it still only said that my old father had died.” “Then I even resented why they hadn’t sent a telegram to inform me, but my village lies sixteen ri into the mountains from the telegraph office.” “When I realized that day was the seventeenth-day memorial, I sold my detested algebra and geometry textbooks and received about thirty sen.” “So I bought a bouquet and those black sugar lumps—you know, the small hard ones like solidified brown sugar that my old father used to buy for me when I was a child. Since there was no photograph, I arranged this letter on the desk as an offering, then presented the flowers and black sugar lumps… What happened then—I can’t possibly put it into words.” “What remains is just my mother, and I am two hundred ri away, still all alone.”

Ishimoto paused briefly. Large tears streamed from his right eye. Tears streamed from my eyes as well. I tried to say something and opened my mouth, but no voice came out. “I didn’t sleep a wink that night.” “It must have been nearly midnight when I realized I’d forgotten the incense sticks, so I went out to buy some.” “I managed to rouse the shopkeeper who’d already gone to bed and buy them, but it was such a struggle—the rain was coming down in sheets, and since I’d only wrapped a furoshiki around my head, I was already soaked through by then.” “Thinking about how to bring this incense back without getting it wet, I stood under the eaves of a drugstore for a while, pondering—but the shop door soon closed, and afterward it suddenly turned pitch black, leaving me unable to see anything.” “The rain was already roaring and pouring down violently.” “I felt as though the rope of hope had snapped clean through—though I’ve lived a life full of loneliness since birth, never before have I felt such utter desolation that I wanted to close my eyes and stop breathing, wishing recklessly for death with nothing left to hold onto.” “At times like these, I can’t even shed tears.”

“And then—I don’t know how long I’d been standing there—but when I came to my senses, the rain had stopped completely, and somehow the ground around my feet looked brighter.” “When I looked, the eastern sky had turned a vague red.” “Dawn was breaking.” “I must’ve been unconscious until then, yet somehow I found it strange I’d remained standing without collapsing.” “The incense sticks?” “I’d been gripping them tight—so tight.” “But they’d gotten soaked and were useless now.”

“I thought about buying more, but my soaked sleeve held only 1 sen and 5 rin.” “They were two sen per bundle...” “From the thirty sen I got selling my books—I bought paper, an envelope, and one stamp to send a letter home; five sen on a whole bunch of flowers; and those black sugar lumps—though now that I think of it, it was thoughtless—about fifteen sen’s worth.” “There was nothing to do but return as I was. By then the shoji screens had turned pale with dawn light, and I read this letter again.” “But there it was—written over and over—‘Return home quite soon.’” “Last night I hadn’t noticed at all—though I must have read it—probably because my head was filled with nothing but ‘Father has died.’” “Of course—Mother remains, same age as Father at fifty-nine. However I consider it, I must return home. If I had wings, I’d fly there this instant—I want to go back as soon as possible.” “But I’ve no money—only 1 sen and 5 rin. Even straw sandals cost two sen a pair.” “Both the newspaper office and confectionery had already been borrowed from at month’s start—no more loans for days. And with this month’s rent still unpaid—even selling everything would leave maybe five or ten sen.” “What I call possessions—one futon, an old desk; books of Chinese classics, readers, grammars—the rest were borrowed copies that can’t be sold.” “True, there was one blanket left—but four big holes made it useless too.” “The rent was forty sen monthly—an attic room in a tenement.” “Kodama—had I gone to the confectionery and asked, they might’ve given something... but considering how often I’d troubled them before.” “After much pondering—and last year’s experience coming from Tokyo (though not pleasant)—I steeled myself and resolved to beg my way home.” “Nothing’s as shameless as poverty.” “This decision wasn’t mine—poverty forced it.” “So once resolved—no time to delay—I immediately wrote home saying so.” “Then at nine went to school—submitted withdrawal notice and bid farewell to friends.” “Though only two friends worth farewells... Then Principal Tajima said: ‘You were supposedly working through school—have travel funds for home?’” “‘I’ll beg my way,’ I answered. He said: ‘Best avoid such reckless shamelessness.’”

“When I asked what I should do then, he just spouts, ‘Well think it through properly—can’t you manage something yourself?’” “That stuck in my craw, I tell you.” “Then on my way back, I went to the confectionery shop and told them about it—refused the newspaper company’s offer—and fetched an antique dealer.” “When I added things like the Kokura school uniform jacket and inkstone to what I’d mentioned before and had them appraised, they claimed they couldn’t give more than forty sen—not a single mon extra.” “They smelled desperation on me, see.” “After endless haggling I wrung forty-five sen out of them and sold it all off—but with barely six sen and five rin left? However used to poverty you get, that’ll shrivel your soul.” “What’s more, I’d returned all the cooking gear borrowed from my lodgings—desk gone too—so there I sat alone in that dim room’s center: this broken-down wreck of a man.” “My thick head—duller than most—got so worn out from last night it turned foggy—nothing left inside but the blurry thought ‘Old man’s dead—gotta beg my way home now.’” “That foggy state—no purpose, no plan—it’s so goddamn sad you want to scream and cry—but your throat locks up and your eyes stay dry.” “Just hurts for no reason—everything bleak and lonesome.” “Hadn’t eaten breakfast—empty belly gnawing—home worries chewing—so I grabbed last night’s black sugar lumps and crammed ’em in my mouth like some wild animal.”

