Pathway to Japanese Literature

It was mid-February in the first year of Bunmei.
The powdery snow that had begun fluttering at dawn had imperceptibly transformed into heavy,wet flakes,and by the time noon circled round,Nara lay buried beneath its deepening weight.
Both Kōfuku-ji's seven main halls and Tōdai-ji's Buddha halls with their pagodas had long stilled their noises,as though sunk into soundless slumber.
No human presence remained.
Now that he considered it,the temple bells too seemed to have fallen silent since morning.
Even if three thousand armed monks from the Southern Capital were to march through these snow-muffled streets toward Narazaka,there would likely be none left to mark their passing.

Even as the Hour of the Monkey arrived, the snow showed no sign of abating, swirling uniformly in gentle spirals as it continued to dance down without cease, though a west wind seemed to blow through the mid-sky. The snow caps crowning every tower leaned westward as if in concert, revealing the wind’s direction. The westward-facing flying eaves and rafters dangled their comically rounded nose tips—like those of gigaku masks—loosely in midair.

Carelessly on the verge of missing Tōgai Gate, Renga Master Teia abruptly halted his steps. It wasn’t as though he had been thinking of anything else in particular. It was simply that the twilight-tinged sky too lay entirely shrouded in snow, making it difficult for him to distinguish the gate. Only the recessed gable decorations remained starkly black. Having taken Utahime Pass seeking a quicker route only to be delayed by unexpectedly deep snow, Teia now hurried along the monotonous stretch of Sahoji Road while remaining unable to decide—step after step—whether to pass through this gate or turn right without entering it.

Having come this far, Kōfuku-ji’s temple lodgings lay just a stone’s throw away—but in these days of Ōnin turmoil, the temple grounds presented a scene as if Kyoto itself had been shrunk and transplanted here, leaving no corner where a mere renga master might stretch his legs at ease.
No—he would instead proceed straight into Tōdai-ji and ask his renga companion Gen'yokushu for a night’s lodging. The moment Teia discerned the gate’s shape in the snow, he resolved himself.

Gen'yokushu resided in a sub-temple called Fukaibō.
He was one of the so-called temple scholars.
In the Southern Capital, "temple scholars" referred to learned monks, but to call one a "bath master" struck an odd note.
This was because "bath master" specifically denoted one who oversaw bathing matters in Zen temples.
Yet Yugen was affectionately known by this epithet among the scholarly monks of Great Kegon Temple, who studied all eight schools.
So fond of baths was this man.
Therefore, he was not one to dislike a nightcap either.
Teia’s secret hopes had in fact been pinned on precisely these two things.

That night, through Yugen's attentive care—which saw him soaking in his first proper bath in ages and even being treated to a serving of stiff gruel—Teia found himself facing an unexpected matter that he had not in fact anticipated.
The snow still showed no sign of stopping.
The wind had even risen, occasionally sending snow swirling in through gaps in the cedar doors of the kitchen.
Each time, the flame's tip bent low.

Gathered around the sunken hearth in the wooden-floored room, a casual conversation continued for some time.

Teia had gone to Fukuhara in Hyōgo on his master’s orders.
The master in question was Regent Ichijō Kaneyoshi, who had dispatched Teia to inquire after the safety of the Sonbō family—settled in Fukuhara the previous November under pretext of confirming their ancestral land rights.
As the Hyōgo area remained peaceful then, he had also visited Suma Bay.
Teia spoke of those places.
The conversation naturally turned to the Regent—now sheltering with his entire family at Kōfuku-ji’s Jōju-in—and Master Yugen observed, “The Lord Regent has aged markedly of late.”
To speak of Kaneyoshi—already sixty-eight—as having aged now seemed peculiar phrasing, yet this vigorous old man had indeed grown noticeably older in recent years.
This followed the passing five years prior of his half-brother Unshō Ikkei of Tōfuku-ji, succeeded that same year by the death of his other half-brother Tōgaku Chōkin.
Having lost these two Zen monks—both blood relatives and scholarly confidants—Kaneyoshi’s innate combative spirit had softened considerably.
That autumn saw him compose *Kanjū Nenbutsuki*.
Then came this present turmoil.
Teia recounted these matters and described Venerable Ikkei’s serene departure from this world.
On the eve of his nirvana, he had asked an attendant monk for paper and, while having him hold a brush, inscribed in bold strokes: “The mind itself is Buddha; the non-mind is non-Buddha. Without treading a single path—Amida Buddha.”
Master Yugen nodded approval. “Truly,” he said, “the ultimate realm where Zen and Pure Land become one.”

The guest wanted to receive at least one more serving before the bath’s warmth faded and stretch out leisurely in bed, but the host’s intentions seemed to lie unexpectedly far from such matters.
That gradually became clear from this point.
However, the fact that he had not noticed it sooner was an oversight on Teia’s part as well.
First, he had not shown his face to Gen'yokushu for nearly two years.
Due to his constant rushing about since the outbreak of the Ōnin War, he had found no time to visit old acquaintances.
As for myself, I have grown utterly weary of this warfare.
Yet if he were to consider his host’s perspective—amidst the chaotic swirl of conflicting rumors—it was surely natural to wish to hear from this renga master’s own lips about the capital’s true state, witnessed firsthand until recently.
Moreover, in this age of warfare, a renga master’s duties were exceedingly demanding.
For now—as soon as tomorrow—he would likely be heading to Saitō Myōchin’s place; he must depart for Mino on his master’s orders.
If we let this night slip by, when shall we ever meet again?
...That resolve was vividly discerned in Master Yugen’s eyes.

And yet another thing that struck Teia like a bolt from the dark was how deeply the matter of Tsuruhime—who had entered Hokke-ji in this province as a Noble Nun last summer—seemed to have piqued the master’s curiosity.
Nothing spreads faster than the gossip of the world.
Teia too, having settled in Nara for the first time this winter, had been startled to find Tsuruhime’s rumors—embellished with all manner of unfounded details—rising to people’s lips. Yet the ill-timed matter was that tonight’s conversation partner had long since thoroughly known the circumstances of how he came to serve the Ichijō family: that his mother had attended as wet nurse at Tsuruhime’s birth, and so forth.…

Now that the guest had inferred more than the gist from the host’s veiled allusions, he could no longer bring himself to coldly insist on his own wishes.
In truth, for a renga master in such a turbulent age of war—one who must traverse the provinces—tonight’s words might well become tomorrow’s last testament.
Moreover, even for myself, there were those whose stories I wished to preserve.
……Having steeled his resolve thus—the copper kettle freshly taken down from the hearth fire—he cradled in one hand a large Akahadayaki cup filled with thickened liquid, and while attuning his ears to the void where the blizzard’s roar shook the cedar doors, the guest deliberately began his tale as follows.

*

As you are aware, from early childhood until I entered the mansion at sixteen, I served as a kasshiki at Tōfuku-ji. At that very time, among those who served as temple acolytes still in secular attire attending to the inner quarters, there was a certain Matsuōmaru. He was perhaps six years younger than I—a clever and amiable temple acolyte—and as he took a liking to me, I did my inadequate best to attend to him in various ways. When I reflect on this, it marks the beginning of our strange fateful bond—for some eighteen long years, until that abrupt farewell amidst raging flames last August with Lord Matsuō, I found myself attending to him without cease, whether in shadow or sunlight. That person’s voice and figure remain seared into the depths of these eyes even now. The reason I have resolved to tell this tale tonight is, putting all else aside, because I wish for your esteemed self to hear of Lord Matsuō’s circumstances.

