Pathway to Japanese Literature

I From spring onward that year, rain had been scarce. The sight of old Komapei—day after day trudging back and forth along the narrow seventy-degree ridge path, hauling on his back a four-tō galvanized iron water tank from the well in the paddies over a hundred meters below up to the tobacco fields carved from the mountain forest—was pitiful to behold. At times, one might catch him watering the tobacco plants while stuffing his mouth with rice balls. Shunsuke Sugino, their son who had entered university that year, showed no inclination to return to Tokyo even after recovering from his illness and regaining full health. He had collapsed from pneumonia developed from a common cold almost immediately after advancing from high school to university—before the new semester had even begun. His condition had turned critical at one point, but he had fortunately pulled through. Upon leaving the Tokyo hospital, he had returned to his country home for post-illness recuperation—already three months had now passed.

Even when vacations came, circumstances did not permit their son—whom they now saw for the first time in nearly two full years—to return home each holiday like ordinary students did; yet despite their earnest desire to keep him close at hand even a single day longer, especially given his post-illness state, the parents grew anxious being unable to comprehend why he kept postponing his return to the capital day by day without explanation. Yet they never actually tried to voice that anxiety face-to-face. What they felt toward this son—who had left their side and, in a different environment, somehow grown into adulthood—was not something contradictory to their affection, but rather a kind of reserve or hesitation. The urban and intellectual qualities their son had acquired could indeed, at times, be said to pose obstacles. However, for the parents, these might well have been called welcome obstacles. There were moments when the fact that such a youth was the son of this household felt somehow strange, almost illusory. Moreover, the son had built himself up into such a youth almost entirely through his own efforts.

All the more for this, the old father found himself unable to refrain from occasionally voicing his thoughts.

“Shun, you still don’t need to go back to Tokyo? School must’ve started already.” Nor could the old father help turning over in his scrupulous heart all manner of thoughts regarding the calculations of this person who had taken his son under their wing and from whom he received some tuition money. Shunsuke, however, answered only ambiguously. It was not necessarily that he avoided giving clear answers for some reason, but rather that even had he wanted to answer, he himself remained uncertain about his future course and had yet to settle his mind.

He wandered about the village every day with a feeling as though being pulled by some invisible great force, or as though trying to grasp at something dimly sought within his heart. To observe the life of his native village in this calm and leisurely manner was something he had never done before now. Until now, even when he occasionally returned home, staying at most a week had been the best he could manage—during which time he tended to shut himself away, never relaxing enough to chat with the neighbors, leaving even his parents deeply unsatisfied as he hurriedly took his leave. He, who earned his tuition during vacations by working, had indeed been busy, but it was also because he had never felt any particular interest in village life in general. Even when he had viewed his hometown through eyes of groundless contempt, not a shred of attachment remained in his heart. Looking back now, even he himself found it hard to comprehend. Though as a poor student who should have been more keenly aware than most about such matters—regarding the livelihood of his birth home as a farming household, something he should have been unable to avoid noticing whenever he occasionally returned—he had somehow passed through those visits with an unexpectedly vague awareness. This time was different. And that was not necessarily because his previous stays of one week had now been extended to three months. This was due primarily to a transformation within him.

The season was approaching late spring and early summer. In the mountain pine forests, pine cicadas shrilled incessantly, with some days reaching midsummer-like heat at noon. Some wheat fields had already been harvested, though far more stood untouched. No farmer wanted to be first to start reaping when others still hesitated. Yet Shunsuke knew this about rural psychology - once someone began cutting, others would grow restless and scramble to follow lest they fall behind. The scarcity of workers in the fields likely stemmed from this mentality clashing with their rain-hungry hopes: Would it pour today? Tomorrow? Getting caught in rain during harvest spelled disaster. Cut wheat laid in rows absorbed moisture and dried slower than standing crops. Bundled sheaves steaming in humidity sometimes rotted the grain. Such scenes lived in Shunsuke's childhood memories too.

April and May—these two months saw almost no rain worthy of the name.

The cucumbers, common beans, and other vining plants now at their peak growth swayed their overlong tendrils beyond the support poles like living creatures in the wind, while their lower leaves crisped into scorched remnants. The cucumbers bore fruits slightly thicker than a thumb, their ends still clinging to shriveled blossom remnants as they stood withered from bacterial wilt.

