Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

When I recently read through One Hundred Unpublished Essays, there was an entry titled "The Matter of Tokuyama Kuronbō in Mino Province." I don't know from whom the author heard and recorded it, but seeing how they had investigated and written about the local geography in such detail, it did not seem to be entirely fictional. It appeared that legends of Kuronbō had long existed there, and my uncle too had once told me about this Kuronbō. It was a story I had been told when young and had forgotten over the years, but upon reading Kyōwa Zōki, my old memories unexpectedly came back to life—so seizing this opportunity, I too would like to recount a bit of the Kuronbō ghost story.

In the autumn of Bunkyū 2 during the late Edo period—my uncle was twenty-six years old at the time—he received orders from the Edo shogunate to travel to Ōgaki in Mino Province.
Ōgaki was the castle town of the 100,000-koku Toda clan, and my uncle had been entrusted with a covert mission—he was dispatched to investigate the state of Ōgaki Domain during the Bakumatsu period.
Since he was on a covert mission, he naturally couldn’t enter in the guise of a samurai.
My uncle disguised himself as a peddler selling sundries and entered the castle town.

For over a month from August to September, he had safely wandered the castle town and nearby areas while conducting official investigations alongside his peddling work. Whether due to my uncle’s carelessness or the domain’s stringent vigilance—in any case, having apparently come under suspicion for not being an ordinary merchant—the uncle now found himself compelled to exercise great caution.
As was customary in that era, once any domain became aware of an infiltrating spy, they were bound to take one of two measures—capture him or kill him—so the uncle had no choice but to quickly conceal himself and flee from this peril.

However, since taking the main highway risked enemy pursuit, the uncle devised a plan to head in the opposite direction, crossing over the mountains into Echizen Province. He was fully prepared for the ruggedness of that journey, of course. After traveling about ten ri northward, he arrived at Sotoyama Village. Up to that point, oxen and horses could pass through, but from there on, the mountain path grew increasingly treacherous—the Itonuki River, known locally as Itsunuki. The Itsunuki River is poetically mentioned in classical verse as well. Kyōwa Zōki records it as the Izumoyoke River and includes a certain legend about it.—following that mountain river’s course upward until he reached Neo Village. This area is known for its ayu, where between Sotoyama and Nishi-Neo spanning three ri, seven yana weirs are set up to catch large ayu. From Neo, passing through Ōaza Kojika, Matsuda, Shimo-Ōsu, and Kami-Ōsu, then crossing over Myōjin Mountain to Byōbu Mountain, one finally emerges into Echizen—though needless to say, this stretch contains many arduous ascents and descents.

My uncle was a man of sturdy legs, but having been raised in Edo, he was exhausted from the daily mountain paths, and his journey made no progress whatsoever.
When he was about one ri from finally reaching Shimo-Ōsu, the seventeenth day of September drew toward dusk, and the deep mountain evening wind began seeping into his body.
Although he had traveled far from the Itonuki River, on one side of the path stretched a deep valley of unfathomable depth whose bottom lay beyond sight; through the evening haze came faint echoes of flowing water.
The surroundings gradually grew darker; the path became increasingly constricted.
When he considered how one misstep would send someone plunging headlong from this precipice—though he had steeled himself beforehand—he now came to regret having chosen such an arduous path; he even began wondering whether trusting fate and taking the main highway might have been preferable after all.

Yet turning back was out of the question. Dragging his weary legs forward with a heart heavy with dread, he pressed on—here in these parts, frost came early it seemed, for half the pampas grass along the path had already withered.
Within that withered pampas grass, there appeared to be something resembling a narrow path. When he absently peered through it, beyond the thick growth of pampas grass covering the area, a hut-like structure could be seen low among five or six large oak and chestnut trees that surrounded it.

"Might as well go take a look."

Parting the pampas grass and stepping through, he found it was indeed a solitary house with its wooden front door already shut. Peering through the gap in the wooden door, he saw a young monk—likely not yet past thirty—chanting sutras before a Buddhist altar, while in the hearth, a nearly extinguished brushwood fire smoldered faintly. When he knocked on the door and requested lodging, the monk came out. When the uncle identified himself as a traveling merchant worn out from his journey and asked if he might rest there a while, the monk readily agreed and ushered him inside. He added fuel to the hearth fire, boiled water, and let him drink it.

“In these mountain depths, mornings and evenings grow quite cold. Even so, it’s still manageable this time of year, but come November and December, the snow becomes quite deep—impossible for those unaccustomed to the land to walk through.”

“How deep does the snow get?”

