Pathway to Japanese Literature

*Title: The Tale of Dakimyōga*

The woman's name was Kimiko Tadokoro.
Kimiko knew neither her parents' faces nor their names.
She did not even know where she had been born.
By the time Kimiko became aware of her surroundings, she and her grandmother were living in a hovel that resembled a makeshift hut at the edge of a mountain.
They had apparently drifted there from some distant land.

According to grandmother's bedtime stories, Kimiko had been born in Settsu Province's Kazahira Village or perhaps Kazashimo Village, but now even the names of those villages—indeed, even the province itself—had vanished from her memory.
What remained in her memory like a dream were fragments—the giant persimmon tree behind the house, the six-foot-long snake that would slither from the roof to the branches in summer, sunflowers as large as butterbur leaves turning their faces toward the sun—but none of these proved useful for finding her birthplace.
However, the one memory she believed to be certain was this: when standing at the back door and gazing to the left, she could see in the far distance a mountain rising exceptionally high like a spear, its peak crowned by a single large pine tree.
Against a beautiful sunset, distinct upon a mountaintop painted in deep purple, stood a single pine tree as if drawn in ink—this image remained strangely vivid in Kimiko's memory.

After Kimiko began her travels, whenever she encountered a beautiful sunset, she would sometimes stand at the back doors of farmhouses and test her memory—but never once did she find mountains or pine trees matching those in her recollections.
Therefore, even this memory she believed to be certain might actually be an imagination created by Kimiko.

Kimiko's grandmother died when Kimiko was eight years old.
According to what Grandmother told Kimiko in bedtime stories, Kimiko's father had died in the autumn of the year after she was born.
Her father was a deeply devout man who opened one wing of his residence to serve as a Lodging for Good Deeds for pilgrims traveling through the sacred sites of Shikoku and Saigoku.

When pilgrims entered the village asking if there was a house providing Lodging for Good Deeds, the villagers would immediately direct them to Kimiko's house. Thus came pilgrims of every description—kindly old couples and beautiful nuns in traveling attire among them. Those granted shelter would first remove their traveling clothes in the separate building before entering the main house's garden to formally greet her father and mother again. Her father would have Kimiko's mother bring stewed vegetables, soup, and hot pots to the pilgrims' quarters, sometimes venturing there himself to enjoy their stories. On occasion pilgrims would come unbidden to the main house instead. During these visits Mother would sit silently beside Father, listening without a word.

Yet not all pilgrims were benevolent souls—among them one might find men with scarred eyes glaring fiercely, old men grinning like apparitions, or even those missing hands. When such unsettling guests stayed, Mother would declare them creepy and frightening before retreating deep into the inner rooms, never to emerge.

To phrase it this way might make Grandmother’s bedtime stories seem meticulously ordered—yet in truth, they were not structured so coherently. Shared sporadically when moments arose and shaped by circumstance, these fragments were tales Kimiko had heard mostly in bed during her earliest years of understanding. Now faded into distant memory, their jagged edges lingered only as dreamlike vignettes she could scarcely piece together.
Yet for Kimiko, even if it had been a makeshift hut—a hovel—those days spent living with her grandmother remained happy memories.
Fading into memory’s depths, each fragment of Grandmother's tales had been supplemented by her own imagination until now they grew within Kimiko's heart as though they were established facts.
For example, she could vividly picture scenes as though watching a film—her father conversing with a beautiful nun pilgrim, her mother sitting quietly beside him listening, even the nun pilgrim’s face.

The day her father died—no, it would be more accurate to say was killed—two pilgrims had been staying there.
The first was a white-haired old woman of about sixty-two or three, her hair closely cropped and smoothed back without a single black strand visible. She had a robust build more befitting a man, and though her features were refined, her uncharacteristically sturdy physique for an elderly woman gave off an unnatural, eerie impression.

The other pilgrim was also a woman.
She appeared to be around thirty-seven or thirty-eight—the same age as Kimiko’s mother—but this woman had completely covered her face with a soot-gray pilgrim’s hood, leaving only her eyes exposed.
The eyes visible there were said to be refreshingly cool and beautiful.
This pilgrim never removed her hood even within the room—not even during meals—and without being asked, explained that an incurable disease had left her face too disfigured to bear seeing twice; thus she kept the hood on as she clung to Kobo Daishi in this manner.
She reportedly said.

The white-haired old woman, the hooded pilgrim, and ordinary pilgrims all wore indistinguishable clothing, yet there was an air of refinement about them that made it immediately apparent they were devout pilgrims rather than mere beggars.

This hooded pilgrim woman seems to have particularly captured Grandmother's attention.
This was because the female pilgrim was a living image of Kimiko’s mother—the eyes peering through the hooded pilgrim’s headpiece appeared as though someone had transplanted her mother’s very eyes there, and their features resembled each other so closely that calling them "as alike as two melons" would not do justice to their similarity.
Had this female pilgrim not been wearing the hooded headpiece, they say one could not have told which was Kimiko’s mother.