At that time, Venerable Unshō Ikkei—whom I mentioned earlier—though his age was approaching seventy, remained in vigorous health and had long lamented how the Five Mountain scholars neglected their academic pursuits, some indulging in elegant pastimes and others rushing into secular political affairs; he thus lectured daily to his disciples on Baizhang’s Monastic Rules.
Some among the scholars found his rigorous discipline burdensome—there were even those who spread endless derisive whispers, mockingly dubbing him “Imagidō”—yet he governed himself with unrelenting strictness, and it is said that over seventeen years, he never once permitted himself to recline at his seat.
This was surely the fruit of the Venerable’s admonishments—even to my humble eyes, Tōfuku-ji’s scholarly style appeared particularly distinguished among Kyoto’s temples.
Therefore, from other monastic communities as well, many learned monks of discernment came to attend Venerable Ikkei’s lectures.
Among them appeared the youthful figure of Shōkoku-ji’s renowned Venerable Tōgen Zuisen—though I have heard that in matters of Cheng-Zhu studies, this master was foremost among Venerable Ikkei’s disciples.

These two would often accompany each other with due reverence to Tōkabō in Ichijō-Muromachi (Kaneyoshi’s residence). It was their custom to invariably bring Lord Matsuō as their attendant, and I perceived that both gentlemen cherished this bright and studious temple acolyte with profound affection. Even long after I had begun serving at Tōkabō, Venerable Ikkei and Venerable Zuisen would visit the inner study to hold vigorous debates with His Lordship the Regent—their voices resonating clear to the outer chambers. At such assemblies, we would frequently glimpse Lord Matsuō sitting properly at their side, his attention fixed upon abstruse discussions of the Yi Jing and Zhu Xi’s philosophy.

Regarding Lord Matsuō’s circumstances, there is no need for me to elaborate at length—you must have already heard of them.
He was the esteemed son of Lord Uhyōe no Suke (Shiba Yoshitoshi), and in the Third Year of Chōroku [1459 CE], when his father met the grievous fate of deposition due to an underhanded scheme instigated through the connections of Lord Ise’s (Sadachika) wife—who served as guardian to His Lordship Yoshimasa—it was he who temporarily succeeded to the headship of the Buei family.
Yet this did not last long either, for after a little over two years, through the same Lord Ise’s machinations, he was cruelly driven from the family headship, had his head tonsured, and—despite being of such lineage—entered as a disciple under that Shinzui Seidō of Inryōken.
Regarding this sorrowful initiation into discipleship, there were indeed various intricate circumstances, but to put it succinctly, this came about because he was made a sacrificial pawn in the political schemes of his father, Lord Uhyōe no Suke.
After Lord Matsuō relinquished the family headship, it was again under Lord Ise’s direction that Lord Sahyōe no Suke (Shiba Yoshikiyo) from the Shibukawa family succeeded as the current standard-bearer of the Western faction. Yet for Lord Uhyōe, it was only natural that he retained lingering attachment and pride regarding the headship. Fortunately, relying on his concubine’s younger sister—who at that time was known as the Newly Established Lady and was Lord Ise’s most cherished concubine—he earnestly petitioned Lord Ise in various ways for reinstatement to the headship. This led to collusion with Shinzui Seidō—infamous throughout the land as the “Black-Robed Chancellor”—and through his intercession, they schemed to sway His Lordship the Shogun, resulting in Lord Matsuō being placed at Inryōken.
Alas, what can one even say—is it not the struggles for fame and profit in this mortal world that are most despicable?
When one considers how this became intertwined with Lord Hatakeyama’s succession dispute—igniting the spark of the Ōnin turmoil—Lord Matsuō’s circumstances, crushed beneath such shadows and made a mere instrument of these shadowy schemes, are nothing short of profoundly tragic.

Prior to the outbreak of this great turmoil, there had already been various repellent mysteries—whether one might call them auspicious signs or ominous portents.
First, in autumn of the sixth year of Kanshō—I shall never forget—around the Hour of the Boar on the thirteenth night of the Ninth Month, a red luminous object measuring some seven or eight shaku flew from the southwest to the northeast like wind and thunder. The void roared with such ferocity that it seemed the earth's very axis might shake.
After vanishing in an instant, it was said to have transformed into white clouds.
At that time, according to the memorial presented by Lord Abe (Aritsada) and others, this had been interpreted as an ill omen signifying famine, epidemics and mass deaths, outbreaks of warfare, or perhaps the scattering of people amid bloodshed and piled bones.
In those days—though whose mischievous prank this might have been—there were those who carried placards called "tengu missives," among which some reportedly bore inscriptions such as "Tesshoki, Sōzui, On'ami, Zenjiku: You shall come hither ere long."
If my recollection does not err, though the first two individuals had already passed away before this time, it remained a mystery that Lord Kanze departed the year before last and Lord Konparu followed last year in succession.
And yet, in this age of turmoil—what guilt could poets, renga masters, sarugaku performers and their ilk possibly bear?
When I reflect upon it, there had indeed existed such unlooked-for eccentrics.

It is not for someone of my station to comment now on the august governance of the realm.
I am well aware of this, yet even so, the conduct of recent governance has surpassed what those of my standing could countenance.
In the spring when the Tengu Star coursed through heaven, His Lordship viewed blossoms at Wakaoji Shrine—chopsticks for his Attendants were laid with gold leaf, while those of his Retinue were carved from sandalwood with gold ferrules, so it is told.
The prior year saw Kanze Kawara Sarugaku performances; then His Lordship’s pilgrimage to Kasuga Shrine—as your esteemed self well knows—and at Bunshō’s dawn, the Flower Excursion.
No—these were mere trifles. For constructing his Flower Palace, they decked roof tiles with pearls and inlaid gold-silver—an expense said to reach six hundred thousand *min*. The partitions in Takakura Palace where His Lordship Yoshimasa’s mother dwelled cost twenty thousand *mon* per bay, they say.
When those above conducted themselves thus, all beneath—nobles and warriors alike—wallowed in extravagance. “Let the realm crumble! Let the world perish! So long as I keep wealth and rank, I’ll outshine all others!” That such sentiments arose—might we call this fate’s inexorable tide?

As for the people’s hardships, they went without saying.
In that year of the meteor incident—the same year the Grand Thanksgiving Ceremony was held—nine moneylender levies had been imposed in November, followed by eight more in December.
The so-called virtuous governance decrees were enacted up to thirteen times during Lord Yoshimasa’s reign, until both the storehouse officials and lower-ranking officials stood utterly depleted.
To make matters worse, the first year of Kanshō brought an unprecedented great famine; the following year saw even a plague spread, with deaths in the capital reaching hundreds per day beyond counting—they ended up digging holes beneath the Shijō and Gojō bridges to bury the corpses.
As they cast a thousand or two thousand corpses into each pit, standing on the bridge and gazing out revealed countless bodies spilling forth, tumbling like stones in their ceaseless flow.
Because of this, the Kamo River became nearly blocked—no, indeed, the abnormal stench defied all description.
Even now when I recall it, it drifts right around this cheek.
By people’s rumors, the deaths in the capital that winter were said to total around eighty-two thousand.

The holy ascetic known as Gannamidabutsu, who could no longer bear to witness this wretchedness, petitioned Lord Yoshimasa for permission to erect a temporary shelter before Rokudō Hall and conducted almsgiving—but what was the donation bestowed by His Lordship the Shogun at this time? A mere one hundred *kanmon*, they say.
Furthermore, when the monks of the Five Mountains were ordered to conduct the Grand Segaki Ceremony upon the Shijō and Gojō bridges, the authorities contributed not a single sheet of paper or half a coin—the entire expense fell upon the shoulders of the monastic community, with Shōkoku-ji alone said to have borne two hundred *kanmon*.
Compared to the splendor of the Flower Palace, even in the heart of someone of my station arose a seething emotion—such was the case.

When such heavenly calamities and earthly portents recurred time and again, august governance grew dim; it was not that nothing would arise.

From the beginning of the First Month of Ōnin’s inaugural year, the hearts of Kyoto’s people harbored an eerie disquiet—as though awaiting something uncanny—and sure enough, on the eighteenth night of that very month, flames rose over the august Goryōrin in northern Kyoto.