“Depending on the year, it can pile up to one jō (about 10 feet).”

“One jō…,” the Uncle murmured, somewhat taken aback.
Truly, it was fortunate that it was this time of year, but had he ventured so recklessly into these deep mountains as winter approached, he would have met with terrible trouble—and now he felt increasingly remorseful for his own recklessness.

“Are you not hungry?” the monk said.
“This is a land scarce in grains. Here we eat a little wheat along with buckwheat and nuts, but my house has no wheat stored.”
“Unfortunately, the buckwheat we received from the villagers has also run out.”
“Let me offer you some nuts instead.”

He served the nuts on a tray. He explained that these were acorns, which were extremely bitter if eaten raw, but after being soaked in lye for a while and then rinsed in freshwater, they became edible. The hungry uncle tentatively took one or two and put them in his mouth. Their taste was sweet and light, unexpectedly flavorful. Praising them as excellent, he ate them greedily while the monk watched with gentle eyes, seemingly interested.

“Are you from Edo?” asked the monk.

“That I am.”

“I too have visited Edo three times—it truly is a thriving place.”

“Have you visited Edo three times?”

“Yes… I was staying in Kamakura for some time…” replied the monk with a reminiscent expression.

"That explains why your manner of speech differed from the people here," the uncle nodded.

“That may well be.”
“However, I was born in this land.”
“Moreover, I was born in this very house.”

He looked down and slightly closed his gentle eyes.
His face seemed to harbor a sort of dark shadow.
The uncle asked again.

“So, did you go to Kamakura for your ascetic training?”

“When I was eleven, a traveling monk who said he was crossing from Ōgaki to Echizen requested lodging for a night. He scrutinized my face and declared, ‘You bear the marks of one destined for monastic life—nay, your fate to become a monk is unmistakable.’ He then asked if I wished to accompany him to Kamakura for Buddhist training.”

“Though still a child clinging to worldly attachments, my longing to see Kamakura—a place I’d heard so much about—made me agree to go with him. My parents likely thought sending me to Kamakura or Kyoto would be better than condemning me to life in these mountains. They consented to part with me, believing even someone of humble birth might become an eminent monk through rigorous training.”

“I later discovered this monk was the abbot of one of Kamakura’s Five Mountain temples, returning from an imperial audience in Kyoto via the Hokuriku Road. Master—for I became his disciple the very next day—took me through Echizen, Kaga, Noto, Etchū, and Echigo before reaching Edo via Kōshū Road…”

“But these details hardly bear recounting. I first saw Edo during that journey, staying seven days before returning to Kamakura. There I trained for sixteen full years until turning twenty-six—managing through sheer persistence to become an ordinary monk despite my innate dullness.”

Though he belittled himself as inherently dull-witted, judging by his character and manner of speech, he was no fool.
Moreover, while he had undergone sixteen years of ascetic training at a renowned temple in Kamakura, the uncle reasoned there must be some cause for him to be secluded in such remote mountains—even if it was his birthplace—while still young.

“So you now reside here? Do you not plan to return to Kamakura again?”

“I do not mean to return for now,” replied the monk. “It has been three full years since I came back here. Three years hence, five years, ten... Or perhaps a lifetime... I may never tread upon other lands again, let alone Kamakura.”

“Your parents…,” the uncle inquired.

“Both father and mother are no longer in this world.”
“I had one other sister, but she too passed away.”

With this, the monk gloomily turned his gaze back to the Buddhist altar.

“Did they all pass away while you were away?”

“That is correct,” the monk said with a low sigh.
“My younger sister passed away when I was twenty-four.”
“The following year, my mother passed away.”
“And the following year, my father died.”

“Three years in a row…,” the uncle involuntarily furrowed his brows.

“Yes, within three years my parents and younger sister passed away one after another.”
“This being such a remote place, travel to Kamakura was no easy matter. As I received no word from my father, I remained entirely unaware of what had befallen my mother and sister.”
“Yet when my father died, the villagers sent word. I rushed back in shock only to discover—for the first time—that both my mother and sister had long since perished.”
“I was utterly astounded.”

“That’s only natural…”
“I understand,” the uncle nodded sympathetically.
“Have you remained here ever since?”

“No parents, no sister—this ramshackle house isn’t worth regretting if abandoned… Yet I’ve been bound here by something, rendered utterly unable to depart.”
“As I mentioned—three years, five years, ten years…”
“Or perhaps a lifetime…”
“Until I discharge this duty, I cannot move from this place.”