The two had pretended to be travelers who happened to share lodging, but they were apparently traveling together—and what’s more, in a master-servant relationship—with the old woman giving the impression of being the servant to the hooded pilgrim woman, it is said.

When Kimiko heard these tales of the two pilgrims from her grandmother—stories that recounted the very night her father had been murdered—even her child’s mind would shrink in with creepy unease, as though being told some terrifying ghost story.

Though the memories have now faded and no longer feel visceral, whenever the figures of those two women suddenly surface in her mind—her father’s final moments, the white-haired crone, the hooded nun pilgrim—it feels as though she’s viewing some hellish tableau.

Precisely because of this, these phantom visions arose most frequently in Kimiko’s mind.

From four or five days before the two pilgrims' arrival, Kimiko’s mother had lain bedridden with raging fever.
A swollen lump had risen on her neck as she endured the scorching heat.
Thus she remained unaware of the female pilgrims lodging there.
The nearest town with a doctor lay two ri distant through rural hinterlands—in any case, villagers seldom summoned physicians for common ailments.
Kimiko’s father brought forth the staff he’d carried during his Shikoku pilgrimage—this sacred object—and spent nights at his wife’s bedside, stroking her fevered brow while chanting prayers through the dark hours.

As dawn was approaching, the two pilgrims were preparing to depart early and came saying they wished to bid farewell to the master, so Kimiko’s father left his patient’s bedside and went to the tearoom.
The two pilgrims, now fully prepared for their journey, politely expressed gratitude for being granted a night's lodging. Upon hearing that the mistress was ill—how troubling that must be—they explained that as both repayment for the lodging and in fulfillment of their Shikoku pilgrimage duties, they had offered prayers that morning for her recovery.
"This talisman is truly sacred—granted only to those who have completed the Shikoku pilgrimage ten or more times. Please have the patient drink it," they said, presenting a small golden talisman.
The devout father humbly accepted this seemingly potent talisman and expressed profound gratitude, it is said.

After the two pilgrims departed, Grandmother entered the room where the pilgrims had stayed, as was her custom, but as with most pilgrims, the room was neatly tidied with nothing left behind.
At the large exit door where departing pilgrims always pasted one talisman each as they left—a door so thickened by accumulated talismans that it appeared almost swollen—there were said to be two new talismans apparently left by those two pilgrims.

Though Grandmother's account remained only as the faintest of memories in Kimiko's mind, she felt certain she had indeed seen how the Shikoku pilgrimage talismans had been pasted across the entire surface of the large door, layered upward until they swelled like a decorative hagoita paddle adorned with padded fabric designs.

He tried to make Mother drink the golden talisman received from the pilgrims by floating it in water, but Mother—whose fever had subsided that morning—reportedly refused to drink it no matter what.
Father pressed the bowl against Mother's lips as if coaxing a child, trying to force her to drink, but Mother shook her head and stubbornly refused.
Still holding the bowl, Father stared at Mother's face for a moment. "What a waste," he muttered, then casually gulped down the talisman in one go.
Vomiting black blood and writhing in agony, Father died less than an hour later—it was said.

Of all Grandmother’s stories, this tale remained most vividly in Kimiko’s memory.
This might have been due to its connection to Father’s unnatural death—that major incident—but more likely because the enigma itself posed such profound mystery: why had Father, who received that divinely potent golden talisman, died so swiftly afterward?

The two pilgrims apparently hadn’t appeared in the village solely on that day they stayed at Kimiko’s house.
For nearly two or three years, they had visited five or six times—each instance following the same pattern: inquiring whether any villagers lay ill, departing immediately upon confirming there were none. When by chance illness was reported, they would identify the afflicted household yet never approach it, instead continuing straight to the next village.
Through villagers’ accounts after Father’s death, it became clear they had confirmed an ill person resided at Kimiko’s home—that this invalid was her mother—before lodging there.
Thus these pilgrims should naturally have been regarded as suspicious figures connected to Father’s death, yet Kimiko couldn’t recall Grandmother ever stating outright that they had killed him.
Perhaps she had forgotten.
Contrary to expectation, Grandmother’s words—seeming to affirm Father’s death—faintly lingered in Kimiko’s ears.

Mother was so obedient that one could say if told to face east for a year she would face east; if told to face west for three years she would face west—truly a Buddha-like woman.
That Mother—so obedient—refused the golden talisman so resolutely must have been due to a divine message from Buddha.
That Father drank it immediately must have been Buddha’s punishment.

If Kimiko's memory held true—had there been some reason for Father to incur divine punishment from Buddha? Come to think of it—had there not been some cause behind Father's accumulation of good deeds, so renowned throughout the neighboring villages?
Grandmother did not seem to speak much about her biological son—Kimiko's father.
In contrast, when it came to her daughter-in-law—Kimiko's mother—it seems she spoke at great length, scarcely letting a day or night pass without recounting tales of her.

