Pathway to Japanese Literature

1

“Take a look. That’s the man there.”

In the upper floor of the village office, Principal Samejima—mid-discussion with the old village chief—shouted rapidly and pointed at the desolate plateau.

A gently sloping expanse of unending decay.
In the cold plateau where white birch leaves had fallen to expose pale trunks, a figure could be seen wandering meanderingly through the dead leaves.

“Every day, he spends one or two hours after school loitering among the withered branches like that.”
“Tsubaki—that’s the instructor with those red-tinged suspicions I mentioned earlier.”
“Before any mistakes occur, I’d prefer to have him transferred by the end of the second term if possible.”
“If only we can find a school with a vacancy…”

“Do you have clear evidence of leftist leanings?”

The old village chief asked bluntly.

“Not exactly.”
“I can’t state anything definite, but...”
“Because when it comes to this particular mistake—once it occurs—it becomes something terrifying and irreparable.”
“The school too.”
“The village too.”

The principal made a sanctimonious face and thrust both that expression and his corpulent upper body toward the village chief.

The old village chief turned his face away—as if to say he didn’t want to see that prudish-looking face—and stared into the depths of the plateau where the evening mist hung thick and indistinct.

The oppressive winter sky pressed against the windowpane. At the horizon’s edge, where distant vistas dissolved into haze, it fell desolately to earth. There, even great mountain masses thinned into faintness like old memories, vanishing into the mist’s depths. Desolation narrowed under encroaching dusk. Still, a figure with large undulating strides flickered through the gloom.

“Transferring that man based on vague suspicions—I do not approve of that. Those who lean left will lean left no matter where they go. And then another principal will be troubled. Another principal, you see. Isn’t it the same thing?” he murmured.

“Send that man over to my house tonight.”
“I shall speak with that man.”
“Everything else can wait until after that.”

The old village chief returned home with shuffling steps.

The boar-necked principal also returned to school, shaking with anger.
When he went outside, he remained agitated.
What a meddlesome, incomprehensible old fool he was!

The old village chief was called Hikawa Baji.
He was fifty-five but looked sixty-five or even seventy, his senility having become a quiet elegy.
Deep within his temples, his own image had lost hope and vigor, transformed into a silent traveler attempting to return along an eternally lonely path.

Old Man Baji returned home.
Though it was an old family of the village, due to poverty they had practiced extreme frugality; in the cavernous mansion no warmth or human presence could be felt.

Brother’s wife—a thirty-year-old city woman.
A refreshingly beautiful woman came out to greet him and took his hat and coat.

“There will be a visitor tonight—a rough young man like a fighting dog is supposed to come…”

Baji went to the sick wife’s bedroom.
The sick wife spent several minutes moving her head slightly for greeting.
Stepping out onto the room’s veranda as usual, Baji settled into the rattan chair.

The wife had been ill for three years now.
Three years had already passed since he sat down in this chair and began gazing vacantly at the distant mountain range and far-off sky.

The sick wife would probably die soon.
And through becoming the words “she had died” and a single concept，it might cause him sorrow.
Now，a sick wife who was alive yet death-like.
A wife who seemed to have already lost words，actions，and even existence itself.
She had already perished within reality—was already like nothingness—yet through becoming the words “she had died，” a single fragment of language，she was rather reborn into reality.
And so，it would surely sadden Baji.

The brother’s wife—a thirty-year-old city woman—brought tea to the veranda’s rattan chair. And then she returned to the room adjacent to his sick wife’s bedroom—her own room. Baji had told her that there would be a visitor tonight—a rough young man like a fighting dog. And then he thought about the rough, monotonous footsteps treading upon the white birch plateau.

Without leaning back in the rattan chair, when he hunched his upper body slightly forward, he could see the upper half of his brother’s wife—a woman who was thirty this year—knitting in the adjacent room. If he moved the rattan chair another two feet forward, he would likely be able to see the woman’s entire body even without hunching. However, Baji did not have that courage. For these three years—in that old spot defined by long habit, where he had grown accustomed through angles to garden trees and his wife’s sleeping form—if he were to move the chair two feet, a vacuum like a wound brimming with shame and reproach would form in those two feet of space, surely bringing confusion to the cold winter sky and to Baji himself.

Baji leaned back into the rattan chair and positioned himself where the woman’s figure was out of sight; only then, with relief, did he gaze long at the adjacent room and imagine her white wrists knitting.
And then, when he hunched forward and could see into the adjacent room, he gazed at the twilight in the garden and contemplated the rough footsteps treading the plateau.

“Tonight, the visit of a rough bullfighter.”

Baji thought.
Why had I come to feel like meeting the young teacher called Tsubaki?
What would I talk about—what did I intend to ask?

Probably—he thought.

—He felt an interest in that young, vibrant world...

Left-leaning.
He could not bring himself to hate it.
The theory wasn’t the issue.
That white-hot vitality—the struggle to protect one’s passion even amid persecution—appeared to him as something wondrous and worthy of awe.
Baji contemplated the young, vibrant world he himself had lost.

If he moved the rattan chair another two feet forward, he would be able to see the woman’s figure.

The woman’s husband went hunting every day with a double-barreled shotgun on his shoulder.
The woman’s husband was a former Ministry of Education official.
When the cabinet changed and he had been relegated to an idle post, he had come to his family home for leisure.
Then, accompanied by his prized Airedale and carrying a gun barrel that glowed dully gray under the wet winter sky, he walked the plateau each day and returned at twilight.
The former Ministry of Education official was called Ryūfu.
Ryūfu had a paunch and a well-trimmed mustache.
The mustache walked through the wet white birch grove, stealthily treading on sodden fallen leaves, and was surely passing through gaps in the winter sky.
From time to time, the sound of gunfire could be heard from the depths of the plateau.

If he moved another two feet forward, he would see the woman’s figure.
The woman was knitting.
She sometimes read magazines, but now she hurried to knit a warm sweater for Ryūfu—who went hunting daily—keeping her white wrists moving all day long.
At times she might pause her hands, tuck her left thumb into her obi, raise her flushed and expressionless face upright, and stare at the cold garden.
And if gunfire sounded then, the woman would surely become a marble statue wearing a faint smile.

In their austere lifestyle, it was still too early in early winter to use a kotatsu, so Baji had his brother and his wife make do with a small hibachi; but with such meager heat, even if they slightly relaxed their knees, the cold would undoubtedly seep into their bones, and the room’s air, faintly quivering with dust motes, would likely feel painfully cold.
Despite such an environment undoubtedly forcing her to sit rigidly, coldly, frigidly upright, there she was—motionless at the center of that cavernously vast and icy room—radiating what vivid multitudes of life!

The woman had a secret fragrance, secret hues, and a secret flow.
The flow became silent pollen that danced and swirled, turned into threads as fine as countless silk strands to stealthily weave through air’s crevices, drifted to a room’s corner to travel between wall and atmosphere, then transformed into floral haze that floated toward the veranda.

