Pathway to Japanese Literature

Polytheism

Place: Mino-Mikawa Border.
A shrine in the mountains—the inner sanctuary.

Names: Hakuryo Gongen, Himegami.
(Twenty years old as We see) Priest.
(Shin Sadaomi.
(Of Shugendō origin) Assistant priest.
(Fuketa Gorouji) Elderly assistant priest.
Servant handling miscellaneous tasks.
(Tanamura Hisauchi) Drummer of the 25-member troupe.
Closing Drummer.
Flutist.
Man with the Okame mask.
Man with the comedy mask.
Man with the Hannya mask.
One stagehand.
Ozawa.
(A certain man's mistress, twenty-five or twenty-six) Tengu.
(Chouchoubou) Miko.
(Around fifty) An actor dressed as a Shirabyōshi from Dōjō-ji.
One-eyed goblin children (boys and girls).
Village children—five or six.

**Assistant Priest** (in informal attire): *[Raises his ceremonial fan toward the twenty-five-member troupe]* “Now, now—the sun has sunk quite low indeed.
“You may all take respite.”

At these words, the kagura performers ceased their dance movements, and accordingly, the musical accompaniment fell silent.
The entire troupe consisted of simple mountain folk, wearing no ceremonial robes but only masks.—Amidst thickly scattered fallen leaves and clumps of pampas grass, those bearing comedy masks, Okame masks, Hannya masks, and others sat in rows or stood about, frozen in meaningless poses.
Each removed their masks; their ages ranged from about thirty to forty.
The stagehand was the eldest.

Stagehand: “Oh, uh... Lord of the Shrine.”

Man with the comedy mask: “My, what a ruckus we’re makin’ here.”

Closing Drummer: “Why, even just the music during kagura practice gets most villagers all worked up, see—but once they put on masks and costumes, why, even grannies and great-grannies can’t keep their minds on their work.”

Flutist: “Well now, seein’ as how come the day after tomorrow’s the shrine festival where we’ll be lettin’ loose proper-like, and harvest days bein’ so short an’ all—thought it’d be a shame not to make use of ’em, so here we are practicin’, if you take my meanin’.”

Man with the Hannya mask: “Just tryin’ to copy what I seen—this monkey dance business—but I ain’t got the hang of it at all, see? Figured I’d try wearin’ the mask a spell to get the feel right.”
“From the start, it’s been a right humble spread we’ve laid out—piled high with grated yam and eel and all.”
“We just got all carried away by the music—the shrine’s deity must’ve found it right unseemly, yes, yes.”

“Ah, no—no need for such courtesies,” said the Assistant Priest, raising his fan toward the masked troupe. “This isn’t some kitchen with overturned mortars—a festival’s backstage has its own charm.”

The sun sank low, sharpening the autumn chill. Countless red dragonflies flickered through shafts of pale light—their scattered clusters, viewed from afar, shimmered like rain on maple leaves, evoking an evening shower caught in twilight’s glow.

Though he knew these woods at dawn and dusk, their depths still weighed heavy. Gazing up at the dripping canopy, he added, “You’ll all be drenched soon enough—fair-weather performers indeed.” With a wave of his fan: “Rest awhile. Let us share ceremonial sake per the priest’s order—gather yonder together.”

Stagehand: “Hey there.”

Drummer: “Right-o,” he replied.

Man with the comedy mask: “Though I reckon it’s downright unsightly myself…”

Flutist: “Well then.”

Man with the Okame mask: “No need for formalities from you lot.”
(All wore their masks slung over backs or tucked against chests, carefree.)

Stagehand: “Aye, I’ll come along, sir.”

Assistant Priest: “Now then—here.—No—children—” (Two girls and three boys who’d been watching the kagura since it began) “—Play a spell, but be home ’fore dark.”

“Now then—be careful at both Ritsugan and Ipponbashi, you hear?”

“Okay.”

And so the shrine priests entered the grove.
Maple and pine intermingled.
The shrine priests were no longer visible.

Child 2: "Whoa, we made quite a mess."

Child 3: "Yeah, I guess..."

Child 1: "It ain't dirt—just leaves!"

“Ain’t nothin’ but some stray leaves—who cares?”

“Do we still have to sweep even the maple leaves?”

“If they’re scattered on the mat, we clean them even indoors.”
“Let us clean where God resides as we go.”

“The veranda is clean.”

Child 1: “Then from the stairs.”
“Hey—you lot without brooms! Use your hands to scratch ’em together!”

Girl 1: “I’ll use my sleeves.”

Child 2: “How rough! And you’re a girl.”

Girl 3: “But I mean—the deep red ones and yellow ginkgo leaves—even those with stems—I can just tuck them into my sleeves!”

Pulling out broken rakes along with new and old brooms hand after hand, they gathered fallen leaves into piles while sweeping and sang together:

“Where has New Year come?
To Mount Karakara’s foot,
What souvenirs arrive?
Kaya nuts and victory chestnuts dried,
Mikan oranges bright,
Citrons kōji,
Tachibana beside.”…

Ozawa emerged from the left side—deep within the darkly overgrown ancient cedar grove—wearing a blue-dominant striped kimono with pale blue under-collar and black satin obi, her hair arranged in a marumage style.
Her sidelocks were slightly disheveled, and within her lovely countenance showed traces of exhaustion.
Barefoot in straw sandals, her pale figure revealed itself as she quietly emerged—leaning against the trunk of an immense cedar tree—pause.

(emerging among the children) “Oh‚ what good children—sweeping Lady Himegami’s garden‚ How delighted she must be—Sisters…” (with a lonely smile) “Well‚ this old woman will give you a humble little reward.”
“I once offered them as ritual offerings.”
“Here‚ sweets.”

The children moved apart and stared intently.

Ozawa: “Now, please have some.”

Child 1: “I will take it.”

Girl 1: “I will take it home.”
(They all adorably accepted the sweets.)

“Oh my,” said Ozawa. “Why do you think that is?”

“But God gives them,” replied Girl 2.

“Oh, what a waste,” Ozawa lamented. “I’m O-Sandon; please lend me a broom.”

“Then you’re the Errand Princess,” declared Child 2.

“Pretty miss!” exclaimed Girl 1.

“I’m scared,” whispered Girl 2.

Child 1 warned, “Say stuff like that, and you’ll get laughed at in school.”

“But you’re a pretty lady.”
“I’m scared.”

Child 2: “I’m a little scared.”

As they continued smoothly gathering Ozawa’s fallen leaves, they gradually retreated bit by bit.

Child 1: “I bet it’s New Year’s!”
“New Year’s has come all the way to this mountain.”

Child 2: “Huh? Is New Year’s a woman?”

“I don’t know.”

“If it’s a fox, that’d be bad.”