However, I had gone to Omi on official business two or three days prior and thus knew nothing of that night’s events.
When I returned in haste after completing my official business, the commotion had already subsided, and unexpectedly, the capital was calm.
Yet beneath that surface, an uneasy undercurrent was stirring, and since Tōkabō was not far removed from the site of that night’s battle, the relocation of household goods and garments commenced at once.
When I perused the honorable text known as *Taiheiki*, it recorded how in the Shōhei era of old, Lord Musashi no Kami (Kō no Moronao), leading troops thick as clouds, besieged the Shogun’s (Takauji) palace; how nobles and courtiers of that vicinity, seeking to escape the residual smoke of battle flames, carried their assets to places such as Rokujō’s Nagakudō or Tsuchimikado’s Sanbō-in. Yet now that this very reality had become my own circumstance, I found myself involuntarily recalling those bygone events—profoundly moving indeed.
In light of the ongoing warfare, as the capital’s center was deemed perilous, nobles from every quarter were being transported primarily to Nanzen-ji in Atago.
Even the Ichijō family had their possessions divided and stored at various temples—beginning with Kōmyōhō-ji Temple in Higashiyama, with which they had particularly deep connections—such as Tōfuku-ji, Nanzen-ji, and others.
Needless to say, Kyoto’s moneylenders, sake breweries, and other property holders—down to the humblest townhouses around Shijōbōmon and Gojō Aburanokōji—would have been transporting their belongings out by seeking whatever connections they could. For those three or four months, the capital’s streets were choked east and west with handcarts and small carts, leaving no place to set foot.
Among them were also pitiable children struggling to push handcarts.
I, too, navigating through that ceaseless stream of carts, supervised oxcarts laden with household goods and crossed the Kamo River countless times—how many times I cannot say.
Each time, I could not help but recall the tens of thousands of corpses that had filled this riverbank exactly six years ago during this very season—Ah, this was the visage of an age in turmoil, this was the true face of warfare—and unwittingly choked on dark tears.

At the Muromachi mansion stood an esteemed document repository called Tōka Bunko. This too had survived since the Bunna era of old—when two residential halls of the mansion burned during Her Highness Go-Handadokain’s lifetime, fanned by westerly winds—yet this treasured library alone remained unscathed. As it was a storehouse with tiled roofing and earthen walls, His Lordship the Regent likely deemed it safe this time as well, refraining from intervention himself and instead summoning me specifically to entrust the library’s protection. Though no shortage of blue-robed retainers served at the mansion, his singling me out held particular reason—for within this repository lay the New Jewel Anthology, a twenty-volume renga compilation into which His Lordship had poured his soul. I myself had assisted with tasks like paper folding during its compilation. Privately resolved to present it for imperial perusal someday—and to seek an imperial commission following Lord Regent Nijō’s *Tsukubashū*—he remained deeply invested in this work. Though this might simply be the fancy of one who dabbles in amateurish renga. The repository housed over seven hundred boxes of rare Japanese and Chinese texts—thirty-five thousand unrolled volumes—including eight boxes of *Tamaha* by Tsukinowa-dono (Kujō Kanezane), seven of *Tamazue* by Kōmyōhōji-dono (Dōke), and no small number of generational family records.

Amidst such goings-on, by the end of the first month, the Regent had relocated to Zuishin-in in Uji together with Her Ladyship.
It was likely in accordance with the recommendation of his children, who were concerned for his elderly state.
And so it came to pass—having accepted this duty far beyond my station, with the Regent, that great pillar we relied upon, no longer present, and only Her Ladyship of the Eastern faction and the young nobles remaining at Tōkabō—I was left utterly bewildered.
Surveying the scene, I found no warriors of notable skill among the blue-robed retainers. On nights when the wind howled fiercely past midnight, I scarcely had a moment to close my eyes—listening intently for warriors’ battle cries that might erupt at any instant, scanning darkened skies for signs of distant fires devouring some quarter of the city. Time and again I lifted lattice shutters to peer upward into the void, passing nights in ceaseless vigilance.

Fortunately, until around the end of May, everything had passed without incident.
Though I say this, the ominous atmosphere only grew thicker with each passing day.
The state of the Eastern and Western armies' battle preparations advancing day by day could be perceived as vividly as if held in one's hand.
Amidst all this, my sole reliance had been that Lord Matsuōmaru.
No—that was not quite so.
For he was now Lord Soen—having abdicated his family headship and undergone the ceremonial tonsure at Inryōken—rendered unrecognizable.
He was already twenty-four—ah, if the world were as it should be—and each time I beheld his splendid figure in noble adulthood, unwitting tears of lament would spring forth.
...In truth, I had been remiss in mentioning this earlier, but this Lord Matsuō—if I may still address him by the familiar name—had somehow come to share a profound bond of whispered words with Her Highness Tsuruhime.
If one were to inquire of the mother, the various circumstances of that time would surely have become clear, but what use could such idle curiosity serve?
However, around the time he was established as heir of the Buei family—whether there had been any direct petition to His Lordship the Regent or not—given that they were but a vassal household, there could have been no reasonable path for such hopes to be fulfilled.
Since then, Lord Matsuō's visits had naturally grown more distant in public.

As for myself, I found his heartfelt sincerity both touching and painful, and thus devotedly carried out my role as messenger in accordance with his request. Whenever we met, with that warm, open-hearted manner of his, he would say: “If Muromachi catches fire, I’ll rush straight there.” “I’ll have my band of sturdy scholar-monks—you won’t let the library burn,” he would declare. How heartened I felt by these honorable words alone. Not only that, but at times like dusk, he would also stealthily visit from around the hillock in the rear garden. During such occasions, through the mother’s secret arrangements, it seems there were moments when they could briefly meet. At times he would even jest, “If I keep the library from burning, as a reward I’ll carry off the princess—so you can count on that.” To tell the truth, in my heart, how fervently I must have wished for that very outcome. Amid swirling flames, Her Highness—clad in a white veil—was borne upon the sturdy shoulders of one wearing a mouse-colored monk’s robe, circling the august garden pond before vanishing into the distant darkness. Picturing in my mind this scene like a dream, I would often gaze intently into the shadowed garden front on storm-lashed evenings, where trees rustled in the wind. Sadly, none of those things came to pass. Yet the interplay of flame’s hue, white, and gray that I had envisioned in my mind’s eye did indeed manifest in later days—though in a form wholly unimagined—but that remains a tale yet to come.

I will never forget—on the twenty-sixth day of the fifth month, in the early dawn approaching the Hour of the Tiger, an untimely sound of drums being struck arose from the northern direction. Next came a roaring war cry like an avalanche. Still clad in nightclothes, I clambered up to the mansion’s main hall. For a time, I could discern nothing, but soon flames rose in the northwest. As the fire spread relentlessly westward before our eyes, night yielded to dawn’s first light. When I looked down, the former Regent and his entire retinue had arrayed themselves in formal attire within the side chamber. Her Ladyship of the Eastern faction stood ready alongside Her Highness Tsuruhime and their ladies-in-waiting, all armored in gallant court robes.

I considered donning a belly band myself, but realized maintaining my monk’s appearance might better serve should soldiers breach our defenses—allowing me to tend to the nobles—and so took up a naginata with inexperienced hands. At my age, having known battle only through others’ tales, it now seems absurd how my torso trembled uncontrollably for half an hour. What an ignoble first engagement this proved to be.