When he stood downwind, a row of sunlit tomatoes wafted a faint scent. A boy of fourteen or fifteen, wearing a wood-shaving hat, was picking tomato buds and thinning small yellow flowers. A group of children came running down the village road, shouting loudly as they went. They carried buckets in their hands and held baskets. The leader of the boisterous group, charging along a narrow path between fields, twisted aside just in time to avoid colliding with Shunsuke emerging onto the village road. The bucket he carried jolted violently, sending something leaping out. It was a loach. Landing on the scorched dust at a rut's edge, it wriggled in frantic circles. The child shot a fleeting glance at Shunsuke's face before snatching up the loach barehanded, tossing it back into the bucket, then running off while craning backward repeatedly to look behind.

Along the winding, sloped path leading to the mountain tobacco field, Shunsuke now ascended, pausing occasionally to press his hand gently against the left side of his chest and listen to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Though naturally somewhat rapid, it beat with a strong, resilient, healthy cadence. The last time he had come here for a walk, merely traversing this path had made his chest pound, his breath grow ragged, his temples throb, and his face flush. Viewed from below at a distance, the old father squirmed between the ridges in a posture so compressed it seemed his legs floated mid-air. The sight of him—as if the water bucket on his shoulders had sprouted limbs and moved autonomously—struck Shunsuke's chest, compelling him then to hurry up the mountain path. He had wanted to say he should relieve him every third trip—but for a body that grew breathless even from slight exertion, hauling water up remained beyond contemplation.

The tobacco had been transplanted from the seedbeds to the main field some time earlier. In accordance with regulations, they stood planted at three-shaku intervals atop ridges of soil mounded three shaku four sun wide. The stalks had grown four or five sun tall, their pale gray-green leaves—four to six in number—arranged in opposing pairs at each node. Early summer noonlight flooded the ochre slope where tobacco plants stood grid-ordered, casting sharp shadows that accentuated their muted luster. The sandy loam lay utterly parched. The old father's task of watering until the tobacco took root would persist until rain came. Shunsuke sat at the field's edge watching his father's movements—the old man's back still turned his way. He remained unaware. At length he turned. Spotting Shunsuke, he swept an arm sideways across his sweat-beaded face,

“It sure is blazing down.” “What’s today’s paper say about the forecast?”

Bathed directly in the sun, his deeply wrinkled face creased up.

“It seems today will be another day of fair weather.” “Earlier, I listened to the radio at the village office, but it was still the same thing.” “They didn’t mention anything about there being sudden rains in some areas, did they?”

“Well… I didn’t hear anything about that at all.” When he finished a stretch of work, Komapei stopped laboring, came to Shunsuke’s side, and sat down beside him to rest. “Either way, we’ll be needing a proper downpour soon enough. “At this rate, even the roots won’t take proper.”

“When was the inspection from the Monopoly Bureau scheduled for again?” “Very soon… Once June arrives.” “The date’ll come notified from the cooperative soon enough, I reckon.” “How many reserve plants did we plant this year?” “In Plot Eight,” Komapei said, pointing to one of the ridges. “That spot over there’s the reserve. “Fifty plants.” “The regulations say thirty to fifty plants for reserves, but since we’re planting them anyway, might as well make more—no sense in losing out.”

A voice sounded from below, and his younger sister Jun came up. She brought the ten o'clock meal and drinking water. Using a hand towel soaked in the remaining water from the bucket to wash his face and hands, Komapei opened the flat lacquered box and began to eat. Seven or eight black barley rice balls coated with black sesame were packed tightly inside. Pickled small turnips in rice bran paste and a slice of salted salmon—one of each—were placed on top. Each time he finished one rice ball, Komapei licked his salty fingertips over and over, then drank from the kettle, refilling it again and again.

“With this… What now? This year we’ve had hell with water again, but somehow managed to pass inspection. Now that it’s finally reaching proper maturity—if a strong wind were to hit… Well, it’d be too awful to look at, I tell you. The sixth year of Showa was just like that. The eighth year of Showa was just like that again. Last year we somehow scraped through without trouble, but well... who knows how it’ll go this year. After all, tobacco’s such a troublesome crop, I tell you.”

Shunsuke also borrowed his father’s teacup. He peered at the poured water in the shade, then drank it. As always, it was a coldness that seeped to his very core. On the inside of the kettle lid, cold air had condensed into tiny beads. Yet it looked badly muddied.

Shunsuke asked Jun. “Is this… our well’s water?”

“Yeah.” “It’s still muddy after all.”