“If that’s the case, when we get home, these sweets’ll turn into kaya nuts and victory chestnuts.”

Child 3: “If that’s the case, then fine—but they’re all just leaves.”

The girls screamed— “Kyaa—”

The boys: “Hey, don’t trip!”
“Cowards!” —(With that, they vanished into the forest shade.)

Ozawa placed the broom beneath the hall’s eaves, scooped water from the purification font, smoothed her disheveled side locks, tucked the clean hand towel into her sleeve, and prostrated herself in prayer at the stairway’s base for a brief moment.
Silence.
Creak-creak-creak... thud.
The sound of a loom drifted from nowhere in particular.
Creak-creak-creak... thud.
Ozawa.
She raised her face, looked around while listening intently, and eventually leaned diagonally against the stairs.
She continued listening intently—creak-creak-creak... thud.
(In time with the rhythm of the intervals, she lightly clapped her hands against the railing of those steps, mimicking weaving—gradually becoming entranced by the sound, growing spellbound, her stray hairs cascading down as she dozed off.)

Shrine servant (Behind the curtain—sudden monkey-like voice): Screech! Screech! Screech!
(Now wearing a long-faced old monkey mask, suikan robe, and eboshi hat in a manner resembling a town crier—daikon radish, burdock, thick carrot, large turnip.
Pulling a roan horse laden on one flank with a sake barrel, its faded purple rein in hand—heaps of dried cod and salmon piled high—he emerged) Screech! Screech! Screech! Screeeech!—“Perform the dance of triumph!”—hands circling about in dance, shoulders swaying with each small hip twist, ahhh, swaying drunkenly to and fro.
Screech! Screech! Screech! Screech!
Hahahaha!

The groom swayed his hips—oh roan! (He turned around) As the stable drew near, Wadono’s steps grew ever more brisk and light.
Even were one to return via this back slope, the front stone steps would sprout wings and leap in a single bound.
“Well! A horse sprouting wings!” he remarked.
“Tails dangling from us… Screech! Screech! Screech! Let’s have another round ere our true forms show!” he cried.
“Wait! Wait!”
(Pulling out a horse ladle) “What’s a horse ladle’s use in this world?”
“Why—this!” he declared.
(Poured sake) Glug-glug-glug.
(Removing his mask) “Oh ho—here we are!”
“Screech! Screech! Screech!”
“When servants filch sake,” he slurred, “milord’s temper sours.”
“But if you deem it monkey-work,” he hiccuped, “no harm done!”
“Still—mask on, mask off—this drinking game wears a man ragged!”
“Hahahaha!”
“Oooooh!” he bellowed. “Sake from Horse’s Back beats Dragon’s Mouth spring—nectar! Nectar!”
(Smacked his lips) “Click-click-click—nectar!”
“Screech! Screech! Screech!”
“Hmm—nearly at the front,” he muttered. “No more ladle-work—nor monkeying about.”
(With eyes bleary from drink, he spotted Ozawa on the steps.)
(Frantically bowing face-down) “Hah! Hah! Great Gongen-sama—forgive me! Forgive me!”

To presume to address Your miraculous form was dreadfully impertinent.
The matters I had just uttered were naught but delirious ravings.
Though I’d donned the monkey mask and filched but a sip of sacred sake—this was no mere impertinence! For on the eve of Your Ladyship’s grand festival, when the monkey leads the roan from the stable to circle the village, this very act becomes a divine talisman ensuring favorable winds and rains, prosperity of the five grains, and deliverance from all calamities—a tradition our parishioners uphold as most auspicious. Thus—ha! ha!—as Your Ladyship beholds, we perform the rites of sea and mountain offerings with utmost purity, all through Your divine majesty’s grace.
Overwhelmed with joy at receiving Your protection, I’d drunk myself into such a state that no excuse remained.
“I most earnestly beg forgiveness.”
Hah! Hah! (Fearfully lifting his forehead from where it had been pressed against the ground.)
Ozawa.

Still drowsy，she flexibly shifted her knees and adjusted her posture．
(The light blue hem of her underrobe dampened subtly with an alluring sheen．) To there—I shall go there now．
Fearfully．
Ah，dread．
Therefore，deign not to regard this one as even the dregs of an eboshi-wearing man—begging Your Ladyship to see me only as a red-faced beast—Hah! Dread，dread．
(Trying to don the monkey mask again yet unable to advance，crouching beside the horse’s belly and peering toward the altar) Roan，proceed ahead．
When one dares offend Your Ladyship’s dignity，it is said that divine punishment shall strike—hurling a hair comb like an arrow to pierce and crush one eye．
Fearfully．

(The roan horse, its reins released, plunged forward without hesitation.)
The shrine servant continued scurrying along after it.
On the main stage at last, the roan horse charged toward the stable in one breath and vanished into the crimson maples to the right.
As if struck by the gust from its tail, the shrine servant abruptly stumbled into a four-limbed crawl and dropped his mask.
(As he frantically tried to stuff it into his robe, he spotted Ozawa right before him—startled, he jerked back and stared intently at her once more.) What’s this—a person? A pilgrim?
Well—he had been utterly terrified out of his wits.
Well, a town woman... An alluringly coquettish woman—yes, you had given me quite a fright, damn you!
And yet, sleeping soundly like that—where in blazes was there a woman who didn’t know horses passed through here? What a reckless wench!
Ah, but—those who dozed during overnight vigils at the sacred hall of this shrine—it was said to be a time when divine messages descended.
The divine will was indeed revered... He must not startle her from sleep.

(As Ozawa stealthily passed before the shrine,
As she drowsily attempted to adjust her knees, a single iron hammer clattered down from her robe.
It clattered.
Shrine servant.
Startled even by this faint sound, he stood on tiptoes while staring intently, trembled violently, and leapt swiftly into the tree.
Pause.

(The edge of the kaishi paper disordered—from Ozawa’s white chest, five-inch nails scattered down.)

At the forefront were the shrine priests of Hakuryo Gongen, followed by the senior priest.
All the villagers.

The shrine servant emerged next—a shrine priest around forty years old, fair-skinned and portly with a mustache beneath his nose.
They seized the fallen iron hammer while simultaneously grabbing Ozawa by the shoulders.

The priest: “You there, woman!”

Ozawa—startled awake at the voices—tried to free herself, but with no escape from the crowd towering before the steps, tore away from the priest’s grasp while crying, “Forgive me! Forgive me!”
(Once ascending the steps, she fled to the left corridor.)
The people scattered from below the veranda and surrounded her path.
Ozawa.
As she fled while trying to turn back, the priest intercepted her pursuit and firmly seized the edge of her obi.
(Taking the black crepe obi that slid off and discarding it, he pulled her down, then used Ozawa’s own hands to frantically cover her disheveled chest as he forcefully thrust his hand in.) “Ah! Ahh!”

