Pathway to Japanese Literature

24

This rain soon cleared, and both the garden and the mountains were draped in a mist like blue velvet embroidered with butterfly-shaped flowers.
Perhaps from some lingering aftermath, the scent of rapeseed had permeated the hermitage, the sitting area, and even the sleeves.

The monk, with earnest simplicity, suggested guiding him from the day’s exit to the snake’s storehouse in the back mountain, but at this moment, having no inclination to pass behind the Kannon hall, the wanderer postponed his farewells and soon left the hermitage.

For the time being, regarding the monk’s story, he could muster no contemplation, offer no critique, nor articulate any impressions; having thus uncritically devoured every word spoken to him—crammed through the skylight until his chest swelled—he thought to walk alone in silence, digesting it all until it settled in his gut.

Since the other party was also a monk, there was likely no need for detailed explanations—though his farewell might have been somewhat abrupt.

Now, having left the stone steps behind and placed the familiar two-story building ahead, when he exhaled……,

“In a half-dream…”

First muttering it under his breath, he tilted his head slightly.
Finding his staff cumbersome, he shook it up to his arm and crossed his arms along with his wrapped sleeves.
A rapeseed-flower path; a man’s figure, unremarkable in retreat beyond the curtain.
Despite the sun shining brightly after the rain, with the ground thinly coated in a slick layer, he had to take care not to slip and fall.

“Since I saw my beloved… the thing called a dream,”

When he glanced up, on the left cliff a chinquapin tree jutted sideways—viewed from afar, this green demarcated the base of the stone steps—the hermitage had now fallen behind to his right.

No sooner had he seen it than once more,

“Speaking of dreams—well, I myself seem to be caught in one somehow.”
If I were to wake soon and think, “Ah, it was just a doze,” then it would be a dream—but if I never wake at all, would that not also be a dream?
I once heard that madmen and sane people differ only in the duration of their states—like how when wind rises, waves grow rough at times; though everyone has moments of madness, they soon calm into gently undulating swells.
If those waves do not calm—we who ride the waves of this fleeting world—our minds sway unsteadily; though the trees may wish to calm, when the wind does not cease, we grow drunk on the ship—drunkenness on that ship adrift in the waves of this fleeting world becomes madness in an instant.

Danger—danger.

On such days, even dreams would be no different.
Because I wake up, it's a dream—but if I never wake at all, then it wouldn't be a dream.

If one concludes that only in dreams can one meet a lover—this would make it even more of a dream—then what of those in the world who—who are they?
When I posed the question, someone replied with a "yes" or some such, and with two butterflies fluttering about, I came to understand.

"As for the hermitage's guest—from what I've just heard—did he cling entirely to this thing called dreams?"

As his thoughts strayed like butterflies along a detour—a thread of jewels extending lightly along the rapeseed border—there came, though no wind blew, a sudden rush from the side: a figure with snow-pale arms and scarlet collar, toes curled back and legs outstretched, riding a jet-black horse that soared through the azure sky, its hat brim nearly grazing the crest of a great wave before leaping in one bound over a crimson rainbow.

Abruptly, his fanciful reverie was interrupted; startled into awareness, he found he had passed the red rat snake’s trail and even gone beyond the weaver woman’s hut. When it came to sounds—no sudden voices reached him—yet beyond the mountains, the train station’s flutes and drums resonated in his chest like the seconds of a great clock, thud-thudding steadily.

At the edge of the diagonally opposite fence, as though having lain in wait for him, stood the old man—propped on his hoe, wearing a faint smile, his lumbering figure.

“Well now, might you be returning already?”

“Ah, earlier…”

25

With that same gentle smile, he rubbed his hands, now free from the hoe,

“Well now, you’ve spoken such kind words with all your kindness, sir—thanks to your protection, I’ve been praised for my grand deed, I have.”
“Did it not cause you any particular trouble?”

When he said this with an air of nonchalance, his demeanor appeared rather dignified.
Of course, the other party was none other than the aforementioned old man.

“No trouble at all—time and again, I was thanked and made to feel most grateful.”

“So, it wasn’t in vain—you were the one who disposed of it, then.”

“Pressed it down with a bamboo tip there, and tossed it into the thicket at the mountain’s base, I have.”
“The maids said not t’kill it.”

“That way feels better—since I was the one who reported that you didn’t need to take its life, if there’s any resentment, it might come after me instead.”

“Ha ha ha ha! ’Fore you sir, seems you still don’t much care for it. The maids in back—soon as they heard ‘snake,’ went all aflutter bangin’ ’gainst the shoji screens.”

“First I went ’round through th’garden gate, got guided to th’veranda there, then headed kitchen-way searchin’ all over—an’ what d’you know? Just like you figured sir, there ’twas in th’bathroom’s west corner, flickin’ its tongue out all nasty-like.”

“It was bigger'n I thought.”

“Damn thing!”
“When I’s takin’ a bath—should’ve gone to that old pond where frogs jump in, y’see.”
“Peekin’ into the dressin’ room and puttin’ on white powder—what’re ya doin’, huh?”
“What—got yourself smitten with a white heron or somethin’?” I yanked it hard, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Ain’t no use—if you take too long ponderin’, they’ll come tiptoein’ from afar yellin’, ‘Don’t kill it! Just toss it out! Madam’s too sickly to fret over such things,’ the maids all chimed in unison. No skill needed for that—ain’t no killin’ required—so I slipped it into the brush pile and got rid of it.”

“Madam ain’t feelin’ well, so she’s lyin’ down upstairs.”

A light rain had just fallen, and as the weather cleared—sir—under that peach tree where crimson dewdrops larger than raindrops plopped down one after another, Madam emerged from the back door holding a purple bat-wing umbrella. (“Old man, thank you for earlier—”)

“The one who kindly informed me about that unpleasant creature’s presence while passing by—it’s said they went toward Iwato-no-miya, but has there been no sign of their return yet?” she asked.

“Well now, I only went inside for a short spell—even if he’d rushed out in the rain, he ain’t come back yet—prob’ly still ain’t returned,” he said.

“Or maybe he went marchin’ right along—light on his feet there—prob’ly crossed over the mountain and come out toward Namegoshi way,” he added.

“If you happen to see him,” she said, “be sure to convey my gratitude properly.”

