Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

When the early July sun began blazing overhead, even the faintest stirring breeze had vanished from the mountains.
The clatter of ore sliding down mangoku nets and the screech of minecarts had both sunk into utter listlessness.
The leaves of plants and trees hung limp and wilted, while only rock fragments and quartz pieces scattered throughout the mountains—scorched by blazing sunlight—glinted fiercely.

Those working aboveground—the miners and ore-sorting women alike—had lost even the energy to sing a single song. Occasionally, the roar of explosions arising from within the mine would reverberate through the listless air as if suddenly remembered. But even those would soon be overpowered by this fierce light and heat, vanishing completely, and once again the surroundings would fall into an eerily profound silence.

At that moment, a packhorse driver who had brought thick pine logs loaded on his horse’s back from the foot of the mountain arrived before the lookout.

“I’ve brought the retaining logs. Could you inspect them?” he said.

Ikeda, who had been inspecting materials stripped to the waist, immediately grabbed a tape measure and went outside.
The horse that had carried thick pine logs up the mountain path under the scorching sun stood drenched in sweat, grazing on grass in the shade of trees.
When Ikeda finished applying the tape measure and inspecting the logs, the packhorse driver, as if suddenly remembering,

"I was asked to bring this from the office," he said, handing over a letter.

It was addressed to Ikeda from the mine owner in Tokyo.

Since letters coming directly from the mine owner had never contained anything good, Ikeda made a strange face and stuffed it into his pocket.
After the packhorse driver who had received the receipt for the pine logs once again descended through the blazing midday sun toward the foot of the mountain, he climbed up alone to the front of the abandoned mine.
There was cool shade and a constant cold wind blowing from the mine’s interior.
He lay down there, took out the letter from his pocket, opened it, and began reading.
Inside was:

It has come to my attention that you claimed illness to take leave from work two or three days ago while amusing yourself at a village teahouse. Whatever your reasons may be, I consider such behavior utterly unacceptable.
Though immediate dismissal would be warranted, given our family connections, I have summoned your mother and issued her a preliminary warning.
Henceforth, you must either conduct yourself with utmost discipline or tender your resignation forthwith—this being the sole course to preserve your standing—or so the letter read.

Though he’d expected nothing good from it, when Ikeda read this letter, his initial reaction was less anger than sheer bewilderment.
It was true that he had taken a day off work due to illness about a week prior.
Admittedly, the cause may have been overdrinking and carousing, but that day he had spent the entire time solemnly organizing documents in the office.
He had gone to bed unusually early that night.

The facts were simply this, yet someone must have fabricated lies and reported them to Tokyo.
Of course, this wasn’t the first time he’d found himself in such a predicament.
There had been times before when he’d fallen for such tricks—ended up punching his own section chief only to later realize the man bore no blame, forcing himself to swallow his embarrassment and apologize.
There had been times when he’d nearly been cut by the barracks foreman due to strange rumors being spread, and times when he’d fought with a miner and tumbled together into the smithy’s flames.

This time too, it must have been someone who had spread such things for some reason. It wasn’t unreasonable for the mine owner to be angry, but he thought there’d been no need to drag his elderly mother into it on account of what he himself had done. That was an extreme insult, he thought.

In that instant, he considered resigning and returning immediately to Tokyo. For he had come to think it absurd—spending cramped, tedious days amidst these petty men in such a small mountain, picking at each other’s faults, slandering one another, and when that wasn’t enough, even fabricating lies to report.

But that would merely mean escaping the troubles of this mountain—there was no hope to be found ahead. Starving for work, wandering that dust-choked Tokyo like a gaunt stray dog, having to beg and plead—even now, the thought made him shudder with how utterly predictable it all was. And even if he managed to find something, it would only mean repeating the same unpleasant feelings all over again. The whole world was structured that way—the moment this thought struck him, he once again became strangely forlorn.

While being buffeted by the gloomy wind blowing from deep within the abandoned mine, he kept his eyes tightly shut.

During the afternoon shift change, all the office clerks gathered around the lookout’s table.
At that moment, Ikeda threw the letter onto the center table and,

“Well then, do me the favor of reading it.
Looks like someone’s been spreading some nonsense,” he said, feigning nonchalance.

The letter was passed from hand to hand.
He stared intently from one face to the next as they read it, determined not to let a single thing escape him.

Suzuki, who had read it first,

“Looks like someone’s gone and spread more nonsense,” he said.

The surveyor clerk who read it next remained silent and gave a derisive snort.
A young man named Abe, who had once slandered Ikeda and was later roundly berated by him, turned red and remained silent after finishing reading it.
The rest of them didn’t say much.

“If someone here did this—reported such things—won’t you admit it yourselves? Otherwise, I’ll have to assume the worst,” said Ikeda with unnervingly mild politeness.

But everyone remained silent.

“If it’s not you lot, then maybe the director after all,” Ikeda muttered as if to himself.
The director was a man named Ishikawa—the mine owner’s wife’s elder brother.
He had come to this mountain as director about three months prior, but his habit of muttering misguided complaints as he prowled about had earned the clerks’ resentment.
In the end, reduced to a mere imbecile manipulated by his brother-in-law, everyone had taken to calling him “the imbecile” behind his back.

In any place where many people live together, there must be someone who becomes the target of contempt or hatred. Ikeda had been that target on multiple occasions before. However, he knew full well that since Ishikawa's arrival, while the clerks' resentment had shifted toward Ishikawa, he himself had instead become targeted as an object of hatred by Ishikawa. When it occurred to him that this incident too was likely Ishikawa's doing, he wanted to hurry back to the village and take some action.

When five o'clock came, he rushed out of the lookout ahead of everyone else.
When he came to the front of the ore dressing plant, he peered inside,

“Hey, old man—I need to talk. Come with me,” he urged Numata, who was getting ready to leave.

Numata was Ikeda's closest companion.
Because he had a pitch-black face and thick beard, everyone called him "old man."

When Numata came out in a fluster clutching his bundle and hat, the two hurried down the mountain.
When they passed through the valley and entered the grove of mixed trees, Ikeda suddenly glanced back. Finding no one in sight, he finally slackened his pace.
The sun had already slipped behind the high mountain's shadow, but the sky remained as bright as midday.
From the woods, a cool wind finally began to blow.

“Hey old man... I might have to quit after all,” Ikeda suddenly said.
Numata,
“I figured as much,” he said but
“So what’re you gonna do about it?” he shot back.
“It’s not like I’ve got any real plan,” he said—and Ikeda felt an inexplicable pang of guilt toward Numata.

The two often exchanged various grievances.
During such times, Numata would often talk about his days aboard a poaching ship near the Kuril Islands before coming to this mountain.

“The sea’s got plenty that ain’t scary too—cheerful even. You lie back in the boat, rocked gentle-like by them big waves, and when you stare up at the sky, all them petty worries just fade clean away.”
“We’d spend six months out hunting and six months living in brothels.”
“If we had a single ship just a bit faster than a destroyer, we’d be fine.”
“Let’s find a way for the two of us to go back to Hokkaido,” he said.
“The last time Ikeda said he’d quit the mountain,

“On land where they catch ya right away if ya kill someone, it’s all the same no matter where ya go. Just endure a bit longer and try heading to the Kuril Islands or somewhere. There’s men who deserted during the Russo-Japanese War still holed up there, and others who fled after killing people. Even the ones running tea houses all got skeletons in their closets. Those bastards are all unregistered men—whether they live or die, no one would know. Even if there’s ones who fight and kill people, there ain’t a soul who’d work in some worthless shadow. Every damn thing’s gotten all weirdly proper on land—no matter where ya go, it’s all the same. If you’re gone, I’ll lose my conversation partner—endure a bit longer.”

Before he knew it, Ikeda too had come to want to go to the Kuril Islands someday.
In a world without laws or police, people might kill others without a second thought.
But those who kill—if they fail to kill, they will be killed.
If one has that much resolve, then there’s no harm in doing whatever they please.
Once one becomes resolved to kill, people come to value human life.
When he thought that cowards could never comprehend such things, he wanted to hurry to the Kuril Islands.