The priest (holding high in one hand the exposed straw effigy with nails driven straight through it, brandishing an iron hammer in the other as he rose imposingly, then forcefully kicking Ozawa’s weakened lower back): "Disgusting wretch!"
Blasphemer!

Ozawa—Ah.

(She tumbles down the steps.)

“Demon beast! Non-human! You commit acts beyond all reckoning!”

Senior Priest: “Well now... These past three or four nights—deep into the witching hours—in this direction... from the depths of that forest, there came cries like those of a monstrous bird. From what tales tell, I thought they might be curse nails.”

“Yet chalking it up to wild rumors born of our remote location, I’d dismissed talk of any real ushi no koku mairi rituals in this day and age—but lo! To think we’d actually behold... this she-devil, this yaksha, right before our eyes!”

There—there—her downcast cheekbones jutted sharply outward, her chin turned triangular like a beak, her mouth split crimson to the ears, and her complexion faded to corpse-blue.

Man in the Oni Mask (with a look of utter disbelief): “Venerable Senior Priest—could you be speaking of our affair?”

Senior Priest: “Pay it no mind—’tis but this she-devil’s accursed visage.”

“Hoh.”

Man in the Comedic Mask (furtively stepping forward): “What… that… the pounding drum…”

“What’s this?” said the Man with the Closing Drum. “What’s this?”

“No—not the drum,” replied the Man in the Comedic Mask. “Driving them in—yes, clang clang with five-inch nails… That dreadful straw doll with five-inch nails—ah, is that what you mean?” (Reaching up from below toward the priest’s hand.)

The Flute Man likewise reached up. “Wrists, ankles, mid-abdomen—” (Pressing his own navel and arching back.) “Hyah! Crunch crunch—they drove the nails in till their heads vanished from sight. Well now—no blood dripping or such, eh?”

The priest turned over the hands, feet, and torso of the straw effigy as described, holding it up to examine. "...Dripping with blood. The straw has split like flesh. This—do not approach." Brushing aside the pressing villagers, he intoned: "Six Roots Purified—clarity begets purity, purity begets clarity. Precisely because we who serve the gods are unsullied do we handle this impurity." He warned: "Should you all draw near this corruption, even a mere glance will plague your very sinews and bones."

(This time he descended the steps with composure.)
(The people parted to either side.) "Defiled! Depraved! Muddied and fouled! Warped and twisted jealous woman! I demand to know—what manner of creature are you?"

Ozawa remained silent.

The priest: “Are you someone’s daughter?”

Ozawa shook her head slightly.

The priest: “A wife?”

Senior Priest: “For a married woman, you lack any semblance of domesticity—all gloss and no substance.
Nor do you appear to be someone without a household.
Are you a mistress, a dependent, or a kept woman? In the presence of this efficacious deity, declare it plainly!”

Ozawa: “Yes—I have nothing to say. Only—” (speaking in fragments) “I am deeply ashamed.”

The priest: “You—do you even know shame, wretch?
Even if you were called a lawful wife, it rings hollow.
You rotten, festering filth—a plaything for others’ amusement—how dare you impose a wish born of jealousy upon the august... pure and beautiful god!”

Senior Priest: “You there—offer your apologies at once! Even should you need to rub salt upon your bare flesh, undergo purification and seek absolution.”

The priest: “Nay, Fuketa—before any cleansing, first comes divine retribution—the god’s punishment.”
“The august god’s will is known full well by him who serves as divine master.”
“What would women who cut grass and gather firewood know of such matters? Yet here stands this city woman—hair coiffed, face painted, reeking of allure—who dares not name this place main hall nor worship hall, lingering by these steps even on a winter’s sunlit day!”
“They say the soil, the wind, the mountain’s essence—all seep into one’s bones with the coming night.”
——

The kagura villagers.
“We’ve sobered up now.”
“Brr! So cold!” they all exclaimed, clutching at their collars and sleeves.

The priest: “You dozed off—of all things—more abominable than nailing a coffin shut—dropping the iron hammer and spilling the nails... The nails—where are they?...”

Senior Priest (looking at his palm): “Here they are.”

The kagura villagers crowded around outside and peered in.

The priest declared: “This manifests the divine will itself—reverence demands you follow its ordained sequence.”
“Fuketa has attested—‘For three nights, four nights running, an iron hammer’s blows echoed through the forest.’ Did you steal here nightly? Speak plainly!”
“Well?”

Ozawa stammered: “Yes… tonight… marked… my vow’s… fulfillment.”

The priest reverenced the main hall. “Ah, how august is divine providence.”
“Though He deigns not accept improper and irreverent petitions—on this very night when worldly vows claim fulfillment—it stands exposed.”
“Clearly has He cast out this wickedness.”
“Earlier observed emerging from yon forest—distributing sweetmeats to children—yet ever skulking deep within those woods from dawn’s light—awaiting night’s depth to practice curses—or so one might conjecture.”

Ozawa: “Yes... I... shall conceal nothing more.”
“I crossed that fearsome ravine beneath the mountain.”
“There being one known to me in the village—through that way came I.”

The kagura villagers whispered among themselves.

“Do you know?”

“Hey.”
“Yeah.”
“Hmm.”
“That’s it.”

They all began—

“What’s that ’bout Granny Shimofuri—look, in th’ back o’ that penny candy store, somethin’ white’s flickerin’.”
“Her fancy patron from town, I reckon.”
“Granny says she’s got some shameful sickness hidin’ there—told us not t’ peek ’cross th’ fence or nothin’.”

Flute Man: “Leprous hag!”

Drum Man: “Says it’s some disgraceful ailment.”

Okame-masked man: “But ain’t she just a knocked-up wench?”

Senior Priest: “A woman’s lawful pregnancy brings no shame.”
“So—every midnight, you crossed that single-log bridge even horses fear, eh?”

The jester-masked man: “A woman’s determination—so that’s how you crossed the single-log bridge, eh? Now these deep valleys here—but way downstream, there’s Nagara River’s iron bridge they say’s bigger than Tōkaidō’s Ōi River, milady. Them prefectural-office gentlemen who went to the station ’cross the river—ain’t returnin’ on the last train, they say. Must’ve slept with some post-town harlot from them rumors. No proper mistress would do such—but there you were! In rainy season’s pitch-black nights, clingin’ to that iron bridge barely above flood-swollen muddy waves—no—crawlin’ on all fours! What’s this ’bout a full-term belly ready to burst? Crawlin’ ’cross with your hair all wild, damn near drownin’ in the current! That big belly of yours—night travelers say they saw what looked like a great anglerfish’s glow floatin’ soft-like ’cross the iron bridge—the fire in your chest must’ve slipped down to set that belly ablaze, eh?”