The mother was Father’s second wife and said to be over twenty years his junior—a woman of both physical and inner beauty—who died before Kimiko was born and who reportedly doted on the stepson who was Kimiko’s half-brother.
Whether she was truly a beauty doomed to misfortune or simply someone who had suffered profound misfortunes, it seemed there had been particularly bitter, sorrowful circumstances surrounding her being disowned and cast out from the household she had married into before coming to Father’s family—yet Mother reportedly never spoke a word of it.
It was said that after remarrying into Father’s family, she had found a place of stability here—doted on like a daughter by the mother-in-law, winning her husband’s affection, blessed with her only child Kimiko, and finally at peace—when Father’s sudden death struck.

When speaking of Mother, Grandmother’s eyes often glistened with tears.
Despite having been such a cherished daughter-in-law, Grandmother apparently knew nothing of Mother’s origins.
What circumstances had led Mother to marry into Father’s family—even that, Kimiko had never heard.

According to Grandmother’s accounts, until Kimiko was born, Mother had been obedient yet appeared almost simple-minded—as though her spirit remained in a past life.
Yet within that cave-like emptiness of her being, there was a pale will-o’-the-wisp glow that could be sensed—an uncanny quality about her, it was said.
Strangely enough, though no letters ever arrived, Mother would write letters without fail every month and personally deliver them to the postbox in a town two ri away.
Grandmother was both concerned about her daughter-in-law’s origins and had long paid attention to what was written in the letters, but the opportunity to learn their contents never came easily.
It is said that only once had she discovered a scribbled note of barely ten lines upon which eerie curse words were written.
What those curse words had been—Kimiko thought she must have heard them from her grandmother—but now she could recall nothing.

This mother, who had seemed like someone fundamentally altered, became perfectly amiable and gentle after giving birth to Kimiko, as though she had transformed into a different person.
It was as though some unknowable creature that had possessed her until then had departed, restoring her original self; from that time onward, Mother reportedly never wrote another letter.

The fragmented remnants of Grandmother’s stories lingering in Kimiko’s memory like torn dream edges now endlessly excavate the secrets of her lineage through her imagination.

After Father’s mysterious death, Mother—whose fever had completely subsided—heard about the two pilgrims who had stayed the previous night. When she learned that one of them, wearing a hooded pilgrim’s cowl, bore a striking resemblance to herself, she was so shocked that she immediately took to her bed again.

After Father’s death, their never-prosperous household seemed to plunge headlong toward ruin at a steep angle. With no farmland left to cultivate, they dismissed their tenant farmer, leaving only Grandmother, Mother, and Kimiko alone in the vast house—desolate and abandoned.
To secure funds for rice and salt at last, Mother had no choice but to weave at her loom day and night.
As their livelihood grew more desperate with each passing day—reaching the point where all three would starve if things continued—Mother declared she would return once to her native country, setting out while leaving Grandmother alone in the house.

The story spanning from Father’s mysterious death to the family’s ruin and Mother’s departure for her homeland was another tale she had heard in fragments over many years, its chronology scrambled—now only fragments of it resurfaced in Kimiko’s memory. When recalling Grandmother’s account of Mother’s departure, Kimiko found herself inexplicably haunted by vivid memories of the Daki-myōga crest and camellia flowers. This was no mere retelling of Grandmother’s story, but rather a memory Kimiko herself had directly witnessed—one conjured through association with that tale. Why did the Daki-myōga crest and camellia flowers emerge from Mother’s departure?

As for what the Tadokoro family crest had been—by the time Kimiko became aware of her surroundings, the house had already fallen into ruin, and no objects bearing the crest could be found within it—but the crest on the single lantern box Grandmother kept for storing personal items seemed to her to depict four squares within a circle; this must have been the “four eyes in a circle” crest. Therefore, there should be no Daki-myōga crest in Kimiko’s memory. As for camellias, Kimiko did not recall any growing near the makeshift hut at the mountain’s edge where she had lived with Grandmother. Even if she had seen them in the mountains or in other households’ gardens, she could not imagine how they might relate to Mother’s return. It must be that Kimiko had seen them during a time and place where a major event occurred—one that left an indelible mark on her most distinct memories.

The story of how Kimiko, led by Mother, departed and eventually returned to Grandmother’s home had been recounted to her by Grandmother countless times. But since this was not a tale Grandmother herself had witnessed, Kimiko believed most of it must have been pieced together either from her own fragmented childhood accounts or from Grandmother’s imagination.