Woman… In the adjacent room was a woman exuding secret haze.

And then—if he turned his face sideways while still leaning against the rattan chair—there too existed a “thing.”
It had once been a woman.
For three years it had slept there, and Baji had believed this alone to be womanhood—believing even all he received from it—cold death and sorrowful apathy—to be among woman’s attributes, never once doubting this now extinct “thing” persisted in reality.
It had reverted to yet another “thing.”
Baji felt sadness in his heart.

—O sad wife.
Your life was unfortunate.
Like me…

—O sad wife.
You never knew men—that much is certain.
“Because I too was a lifeless ‘thing’ like you…”

Baji had a Han Chinese mustache.
It hung limp and was dead.

Ryūfu had a well-trimmed mustache.
And it was a man’s ornament.
A man with an ornament.
And then, the man.
Baji sensed the man in Ryūfu.
As he trod upon the plateau dampened by winter rain and shouldered a double-barreled gun glowing dully gray under sodden skies—Baji thought of that mustache quietly passing through white birches.
A woman sitting upright in a cold room, emanating a multitude of hues while thinking of a wet mustache.
And to Baji, the silent secret of the man and woman began to dawn.……

That twilight.
——

By now, the plateau too had sunk to the depths of a boundless haze.

Ryūfu finally returned.

Ryūfu slipped through the back gate, did not go around to the entrance, passed through the artificial hill, and from the front garden reached the veranda where Baji and the rattan chair were.

Ryūfu came to a halt before the veranda and stood there, alternately looking between the woman who had come out to greet him and Baji in the rattan chair as he laughed.
He looked playfully at their two faces and laughed for a long time.
And when at last the woman began to laugh, the portly man roared with laughter; and when at last Baji grasped its meaning, the laughing man revealed the large prey he had concealed behind his back, gently placed it upon the veranda—even as he set it down—thrust up his grinning face to gaze alternately at their two faces; then, having finished placing it, he laughed uproariously toward the high winter sky.

On the veranda came a soft, weighty *thud*—the sound of something being set down.
A sound had occurred.
A soft, rounded sound.
And then a large mass of flesh covered in multihued feathers had become a picture upon the floorboards.

A soft, rounded sound drawn forth from the laughing man’s back.
Baji felt a fresh force in that sound—and sweet freshness itself.
A subtle world he had not known had been unveiled.
Baji ruminated on the fresh sound.

“Well…… that’s a fine catch……”

Baji laughed.
And the three of them burst into laughter.

In the boundless haze of twilight, three people roared with laughter.

The woman placed the pheasant on her lap, and while saying "What a pretty bird. So this is a pheasant?" she took out a tissue, wiped the blood from her palm, and murmured, "It doesn't bleed much, does it? Maybe it's just a small wound."
Then she lifted the bird to examine its wound, murmured "It’s barely bleeding at all," and placed it back on her lap. "Such a pretty bird," she said, tilting her face up to gaze coquettishly at the man. "And not the least bit frightening."

“What’s there to fear? Isn’t it far more innocent than being alive?”

“How very true.”

The woman answered with a radiant face.

Baji quietly stood up. And he looked at the twilight garden. Baji again heard a strangely fresh word. And he ruminated on the fresh word. The man’s words—that it was more innocent than being alive. Baji felt an uncanny sympathy with those words, and deep within that sympathy, he conjured the multicolored feathers of the dead bird and indeed found them beautiful. And he sensed the delicate movement of the woman’s fingers as she wiped the coagulated blood from between them.

“Apollo! Apollo!”

Ryūfu sat down on the veranda and called Airdale.
The dog came running from beyond the evening haze to Ryūfu’s feet.

――HALLOO――

――HALLOO――

Twilight beckoned with distant words toward oblivion.
A boundless melancholy flowed.
Melancholy danced and whirled across the withered plateau, then coalesced into quiet excitement and let fall a single drop of cold blood upon Baji’s chest.
The dog ran through the evening haze.
And then, night fell.

That night, a rare guest indeed arrived.

The rare guest was worn down by life, and thick wrinkles ran across his forehead.
His facial features gave the dull impression of an uneducated farmer, but his large, thick lips revealed a stubborn will, twisted.
But his eyes were painfully timid.
And he had a robust frame suited for gripping a hoe.
The boorish young man brushed back the hair hanging over his forehead, wore an expression as if angered, and sat rigidly.

“Aren’t you involved with the left-wing?”

The village chief wore a casual smile as he suddenly posed this question.
The young man stared at Baji’s face in surprise—

“I’m not involved at all.”
“And besides—” the young man said with a deeply suspicious gaze, thinking as he spoke.

“Even if you were involved, you’d claim you weren’t.”

Baji was rather taken aback by how excessively earnest and intense the young man’s reply had been.
And he realized he had been considering left-wing matters with the casualness of small talk.

“I see. My phrasing was poor.”
“But you—I neither particularly love nor particularly hate what’s called the left-wing.”
“In that room over there sits the former Ministry of Education official, though…”

Baji laughed.
The gaunt muscles of his cheeks quivered as if relishing the laughter privately.

Yet his laughter intimidated the young teacher more than it put him at ease.
The teacher stared at Baji’s face with a baffled look—as though silently concluding he couldn’t understand—but his earnest features betrayed suspicion, then timorous anger.

“Do you read Marx?”

“I have read it.”

“And your thoughts?”

Tsubaki appeared to be gathering his thoughts with deep suspicion beneath a somewhat agitated expression,

“No matter who reads it, they would say it’s better than the present.”

He answered curtly.

Teacher Tsubaki appeared as an earnest, passionate young man.
He was the sort often labeled inflexible or slow-witted—a man utterly incapable of inspiring others through intellectual brilliance.
And, as this type of person—when ground down by life’s hardships—is prone to become, he would apply timid suspicion and ultimately futile cunning in his efforts to uncover the truth of matters.
And though he believed himself to be maneuvering cunningly, in the end, he was the sort of man who could do nothing but lay bare his own depths.

Beneath a sullen expression, Tsubaki frantically tried to compose his demeanor with cunning.
But in the end, he found himself unwittingly pulled into anger disguised as cunning.

“What on earth are you asking these things for?”

The old man gazed vacantly at a spot in the room, letting his tobacco smoke drift languidly.
And as if chewing on smoke, he kept working his mouth endlessly.

“But I am not a communist.”
“Ideally I desire something greater, but in reality I am a foolish man of life who can be moved by even the slightest improvement.”
“I would rather wish for a dog’s life.”
“I do not much appreciate this so-called ‘rational’—that specious privilege of humans.”
“It is as if through rationality we continue to feel pain.”
“Yet if we were to abandon rationality, precisely because we remain human, we would likely be treated more harshly than dogs.”
“What I say may be extreme, but I have grown utterly weary of human hatred and love.”
“To say I’ve grown weary means that no matter what I do, I cannot break free from it.”
“Precisely because of such relationships—though of course I too am part of them—I even think it would be better to become barefaced animal companions rather than live a hypocritical communal life wearing masks.”
“Of course, were I not an ugly animal myself, I would never entertain such shallow thoughts.”