“Now see here—if the bridge’s too risky, folks can scramble over the rocks down at the stream-bed, ya know? ’Sides, the stable’s horses always ford the current anyhow.”
“No—just earlier, fallen leaves had piled up layer upon layer, swirling in water filled to the brim until even the jutting rocks were hidden. As she searched for where to cross, the water itself turned entirely crimson with maple leaves.”
“Oh—it’s not on account of drunken eyes, I tell ya.”

Senior Priest: “Tanamura.”
(Addressing the shrine servant) “What nonsense are you spouting?”

Shrine Servant: “Ah—no—seeing as how the pregnant woman crawls over the iron bridge, they say those performing ushi no koku mairi cross the ravine’s single-log bridge without hesitation.”
“The stone steps catch the eye.”
“There can be no doubt she took the mountain path along the rear leading to the forest.”

The priest: “Tanamura—you there—first, discard that woman’s obi.”

Senior Priest: “How could anyone bear to hold the filthy obi of such a woman?”

Shrine Servant: “It is precisely because I am firmly holding it that if carelessly discarded, it will turn into a black snake and writhe about like this.”

“Lord Shin declares,” said the Senior Priest. “Why not at least hang it on a tree branch?”

“If hung on a tree,” replied the shrine servant, “it’ll still turn into a great serpent and slither down.”
(He clutched it tighter to his chest.)

“Tanamura,” commanded the priest, “this disgraceful spectacle—cast it into the forest.”

Shrine Servant: “I shall do as you say—”

Ozawa: “Um...” (The shrine servant brushed away her trembling, outstretched hand.)
He headed into the forest.
(He threw the obi and spun back.)

The priest: “What have you done?”

The shrine servant rolled it up with a slithering noise, but it became a pitch-black strip and sluggishly made its way into the depths of the forest.
……In all likelihood, it must have coiled itself with single-minded fervor around the roots of the old cedar where nails are driven.

Priest: “It is certain that she is committing abominable, defiling acts within the forest.”
“Now then, Woman.”
“……Have you been holed up here since noon?”
“Speak plainly—it is you who must do so.”

Ozawa: "Yes... (pause) Yes—until the seventeenth day’s fulfillment... they say those who undertake this vow must never—not even once—be seen by human eyes... For if seen even once... then at that very moment... their wish shall go unfulfilled."
"Until last night, I hadn’t met even a beast’s shadow."
"They say if tonight—this one final night—mysteriously becomes the night of fulfilled vows... then being seen by human eyes..."
"If I’m seen... what should I do?"
How infuriating... Even were I to sink my teeth into that man’s throat—his chest...

“This is it—you cunning woman.”

Ozawa: “Well… what would that matter?”
If I were to hide in the forest from noon onward—no matter what else—first and foremost, I thought it might avoid being seen by human eyes—the idea suddenly occurred to me.
Even if I covered myself with leaves, threw myself into the grass, or curled up small, I felt that pheasants and mountain birds—with their keen sense of shame—would surely find me, leaving me utterly beside myself.
On the contrary, I concluded that it would be better to carry myself as an ordinary shrine visitor, so as not to arouse any suspicion.

“You—so flippantly carrying this cursed effigy (he brandished the straw doll) that should’ve been kept utterly hidden! Merely because there remain others in the forest—nails driven into sacred trees you dare not approach—is it?”

Ozawa: “No, no… Until last night, I left it as it was struck. Even if I step away for just a moment—what could have happened today? My heart races with foreboding…”

Senior Priest: “No—this foreboding chokes me. That creature scheming to curse a man to death!”

Ozawa: “But... if people see me... if beasts carry me off...
“The ritual could be ruined beyond repair.”
“That’s why... I took it with me when I left.”
“And... and... O divine lords, all of you—driving five-inch nails into that hateful wretch’s body? I’m no demon or serpent—I’d never even consider such a horrifying thing!”
“My sweet boy—my only precious son—lies feverish... To cure his sickness... To appease the God of Plague—”

“Yes.”
“God of Plague.”
The villagers retreated again.

The priest: “The God of Plague—”

Ozawa: “Yes, I will seal it—for it is a vow.”

The priest: “In neither the towns nor the villages—nor within eight *ri* in all directions—is there any smallpox or measles at present. What disease could it be?”

“Yes...”

Senior Priest: “What disease?”

Ozawa: “Yes—the cold has grown terribly severe.”

Priest (mocking): “Hmm—what does driving nails into the wind accomplish, hmm?”

Senior Priest: “Hmm, hmm.”

The villagers too were ushered in, tilting their heads in a show of solemnity.

Shrine Servant: “Ah, everyone—it seems the kite has become snagged.”

—They all laughed mockingly.—

Priest: “It is done.—If we speak of involvement, we too are entangled in this incident. A matter concerning a human life—it must be dealt with conclusively.”
……Clearly, she had devised her scheme with meticulous depth—but look! That woman’s chest, her knees—all laid bare… Ozawa shrank herself further, frantically smoothing disheveled appearance—her shoulders, sleeves appearing pitifully forlorn. Her chest, skin, and knees—whiter than snow one might say—indeed gleamed pale, yet beneath robes clung a single layer: a thin undergarment of stark white cloth entwined about her.
The witch had even groomed her appearance.
Over there—he pointed with an outstretched arm toward the forest—they used the ritual effigy as a stone; near the cedar where nails were driven, what sort of defiling, abominable contraption might lie hidden.
“No—all of you”—to the villagers and assistant priests—“escort this woman and conduct an on-site judgment, I declare.
Haul out those suspicious items at once!
We must conduct a root-level investigation based on the evidence.
Now, Woman—stand up!”

Senior Priest: “Stand up.”

Priest: “Whether we forgive depends on what follows.”
“I—have certain intentions.”
Once set out again from the shrine residence.
“Tanamura, come with me.”
“—Have the villagers take the woman and escort her—”

The villagers hesitated, stood rigidly, searched about, grabbed whatever was at hand—hoes, spades, rakes, old brooms—and each carried whatever tool they could obtain.

Stagehand: Move forward, move forward!

“I’ll strike those jealousy-burned cheeks with a broom—stand up!”

Ozawa stood up abruptly and swiftly headed into the forest.
The entire group exchanged glances and immediately chased after her into the forest.

The priest and shrine servant entered the shrine residence—onstage they were no longer visible, save perhaps for the distant thatched roof.
The stage stood empty.
No fallen leaves stirred under the faint lantern light where an owl perched.
(It cried twice.)

The priest emerged with solemn dignity, wearing a long sword and in full ceremonial attire.
The shrine servants followed in attendance, carrying out a camp stool.
Priest.
He solemnly took his seat on the camp stool.
Beside him squatted a shrine servant, holding aloft a single banner whose pole-tip gleamed with a sword.—A separate elderly shrine servant.
Alone.
The elderly shrine servant followed, holding aloft a set of sacred streamers and sakaki branches adorned with ritual papers.