“And then I finally set out—it must have been around one o’clock when I entered Amano-kun’s house.” “In the past, Amano-kun was usually not home unless it was nighttime, but since leaving school, he hasn’t gone out at all during the day and remains secluded at all times.”

“Did Amano quit the school?” “Oh? So you didn’t know yet.” “He quit—finally.” “Apparently, it was that principal—though I’ve seen him two or three times myself—a rather peculiar Korean with catfish-like whiskers, you see.” “He had a magnificent argument with that principal and won, I tell you.” “And then two or three days later, he was suddenly dismissed.” “It was around the 14th or 15th of this month.” “Is that so?” he said, but couldn’t suppress a faint smile at Ishimoto’s words. Wherever you go, school principals are Koreans with catfish-like whiskers—start an argument with them and you’re sure to lose.

However, this smile naturally did not last even three seconds. Ishimoto’s grave story immediately resumed.

“Since leaving the school, Amano-kun had been constantly lost in thought, you see.” “If you don’t take walks occasionally, your health will decline,” I’d suggest—only for him to snap “Idiot!” When I asked “What are you thinking about?” He’d retort, “I don’t contemplate matters comprehensible to your sort.” If I ventured something like “You must be nearing the path of enlightenment,” he’d fire back in that trademark tone: “Life’s a tunnel. How could liberation’s light pierce through before you’ve trudged its full length?” “When I visited, the entrance door was shut as usual.” “First-time visitors might think him absent, but he’d said keeping it closed made it feel like his own home.” When I opened the door—“Ishimoto?” That was his customary greeting, but this time silence reigned. Thinking him out, I resolved to wait upstairs—only to find him present after all. There he sat—unaware of my entry—head bowed like a wooden statue, still deep in contemplation.

“What’s wrong?” I called out. He jerked up his head. “Ishimoto? You’re like fate itself,” he said. When I asked why, he replied with a lonely smile, “Isn’t it obvious? You’re an unexpected intruder.” Then he continued: “What’s with that face? What a gloomy fate you have. You’d be better off dead than making that face. Die, die... Or are you sick?” “Sickness? Well, it is a sickness—one called fate that has taken hold of me,” I answered. When I did so, he laughed with renewed melancholy and said, “I see. If it’s that kind of illness, bring me some charcoal—I’ll boil water.” Mr. Amano wasn’t exactly one to have a cheerful face to begin with, but on this day in particular, he somehow looked terribly lonely. And that too was unbearably sad for me... So after we boiled water together and ate our rice, I told Mr. Amano everything—how I was about to beg my way back home—and he shed large tears for me again and again. “I had already forgotten about my father’s death and my hometown,” I said, “and thought I wanted to stay with such a person.” But Mr. Amano told me: “You too are an unfortunate man—truly an unfortunate man. But don’t lose heart too much. You cannot become a true human unless you drink down even the dregs of life’s misfortunes. Life is a long, dark tunnel; here and there exist only forests of skeletons called cities. But don’t get lost in them and forget the way out. And beneath your feet flows an eternal sorrow—ceaselessly streaming, likely since long before life itself began. Even if your path is blocked, you mustn’t just turn back—the dark hole will only grow darker. Either death or advance—only these two paths exist.”

“To advance is to fight.” “You mustn’t lack vigor for battle.” “Therefore you mustn’t lose heart too much.” “At least you must live on—fight until achieving a heroic end—I implore you.” “So long as blood and tears don’t dry up, you need neither weapons nor strategy—fight naked and unashamed.” “Growing weary of this world spells doom—you at least mustn’t harbor such despair.” “As we’ve discussed—what in this modern society doesn’t deserve destruction’s axe?” “This current society permits no improvement save total annihilation.” “We must leave grand reconstruction to future geniuses—our task is wielding destruction’s axe to the roots.” “But this battle’s no easy struggle.” “Its difficulty demands redoubled vigor.” “Don’t lose heart.” “That you must return home a naked beggar grieves me deeply—yet lacking alternatives, I consent.” “Were I not penniless myself, I’d never let a frail man like you beg.” “But you know my circumstances.” “However—I’ll send word to Mr. Shinden I mentioned days prior—you must meet him without fail.” “He’ll surely show concern somehow.” “‘You see—apart from that man and you—I’ve no other friends,’ he said while writing the letter I delivered.” “Afterwards we conversed until he proposed: ‘Wait one week—I’ll secure train fare—will you wait?’” When I asked how, he answered “By selling all I own,” so I pressed “Then what becomes of you?” After pausing he replied “I plan to journey far.”