“He jumped over that ditch there and took that road—”

The same path as this side outside the fence.

“Well now—moseyin’ ’long there, [you] went off toward th’ valley.”

He began to speak—then turned his entire body from Iwato-no-miya toward the exit leading to Kashihara. His movements were exaggerated, his demeanor so purposeful that the Wanderer likewise turned toward him... For him on this return path, what lay ahead now faced forward as if it were an onward journey.

"There it is, sir," he said. "Ah—over there on the embankment."

Upon grass as alluring as an untied brocade sash—amidst the faint haze after rain where the mountain's foot lay shrouded in mist—a single expanse of purple lingered, large as the full moon yet resembling a bouquet of violets. Written with the characters for "purple gauze umbrella" and ichihachi flowers—just as the script suggested—it was an accessory befitting a beauty.

The Wanderer saw at a glance and had already felt the lapping edge of the mist creeping up to cling against his skin.

Amidst the indescribable spring scenery linking there and here, the Old Man’s bracken-like hand pointed with rough fingers,

“Over there—see? She’s restin’ under the umbrella’s shade.”
“Ha ha ha ha! Let me hear that thanks—she’s waitin’ on ya!”

Twenty-Six

Upon the purple umbrella fallen sideways shone a glittering sunlight like the golden wings of insects that visit asters, blazing so brightly upon the grass it seemed to set it aglow.

From that shade emerged the supple hem of a robe, leaving the embankment’s emerald hues to either side without a trace, alluringly outlined by the erratic stripes of figured crepe silk. Between the path—slick with post-rain viscosity—and herself, the slender edge of her hem lingered softly damp where tabi socks tucked inward at the inner seam, from which spilled the tomo-zome-dyed under-kimono, richly unfurled to her knees.
The setta sandals lay cast off upon a patch of earth, one foot arched supplely into the grass.

As he tried to pass by, he involuntarily came to a halt.
The Wanderer, having wagered with base companions, felt as though he were the sole rider galloping eastward through the demon-haunted twilight of Uji Bridge.

Despite these approaching footsteps—which, with the purple umbrella held like a small shield and cast languidly into the mist over the embankment, left not even the faintest ripple-like sound against the lustrous yet striking scarlet hakama—he shuddered head to toe, straightened up, involuntarily raised his shoulders, swung his staff forcefully, began cutting the nine-syllable seal, and hurried through.

Ah, the path was so narrow that he had to step over the demon’s discarded clogs. From this exit of Kunō Valley—where one way led toward the sea, another toward the mountain villages of Kashihara, and another back to Iwato-no-miya—it spread out precisely in the shape of a T-shaped temple bell striker. Ahead was a vast wheat field.

When he came face-to-face with the green wheat, the Wanderer’s face was as though intoxicated.

A voice called out, “Namu sanbō!”
That was not something left unspoken.

“…………”

Unable to flee in a single dash, he came to a halt; he must have bitterly regretted not having oiled the horse’s tail beforehand, letting the hawk’s talons slip through his grasp.

“I.”

he turned around,

As he said, "Is that so?" and glanced back, what he saw was not some bald-pated, gap-toothed creature, but a figure enveloped in purple shadow pierced by sunlight—a vision where the moon's reflection dwelled in a standing screen, cloud-tressed hair held by starry pins, lips like crimson blossoms, lotus-petal eyes, and a willow-slender waist clinging to the grass—appearing to float among butterfly pea flowers, an apparition arrayed in void-woven raiment.

When her whitefish-like fingers lightly adjusted the navy-blue half-collar, those beautiful eyes shifted.

“Excuse me…”

She merely smiled gently.

“Haa…” he said, his gaze darting around his midsection as he scanned for escape routes.

“I have called out to you,”

As she raised her full chest, the figure that had been leaning back slightly against the embankment in a reclining posture shifted forward.

“Haa… What…?”

With an earnest expression on his face,

“Me?” he feigned ignorance.

“I have heard that it is someone of your appearance.”
“Earlier, you truly showed concern for me—”

When she slowly drew closer the discarded setta sandals with her snow-white tabi socks, the tomo-zome-dyed fabric fluttered down even more—the patterned flowers standing as a memory—and suddenly, the scent of Tsumabiki lingered.

The beautiful woman stood up straight,

“Thanks to your kindness, the disaster was—”

She showed the nape of her neck and gently lowered her head.

At that moment, the lone warrior tucked his staff under his arm and removed his helmet,

“Well, what could it be…” he replied ambiguously.

The beautiful woman smiled amiably at him,

“Hoho, I already call it a disaster.”
“It’s a disaster—you.”
“If that creature were to enter the house—just wait and see—I would have to vacate the premises for now and go somewhere else.”
“If it truly comes to that, what am I to do?”
“Thanks to your protection, I have been saved.”
“I thank you.”

“Even so, to have concluded it was me—”

The thought inadvertently slipped from his lips.

This was slightly off-key, so, as if to ask again,

“Well,”

27

“It’s about that green snake from earlier, isn’t it? Even so, I was surprised you knew it was me.”

With an evasive posture of discarding the whip, he straightened the horse’s head and continued to laugh awkwardly,

“That would be obvious.”
“It is such a rural place.”
“And as you behold, does this not stand as a place devoid of passersby?”

“As for someone of your sort coming and going, there’s been only one person since morning. I am quite certain of it.”

“Then why don’t you ask that old man,”
“No—when we passed by the stone wall earlier, I observed you from the second floor.”

“Then, when I saw the green snake,”
“Because your form became a shield for me, I was spared from seeing anything unpleasant at that time too.”

She leaned slightly, appearing nostalgic.

“But—you,” he blurted out,

“Yes?”

Urged by her prompting, he suddenly seemed at a loss; tapping his cane several times in quick succession, he pursed his lips.

He pressed forward,

“What is it? Please tell me.”

He acted with graceful composure.

Flustered and in a fluster,

"You—you're the one who said you were feeling unwell and lying down, aren't you?"

"Oh, but I've been airing out my shell like this."

"Huh," Tsuna's eyes widened—ah, that look of someone realizing they'd said something awkward.

The beautiful woman tilted her face as if peering into him, her eyes slanting sharply as they drifted. With her delicate palm lightly pressed to her cheek, a hint of rouge fluttered into place. The sound of brushing snow from her sleeve rustled softly, mingling with the whisper of fabric against fabric.