Held back by something—the uncle couldn’t grasp the meaning of those cryptic words. He wondered if it might be to guard his parents’ and sister’s graves—but if that were so, there’d be no reason to specify terms like ‘for the time being’ or ‘three to five years.’ The uncle simply remained silent and listened; the monk offered no further explanation.

II

That night, the uncle was allowed to stay there.
When he first made the request, the monk looked troubled and refused.

“From here to Shimo-Ōsu is a little over one ri—if you go that far, there are fifteen or sixteen houses.”
“There are homes that can easily accommodate a traveler or two.”
“You must be tired, but it would be best to endure and make your way there.”

However, the uncle was utterly exhausted.
Particularly given that this was supposedly flatland, traversing these treacherous mountain slopes for over one ri would prove utterly arduous; therefore, the uncle explained his circumstances and pleaded to be allowed under this roof for just tonight—any corner would do.

“As I am utterly unfamiliar with these night paths here, if I were to misstep even once, I might tumble headlong into a deep ravine.”
“If you would deign to help me, please, just for tonight…,” the uncle repeated.

Deep ravine—the moment he heard those words, the monk’s expression darkened once more. He lowered his head and appeared to consider for a moment before finally speaking in a quiet voice.

“If you plead so earnestly, I cannot heartlessly refuse you. Of course, the evening meal is not properly prepared, but if you can accept that, I will let you stay.”

“Thank you,” the uncle said with relief as he bowed his head.

“Furthermore, there is one more thing I must request your compliance with: should anything occur during the night, you must refrain from concerning yourself with it…”
“However, bears or wolves rarely attack people’s homes, so you need not worry about that in the least….”

The uncle agreed to stay. When preparing to sleep, the monk opened the storm shutters and peered outside. He remarked that it was pitch-dark tonight, with not a single star visible. In such deep mountains, it was a night where even the usual sound of wind was absent; the only things occasionally heard were the distant, choked sound of water in the ravine and the eerie cries of an unnamed night bird echoing through the trees. As the night deepened, a frost-tinged cold pierced to the bone.

"You must be exhausted. Go to sleep early."

After laying out bedding for the uncle, the monk turned back to face the Buddhist altar once more.
He seemed to recite sutras in a low voice.
The uncle was normally a sound sleeper.
Though thoroughly exhausted tonight, his eyes somehow stayed alert and he couldn't fall asleep.
He understood the monk bore no ill will, and that bears or wolves seldom attacked.
Yet still an indescribable anxiety lodged itself in the uncle's heart.

The monk had said he might spend his entire life here, bound by something. He found himself pondering the meaning of that "something". The monk had also said that no matter what might happen, he should not concern himself. He likewise considered the meaning of that "anything". Ultimately, these two things filled him with a certain unease and stirred a certain curiosity, keeping him from sleeping peacefully tonight.

The former pertained solely to the monk's personal circumstances and held no connection to himself, while the latter seemed to involve him somehow. Precisely for this reason, the monk had likely reiterated his warning as a precaution. Tales of those seeking lodging in lone mountain dwellings and encountering strange phenomena had long been told—might there not be some such secret lurking here as well?

As he thought this, the monk appeared gentle and wise in demeanor, yet his pale face seemed to bear a certain dark shadow. Even when he had requested lodging—contrary to his initial kindness—the monk had displayed marked reluctance. There must have been some reason for that as well. While feigning sleep, the uncle occasionally cracked his eyes open to observe; each time, the monk remained seated with near-perfect stillness in proper form, appearing to continue his sutra chanting single-mindedly. The hearth fire gradually died out until only the altar lamp swayed faintly in the darkened house.

With no temple bell to mark the hour, it was impossible to tell the time, but around what seemed to be midnight, the monk suddenly stood up, peered over as if checking the uncle’s breathing, then appeared to quietly slide open the storm shutters without making a sound.
The uncle lay sleeping with his back to the entrance, so he couldn’t properly observe these movements, but it seemed he had muffled the sound of his straw sandals and slipped out to the front.
Although it was a windless night, as he opened and closed the storm shutters, a kind of cold air—whether mountain air or night air—instantly flowed in like water. Before one could even register it chillingly sweeping over the uncle’s quilt, the altar lamp darkened as if blown out.

Pushing aside the quilt, the uncle quietly rose to his hands and knees.
Groping his way, he cracked open the storm shutters slightly and peered out to find the outside enveloped in deep darkness that seemed shrouded in mountain mist.
The monk appeared to be pushing through pampas grass, with the rustling sound of leaves brushing against his body occasionally reaching his ears. Just as he thought this, an even more peculiar sound echoed in the uncle’s ears.
It was a voice that sounded like something laughing.