Numata did not drink alcohol.
However, on nights when he was on duty and Ikeda would be drinking,
"How about I sing you one?" he would often say before launching into folk melodies like Nibashiri.
A hoarse yet resonant voice quietly echoed through the deserted night mountain.
At times when Ikeda overindulged too much,

“You ever heard what Yosuke no Matsu told Umibozu no Kiyokichi? He said if a man surrounds himself with too many women, his backbone’ll rot clean through,” he’d sometimes offer as blunt advice.
Though Numata had arrived about two months after Ikeda, when he thought back on the days since Numata’s arrival, it seemed as if only the two of them had been living there together.
The thought of leaving Numata behind and going out alone tormented Ikeda’s heart.

When they emerged from the edge of the woods, the surroundings grew bright once more.
The grassland still retained a lingering warmth, and the heated soil rose faintly around their silently walking feet.

“Being goaded by those fools into quitting—what worthless nonsense,” Numata said as if suddenly remembering.

“It’s all worthless. But unless you beat those idiots senseless, they’ll never understand how we feel. Once you start beating them, you can’t stop—it’s all so futile.”

The two of them fell completely silent.
When they climbed the pass at the village border, the sky had turned red.
A cool evening wind had begun to blow, so the leaves of the trees rustled as if revived, their dry whisper filling the air.

When they arrived at the teahouse below the pass, Ikeda,

“Anyway, I’m drinking here before I go. If I go back now, I can’t even pick a fight—just sit there sulking. What’s the point?” he said, stopping.

“If you drink tonight, that’ll give them exactly the excuse they need to say something.”

Numata said worriedly.

“Even if it’s just an excuse—if those bastards say anything, we’ll take that as our cue to act,” Ikeda laughed.

“You’ve got a point there. Well, go enjoy yourself—I might come by later,” Numata said as he began climbing the field to the left.

Ikeda climbed up to the teahouse’s second floor and drank recklessly.

From there, the office roof and paper doors were clearly visible.
When he got a bit drunk, he sang loudly.
By the time the lamps were lit, sturdy-limbed women were dancing and laughing around him.

II

He had no recollection of when he’d collapsed drunk like mud and been put to bed.
When he woke at dawn, his insides burned like fire, and sweat streamed from him as if gushing forth.

The lamp's chimney hung in the corner of the room was bent and soot-blackened to the point that the flame inside appeared a murky red. Inside the poorly ventilated cotton mosquito net, boozy breath hung heavy, and the dim flame's glow dully illuminated the figure of the woman sleeping beside him. When he sat up, sweat poured down his face, and his head felt as heavy as stone. Everything around him felt utterly repugnant. He hurried out of the mosquito net, slipped into his work clothes quietly, and left the teahouse.

The midsummer morning dawned white, and a cool mountain wind blew from the dimly lit shade of the trees.

He abruptly looked toward the office, but the veranda doors remained shut.
White smoke rising from the back roof flowed into the black forest behind.

When Ikeda thought of those sleeping inside that house, a cold laugh rose through his chest. Feeling something like triumph now coursing through him, he set off briskly toward the worksite.

Yet before he'd taken ten full strides forward, his head hung low once more—partly from alcohol still burning through his veins and throbbing at his skull's base with dull persistence. But more crucially because every defiant act—the drinking bouts and drunken songs meant to spite those who'd branded him an imbecile—now struck him as pitiful farce when weighed against this morning's hangover agony. Worse still came remembrance of the woman who'd lain beside him at dawn—her presence twisting self-loathing through his gut until even contemplation felt unbearable. He'd known all along she'd been Noguchi's mistress—that miner from pit six who still owed three months' bar tabs.

When he thought how utterly absurd everything had become, the courage he’d carried since last night threatened to drain away all at once. But he reminded himself—the world was made this absurd; what good would moping do? Rather than dwell on that, thinking that wringing out the sweat might clear his head and let him spend the day in better spirits, he immediately broke into a run. He ran on and on, with no time to think of anything. The alcohol-tinged sweat poured out like a waterfall, drenching even his jacket and leg wrappings until they were thoroughly soaked.

When Ikeda arrived at the watch post, the night watchman still hadn’t woken up. He quietly entered, took out his change of work clothes from his shelf, removed his sweat-soaked garments, then repeatedly wrung out a hand towel in the clear water before him and wiped off the sticky sweat. The refreshing morning air pleasantly permeated his reddened skin. The summer sky, not yet touched by sunrise, shone a pure and beautiful white. He opened his mouth wide and drew in deep breaths of the crystalline air several times over, as though reluctant to let any of it go.

After changing into his straw sandals and leggings, Ikeda pulled out a straw mat from the storage shed as usual, spread it over the mine entrance, lay down quietly, and fixedly gazed up at the sky.
The sky stretched boundlessly deep and clear, offering nothing to contemplate.

At that moment, it suddenly occurred to him: eight months had passed since he came to this mountain.
But simultaneously, that old habit surfaced—he found himself mocking the thought.

In truth, his counting of months since taking this job hadn’t begun today.
At thirteen he’d become an apprentice, and by his twenty-fourth autumn he’d changed jobs fourteen or fifteen times—yet wherever he went, lasting even a year had been rare.

Wherever he went, foolishly unpleasant things inevitably clung to him.

“In a world where I don’t even know why I’m living—why the hell do I have to endure such awful things?”

Lost in such thoughts, he had lost his job several times before—all because he’d take time off from the work he’d struggled so hard to find just to lie around idly.
At such times, he had even come to feel like thinking, “Who’d care if I died?”
But the pressing hunger still forced him to work.
He went searching for work again.
And when he finally found one, it had become routine for him to lose it again—thinking the same thoughts, picking fights.

Before he knew it, whenever he managed to secure a new job, he would develop the habit of counting the passing months—one month passed, then two months—as casually as a prisoner awaiting their release date.
And when he happened to stay settled in the same place for even a year, he would feel nothing but endless boredom.
However, while prisoners might hope for joyful days of freedom ahead, what awaited him was always the dark, painful days of unemployment.
And yet there were times when he unbearably yearned for days of painful freedom rather than those foolishly idle, tedious hours.
Life held nothing but days of pain or boredom.
He came to think it was merely a matter of occasionally choosing something he preferred.

When he thought how he'd spent August too in these mountains enduring hardships, it now seemed all those days did nothing but speak of an accumulation of humiliations. When he considered especially what had happened since yesterday, something was undeniably forcing humiliation upon him. "After all, there’s no path but to quit," he thought.

Even if he left this mountain, there was no telling where he’d go. The unemployment he had suffered through time and again before—he knew full well that starvation would come next. But that was no different from enduring unbearably unpleasant days where his emotions were trampled. While wandering unemployed, even amidst hardship he could still cling to some dream; but beyond these tedious, humiliating days lay only dark anxiety. Moreover, he tried desperately to steel himself—the exhilaration of unleashing vengeance without restraint upon those bastards who had oppressed him until now was something that could scarcely be matched by anything else.

III

As the miners’ entry into the mine drew near, he entered the watch post.
The section chief and survey team were all there, but he merely said “Good morning” and silently assigned the miners’ work areas.
His comrades too, without sneering at last night’s events as they usually would, wore tense expressions.
Ikeda thought they probably considered it unwise to become close to him now that he had lost his attachment to this mountain.

As noon approached each day, the wind in the mountains would cease for a time.
Under the sun’s scorching force that seared like a furnace, lukewarm vapors rose from the grass thickets, while bone-dry rock fragments glinted fiercely, blazing with heat akin to fire.
The miners pushing wheelbarrows and minecarts out from the tunnels were stripped down to nothing but loincloths.
After carrying out rock fragments for a while, they would huddle where the cold wind blew in from the mine entrance and pant like horses.
Their bronze-colored bodies too, caked in sweat and mud, had come to resemble the mottled hides of beasts.

The echoes of explosions within the mine and the clatter of ore sliding down the mangoku nets could only be heard listlessly.