Ozawa—despondently adjusting her sleeves and shifting her hem while still wearing her damask sash, hanging her head deeply—emerged surrounded by the villagers.
The accompanying Senior Priest carried in his hand an uncanny bundle wrapped in animal pelt—resembling a man’s pillow—bound with strange cords, then unceremoniously dropped it with a thud near the Priest’s feet.

“It is the divine command. Woman, kneel down.”
“Someone—hold up the lantern!—” (A villager opened a lantern.)
(Holding it up to the light) “What is that?”
“Did they dig this out? It’s damply wet.”
“Ah—” (standing on tiptoe) “—a snake has coiled around it.”

“It was precisely because it fell to us that we approached and inspected it.”
“We concealed this within the roots of a great cedar tree beneath the grass, but due to the dense foliage where tree sap naturally drips, it became thoroughly soaked.”
“The villagers, upon catching a single glimpse of it, tried to flee without making a sound.”
“That thing—with its smooth, rounded skin and misshapen form; its tail and head both stubby and thick; squirming and bulging as it writhed sideways—appeared exactly like a nozuchi snake, a dreadful, uncanny creature said to possess venom lethal enough to kill a man.”
“However, what bound it was not a living snake.”
“Even with such wickedness, it was indeed the woman who tied the bundle—using spliced snake molts.”

Priest: A Nozuchi snake? Ah, even hearing its name is abhorrent.
“…Even if glimpsed, you crafted it skillfully to deter approach—a calculated scheme.”
“Untie it. Untie it.”

Senior Priest: (While untying) A wild dog? A fox? No—this pelt wrapping appears to be that of a tanuki.

The entire group fixed their eyes.
Ozawa bowed her head and prostrated.

The priest solemnly listed each item: “A mirror—hmm—an iron ring—hmm—candles—cosmetics—rouge—white powder.” He recoiled from the bundle’s contents: “Oh—the ohaguro tooth-blackener! What a vile stench… And separately—a hammer—hmm—nails crusted with red rust, black rust, blue rust—all jumbled together… Likely smeared with blood from blue spiders—crimson geckos—black lizards.” With a metallic flash, he drew his sword and flung the straw doll onto the pelt: “Ah! No more pretense remains!” His blade quivered as he demanded: “N-now—n-now—first! What manner of man was this?”

Ozawa’s whisper barely stirred the air: “An actor.”

“—‘Actor.’”
“Oh ho! An actor.”
“Actor,” they repeated one after another.

Priest: “What’s this—‘Actor’?… Has he gone off to town?”
“Is he from this province?”

Ozawa: “No—in Osaka—”

Senior Priest: “How brazenly you speak!”

Priest: “You—are you that actor’s mistress?”

Ozawa: “No.”

Priest: “The more I hear—the more I hear—the more you wallow in depravity here.
“Needless to say—you have defiled your already tainted body as another’s mistress, layer upon layer.
“Worse still—forgetting your station—you dare curse a man from 140 to 150 *ri* away, nearly 200 *ri*!”

Shrine Servant: “That... that actor—what’s his name now, in Osaka?
“Sister.”

Priest: “Step back, Tanamura.
“In such matters, even learning the name risks letting the curse rebound upon its target.
“Do not inquire.
“The more I hear, the less merits hearing. Lewdness—filth—your very presence defiles this sacred space.
“Strike the thorned whip against this hussy’s pallid buttocks and cast her down the stone steps.
“I ask in utter revulsion, woman:
“When you pressed that nail-studded effigy to your skin and lay there drowsing—what sensation gripped you?”

“It was a prickling itch,” said Ozawa.

“What’s this—fastening a straw doll… Your skin itches?” scoffed the Senior Priest. “You keep spitting ‘fastened’ this and ‘fastened’ that!”
He glared. “She’s clearly deranged.”

“No,” Ozawa countered, her voice steadying. “The dream was Needle Mountain of Hell.”
Her eyes grew distant. “Before me rose a cliff like brambles sheathed in frost—two dreadful demons drove me upward, shouting ‘Climb! Climb!’ Shameful…humiliating… Better an iron rod crush my naked flesh than endure those jagged needles piercing me.”
A shudder passed through her. “But then—a horse surged from behind! Blue flames licked its hooves; black smoke choked the air. It nearly trampled me—I rolled clear…only to plunge into Needle Mountain’s soil.” Her hand drifted to her chest. “The effigy’s nails…they sank deep here…and here…” She touched her ribs. “Pain? Throbbing? Let my bones splinter—I’d endure it.”
Her voice sharpened. “Then heat erupted inside me—that maddening itch! I clawed at my robe…brushed something…and spilled it all.” She met their stares defiantly. “That’s how you found everything.”

“Hmm—stubborn,” declared the Priest. “Your lowly disposition itches from the Needle Mountain of Hell. You wouldn’t last under the thorny whip. Well said—there’s another method of divine punishment for you. Above all else, I shall first expose that visage—the demonic brute so shameful to this world.”
He swept his gaze across the crowd. “Let us see.—Take heed! You must all remember this well: make it an example for brides, matrons, and daughters in villages near the shrine—and spread word to every county and town. Fuketa!”

The Senior Priest bowed. “Yes.”

“If she thrashes about, grab her arms and legs… Get the villagers to help strip that woman’s outer robe.”
“Make them comb her hair, set an iron ring on her head—light nine or seven candles ablaze, flickering like serpents’ tongues—and have her bear them on top.”

“This is perfect, perfect.”
“A most excellent judgment, Your Lordship.”

“Step back, Tanamura. Now—it is divine will—show no hesitation.”

They seized Ozawa, their actions unfolding precisely as the priest had decreed.
Gripping her wrists and shoving her hips forward, they exposed her form directly to the spectators—

Ozawa let out a stifled whimper... (clenching her teeth to suppress her sobs.)

“No—though deathly pale, this remains a human woman’s face,” declared the priest.
“That visage lays bare its wicked malice! Put on her the hannya mask—the demoness’s visage!”
“Ah—exactly so.”
“Place the mirror upon her chest—there—yes! The straw doll and iron hammer in one hand.”
“Yes—precisely that.”
“Once—twice—thrice—swing it about her head! How pitiful—a demoness of the Hour-of-the-Ox curse wearing mere single-pronged clogs! This lacks finality.”
“Make her stand upon the campstool—hoist it up!”

She stood on the campstool.
The people gathered Ozawa up and placed her on the campstool.
Her black hair wildly disheveled, flames licking at a cedar treetop, a bewitching and lithe demoness stood tall—

Ozawa: “No!”
*Infuriating.*
(Her hands almost convulsively raised the chisel and iron hammer, her mask tilted to bare white teeth, she instinctively fixed her gaze on the priest.)