“But this morning all the neighbors came drawing water too—right after that happened. The Suzukis’ well and the Itos’ well—soon as you draw from ’em first thing, the mud at the bottom gets churned up till they turn clay-colored, can’t use ’em at all apparently. The Suzukis—since today’s their bath day and all—they came specially askin’ us again to please help ’em out tonight.” “But even ours must be scrapin’ the bottom by now.”

“Well, if they all draw water like that, then sure—but right now ours is the only one still somehow usable.”

“Father.” “What do you think?” “As I mentioned before, why don’t we take advantage of this year’s drought to deepen our well?” “I’ll help out.”

Shunsuke turned toward his father and said. “Well... We’ve been thinking for a long time now that we should dig up that well again while our legs and backs still hold out, I tell you. Especially this year—the water flow’s been poorer than ever. That well’s served the villagers right enough all these years. But...” Komapei trailed off.

“Let’s do it! Definitely! I’ll help out,” Shunsuke repeated urgently. He spoke with such fervor that others could scarcely comprehend why he took such keen interest in this work. “You’ll help out? Glutton for punishment,” Komapei scoffed. “Think it’s that simple just ’cause you can say it?” His laughter carried decades of calloused skepticism.

The Sugino house stood at the mountain's foot, higher than any other dwelling in the village. The well behind it had been dug deep—nearly four ken down. They'd struck a pristine water vein there, drawing from mountain depths into cold jade clarity. None who drank from it ever withheld praise. Through summers, distant folk came bearing buckets and kettles for drinking water or cooling needs. Unbidden by any namer, people began calling it the Jade Water Well—a title that sustained generations. This well poured forth its greatest mercies precisely in rain-starved years like this. When neighboring wells ran dry and bottom mud clouded every dipperful, only the Jade Water Well kept brimming clear. Meal preparations and bath-day rotations found villagers saved by its enduring flow. Yet these past three summers revealed troubling changes—its bounty dwindling visibly. None could call this unnatural. Fifty years had passed since Komapei's father first dug this well, young Komapei himself hauling stones—never deepened since. No water vein stays unchanged through such spans. This truth weighed heavy on Komapei. The guileless old man grieved his lost capacity to serve and gladden others as before. Once village leaders, the Suginos had seen Komapei's father mingle in regional politics while tending communal affairs. But Komapei inherited debts alongside his name. He sold ancestral lands already sparse, parceled plots among branch-family brothers, fading into common farmer obscurity. Yet remembering his father's legacy pained him—this inability to aid his village made lonelier still by memories. For such a man, the Jade Water Well became life's modest consolation.

This region was renowned throughout the nation for its scarce rainfall and absence of true rivers; even a minor drought would immediately dry up its waters.

On summer days, Komapei looked pleased watching neighbors come to the back well.

“One of the jobs we’ve got to do while we’re still alive is dig up this well with our own hands, no matter what.”

Whenever he saw the water’s flow worsening and growing murky, Komapei would say such things repeatedly.

However, the source of Shunsuke's fervor as he applied himself to the same task differed from Komapei's. He didn't specifically need to be digging wells. His family's wheat would soon be harvested. Before long, the drying of tobacco leaves would also begin. He intended to participate in both tasks himself. He now yearned for physical labor with visceral intensity—not through profound self-reflection but through an almost instinctive craving for that unified state where mind and body converged upon a single object, that sensation of taut vitality and fulfillment; one could well understand how manual work might answer this hunger most directly. He wanted an opportunity to clash fiercely while expending every ounce of his physical and mental strength. Was this merely the physiological demand of a young body growing restless after convalescence? Perhaps so. Yet simultaneously, it took root in something far deeper. He sought to sever ties with his past—that era when he'd wallowed in a conceptual quagmire without escape routes, perversely intoxicated by the very absence of exits. He couldn't simply build upon others' lived experiences; first he had to truly inhabit society himself. Though he'd begun nurturing this general resolve, had it come seven or eight years earlier, a concrete new path might have opened before him. Now no such clarity existed. His journey had commenced in profoundly abstract terms—drawn toward life's tangible substance, densely packed meaning, productive endeavors grounded in earthly reality—qualities that magnetized his spirit. At precisely this juncture, village life unfurled before him with fresh allure. No fragment of its existence, however minor, failed to awaken raw emotions within him.

“If it were just diggin’ deeper to lower the bottom, ain’t no big trouble,” Komapei said, “but first you’ve got to clear away every last stone linin’ the well, then stack ’em back up proper-like—that’s where the real work lies.”