The watch post, its roof thatched with cedar bark and all four sides paneled with glass, was especially hot inside.
Ikeda sat with his cheek propped on the sand-covered table, examining the miners’ wage list written in Fuluskapp. But as he stared steadily at it, the names and numbers blurred into mere lines; no matter how many times he looked them over, only tears kept welling from his clouded eyes.

He didn’t care about any of this; he wanted to spend the day quietly in a cool place, if only for today.
And he remembered hearing from someone that they had begun digging an old mine in the neighboring mountain two or three days prior.

Between the neighboring mountain and this mountain, the dispute over mining concessions still continued.
He also thought he wanted to see what sort of thing this old mine they had started digging might be.

At lunchtime, Ikeda said to Section Chief Suzuki,
"I hear they've begun excavating an old mine over in Oshino—I'd like to go take a look."

Suzuki replied with a laugh,
"Go take your look then. If you visit Iwaya or such while you're at it and rest up, might do your mood some good."

Ikeda immediately told the office attendant,

“Tell Number Two’s leader to have someone who went to the neighboring mountain brought here,” he ordered.

Before long, barracks foreman Hagino came to the watch post, bringing along a miner named Mita.
Hagino was not a particularly educated man, but he was resolute and possessed sound judgment.
Ikeda lived more closely with Hagino than with his own comrades.

“Are you going to see the neighboring mountain?”

As soon as Hagino arrived at the watch post, he asked.

“They say they’ve started digging, so why don’t we go take a look?”
“Does Mita know where it is?”

“I brought him here because Mita’s brother said he saw it a couple of days ago, but he says it’s nothing worthwhile.”

“Ah well, let’s go take a look.”

Ikeda put on a large straw hat and went outside.

Outside, the strong midday sunlight blazing just past noon hung so thickly in the air it stole one’s breath.
When the intense light bathed his entire body, Ikeda’s nerves—still addled by alcohol—throbbed with pain.
But he forced himself to swing a stick and ran down the mountain.

At the entrance of the tunnel along the mountain’s foothills, miners stripped naked and ore-sorting women lay facedown on the ground, sprawled under the smoky wind blowing from deep within the tunnel.

To reach the neighboring mountain, they had to cross one deep ravine.
There, miscanthus and pampas grass grew thick, reaching as high as a person’s head.
The squelchy, sodden earth underfoot had grown as warm as bathwater, while tepid steam exhaled by the limp blades of grass hung so thick it stole one’s breath.

No one among them spoke.
Wiping the sweat that streamed endlessly down their foreheads, they pushed silently through the grass.
When they crossed the valley, it finally became a mountain trail through a mixed grove.
Yet the low trees formed no shade adequate for cooling themselves.

By the time they reached the mountain ridge, even the trousers and leggings Ikeda had changed into that morning were soaked through again as if wrung out.

“It’s brutally hot,” he finally said.

“Let’s just head to Iwaya. It’s cool there,” Hagino said, so they began descending the mountain again.

As if the mountain had been split down its center, tall rocks towered on either side.
From the cliff above streamed gathered clear water cascading like a waterfall.
On the midslope of the sheer cliff to the right stood a hall enshrining Kannon within a hollowed-out cave—hence this place being called Iwaya Kannon.
At the cliff’s base on level ground grew cedar trees with shadowed canopies so dense that even the blazing sunlight could not reach their roots. In the dim spaces between them lingered a damp chill, and all around hung silence thick as night.

Ikeda soaked his hand towel in the small waterfall basin at the base of the cliff and wiped his sweat-drenched body. As if all the alcohol remaining within him had been completely expelled through his sweat, both his head and body felt lighter.

Choosing flat rocks that looked clean, they each lay down. After a short while, Ikeda suddenly said,

“Hagino, I might just quit.”

Hagino looked surprised,

“What’s wrong? Did something else happen?” he said, sitting up.

“It’s like that time again.”
“They say it’s wrong for me to drink and visit women.”
“They’re treating me like some elementary school teacher.”
“Would some ridiculously uptight fool like that come drifting into these mountains?”
“Right?”

“So they told you to quit over that?”

“It’s not just that. When I took sick leave the other day, someone reported to Tokyo that I was faking it and carousing in the village. So yesterday I got this nagging letter telling me to quit drinking or get fired. It pissed me off so much that last night I got plastered at the village teahouse and sang loud enough for the office to hear. That fool Ishikawa’s probably furious—something’s bound to happen tonight.”

“So Ishikawa’s the one who reported you? That bastard—remember when he was up at the mountain near the barracks blasting off two or three pistol shots? When I asked what he was doing, he said he was ‘testing if it’d hit anything.’ Damn idiot—I knew he was trying to scare miners! Told him, ‘That popgun won’t kill anyone,’ and showed him my leg wound. He just scowled and slunk off.”

“He’s an idiot. Why care about someone like that?” he said comfortingly.

“Even if they’re fools, there’s nothing to be done when the other side holds power.”
“I’ve really come to hate this worthless salaried position.”
“If things don’t go smoothly when I head back to Tokyo this time, I’ll become a miner. When that happens, I’m counting on you.”

“That’s foolish. You don’t need to become a miner,” Hagino dismissed.

“You’re absolutely right.”
“Being a miner’s way better—you just have to shut up and smash rocks for eight hours, don’t you?”
“No need for flattery—there’s nothing else to it.”
“You work, take what you earn to eat, and if you get sick of it, just take to the road as a drifter.”
“There’s no telling how carefree that’d be.”
“After all, I’ve got a body that’s worked plenty up till now—so making a living by physical labor doesn’t faze me.”

“No matter what you do, it’s all the same—what I hate most is kowtowing to bastards I can’t stand,” he said.

“But if you became a miner, you’d probably spout logic and raise hell all the time,” he said with a laugh.

“Now that you mention it, we haven’t seen much of the ogre dance lately,” Mita chimed in from the side, causing both Ikeda and Hagino to burst out laughing.
When Ikeda first came to this mountain, he would inevitably get into fistfights two or three times a month.
When the miners saw his face,
they often teased, “Mr. Ikeda’s ogre dance is quite something, isn’t it?”—

“We should head out before it gets too late to return,” Hagino said, so they left the forest again.

The old mine was located halfway up a low hill.
It seemed long unseen by human eyes; shrubs grew thickly around the mine entrance, and water still pooled abundantly inside from the opening.
They stood there silently for a short while.
Before long, deep within, a miner’s lamp flickered and the sloshing sound of wading water echoed—then two mud-caked men emerged carrying a dirt-filled container on their shoulders.
After flicking soil toward the mountain’s base, they stared quizzically at the unfamiliar figures standing there before retreating back inside.

“Let’s check inside,” Hagino said, jerking his chin at Mita.
But when Ikeda saw the stagnant water pooled there, he found himself disinclined to enter.

“Would you go see what it’s like?” he said to Hagino, then lay down again on the grassy knoll by the mine entrance.
When he thought about how he didn’t know when this would end, he found himself wanting to grasp even this small moment of respite.

Hagino took the lead and entered the mine.
Having grown accustomed to the darkness, they advanced further into the depths without lamps.
However, they immediately returned and,

“It’s nothing like the rumors made it out to be. You can’t see a damn thing inside the mine,” Hagino said, slapping his wet zori sandals against the undergrowth.

The sound of water splashed violently inside the mine, and then the two men emerged together again, but this time they weren’t carrying any dirt.

The man who stood in front firmly gripped the carrying pole and planted himself before Hagino,

“Where did you all come from?” he demanded.

“We came from the neighboring mountain,” Hagino answered calmly.

“Neighboring mountain? You’re a miner too, ain’t ya?” he pressed more aggressively this time.

“Miner! I’m Hagino of Takada.”

Hagino’s shoulders trembled with barely contained rage.

“Since when do miners barge into another’s tunnels without so much as a damn greeting?”

“Greetings my ass—you’re the ones who barged in here without a word! If you’ve got a problem with it, just say ‘Hey’ and be done with it!”

Hagino clenched his fist and inched forward menacingly.

The man was a sturdy figure approaching forty.
He had a bushy beard growing messily on his cheeks, but his face still carried a somewhat good-natured air.