Early in the morning before dawn had fully broken, Kimiko was led out of the house by Mother. They rode trains and transferred between them; they boarded boats—sometimes she dozed off; other times she was shaken awake from deep sleep. The journey passed in a dreamlike haze that left no coherent memories. Only the long road after disembarking from the stagecoach lingered vaguely in her mind.
There was a river.
They crossed a small mountain pass.
There stretched a rice field path so endless it seemed it might never conclude.
They passed through several quiet villages where sasanquas and chrysanthemums bloomed in hedgerows.
Along those roads Kimiko was sometimes carried on Mother’s back; other times led by hand as they walked.
They must have lodged somewhere along the way—once or twice—but she couldn’t recall.
She remembered walking darkened country roads thick with loneliness; remembered a solitary square gas lamp glowing above an inn in some dim rural town of low-roofed houses.
The next day brought more roads just like before.
At that time Mother was certainly wearing the hooded pilgrim’s cowl.

The memories of this journey were like a dream—disconnected fragments where she couldn’t distinguish whether the roadside scenes she recalled were from that time or from later travels—but one thing remained certain: Mother had been wearing the black crepe hood.

When they climbed the gentle, meandering slope dotted with sparse pine trees and reached the top, suddenly the view opened up before them—a vast plain stretching all the way to the horizon.
Not a single house could be seen anywhere, and far off to the right there was an enormous, truly massive pond. Beyond that pond lay a small forest encircled by a white fence.
The sun had sunk quite low in the west, and the waters of this expansive pond gave off a cold light.

Mother pointed at this small forest and said something to Kimiko, but what Mother had said at that time Kimiko could not recall no matter how hard she tried.
Now, looking back, Kimiko bitterly regretted this—if only she could recall that single utterance from that moment, surely the dreamlike fragments of everything would become clear—but try as she might she simply could not remember it.
When they descended the mountain and arrived at the forest, it was an exceedingly vast woodland where at the end of a long stretch of rice fields stood a large gate like those found at a daimyo's castle.
After standing before the gate Kimiko's mother hesitated for a while. To Kimiko who was reluctant she said "You must wait here for a time—I will return soon" then left her there and entered through the gate still wearing the hooded pilgrim's cowl.
And that was all.
Mother never emerged from this gate again.

And now, ten years had already passed.
Kimiko could still vividly picture her own lonely, small figure from that time.
Had she waited about an hour? There were no houses around—naturally no passersby could be expected—and even her child's heart could no longer bear staying still. She quietly slipped inside the gate, but where were any buildings? Only several large trees stood there, and a path identical to the one outside the gate vanished into the depths of the forest.
Unsettled by an eerie feeling, Kimiko turned back outside the gate and followed the wall around the estate while sniffling—but every small gate she found remained tightly shut, and whether she went right or left, where the walls ended gave way to ponds.
The sun gradually sank westward.
The wind turned cold, and Kimiko finally entered through the gate again in tears.

Here and there stood stone lanterns; a stone bridge arched over a stream that seemed to flow into the pond. The estate’s interior resembled nothing so much as a shrine.
A long wall stretched on, and from the ceiling of a barn-like building hung a Dragon-head Fire Pump box and fire buckets.
A large entrance resembling a shrine office; from the ceiling beside it hung a palanquin like those used by feudal lords in plays.
Kimiko pushed open the large door—likely a servants’ entrance—with her body while crying.
The house was so deathly quiet, with not a single cough or sound to indicate whether anyone was inside or not.
Kimiko stood there, still sniffling, but since there was no sign of anyone coming out, she quietly peered inside.
There were no human figures there, only slipper-like rush sandals made of woven rushes neatly arranged on the gleaming black wooden floor.
Kimiko called out “Mom! Mom!” two or three times, but no one answered.
Kimiko stood helplessly in the dim garden.

After a while, from the depths of the house came a flat-faced old man accompanied by quiet footsteps.
The old man showed no sign of surprise upon seeing Kimiko standing there. He immediately stepped down into the garden, said "Come here," then headed straight toward the exit.
Kimiko had no choice but to follow the old man.

The old man walked silently along the wall.
Kimiko thought that if she followed this uncle-figure, she would reach where her mother was. Her feet—prone to lagging—occasionally broke into quick little trots as she trailed behind him.
After leaving behind the wall and passing through large trees, they walked along a stream until glimpses of pondwater glimmering dully in twilight appeared through gaps in foliage.
The old man standing by the pond waited for Kimiko to approach before pointing at the water: “There—that’s your mother.”
Tree branches hung low over the surface there, deepening shadows while faint sunlight filtered through distant treetops.
In that water floated Mother’s corpse.

Kimiko had believed she remembered this old man's face clearly.
After all, he had not only shown her the corpse but also delivered her all the way back to Grandmother's place.
But even the old man's face - which she had been certain was etched in her memory - grew increasingly vague over the years, becoming tangled with the faces of others she later encountered: the owner of a timber-payment inn, an aged traveling performer she'd shared lodgings with and grown familiar with - until it slipped completely from her recollection, now beyond retrieval.
Or perhaps even her conviction of having remembered clearly had been untrustworthy from the start.
Of course, things like the manor-like houses of that region remained in her memory only as dream fragments.