The well lining, at a depth of four ken (approximately 7.2 meters), was solidly constructed entirely from large natural stones of various shapes. “So if we start by doing it that way, it won’t work?” “Ah. “When diggin’ down a well, first you gotta take out the linin’ stones before startin’ in—that’s the proper way it’s done.” “Hmm.” “You could try cuttin’ corners by leavin’ the linin’ stones as they are and diggin’ down, but if you do that, once those sides start crumblin’ while you’re workin’ below, ain’t no tellin’ when you might end up buried alive down there.”

“Ah, I see.” “You’d just keep diggin’ straight down, I reckon.” “Now when you make the bottom deeper, that means there’ll be this gap ’tween the bottom and them stones holdin’ up the sides. Only the bottom’s keepin’ those side stones in place.” “Once that gap comes ’bout, the whole weight of the well linin’ comes crashin’ down from above.” “Wouldn’t stand a chance then, would it?” “We old-timers seen and heard plenty o’ such mishaps over the years.” “Why, just three years back, Yata’s boy from Motoyama Village got squashed flat as a frog and died—same damn thing happened there.” “You gotta mind the soil when diggin’ wells,” Komapei added, “but turns out they found out later Yata’s place was sittin’ on sandy ground all along.” “Well that explains it.” “The old folks couldn’t have not known.” “Turns out they did it while the elders were off in town.”

“However, when it comes to the matter of soil quality,” Komapei continued. “Ours is fine.” “Ours is clay soil—red clay, y’see.” “I don’t reckon there’ll be any trouble with the top sliding down either, y’see, but…”

And he fell into deep thought. He flicked away with his large palm the sweat that had trickled down his neck and pooled in the hollow of his throat. His exposed chest was astonishingly thick and sturdy, yet across the slightly slackened skin scattered age-darkened spots like ink splatters.

Eventually, he seemed to have made up his mind and spoke.

“Let’s give ’er a try then,” Komapei said. “Year after year we keep thinkin’ ‘this’ll be the one,’ puttin’ it off till we’re older and these bodies ain’t what they used to be—that’s how it adds up.” “Any day now, somethin’ could happen that’d leave us too stove up to stand proper—you never know.” “If these hands o’ ours can’t see it through now, that’ll stick in our craw clear down to our grandkids’ time—mark my words.”

“So about what you just mentioned—how exactly do we pull up the stones lining the well?” “Hmm… Well now, I reckon we needn’t haul up every last one.” “Then what?”

“We’ll remove just the top half. We’ll leave the lower half as it is and try working that way.” “Is it safe?” “It’s safe,” he said firmly. “Let’s start first thing tomorrow morning. We’ll have Mother take over the tobacco fields for two or three days. Jun, you need to help Mother out.” “That’s right—you should help Mother. I’ll assist Father,” said Shunsuke cheerfully.

“Even without the well work, Mom said earlier that Father still needs to take over the tobacco fields a bit.” “Never mind about me.” “But Big Brother’s hopeless though.” “Why’s that?” “Why do you even ask…”

Her amusement at how ridiculous manual labor seemed showed in her demeanor. “Don’t be so cheeky,” Shunsuke said with a laugh. “Yeah. Maybe we should ask someone else from the neighborhood to help out.” “Nah, I’ll do it, Father.”

However, Komapei did not answer; by bringing up another matter instead, he made it clear he wouldn’t engage.

II

Shunsuke stood with his legs apart, thrust out his chest, and swung both arms alternately like a windmill. Then he tightened his belt once more. The sensation around his waist felt unfamiliar after so long.

From the things long crammed into the depths of the closet came a faint damp odor. On the faded belt was a gray bloom of mold. He carelessly wiped his hands on his patch-covered Western-style trousers and hiked up the cuffs high.

He was clad in nothing but a shirt. While tightening the hand towel wrapped around his head, Shunsuke headed toward the entrance step. The sunlight deeply penetrating the dirt-floored entryway already bore the full intensity of summer, but the morning breeze still carried a refreshing coolness. As he hooked the cleats of his work tabi, footsteps sounded behind him—Komapei’s voice. “Well now, that’s quite the getup you’ve got there.” “So you’re really set on doin’ this, eh?”

Even Komapei, who had been saying such things, was already prepared. Expressions of concern and teasing appeared around his eyes and mouth, which took on a childlike innocence when he smiled. It wasn’t that he distrusted Shunsuke’s arguments from the day before, but rather that he wanted to avoid his son still recovering from illness. Shunsuke remained silent, smiled, brought out the basket from the corner of the dirt-floored room, and examined its construction. It was a coarse-woven basket he had made himself with kudzu vines he’d cut from the back mountain yesterday. He examined the hanging loops at each of the four corners with particular care.