“No matter how I pressed him about where, he would only say ‘a distant place’ and wouldn’t say anything more—but knowing Amano-kun as I do, I imagine he must have some bold, thrilling plan in mind.” “His deep contemplation must have been about that very matter.” “It must be a major plan—one can tell from that manner of thinking.”

“I see.” “Did Amano say he was going somewhere again?” “That man too is one who’s always running through life’s back alleys—what kind of plan is he hatching now, I wonder…”

“Of course, that’s something someone like me could never understand. “Everything that man says and does lies beyond the imagination of us ordinary folk, you see. But I’ve been utterly in awe of him from the very beginning. Mr. Amano is indeed a genius. He’s a remarkable person, you know. Even now—though he himself must need travel funds to reach some distant place—he talks of selling all his possessions to pay for my train fare. Is this something ordinary people can do? That’s why I felt his kindness alone was more than enough and declined. Then after a while longer—though it hardly felt like a proper farewell—as we kept talking, he suddenly said, ‘You must go now.’ When I said, ‘Then we part here,’ and stood up, he told me to wait, then shaped the pot’s rice into nine large rice balls and gave them to me. I offered to do it myself, but through tears he said, ‘Don’t speak such words. Let Amano Shuuun bestow his final friendship—go forth resolutely,’ turning his back as he diligently molded the rice. I could no longer contain myself and burst into loud sobs. While weeping, I clasped my hands and bowed deeply to his retreating figure. Mr. Amano is truly remarkable. There exists no one as extraordinary as that man. ……(Ishimoto closed his eyes as tears flowed. He too could no longer restrain his burning tears. (The sound of the female teacher’s suppressed sobs echoed.) Then sitting down again, he said, ‘Now we must truly part.’ ‘Mr. Ishimoto—when our parting feels both of separation and death—I shall not courteously tug your sleeve to ask when we might meet again.’ ‘You too must never dare speak of that again.’

“We part, plain and simple.” “You return to your homeland; I depart for distant realms—that is all.” “Our destination is death—or if not that, then battle.” “To fight is to live.” “To die... No—even in death, we live anew.” “Do men weep like children at battle’s dawn?” “Let us part.” “Let us part with clean resolve.” “Well, Mr. Ishimoto,” he pressed. “I too am a man,” I countered. “I’ll part without faltering.” “But this needn’t be final as death!” “Life may be a dark tunnel, but all travelers walk this path. I refuse to believe our roads won’t cross again.” “We’ll meet—we must meet again.” “You’re my sole anchor in this world—we’ll surely reunite!” His retort came sharp: “Life grants no such conveniences.” “You’re not marching to death—nor am I yet a corpse.” “...I’ll endure. I won’t say we’ll never meet.” “But clutch that hope too tight, and disappointment poisons its roots.” “Abandon futile hopes.” “Should warriors lean on others? Pathetic weakness... These six months in Hachinohe—you alone brought me solace.” “Half a year in squalor, yet through you I found bonds to outlast decades.” “When I resolve to vanish into distance, you’ll drift homeward—abandoning this Hachinohe.”

“Very well—go! Leave! Once gone, never inquire again! Only this—I beg you, never forget there existed a madman detached from this world named Shuuun Amano Daijo... Do you understand, Ishimoto?” he demanded, fixing me with an unblinking stare. “I understand.” I bowed deeply, but received no reply. When I looked up, Mr. Amano sat with hands pressed against his knees, head bowed and eyes tightly shut. Though I had claimed understanding, true comprehension eluded me completely—my chest felt scraped raw as I rose and stumbled toward the entrance. My vision blurred incessantly; my trembling fingers fumbled with the straw sandal cords until finally securing them somehow. Clutching the newspaper-wrapped rice balls, I glanced back—ah!—there lay Mr. Amano prone as a corpse. “Farewell,” I forced out through unfamiliar vocal cords. “Go!” he roared from his collapsed position without looking up. I could utter nothing more, fleeing with loud sobs. At the path’s end I turned—naturally he hadn’t emerged to see me off. The realization that his grief prevented even this final courtesy flooded me with conflicting gratitude, joy, and resentment—I know I raised the rice ball bundle in worshipful salute toward the entrance before vanishing into formless void. ...Life remains unrelenting torment through all its reaches. “That half-year when Mr. Amano treated me as his true younger brother—this alone constitutes my life’s singular happiness.”

Having finished speaking, Ishimoto wiped his tears on the back of his emaciated hand and looked at himself with sorrow. He too let out a sigh and wiped his tears. The female teacher lay face down on her desk.

[Unpublished during the author's lifetime - July 1906 draft, November supplement]