“Actually... I was asleep,”
“What do you mean by that?”
he replied with a bitter smile.

“But at that time, I wasn’t sleeping.”
“You were awake.”
“Oh,”

in a slightly elevated tone,

“I can’t make sense of what you’re saying at all.”

When she spoke with familiar ease, she suddenly arched her back—revealing delicate earlobes as she turned her face away and looked down—then pulled one foot back to steady herself before straightening up.

“No, I wasn’t sleeping. But when I saw your figure, I suddenly felt unwell... and then I lay down.”

“This is terrible—terrible of you!”

He threw himself forward with a reckless lurch,

“Then it was the green snake that was the culprit. Yet you went out of your way to stop me, even exaggerating that you’d been spared from disaster—though originally I thought my help was unnecessary—and then offered thanks. When I heard it was a residence occupied solely by ladies, I felt increasingly awkward—weren’t you even here trying to sneak past me? You made things worse with your excessive gratitude—and what do you mean by ‘figure’? I’m not a ghost—does such a thing as a figure that makes one feel unwell even exist? You’re talking about my physique or appearance. To say my physique made you feel unwell—that’s rather harsh. And then to sleep because of it—isn’t that cruel?”

“The fact that I offered unnecessary meddling—if it was unsightly, just say so. To be granted mistaken passage through this checkpoint of yours—shall I recite a subscription ledger? If that won’t do, then there’s no helping it. I’ll turn back to the original Gandō and make my escape over the mountains—that’s all there is to it.”

With resolve born of defiance, having said this as his cue, he meant to plop down onto the embankment grass—but unwilling to yield, as he kept glaring at that demonic visage, his hips, which should have settled sideways, found no purchase; the camp stool slid out, and down he went with a thud onto the earth.

“Oh, careful!”

No sooner had she spoken than a blaze of color—piercing through the mist—dazzled before his eyes.
She promptly disarranged Tomozome’s knees carelessly flipping over the sitting tray while pushing forward with one hand against half-crushed geta straps—intending to help him up—her other hand fluttering pale handkerchief silk fragrantly before settling gently upon his back.

28

“Namu Kanzeon Bosatsu... Grant me salvation—” Within his heart, The Wanderer’s mental fortifications and defensive postures crumbled to dust.

“Your tabi are caked with mud. Since we’re right at the spot, allow me to assist you briefly.”
“Do remove them.”

As his fingertips nearly caught hold of something, he jerked them back reflexively—in that same motion pulling his body away before planting his hips firmly this time with a thud, his back nearly reclining against the embankment.
The warm grass burned crimson at the clover’s roots; drenched in sweat, his face flushed scarlet while his eyes darted about uncontrollably—

“It’s fine, it’s fine—such tabi socks are nothing.”

A chill ran down his spine—*There I go again, spouting lines fit for a rakugo warm-up act*—but when he finally steadied his gaze, the beautiful woman had retrieved her fallen cane, supplely gripping it with both hands as she stood there with unruffled poise.

Her unlined haori sash and loosely draped layered kimono shifted slightly with her movement, spilling the fragrance of Tomozome rouge down the front panel—even the pale blue crepe obi’s end, slipping slightly askew, seemed ill-suited to the cane she held, as if she were a hostage taken—pitiable thing, your proxy self now crushed beneath love’s burden.

“I sincerely apologize.”

Once again taking the initiative,

“What am I to do?”

Half-closing her pondering eyes with dejection—like a blind person sighing—she put on a pitiful act.

“I carelessly blurted out something absurd, but I didn’t mean it that way.”

“If it were truly as you say—that seeing your figure made me feel unwell—how could I possibly bring myself to say such a thing aloud? When I saw your figure, I then felt unwell…”

She tried repeating the words under her breath once more,

“Ohoho, well, you must have surmised most of it, I suppose.”

Approaching with ease, she spread her sleeve over the embankment and settled in as if to lean against it.
Spring grass partitioned the area around their shoulders in emerald green, and the hems of the two faced the wheat field at their feet.

“It’s not as though I intended to say such a thing—you must understand that well enough, mustn’t you?”

“Yes,”
“Ah—you there,”

“Yes,”

When he nodded in meaningless agreement, yet still seeming unsettled,

“To go blaming me like that—you’re truly being mean.”
she contrarily entangled him.

He turned his gaze sideways, as if unable to remain entirely silent,

“The one who’s being mean is you.”
“I don’t recall reproaching you at all.”
“Since you claimed to feel unwell, I inquired precisely as you stated.”

“And then you got angry, you know.”

“No, I was merely being apologetic.”

“As for that point—couldn’t you infer it yourself?”

“There’s such a thing as turns of phrase.”
“Look at morning glory leaves—the surface seems flimsy, but their undersides swell plump… Heed the underside.”

“The underside… Wait now.”

“Yes,” she said, closing her eyes and tilting her head back to breathe deeply,

“Since it’s the opposite of feeling unwell—when you see my figure, your spirits improve—that’s how it must be—be reasonable now, don’t play the fool,”

she insisted.
However, she did so with a laugh.

With clear eyes, she looked steadily,

“Is it so difficult?”
“However I phrase it, you twist it this way—you mustn’t torment someone so vulnerable.”
“Can’t you see I’m suffering?”

Placing hands on the grass and shifting knees,

“Oh, do listen,”

Her lips, smiling as if in ecstasy, were so coquettish that one might think she had applied black tooth dye.

“Well, let’s suppose I have someone dear and beloved.”
“Would that be acceptable…?”

“Suppose there were someone dear and beloved whom I cannot meet no matter what—someone I long for so desperately that I cannot sleep at night, my heart in disarray and my mind near madness. And though I yearn even for someone resembling them, lately no one who seems to have come from Tokyo appears around here. Then, after how many years or months have passed, if I were to suddenly glimpse a figure resembling theirs—you—”

and tried plucking the roots of a horsetail where an elongated shadow fell near her hand,

“At that time… and then—how shall I put it—the ache grew so fierce that I later took to my bed, but as for what state of mind I might claim to have been in then…”

“After all, there’s no other way to put it—I simply fell into that… unpleasant state of mind.”
“That is what I meant to convey.”