Before long, the blue-robed retainers who had gone out for reconnaissance began returning one by one.
According to their reports, today’s battle was centered in Rakuhoku and seemed to be gradually shifting westward—gathering around Nijō Ōmiya—or so they claimed—but as time passed, it became clear this was not the case at all, for soon flames began rising in the eastern direction as well, around Hyakumanben and Kōdō (Gyōgan-ji).
As this fire lay slightly to the northeast, the black smoke streamed ever westward with the prevailing easterly wind—fortunate indeed that Tōkabō remained untouched by embers. Yet should the wind shift direction, how could we possibly escort the entire retinue through such flames? The thought alone pierced my chest with dread.
My sole reliance was Lord Matsuō, as previously promised—yet whether His Lordship presumed the Muromachi vicinity would escape the flames, or whether the fires now rising both east and west of Shōkoku-ji rendered it impossible for him to recklessly emerge from their midst—he had not appeared at all.
Eventually, that day too drew to a close.
As night fell, the wind appeared to shift to the south, and the flames from Hyakumanben and Unmon-ji—as well as the fierce fires around Rozan-ji—gradually spread southward.
The ends of the swirling flames transformed into white smoke and hung suspended; by the reflected glow of that white cloud, the garden front was cast in a strangely pale brightness—as though dawn had come despite the depth of night.
Most fearsome of all was the western conflagration around midnight—stretching from Funagoka Hill in the north to Nijō in the south—which had transformed the entire area into a sea of flames.

At last that night too passed without incident, and on the twenty-seventh day, seizing a moment when the morning’s battle cries had seemingly subsided, Her Ladyship of the Eastern faction was swiftly escorted to Nakamikado together with Tsuruhime-sama, while the young lord and princess were taken to Kujō under blue-robed guard.
Just when I thought we could relax at last, the mental exhaustion struck me all at once. As I distractedly listened to reports that the battle’s momentum had resurged, I planted my naginata like a staff and slumped onto the northern steps—remaining motionless there until evening.
The day’s battle too had concluded by the end of the Hour of the Rooster, and that night was transformed into an uncanny silence—as though beguiled by foxes.
When we compiled and examined the reports brought by scouts, the Buddhist temples and noble residences burned over these two days proved countless—Kōdō, Hyakumanben, Unmon-ji to begin with, followed by Jōbodai-ji, Busshin-ji, Kubo-no-tera, Mizuochi-no-tera, Ankyū-in’s Hana-no-bō, along with Tōin-dono, Reizei Chūnagon’s residence, and Inokuma-dono—but the people’s distress was no small matter either: across from Ichijō Ōmiya, every last sake shop, moneylender’s warehouse, cottage, and dwelling burned to ashes, while north and west of Muragumo Bridge had been entirely consumed by flames.

However, this was merely the beginning.
Refugees with no homes to live in and no food to sustain themselves overflowed into every main street and alley.
Robberies and thefts were increasing day by day.
Moreover, when speaking of the foot soldiers of the Eastern and Western armies who kept streaming into the capital from various provinces—they were men who made it their custom to fight by day and commit burglaries by night; their savage countenances and vulgar manner of speech were such that merely witnessing or hearing them made one’s hair stand on end.
If that was the case, then it could no longer be called something as refined as warfare.
In broad daylight on the main streets, foot soldiers brandishing great swords and roaring fierce battle cries—likely hauling out some heavy long chests from mansions here and there—crossed in groups of four or five; there was no longer time to take note of each such sight.
In the shadows of collapsed earthen walls, the shameful sight of them brandishing drawn swords in one hand and assaulting women—even if one were to go out briefly on an errand, two or three such scenes would catch the eye.
At night, the sounds of nearby mansions’ wooden shutters being kicked down, mingled with raucous shouts, could even be heard in areas like Muromachi—no longer a rare occurrence.
Truly, this must be what it means to dwell in the realm of beasts while still in this world—the Great Citadel of Avīci made manifest.

Amidst those terrible events continuing day after day and night after night, on June eighth matters finally escalated into a major crisis. Around the Hour of the Horse (11 AM–1 PM), ruffians set fire to Lord Isshiki’s residence in Nakamikado-Inokuma. But that was not all. At the Yoshida priest’s residence in Konoe’s town too—so it seemed—looters had set fires; flames erupted from nine locations at once, and fanned by the fierce southern wind half of Upper Kyoto swiftly became a crimson lotus hell. The flames’ proximity stemmed not from May’s earlier incident but from raging winds that momentarily engulfed even Tōkabō in smoke—I no longer left the garden but gazed fixedly at the library’s tiled roof, resolved at last for what might come. As I stared at the roof, His Lordship the Regent’s face seemed to superimpose itself within thin black smoke crawling across it. That renowned Kōke Bunko—burned down during Ninpei times with its doors unopened as myriad volumes turned instantly to ash—had also met its fate in a Horse-hour fire; this association filled me with such ominous foreboding I scarcely felt alive. Fortunately this fire too halted at Muromachi Kōji. Ah yes—Lord Matsuō abruptly appeared that evening around Hour of the Dog (7–9 PM), and when I voiced resentment—

“What? I was just keeping watch right there at Musha no Kōji,” he said nonchalantly.

The conflagration that day was truly an unprecedented calamity—from Nijo below to Goryō no Tsuji above, bounded by Ōtoneri in the west and Muromachi Kōji in the east, over one hundred blocks encompassing noble and warrior residences totaling more than thirty thousand structures were reduced to ashes within half a day.
Thus, in the town center, the places that remained unburned were few enough to count.
With the next location certain to become a sea of flames, both Tōkabō and the Nakamikado lodgings were deemed beyond saving; thus, on the following day, the former Regent was moved to Zuishin-in, while Her Ladyship of the Eastern faction, together with Tsuruhime-sama, was relocated to Kōmyōhō-ji.

By mid-August, both Tōji-ji and Seigan-ji temples were engulfed in flames—all night fires, I must report.
On the eighteenth day, the thieves of the capital at last set fire to Nanzen-ji and looted in its entirety the Seven Precious Treasures that nobles and temple scholars had long since transferred and stored there.
This too was a night fire, but it spread even to Kachō Shōren-in at Awataguchi and Gen'ō-ji in Okazaki to the north; the sight of pillars of fire over ten feet tall scorching the Higashiyama sky in crimson was both terrifying and beautiful.

……Ah, Master Yugen, you have furrowed your brows just now.
"No, I understand full well—such an audacious way of speaking as calling it 'beautiful' must surely have grated on your ears."
"Divine punishment may strike me, Buddhist retribution may befall me—I am well aware of that as well."
"But this Teia can only speak exactly as he felt."
Truly, there is nothing as mysterious as the human heart.
Through passing flames, witnessing bloodspray, chilling my innards at putrid corpses, and beholding humanity’s demonic deeds—in such trials, courage took root within me; reckless abandon surged forth. Yet alongside this, agonizing daily over my fate—today another’s body, tomorrow perhaps my own—clinging to vain hopes one moment, trembling at omens good or ill the next—this chaotic heart’s turmoil became entwined like thick hemp cords until I saw clearly: my flesh and others’ are but fleeting bubbles on a phantom pond’s surface. Might this terrifying maelstrom of ruin and transformation be no less than new life’s breath—a purifying tempest heralding dawn’s clarity? From such thoughts arose a valiant resolve: to cast off my petty circumstances and gaze broadly upon the world.
As I witness the wealth and splendor of bygone eras being daily shattered and consumed by flames—in those moments when I cannot suppress a handful of mournful tears—I find myself yearning to discern the underlying force that governs this brazen turmoil; to behold with these eyes, while life yet remains, the true form of that unknown power; to draw from its workings the lifeblood of a new beauty… Such audacious, overreaching ambitions too now surge forth within me, rising unbidden.
When I cast aside my personal fortunes and misfortunes and survey the world anew with such eyes, my vision sharpens as though stepping out from a darkened plaster-walled room—and even those upstarts of social upheaval, whom the Kenmu-era graffiti at Nijō Riverbed once scorned for the baseness of their hearts, can no longer be dismissed wholesale as utterly devoid of merit.
The foot soldiers’ rioting, the peasant uprisings’ pillaging, the great temples’ conflagrations—all these things I had until now thought only dreadful and terrifying—I have come to view through a different lens.
Truly, it was a shift in my own heart that even I found astonishing……