The uncle shuddered involuntarily yet kept straining his ears - it was unmistakably a laughter-like voice. Moreover, this wasn't a living human's voice. Nor did it resemble a monkey's or such. It seemed like the clacking of something dry against something hard - sometimes rattling, sometimes hollow - yet at moments sounded exactly like something laughing. That laughter, if it could be called laughter, held no joy or satisfaction. It was an ominous laugh of the sneering, mocking sort. A chilling, faintly unsettling laughter. Though not particularly loud, in the deep mountain night where surroundings lay terrifyingly silent, that dry rattling voice sounded close to his ear. As he kept listening, his flesh and blood began feeling as though freezing of their own accord, until even his bone marrow turned cold, making the uncle wheel back to sit on his futon.

This must have been what the monk had warned about. The uncle surmised that the monk must not have wanted others to hear this voice. What on earth was this voice? It seemed the monk had been lured outside by this voice, but what connection existed between this voice and that monk was something the uncle found difficult to imagine. He thought not only himself, but likely no one else could have imagined it either. Even as he pondered this, the eerie voice would now cease, now be heard.

"I too am a samurai."
"What's there to fear?"

Resolved to boldly uncover its true nature, the uncle groped for the self-defense dagger hidden beneath his futon and made to stand up, but then hesitated slightly.
As he had noted earlier, since the relationship between this voice and the monk remained unclear, he couldn't determine whether it was acceptable to rashly go out and interfere.
It would be regrettable if his sudden rushing out were to cause trouble for the monk.
Since the monk had likely been concerned about that possibility and had cautioned him beforehand, it would be best to remain calm, avoid alarming anyone, and feign ignorance of everything as repayment for the night's lodging.
Having reconsidered, the uncle sat back down.

The monk had gone somewhere and was doing something—he still hadn’t returned.
The eerie voice continued to be heard intermittently.
However he considered it, it remained an eerie voice—like some monster baring its teeth in a derisive sneer.
Wondering if it might be an auditory illusion, the uncle berated his own cowardice while repeatedly straining his ears, but the more he listened, the more he felt assailed by a kind of demonic aura, until finally he grew too terrified to endure listening any longer.

“Yeah, do whatever you want.”

The uncle, half-despairingly steeled himself and lay down again.
Lying down as before with his back to the entrance—left ear pressed against the wooden pillow and futon pulled up over his right ear to avoid hearing that sound—the day’s exhaustion finally took its toll. Before he knew it, he had dozed off. When he stirred again, even these lingering long nights were nearing their end, with pale dawn light seeping through the door cracks.

The monk was awake.
Perhaps he had not slept at all until morning.
Unbeknownst to anyone, he had drawn water and was making preparations to boil it.
In the hearth too, a red fire was burning.

“Good morning. I’m afraid I overslept...” said Uncle as he greeted him.

“No, it’s still early. Please rest at your ease,” said the monk with a laugh and a polite bow.

Perhaps it was just his imagination, but his complexion had grown even paler than the night before, with a sharp light visible beneath his gentle eyes.

Having been informed about the bamboo water pipe behind the house, the uncle went out to wash his face. Since last night’s voice had apparently come from the front direction, when he stood up through the pampas grass, he saw that beyond the narrow mountain path lay a deep ravine—the mountains across it still shrouded in lingering mist that refused to dissipate.

When he circled around to the back as instructed, washed his face, and returned, he found the monk had tidied up the bedding and prepared a guest seat by the hearth. The uncle ate acorns and drank hot water again that morning.

“I must thank you for all the trouble I’ve caused.”

“Given how matters stand, I’ve been unable to offer proper hospitality. Did you sleep well last night?” asked the monk as he tended the hearth fire.

“Since I was utterly exhausted, once my head touched the pillow, I fell fast asleep until morning without knowing a thing,” the uncle replied with a casual laugh.

“That is most fortunate,” said the monk with a casual laugh.

Throughout this time, the uncle remained constantly vigilant, but no eerie laughter could be heard from anywhere.

Three

After expressing his gratitude for the night’s lodging, the uncle tied the cords of his straw sandals. Then, the monk parted the silver grass and accompanied him to where the path began.
By that time, night had completely given way to dawn, so when the uncle carefully surveyed his surroundings once more, the ravine continuing along one side of the path appeared even larger and deeper than it had looked yesterday evening.
The cliff was a sheer precipice in the truest sense, offering no footholds for descent, but from midway up this crag, various large trees jutted out diagonally, their branches and leaves growing so thickly that the bottom remained unseen.