Without a word…… after a while,

“So, such a person would behave in that manner,” he said, edging slightly away as if to disentangle himself.

“You know full well.”

Then the ambush erupted in full force.

“Yes,”

“You know full well.”

“I’ve only just met you and don’t even know your name. How could I possibly understand such things?”

Since glimpsing the beloved one in his drowsing vision—though not entirely unaware of the name “Miwo”—he yearned to hear the dream’s origin.

“Even so, you seemed to know of my distress. Earlier,”
“Earlier,”

“That was merely when that old man who worked the fields went to catch the snake—he mentioned you were upstairs, so I only caught a hint of your condition.”
“And that was only about you feeling unwell.”

“Since I never mentioned anything about my appearance making you feel unwell, there was no way you could have known.”
“But since you might comment on politeness, I thought that fellow was in trouble—though there was no way back without passing through here.”
“If I’d known it would come to this, I’d have crawled into a hole somewhere.”
“I shouldn’t have met you.”
“However, since I didn’t know you saw me from the second floor—well, that couldn’t be helped.”

“Still, you say such things!”
“If you harbor such doubts, then I shall tell you.”
“You—just look at how splendid these trees and grasses are—if they had blood, it would surge forth.”
“Beneath this vermilion-hued sunlight glowing warmly, even the earth feels warm as human skin.”
“Where bamboo grows, there’s no darkness; where flowers bloom, they cast no shadows.”
“Flame-like they flutter in bloom, and scattering upon water become vermilion-lacquered cups drifting languidly away.”
“The sea resembles deep blue wine, and the sky—”

and turned up white palms on knees, gazing upward,

“Like viscous green oil.”
“Thickly viscous, stagnant even without clouds—as if urging one to dream.”
“The shapes of the mountains resemble soft velvet, plump bolster pillows.”
“Here and there, heat hazes and shimmering threads ripple like thickly starched cloth.”
“The skylark must be about to sing.”
“A bush warbler sings in the distance, low to the ground—as if proclaiming, ‘Here too lies a village—how delightful!’”
“An utterly complete, entirely flawless spring day—the kind where closing your eyes would send you drifting into dreams—and yet, you… what do you make of this?”

“What can I say—”

Led by her words, from within that spring day, his eyes transformed into the form of a beautiful woman.

“What sort of feelings do you harbor?”

“…………”

“Are you finding pleasure?”

“Well,”

“Are you pleased?”

“Well,”

“Does this seem lively to you?”

“And you?”

“I feel unwell, just as I did when I first beheld your figure,”

She began to speak but stopped short with a soft smack of her lips and a sigh, then took the cane diagonally across her lap with both hands.
A figure poling through a sea of passion.
Involuntarily, he crossed his arms and gazed intently.

Thirty

“To speak of this spring day’s midday mood is like telling a dream—I simply cannot put it into words.”
“What do you make of this profound stillness and desolation?”
“After all, might this not be akin to glimpsing a bustling scene within a dream?”
“When I was about two or three years old, I saw it from my nursemaid’s back—it also seemed like a festival town.”

“For some reason, I feel more desolate now than in autumn evenings.”
“And yet I’m sweating—no, it’s not sweat but rather… this warmth that seems to wring the heart out.”
“Not painful, not heartrending—it feels as though my blood is being wrung out.”
“With the tip of a soft tree leaf, might I not have my bones drawn out?”
“They say one’s very skin melts away at times like these—but I feel as though I’m turning into water, dissolving until I might vanish, and tears come—these tears aren’t from sadness nor are they from joy.”

“Ah, you—there are tears born of scolding and tears born of consolation.”
“The tears that emerge on this spring day are those wept through consolation.”
“Could this still be sadness?”
“Though both bear loneliness—autumn dusk makes nature lonely, but isn’t spring’s loneliness that of people being lonely?”

Ah, even the people scattered here and there in the rice fields—if it were autumn, they’d be resolute, each maintaining their composure so as not to be overwhelmed by the desolation of the scenery. Even in their visible state, their listless legs seemed to retain some vitality, but just now, they’d had their souls utterly stripped away, floating weightlessly upward, as if about to become birds or butterflies. It felt desolate, didn’t it?

Enticed by the warm, gentle, soft, guileless wind—the dandelion fluff seemed poised to dissolve like cotton wisps and vanish—so too might one’s very soul. “That paradise—truly visible before one’s eyes—must share the same heart as dying.”

“Even knowing it’s delightful—isn’t it pathetic, lonely, helpless, a sad thing? And these tears that come—am I crying from sadness, or am I weeping helplessly? I feel as though I’m being torn to shreds—my chest clawed open—yet it neither pains nor itches. Peach blossoms flutter down into the sunlight, tranquil and lovely and beautiful, yet desolate all the same. The cloudless sky feels unreliable; the green fields resemble sandy wastes; it seems like a past life yet also the present moment. My heart yearns to speak but cannot be spoken; I’m frantic and resentful, irritated and restless, yet somehow dazed—rather than saying I’m being drawn into the earth’s depths, it’s more like being lifted into the sky’s embrace—this indescribable mood came over me, and so I slept, you—”

The light rain cleared and the sun shone through, everything suddenly taking on a beautiful appearance,

“Even if I say this, does it still offend you? You still haven’t forgiven me for saying that seeing your figure made me feel unwell? Oh my, what has come over you?”

Before the motionless Wanderer’s dazed eyes—he who listened with rapt stillness—a fierce stream of red and white powder swirled in the dazzling sunlight, whirling round and round.

“Somehow, I too have come to feel this strangeness—ah,”

and brushed her palm over her eyes,

“And so, did you rest there?”
“Hmm,”
“Did you see a dream?”

The words slipped out unintentionally, but he corrected himself, realizing how abrupt it was.

“If you were to doze off in such a state of mind, what sort of dreams might you see, I wonder.”

“After all, I see your figure.”

“Ah, yes,”

“As if I were here like this,” she said with an elegant laugh that seemed unconscious of itself.

“No, enough of this jesting—that person you spoke of, whom you find dear and beloved, whom you can no longer meet—you must see them in your dreams, do you not?”

“That you resemble—”

“No,”

There, they exchanged glances and simultaneously discarded the grass they had been plucking.