Priest: (Brandishing his sword as though cutting down demons while retreating) “Tenacious evil! Ancient malice! Foul corruption! Calamity incarnate!”
(Suddenly realizing his error, he sheathed his sword, seized a large sacred wand, and leapt forward.) “O God, purify us! Grant us purification!”
(As he tried to extinguish the curse’s flames licking at her black hair, the blue fire instead leapt to his sacred wand, blazing up fiercely—heartfire and hellfire accumulating in terrifying intensity) “Agh! Put it out! Put it out! Extinguish the evil flames! Extinguish the evil flames!”
“Ugh—this isn’t working.”
“Why don’t you kick down the campstool and all?!”
(He cried out in panic.)
(The people pushed Ozawa down along with the campstool, surrounded her, and extinguished all the candle flames at once.)

Ozawa crumbled and collapsed prostrate.

The priest panted through clenched teeth. "A single oversight after a thousand considerations."
"Ah," he thought, "I mishandled it."
The flames had instead laid bare her lewd demonic visage.
"This served neither as divine punishment nor admonishment," he realized.
The aura of cruelty and ruthlessness—an ever-present shadow clinging to this woman—had gone unnoticed by those of his stature.

“Hey, Fuketa.”
“Now now—no, villagers.”
“This time, replace the hannya mask with the okame mask on the demoness—strip off her Hour-of-the-Ox ritual garments, leave her naked, and make her dance.”
“This turns shadow into light.”

Shrine Servant: “What a delightful naked dance.”
“Fine entertainment! Fine entertainment!”
“Fine entertainment indeed!”

“Step back, Tanamura,” commanded the priest. “This is no amusement—it is divine punishment.”

The senior priest leered. “Shall we dance?”
“Heh heh heh.”
He grinned slyly again and again.

“Now then,” barked the priest, “while accompanying her with flute and drum, pull her hands—swing her around seven times—then let go! A naked woman shan’t be allowed to lie on her back.”
“Make her eyes roll wild—force her limbs to dance!”

“Let’s do it.”
“Do it!”
“Let the sacred demon-dispelling ritual commence!”
The villagers babbled and stirred.
The drum was set in place; already the flute shrilled.
Two or three men abruptly seized Ozawa’s garments.—

Ozawa: “Oh! No! No!”

Priest: “Disregard her protests and strip them off.”
“A naked Okame.”
“Remove the two red cloths…but leave her undergarments.”

Shrine Servant: “The waistcloth, the waistcloth…” (moving to assist).

Senior Priest: “‘Waistcloth,’ as they say.”
“…Filthy by now, no doubt.”

Overseer: “This woman would keep hers clean.”

Ozawa (twisting in anguish): “Mercy, mercy! Not that—anything but that!”

Priest: “Proceed!”
“By this shrine’s ordinance.”
“Yet once fulfilled, we shall grant exile and pardon.”

“I beg you, show mercy as I am now! If only I may leave your presence, I’ll return neither to village nor home—I’ll cast myself into that mountain stream and atone through death.”

“The water’s shallow.”

“No—even were my body shattered on rocks in that raging torrent... Ah, how wretched... how humiliating.”
From the start, though she’d tried repeatedly to bite through her tongue—whether from three days without sleep or five—all her teeth had loosened without chipping, useless for severing flesh.
Her shriveled tongue could only gnaw lips—lips bitten raw.
(Blood trickled from their broken skin.)

“Her visage has truly become that of an evil demon,” declared the priest. “Expel shadow with sun. Flute, drum—now, play! Haul her up! Make her dance!”

Villagers scattered about the courtyard with flutes and drums struck up their music in unison.

Ozawa writhed under their torment. “Have mercy… Have mercy… Please have mercy…”
“Have mercy… Oh…”

A golden loom’s shuttle clattered sharply through the air, its resonance echoing uniformly as the entire set plummeted down.
The whole group were struck with awe.

One of the shrine's doors opened with a whoosh.

Shrine Maiden (ran down the steps.
Her hair was done in the ubagaeshi style, she wore a kimono with a small mouse-patterned crest, a handbox hung from her chest.
While rushing out, she took the fallen shuttle and reverently held it aloft, bowed respectfully toward the shrine entrance, and donned her ceremonial robe.) Shh... shh... shh......

The whole group stood dumbfounded.

The front doors of the main hall swished open on both sides; within the radiant crimson light flooding forth with dazzling brilliance, the secret realm transformed into a pure snowscape. At this moment, snowflakes fluttered down upon winter peonies, winter chrysanthemums, white jade blooms, and maiden camellias blooming in abundance; across them all arched a bridge of white snow stretching toward the inner shrine like a jeweled rainbow—and there, gracefully crossing it, appeared the noble, peerlessly beautiful figure of Himegami.

Himegami wore layered white garments—a pale plum-colored silver sheath-shaped robe with an obi of white ground and gold brocade. The lower portion of her chignon-bound hair cascaded beyond its usual length, into which she had inserted a crimson ornamental arrow resembling a kingfisher’s feather crafted from jade, adorning her front hairpin. Adjusting the sash hung with a jeweled necklace—loosening one side as she removed it—she stepped onto the veranda of the corridor.
(With icy dignity) “What are you all doing?”

The whole group were struck dumb and prostrated themselves.
A moment later came a boy and a girl—alongside a one-eyed mysterious figure—with karamushi looped hairstyles and kirikamuro cropped cuts: those in front bore a brocade bag holding a mirror while those behind raced down the steps, took the shuttle from the shrine maiden’s hands, then positioned themselves flanking the railing’s giboshi finials.
Himegami straightened up—“Ms. Ozawa… Ms. Ozawa.”

The shrine maiden relayed: “You need not fear anything, my lady. Though there is much to give pause, these are Her words—from Her to you.”

Ozawa: “Yes... yes...”

Himegami: “You’re still clutching the ritual effigy tightly, aren’t you? Your hand must be numb. Elder, take custody of this.”
(The shrine maiden received it and placed it inside the handbox.) “Ms. Ozawa—I’ve comprehended your plea. Your devoted prayer—I shall convey it for you. They say he’s a renowned actor, but I know him not. Where does he dwell? What occupies him now?”

Shrine Maiden: “Today—tonight—these immediate events lie hundreds of leagues beyond sea and mountain. Even this Sister could not know.”
“This humble one shall elucidate.”

“Let us hear—Ms. Ozawa, you mean to take that man’s life, do you not?”

“To speak of it now fills me with dread—fills me with such dread.”

Himegami: “Whether in the forest or here, entrusting it to me amounts to the same thing.”
“Or will you reconsider?”

Ozawa: “No—even if my life is taken, this single resolve… that single resolve alone—”
“Such was his heartlessness—I pursued him even to Osaka—but now… that man’s coldness surpasses even stone or ice.”
“He wouldn’t even let me speak.”