Tsubaki was succumbing to his own agitation.

“For what purpose did you call me here? Is it to have me transferred on suspicion of being left-wing?”

“There’s no need to worry…”

The old village chief mumbled as he clumsily packed tobacco into his pipe with fumbling hands, but from his cheeks, which bore a faint smile, pale wisps of smoke continued to escape each time he worked his mouth.

Tsubaki twisted his lips, wanting to carve out a solid, sarcastic sneer.
However, this peculiar sensation—neither anxiety nor relief but something altogether different—failed to properly channel his agitation and schemes.
He roughly raked back his hair.

“What sort of books are you reading?”
“Ah, no—rest assured, I’m not probing your ideological leanings.”
“I too, in my long life—as a dilettante, one might say—have smoldered myself away in a life of reading no less than others. But all those things I’ve spent my years reading and discarding—spiritual sciences, history, literature, philosophy, religion—I’ve come to find them all rather trifling, you see—”

The old man beamed a cheerful smile as if conversing with an intimate friend and lowered himself into his seat.

“I’ve lately been lamenting my deficiency in natural sciences.”
“Spiritual sciences—those disciplines taking humanity as their measure—will likely never find solutions.”
“Ultimately, human age forcibly resolves humanity.”
“And then they perish.”
“To me, numbers, symbols and molecules seem far more vibrant…”

The old man let out a dry, rasping laugh.

“We old men can’t very well take up mathematics now,”
“But you young people must all have at least a passing knowledge of the natural sciences.”
“How enviable.”

“No, I am a man with no learning at all.”

The young teacher said with a fierceness resembling a confession.

“I have no ideals.”
“This isn’t an excuse, but pressed by my trivial life’s hardships, I have no energy left even to contemplate a grand tomorrow—all I can do is seek small satisfactions day by day.”
“I keenly realize how succumbing to life—how living without ideals—degrades humans, but once I look at my surroundings and consider my own ugliness, weakness, and filth, I lose all courage to pursue anything grand.”
“Clinging to each small today is all I can muster.”
“Ideals probably comfort people.”
“And they will probably rescue people from humiliation.”
“But I am nothing but a servile vanquished survivor who desires a dog’s life.”

Baji, sensing the young man’s rough tone—like a pebble cast into water, falling and vanishing into the vast night—clenched his pipe between his teeth for a long time. And then he thought about the rough, monotonous footsteps undulating across the white birch plateau.

“You walk through the white birch forest every day, I hear. What do you think about during those times?”

“That is simply because I do not wish to face my colleagues.”
“Flattering a group that does not enrich life is utterly meaningless.”
“You either get wounded or wound others—it’s one or the other.”
“Solitude must surely be richer and warmer than any meaningless collective.”
“I make it a point to stay out of the staff room as much as possible.”
“Instead, I do my work after my colleagues have left.”
“A room with no one there—a room that ought to be filled with many people yet holds none—and sitting alone in the disarray left behind by those absent people, I begin to grasp something profoundly quiet for the first time.”
“It is not something meaningful, something clear, something active.”
“For example.”
“Tsubaki Ryōsuke…” So saying, a faint presence calling my name—a quiet whisper—comes drifting from somewhere in the disordered room.
From between the wrinkles of discarded paper scraps.
From behind the grandfather clock, from between the pages of books.
That’s right.
As if disappointed, I let out a sigh of relief.
It is a serene feeling—as though I have, after so long, reunited with that cherished self of mine.
Mother, hometown, slumber, cradle—such a gentle aura, akin to a linked verse of cherished history, unfolds that beautiful window to enrich me in this serene solitude.
The time of solitude when I am left alone is when I return to my deeply nostalgic self.

“My happiest time is that time.”

The young man wore a bashful smile—as if for the first time—tinged with familiarity, and timidly looked up at the old man’s face.

“Even a young, vibrant man like you—”

Baji absently packed tobacco into his pipe.

“Even a young, vibrant person… Is human life such a thing as that…”

Baji lit his pipe and, for a long time, played with it over the hibachi without bringing it to his lips.

“How on earth did you end up under suspicion of being left-leaning again?”

“That is—”

The young man raised timid upturned eyes but twisted his lips into a sneer that seemed to mock even himself.

"It might be because the principal is infatuated with a certain female teacher."
"And besides, I've never seen eye to eye with the principal from the very beginning."

The old man tapped his pipe instead of replying.
Then, somewhat lowering his gaze, he exhaled smoke while working his mouth silently as though chewing it.

"Are you romantically involved with that woman?"

"No—it's merely that I'm the one loving her."

The young man tried to laugh but lost the expression.

“I remain silent.”
“And I find that remaining silent abounds in a kind of pleasurable pain.”
“I am a man who cannot have confidence in my own ugly appearance, demeanor, talent, or life.”
“But human emotions leap over their balance within oneself and arbitrarily fly away, don’t they?”
“What I need now is religion.”
“Difficult, twisted doctrines are equivalent to empty words for me and pose no issue, but the wretched form of restraint appears to me as my sole dwelling.”
“That dark and miserable, essential wretchedness inherent in religion seeps deeply into me.”
“I have recently moved my boarding to the monk’s quarters at Gyorinji Temple.”

“Even a young, vibrant person…”

Baji exhaled smoke again and moved his mouth silently for a long time.

A soft, rounded sound drawn from the laughing man’s back.
And the mustache that seemed to proclaim it lovelier than being alive.
The florid fingers of a woman wiping away the coagulated blood between them.
The wound concealed beneath multicolored feathers must have been smaller than a petal and colder than the winter sky.

It was a cold morning.
In the front garden where the plateau’s cold air flowed like a damp stream, chillingly carried along, Baji had once stood conversing with a woman.
It was a quiet early morning still thick with haze, where even nearby figures appeared as though submerged in deep water.
The woman emerged from the hushed water’s depths.
Drawing closer through the distant haze of the plateau, its outline blurred and indistinct, she offered her morning greeting.
An early morning greeting.
The greeting, laden with frigid pollen, wove through gaps in the cold dawn mist, swayed hazily as it drifted toward Baji’s temples, became countless slender silk threads that danced from neck to ear, ear to shoulder, seeped into his legs, and flowed crawling across his skin.

“Why don’t you become an animal?!”

Baji nearly said as much but stopped.

It also occurred to him that perhaps, as this young man said, not being able to become an animal might be humanity’s greatest misfortune.
But what of youth?
And the man.
The "man" he had already lost—or perhaps never possessed in his lifetime—this young man blessed with a youthful life that seemed the sole miracle on this earth.
…His life had been a “thing,” but the fact that young people were now actually “things” was like something out of a dream.
That this young man, blessed with such intense life, was ultimately the same kind of “thing” as himself remained unbelievable to Baji.