“I see.”
“It’s desolate, isn’t it? What do you make of this stillness…”

In the pines at the summit, Japanese white-eyes were chirping incessantly.

Thirty-One

“And this place called Kashiwa—how its mountain foothills jut out so boldly! It looks as though a monstrous land deity, facing the sea, has opened its maw to the heavens and clutched rice seedling fields, wheat, and barley between its back teeth.”
“As for the valley—when viewed like this, there’s not a shadow to be seen. The spring sun spreads over it, and if there’s a slight cloudiness, it becomes like mist—a tranquil scene, yet somehow it’s a place that gives one an uneasy sensation.”

The beautiful woman trembled, seeming somehow delighted,

“Ah, you too spoke of that (unpleasant feeling).”
“Then, it’s no longer an impediment for me to share that story, is it?”

“Very well.”
“Hahahaha.”

The path, now slightly altered in demeanor and seemingly glanced at from behind, stretched out from before the two-story house. It wound through low thatched huts—their roofs and leaves all blanketed in crimson camellia blossoms—emerged faintly at vegetable fields, vanished again among seedling paddies, then traced the distant emerald foothills of mountains. There it took on the turbid hue of lye-water, meandering leisurely onward until halted by peaks jutting sharply from either side.
In the depths of Kashiwa, where mist rose like steam to hang low—back-to-back with this scene lay the train station, its belly filled with the strangely resonant sounds of flutes and drums.
There, he directed his gaze into the distance and remained in a dazed state for some time.

“Well... At first—how should I put it—the feeling must have started from around there, where the voice began to reach me.”

“What voice?”

“Ah, when I lay there, rubbing my hair against the pillow—agonizing, impatient, fretting, utterly resentful, pathetic—it felt as though my body were going numb, my bones dissolving.”
“The sound of that earlier rain—how it suddenly and innocently swept against the eaves and passed—I thought, lying there, that it must have begun falling precisely from that area.”

“I must have been unconsciously distracted by the sounds of that train station’s festival music—that’s why.”
“Even now, I feel as though a fine rain still falls only over the crowd at the train station.”
“If any dampness from the rain still lingers, I think it would be in the mist over there.”

And then—from within that thin, ethereal rain that seemed to pass through the very sky—a brazen voice, deep-rooted and resonant, rusted and briny, was forced up from the pit of a belly.

"Yes, yes, yes, I shall tell you.
The tale is your familiar ‘Tales of Tokyo Survival’—a merchant’s falsetto mimicry.
First comes the matter of Kanda—yes, yes—before the landlord’s shopfront.
In the whitish light of dawn’s breaking, as the apprentice sweeps the entranceway—‘Natto, natto—’)

he said, his tone turning wretched,

"Yes, yes—I’ve had some sake and my voice won’t hold out. Please, help me out here."

“And that unpleasant voice would reverberate like a shooting star trailing its tail.”

“What’s wrong with me?” I shuddered and drew up my legs in bed.

After a while, that strange voice saying “Yes, yes,” began to echo again.
This time, it had drawn slightly closer.

Then, gradually facing those houses of Kashiwa—sporadically zigzagging from one house to the next, everywhere repeating the same plea up to the same point to beg for coins—the warm, persistent rain too, along with those doorstep footsteps, seemed to drift near and away, sauntering leisurely along.

The cries of “Natto, natto—”, the mentions of Tokyo, the shopfronts, the apprentice sweeping the entrance—all these descriptions stirred such nostalgia within me. Memories of my parents, the place where I was born, things from long ago came flooding back until I could no longer bear it—this feeling as though my body were being boiled alive. I clamped my teeth onto the collar of my sleeping robe, clutched my chest tightly, and had just slipped into a trance when the rain began beating down more fiercely, driving that voice right to my inner gate.

“(Yes, yes, yes,)”

And wouldn’t you know it—he started saying,

“(The tale is the well-worn ‘Tales of Tokyo Survival’—a merchant’s falsetto mimicry.
First, it concerns the Kanda area—yes, yes—at the landlord’s shopfront.
In the pale light of dawn, as the apprentice sweeps the entrance, ‘Natto, natto—’)”

he said only that,

“(Yes, yes—I’ve had some sake and my voice won’t hold out. Please, help me out here.)”

And he repeated exactly the same thing, down to the last fraction, in the same tone.
“By the time he came to my gate, I had heard it from afar exactly thirteen times.”

Thirty-Two

“The maid didn’t come out right away.”

“Hey, please help me out here—I’ve had some sake, you see, and my voice won’t hold out… heh, heh,”

He let out a repulsive cough,

“Please help me out here—I drank too much and can’t go on—help me out, I’m beggin’ ya.”

he said, as if muttering to himself—you,

“Can’t keep goin’!” he’d say—this brazenly audacious demeanor of his was beyond belief.
“He seemed to be spattering saliva all over the place there.”

With the clinking sound of coins, the maid was about to go out, so—

"Hikari? Hikari?"

“Hikari? Hikari?” I called out from my room on the second floor—as if to intercept her approaching footsteps at the stairway entrance—and said with unintended sharpness,

“What are you doing?”

“It’s a doorstep performer,” came [her] reply.

“A performer?!” I blurted before catching myself.

“Yes,” she answered faintly—astonished by my tone.

“You mustn’t! You absolutely mustn’t give them anything! If they’re performers,” I pressed on bitterly through clenched teeth,

“let them perform properly for their coins! If they can’t—if they’re too drunk even for that—drive those beggars away! How dare they—the sheer audacity!”

Agitatedly—what was happening?—as her chest seethed as if boiling to the point of bursting, stealthily muffling her footsteps, Hikari went down from the second floor, I recall.

I am so ashamed.

It was said to be piercingly loud, and it seems to have been heard clearly all the way downstairs.
“Because she was on the front second floor.”

(What on earth—)

A confrontational voice sounded at the entrance.

When she pressed on the pillow and sat up, she heard the maid’s voice whispering furtively, “Because you’re ill.”

Mockingly,

“If you’re a patient, then die like one.
If you could get better, you’d have done it by now.
What’s with all the whining and fussing?”

the red-faced one seemed to say, baring white teeth.
“Ah, I felt that way.”