“Don’t you get what I’m saying? Since when does a miner barge into another’s tunnels without so much as following proper etiquette?”

The man pressed him sharply.

“What damn etiquette?! I’ve been a miner since I was a brat—you think I don’t know the ways? No one’s ever slandered me over it! It’s you who don’t know a thing about mine manners!”

“Alright, if you’re gonna say that, then I’ll march right through Takada’s mine tunnels without a word this time—mark my words.”

“What’re you sayin’—if you bastards think you can march through our tunnels with those necks of yours, then try it!” Hagino took another step forward.
“The hell?!” The man’s hand clutching the carrying pole jerked and quivered.
Ikeda, who’d been listening to their spat with half-hearted amusement, chose that moment to intervene.

“Cut it out! Hey, Hagino—what’s the point fighting your own kind over this? Knock it off,” he said, stopping Hagino before turning to the other man.

“Since I came out today to inspect this mountain—if you start fighting here—it’ll land me in hot water. Let’s call this a simple misunderstanding and be done with it,” he said with a bow.

“What the hell—you’re a miner too, yet you treat our mountain like some piddling hill! That’s what gets my goat!”

The man was still glaring at Hagino.

"What?!" As Hagino tried to step forward again,

"Enough—let's go. This isn't worth fighting over," Ikeda said, forcibly pulling Hagino as they descended the mountain.

Mita silently followed from behind.
They had descended about twenty or thirty ken when someone called out, “Hey there!”
When Ikeda turned around to look, another miner who had chased after them—
“Now that the crew from my mountain’s worksite has come and says they want to meet you for a moment, please come along,” he said.
Ikeda thought that if they had business, they should come themselves.
But he thought that if he said anything, it would only cause more trouble, so he silently followed the man.

Atop the abandoned mine stood a young man wearing Western-style clothes that hung awkwardly on his frame. When he saw Ikeda’s face, he gave an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders.

“I am Akutsu, recently appointed clerk of this mountain,”

he said, proffering a business card from his hand.

Ikeda found the artificiality of his manner faintly ridiculous. Nevertheless, he produced his own card in return.

“I must apologize for any impropriety today,” he said formally.

“Not at all—the fault lies with me for being away at lunchtime. But such misunderstandings are common enough occurrences. Please do visit us again when convenient.”

He said it with a laugh, but there was something vaguely sinister lurking in his eyes.

“You should come by sometime too,” he said, then bowed and added, “I’d best take my leave before the mountain path gets blocked.” With that, Ikeda started down the path.

Hagino and Mita had hidden under the bushes just below before they knew it. When they saw Ikeda's face,

“Did he have any complaints?”
Hagino asked.
Ikeda,

“A young man named Akutsu just handed me his business card and said to come visit him,” he replied.

“Ah, that guy’s Shioko’s innkeeper’s son.”
“Since he became a clerk, he just wanted to show off his fancy suit,” Mita said with a laugh.

“Since I’d already stopped caring either way, I just came along to apologize.”
“I’d rather be a miner than a clerk.”

Ikeda said irritably.

IV

When Ikeda returned to the lookout, he told Suzuki about the day’s events, and then,

“Has the director come?” he asked.

“He hasn’t come yet today.”
“He didn’t come yesterday either,” he said with an odd laugh, then—

“Even if he comes, it’s not like he’d go down into the mine. Safer for him to stay in the office naggin’ like some old woman, ain’t it?” he said, deliberately thickening his Tōhoku accent.

When quitting time came that day as well, Ikeda was the first to descend the mountain and called out to Numata from outside the ore-sorting area.
Numata came out ploddingly, carrying a bundle as usual.

“Did Ishikawa say anything last night?” Ikeda immediately asked.

“Nothin’. That guy kept beggin’ me to play Go again—beat him three times straight. Even when your off-key voice came through sometimes, played dumb.”

“But tonight’ll sort things out somehow. If he stays quiet after this, that bastard’s dumber than driftwood,” Ikeda pressed, fishing for Numata’s take.

“Can’t say for sure. Spineless shit like him’ll fold when it counts,” Numata sneered.
Still, Ikeda crammed the thought down—tonight would work out.

When they crossed the pass at the village border and the office roof came into view, Ikeda's heart grew tense for some reason.
He tried to imagine all the things Ishikawa might say.
And if Ishikawa were to say anything impertinent, he even considered beating him so severely he'd be unable to stand.
Yet he also found himself thinking that he was being a petty fool for making such a big deal out of this and stewing over it.

Though called an office, it was merely a farmhouse rented from one of the village’s established families. In the dimly lit corner of the sprawling thatch-roofed house’s kitchen, a horse stall had also been built. When summer came, flies swarmed so thickly they turned black. Unusually for this area, the tatami room had a ceiling—but even that was so pitch-black with soot that not a trace of wood grain remained visible. The sword scars on the engawa pillars—which the landlady proudly claimed were made when Mito’s Tengu Gang ran amok—testified to just how ancient the house was. Yet precisely because it stood atop a slightly elevated field, on nights when the moon rose over the mountains beyond, there was a view that truly felt like a mountain village.

When the two returned, Ishikawa was taking a bath.
Ikeda took off his straw sandals on the engawa, plopped down to lie on his back gazing up at the sky, and waited for the bath to be drawn.

The western sky had turned red, its colors sharply distinct from the blackened mountain shadows.
A mist rising from the river flowing beneath the cliff beyond the field faintly swirled around the base of the mountain on the opposite bank.

Ikeda had thrown his bundle onto the edge of the engawa and, while wandering about the front plaza, was gazing up at the sunset sky.

When Ishikawa came up from the bath, Numata—
“Hey, back now,” he greeted, but Ikeda silently slipped into the bath.
Numata also came right after.

As the two got out of the bath, Ōtani and Abe returned.
Only a single clerk had been scheduled to stay overnight at the office.

After getting out of the bath, Ikeda lay down on the engawa.
Ishikawa was silently reviewing the on-site report but, as usual, didn’t emerge into the next room.
Ishikawa had his evening drink without fail every day.
By the time everyone finished their meals, it was the same every day—the exact moment his drunkenness would begin to take hold.
He left the scattered meal tray in front of him, holding the report in his left hand and glancing at it intermittently with drunken, dull eyes—

He would call out to someone, “Hey, you there,” and launch into some incomprehensible questions—this had become his daily routine. Ikeda often engaged in debates during such times.

But that night, even after finishing his evening drink, Ishikawa remained silent.

When the lamp was lit, tiny insects came swarming like a cloud from the field in front and the shade of leaves on the mountain beyond.
The young clerk lit a bonfire in front of the engawa to keep the insects at bay, half out of amusement.
Due to the wind’s whims, smoke billowed into the tatami room until everyone fled outside.
The night indeed carried a cool breeze befitting these mountain depths.
In the sky, stars shone with summer brilliance, and the mountains stood black.

Ikeda leaned against the piled ore sacks at the edge of the plaza and gazed up at the sky.
Numata was humming a nasal tune in a thin voice beside him,

“Mr. Numata—let’s settle last night’s score,” Ishikawa called out in a flaccid voice.

“You’re on,” he said, then muttered, “Alright, I’ll beat you soundly again.”

"This isn't going to work," Ikeda whispered.
"If he's keeping quiet, go ahead and beat him," Numata said and headed toward the tatami room.

Abe and Ōtani must have gone to a comrade’s house or somewhere, as they were nowhere to be seen.

Since he lost his conversation partner, Ikeda trudged slowly along the dark path and went to the Senta tavern further down.

When he returned on the night breeze after drinking a little sake with the village girls, Ishikawa had already gone to bed.
Ikeda found himself in a strange state of mind—one that felt like relief yet also carried a tinge of regret over having missed a perfect opportunity.

On a bright morning, when he headed out to the site as usual, Ikeda—

“Is this really over?” Ikeda said to Numata.

“It’s settled then. What those bastards do always comes down to this anyway,” Numata declared.

He thought it utterly absurd that his own life should be thrown into turmoil over something that had ended without reaching the scale he’d anticipated. But at the same time, he felt this affair had made him forget some prolonged stretch of boredom. And when he arrived at the work site, he would walk through the pitch-dark mine interior as usual and keep up the ledgers.