“But this job’s going to take real strength, you know.” “This work’s just too much for you fresh outta sickness—I’m thinkin’ maybe we should ask Genji from the Teradas instead.”

“Genji?” “The Terada one?” “Ah, right.” “He must’ve grown into a proper young man by now.”

“Ah, he’s already eighteen. “This year too, if things keep up, he’ll likely get hired for rush harvesting over in Okayama, I reckon.” “How about we get Genji to help out?” “Ah, never mind, Father. “I’ll do it.” “As for the Teradas, they’re probably still getting requests here and there these days—but how much are farmers’ daily wages nowadays?” “Well, seventy sen’s the goin’ rate, I’d say. “At best you’d get eighty sen. “Until four or five years back, ninety sen to one yen was the standard—but that prefecture relief project, see—once that started up, wages dropped. “Seein’ as the relief work pays seventy sen, that’s what fixed the farmers’ daily wage ’round here.”

“So that’s why the relief projects aren’t popular.” “That’s right.” “Seems like there’s plenty grumblin’ ’bout it these days.” Komapei, who had been taking a break in front of the hibachi, put away his pipe and stood up. “Well, that warmed farmers’ pockets for a time alright, but no matter how ya look at it, relief projects ain’t some permanent fix.” “But because of that, once farmers’ daily wages got driven down across the board, you’ve got to figure they ain’t ever climbin’ back up again.” “In the long run, it all comes down to losin’ out in the end.” “Those who both hire and get hired might be alright,” he said, “but those only gettin’ hired have it rough, I reckon.”

“Aren’t you going to wear work tabi, Father?” Komapei, who sat down there to prepare his feet, was wearing straw sandals rather than work tabi.

“Yeah, work tabi’d just make ya slip—ain’t safe at all.” “Well then, maybe I should go with straw sandals too.”

“You’re fine like that. You’re outside.” “We’re the ones gotta be down in the well, see.”

The two of them exited through the back door.

The well was right there. The large willow tree beside it had stretched its long branches up over the well. Until autumn arrived and winds cast dead leaves into its waters, both branches and foliage were left to their lush growth undisturbed.

The natural stones forming the well's walls appeared immovable, their sections protruding about four shaku above ground both massive in size and moss-covered with age. Shunsuke gripped the edge and peered inside. Even more than usual, the water's surface appeared profoundly deep and distant. A chill rising from below brushed against his face. Probably because the neighbors had drawn water again that morning, the water’s surface—now conspicuously shallower—reflected the sky brimming with morning light, gleaming white. The drooping willow branches and the creeping vine tendrils that had entangled themselves around the well’s exterior, gradually working their way inward, swayed in the wind alongside Shunsuke’s face, casting shadows within that whiteness. Shunsuke, feeling like a child, leaned out and called loudly toward the bottom. He wholeheartedly enjoyed the deep-voiced echo that returned three or four times.

He recalled how as a child, he had taken carp from the reservoir and released them into this well. “Shall we begin?” Komapei said.

The tool Komapei held was a single iron crowbar. He tapped rhythmically at the narrow gaps between stones with its tip. Snugly fitted together over decades without cement, they appeared almost as a single stone in places. The crowbar's tip moved like a surgeon probing for vital points. With a sudden surge of force, it lodged firmly into a gap. Komapei shifted his stance, planting his feet wide to brace himself. When he pressed his chest against the iron bar, his full weight bore down. Soil pattered down as the stone shifted position. Pried relentlessly, the gap widened until the stone lifted free.

“Alright—come on, let’s lift it.” Throwing down the iron crowbar, Komapei said sharply. The first stone that had begun to move was of a size that one person couldn’t possibly lift. “Ah, you’d better put these on.”

Suddenly noticing, Komapei took out a pair of soiled work gloves from his breast pocket and tossed them over. Shunsuke put them on and grasped one side of the stone. Komapei remained bare-handed. The two of them lifted it, carried it over to a flat area some distance away, and rolled it down. Even that much was strenuous work for Shunsuke. It was work that demanded mustering every ounce of one’s strength. In that single instance, his entire bloodstream seethed and flowed hotly. His face flushed, and his temples throbbed. He felt his balance wavering and focused keen attention on each step he took while holding the stone.

“Alright—watch your footing.” And the stone struck the earth with a resounding thud, creating a large dent as it rolled. Using the momentum to hurl the stone away and stepping back about two paces, Shunsuke felt a wave of lightheadedness—the kind one often experiences after stepping out of a bath. Sweat suddenly began streaming out. Trying to prevent Komapei from noticing his ragged breathing, he suppressed any utterance he might have wanted to make and endured the suffocating sensation.