“Oh, should I just die? Dying is nothing—” I suddenly stood up, staggered away from the bed, and collapsed.
When I threw out the hem of my robe onto the steps and grabbed the railing—as the rain suddenly darkened—I cried all alone.
“After that, their voice vanished completely—where did that street performer go?”
The rain had cleared, and bright daylight returned.
“What could it mean? A man in his forties—sturdy-built and barefoot—carrying a child crosswise on his back like some red demon from a painting... Even now as I speak these words, I can still see him.”
“I didn’t even hear about this from the maid—”

"I thought I might just collapse back into bed again, but if I did that, I feared I might lose my mind, so I wandered out into the sunlight."

"No—to you whom I have met for the first time, telling such a story—I might already be out of my mind, but—"

She began to speak—and seemed to gaze with concentrated intensity—the hue of her eyes was beautiful.

"You—does something like a future truly exist, I wonder?"

“…………”

“If it’s settled that such a thing exists, I don’t care whether it’s hell or paradise.”
“If the one you long to meet is there—”
“Then hurry there—that would be best—but—”

Her fingers pale as horsetail stalks absentmindedly plucking and plucking at the grass,

“Because nothing’s certain—if I died and that were the end, how pitiful that would be.”
“If that’s how it is, then living on—tormenting myself, being troubled, gradually fading away—I think that might be slightly better.”
“Don’t forget me—never ever—”

As she spoke—repeating herself—she plucked a blade of grass and ground it between her white teeth.

With galvanized urgency, the hues of sleeves thrust beyond the man’s knees and the obi’s shadow deepened within the verdure, vivid as lotus leaves unfurling.

“That’s not fair—how cruel you are.”

The Wanderer—finding no reply—had in truth been seen fumbling with a notebook carelessly cast upon the grass: olive-bound covers sealed by a peach-hued ribbon, heedless of its placement.

33

“Come over here. I can’t bear this!”

Restraining his hand that had reached toward the edge of the notebook, he faced directly toward the wheat field.
Trying to divert the conversation aside, he braced himself openly under the clear sky.

“Have you composed a song?”

“Hohohoho,”

She merely laughed.

“Are you drawing a picture?”

“Hohohoho.”

“Splendid. You’re enjoying yourself. I’d very much like to take a look.”

He released his hand but kept his shoulder pressed against hers,

“Shall I show you?”

Laughing with childlike innocence, she adjusted her grip and flipped through the pages near the man’s obi.
The notebook’s leaves, layered like butterfly wings in her hands, revealed pencil sketches of...

At first glance, the Wanderer turned pale.

Chaotic in size and shading—some half-drawn, some warped, some quivering, some abandoned—yet all merely circles, squares, and triangles.

"Well, isn't it well done?"
"The people here—you must know—say Tamawaki paints pictures."
"When I come to this embankment, I find myself lingering endlessly like this. Yet simply being here makes me feel like some absurd guardian of the valley mouth—that's why I began this at some point."

"Since it's received such favorable notice... You see, I've been thinking lately to bring out my paints and open an elegant little shop upon the grass. Wouldn't that make for a remarkable sketch?"

“If you consider this circle the sea, this triangle the mountain, and this square the rice paddy, then that’s perfectly acceptable. Then, if you imagine a circular face, a square torso, and someone seated in a triangle—you could think of it as an Imado-ware elder sister, or if you prefer, a lord in hakama trousers—either would be perfectly acceptable. And then… If there’s something in the water—if you ask the author about it and they say they don’t know—you may put on a haughty face, or you may worship it as the posthumous name of some dead person whose name you don’t know.”

Haltingly, he found his voice,

“Posthumous name,”
he managed to say.

“What—what are you saying?”

“Square Hall Circle-Circle Triangle Layman,”

As he spoke—pressing his chest against the embankment, sleeves sinking into grass, tie-dyed fabric disarrayed up to his sturdy calves—he glided one leg and a kimono hem through the air as if scooping inward, swiftly recording the secret of those three shapes with his pencil.

With a rhythmic ten-ten-kara, ten-kara, the sound of a drum echoed near their ears. The world was not devoid of others beyond the two of them.

The camellias—as if burning and falling—came splattering toward the thatched hut across the way, and no sooner had they overflowed than something fluttered down onto the vivid yellow flowers, hidden among the leaves along the rapeseed path.

It seemed as if two chickens had flown up to the eaves of the thatched hut.

Two heads—lion heads, one tall and one short—now tangling, now writhing, brushing against flowers, rustling leaves through rapeseed fields; and soon emerging at the edge of the young wheat field stretching from underfoot into the distance, before Tamawaki’s gate came the lion dance troupe.

In soiled moss-green attire, their mud-caked straw sandals leaving dried dust like mist over wheat—where were they bound with such purpose?
They abruptly ceased drumming and hurried closer.
Each wore the Kakubei-style regalia of young lion dancers, large and small.
The smaller appeared about eight years old, the elder perhaps thirteen or fourteen; they sliced through Kunō Valley’s exit, where red-white peonies stood vivid as a sudden recollection, then fluttered past ahead.

“Wait a moment,”

The beauty who had called out straightened up.
Without changing her stance, she flung her setta sandals toward the lion-dance butterfly and settled into a sideways sit on the grassy embankment.

The lion dancers handled the red cloth, both standing and turning their heads.

“Ah, um—children, wait a moment.”

Rat-a-tat-tat—when the older one struck with a thud, the drumstick flew off the drum’s surface and quivered finely.

“Ah!”

The Young Lion Dancer bent back toward the bridge on the road—his plump chin rounded, his cheeks flushed with red, a fair-skinned child with an adorable mouth.

Thirty-Four

“Ohohoho~, you’re practicing so hard. Now, wait a moment.”
“You don’t have to strain yourself like that, really—it’s alright.”

As she pressed these words upon him, she sprang upright and stood beneath the cascading red blossoms that hung thick and heavy from the eaves, her eyes widening sharply.

With a quivering trail, the drum ceased.

The beautiful woman shifted her knees, placed a hand on the obi, and lifted it up—

“Wait—I’ll give you the coins now,”
She hastily wrote on a page of her notebook, tore off the sheet and kept it close, then beckoned to the lion dancers.
“Come here, come here. Ah, you there—take this and go fetch it from that two-story house on the corner.”
It appeared to be a bill left with the house during her absence.