When Hagino saw his face,

"There wasn't any particular trouble, was there?" Hagino said with feigned cheerfulness.

Chapter 5

A few days later, Ikeda received a letter from his mother in Tokyo—she had been summoned by the mine owner and given an earful about his misconduct.
He received a long-winded letter from his elderly mother that said: "Don’t make me worry so much anymore—"

However, he did not stop going down to the teahouse to tease the village girls.
On days off when he was on duty, he would get drunk with the miners and go around causing disturbances in the barracks and row houses, but since neither Ishikawa nor Abe seemed to be reporting anything anymore, nothing more came from the mine owner.

The relationship between Ishikawa and Ikeda only increasingly deteriorated.
While in the office, the two rarely spoke to each other.
Whenever Ishikawa came on his rounds to inspect the work site and brought up matters like excavation progress or ore output, Ikeda would invariably oppose him.

With summer’s arrival, ore production surged remarkably, yet the miners’ wages showed no increase—and from among them, complaints began to surface. Ishikawa seemed convinced that Ikeda was inciting the miners and never let go of his pistol when coming to the mountain.

Rather than returning to the office and spending unpleasant days locked in a glaring match with Ishikawa, taking night watch duty was far more preferable to Ikeda. He began staying overnight at the mountain, covering his comrades' shifts as well.

When four o'clock came and the laborers and female workers from the ore dressing plant left, the office workers clamored their way back down the mountain.
Ikeda, who had stayed behind on watch, hurriedly finished organizing the ledger and immediately made his rounds through the mine interior.
Once he finished doling out instructions to the miners and diggers, he would feel it had become his solitary world.

After bathing in the water heated by the mountain watchman and changing into a yukata, he would often climb the mountain behind.
From its summit stretched endless undulating peaks beneath his gaze, continuing without limit until demarcated by the distant high mountains of the northern country.

The summer sunset blazed in the western sky, evening haze drifted over the valleys and villages nestled in mountain shadows, and the summit of a small hill wrapped in fresh leaves appeared to float—all of this seemed to present a perfectly peaceful tableau. But he couldn’t help thinking about the people leading monotonous lives in that cramped mountain village.

It was springtime when the young leaves were budding.
During the lunch break, when he climbed up to this summit, a young man named Take who worked as a blacksmith followed him up from behind.
The man seemed a bit simple-minded but possessed an honest and kind nature.
Take stood beside Ikeda, who was sitting on the triangulation stone at the summit,
“Which way’s Tokyo?” he asked.
Far in the distance, the sea off Mito glowed dully beyond the haze.

“Since that’s Mito over there, Tokyo must be more in this direction,” Ikeda said, pointing to the right.
Take,

“I wish I could go live in Tokyo too,” he said with a sigh.

He thought that this man—who believed he could lead an interesting life in Tokyo—was still fortunate.
Whenever Ikeda climbed this mountain, he always recalled what Take had said.
When I thought about how someone like me had nowhere to go—how I was just greedily clinging to meager comforts within this unpleasant life on this mountain—I grew endlessly bored.

"I suppose this won't last much longer—the time for it all to come crashing down must be near," I thought, but the moment afterward, when I realized I couldn't bring myself to actively destroy it either, I found myself both grieving over and mocking my own powerlessness and cowardice.

Once the evening darkness had engulfed this high peak's summit, he would descend to the watch post.

Inside the watch post, a single lamp lit by the mountain watchman glowed dimly.
Because the darkness outside pressed in through the glass, the lamp's light seemed somehow lonely.
When the roar of blasts from the mine interior and the clatter of minecarts pushed by diggers singing mining songs occasionally ceased, the high mountain nights became terrifyingly quiet.

He would sit under the lamp and remain perfectly still, brooding fruitlessly until late into the night.

When they received their Bon Festival bonuses, all the office workers took turns going to Tokyo for leisure.
Yet he never even considered going.
If he went to Tokyo, he would lose all desire to return here.
But even so—he couldn't imagine anything in Tokyo truly renewing his life.
About once every three days when returning to the village, Ikeda would go down to the teahouse, get drunk as mud, then return to the office and crawl into his mosquito net.

“Don’t push yourself too hard and wreck your body,” Numata said with concern.

“What good does living healthy do?” he would retort rebelliously.
Despite this, he would do things like cold water rubdowns and deep breathing exercises on the mountaintop.
That was simply because he didn’t want to end up a frail, decrepit old man when he died.

It was the end of July.
Ikeda was staying overnight at the mountain and using the bath at dusk when miners and diggers who had come up from the first shift, dressed in matching yukata and workman’s coats, filed past the watch post.

“Hey, where you headed?” he asked from the bath.

Kobayashi, a digger, said with a laugh, “Since there’s a Benten Festival for Shioko Mountain’s recovery celebration, we figured we’d go stir up some trouble with the girls or somethin’.”

“A Benten Festival for the mountain’s recovery celebration, eh?” Ikeda said with a laugh.

“Why the hell ain’t no ore comin’ out at all? Since those bastards are diggin’ into their own coffers anyway, maybe kickin’ up a fuss like this’ll make ’em cough up some cash,” he added.

“Whatever—let’s just hurry up and stir things up,” he said with a loud laugh, heading up toward the peak at the village border.
White and navy work coats flickered in and out of view among the fresh leaves until eventually they all crossed over the peak.

The next morning, Ikeda woke early and, as usual, took a walk along the mountain peaks, did deep breathing exercises, and performed his cold water rubdown.

When he inhaled the crisp dawn air and worked until his skin turned red, he felt a momentary surge of health.
While that matter accumulated day by day without resolution, he remained somehow unsettled.
When that ended, he would sit by the window until it was time to accept the hanza ledgers, waiting for the miners and diggers to arrive.

The mountain peaks glistened in the morning sun, and the sky was beautifully clear.
The water flowing from the mine—still untouched by human feet—ran clear and pure toward the foothills, trickling with a gentle sound.
During the lulls when no tremendous noises arose, the mine’s mornings were quietly beautiful.

Soon, ore sorters descended two or three at a time, tossing their hanza ledgers down with a “Morning!” But right beneath his eyes under the mangoku nets, they formed a circle and sat puffing away at their cigarettes. In the crisp atmosphere, vivid purple smoke rose up. The fourth or fifth person to arrive was an old man from Shioko. Hacking and coughing, he took out the hanza ledger,

“Sir, last night at the Shioko festival, there was a murder,” he said. Even Ikeda, who had grown utterly accustomed to brawls and injuries, was momentarily taken aback by the murder,

“Who was killed?” he asked.

The old man,

“’Twas Torakichi, who pushed ore carts in the sorting yard,” he replied.

Ikeda suddenly recalled a well-built, ferocious-faced man, but—

“Torakichi—you mean that Nabame?” he pressed.

“That’s right. He was a mean drunkard, that one—but gettin’ himself killed? Ah, that’s no good.”

“And who did it?”

“Ain’t got a clue.”
“They say they can’t move the corpse till the inquest’s done—still got it dumped under a straw mat behind Bentendo Hall. But this muggy heat’ll rot it quick. Torakichi was one sorry bastard even in death,” he said, but when someone came up from below, the old man—

“’Scuse me,” he said and hurried down.

VI

Ikeda suspected that those who had killed someone in the neighboring village might be miners from this mountain. Since only the miners from the first shift had gone out to enjoy themselves, he thoroughly examined that day’s attendance records of miners entering the mine. However, there was not a single person absent. When Section Chief Suzuki came out, he brought up the matter.

“If the men from the barracks did it, it’d be better to secretly let them escape.”
“If they hole up in some tiny mountain crevice, nobody’ll ever find ’em.”

Suzuki, who in his youth had worked as a miner and even earned the nickname “Slowpoke East,” said nonchalantly.
Ikeda, too, thought that if that were the case, he would want to help them escape smoothly.
After work began, he methodically walked through the mine and observed the miners’ condition.
However, they were working diligently under the light of their miner’s lamps, no different from usual.