Even amidst this, the war’s progression saw the Hosokawa forces daily losing momentum, while the emboldened Yamana forces finally set fire to Sanbō-in at Tsuchimikado Manri-no-Kōji on the first day of September, seizing their stronghold there—until at last, the flames of war threatened to reach even the Imperial Palace and Muromachi-dono.
On the thirteenth day came the battle at Jōka-in—the defending Kyōgoku forces were overwhelmed without resistance—and in this day’s military fires, everything west of Sanbō-in from Konoe-dono to Takatsukasa-dono, Jōka-in, and Hino-dono, and eastward including Hanazono-dono, Hirohashi-dono, Saionji-dono, Tenbōrin, and Sanjō-dono—thirty-seven noble residences and eighty samurai officials’ quarters—were reduced to a single wisp of smoke and burned away.
Now that matters had reached this pass, Tōkabō’s conflagration in the next fire became inescapable.
Let the mansions be as they may—once this world’s turmoil subsides, no matter how the realm might change, a hunger for learning would surely arise; a time to seek antiquity’s mirror would surely come.
That archive alone—even should this body be torn asunder—I would not cease to protect it—with resolve growing ever firmer, I deeply affirmed this conviction amidst a resignation as silent as water striking stone.
Yet when I considered it, there existed nothing so fleeting as human expectations.
Even the Tōka Bunko that I had so resolutely vowed to protect was reduced to nothingness through an utterly unforeseen accident…

Teia let out a small sigh and fell silent.
Surely fatigue had set in, for he picked up the chilled large teacup beside him, drained it to about seven- or eight-tenths full in one go, and rose from his seat.
The wind had ceased without notice.
Standing at the toilet’s edge and gazing out, he saw the snow would soon clear—a faint light already shone through the midair.
Ah, how quiet it is, Teia thought.
He wondered what connection existed between the realm of Asura and Black Ropes he had been so engrossed in narrating until just moments ago and this world of light as translucent as thin ice.
Could this be some secret revelation guiding one from the realm of Asura to the Land of Tranquil Light?
Did this mean that he too had now passed through the Realm of Purifying Flames and somehow reached the gateway of the Cool Path Lotus Platform?
“No—such a simplistic notion,” Teia scolded his own heart.
The destruction of Kyoto that he had witnessed with these eyes was likely but a single hair on nine oxen—a mere fraction—of this great upheaval’s manifestation.
The warfare was at last departing Kyoto, and signs of its spread to various provincial domains were becoming visible.
For ten years—or perhaps twenty, a hundred—until the old had completely crumbled and the new been fully born, this turmoil would continue without ceasing for even an instant.
This was not something humanity could fully comprehend within a mere generation or two.
When considered thus, this current silence before his eyes was nothing but a temporary shelter.
Tonight’s snowbound shelter too, in the end, was nothing but a temporary refuge—one rarely granted within his lifetime.
……Having thus settled his thoughts, Teia closed his eyes firmly for a while.

The snow must already be melting, for somewhere, the sound of water flowing through a gutter could be heard.
……
Eventually, the renga master returned to his seat and, moistening his lips with the freshly warmed sake that Gen'yokushu had thoughtfully offered, resumed his tale.

That was the nineteenth day of September.
From dawn, a ferocious southern wind had been raging, but around mid-morning that day, flames erupted just south of the mansion, in the upper part of Musha no Kōji.
Then two or three more flames rose both below and above.
The fire instantly crossed Tsuchimikado Ōji, and before one could say a word, consumed all of Ōgimachi—Tōkabō found itself enveloped in black smoke, whether one spoke of its main hall or garden front.
The raging gale—compounded by fearsome whirlwinds stirred by the inferno’s fury—set every towering tree around the garden pond roaring as though brandishing brooms; amidst this chaos, charred roof beams and massive branches still aflame came crashing down like hail.
Soon the cypress-bark-thatched roof of the main hall began emitting crimson-black flames.
As we watched serpentine fire writhe about the eaves, the shutters—with a thunderous roar—were blown upward all at once across five or six ken, and from within the palace a great pillar of raging fire spewed sideways.
And with that, it was over.
I gathered with some ten retainers and servants who had remained behind at the northern edge of the garden pond—a location we had prearranged—and positioned ourselves as if shielding the archive building that stood apart to the north, all while helplessly watching moment by moment as the main hall and annex crumbled away.
Now then—as for when the main hall burned down—it must have been around the Hour of the Horse. By that time, the flames had already crossed Ichijō Ōji to the north, transforming both Imadegawa to the west and the Ogawa area into a single expanse of fiery sea.

Through it all—by what paths he had navigated—Lord Matsuō came rushing, accompanied by three or four temple scholars.
I, overwhelmed by both gratitude and resolve, gripped your hand tightly in mine and could not utter a word for some time.
Embers and sparks fell upon the archive as well, but we extinguished them without difficulty, and soon, amidst the thinning residual smoke, both Lord Matsuō and we rejoiced together at the archive’s safety.
Lord Matsuō assisted for nearly half an hour with inspecting the burned remains, but deeming no further urgent matters remained, he soon took his leave.

It must have been around the time when the Hour of the Sheep was drawing to a close.
We had prepared provisions like dried rice we had prepared beforehand to fill our stomachs, and since we needed to establish security measures—having at least erected a makeshift shelter against the remaining walls of the archive—we were gradually arranging these preparations when approximately thirty or forty soldiers burst in through the front gate all at once.
A short while earlier, two or three foot soldier-like men had come entering the garden front, but upon being stopped by the blue-robed retainers, they obediently withdrew, so we had paid it no mind at all.
The ferocity of that mob of thirty or forty—were these what they call demonic fiends? Half wore nothing but makeshift cuirasses and greaves over bare skin; the rest were half-naked in whatever garb they pleased. A few vanguard men shouldered unsheathed greatswords, while others followed—some hauling a hinoki log so thick it would take four or five men to embrace it, others dancing empty-handed as they advanced. Before we could even cry out, they had driven a wedge between us and the archive.
Two or three hot-blooded young retainers who had charged forward with swords drawn from their scabbards were instantly met with a single sweep of that massive log, their brains scattering as they collapsed.
In the meantime, there were already others hauling another massive log on their backs, and those fiercely battering the south-facing great doors with thunderous war cries.
Realizing that resistance by force would prove utterly futile—that my only recourse was to explain the archive’s contents and placate them into leaving—I approached the bearded man who appeared to be their leader, standing apart from the main group by the edge of the artificial hill. But before I could utter a word, several men scattered toward me, effortlessly hoisted me up, and hurled me into the valley of the artificial hill, whereupon I lost consciousness.
The instant my feet left the ground—someone must have pressed their face close—I remember only a nauseating alcohol stench striking my nose.……

When I suddenly became aware of the evening chill, the surroundings had already grown dim. Though the wind had subsided considerably from earlier, it still whistled faintly through the midair. When I fell, I must have struck a garden stone—the crown of my head throbbed with sharp, persistent pain. As I painstakingly crawled up from that valley—ah, even now when I recall it, my whole body breaks out in goosebumps—there across that unimpressively vast garden front swarmed countless white paper fragments, some torn from books and volumes, others with bindings undone, all eerily fluttering in the gathering dusk. From scattered document chests, sutra scrolls writhed out like white serpents only to be torn by swirling winds and rise into mouse-gray skies, their destinations unknown. The flickering tongues of flame still rising here and there from the main hall's ruins likely fed on booklets scattered there—new fuel for destruction. Paper folios burned midair as they danced beyond Otsukiji's walls. I could no longer move nor feel human within myself, transfixed by that unholy panorama of flame, white ash, and ashen gray—a hellish scroll from which I couldn't tear my eyes for what felt an eternity. Even now with clumsy tongue I speak of it, I cannot convey one ten-thousandth of that terror's eerie dread. That vision remains seared behind these eyes still. No—this lifetime shall never see it fade.