Hurriedly, the Wanderer thrust his hand into his sleeve,
“If it’s thin, I have one.”
“No, that won’t be necessary. Now, Big Brother, off you go.”

Grabbing the drumstick with one hand, he swiftly retracted his cautiously extended hand and shook the crest with a flutter as he departed.

“Now, you come here,”

She drew the smaller one to her knees.

Blank-faced, not uttering a word, staring fixedly with a face like a doll that had swallowed a stick,

“How old are you?”

“I’m eight years old.”

“Don’t you have a mother?”

“Does a Kakubei even have such a thing?”

“You might not know, but your mother might.”

As she pressed her hands until they turned white against his hakama and pulled him close with a tug, hugging him sideways, the lion head gaped open and swept backward to the ground, the straw sandals arching high.

A wind blowing through palm leaves swept across the chicken feather decorations.

“You,”

She calmly turned to look back,

“He might be my child.”

Slipping smoothly down an arm along the corrugated iron surface, the lion flipped over with a thud, quivered its body violently, but then stood up nonchalantly.

“Hehehehe,”

Here, the Older Lion Dancer came charging back,

“Gimme, gimme!”

He shook the two crests roughly, then poked the smaller one’s back and struck the drumstick again with a sharp tap.

“It’s alright—you don’t have to do that,”

With a face halted as though sliding down a skirt, she compared her own expression and the large silver coin still clutched in hand—both falling sullen.
At that moment, what was it that opened the crimson basin’s mouth and made its eyes gleam?

“Instead, I have something to entrust to you. Wait a moment.”

And the kana she ran smoothly like rippling spring water across her music book’s margins—pencil held straight—were unmistakably read by the Wanderer.

If I were to meet you again—the four seas’...

Even their depths we might have gazed into—

The Wanderer instinctively turned his gaze toward the sea.
The waves lay calm.
Green barley fields stretched into navy blue; on the horizon rose a single snow-capped mountain.

Fuji’s shadow fell upon the shore, lapping thinly across it; high on the ridge of a navy-blue Western-style mansion, two or three pigeons spread their wings, gently undulating like handkerchiefs.

Folding it small and handing the entrusted message to the young one’s hands, he seemed to nod repeatedly with his plump chin, but suddenly tried to head toward the two-story house.

He seemed to think he had been entrusted with an errand.

“Hey, you’re not going that way.”

He stepped in and called out.

The beautiful woman smiled gently,

“Just taking it with you is enough—there’s no particular place you need to go. If you drop it there’s no harm done—if you lose it altogether that’s fine too… It’s only the sentiment that matters…”

“So just taking it with me is enough, ma’am?”

Seeing the young one nod in response to what he’d heard, the old man—wearing a knowing look befitting his seniority—pulled back the lion head from behind the child, who was tilting precariously backward with an air of startled bewilderment,

“Stick it in here, ah—he ain’t keepin’ it safe nohow.”

When the lions lined up and bowed, they dashed off briskly.
Behind Shiranami toward the sea, a crimson cloak fluttered and billowed, melting into the haze over the roots of green barley.

35

Now, about half an hour later, the figure of the Wanderer appeared alone atop a sandhill beside the navy-blue Western-style mansion by the beach where he had seen the pigeons dancing.

When he arrived there, without even reaching the water’s edge—in a thoroughly exhausted manner—he first flung his legs out and slumped down heavily.
Well then, I’ll track down where that message for you ended up.
Using chasing after the lion dancers as his excuse—though his selfishness remained unspoken—he parted ways with the beautiful woman who had seemed to desire conversation, but there was no way his legs could keep pace with the lions’ flight.

He had thought to return home first and lie down, but upon leaving Kunōdani and looking at the highway, there was a teeming throng forming a human current surging toward the train station. Among them were young men already adopting falsetto voices as they moved through this area, women clad in light yellow undergarments—the sheer theatrical dread of it all. Whether it was the Ōeyama scene or something else, it could not possibly have been meant for the town.

And so, keeping to the road, he cut sideways through the stream of people and came through the rice fields.

Directly ahead, as if the queen of the mountains herself were present, clad in snow-white mist.
As far as the eye could see—the sea’s color.
The boats hauled up on the shore, the baskets, the kelp scattered like horse feed—none of these turned their faces toward the sea, and thus they did not obstruct the accustomed view.

And with not a single person present, it might have seemed like a midday moonlit night.
The tranquility, however, grew ever more profound across fields and mountains, and all traces of white sand resembled a warm mist.

Pigeons danced across the azure sky.
Not lured by gentle waves nor riding winds, remaining in one place—their companions inside the mansion clucked rhythmically as they stepped into their roost, cooing softly.

Even in a place like this, staying like this, the clouds and mist in one’s heart never clear—it was no different from a quilt one cannot sleep beneath. When he idly grasped the sand, it formed neither hollows nor mounds; crumbling away harmlessly, he piled it up again from the side. It was like clutching water—when he sifted through it, only shells came tumbling out.

On the shore they lay spread out; even in places where nothing could be seen, parting the sand slightly would reveal shells.
Who knows what else might be living there.
Such was the case even in places close enough to touch.

If one were to search the water’s depths, the guest of Kunōdani’s hermitage—who was said to have died of longing for him—might still be there, alive and well.

No—with the heart that if he were still alive, she must have sent the entrusted message in hopes that were you and she to meet again, you would dive even into the depths of the four seas’ waters.

This poem—inspired by the longing felt for Takarikaru, a boy of the Heian period whose renown eclipsed his era, who borrowed a sliding door and from that azure act began to yearn—was composed when moved by such emotion, summoning him into her inner chambers… It was thought to be the work of a renowned poetess.

Needless to say, the person who had recorded this in the notebook was none other than Tamawaki’s wife, Mioko—the same woman who had carelessly scribbled a poem about dozing against the hall’s pillar.

Without need for deep contemplation, between the hermitage guest and Tamawaki’s wife there seemed to have existed a bond of dreams through some mysterious connection.

The man, having first detached himself from society yet still aware of its existence, appeared to have ventured straight into the netherworld through his own body to realize his fantasies—but the woman remained half-doubting, a state revealed through her subtly vented inner anguish, her resolve that a future existed, and her murmured words that once her soul’s destination was settled, she would immediately follow after him.