After parting ways and walking about ten ken, when he looked back, the monk appeared to be kneeling on the ground where the morning frost had not yet dried, his hands pressed together in prayer toward the ravine.
The eerie laughter had likely come from the direction of the ravine, the uncle imagined.

It was said to be just over one ri to Shimōsu, but in reality, it seemed to exceed one and a half ri.
After passing through several steep ascents and descents, when he finally managed to reach that place, there indeed formed a small settlement of fifteen or sixteen houses, among which could be seen what appeared to be several substantial residences.
Though he thought it was still early, since he couldn't reach Kamisūsu in one go, the uncle stopped to rest at what appeared to be the largest house among them. There, these simple, honest people cared for an unfamiliar traveler like himself and welcomed him without reservation.
Neighbors also curiously gathered around.

“Where did you stay last night? It seems rather early if coming from Matsuda...” said an elderly man among them.

“There was a solitary house about one and a half ri back along the way from here where I was given lodging.”

“That house where the Reverend lives alone?”

The villagers exchanged looks.

"What kind of person is that Reverend? He mentioned having undergone ascetic training at a temple in Kamakura before, but…"

asked the uncle, also looking around at the villagers' faces.

"A man who trained for sixteen years at a great temple in Kamakura—someone qualified to become head priest of a proper temple—has secluded himself in such a remote mountain area…" said the elderly man with a heartfelt sigh of sympathy. "When you think about it, it’s a tragic thing. This too must be some form of karmic fate, I suppose."

Because last night’s suspicions still lingered in his mind, he began to speak in a probing manner.

“The Reverend was truly a good person and kindly looked after me in many ways, but the troubling thing was that an eerie sound could be heard throughout the night, so...”

“Ah, so you heard that too,” sighed the elderly man again.

“That voice…
“What exactly is that accursed voice?”

“It’s truly an accursed voice.”
“Because of that voice, a parent and child trio had their lives taken.”

“So, did both his parents and sister die because of that voice?” the uncle asked, his eyes inadvertently lighting up.

“You even know about his younger sister? Then did the Reverend tell you everything?”

“No, he didn’t tell me anything else, but...”
“So then, that voice has some profound reason behind it, I take it?”

“Well, well, that’s right.”

“So then, this reason would be…” pressed the uncle.

“Well… Is it even wise to speak of such things so carelessly? What’s to be done about this?”

The elderly man looked around at those nearby as if seeking consensus.

The others too seemed to exchange glances and hesitate in their response, but when the uncle pressed them repeatedly, they finally agreed that since he had already heard the voice, it would be acceptable to explain matters to dispel his doubts. As the elderly man lowered himself onto the south-facing veranda, the women withdrew as though unwilling to listen further, leaving only men behind.

"Do you know there's a being called Kuronbō dwelling in these parts?" said the elderly man.

“I don’t know.”

“That Kuronbō is what the story’s about.”

The elderly man began to speak quietly.

“In these mountain depths there has long dwelled a being called Kuronbō (Black One). He was neither human nor monkey—with his body entirely covered in dusky hair—commonly called Kuronbō (Black One). To put it simply，he was a monster that could be described as a cross between human and ape.”

“Moreover，there are no rumors of this monster ever harming humans.”

“He would occasionally appear at mountain log cabins and take leftover lunches.”

“Sometimes he even came to inhabited areas and took some food.”

“Since he wasn’t doing anything particularly harmful，the mountain folk had grown accustomed to him and didn’t regard him with suspicion．Whenever they saw his lumbering figure approaching，they would say，‘There’s Kuronbō，’and make sure to give him some food．”

“However，in exchange for giving him food，they would make him do suitable work．”

Kuronbō, having grown up in the deep mountains, had no trouble traversing rugged paths. Light on his feet and strong, he was most suitable for carrying heavy loads, so the local people would give him food and have him assist with transporting things, and he worked diligently without complaint. "Of course, he couldn’t speak human language, but if we used gestures and verbal instructions, he would generally understand and work as directed." “In some regions they call it a mountain man, in others a mountain ape—all likely the same kind.”

The one who had been especially close with Kuronbō was a man named Genbei the woodcutter. Genbei had two children with his wife O-Kane—Genzō and O-Sugi—and had built a house in a somewhat flat area along the route from Matsuda to Shimo-Ōsu. "That was your lodging from last night." Genbei had built a log cabin deep in the mountains for his work, and when Kuronbō appeared at that cabin to receive food and help with tasks, he would sometimes visit Genbei’s house as well, becoming close with the family members. "With their eldest son Genzō having left for ascetic training in Kamakura, Genbei's household—short on male help—came to treasure this Kuronbō, treating him almost like an ordinary person." Kuronbō too grew accustomed and worked diligently.