“Well, it’s an old story, you know. “We were about ten years old at the time, see…” Komapei was remembering when this well had first been dug. As he spoke, Shunsuke became entranced watching his sixty-five-year-old father’s movements—powerful yet unhurried—as he deftly worked the iron crowbar to dislodge stone after stone. The way he planted his feet, the strain in his arms, each motion brimmed with vigor that Shunsuke observed in awe. Try as he might to picture his father lying frail and listless during neuralgic episodes, no such image would come to mind.

“There—droppin’ it now.” When the stones grew smaller, Komapei stopped carrying them together like before and instead rolled them straight onto the ground right there. Shunsuke stood dazed, dodging aside while watching this unfold, when Komapei— “Quit dawdlin’—move ’em!” he barked. Shunsuke jolted and frantically grabbed at a stone. Some were nearly too heavy for him alone. Bent double and dragged forward as if about to pitch over, he hauled them until he couldn’t bear it anymore—dropping them midway to roll the rest. From behind came Komapei’s voice—

“Since we’ll have to haul ’em back here again, line ’em up so they’re easier to carry next time!” he shouted. And he diligently continued with his own work. Shunsuke felt ashamed. These terse words and attitudes that his elderly father directed at him differed from what Shunsuke had unconsciously, secretly anticipated somewhere in the corner of his mind. At the very least, it was not something that indulged him or merely showed concern. However, Shunsuke could not claim that somewhere in his heart he hadn’t anticipated being treated with such leniency. In Komapei’s words and attitude, of course, there was no cruelty. Nor was it didactic—a conscious effort to impose his own rhythm to train the inexperienced youth. However, since it was the natural rhythm of something that worked without slackening, there was a severity inherent in such a thing.

“Care to give it a go?” After hauling several stones back, Shunsuke found Komapei thrusting an iron crowbar toward him with a laugh.

Shunsuke took it and tried using it. He mustered every ounce of his strength, but the stone remained immovable as though cemented in place. The sensation of his hands slipping made him remove the work gloves. Thrusting three or four times at it and finally managing to dislodge one stone, he returned the iron crowbar to Komapei. Just that much was enough to make his palms sting. While rubbing his palms—reddened to the point of peeling—he caught a faint metallic scent.

“It’s all about the rhythm. This too, y’see.” Komapei laughed cheerfully.

When all stones protruding above ground had been completely cleared away, Komapei prepared to enter the well. Using the unevenly jutting corners of stones as anchors, he positioned a single plank diagonally like a bridge and began descending the well wall, relying on this as his only foothold. With one foot on the plank and the other braced against a slightly protruding stone, he had to maneuver massive rocks weighing several kan—hundreds of pounds—in this unstable position. It could by no means be called safe.

“Alright then.” “Alright.” Shunsuke’s entire body now trembled violently with tension. It verged on desperation. When Komapei lifted a stone from below to just above chest height, the single plank bearing its weight looked ready to bend. Peering into what was now merely a gaping hole of a well, kneeling on the ground to receive stones from above, Shunsuke often felt in danger of being dragged into the abyss by their weight. Far below, the water’s surface shone white and ominous enough to dizzy him. Pebbles and gravel trickled down the well wall with a dry rustle—their falls audible, their faint ripples visible on the water.

However, passing the stones from below to above in that hand-to-hand manner did not last very long. Komapei's foothold gradually descended lower until his hands could no longer reach upward. It was then decided to hoist up the prepared basket using the pulley system.

The basket was lowered down with a rope attached. The stones were placed inside it, and it was hoisted up again. This was repeated many times over.

Shunsuke became drenched in sweat, enduring the violent throbbing against his thin chest wall as he summoned every ounce of his strength. He was utterly exhausted, his face pale. However, he had to keep enduring, and as time passed, before he knew it, he felt himself advancing into an unexpected state of being. Once past a certain threshold of fatigue, does it cease to be pain altogether? As if he had crossed a precipitous mountain path and emerged onto an expansive plain, a joy akin to that which follows pain welled up in his chest. Even though he had exhausted all his strength, it seemed as though an inexhaustible new strength was reviving within him. Lowering the rope, holding his breath, shouting commands, hoisting it up, then lowering it again—throughout these tasks, he remained in such a self-oblivious state that he didn’t even notice his own newfound transformation.