When I finally regained my composure and entered the archive, the document chests that had once been piled so high were nowhere to be found—only small blackened heaps remained here and there in the corners. The blue-robed retainers had all fled and were nowhere to be seen. While encouraging the two or three trembling servants who had remained behind and beginning to inspect the warehouse, I glimpsed shadowy figures scampering away like mice from this mountain’s recess and that mountain’s shade. It must have been young refugee lads, still unable to abandon hope, seeking gold and silks……And thus did even the once-magnificent Tōkabunko meet its pitifully fleeting end. Even so, over a hundred document chests remained; these we transferred and stored at Kōmyōhō-ji Temple, and I too relocated there along with them. That very night I went to Zuishin-in without taking anything, and through an intermediary due to the late hour, reported the full account of the soldiers’ pillaging—whereupon it was said the Lord Regent raised his voice in lamentation; learning this, I felt a pain as if my flesh were being sliced straight through. Within the document chests transferred to Kōmyōhō-ji Temple, not a single volume of *New Jewel Anthology*’s manuscript drafts could ultimately be found.

But wait—there was another matter. While I lay unconscious after collapsing, a shameless incident had occurred in the nearby town district. As this was something I learned from others the following day, I cannot provide precise details—but it seems retainers of the Hosokawa faction, who had earlier been driven from Lower Kyoto and taken shelter in huts along Ichijō Ōji from Ichijō Ogawa eastward to Imadegawa, found their dwellings consumed by flames spreading from Tōkabō and Lord Ogasawara’s lingering fires. Clutching their children’s hands and shouldering their belongings, they fled in disarray—a sight described by witnesses as pitiful, even foolish. With both the eastern and western sectors of the Imperial Palace thus reduced to a scorched plain stretching to the horizon, the Hosokawa faction could now only pin their hopes on Shōkoku-ji as their final stronghold and prepare to make their last stand there.

Yet before long, on the third day of the Tenth Month, even that great temple complex of Shōkoku-ji—alongside its numerous subtemples—was reduced entirely to ashes in a single day.
It is said that rogue monks of the Yamana faction, conspired with by the enemy, set the fire.
The ferocity of that day’s battle was later heard in varied accounts from people’s lips, but in any case, as dusk fell and both armies withdrew in mutual retreat, it is said the Yamana faction loaded eight carts with severed heads to carry back to Nishijin, while corpses beyond count—thousands—filled the moat from Byakumon Gate eastward to Higashi Imadegawa.

When this news reached Kōmyōhō-ji Temple, Lady Tsuruhime’s distress was beyond all words.
A message of concern was promptly entrusted to me.

With that pressed to my heart, I stood at Shōkoku-ji's ruins—it must have been near the Hour of the Snake on the following day.
Even Mannenzan Shōkoku-ji, once extolled as Kyoto's pinnacle of architectural grandeur, had burned completely to ashes, leaving only a lone seven-storied pagoda towering desolately over the scorched wasteland.
Western Army soldiers hurried about collecting corpses here and there; in what they call Kudoku Pond—a lotus basin—heaps of allied and enemy dead still floated bloated, while areas believed to be Rokuon-in and Inryōken's remnants bore witness to fierce fighting—charred soldiers' bodies lay strewn three or four every ten paces.
Not a single temple scholar remained to question—nay, not even an attendant monk could be found.
Thinking some marker tag might yet survive, I combed through ash and rubble like a digging creature, though reason told me nothing could have endured those clashing blades and ravenous flames.
I stood paralyzed—utterly lost.

That day ended in vain, and the next day, and the day after that—with the missive pressed to my breast—I would stand for hours by Kudoku Pond or wander aimlessly through fire-scarred lanes, yet never once glimpsed any figure resembling Lord Matsuō.
Days accumulated like fallen leaves.
Stories from Shōkoku-ji’s battle-day—each more pitiful than the last—drifted unbidden to my ears.
What wrung tears most bitterly was Lord Hosokawa’s heir Rokurō’s cruel demise.
Sixteen winters old that year, he’d met the western onslaught at Tenkai Bridge with five hundred horsemen at his back; when steel ceased clashing, not one breath remained among them. His corpse lay discarded in weeds like some mongrel’s carcass until chance brought a Zen monk—once his spiritual guide—who gathered those noble remains weeping, raised a makeshift altar by the battlefield’s edge, and performed abbreviated rites for forty-nine days’ passage.
Yet one morning that monk found—tucked inside his inkstone box’s lid—

"I think it an unfading dream—that evening when the one I grieve became smoke."

And thus was inscribed a lamentation of a poem, they say.
Rumor held this concerned a secret bond between a certain court noble’s daughter and Lord Rokurō, their letters long exchanged—this being her verse, it was told.
When first I heard this tale—struck breathless by its cruel mirroring of our own plight—I resolved to seal it within my heart: this was no matter for the Princess’s ears. Yet as days accumulated without anecdote to offer her, guilt compelled me at last to recount it one dusk-hour. By then twilight had dissolved her curtained enclosure into shadow, and hearing her muffled weeping pierce that gloom—both her mother and I found ourselves wringing tears from our sleeves.

While my heart grew heavy with such ominous portents, I continued to spend each day searching for traces—until eventually, upon hearing the first whispers of November, some two or three days had passed.
As I wandered east along Imadegawa’s grand avenue, crossing bridges yet still straying aimlessly—there, near where the slope to Jigokudani would soon begin—the lumbering shoulders of a monk’s figure walking ahead bore such an uncanny resemblance to Lord Matsuō that I could scarcely believe my eyes.
When I tentatively called out, “Might it be...?”—the face that turned toward me was indeed unmistakably his.
Overjoyed, I rushed toward him—both my resentment and congratulations were lost in tears.
“No—forgive me, forgive me.”
“My bad,” he said in his usual magnanimous tone, “I’ve been living in a hermitage deep in this valley ever since then.”
“With Master Shinzui.”
“Shinzui in Jigokudani—this could very well become material for satirical poems right about now.”
“That sly old monk—I’d thought to toss him straight into the flames then and there, but ended up hauling him out on my shoulders instead. Got laughed raw by Master Zuisen afterward, I did.”
“Well, maybe this is where my good points lie,” he quipped at once.
At his suggestion that we talk while walking a little, he began to open the seven or eight missives I had presented—starting from one edge and scanning them with his eyes—as he briskly ascended the slope.
From near Ikeda, turning right and emerging onto a small hill, he promptly sat down on a nearby stone.
“Well, you sit down too.”
“From here, you can see Kyoto’s scorched remains quite clearly,” he said, whereupon I too sat down on a nearby stone.

I gazed intently once more at the expanse of the scorched plain.
Since the formal warfare began, in less than half a year’s time, it had burned so utterly completely.
Directly across, only the Imperial Palace, Muromachi-dono, and a single remaining pagoda of Shōkoku-ji were visible; all else—Upper Kyoto and Lower Kyoto alike—was uniformly dotted here and there with clusters of blackened private houses, not a single large building with tiled roofs to be seen.
As I gazed, a multitude of thoughts pressed upon my heart, and before I knew it, tears began to well up uncontrollably.
Lord Matsuō too remained silent, reading and rereading the Princess’s missives.
Perhaps nearly half an hour had passed in silence……

With that, Lord Matsuō suddenly and roughly crumpled the entire bundle of letters, thrust them deep into his robe, then sharply turned toward me. “Well? Quite the conflagration we’ve had, huh? Shōkoku-ji burned! The Tōkabunko perished! And the Princess—couldn’t even be abducted! Ha ha ha ha!” he began, each phrase hurled forth as if spat out with violent breath.
At his uncharacteristically strained voice, I at first doubted my own ears.
As I remained without words to offer, Lord Matsuō continued speaking—his mouth spilling forth phrase after phrase in rapid succession, as though he were a possessed person.
After that, it seemed he had utterly forgotten my presence altogether, as though he were loudly dictating to his own heart—such was his manner.
While sensing some foreboding disquiet in my chest, I listened intently.
As various difficult words came forth—and I cannot recall each one with perfect clarity—the gist of it was roughly as follows.