In this way, as they spent several uneventful years, Genbei once said to him in half-jest.

“Genzō’s gone off to Kamakura—likely won’t be coming back here.”
“When my daughter comes of age, I’ll take you as my son-in-law. Work with that in mind.”

The wife and daughter both joined in laughing together. O-Sugi was fourteen years old at that time. From then on, Kuronbō began coming to the log cabin every day without fail. He also came to Genbei’s house. When he came to the cabin, he helped transport lumber; when he came to the house, he assisted with drawing water, gathering firewood, and cleaning—he worked with remarkable diligence. The area had deep snow, so until then he had rarely appeared during winter, but after that incident, no matter how fierce the blizzard, he would invariably come to help with some task.

This mountainous region’s clear water was likely why everyone had fair skin and beautiful complexions.
Among them all, O-Sugi possessed such strikingly snow-white skin that as she came of age, it began drawing people’s attention.
As her parents took pride in this, when O-Sugi turned seventeen that spring, someone brought a marriage proposal, and they decided to take a groom from Matsuda Village.
The groom was the second son of a family considered old stock even there—their lineage and wealth were markedly different from hers—but he wanted to marry her, drawn by O-Sugi’s beauty.
Of course, since the proposal came with the condition that a considerable amount of money and farmland would be provided, Genbei and his wife gladly agreed.
O-Sugi raised no objections either.

Thus came an evening in mid-March when betrothal gifts had been exchanged.
Though spring had arrived, snow still lingered in those parts.
As O-Sugi drew water from the rear bamboo flume, battered by icy evening winds, Kuronbō suddenly materialized.
Without uttering a word, he reached for her hand to drag her away.

“What are you doing?” O-Sugi wrenched her hand free.

Long familiarity had dulled her fear of this creature, but now she noticed something altered in his bearing.
A savage ferocity burned in his eyes—the unveiled essence of some wild beast.
Yet even then she didn’t shrink deeply from him and made to resume her task when Kuronbō sprang violently forward.
Seizing her waist as if to spirit her away somewhere, he too let out his first startled cry.

“Ah, Father! Mother!...”
“Please come quickly!”

Hearing her cry, Genbei and his wife came rushing out from inside.
There in the dim twilight, Kuronbō glared with fiery eyes as he violently tried to drag their daughter away.
O-Sugi clung desperately to a massive chestnut tree, refusing to release her grip.
The two struggled fiercely against each other.

“You damn beast….”

Genbei spun back inside and emerged gripping the large axe from the earthen floor. Like a beast himself, he lunged forward to block Kuronbō’s path.
The axe meant for his skull instead carved diagonally from neck to chest with a wet crunch. Kuronbō collapsed screaming yet still clutched the girl.
When he refused to let go even then, Genbei stepped closer and struck again—severing the monster’s left arm at the shoulder.
O-Sugi finally tore free and fled, but Kuronbō crawled after her in pursuit. Frantic, Genbei rained blows until the creature’s remaining arm was hacked off and a leg cleaved away, leaving only a gurgling death rattle.

“This is why you can’t let your guard down around beasts,” Genbei cursed, panting heavily.

“What could he possibly intend by abducting O-Sugi?” O-Kane said curiously.

In that instant, the mystery was solved.

That Kuronbō sought to take away the daughter was not entirely inexplicable.
The couple silently exchanged looks.

“Mother! It’s terrifying…” O-Sugi clung to her mother and began trembling.

Just then, two lumberjack companions arrived there, so Genbei had them help dispose of Kuronbō.

Because he was still alive and groaning, Genbei brought a sharpened mountain knife, stabbed his throat, and pierced through his chest.
Having confirmed that he had breathed his last, the three dragged the monster’s corpse outside.

“Throw it into the ravine.”

Since there was a ravine dozens of yards deep ahead, the corpse was thrown into it.

After the two had left, the wife said in a low voice.

"It’s your fault for making that foolish joke."

Genbei did not respond at all.

IV

The next morning, when Genbei went to the edge of the ravine, Kuronbō’s corpse was lodged directly below him.
About twenty feet below, a large pine tree jutted out its branches.
The corpse had been thrown down onto it.
Of course, they had intended to throw it into the ravine’s depths, but in the evening gloom their aim had gone awry; it was only this morning that he discovered the corpse lodged halfway down.
Though it was only about twenty feet down, the cliff face offered no footholds, and below lay a dizzyingly deep ravine—thus they could not reach the corpse.