“Alright—let’s haul it up!” He shouted with a voice that had grown rough. He felt a savage, reckless force—something that demanded to be shattered and cast aside. He felt the joy of having wrestled an opponent, pinned them down, and conquered them through victory. This sense of physical fulfillment, this feeling of having exerted every ounce of strength, this sensation of bodily collision with a single task—all these had been utterly foreign to him for some time now. And through becoming conscious of this fact, his joy became deeper and greater. After hauling up a stone and heaving a sigh of relief, he would call out loudly toward the bottom of the well.

As he descended deeper and deeper, the stones grew damp with moisture and moss-covered. When he placed his hand on them, they were slippery with limescale. An insect with numerous legs was hiding among the moss when it suddenly scrambled frantically into the bright outer light. “This one’s a bit bigger!” came the voice from below. “This might be the biggest one yet! Here and there, these big ones are lodged. They went out of their way to set these here to reinforce the walls.”

Shunsuke responded to this. And peered in. Indeed, even from above, it was large. “Here, loading it on! Watch out!” The instant it happened, the heavy jolt that came through Shunsuke’s hands gripping the rope drove him into a state of extreme tension. He was nearly overcome with panic. The weight was unlike anything he had experienced before. He pulled the rope with every ounce of his strength. It had finally risen about two shaku. He pulled further. And it had risen another shaku. The pulley groaned, and the rope threatened to wear through his palms. But try as he might, it would rise no further. He tried adjusting his footing in various ways, but it made no difference.

He remained frozen in that position, gasping for breath. He could neither advance nor retreat, pinned in place as he writhed helplessly. Sweat streamed into his eyes, yet he couldn't wipe it away. Around his shoulder sockets and elbow joints, pain and weariness welled up simultaneously. The forgotten fatigue came surging back—this time from some unfathomable depth—and the thought I'm done flashed through his fevered skull. What now?... A precarious, desperate sense of crisis swept over him like vertigo.

At the very moment he placed this large stone into the basket, Shunsuke knew Komapei had shifted his foothold down another level. Now that he considered it, Komapei's voice calling up in puzzlement—"What's wrong?"—seemed to be coming from a place far deeper and more distant than before. Shunsuke found himself gripped by the terror that his own hands might release the rope at any instant. If the weight proved too much, he ought to have been able to slowly lower it back down and let Komapei catch it from below. In principle, this should have presented no particular challenge. Yet in practice, the task defeated him entirely. The careful, incremental lowering demanded impossible precision. Any attempt to descend would risk sending the stone plunging straight down with violent momentum through its sheer mass. Should it fall—and his aged father stood directly beneath... The instant this realization struck, Shunsuke's body locked rigidly in place. His petrified arms hung numb as wooden pestles.

“What’s wrong? Huh? Aren’t you going to haul it up?” A voice from within the hole reached him in broken fragments, distant and muffled.

As if suddenly noticing that voice, Shunsuke abruptly—

“Jun! Jun! Michi! “Hey! Isn’t there anyone here?!”

he shouted in a strained voice.

After several calls finally received a response, Jun came rushing out from the back door in disarray. Then following close behind came her younger sister O-michi too.

Jun had gone to the tobacco field early that morning with her mother O-mura before Shunsuke and the others had begun their work. She had just returned moments earlier to bring the ten o'clock meal. "What's wrong, Big Brother?" Sensing something amiss in the air, Jun came running up with a pale face. "Pull! Pull this!" Shunsuke gasped between labored breaths. Immediately understanding, Jun began adding her strength. The rope rose barely enough to mention—but no further. Jun turned around panting heavily,

“Michi too.”

“Michi too,” she said. The slender sixteen-year-old O-michi came running and joined them. The three clung to that single rope as their last hope. With support from the two women, Shunsuke regained his strength. The stones in the basket began rising incrementally. Suddenly a new fear pierced him like lightning— If the rope snapped midway— Yet by then the basket had already reached the hole’s very edge. The basket’s rim swam into view through Shunsuke’s sweat-blurred eyes. With one final heave, it came fully onto solid ground.

“Whew…”

As soon as he released the rope, Shunsuke let out a deep sigh and plopped down onto his backside there. Sitting cross-legged, he let his head drop heavily, threw his hands limply near his knees, and for a while neither wiped his sweat nor spoke a word.