Shrine Maiden: “All your bitterness, resentment, grudges—fits of anger while clinging tearfully—gnashing teeth—grabbing collars—what does any of that accomplish?”
“A pretty woman contorting her face is unsightly.”
“Without uttering a word—nursing resentment in heart—to make an example of that heartless man—entrusting the life-curse to your ladyship—this Sister here—oh—how wise she is.”
“What a good girl.”
“What a good girl.”
“Now then—about taking the man’s life—do you mean to kill him here and now?”
“Cripple hands? Break legs? Leave him like that Tanosuke of old—nothing but torso and face? Or go further—silence him—make him no better than dead?”

“Yes—even more!” Ozawa steeled her resolve. “In one decisive act!”

“Princess,” relayed the Shrine Maiden, “it stands exactly as Your Highness has heard.”

Himegami: "The man?"

Shrine Maiden: "Deign to behold this."
(She raised the handbox high from her chest and held it aloft for inspection.)

Himegami: “On the flower-strewn stage of the blossom capital—amidst riotous blooms—dances the Shirabyōshi of flowers…”

Shrine Maiden: “The zato actor’s performance… they call it Dōjō-ji…”

Priest: “Haah—haah—With trembling reverence… I humbly beseech the divine one… I humbly beseech… Most respectfully do I petition…”

Himegami (——silence——)

Priest: “With trepidation do I humbly inquire… By divine will—most awesomely, as I have imperfectly ascertained herein—this wicked woman’s impertinent wish… deign to hear it…”

Himegami: “I consent. I do not consider it improper.”

Priest: “Ah—would Your Divinity deign to accept this evil, this defilement? From where, by what means, does Your Divine Spirit, Your Sacred Soul, Your Holy Body descend from the heavens?…”

Himegami: “We—the many friends who became human pillars to fortify stone walls, who were plastered alive into walls and buried to construct dams, who were laid upon chopping blocks as sacrifices for bountiful harvests of the five grains—dwell in high mountains, vast lakes, distant valleys aplenty. Yet what do you call me in your daily invocations?”

“Ha—Hakuryo Gongen, Himegami—we reverently address you thus.”

“Exactly so.”

“L-Lady Himegami—Your Divinity presides solely over that which is upright, righteous, and manifestly pure! Yet this... this defiled...”

“In night’s darkness,” Himegami challenged, “do you deem the moon itself impure? When villagers suffer—whether their woes take form or not—do you brand me wicked?”

The priest stammered, “Th-that very truth compels us! Those who entreat divinity must first scour flesh and spirit alike—only when spotless may they implore: ‘Cleanse us of storm and sickness and every ill! Let even night’s twisted paths blaze with righteous light!’”

“Your ways are your own; mine are mine. I care not for such matters.”

“This—with all due reverence—I can no longer recognize as Your divine voice or sacred words,” said Shin Sadaomi. “I, the unworthy Shin Sadaomi, do not serve as a priest merely to sustain this body and mouth through worldly affairs. I have toiled diligently, pursued scholarship, studied new Shinto doctrines, practiced devout purification—day and night striking the flint of my soul upon these offerings as I serve before Your presence…”

Himegami replied, “I have made no request whatsoever. I accept your efforts, but aren’t you all the ones who will later eat what’s placed on the three-tiered altar?”

“Wh-what! That is absolutely not the righteous words of a goddess!”
(Trembling, he bowed in all eight directions.)
(The assistant priests and shrine servants likewise bowed toward the direction they had turned away from.)

“Behold what a wicked god performs—now before your very eyes, I shall demonstrate how a love-resented curse—denounced as demonic, as brutish—achieves its proof.”

(Quietly descending the steps and approaching Ozawa) “You’ve stood long enough—take hold of my sleeve.” (To the Shrine Maiden) “Old woman—do you have the bow?”

Shrine Maiden: “Ah, here it is.”
(She took out the catalpa bow.)

Himegami (to Ozawa): “Take hold of that bow.”
(Taking the hairpin arrow and handing it over) “Like shooting a toy bow—when you drive nails to curse someone, even with single-minded resolve, you must wait three months, five months, three years, five years—days and moons and calendars.”
“Now—as you see the man’s life—listen well—calm your heart thoroughly.”
“——Barbed arrowhead.”
(Calling to a girl child) “That mirror.”
(The girl child unfurled the brocade.)
(While holding it) “Target! Target! Target!”
“Behold that.”
(As she held it aloft to illuminate the sky, a crimson glow emerged hazily from one part of the dense forest’s treetops, accompanied by a *twang-twanging* sound that skimmed downward and echoed distantly…) “Did you see it?”

“Ah! There he is—how detestable.”
“Ah, Princess!”
“Take careful aim.”
“Damn you!”
(She loosed the arrow.)

A sudden swift wind swept through; everyone’s eyes widened and stood frozen.

Shrine Maiden: “Magnificent! Truly magnificent!”
(Laughs hoarsely) “Ohohohoho!”
(Laughs wildly.)

The sound of the raging wind grew fearsome, mingling with rough waves’ roar.

The stage darkened.

After a short while, when the light returned—the shrine maiden.
With a sharp motion, she hurled the straw doll.
From directly above that position, a furisode fell, crimson skirts fluttered—the form of Dōjō-ji’s Shirabyōshi streamed through the air once, spinning wildly as it plummeted headlong.
Of course, it was a puppet—a mechanism, a contrivance.
The priests and villagers erupted into commotion.

Ozawa: "Ah, what should I do? That... (searched her chest and hands but found nothing, merely groped in vain.)"

“That is an illusion—it exists only in your mirror; you cannot touch it.”

“Ah—only your figure—my dark thoughts have cleared. Lady Himegami—I am overjoyed.”

Chouchoubou: “The instrument of divine will!”
(A thunderous sound echoed from the forest canopy)—“I humbly return the sacred arrow of your hairpin.”
“……At your service!”

——(First called out from the treetops, he suddenly leaped down from a branch.
His form was that of a mountain rustic woodcutter, with wings, and his face was that of a crow tengu.
(With an axe at his waist) “Here’s your sacred arrow.”
——(The girl child.
She descended the steps and received it upon the already-wrapped brocade bag.)

“You’ve done well.”

“Oh my—how swiftly it was done!” exclaimed the Shrine Maiden.

“What folk call ‘the blink of an eye’—this must be it,” said Chouchoubou. “What play? This spectacle drew crowds thick as persimmons on a mountain! This here Shirabyōshi—looks a fair maiden, but ’tis some hairy oaf in whiteface swinging the executioner’s blade.”

“What are you... What are you saying?”
“What nonsense— If you stay cooped up in these mountains instead of venturing into society, people will mock you.”
“What could you possibly mean?”