When Baji had escorted the young man to the entrance, he finally spoke, taking advantage of the darkness there.

“Why don’t you become an animal?!”
“Become an animal.”
“Become an animal!”

The young man was startled. He couldn’t comprehend it. He gazed suspiciously at Baji, then turned vacantly away, clamping his mouth shut as he tied his shoelaces.

Eventually, the young man stood up. He roughly swept back his fallen hair without thinking. With a stern expression like one not fully awakened from sleep, he gave an awkward forty-five-degree salute.

“Please come visit again.”
“I’ve grown fond of conversing with young people like you.”

The taciturn young teacher turned toward the darkness with his innate roughness.
And, somewhat hanging his head, he strode off into the depths of the darkness.

Baji abruptly returned to himself.
A profound emptiness.
A desolation resembling strange disappointment began to spread.
Baji chewed on desolation.
Baji descended to the entranceway and lowered the bolt on the door.
The vast depth of night passed piercingly through Baji’s body to bleach his empty desolation.

Baji blankly entered his sick wife’s bedroom.

As if returning from a journey’s end more distant than history, he suddenly felt he had come back into the long-interrupted, cherished reality.
His heart returned, and desolation returned to him.

A sour and utterly weary electric light.
The dull light became an invisible blizzard of countless flakes, falling thick and silent upon the desolate tatami mats.
And the “thing,” its cheeks seemingly slain by the blizzard of dull light, awakened beast’s eyes within its nest.

The “thing” attempted to shift its death mask within the light to welcome Baji.
Two dear “things” faced each other.
Baji sat down by the bedside.

“Has the guest returned home?”

“Ah, I just got back now.”
“How are you feeling?”
“As for me…”

Baji remained silent for a while.

“――You’ve had a pitiful life.”

The patient had grown so weak she could no longer even change her expression.
And expressed the stirrings of her heart through the long, long cessation of words.
After a long silence, the patient murmured.

“I can die satisfied.”
“Three years ago I was able to visit Nikko, and tonight I could eat my favorite carrots…”

As time passed, tears from a distant, distant past seeped forth and overflowed on Baji’s aged cheeks.

Overwhelmed by grief, Baji felt a boundless intensity—as if he wanted to wail.

The two "things" held each other's emaciated hands for a long time.

2

The next morning.

When Baji had finished his meal and rested on the veranda rattan chair, lively laughter from the neighboring room reached his ears.
A man’s laughter and a woman’s laughter.
Within the laughter, the man and woman became entangled, and then the laughter wound through the tangled threads.

Then Ryūfu, having adjusted his hunting clothes, thrust the quivering amplitude of his corpulent belly and laughing mustache out onto the veranda.

“Brother, won’t you come here for a moment?”

“Oh, I couldn’t!” she said, and then ripples carrying the scent of the woman’s stifled laughter undulated forth.

Baji stood up.
Hmm.
The frail, emaciated body was dragged along as Baji advanced.
And Baji peered into the interior of the neighboring room.

Double-barreled gun, case, disarray of discarded clothes.
In the dim space hovering above the clutter, the woman, draped in gaudy Western clothes, had become a cold cameo.
The woman was dressed in Western clothes, but without any particular shyness, she turned her neck straight toward Baji and was smiling.

“I see…”

Baji rounded his eyes and observed.
Silence.
Then the three standing figures dissolved into the clamorous chorus of laughter.

“To tell the truth, ever since leaving Tokyo, I’d prepared this outfit planning to join the hunts myself. Mr. Baji, this is my first time wearing Western clothes since graduating girls’ school—that’s why I’ve been too shy to don them till now.”

“Starting today, will Aki-san also be going out on the hunt?”
“Yes!”

The woman shouted with laughter, her voice brimming with a boyish freshness.
And, without a trace of shyness, she began tidying the room’s disarray.
Those lively movements were nowhere to be seen within this person’s kimono.
The old man gazed in admiration for a while at this fresh transformation.

“I want to see where the birds come falling down.”
“From skies thick like waterlogged cotton—they stretch their long necks straight down, spread their wings wide, then drop like stones.”
“Wouldn’t that be just splendid…”

“Ha ha ha.”
“Hunting is the tension when you fire the gun.”
“And then there’s that strangely absurd, single-minded feeling when you’re dawdling around searching for prey.”
“After all, it’s impossible to savor the thrill of the hunt without a gun…”

Ryūfu shook his ample belly and turned around.
Ha ha ha.

After leaving behind another round of laughter, he sat down on the veranda and began putting on his shoes.

“Apollo! Apollo!”

Eaderu wagged its tail and entwined itself around Ryūfu’s gaiters.
On the veranda lay a wet gray double-barreled gun, its tired barrel glinting like dead eyes.

On those cold floorboards—yesterday at twilight—there had been a soft, rounded sound.
A creature that bled relatively little.
A soft, large mass of feathers lifted to the height of the woman’s eyes.
And the supple mass of flesh possessed a chiaroscuro of depth.—
Was it the clotted blood left in the fork of her white, flower-like fingers that drove the woman to the hunt?
“Won’t you get blisters and end up unable to walk?”
“Fine! I’ll go home barefoot then!”

Again, the boy shouted.

Baji leaned against the rattan chair.
And, smiling, he watched as the two—a man and a woman—crossed over the mound and disappeared from the back gate into the white birch plateau.
A double-barreled gun dully gleamed and dully swayed on the man’s shoulder.
The sky today was heavy like water.

Even if he moved the rattan chair another two feet, the woman was no longer visible.
The woman had flown away—like a bird, like a boy—to the far side of reason.

In a hollow room abandoned by a woman—what cruel secrets were nurtured to dance, then quietly, madly swirl?
Could it be that a mist—scented and tinted—remained swirling, becoming a chilled flow that seeped stealthily into the eyes, swirling upward from below, circling around, swirling downward again, scattering as countless pollen grains?

Baji quietly stood up. And then, as if to leave no footfalls, as if to avoid trampling the secretive powder that had danced down, he tried entering the hollow room left behind by the woman.

Vibrant hues hung on the clothes rack. And in the corner of the room, a small brazier concealing embers had frozen its probing, suspicious eyes—as if to confront Baji’s cold, empty heart.

Baji thought. But his thoughts did not flow. And, turning his face away, he gazed at the dull, heavy dark gray sky. It had packed unbearable emptiness into even the withered garden’s depths, down to the cold earth’s lowest hollows. Boy, do not fear the blood seeping from the blisters on your soles. Do not spare a long cheek press against the bird’s corpse that holds soft chiaroscuro.

Baji twisted his withered arms and let out a yawn of decrepit old age.

Baji went to work at the village office.

From the neighboring school flowed the quiet of class hours and the progression of audible discipline; mingling with the winter sky, they rendered the cold sensation low and sharp.