According to Grandmother’s account, on the sixth night after Kimiko and Mother had set out, Kimiko returned alone to the makeshift hut carrying a large doll.
When Grandmother asked what had happened to Mother, she would only say that Mother had entered a large gate and never returned, or that Mother was dead and floating in the pond. No matter how Grandmother pressed for details, Kimiko’s answers remained incoherent. Asked who had brought her back, she would merely reply “a stranger uncle,” leaving Grandmother utterly unable to determine why Mother had died or who had sent Kimiko home.
Grandmother searched the doll Kimiko had brought back to see if it held any clues.
The doll wore a scarlet crepe underrobe scattered with chrysanthemum diamond crests and was dressed in a deep indigo crepe garment dyed with wild chrysanthemums.
The obi’s fabric was something Grandmother couldn’t identify, but there was no doubt it was antique brocade. Though she couldn’t tell where the doll had been made, it clearly dated back many years, and even the clothes it wore were nothing like modern creations.
Though it bore such an antique appearance, it seemed to have been treated with utmost care—not a single strand of its hair was missing, and its slightly reddish-brown face had instead gained in beauty.
In any case, it was undeniably too expensive and precious an item to have been given merely to soothe a fretful child.
However, from this doll, not a single clue to unravel the mystery of Kimiko’s mother’s death could be found.

After that, Grandmother kept insisting she could not accept that her daughter was dead; but aged, her body no longer under her control, her spirit and resolve having withered entirely, until at last she seemed to resign herself. With their household in such dire straits, she concluded that her daughter—who had returned to secure funds but failed—must have thrown herself into the pond in desperation, seeing no way out.

Kimiko believes she saw her mother’s corpse, yet she sometimes wonders if it wasn’t a dream—one that connected her mother’s death to the pond-filled landscapes she encountered in her travels.
Even Grandmother’s stories—she did not remember them in full, but only in fragments that would suddenly surface in her mind like half-recalled dreams—were they not akin to a dreamlike tale stitched together from those scattered pieces by imagination?

However, she still held onto the doll.
As long as this doll existed, the circumstances surrounding Mother’s death could not be entirely a dream.
But Kimiko had no memory whatsoever of being sent back to Grandmother’s place from afar by an unknown uncle while holding the doll.

Grandmother died when Kimiko was eight years old.

From then on, Kimiko abandoned the makeshift hut and went to work as a nursemaid in town, but she detested childcare work beyond endurance.
One day when she wandered empty-handed to the town's outskirts with no particular aim, she found a couple who appeared to be traveling performers gathering a crowd in a vacant lot and showing magic tricks.
The woman sat beside their performance tools beating a drum, while the man who seemed to be her husband stepped forward to perform feats like swallowing eggs and needles.
When the act concluded, the woman stood up and thrust out a battered wooden tray, going around collecting a coin or two from the crowd.
Before long the crowd dispersed until only the two performers and Kimiko remained behind, yet Kimiko stubbornly refused to leave no matter how much time passed.
Even when the traveling performers loaded their equipment onto a small cart and began packing up, Kimiko still would not move from that place.
Thus Kimiko finally came to be taken in by these traveling performers and began drifting from journey to journey.

The traveling performers would head north when the seasons grew warm and travel south when they turned cool.
They would change their performance route every year—if they had taken the Tokaido last year, this year it would be the Nakasendo.
Kimiko did not like the occupation of a traveling street performer at all.
As she gradually came of age, she grew to dislike this occupation—but there was one thing she disliked even more than the work itself.
What made it even more unbearable was that the master—whom she had until now called "like a parent"—was a drunkard and a brute, but worse still was his habit of making indecent advances.
The reason she had endured this way for ten years was partly because the master’s wife had kindly shielded her with her own body, but more than that, it was to find the pond where her mother had met her end—a dream she could not abandon—and uncover the full truth behind what had happened.

As cool winds began rising again that year, Kimiko and the troupe continued their journey southward.
One night after their first performance day—perhaps emboldened by good earnings—the master drank heavier than usual and made another advance on Kimiko.
When she resisted fiercely, the drunken master flew into a rage, waving a cleaver while shouting "I'll kill you!"
That night—whether from accumulated frustration—the master's wife finally helped Kimiko escape.
She provided a referral letter claiming a woman they'd met traveling had reformed and now lived twelve miles away.

Kimiko walked along the dark night path, carrying the furoshiki-wrapped doll she had never let go of.
Thus, Kimiko was finally able to wash her hands of her decade-long life as a traveling performer.