Yet because of this ambiguity, she could neither follow after the man nor achieve any growth.

Idly suspicious of the gate-crasher and feeling as though he were a messenger from the netherworld, her heart was somewhat disturbed.
As for her determination to prove herself by dying, the extent of her turmoil grew ever more worrisome.

From another angle, this gate-crasher’s mention in their conversation—the shop near Kanda bathed in Edo-purple dawnlight, an apprentice sweeping the gate while a natto vendor’s cry echoed—might have marked the very dawn of her existence.
Soon it swelled into a storm—yet—

In any case—what would become of that message?
Tamawaki’s wife had seemed intent on divining whether her future held anything at all—neither stowing it in an alms bag nor tying it to her obi nor tucking it into her sleeve—and now fretted over how Kakubei had sealed it inside that lion dance head before departing.
Though likely received by chance at that supremely vital place for mercantile fortune—where glittering things were grasped through exchange without revealing the seesawing torments—all for the sake of their foremost patron.

If that were to be snatched by a bird—believing the one she longs for exists in the void—would Madam transform and take flight? No no—even before a sheep could eat it Kakubei would not return to deliver that message.

If he crumbled the sand, then—having accumulated in his hand—he suddenly noticed the various shells.

"If you and I were to meet again... the four seas'..."
...he murmured unconsciously.
There was no further response.
If once more the empty shells could speak the heart of the great waters, then the shower of tiny shells spread upon the shore would never cease their whispered secrets.
Thus, whether a child picks them up or we dig them out from the sand, these silent things remain the same.

He discarded the small shells there.

And then he collapsed sideways into the sand.
The sand beneath his waist settled immediately, but even if he were to slip down, it would not bury him.

After a while, those half-closed eyes drew a diagonal line toward Narizuru Cape and, at what seemed its midpoint, became clearly aware of a will-o’-the-wisp that fluttered up like flames. But that was the crimson cloak of the lion’s head.

Both of them emerged.

The beach stretched from Narizuru Cape to Kotsubo Cliff—a place where not a single human figure was visible.

There was a play at the train station—with towns and villages all dragged along—who would bother with Kakubei?
The children of pitiable folk, their usual trade bustling like swarming mosquito larvae, today found themselves naturally at leisure.

The two here too—sometimes leading, sometimes following—walked along the surf’s edge, their gaiters-clad legs stepping out of sync, heads bowed together as if shielding themselves from the white waves, until at last the larger one broke away five or six feet from the shallows and planted his straw sandals into kelp scattered like sun-shadows to rest.

The Young Lion Dancer grew even more animated—lunging at waves only to be swept back in turn.
The scene did not appear at all like a child’s innocent play; he had once seen children from an orphanage come here and play under a sort of supervision, yet this was akin to that—pitifully tossed about by the waves of the fleeting world.
But that lion’s head raged furiously, poised to roar and battle.

“Go for the win!”

Taking off his straw sandals and becoming barefoot, he began to walk sideways.
He was playing, wetting his feet.

The larger one lay on his back, spreading out his cloak, his knees forming small mountain shapes.

When he dashed sideways along the shore, he had just removed his straw sandals; then, taking off his gaiters and wading in up to his knees, he stood quietly—but no sooner had he done so than he turned back, shed his hakama, hitched up his garments to his waist this time, splashed the tidewater fiercely two or three times, then scampered back again, tossed off the lion headpiece, stripped off his clothes, and plunged straight in stark naked.
The weather was still tolerable, but the child appeared not to know how to swim.
He vigorously sent the water flying back against the current.
Striking with his hands and stamping with his feet—the seawater enveloped the child like lightning, flying out to both sides. Without even a sound of droplets—the lion became entirely an infant: white light caressed his head, green waves embraced his chest.
What favored child is this, bathing in the great basin of heaven and earth as if in his first ablutions.

The Wanderer sat up abruptly and secretly celebrated that happiness.
Later, it was said that even in his childish heart, out of overwhelming joy, this had been an act of gratitude toward this expanse of spring sea.
Once out, he climbed up to the beach and crouched by the shoulder of the sleeping lion headpiece, but when his partner rose, he took only the lion’s head and placed it over his wet body.
Then he entered the water once more.
The legs of the parted waves trailed in two long, wide lines like tails, and before one could even register how far he had gone, the figure of the Young Lion Dancer became a mere speck near Izu’s cape.

No sooner had the larger one sat cross-legged on the beach than came the drumbeats—ten, ten, ten-ten-tsu-tsu ten-ten-ten—striking true against the waves. Ripples streamed across the oily sea surface, and as the sound resonated, the figure in the water stood up abruptly, head tilted sideways.

Dazzled by this—Ah, dreadful!—the lion dancer bearing tidings from beyond; in that instant of recognition, the child vanished from sight.

He still hadn’t surfaced.

The drums ceased, and those on shore stood frozen.

The large figure ran straight across the sand dune in haste; when those nearby approached—who knows why—he bundled up discarded hakama kimono gaiters all mementos resembling dried seaweed along with drums mud-stained sandals then fled toward town kicking up a cloud of sand.

The waves rolled in gently.

Two or three people came running quickly, but all burst into loud laughter,
“What a fool.”
“You idiot!”

As the policeman approached with heavy footsteps, the Wanderer clung to him and uttered a single word.

“Kakubei, hahaha—that’s right, that’s right.”

The bodies could not be found throughout that day, but when they washed up on the rocks of Narizuru Cape with the next morning’s ebbing tide—the same cape where the hermitage guest had drowned last summer—there were two of them. Her face pressed against breasts like jewels, the crimson cloak soaked through, entwined with those snow-white arms—one was beauty and allure incarnate. Tamawaki’s Wife had likely come to understand where her soul would go.

"Farewell," he said—under the embankment, at the moment of parting, having moved slightly away, when he looked back—he could not forget her figure seeing him off: the purple umbrella held horizontally near her obi, tilted slightly, her black-haired head bowed as if in farewell. How violently the tide must have battered them. The shore’s sand, even if scattered, piled up; hollowed, it filled—soundlessly. Only beautiful bones emerged. The colors of the shells: the sun’s crimson, the shore’s snow, the waves’ green.