“Damn beast…,” Genbei clicked his tongue.
O-Kane and O-Sugi also came to look, exchanging unpleasant looks with each other.

Setting that aside for now, what further cast a shadow over this family’s hearts was the matter of that marriage proposal.
When word of Kuronbō spread from the lumberjack companions to society, the groom’s side began to hesitate.
No one knew about Genbei’s joking promise to Kuronbō, but living with a woman bewitched by a monster like Kuronbō was unsettling.
There was no telling what kind of curse that grudge might not inflict.
Moreover, there was no telling what retaliation they might face if others of his kind targeted them.
Not only the groom himself but his parents and relatives too became seized by similar anxieties, and as they made one excuse after another to postpone the wedding—despite even the betrothal gifts having been exchanged—the rumors of Kuronbō spread from one person to the next until finally the groom’s household could no longer bear their revulsion, and the engagement was decisively broken off before that year’s Obon Festival.

Now, as for what became of Kuronbō’s corpse—of course, as days passed, its flesh rotted and crumbled away. The hairy skin, apparently different from other animal hides, showed peck marks from crows and other birds that gradually tore and rotted away, until by then little remained but bones. The skeleton too was blown by the wind and beaten by the rain, scattering into pieces, but the only thing remaining was its neck bone. Whether to call it strange or coincidental—when the corpse had been thrown onto the tree earlier, its one eye had been pierced by a large broken branch with a sharp point, and so even after becoming bone, that part alone remained lodged in its original place.

Because it was right in front of their house, Genbei had been observing the corpse’s state morning and evening. The wife and daughter had gone to look every day. They had watched the corpse gradually disappear with something like relief, but upon seeing that the final skull alone showed no sign of vanishing, they were overcome again by a strange sense of revulsion. In an attempt to somehow knock it down, Genbei threw stones and branches several times, but not a single one hit—strangely—and he finally gave up in defeat. On the night when the formal notice of the broken engagement arrived from the groom’s household, the skull rattled dryly as if mocking them.

Until now, they had clung to a faint hope despite their anxiety, but with the engagement now decisively broken off, Genbei and his wife’s disappointment went without saying. O-Sugi cried all day. That night, as the skull began to laugh, O-Sugi slipped out of the house. Before her mother could give chase after spotting her retreating figure, the young girl threw herself into the deep ravine—leaving no means to recover her body.

Ever since then, the skull lodged in the tree branch laughed dryly every night. “It’s not laughing,” Genbei explained—the dry skull was merely being blown by the mountain wind to strike the branches—but his wife would not accept this. She stubbornly believed the skull mockingly laughed at their misfortune. As if Kuronbō’s skull were casting some curse, the local people spread word of it.

Indeed, from that autumn through winter, and then from the following spring through summer, the skull continued its eerie laughter every night.
Tormented by this, O-Kane could no longer sleep peacefully.
The prolonged insomnia and anxiety had taken such a toll that she had become half-mad; as Genbei privately kept watch over her situation, just before July’s Obon Festival—coinciding precisely with the first anniversary of O-Sugi’s death—she erupted into violent madness.

“Kuronbō!
“I’ll avenge my daughter, so remember that.”

O-Kane grabbed a large axe and rushed outside.
That was the axe Genbei had used to slaughter Kuronbō earlier.

“Wait.”
“Where are you going?”

Genbei, startled, tried to restrain her, but O-Kane roared like a demoness and attacked her own husband.

“You damn Kuronbō!”

As the large axe came swinging straight at him, Genbei panicked and fled in disarray.

Seizing that opportunity, she plunged headfirst into the ravine while still clutching the axe.
The half-crazed mother followed after her pitiful daughter.

And so, in this solitary house, only the father was left.

However, Genbei was a man of innate boldness.
The unrelenting misfortunes were undoubtedly a severe blow to him, yet he continued his work as before without any outward change.
The Kuronbō dwelling deep in these mountains were not limited to just one; however, ever since that single one had been slaughtered by Genbei’s axe, all traces of them vanished, leaving only their memento—a single skull caught on a tree branch.
The skull rattled dryly every night, as though mocking the Genbei family’s doomed fate.

“Yeah, go ahead and cry or laugh all you want,” Genbei no longer paid it any mind.

It was the year following that, just before the Obon Festival.