Chouchoubou: “I don’t know what that was about, but set it aside.”
“Hmm—what was that? Clang-clang-clang-clang—swinging your hips faster than sawing through a tree.”
“Hey!”
(With absurdly clumsy gestures, he danced grotesquely—straddling the Shirabyōshi’s corpse, leaping over it, vaulting past it—all while performing) “So I thought—damn this bell!—looked like I’d grab the dragon-head finial and leap, but ended up yanking it down—THUDDINGCLANGDONDONJINJINJIRIRIRIZUNJINDENZUNZUN!” (As he vaulted upward) “CRASH!” (Suddenly—BANG!—a thunderous noise resounded.—The priests collapsed onto their hips.)
(Chouchoubou, having composed himself) “That’s how it goes.”
From the ceiling, the bell crashed down, and in the moment the Shirabyōshi swooped in—the sacred arrow pierced the throat.
(Straightening his posture)—“Hah hah! Princess.”
“The great temple bell and the Shirabyōshi dancer—flying, falling, crossing paths—I swiftly plucked a single arrow and soared back through the void in one leap.”
“But there, the wind blows right through.”
Enshū Nada—its raging seas, typhoon, torrential rain—a true midnight tempest.

Unwashed and unwiped, the bloodstained sacred arrow was purified. Leave it as it is for aiming. Moreover, through that sacred arrow’s radiance as it flew across the heavens, a great shipwrecked vessel adrift offshore—its over two hundred crew members, having discerned their bearings and been saved—stood in dark rows upon the deck to offer reverent worship, chanting “Hail Hakuryo Gongen! Lady Himegami!” —Divine favor—miraculous virtue—they rejoiced in humble gratitude.

Shrine Maiden: “I humbly offer my congratulations.”

Himegami: (Gazing up at the treetops) Ah—a beautiful Taibai Star in the sky.
Even that radiant light would blush… at my mere crimson hairpin…

Priest: “O divine one—too august to name, mysterious deity—should lives be taken as they stand, were all rituals we conducted truly righteous ways? Shin Sadaomi—compose yourself, compose yourself.”
“…I press most humbly to inquire.”

“I do not know.”

“Ah— O divine one! O divine one!”

"I don’t know."

“Humbly, we all—”
“All earnestly—”
“We humbly press to inquire—”
The villagers also spoke in unison, their voices growing urgent—

“She does not know,” relayed the Shrine Maiden.

“Nay—if we cannot know the path of the gods,” interjected the Priest, “the world will lose all sense of direction.”

Himegami: “Please walk in circles—just as I spun you round and round, Ms. Ozawa. Ho ho ho.”
“And so, the path’s answer—ah—it manifests over there.”
“Listen closely.”

“Nori tsuke hōhō, hōhō,”—the owl cried.

Priest: “What? You consider that owl’s cry to be the divine response?”

Himegami: “What you all say sometimes sounds like that to me. You would do well to listen carefully.”

——The owl cried incessantly.
“Nori tsuke hōhō”—

The elderly shrine servant chanted, “Nori tsuke hōhō.”
“Descend and possess! Proclaim and decree!”
“It is the divine voice of a mysterious deity—nori tsuke hōhō.”
No sooner had they uttered this than they became the first to be seized by the owl’s possession—eyes glinting unnaturally, bodies trembling, limbs flapping like wings.

They stared—the assistant priest, the shrine servant, all together now enthralled—and raised their voices in unison: “Nori tsuke hō…—nori tsuke hōhō, hō.”

Gradually, all the villagers became possessed—“nori tsuke hōhō.
hōhō.
“hōhō”—

“Outrageous! No trivial matter! An unparalleled multitude of bizarre phenomena!”
“It is tenacious malevolence.”
“What is this—you wretch—what is this… hah…”

(Again drawing his sword, waving a ritual wand in one hand, he leapt forward and fiercely struck down the surging crowd—but soon grew disoriented, gradually collapsing into stupor—hoo-hoo.)
——Involuntarily shaking his sleeves and cutting at his waist—hoo-hoo, nori tsuke, nori tsuke hō.
nori tsuke hō.

[Note: At this moment, the audience should burst into uproarious laughter.]
Do not trouble yourself to complicate it.
And so, one by one, they were lured floating lightly toward where the owl called from the branches.

Chouchoubou: Hahahaha.
(Doubles over laughing.)

Himegami: “Elder, let us send the guests home. A storm seems to be approaching.”

Shrine Maiden: “This humble one complies.”

Himegami called, “Ashige, Ashige.” The horse stepped forth vigorously and smoothly of its own accord—crying “Hohoho nori tsuke hohoho” as it came.

When she lightly clapped her hands, the turnips, daikons, carrots, and such that had been piled on the saddle naturally came loose and scattered to both sides.
The horse neighs loudly once more.
Nori tsuke hōhō.—)

Himegami: Ho ho ho ho, (smiling as she approaches and gently pats Ashige’s nose) What’s this—even you?
(Ashige lets out a high-pitched neigh) [—At this moment, the audience’s laughter may subside.
Otherwise, this play may be considered half-successful.
Ms. Ozawa, you must be exhausted.
“Come, ride along.”

The elderly shrine maiden accompanied her shadow, seeing her off—all the way to the edge of the village.

“Princess Ozawa.”

“Together with all, I humbly offer my gratitude,” said the Shrine Maiden.

Ashige went alone to Ozawa, his hooves light.

Chouchoubou: “Hahaha, this owl—grow wings!”
(While jesting—he rakes together the Shirabyoshi’s body, straw dolls, nails, animal hides, and other items with a rake.)

Shrine Maiden: “Now, this young lady—you must offer your greetings to my lady...”

Ozawa (Startled, gestures with her hands): “Lady Himegami.”
“I will cut grass and fetch water.”
“I humbly wish to remain by your side.”

Himegami (standing on the corridor)—“If you stay by my side, you’ll become a one-eyed monster—terrifying, terrifying… And above all, such a thing must never happen again.”
“Go home quickly and settle down properly.”
“Don’t sit so rigidly when mounting the horse—no need for reserve.”

Ozawa (tearing up): “Princess.”

Shrine Maiden: “Hey, Chou—it’s the first third of the Hour of the Ox.”
(Took the reins.)

Himegami (her snow-white hand at her temple, an arrow in her black hair—her appearance that of a woman at her gentlest and most delicate).
Someone holding a shuttle drew near from behind, while the girl in front took out a brocade bag and held it up from below.
Himegami, half-inserting a hairpin, looked at the mirror.
Chouchoubou handled a rake, the shrine maiden worked the reins—while in the vast sky, shō reed pipes and hichiriki flutes played an ethereal melody.
Snow fell again in the inner shrine.
(rolled down)—

—Curtain—