The greasy-faced, boar-necked principal entered like a circus animal, glancing around restlessly while showering the clerks with forced charm—but upon seeing the old village chief, he suddenly put on the face of a prudent, hardworking man.
This man too had an energetic and coarse mustache.

“How was Tsubaki?”
“He mentioned having paid a visit, but…”

“We had quite an engaging conversation through the night.”

“He’s an impudent, brazen man, I tell you.”
“A crude nuisance of a fellow.”

And as a show of grief, he twisted his thick lips—and with them his coarse mustache—toward one cheek.

“They say there’ll fortunately be an opening at Akazawa’s school come year’s end…”

“A timid soul—excessively earnest.”
“That man poses no danger to the state.”
“Though what manner of threat he might be to you personally, Principal—that I couldn’t say—”

Baji smoldered his tobacco and mumbled as usual through closed lips.

"Is Sano Kazuko, the woman teacher, your second?"

Principal Samejima's face became pitted with tension.
A fist trembled atop knees drawn tight as bowstrings.

"Did he say that? That guy!"

The principal tried repeatedly to calm himself.
And he oozed greasy sweat.
He grabbed a cigarette and tried to light it, but his lips, fingers, mustache, and the cigarette all shook violently at once.

“He’s that sort of unscrupulous bastard, I tell you.”
“That guy’s mixed up in something shady with that female teacher.”
“He’s an unprincipled man whose next move you can’t predict.”
“‘Before any mistakes occur’—that’s what I’d resolved.”
“The man’s downright outrageous, I tell you.”
“Unless I have him transferred without fail, I cannot discharge my duties.”

“How old are you, Samejima?”

Baji exhaled smoke while staring intently at the ceiling.
Then he averted his eyes to the distant plateau.
Inhaling the distant desolation, he then drew in tobacco.
He was thinking about the barefoot boy.

“I’m exactly forty.”

“Oh, you’re young.”
“Still in your youth, aren’t you?”
“Under your educational policy, Samejima—what becomes of the animals dwelling in the human heart?”
“Suppress them? Kill them? Or tame them into order?”

The principal made a face of incomprehension.
However, showing a flash of determination in his eyes, he hurriedly opened his mouth.

“You are under a misunderstanding.”
“What Tsubaki says are lies.”
“I take pride in being an educator who bears no shame.”

“I’ll tell you—though this may be idle fancy—I’ve been considering such matters.”
“Suppose we were to unleash the animals nesting in human hearts and let them roam free.”
“Do you believe humans could fully transform into animals then?”
“They’d never achieve complete transformation.”
“These liberated beasts might initially indulge every whim, but wouldn’t their first true act be forging pacts?”
“Grudgingly sacrificing their desires, they’d try curbing oppressions from others.”
“And from such self-protective covenants, wouldn’t another tedious culture simmer into being?”
“As culture progresses, individual pleasures inevitably wither.”
“Would the animals then vanish?”
“They wouldn’t disappear.”
“I don’t believe I’ll vanish either—not yet.”
“Culture holds no interest for me.”
“At my age, revolutions within culture itself can’t stir my curiosity.”
“Animal uprisings strike me as more honestly amusing.”
“An absurd impossibility, of course—but when you reach our years, even destructive fantasies conjured from thin air grow perversely entertaining...”

The principal was irritated.
And the old man’s ramblings didn’t register.
His gaze sharpened intensely in his desire to interject with the words brimming inside him, but since Baji’s words showed no sign of ending, he was tormented by the effort to maintain his severe expression and steady gaze.

“Resignation is crucial for humans.”

He hurriedly impressed his own words.

“In resignation lies unexpected satisfaction—a sort of harvest.”
“Yet I cannot help but despise that Tsubaki.”
“What matters most in an educator is character—above all else.”
“Consider the school’s peace—nay, the village’s very peace.”
“He’s a liar—a base, dangerous creature, I tell you.”

“Our so-called culture—born from our weakness trying to protect itself—has ended up tormenting us even more, like a self-dug grave, I suppose.”
“When comparing the measure of happiness between dogs and humans, I find dogs to be rather more….”

Baji chuckled quietly.
The laughter traveled through Baji’s muscles, turned into wormlike squirming, and crawled down his entire body.
Baji thought about Tsubaki.
He thought about the large, rough hands that violently swept back hair.

“You—cease transferring Tsubaki-kun.”
“I cannot agree.”
“There is no issue with young comrades becoming romantically involved.”
“What is permitted to humans cannot be inherently wrong when limited to teachers alone, you know.”
“And you too—become an animal, I say.”

The principal’s stout boar-like neck would soon emerge from the village office.
He pushed through winter and turned into the school gate.

In the staff room, Old Man Kōno, the first-grade homeroom teacher, sat all alone.
He was reading a book.
The first-grade class was after school.

Principal Samejima deliberately yanked the chair closer with a rough motion and sat down.

“Does even an old man like you have any pleasures?”
“You’re plenty old enough to kick the bucket.”
“Useless people who’re still breathing strut about.”
“Strut about, I tell you.”

Samejima clicked his tongue sharply.

Old Man Kōno did not respond.
Beneath his deeply wrinkled face lay an unaffected expression.
When he stopped moving his hands, he suddenly burst into joyful laughter.

“Ah—seven children are no ordinary burden, I tell you.”
“My daughter’s reached marrying age and found a man, but I can’t let her wed.”
“Women turn into strangers once they marry.”
“Don’t you see? That’s just how it is.”
“She won’t lift a finger for our livelihood anymore…”

“You’re a merciless old codger.”
“Your daughter’s practically counting the minutes till you croak.”

“Hm hm hm.”
“Those with long roads ahead must learn endurance.”
“But I say… you there—that fellow’s boiling with rage……”

Samejima tore a newspaper with a ripping sound and blew his nose.
He disgustingly spat phlegm into the paper.
He threw it.

He picked up a brush and slathered the entire sheet of hanshi with writing.

“There is business to discuss; you must remain.”
He slapped it flat onto Kazuko’s desk.

“What those youngsters do is so damn immature—I can’t stand to watch.”
“Hey, Kōno-kun.”

Samejima swung his cane over his shoulder and went outside.
Excitement quickened the walking speed of short legs.

Kurotani Village, Kurotani flowed in a single line along the Kurotani River.
Winter bestowed whispers upon each house, and weary curses and apathy flowed.

Samejima crossed the bridge.
From the dark valley floor, a towering rock mass rushed into the winter sky.
The mountains too grew emaciated and desolate, reduced to nothing but black symbols.

“You beasts!”
“Every last one of them!”

Samejima shouted as though tearing through flesh.
The ferocity in his expression twisted even as he became conscious of it.
There was no remedy.

The boar-necked man veered onto a side path and plunged into the beech forest.
He trudged deep into its heart, enduring.
A chill tension hung taut—an unbearable silence.
Then the man suddenly began battering a tree trunk.
Now transformed into a madman, he struck relentlessly.
The violence of hands and cane—so fierce they threatened to shatter—manifested clearly.
The pain gratified him.
He ceased striking.
And resumed walking.
Footfalls.
Boots sank into thick layers of rotted leaves.
The sky yawned void-like.
The forest had become countless dead branches cast across winter’s firmament.