Amidst this, Ikeda found himself growing more preoccupied with the corpse than with the culprit. He thought that if left exposed to this scorching sun, the corpse would rot away in no time. He recalled the appearance and stench of fly-covered snake carcasses often seen on riverbanks. In this world, there were even things like preserving corpses of utterly useless people with alcohol or vermilion, yet he thought it utterly absurd that the inquest wouldn’t come until the corpse rotted.

The next morning too, when he arrived at the site, he immediately turned to yesterday’s old man,

“Has the inquest still not come?” he asked.
The old man

“Why, it’ll still take two or three days,” he said.

He thought the corpse must already be reeking by now.
And whenever he imagined the color of the rotten wound, he felt sick.
Every morning he asked the old man the same kind of questions.

“The inquest finally came last night, sir.”
“They say those officials were putting on airs and making trouble,” said the old man on the fourth morning.

Ikeda felt a sense of relief, as though a black thing that had been clinging to his mind had been scraped away.

It was the afternoon of the following day.

A merchant-like man and a group of four or five bearded men came from the direction of the village border’s peak to the watchpost.

They were all wearing white loincloths with gaiters and straw sandals, but exposed to the scorching sun, sweat streamed down their bodies.

Into the watchpost entered a single bearded man.
The remaining men were washing off sweat in the clear water and resting in the shade, fanning themselves.
Ikeda initially thought they were mining engineers who had come to this mountain.
But when the bearded man said, “Excuse me for a moment,” and presented his business card, it bore the title of Ibaraki Prefecture Constable.

“I’m stationed at the Magone police box,” he greeted,

“Actually today I came to conduct a brief inquiry. Are all miners present?” he asked courteously.
Those who had remained outside stood at the watchpost entrance, scrutinizing their surroundings.

“What do you mean by ‘investigation’?” Ikeda asked.

“It concerns the murder case in Shioko,” he said, still standing.

“Please have a seat,” Ikeda offered a chair before adding,

“Though there’s no sign our mountain’s miners did any killing.”

“No—even so, we need to check a few matters—are all miners present?” The constable pressed with evident unease.

Ikeda thought there had been no change in the miners since that incident occurred.

Just then Suzuki returned covered in mud with a miner's lamp dangling from his hand, having finished his patrol of the mine shafts.
Ikeda immediately introduced him:
"Mr. Suzuki, this gentleman's from the Magone police box—they've come to investigate our miners about the Shioko matter."

“Ah, I see,” Suzuki said with a polite nod, then continued with an unfriendly expression: “Half the miners are in the mine and half in the barracks right now. We can’t call everyone who’s working. If you need something, investigate either the mine or barracks.”

“The mine and barracks?” The constable lowered his voice as if wary of eavesdroppers. “That complicates matters. Actually, we’d like you to summon that miner called Mita for a moment.”

“Did something happen to Mita?” Ikeda interjected.

“No, I just want to ask a few things for reference. Mita isn’t—” the constable said, as though it were nothing.

When Ikeda heard Mita’s name, he startled.
This was because he had recalled that Mita had been nearby when Hagino got into a fight at the neighboring mountain some time ago.
But now Mita’s wife was pregnant.
He even tried to convince himself that he wouldn’t have started a fight to the point of forgetting about his pregnant wife.

"No, it's not that anything's happened with that man, but someone from Shioko happened to remember the face of a miner named Mita."

The constable said in a forcibly reassuring manner.

“There’s no helping it. Go ahead and call him,” Suzuki said dismissively and went outside.

“Well then, I’ll go call him,” said Ikeda, dangling a miner’s lamp as he left the watchpost.
After he sauntered to the entrance of Pit 3, he turned to a miner who was there and—
“Hey, go call Mita,” he ordered, then stood atop the vertical shaft several meters in from the entrance.
The vertical shaft connected to the tunnel below.
If he escaped along it, he considered that it might not be impossible to escape.
Before long, from the pitch-dark depths, Mita came crouching forward, his miner’s lamp flame flickering.
When he saw Ikeda's face,

“Is there something you require?” he asked.

“The detectives have come now and say they want to ask a few things about Shioko.”
“Did you do something?” he asked.

“No, I didn’t do anything,” Mita said, looking startled.

“They say there’s someone who remembers your face.”
“If you intend to escape, you should do it from here,” Ikeda indicated the vertical shaft with his eyes.

“It’s that innkeeper’s son from before—says he remembers my face. Damn it!” he said, but...

“Since I didn’t do it—let’s go,” said Mita as he began walking briskly.

When the two returned to the watchpost, it was already packed with office clerks and detectives.
Among them appeared Ishikawa’s figure—he had come to inspect the site.
At some point word had spread—the miners now stood encircling the watchpost at a distance.
The detectives at the watchpost spoke:

“Since this place won’t do, we’d like to borrow another spot briefly,” one said. Ishikawa immediately interjected:

“The drafting room is free.”

“I’ll go,” said Ikeda as he led the detectives and Mita to the drafting room beneath the watchpost.
He resolved not to leave the detectives’ side until he learned the full truth.

When they entered the echoing, musty drafting room,

“You too—have a seat,” said the detective dressed like a merchant as he offered Mita a chair.

Mita sat down without any sign of guilt. Behind him, three detectives stood encircling him.
The man who seemed to be their superior settled into a seat facing Mita.

“You’re the one who fought in Shioko, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Yeah, I did,” answered Mita—who had once worked as a gardener and greengrocer in Tokyo—with defiant energy.

“Why’d you start the fight?”

“Well, while I was watching the festival, that innkeeper’s son dragged some guys over and picked a fight.”
“When I thought it was too damn noisy and tried to head back toward the woods, someone yelled ‘Don’t let a single Takada miner leave!’ Next thing I knew, they’d surrounded me—and that Torakichi came charging out first.”

“So you drew a dagger then, didn’t you?”

“Torakichi drew a dagger and came slashing at me, but since I didn’t have one, I pulled out my smoking pipe like this—” Mita gripped the pipe in a reverse hand position and assumed a defensive stance.

“Hmph. Then?”

The detective rapped the gavel.

“Then Torakichi let out a cry and collapsed, and when the guys around me started running off, I hurried and got the hell outta there. Yeah,” Mita said, nodding to himself.

“I see,” said the superior detective with a nod.

“Didn’t you go out meaning to start a fight?” he pressed again.

“With my wife’s belly this big, I wasn’t out looking for trouble. Just went to clear my head at the festival—then that innkeeper’s brat started riling ’em up. Damn it all!” Mita pursed his lips.

“But you know who killed Torakichi, don’t you?”

“I only heard Torakichi died the next morning. How the hell would I know who stabbed him?” Mita declared flatly.

“Very well then. Briefly accompany us to Shioko—the prosecutor has arrived as well.”

“Yes, let’s go. But please let me change my clothes,” he said. With three detectives accompanying him from behind, Mita exited the drafting room.

Upon hearing mention of the innkeeper’s son, Ikeda’s mind burned white-hot. When he realized that bastard must still be nursing a grudge over their past encounter, he felt his blood surge backward through his veins.

Cowards never act themselves—they just stir others up. From the beginning, Shioko villagers had resented how this mountain’s discovery showered benefits solely on our village. Someone had surely exploited that bitterness to manipulate Torakichi, he concluded. The thought of provoking clueless miners into murder and false accusations—to what end?—made him want to tear the innkeeper’s son apart with his bare hands.

“If Mita did the killing, what happens to the innkeeper’s son who instigated the fight?” Ikeda asked the detective conducting the interrogation.

“Well, we won’t know what’ll happen until we investigate,” the man replied coldly.
Ikeda thought they could do as they pleased.
The two stood silently glaring at each other.

“Thank you for waiting,” Mita said after a while, entering wearing a cool unlined kimono and holding a Western umbrella.

“Alright,” said the detectives as they stood up,

“We’ll be borrowing him briefly—but rest assured, this man will be fine,” they emphasized, then ascended the path with Mita positioned at their center.

On the cliff above the rock dump site, miners and diggers stood lined up in a row, their eyes glinting.