“Looking at this scorched plain, you must be filled with profound emotion.”
“I too would like to say I’m overcome with emotion, but truth be told, my head had become utterly hollow.”
“It’s strangely unsatisfying that today, for once, there’s no sign of military fires anywhere in Kyoto.”
“I’m starving for action.”
“I feel as though I cannot live even half a day without some event.”
“To distract myself from that—though you likely know nothing of this—I slipped into the night and wandered around Bishamon Valley two or three times.”
“I quickly heard that the Princess had been transferred to that temple.”
“And considering that path and this valley’s shadow, I devised various plans to abduct the Princess.”
“I don’t know what I was thinking—I even went so far as to ostentatiously carry a naginata.”
“No—what a preposterous warrior monk I’ve become!”
“On the third night, I realized that abducting the Princess from her bedchamber was unexpectedly easier than twisting an infant’s neck.”
“The steps were perfectly laid out.”
“You and your lot could’ve had it all neatly done while snoring away.”
“So I, feeling utterly absurd, stopped.”
When I truly thought it through, what I wanted was not the Princess, but action.
It was simply that I realized this ‘action’ was not as momentous as I had imagined.
I feel sorry for the Princess.
But in the end, even if I were to abduct her, it would not save the Princess—nor would it save me.…

“Ever since then, I climbed this hill every day and spent my days gazing at the scorched ruins.”
“I was trying to find some kind of action.”
“On days when smoke rose somewhere, my mind found distraction.”
“On days without that, I felt dejected.”
“Now then—if love wasn’t the true cause—what should come next?”
“I first considered the concept of politics.”
“Who caused the calamity of this Ōnin War—I tried to consider that.”
“And so I thought that perhaps my heart might find some solace.”
“The world blames Lord Ise.”
“Indeed, that man is a villain—a lecher, selfish, with monkey-like cunning.”
“Moreover, I too bear resentment for being stripped of my family headship—and if I wished to pin some old-fashioned pretext like ‘my parents’ enemy’ on him, I suppose I could.”
“But this man, in the end, does not stir my heart.”
“He’s petty. He’s trivial.”
“If that man is such an ambitious schemer, then one or two like him must be lurking in every castle’s corner, every temple’s shadow.”
“Then what about Inryōken?”
“The world claims that old man to be the mastermind who enticed Lord Yoshimasa into elegant banquets and refined pleasures, then exploited that distraction to pour sweet poison into his lordship’s ear.”
“The Red Monk—Yamana Sōzen—goes out of his way to press upon the shogun that Inryōken in particular should have his life ended.”
“Are they so detestable? Are they so terrifying?”
“I have lived with that old man for a full six years now—he’s just a timid monk who likes poetry.”
“That fellow is just a bit more skilled in poetry—such types are idling around everywhere among the Five Mountains.”

“To call that wickedness is merely the grumbling of those never granted the chance to sharpen wickedness’s fangs.”
“Then why did you carry such a worthless old man through fire?”
“Didn’t Mencius speak of something called compassion?”
“That’s no concern of mine.……”

“Then according to what these two claim,” came the voice within Teia’s recollection, “it would mean that the shogun is at fault.”
“Indeed,” another voice agreed, “he is not a very admirable shogun.”
Matsuōmaru’s voice cut through like a blade: “His Majesty admonished him with the verse ‘For whom do the red and green luxuries of this entire city prosper?’”
“That too he dismissed as a dilettante’s trifle.”
“Lord Hosokawa—a disciple of Lord Yokogawa Keizan—had since the Kyōtoku era submitted writings like *On Lordly Restraint* to the shogun, wearing his tongue raw with warnings that ‘when a lord’s conduct turns wicked, his people grow disobedient.’”
“He brushed that aside like wind through distant trees.”
“I started when Shōkoku-ji burned,” Matsuōmaru continued, “yet there he sat—wine cup never leaving hand—as battles raged and flames licked the opposite side of a single wall. ‘Don’t spoil this banquet we’ve finally begun,’ he declared, and drank through it all.”
“That man can’t be saved through gentle means.”
“No political sermon will bring him enlightenment.”
“He’ll exhaust every folly while breath remains in him—yet who knows? Perhaps this world’s most enduring creation will spring from that man’s reckless deeds.…”

“So then—what of this recent vogue for gekokujō?”
“This—this is the great panacea that purifies rotten politics.”
“I’ve truly come to think so myself.”
“It’s freedom! It’s vigor! It’s brimming with life!”
“It’s like throwing open the shoji screens and letting in the wind—that kind of invigorating freshness.”
“I’ve lately found myself entranced, gazing at the bearded faces of foot soldiers.”
“What of the beauty of that ignorant strength?”
“Both Sōtan and superfluous strokes are fine.”
“But there should be one or two painters who depict foot soldiers’ faces on the palace’s fusuma paintings.”
“Well, this is the better side of things.”
“But there’s a bad side too.”
“There is moral decay.”
“There is societal disintegration.”
“First—is it truly the case that power must require ignorance? That is greatly doubtful.”
“For a time, I seriously considered letting my hair grow out and exchanging my broom for a spear—but upon thinking it through, I abandoned the idea.…”

“Then what can save this ruin and disintegration?”
“For now, it’s monks.”
“I’m a man who grew up at Tōfuku, failed to become Kanrei, and ended up back at Shōkoku.”
“I’ve observed the Buddhist teachings of the Five Mountains until I grew thoroughly weary of them.”
“So then—what did I see?”
“What astonishing corruption and depravity!”
“If not that, then the exquisitely perfected self-preservation of wise sages.”
“Lofty evasion to whitewash it all—poetry-Zen unity to paper over it.”
“I wouldn’t take the spirit of worldly salvation as medicine if offered.”
I recalled Monk Mugan’s scathing criticism:
“‘The title Five Mountains did not exist in antiquity—it exists now.’”
“‘What exists now? Temples are valued while people are not.’”
“‘What did not exist in antiquity? People were valued while temples were not,’ he also declared.”
“‘As Hōryū nears its twilight, deluded mediocrities drool over fame and profit—swarming thick as flour to shape trends and customs.’ People lament this as mere invective.”
Yet among eight thousand disciples of the Five Mountains—is there not even one who can deliver proper censure?
No—there is one.
That would be Master Sōjun—Ikkyū.
In that man’s eccentricity lingered something writhing in his chest—a pent-up force struggling to burst forth.
A pitiable old man.
Yet whether through mad verse or odd conduct—one cannot overlook how he obscures shadows behind them.

I simply cannot follow along.……

“So then—what of Buddhism beyond these mountains?”
Since this lies outside my ken, I can’t speak with certainty—yet I hear there are men of note.
They say Master Dōgen’s dharma lamp still burns at Eihei-ji—he whose teachings shattered those “broken ladles and bottomless pails” who belittle the patriarchs’ words and scorn sutras.
This too I would see.
What of that monk Nichijin—who once stood upon Ichijō Modoribashi Bridge in Ōei times, waging his war of conversion? That peerless heretic who never once chanted nenbutsu even as they tore out his tongue and pressed burning cauldrons to his skull—where does he abide now?
This too I would know.
What of Rennyo of the Ikkō sect—hounded by Hiei’s monks through provincial backroads—where fares he?
Perhaps salvation’s new dawn may yet rise from such quarters.
But for now, these realms remain beyond my reach…

“I did look around various places,” he said, “but for the current me, it seems there’s no other path than to give up and return to my old nest. There—it’s right there in the book written by your master, Lord Ichijō, isn’t it? ‘Principle is quiescent and unmoving—the substance of the mind; Vital Force responds and ultimately penetrates—the function of the mind.’…That’s the world described there. Lord Ichijō is a good man—well-versed in principle and skilled in statecraft. It is a pity that he cannot abandon fame and profit. He lacks both the executive power of a Shinrai or Shinzei and their resolve. And then he goes and does absurd antics like fighting over the regency, only to lose himself in elegant scholarship. He’s a man of wasted potential. And yet Brother Master Ikkei was a splendid person.”