Those who torment me—this unbearable suffering, this bitterness—those who torment such a serious, timid, honest man as myself—truly, may they all end up dead.

The mustache whistled.
He swung his cane and crossed the hushed mountain.
It was called Myōken Mountain.
And arrived at Kurotani Village, Hagikawa.
With a calm gait, he entered the large mansion surrounded by earthen walls.

It was the mansion of Ishige Tadahito, the wealthiest man in the village.

“I see. There are some troublesome folks, aren’t there?”

The wealthy man shifted his posture with magnanimity.

“In due time, find an opportune moment to transfer him.”
“For the time being, there’s no need to rush.”
“No matter how bothersome a fellow may be, your shrewdness isn’t likely to be blunted by one or two ordinary teachers, is it?”

Ishige Tadahito was fat.
He was a large man in his mid-forties, but he possessed a thin voice ill-suited to his frame and a persistently clinging tone.
Ishige ordered sake from midday, but Samejima was a man who couldn’t drink.

“Old Man Baji means well, but he’s got this tiresome habit of concocting theories.”
“Even in Tokyo circles, they laugh about it.”
“Let’s just hope he doesn’t make the whole village laugh at him.”
“Though surely even he isn’t that much of a fool…”

Ishige shot Samejima a meaningful look and laughed.
Every nuance lay bare.

Baji and Ishige belonged to different political parties.
Because of this, the village administration often felt inconvenienced, but the villagers had long grown accustomed to it.
Instead of complaints, everything ended with veiled sneers.
Of course, even what might be called sneers originally held no basis for claiming superiority.

“Well, about that matter—”

Samejima looked up at the wealthy man’s face tensely, but the wealthy man remained composed.

“I did give it some thought, but I can’t do it your way.”
“To be honest, while I naturally intend for her to be my legal wife, as you can see, this is a household with many children—and some of them are already around the same age as the woman. So as previously discussed, it’s more convenient for her to live separately.”
“In form, it may look a bit like taking a concubine, but ultimately it’s a convenient arrangement for both parties—and as long as I intend her to be my legal wife, everything should be just fine, don’t you think?”

The educator’s entire body showed hesitation.

“I am an educator—”
His tone hardened his expression into seriousness.
Then, with practiced composure, he softened his delivery.

“People judge by formalities.”
“Nothing cuts deeper than rumors.”
“Even women—that’s their foremost concern.”
“Difficult as it may seem—she’s a career woman versed in life’s struggles and society’s underbelly. Far less troublesome than those who prattle about ideal husbands.”
“They secretly yearn to become carefree ladies of leisure.”
“That too stems from vanity—making everything a matter of appearances.”
“To speak plainly—in this marriage, wealth and status are the true bridegroom, not you.”
“Presented as concubinage—the woman would never consent.”
“And it would place me in an untenable position.”
“It would mean I brokered a concubine.”
“That’s how people would see it.”
“People handle others’ affairs with careless frivolity.”
“As an educator, that would spell my professional demise.”

“—I know.”

The wealthy man did not respond.
He made his eyes blatantly convey it—he understood.
Then he burst into what could only be called a lewd laugh.

“I’ve taken care of it.”
“Isn’t that the best guarantee?”
“Is my assurance less reliable than backroom whispers?…”

A laugh that blasphemed education itself stared brazenly into the principal’s eyes. Samejima nodded half-heartedly while forcing a laugh of resignation.

“Of course I understand.”

And then, his face hardened into a stern expression once more.

“What I fear is education’s dignity itself, I tell you.”
“My position won’t budge an inch through your guarantees.”
“That much I understand perfectly.”
“But people’s backbiting erodes education’s dignity.”
“To preach education while others doubt my character—it’s unbearable for me personally, and achieves nothing professionally.”
“Even with a clear conscience, once slander spreads, proper excuses prove useless, I tell you.”

“I know.”
“I’ll compensate you handsomely.”
“No trouble will reach you.”
“To a serious educator.”

Ishige laughed.

“Attractive women are liked by everyone, you know.”
“Samejima.”
“Isn’t that right?”
“Even you—even the serious principal—are the subject of rumors about that woman.”
“It’s fine, it’s fine. Isn’t that just how things go?”
“Attractive women are liked by everyone.”
“Listen, humans also have the right to fall in love with anyone, you know.”
“Humans like anything beautiful.”
“And you can’t afford to fuss over every little thing.”
“You’re a man who’s known hardship.”
“You’re someone who swallows everything down.”
“I well understand how different this is from greenhorns obsessing over their trivial selves.”
“That’s why I’m counting on you.”
“It takes one to know one.”

Ishige tilted his corpulent body and laughed.
Samejima joined in the laughter.
Then he forced a cold laugh that seemed to deliberately affirm it,
while letting the denial beneath show through.

“I won’t explain away the rumors, but…”

His eyes showed a hint of implication and a resigned weakness.
Then he laughed exaggeratedly.

“Well, it’s desire rather than women, I tell you.”

And then, stiffening, his face transformed once more in an instant into a stern expression.

“This is no joke―”

Samejima changed his tone.

“In any case, I’ll do everything I can.”
“However, I cannot guarantee success.”
“Formalities being what they are.”
“This may seem repetitive, but in factual terms, you must accept her as nothing less than the legal wife.”
“As long as they’re a proper couple in substance—regardless of form—I can strive without shame as an educator.”

“How tedious.”

Ishige’s face grew angular.

“There are many children with different mothers. If we say the older ones are nearly the same age as their new mother, doesn’t that make for a perfectly legitimate reason for separation?”

“Of course, I tell you.”

Samejima immediately changed the topic.
And then, he began to act lively.

When Samejima left the wealthy man’s house, the winter sky—exhausted past noon—lay stagnant and rotted, heavy.
And twilight was approaching.

You fools!
In the end, couldn't they see that I was the one treating every last one of them as fools?!

Aimless irritation surged through him.
Yet impossibility and indifference came to permeate space itself—as if they constituted its very substance.
This vexation bled into despair.
The sky hung unbearably unfeeling overhead.
An unmanageable void flooded his lungs with each breath.
His tongue turned gritty with bile.

I am the one mocking them!

The silence of the mountain was unbearable.
To distract himself from the irritating emptiness, he took a detour and walked only along the main road where houses stood.
On hilltops, below the road, across fields—houses were scattered here and there.

Every time he recalled Kazuko, who must still be remaining at the school, he had to clumsily feign ignorance and quicken his pace.

“Hey there!”
“Still full of life, aren’t you?”
“Don’t dote on your husband too much!”

Samejima shouted every time he caught sight of villagers.

From time to time, he would stop under thatched roofs, thrust his boar-necked head into the pitch-dark interiors, and crack jokes.
The smoke from brushwood at each house stung the eyes.