The day after arriving at the house for which the master’s wife had provided a referral letter, Kimiko quietly took out the doll from its furoshiki wrapping in a secluded spot. It was because the doll had been wrapped in a furoshiki for so long that she worried there might be some damage. Fortunately, the doll was nowhere damaged, but the kimono was terribly disheveled. Kimiko untied the obi and removed the kimono, intending to redress it. Twelve or thirteen years had passed since Kimiko had come into possession of this doll, but this was the first time she had removed its kimono. After Grandmother’s death came work as a nursemaid, then days upon days as a harried traveling performer—until today, Kimiko had never known a moment of calm sufficient to undress the doll and examine its garments.

Having undressed the doll, Kimiko discovered something strange there.
On the doll’s left breast area was a jet-black mark shaped like a plum blossom.
This was decidedly not a blemish the doll had borne from the beginning.
It became clear someone had added it later in ink.

When she absently glanced at the doll’s back, there was written “The Tale of the Embracing Myoga.”
Had the crest of the Embracing Myoga not lingered in Kimiko’s memory, she surely would have grasped nothing of its meaning.
But why was such a thing inscribed here? What could it signify? However much Kimiko agonized over it, understanding eluded her.
Kimiko could do nothing but gently swaddle this enigma back within the doll’s kimono.

Throughout her ten years of travels, whenever Kimiko arrived in an unfamiliar region, she had made it a rule to ask whether there was a large pond resembling a lake in the vicinity.
This was, needless to say, to search for the house surrounded by woods at the edge of the pond that lay at the depths of her memory like a dream.
The master of the house told her there was a large pond about two and a half miles away.
And long ago, there were twins in this town’s headman household who had a terrible relationship; after the brothers quarreled, the younger one finally set fire to the house.
As a result, the town turned into scorched earth and was completely destroyed.
After that, the townspeople came to intensely abhor twins, claiming they were the reincarnations of enemies.
However, twins were born again in the headman’s household.
The headman’s bride who bore twins, tormented by this, threw herself into a pond while still holding them.
That pond is still called “Futago-ike” (Twin Pond).
And he told her of an old legend that has been passed down—that the myoga ginger growing in the fields around this pond forms in pairs that appear to embrace each other.

It was not long after that Kimiko came to be employed as a maid at the wealthy household by Twin Pond.
Since being employed at this house, memories that had been hidden somewhere within Kimiko's body began surfacing one by one.
The massive gate resembling a daimyo's castle, the lacquered palanquin hanging beside the entrance, the dragon-head fire pump box—all lay buried in Kimiko's memories like a dream. Just as reality always proves uglier than imagination, these things now stood covered in dust and irreparably damaged, yet they were unmistakably those from her memories.
When she looked up at the black-lacquered palanquin—the kind a feudal lord would ride—adorned with the Embracing Myoga crest, the mist in her mind cleared all at once, and she could vividly recall the crest.
It was the large crest that had been dyed on the back of the hooded pilgrim's cloak worn when she watched her mother's figure entering through the gate.

She also went to the edge of the pond where she remembered her mother’s corpse had floated.
There, camellia branches in full bloom hung low over the water’s surface, their fallen blossoms sinking into the shallow depths—slightly tinged with reddish-brown yet clear as melted amber.
Some flowers still floated on the water.
Staring at the water, she thought she could see through to the bottom—the beautiful corpse of her mother still wearing the hooded pilgrim’s cloak.

Could one really die in such shallow water? Kimiko suddenly wondered.
Could Mother have committed suicide while leaving her only child waiting outside the gate? The hooded pilgrim must have intended to make Mother drink the golden talisman—not Father.
Mother had been killed—no, Mother was killed—and with that thought, the various mysteries that had seemed like a dream until now began to unravel bit by bit.
The paralyzed old woman—whose mouth and body remained immobile as she lay bedridden—had hair that, though considerably thinned, was pure white without a single strand of black.
While it was true that the servant’s father had already died, he must have been the old man sent ten years prior.

If one were to consider the paralyzed white-haired old woman and the Widow as the two female pilgrims from that time, they must have believed Mother had died from drinking the golden talisman. It had suddenly reappeared after several years. To imagine she needed killing was by no means impossible. Speaking of the Widow, there was something Kimiko found utterly perplexing—how strikingly she resembled the memory of Mother that lingered in Kimiko's childhood heart. The reason for Mother's murder might lie here.

Once this thought took hold, Kimiko struggled through solving this mystery, but ultimately concluded that the key to unraveling it lay nowhere but in the doll.

One night, after it had grown late, Kimiko quietly took out the doll to examine it.
First she removed the kimono and meticulously inspected everything from the undergarment to the obi sash, but found nothing unusual there.
The phrase "The Tale of the Embracing Myoga" written on its back must ultimately refer to the legend of warring twins—this conclusion formed instantly in her mind.
Yet the meaning of the plum blossom pattern drawn above the left breast remained a mystery Kimiko couldn't readily solve.
After exhausting all other possibilities, she concluded that "The Tale of the Embracing Myoga" inscribed on the doll's back must serve as a title indicating its contents.
Therefore, those contents had to be hidden somewhere within this doll.
There remained nowhere left to search but inside its body.
Kimiko steeled herself and pulled off the doll's head.
There indeed lay concealed a single scrap of paper.