I still remember—that forceful, venerable voice declaring, “Even if Confucianism speaks of ‘goodness,’ it does not posit ‘good’ and ‘evil’ as opposing forces; it teaches the nature of the Mean”—how as a child I listened without understanding a word, yet even now it echoes in my ears. Fundamentally, errors arise because a man of lowly birth like me, weary of the effort required to grasp true principles, flounders around trying to comprehend empty theories. Yes, I must return—I finally understand. “Kokuan, Musō, Chūgan, Gidō, and Master Ikkei… To the tradition where those beloved masters dwell—to Song-era scholarship—I shall return.”

When his words were finally interrupted, he rose from the stone and descended the hill without so much as glancing in this direction.
Aghast, I pursued him and inquired, “Then where will you go next?” To which he replied, “To Ōmi by tomorrow—Master Zuisen resides there.”
“Do you have any message to relay?” came his response.
“And what reply shall I convey to the Princess?” I pressed again. “What I just spoke *is* the reply,” he declared.
“Simply relay what you can remember.”
With that dismissive utterance, he descended the hill like the wind.

He declared he would go to Ōmi, but I could not believe it true. For some reason, I felt this way instinctively. I even suspected he might instead enter the Eastern camp just like that and meet his end in battle. This too was merely a sudden intuition. Be that as it may, since that day, we had completely lost track of Lord Matsuō’s whereabouts. I searched based on his mention of a hermitage in Jigokudani, but this appeared to have been his usual malicious mockery—Shinzui Seidō had already fled the capital in disgrace alongside Lord Ise in the ninth month of the previous year. There had been whispers of someone secretly returning to the capital, so people likely used that rumor to stir trouble. Lady Tsuruhime’s grief went without saying. After Nanzen-ji and Shōkoku-ji—the two great temples—burned, thousands of Five Mountains monks, from elders and abbots down to novices and acolytes, had mostly followed karmic ties to Sakamoto or mountain temples to escape calamity. Thus, I searched extensively at each lodging—Eihei-ji in Ōmi where Master Zuisen stayed with Reverends Keizan and Shūrin; Kusano in Ōmi where Master Shūkyū resided; nearby lodgings like Master Shūhō’s in Kita-Iwakura; even Shūon-an in Kōka where Master Ikkyū secluded himself—but his whereabouts remained unknown. The year ended, and soon the spring of Ōnin 2 had passed.

In time, His Lordship relocated to Bishamon Valley, and there the second green leaves grew thicker.
Day and night, the valley was filled with nothing but the ceaseless din of cicadas.
By that time, the Eastern and Western armies—which had spent the past half-year building watchtowers, digging trenches, and maintaining a standoff—began to show signs of movement around Kyoto.
In early July, the Yamana faction attacked Yoshida, and by the month’s end, the Hosokawa faction took positions in Yamashina.
When August arrived, the signs of war finally ripened around Fujinomori and Fukakusa, and just as it seemed the time had at last come for fires to reach Higashiyama and Saga too—on the thirteenth day, still early in the evening—we were privately steeling our hearts...
No sooner had an unusual uproar of shouting and cursing arisen near the back mountain than suddenly a fire broke out around the kitchen quarters.
As this had long been anticipated—and fortunately His Lordship and the Princess were lodged at Jukō-in near the temple gate—we surveyed the direction of Tōfuku-ji where nothing seemed amiss yet; then under cover of deepening darkness swiftly escorted both across Engetsu Bridge.

The remaining men and I stood by the sutra repository at the northern mountain edge where a hundred-odd document chests were stored, intently watching how events would unfold.
That night, with no wind and being in a valley besides, the spread of the fire felt frustratingly slow.
Before long, it seemed the dining hall had burned down, followed by the lecture hall, and as the flames gradually closed in on the Buddha hall, the scattered figures of foot soldiers here and there began to be illuminated in crimson-black hues.
They appeared to be Ōuchi forces from the west; an unfamiliar dialect struck the ear.
That I had come to notice even such minute details—could it be the karmic merit of having endured the fires of war time and again?
Eventually, the flames finally crept along the corridors to reach the Buddha Hall as well.
At the same time, since the temple grounds were not particularly large, the bell tower, bathhouse, and Jukō-in at the southern foothills were all brightly illuminated in an instant.
The sutra repository on this side must have met the same fate, for four or five foot soldiers brandishing torches came charging forth in a rush.
At the very moment of their encounter, from the unexpected darkness behind the sutra repository, the figure of a person in monk’s attire appeared and, with a strangely composed sword technique, cut down the leading soldier and cast him aside.
When I recognized that profile as Lord Matsuō, he turned toward me and smiled gently.
The remaining soldiers momentarily fell back.
Taking advantage of the lull, he inquired, “And the Princess…?”
“I have had the honor to escort her.”
“Ah, failed again?” he remarked with a calmness as though it were someone else’s affair.
Then he continued, “Hosokawa’s men are lurking in the neighboring Rasetsu Valley.”
“This place will soon become a battlefield.”
“You should get out of here quickly.”
“This time, I’ll go to Ōmi without a care.”
“Take this,” he said, pressing the small sword into my palm. Then, paying no heed to the newly arrived foot soldiers now closing in, he lumbered off and vanished into the shadow of the sutra repository.
And so I have not met that person again.

No, this time he has certainly gone to Ōmi.
This too was merely my vague premonition, yet this too has proven strangely accurate.

I have nothing more of note to relate about what followed.
On the nineteenth day of that month, the Lord Regent made his way down to Nara together with the Eastern Lady and Lady Tsuruhime.
When the month turned soon thereafter—as you are well aware—Her Ladyship took vows at seventeen and became the Noble Nun of Hokke-ji......Ah, you ask about that library?
Not long after that night, flames reached the sutra repository too. Fortunately, thanks to the foot soldiers withdrawing early, we succeeded in salvaging sixty-two out of over a hundred document chests unharmed.
They now reside at Daijō-in here.
I recently assisted with their cataloging as well—though what remains amounts to less than one-tenth of the original seven hundred chests, one might call it a stroke of fortune amidst calamity that these records survived intact: the Gyokuyō and Gyokuzui I mentioned earlier; our family’s generational archives including five chests of Lord Gokōmyōhō-ji’s Gureki chronicles; one chest of Gofundarike-in’s Gyokei; six chests of Lord Shōon-ji’s Arareki; two chests of Gōji; and one chest each of the Engishiki, Nihongi, Montoku Jitsuroku, and Kampyō Gyoki, along with six chests of Shōyūki.
Still, the conflagration of documents from noble houses and temples within and beyond the capital during this recent warfare must have been staggering.
When I think on this, I am reminded anew of that bitter day at Tōkabō—my heart feels near to bursting.
Through others I heard His Majesty the Retired Emperor had ordered the Grand Council’s archives moved to temples near last year’s end—yet even this now strikes me as rather closing the stable door after the horse has fled.

Ah, how I wish these wars would cease at the earliest possible day.
Yet when I consider Kyoto's state—even in early September while I still lingered there—Saga's Ninna-ji and Tenryū-ji, both great temples, had already fallen to military fires, and they say a major battle occurred at Funaokayama.
In October, Lord Ise's imperial disfavor had been lifted, and an edict permitting return to the capital was issued—no doubt all manner of suspicious matters would soon arise from this.
Speaking of which, they say Lord Imadegawa (Ashikaga Yoshimi), through the cold pouring rain of a November night, had ascended Mount Hiei—nay, not only that—but ultimately fled to join the Western camp.
Around the start of the Twelfth Month, when an imperial command for subjugation prayers against Lord Imadegawa came down to Kōfuku-ji, it became quite the bustling affair indeed.
As for when these storms upon the world might subside—there remains no sign.
To dwell on it overmuch would poison one's health, I suppose.
The night had grown late indeed.
"Well then—as a parting gesture, let me take just this much," I thought, contemplating the moonlight upon the shoji screens of this transient lodging on my journey into tomorrow's uncertainties, before settling myself leisurely beside you...