“You’re working hard, aren’t you.”
“You’ve stockpiled quite a bit.”
“I’ll come to borrow some, I tell you.”
“Hah!”

“Oh dear…”

From a corner of the darkness came replies with an everywhere-the-same monotonous intonation.
In the hearth, kindling burned with a soft crackle.
And the water at least roiled furiously.

“Why don’t you take a rest?”
“You’re always so busy, aren’t you, Principal?”

It was after school.
In the wintry village’s after-school hours, a disorderly mess lingered along the roadside, but even beneath the winter sky, clusters of children occasionally loitered on the road, merely wandering about bleakly in the chill.
Samejima would suddenly pick up a child, stroke someone’s head in passing, or walk away while laughing and looking back.

And then, he flirted with young women again.

“Have you found some good young men yet?”

The villagers both looked down upon and loved this Samejima.
And if anything, he was indeed loved by them.
In rural villages of this era, even educators had become those who could no longer hold sway.
Mending lost dignity might earn one disdainful glances but would never command reverence.
No—better to be universally scorned yet intimately cherished.
For while being loved, education’s inherent dignity bestowed something not wholly dismissible.
Principal Samejima had been thinking along these lines.

He finally reached the last house.
It was a small shop in front of the school that sold school supplies, tobacco, and cheap sweets.

As if he had forgotten something—no, as if he had left his very heart behind.
And the strength in his joints seemed to fade away.
Turmoil turned to cloud surged up.
He entered the shop with a puzzled look.
While endeavoring not to recall Kazuko.

“Maybe I’ll get some jam buns.”

He chewed on the bread at the shop counter but couldn't taste a thing.
The only sound that struck his ears was that of his own sipping tea.
His gaze lost its composure.
With each bite of bread, he spat out fragments in scattered bursts.

"It's snowing again, I tell you."

The old woman prepared the teapot and stood waiting beside the principal.

"Deep snow is such a bother."
"Really now—if it were just four or five *shaku*, we'd count ourselves lucky."

“Either way, five or six shaku of snow isn’t good, you know.”

The principal’s legs resisted rising, but in the end there was no choice but to stand, his face appearing darkened with an uneasy twist.
The awkwardness had reached the old woman, but she merely formed an amiable smile—

“I truly haven’t attended to you properly…”

Samejima veered abruptly into the school gate.

Twilight had already fallen.
The mountains sank into the depths of the evening haze, and something thin and sorrowful drifted through the schoolyard.

Samejima entered the staff room.
Darkness had already filled the interior—serenely silent—with no lamps lit.
Yet around the stove sat two figures slumped side by side: effigies wearied by prolonged silence and utterly drained of vigor.
From the dim schoolyard beyond twilight came something faint and sorrowful drifting through glass panes—borne coldly into the chamber’s gloom.

Samejima hung his hat and turned on the light.
It was a clumsy movement, as if he were a machine made solely for that purpose.

“Was today your night duty, Kōno?”

“Well, you see... It was supposed to be Kamiyama-kun’s turn, but with his headache or whatever, I took over instead.”
“Ah, winter night duty is unbearable, I tell you.”
“If I don’t have a drink—someone like me—I simply can’t sleep at all with this, hahaha.”

Samejima nodded. And he said hurriedly.

“Excuse me, Kōno-kun—would you kindly rise?”
“It won’t take long.”

The reason for Old Man Kōno and Teacher Kamiyama’s substitution.
When considering their exchange of duties, he had immediately imagined the teachers’ derisive gossip about him—and feared his face would twist into something hideous in response.

“Yes, yes.”
“Ah, right away.”
“Well then.”

Soon after, Old Man Kōno’s hoarse bellow echoed from the janitor’s room.

“Well, well.”
“Oh my… Today I absolutely must have a drink…”

Samejima stirred the stove.
The janitor brought in tea and left.

“We’re sitting face to face, aren’t we? It’s not a four-and-a-half-tatami room, but shall I try to woo you? Ahaha...”

He busily lit a cigarette.

“If I were to woo you, what would you do?”
“Would you run away, I wonder?”
“Will you scream?”
“Hahaha.”
“It’s just a joke.”
“Since you work alongside men, you must understand—and you must make others understand as well.”
“We do tell rather indecent jokes, you know.”
“What’s the matter with that?”
“It’s only a joke, isn’t it?”
“You shouldn’t listen so seriously.”
“Constantly making grim faces at each other—isn’t that such a dreary state of affairs?”
“The ones who blurt out filthy jokes might just have the purest hearts—wouldn’t you say?”
“It’s true, you know.”
“Or do you prefer pretty words?”

Samejima grew violently irritated and, as if flinging away his own words, suddenly stabbed his cigarette into the ashtray.
And he changed his expression.

“Well, putting jokes aside—won’t you consider getting married? Not with me, hahaha.”

However, Samejima had to hurriedly stiffen his expression. The faint flush that had appeared on Kazuko’s face filled him with a terror as vivid as beholding the red of hell. He dilated his pupils and shouted, chasing after his previous words.

“It’s Mr. Ishige Tadahito. A former prefectural assembly member and a large taxpayer.”

But in the midst of his hurried words, he realized that Kazuko’s body had swayed with the faintest hint of movement. Too strongly, he realized. He felt a rush of cold disappointment. Like someone awaiting a verdict, he could do nothing but fall silent and watch for her next move. Kazuko had risen quietly. Her face was pale and tense.

Kazuko walked toward her desk. And then, while examining the package, she finally showed her anger and spoke.

“I must decline that proposal.”

“Now comes the main point—do take a seat.”

“My mother is waiting.”
Kazuko stated coldly.

“I must take my leave.”

Kazuko walked away.
Samejima drew a breath toward the void.
And then, with doll-like steps, he unconsciously began to follow after Kazuko.

“I shall call on your residence later.”
“Please be sure to discuss it with your mother as well.”

The words were merely swallowed into the cave-like darkness of the entryway.
Toward the single small mist-haloed rim of the gate lantern, Kazuko walked swiftly away.
And she stepped outside the rectangular frame.
Even the sound of footsteps striking gravel had been swallowed by the quiet darkness in an instant.
Suddenly, night had arrived.
And he came to realize that the place where he trod lay in the midst of boundless darkness.

Samejima suddenly began walking stealthily toward the staff room where light seeped out, but before he knew why, he staggered back and walked down the corridor in the opposite direction, into the depths of darkness.
And he sat down on the stairs leading to the toilet at the end of the corridor and covered his face with his hands.
Everything seemed impossible—even his heart, even this fierce despair.
It was too quiet an anger.
And because of that, it was unbearable.

“What I’m doing…”

Suddenly, he obliterated everything into irritation.

He stood up violently.
He returned to the staff room with large strides.

“Kōno! Kōno!”

He violently stirred the stove while shouting.
And then, he placed Kōno Rōjin’s chair directly in front of the fire.