The sisters were born exactly as described in *The Tale of the Embracing Myoga*—twins destined to be enemies.
They were so alike that no distinction could be made between them.
The twins’ mother had given each sister a doll, but made them wear different outfits to tell them apart.
Yet when undressed, the dolls became indistinguishable, so she drew a plum blossom pattern above the left breast of one doll.
This was because both sisters bore birthmarks there shaped like plum blossoms.
Though discordant since childhood, upon reaching marriageable age they began vying for one man’s affections.
The conflict culminated in the elder sister’s victory through marriage, but their identical appearances bred terrible karmic cycles—the man passed between younger sister’s grasp back to elder’s hands, repeating this ugly struggle.
After the man’s death erased their rivalry’s purpose, these twins born as karmic foes continued warring over vast estates until necessity for conflict faded.
Thus this doll became obsolete.
As recompense for her lost mother, she was given this doll alone.

There was neither date nor signature.
Yet as she read through the scribbled note, the plum blossom pattern drawn on the doll's chest began making sense to Kimiko.
This was because she could now recall the birthmark that had lain submerged in her memory's depths—the one that had marked her mother's breast.
But this letter-like scrawl only planted greater doubts within her.
Clutching the letter, Kimiko sank into profound contemplation.

The night had grown deep, and the surroundings lay deathly quiet.
When she suddenly became aware, quiet footsteps crept through the hallway.
Kimiko hastily blew out the lamp.
Everything plunged into lacquer-black darkness.
Crouching in the room's corner while stifling her breath, she found the footsteps that had been moving with utmost stealth now completely still before her door.
Then came the sound of a shoji opening—so hushed one might imagine this was how ghosts entered.
Kimiko strained her eyes wide like an owl's, but whether it was truly a specter or merely a faint shadow in the dark remained utterly unclear.
The intruder seemed to have quietly entered Kimiko's room before freezing again.
Kimiko edged backward until her body pressed against the wall like a bat.
As she stared unblinkingly, multicolored bubbles resembling soap spheres appeared to rise one after another in the pitch darkness.
Kimiko blinked rapidly.
That instant—
Startled by something unseen, the intruder swiftly yet silently closed the shoji and retreated down the opposite corridor.
At that moment, Kimiko detected another set of furtive footsteps echoing from a distant hallway.

That night was not the first time such a thing had occurred.
This was already the third time.
And strangely enough, all three times Kimiko had been saved by different footsteps echoing from distant corridors.
Ever since she had begun doubting her mother's suicide and resolved to trace those dreamlike memories to ascertain her death's true cause, she'd grown acutely aware of watchful eyes surrounding her—even feeling an encroaching dread that her life might be endangered.
The fact such incidents had happened three times surely meant they were targeting her life.
The letter from inside the doll's torso stated there was no longer any need for conflict and that this doll had become unnecessary.
It must have meant that with her mother murdered there remained no reason for strife—rendering this keepsake obsolete.
That was why investigating her mother's death terrified them so.
That was why they sought to kill her—to sever this cursed lineage at its root.
The ones who killed her mother had killed her father too.
"I won't let them murder me—I'll have my vengeance," Kimiko resolved with steeled determination.

From then on, Kimiko prepared herself each night and lay in wait.
Sure enough, the black shadow appeared for the fourth time about ten days later.
Just as before, the shadow stood outside the shoji for a long time before taking a single step into Kimiko's darkened room and standing motionless there, surveying the interior.
Kimiko strained her eyes into the darkness.
Then, as always, footsteps echoed from some distant corridor.
The black shadow seemed to mutter something under its breath before closing the shoji properly and attempting to leave.
Kimiko swiftly gave chase.
The shadow reached the end of the long corridor, opened the storm shutters, and walked quietly along the veranda where trees framed a view of the pond.
Kimiko trailed it like a spider along the room's shoji screens down the exposed veranda that offered no hiding places—holding her breath in fear and dread that the shadow ahead might turn and attack at any moment.
The black shadow turned down a corridor, crossed a small bridge, and disappeared into the detached building.
That was the Widow's room.

As expected, it was just as she had thought, Kimiko realized. However, even if she didn't know whether the Widow was her mother's older sister or younger sister, she was undoubtedly her aunt. Even if she was her aunt—if she was a demon-like aunt who had stolen Father, killed Mother, and now even sought her life—wasn't it only natural to seek revenge? When Kimiko, having turned back, was about to enter her room, a hushed voice crept from the darkness of the hallway. “Matsue-san.” Kimiko started and froze in place. “I will protect your body without fail.” That was the voice of the manservant Yoshio.