Ikeda half-hoped someone might leap out to reclaim Mita.
But that too proved futile.
Before long, their figures vanished beyond the ridge.

From behind Ikeda as he sluggishly climbed up toward the watchpost,

“Hey, wait up!” called out someone.

When he looked back, Suzuki stood in front of the drafting room, out of breath with sweat streaming down.
When Ikeda went back, Suzuki entered the room and,

“I found out who did it,” he whispered in a low voice.

“So it wasn’t Mita after all.”

“It’s Matsuda. I was shocked,” he said, and then—

“After that earlier incident—when I went to the mess hall and was discussing things with Hagino—Matsuda came back still in his work clothes out of nowhere and said—even though Mita’s brother was getting hauled off—‘I’m the one who did the stabbing.’”
“I’ve gotten into a real mess,” Suzuki said, his eyes brimming with tears.

Matsuda was a man who had not yet been at this mountain for even ten days.
One morning, at the watchpost where clerks were gathered, there appeared a young man who looked like a miner drifter.
And then,

“Is there a Mr. Suzuki here?” he asked.

“I’m Suzuki,” said Suzuki as he stepped out, whereupon the man

“I’ve brought a letter from Boss Akagi,” he said, drawing a letter from his bellyband and handing it over.
Suzuki peered at the crumpled letter as though struggling to read it,

“Ah, so Boss Akagi’s men have ended up in the donation ledger too…” he muttered mournfully.

“You’re called Matsuda?” he asked the man.

“Yes, that’s correct,” answered the young man in a miner’s greeting tone.

“When’d you turn miner?”

“Two years back, sir. Still green as grass,” he said with a bow.
His earnest awkwardness made everyone at the watchpost burst into laughter.

“Well, fine then. This mountain’s full up with workers right now—we’re not hiring any more hands. With skills like yours, you’ll never make it as a proper miner. I’ll put in a word to get you set up as a support miner instead. If you go down from here, you’ll find the mess hall. After greeting Number Two up there, go wait at my house in the village—I want to hear about Akagi’s brothers too.”

Because Suzuki, who was childless, said this with a touch of longing,
“Thank you very much,” he said with a polite bow, then hefted his luggage and started down the path.

Matsuda started working as a support miner the next day. He was a quiet and reserved young man.

Ikeda thought it strange that a man like Matsuda had killed Torakichi.

"Is it really true Matsuda did the stabbing?" Ikeda asked. Suzuki—

"He says he did it himself, so there's nothing for it."
"Well, you go check it out proper-like. Reckon it's better I don't get tangled in these obligation games," he said dejectedly.

“Alright, I’ll go then. If that’s the case, I’ll have him turn himself in or something.”

“Can’t be helped,” Suzuki nodded, so Ikeda hurried down.

The inside of the mess hall was eerily quiet.
Hagino sat cross-legged as usual beside the cold furnace.
Beside him, three or four naked miners were sprawled out.

“Hagino, this is a real mess we’re in,” Ikeda abruptly said.

“I was completely shocked too,” he said with a laugh, offering a futon.

“We don’t have time to talk here,” Ikeda said without even sitting down.

“Where’s Matsuda?” he asked.

“He’s in the back getting ready,” Hagino quietly pointed toward the back door.

“Well then, why don’t we go hear what he has to say in the back?”

Ikeda urged Hagino and moved around to the back door.

In the dim bathhouse, Matsuda was washing mud from his limbs with tepid water when he noticed the two men's faces and gave a brief nod. Yet his narrow features carried an unnatural pallor.

The two men sat down beside him and waited for Matsuda to finish preparing.
After washing himself and changing into his plain clothes, Matsuda came to where the two men were,
“I’m terribly sorry for causing such an unexpected inconvenience,” he said with a bow.

“There’s no trouble or anything, but why’d you go stabbing someone?” Ikeda asked.

“I’ve done something unforgivable.
“Coming here and doing this right away—I’ve no excuse to give Uncle Suzuki—so I just kept hesitating,” he said, a dark shadow crossing his youthful face.

“Can’t be helped—heat of the moment.”

After speaking soothingly,
“Now tell me straight—why’d you cut Torakichi?” Hagino pressed again.

Matsuda remained silent for a while, deep in thought,

"My head's all tangled up, and I can't remember what happened first," he said as he began explaining.

The festival took place on the fourth day after Matsuda arrived at this mountain.

After coming up from First Station and loitering around the mess hall, one of the workers started making a commotion about a festival in the neighboring village and rushed off.
Matsuda, still not having many acquaintances, was left bewildered, but after nightfall, Mita came over and

“Hey… wanna go to the festival?” When Mita invited him like that, he gladly followed right behind.

After crossing a pitch-dark mountain path, the two arrived in Shio to find the village play already over. In front of Bentendo Hall, five or six dim lanterns illuminated the summer night’s darkness, while further down by the farmers’ houses, there were two or three small stall shops. Through that meager light, the village youths and a lone man from the mountain bustled about, teasing the girls as they mingled.

Following Mita through the throng, Matsuda had just passed a young man with sparse stubble when—upon catching sight of Mita’s face—the man sparked hushed whispers of “That’s him! That’s him!” And then, two or three men who looked like farmers tried to strike Mita several times as they passed by. However, each time, Mita dodged their blows—

“Shut it, let’s get back,” he said, so Matsuda instinctively moved to follow him.

They had just reached the dark forest shade behind Bentendo Hall when they sensed a crowd thundering after them from behind.

“Don’t let a single Takada miner escape!” roared a voice—but by then the two were already surrounded.

The first burly man who pushed through the mob bellowed “You diggers!”, drawing his dagger in a slashing arc.

Mita—wearing only a white belly band beneath his thin happi coat—pulled a short sword from his breast and dropped into stance.

In the darkness, the glint of a blade flashed, and those surrounding them instantly scattered far away.

But the two of them, using the forest trees as shields, made no move to strike.

At that moment, Matsuda thought that if his comrade were to get injured in such a fight, he wouldn’t be able to explain himself when they returned to the mine.
That was all—there was no time left to think of anything else.
He drew his dagger and quietly circled around behind his opponent in the darkness.
As the man in front was distracted by the attack, Matsuda latched onto his abdomen with force and swiftly thrust his short sword into his flank.

“Did he go ‘Ugh’?” Matsuda said as he pulled the dagger from the bowl of his bellyband.

“When I was in Akazawa，I had a blacksmith make this for me—it cuts like crazy,” he said while pulling out and showing the dagger.
The crescent-shaped blade with a short cutting edge swollen at its midpoint was still faintly clouded with human blood and fat.

The dagger had sunk in up to the hilt, so even when he tried to pull it out, it wouldn’t come free.
Since there was no other way, Matsuda wrenched it out with a grunt, and the large man collapsed soundlessly.

Matsuda suddenly grew terrified and fled in wild panic.
At that moment his eyes registered neither Mita nor the sparse-bearded man.
He simply dashed down the dark path with single-minded desperation.
Having only just arrived at this mountain, he knew nothing of its geography.
After what felt like an hour of running, he found himself back behind Bentendo Hall.

In the forest's darkness hung a single miner's lantern while voices clamored noisily.
Taking advantage of being unrecognized among strangers, he edged closer to look.

There, the reddish flame of the lantern eerily illuminated the man from earlier—now cold and bloodied—lying motionless.
The two or three people gathered around were saying they would keep watch until dawn.

At that moment, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that he had killed this man.
He said he had merely returned to the mess hall around three o'clock, feeling his way along the dark path in a daze.

“Why didn’t you run away right then?” Ikeda asked.

“I couldn’t bring myself to run—not when I’d cause trouble for Uncle Suzuki and Brother Mita was weighing on my mind,” Matsuda declared with resolve.
When Ikeda saw the face of this youth who had killed a man he bore no grudge against for a friend’s sake, surrendering everything to fate, he felt tears welling in his eyes.

“Well then—since we’re about to go—let’s have a drink first,” the three said as they called for sake from the supplies and drank together from large bowls.

While Hagino was preparing footwear, Matsuda drank two or three more bowls in quick succession—

“Ah… feels better now,” he said.