As today marked his daughter’s third memorial service and his wife’s first death anniversary, Genbei went to visit their graves at the sole temple in Shimōsu, and on his way back, he encountered three lumberjack companions and a villager.

“Oh! What perfect timing!”
“Come to my house, everyone.”

Genbei brought the four back home and took out a thick wisteria vine he had apparently prepared beforehand.

“I’ll wrap this vine around my waist—you all lower me down from above.”

“Where are you going down?”

“I’ll go down into the ravine and knock that damn skull down for good.”

“It’s dangerous—stop!
If the branch breaks, it’ll be a disaster!”

“Nah—it’s fine. My wife’s enemy... my daughter’s foe... Can’t leave that skull like this.”

After all, it was a sheer cliff like a folding screen, so even though visible below them, they couldn't descend. Genbei had secured his body with a wisteria vine and was being lowered toward the trunk of a large tree about two ken below; from there, he intended to make his way along the branches and knock down that skull. Though all were quite accustomed to such dangerous feats, being above this bottomless ravine left everyone unable to suppress their anxiety.

Genbei had until now been hesitating, but today—for whatever reason—he obstinately insisted on carrying out this reckless venture and finally wound the wisteria vine about himself.
The four men examined the thick vine from end to end, and having confirmed its soundness, began lowering him from the cliff's edge.

It was a lightly overcast afternoon. The wind that parted the blades of grass all around already carried the coolness of early autumn.
The skull, too, remained silent during the day.

Genbei's body—being lowered toward the large tree where the skull hung—was just four or five shaku from reaching the trunk when the thick vine suddenly snapped with a sharp crack, sending him plummeting toward the tree.
The people above cried out in alarm and looked down to see that as he fell, he managed to grab onto one of the branches.
Moreover, since it was a relatively thin branch, the moment he grabbed on, it bent sharply, leaving his body dangling in midair.

“Genbei! Hang on tight! Don’t let go!” the four men shouted in unison.

However, there was no means to rescue him.
In this situation, there seemed to be no method other than lowering a basket, but since that basket was nowhere to be found nearby, the four men could do nothing but futilely call out from above and offer him encouragement.

Genbei hung from the branch with both hands, swaying in midair like a paper kite. On the neighboring branch hung that skull—when Genbei’s movements made his branch quiver, the yellowed skull rattled with dry laughter.

The thin branch bent under his weight, creaking toward its breaking point as those watching from above gripped their sleeves in silent dread. Greasy sweat poured down Genbei’s forehead. Eyes squeezed shut and teeth gritted, he clung desperately without uttering a sound. Now it was only a matter of time—whether the branch would snap or his strength fail—all left to nature’s indifferent will. From above came the futile thud of thrown vines he couldn’t grasp.

Midway, the branch broke.
As the remaining branch sprang back with violent force, the neighboring branch shook fiercely, and the skull let out a high-pitched, dry, rattling laugh that continued on and on.
Genbei's figure disappeared from view, hidden by the mist in the ravine.
The four men above stood frozen, holding their breath.

Thus, Genbei’s family was utterly destroyed.
When his daughter died and when his wife died, Genbei had apparently not informed Kamakura of these events; but now that the entire family had been annihilated, since it would be improper to leave matters neglected any longer, when the villagers first sent word to Kamakura, his son Genzo promptly returned.

Genzo—now called Sōgen—had become an exemplary monk.
While preaching “abandon worldly attachments to enter non-action,” Sōgen deeply regretted having poured his soul solely into his own ascetic training and never once returning to his hometown.

“I shall never leave here until that skull naturally decays and falls,” he vowed.

If it were merely to mourn his parents and sister’s souls, he wouldn’t necessarily need to remain here—but what must be mourned and feared was that skull.

Resolving that he would not leave here until witnessing the beneficent fruit of this beast awakening the mind of enlightenment, he decided to remain in this abandoned house.
And so, he had been ceaseless in his sutra chanting up to this very day—exactly three years now—yet the skull had not decayed, the skull had not fallen, the skull still laughed.

He had resolved himself to remaining here for three years, five years, ten years—perhaps even his entire life—and it was likely for that reason.

Having finished this long tale, the old man sighed once more.
Out of pity, some had suggested lowering a basket to somehow remove the skull, but his son Reverend Sōgen refused and insisted they leave it to him—so there it remained.
Uncle also sighed and took his leave.

That night, when he lodged in Kamisū Village, a great storm arose from midnight onward—so violent it seemed to make the mountains tremble.

Would this storm snap that branch or blow down that skull?
Was that monk continuing to chant sutras against the storm?—Uncle reportedly lay awake pondering this all night.