A slight wind must have picked up.
The faint sound of reeds rustling at Futago Pond could be heard.

As for what my father did, I was a child and knew nothing of anything. However, through my childish heart, the father I knew was an exceedingly cheerful man—the kind who would sing a song or two in high spirits during his evening drink. When exactly was that? I think it must have been when I was around nine or ten years old. Until then, my father had truly never once stayed overnight elsewhere—for two or three days it was, though to me it felt as long as four or five days—since I had no mother, his absence must have felt especially prolonged—there came a time when he did not return home. From that moment on, my father’s temperament seemed to me completely changed. His drinking increased tremendously, and he rarely showed even a smile, let alone sang. Though as a child I paid little heed to such matters, as I gradually grew older, I came to clearly understand that Father was suffering from some great torment. There were times when he would whisper with the Widow in secluded places—if I happened to approach them then, he would turn deathly pale and glare fiercely at me. I never learned what that torment was until the very moment of my father’s death. Father must have been unable to die while bearing this great sin upon his back.

“At the moment of death...” Yoshio, who had been standing before me in the dark room and speaking up to this point, suddenly cut off his words and listened intently for a while.

“At the moment of Father’s death...” Yoshio continued in an even lower voice—“I killed someone—poor Kimiko-san left an orphan”—he said.

“I’ve been drawn to you since the day you came to this mansion.”

“I know full well you’re not Matsue Shiraishi but actually Kimiko Tadokoro.”

“Please rest assured.”

“I am definitely not your enemy.”

Yoshio disappeared into the dark corridor.

However, a trace of doubt still lingered in Kimiko.
I wanted to know for certain whether the Widow had truly killed my mother—and if she had indeed done so, then she deserved to suffer at least a little while still alive.
Kimiko devoted her thoughts to these two purposes.

Several days later.
Kimiko removed the koto cover bearing the Daki-myōga crest that had been stored in the warehouse, donned it like a hooded pilgrim’s cowl, and late that night stole into the Widow’s room.
When Kimiko opened the sliding door and stood in the dimness, the Widow—who evidently had not yet fallen asleep—sat up on her futon and stared at Kimiko’s appearance as if doubting her own eyes. But in the next instant, she let out a low cry, stood up, and approached Kimiko with hands flailing as though swimming through air.
But upon seeing what stood behind Kimiko, she froze like a carved statue.

Even Kimiko hadn’t noticed—behind her stood Yoshio.

The next day, the Widow did not leave her bed all day.
Kimiko performed her duties with an air of feigned ignorance.
Whenever Kimiko entered the Widow's room on errands, Yoshio always stood beneath the window.

Several more days passed.
Kimiko decorated the doll in the tokonoma while the Widow was away.
This would be her final test.
The Widow returned to her room from the restroom and at first seemed not to notice anything amiss, but when her eyes suddenly caught the doll in the alcove, she hurriedly picked it up, glanced furtively around the room, then gently placed it back on the tatami mats as if handling something cursed.
"So..." she murmured, "...she knows after all."

Kimiko and Yoshio, who had been peering from the next room, secretly exchanged glances.

Kimiko floated the golden talisman in a shallow bowl of water and offered it to the white-haired old woman who lay bedridden in a room, her mouth and body immobilized by paralysis.
The old woman stared into the bowl with the vacant expression characteristic of those afflicted by paralysis, but soon began bowing repeatedly, tears streaming down her face as if pleading for mercy.
To Yoshio, who sat beside her watching with puzzlement, Kimiko recounted her father's final moments.

Yoshio said.
“Matsue-san, you are a woman—please do not act rashly. For your sake, I would brave fire and flood without hesitation.”
“Moreover, it is my duty to you to atone for my father’s crime.”
“The obligation to avenge your parents rests with me.”

That day at Futago Pond lay unnaturally choppy despite the windless air, shrouded by black clouds threatening imminent rain. True to form, the wind that began blowing in the afternoon summoned rain by evening, transforming into a howling tempest at night that grew ever more violent as hours deepened. Every tree in the great forest surrounding the mansion danced eerily like monstrous apparitions within the terrible storm.

Yoshio stood in the dark corridor gripping a polished axe in his right hand. Even this sturdy structure groaned ominously with each storm blast, horizontal rain hammering the storm shutters with tremendous fury. Yoshio quietly slid open the shoji screen.

The Widow lay utterly drained from days of exhaustion, hands limp atop her nightclothes in apparent deep slumber. Yoshio crept soundlessly to her pillowside and raised the axe.

Another violent rainburst lashed across the shutters.

With a cry like tearing silk, Kimiko rushed from the adjoining room and dropped to her knees beside the Widow. Exposed lay the Widow's left chest bearing a plum-shaped birthmark, her slit-like eyes pooling with tears.