Ikeda felt grateful that he still said this—even if it were just a face-saving excuse.
All responsibility lay with himself—if only he hadn’t gone to the neighboring mountain that day because of his hangover, none of this would have happened. The more he dwelled on it, the more he became convinced his own cowardice had created these victims.

“If there’s anything you need—just say the word. I’ll do what I can,” he said, passing over the pocket money he had on him.

“Someone like me—no parents, no siblings, all alone—it makes no difference where or how I live.”
“You needn’t worry,” said Matsuda, oblivious to it all, as he thanked him again and again.

Ikeda felt a vaguely guilty sensation when it seemed he’d done nothing but offer sympathy.

When it was finally time to depart, miners from the tenements and mess halls came to see them off, carrying hand towels and paper.

“You’ll be fine as long as it’s before conscription,” some insisted on comforting him.

“Since I’m all alone anyway—whatever happens,” Matsuda said with a lonely smile.

“Thank you for everything,” he added with another bow before stepping forward to lead the way.

“Take care out there! Ain’t nobody gonna kill you!” someone shouted loudly.

Following behind Matsuda，Ikeda and Hagino began trudging along.

VII

The summer day nearing four o'clock cast long shadows of the mountain over Sawagoe.

The three walked on, each lost in their own thoughts, following their aligned shadows.

When Ikeda thought about what had happened to him about a month earlier, he felt as if he were in a dream.
When he thought that if he hadn't acted so indecisively back then and had immediately confronted Ishikawa instead, no one would have been killed and this good young man wouldn't have suffered needlessly, his heart ached anew.
But he had done everything required of him since coming to this mountain.
Moreover, he thought it was the mine owner’s fault for intruding into people’s lives and meddling in unnecessary matters or imposing restrictions.
No—those spineless bastards who kowtowed to them were always brewing trouble; there’d have been plenty more problems down the line too. By shifting the blame onto them, he tried to lighten his mood with a fleeting sense of relief.

But even so, his heart still could not settle.
No matter how corrupt the surroundings were, he thought, if only he had resolutely pushed forward, he wouldn’t have had to endure this kind of heartache.
And there was nothing left but to blame his own cowardice and laziness.

Watching Matsuda’s lanky figure—clad in a kasuri-patterned kimono, hatless, walking away with the sunset at his back—he felt an inexplicable sadness well up.

“What a pity,” Ikeda suddenly muttered to Hagino.

“It’s truly pitiful. Me—I’ve been brawlin’ since my youth, both given and taken cuts, but still never tasted prison.”
“For someone quiet as Matsuda to kill a man and go to hard labor—that’s sheer impulse.”
“But if Matsuda hadn’t done the killin’, Mita would’ve ended up killin’ or gettin’ killed.”
“Either way, one was gonna die and another was gonna end up goin’.”

“You’re dead right. Trace it back—that Akutsu nursed some old grudge and pulled this stunt. Cowardly bastard,” Ikeda spat, his hatred for the innkeeper’s son flaring anew.

“If you put it that way, I guess my scrappin’ over there planted the seeds for all this,” Hagino said with a hint of resentment.

“Well yeah, first off—it was my fault for sayin’ we should go take a look.”
“But even them miners from the other side—it ain’t like they own the mountain neither. Blowin’ up over someone just peekin’ around makes no damn sense.”
“Startin’ a fight over that shit and sendin’ a brother off to prison—when you won’t get squat from the mine owner—that’s on everyone here.”
“The whole damn notion of miners from different mountains playin’ these stubborn games—that’s where the wrong lies.”

“But you see—miners from neighboring mountains’ve always butted heads stubbornly, even during official inspections.”

“But even if you lot dig out every last scrap of ore from your mountain and the owner piles up riches, what’s he ever done for you? If you end up wanderers, you’d be trudging between comrades begging for bed and board each night.”

“That’s where tradition and loyalty step in—you always stand by the mountain you’re working.”

“You’re getting fooled by traditions and cheap loyalty. What kinda humanity is there in comrades brawling for others’ sake?”

Ikeda’s tone grew harsh, and the two fell completely silent.

When they reached the top of the mountain pass marking the village border,

“That’s Mito over there. You’ll be sent there tomorrow,” Hagino said, pointing far to the east.

In the mountain shadows, a wind carrying dusk’s approach already stirred, but across the wide plain, the setting sun still blazed yellow.

“Is there a prison in Mito?” Matsuda spoke for the first time then.

“There sure is,” Hagino answered with finality, but Matsuda fell silent after that.

As they passed the teahouse at the pass’s foot, Ikeda glimpsed a man’s shape in the shadows behind shōji screens—the one called Officer Magone.
But he deliberately feigned ignorance and walked on.
And when they reached Sentaro’s teahouse,

“Why don’t we eat something here before going?” he said, entering first.

They drank sake there again.
They offered Matsuda sweetfish caught in the river below the cliff and eggs as meager accompaniments, but he barely touched them there.

“If you go to prison, you’ll have nothing but restrictions. Eat all you can while you’re able,” Hagino urged.

“Whether I stay in the mountains or go to prison—there’s not much difference,” Matsuda said with infuriating composure.

“If that’s how you feel, fine then. We’ll collect money in the barracks and hire a lawyer—so don’t get too disheartened,” Hagino said, then added:

“We’ll do everything we can. Is there anyone you want us to notify?” asked Ikeda.

“Just the boss, but with that donation ledger around, there’s no telling where he is,” Hagino replied. Matsuda’s eyes glistened with tears.

“Then there’s nothing else we need to discuss,” Ikeda confirmed.

“Hagino, since Officer Magone’s at that teahouse over there—could you go fetch him?”
“Either way, he’s already spotted us—no point having him chase us later yammering about arrests,” Ikeda asked Hagino.

“Absolutely, I’ll go get him,” he said and went outside, but Hagino soon returned with the officer.

“My apologies for earlier,” said the officer, grinning as he entered—having perhaps gotten the story from Hagino.

“Actually, it seems this man here is the murderer. After you all had left, he came out saying he wanted to turn himself in, so I accompanied him here.”
“If we hand him over here, will it count as a voluntary surrender?” Ikeda asked.

“Yes, it’ll count as a voluntary surrender.”
“After that, I was told to keep watch over this area. Just as I came around the back mountain, it turned out to be perfect timing.”

The officer who had secured the criminal responded with evident satisfaction.

“I hear this man is nineteen—underage—and if he turned himself in, it shouldn’t be too severe.”

Ikeda asked with a concerned look.

“Yes, exactly. Plus, it’s his first offense, and especially since Torakichi on their side had a bad conduct record to begin with.”

“Won’t he be found not guilty? Since they were the ones who started the fight,” Ikeda asked the officer, even though he knew it was pointless.

“If he had the deadly weapon… Hmm, hard to say. That too won’t be clear until the trial’s outcome.”

After giving an evasive answer,

“Since it’s still over two ri to Magone, we’d best be going now,” he said, beginning his preparations.

“Well then, Hagino, I’ll take my leave here. I’m counting on you.”
“If circumstances require you to stay there tonight, please assess how things stand and return,” Ikeda requested of Hagino.
“Now don’t you worry—be sure to take good care of yourself. We’ll secure a lawyer for you too,” **the officer** said**, bidding farewell to Matsuda.
“Thank you for everything,” Matsuda said with a polite bow before leaving.**

“It’s alright—rest assured,” the officer said, looking pleased with himself as he went outside.

Ikeda stood at the entrance and kept watching fixedly as Matsuda, escorted by Hagino in his black leggings and the officer in white work pants, disappeared into the evening haze over the distant fields.
But eventually, he went back inside and started drinking anew.

He sat alone with a cup in hand, contemplating the state of mind of Matsuda who had calmly gone to prison. And he thought that Matsuda—who had killed for a friend and walked to his cell—likely didn’t suffer from the half-formed meanness that tormented him like his own did. He loathed himself for wallowing in this miserly comfort alone. But by the time Hagino returned from escorting Matsuda to Magone, he lay blind drunk on the teahouse’s dirt floor.