“Kōno.”
“Go on, have one.”
“Tonight’s on me.”
“Feel free to have two or three bottles…”

He looked up at the old man with familiarity and roared with laughter. He ordered the janitor to bring sake and soba. Then Samejima bustled about cheerfully by himself. The cheerfulness didn’t last even thirty minutes. Irritation began to show in his bodily movements.

“You—have whatever you want ordered in.”
“I’ll be going home now.”

Samejima yanked his hat down Amida-style.
He swung his cane around and went outside.

It was an immense night.
Though still early evening, all lights and sounds had utterly ceased, and the mountain stream’s murmur only deepened the silence.

He had to walk.
Because walking was the only possibility.

He tried thinking about Kazuko and that mother.
Then he was already thinking of other things.
Then he kept snuffing out the thoughts he wanted to dwell on before they could fully form.

He had abruptly appeared before the gate of Gyorin Temple.

As he gazed at the hushed depths of the temple, a misery bordering on despair began to well up within him.
He became aware of an abandoned alms bowl, resignation, and yet intense excitement.
And when a certain merit of Tsubaki suddenly surfaced in his judgment, he quickened his pace and rushed into the depths of the temple gate.
He felt almost the sweetness of defeat.
However, upon reaching the entrance, he had suddenly turned on his heel.
Without thinking anything at all, he suddenly changed direction, circled the hushed building's outline, and emerged toward the backyard.
The garden immediately continued into a stagnant old marsh, and beyond the marsh, on a desolate hill, there was a graveyard.
The desolate-laden depth of darkness pressed in.

From the gaps in the storm shutters lowered over the room, a thin light was leaking.
He knocked sharply on the window.

“Tsubaki, Tsubaki.”
“Are you there?”

Samejima turned toward the depths of the darkness and drew in a deep breath.

After a long creak, the storm shutters finally opened. And then, instead of Tsubaki, it was Priest Kaiyō who thrust forward his emaciated, childlike face and, from behind thick nearsighted glasses, fixed his bleary gaze upon the man in the darkness. Even after receiving Samejima’s greeting, Kaiyō continued letting his bleary gaze wander over him, but after a while,

“Ah, this is truly a rare occurrence.”

he shouted loudly.
Then he suddenly averted his eyes and shifted his exhausted gaze toward the distant depths of darkness.
And as if he had forgotten Samejima altogether, he now stared vacantly into the void.
Next, Tsubaki thrust out his head.

“May I come up from here?”
“Going around to the front would be troublesome.”

The boar-necked man roared with laughter alone as he crawled through the window into the light.

“At school, it’s like wearing stiff formal attire—my shoulders get tense and it’s so constricting.”
“I’d like to go all rough-and-ready like some starry-eyed student, eh?”

Samejima sat cross-legged and looked around the room, but the two young men did not even shift their expressions in response.
The light, bleached by winter and utterly exhausted, ominously filled this room as well.

“There seem to be rumors about you.”
“That talk of a transfer—it’s a baseless rumor.”

Samejima said to Tsubaki.

“I’m doing everything I can to dispel these misunderstandings—this talk about leftist leanings—but farmers don’t have the slightest idea what leftism even means.”
“So it’s like fearing an infectious disease—once they start arbitrarily speculating it might be that thing they dread，they end up genuinely terrified.”
“You see，isn’t that right?”
“The problem lies in your eccentricity.”
“Ignorant farmers judge things by their own standards，so you just need to mind that point.”
“I’m doing my utmost to clear up these misunderstandings，but given who we’re dealing with，please take care to grasp that nuance skillfully and avoid being misjudged.”

Kaiyō had been slumped limply against the wall, hugging his knees and staring vacantly at the ceiling, but suddenly—as if noticing something—he turned his gaze toward Samejima. And from behind thick nearsighted glasses, he opened his bleary eyes wide and stared fixedly at Samejima for a long time, but

“You crossed Mount Myoken today, didn’t you?”

“I went to Mr. Ishige’s place. Why do you know that?”

“You were walking so briskly. With your short legs and nimble stride, you looked just like some anachronistic courier to me. I was crossing the mountain next to Mount Myoken, you see—taking a breather in the grove when…”

When Kaiyō had said that much, he suddenly yawned carelessly and stared at the ceiling with his mouth hanging open.

“You’re the spitting image of a raccoon dog figurine.”

Samejima twisted his lips into a sarcastic grimace, but Kaiyō merely directed a startled glance his way before listlessly returning his gaze to the ceiling. He did not move a muscle.

“I will certainly do everything I can to resolve the misunderstandings, so please be careful too, you and Kurekure...”

Samejima spoke to Tsubaki in a hurried tone, repeating himself at length, but Tsubaki merely nodded reluctantly with a series of “uh-huhs” as if he had no choice.

Samejima crawled out through the window again.
Tying his shoes felt like a painstaking effort.

“Well then, goodnight.”

The principal bowed with a formality utterly mismatched to the two standing statues lined up by the window.
He turned his frozen face toward the darkness and quickened his steps.

However, the moment he exited the temple gate, he encountered an unexpected figure.
The principal turned to stone.

“…………”

The figure clad in a rumpled double-layered wrap observed the principal for a while, but

“Ah.”

Baji gave a slight nod.

“I wanted to have some idle talk with the young people, you see.”
“I’m dreadfully bored, you see.”

The old man attempted to walk away.

The principal showed signs of resigning himself and walking away, but suddenly turned around and started walking briskly ahead of Baji.

“I was just talking with Mr. Tsubaki until now, you see.”
“The priest is here as well.”

He rushed into the pitch-dark entrance and shouted.

“Mr. Tsubaki! Mr. Tsubaki!”

With the familiarity of a century-old acquaintance, he welcomed the young teacher’s appearance.

“Village Chief Hikawa has arrived,” said Principal Samejima to Tsubaki Ryōsuke. “I just encountered him over there.”

The principal bowed to Baji and promptly walked away.
He walked quietly for about a chō—roughly a hundred meters.
Then a sudden, tangled turmoil drove him into a frenzied run.
He swerved from the main road, sharply turned onto a side path, and began racing along a mountain pass trail that traced the silence of the peaks.
He ran as though resolved to collapse from exhaustion.

When he finally returned home, Samejima had regained much of his composure.
Though his displeasure showed plainly, he struggled to contain his raging emotions.
He changed into a kimono.
He had no wish to see his family’s faces, yet the electric light’s stark whiteness and the strained emptiness of its glow pulsed with an ache of discomfort.
In the end, he could not restrain his fury.
He berated his wife, struck her, then stormed outside.
There he swung his cane wildly.

The great darkness comforted his aimless heart.

In the end, he appeared at the school, but by then only a single electric light remained—small and dimly frozen to the gate.
He went around to the outer side of the night duty room and rapped sharply on the window, but there was no sign of response from within.
He muffled his footsteps and slipped across the schoolyard.
He defied the darkness.
In any case, he had to keep walking aimlessly.

―Unfinished―