At the bottom of the well, Komapei was shouting something. Having returned in response, Jun stared fixedly for a while at Shunsuke sitting motionless like that, then suddenly— Jun tried to suppress her rising laughter but finally burst out in a fit of giggles she could no longer contain. And once she burst out laughing, she simply couldn’t stop—clutching her stomach in a manner that made one imagine she’d be rolling about the floor if indoors—laughing on and on without end.

“What?” said Shunsuke, glaring sharply in that direction. However, when his eyes suddenly met Jun’s—who had finally managed to suppress her laughter—this time he turned away sheepishly and burst out laughing. Then, as if triggered by that, he too burst into loud laughter. Jun laughed again. O-michi too, making a strange, uncomprehending face, joined in the laughter.

Shunsuke stood up. He grasped the basket's edge to try to roll the stones out. Heaving it up and carrying it seemed utterly beyond him. He had no choice but to roll it. Even just getting a grip on two corners of the prone basket to lift it proved barely manageable. He heaved it up and rolled it straight ahead—or rather, had meant to roll it. As he shoved the stone forward and tried to release his grip, he felt—amidst the tension stretched taut until then—a sudden slack enter like wind through a crevice. At that crucial final moment, he must have lapsed into a dazed trance. When he snapped back to awareness, his hands had already let go. The panicked realization of his slipping grip came at the exact same moment the stone lurched sideways and toppled.

"Agh!" Shunsuke cried out and collapsed sideways. He immediately sprang back upright as if recoiling, then hopped about the area on one raised leg like a whirling dervish. It took a moment before Jun, who had been watching in stunned silence, realized that the leg Shunsuke was standing on was his left.

“What’s wrong, Big Brother?” shouted Jun as she came running over. By that time, Shunsuke was already sitting on the ground, his right leg stretched out. The tip of the outstretched leg—which toe had been injured was something Jun, in her flustered state, couldn’t discern; she could only see that entire area soaked in vivid crimson blood.

Jun, her face pale, tried to hurry toward the well. From behind her, Shunsuke sharply—

“Jun, be quiet.” He had suddenly thought of the danger that alerting the old father in the well might lead to some accident.

However, even as they kept silent, Komapei came up. Jun had returned from the tobacco fields, and he had realized it was already time for the ten o'clock meal. He had climbed up alone without even waiting for the rope from above. “Shun, what happened?”

Komapei immediately noticed and exclaimed in surprise. Emerging abruptly from the dark depths into the brightness of the outside world, he squinted his eyes against the glare and stared intently at what had transpired. “What in the world has happened? Did you smash into something?” Shunsuke split the hand towel in two and swiftly wrapped his foot. With a heavy thud came pain as if struck by an iron bar; once knocked down and then leaping back up in that instant, he felt like plummeting from a great height straight to the bottom, his vision swimming. This must be anemia, he thought amidst the sensation that he might collapse again. However, without collapsing, he hopped about and lowered himself to the ground—but by the time he did so, the pain had transformed into a burning, stabbing throb that came surging back, leaving him nearly unable to speak. His whole body broke out in goosebumps and suddenly grew cold; from deep within his body, greasy sweat began to seep out. A chill ran through him, and his limbs trembled violently. He felt like he was going to vomit. With his face twisted in pain, he forced a smile and said, “It’s nothing, really. Just a minor thing.” Then, after briefly explaining what had happened, he said, “I’ll go tend to this,” and went into the house. Komapei called out to stop Jun who was following behind him, his voice saying there should definitely be new bandages somewhere around here—Shunsuke heard this too as if through a distant haze.

Alcohol, absorbent cotton, bandages—such things were in the house. As he had insisted they should still be there, Jun opened several small box drawers searching for the iodoform bottle. And she found that too. Carrying those items, Shunsuke came out to the veranda and began tending to his injury. The blood seeped through even the multiple layers of hand towel fabric until it dripped. The wound where skin and flesh had been torn apart—likely struck by a stone's corner—lay near his thumbnail's base. Blunt force had ripped open flesh that now protruded crimson like pomegranate seeds. For Shunsuke, seeing blood normally brought restless tingling through his nerves from waist to calves. Yet more urgent than this wound loomed his thumb's crushed head—a viper's flattened skull. It had become a severe contusion. The nail's color turned lifeless while purplish flesh swelled larger by degrees. From there pulsed throbbing pain.

After soaking absorbent cotton in alcohol and washing the wound, sprinkling iodoform over it, and finishing the bandaging, Shunsuke lay down on his back right there on the wooden floor. The spot had already fallen into shade; a refreshing breeze swept through, bringing coolness.

Jun was called by her father and went out to the front.

For a while, there were no sounds, and the surroundings were quiet. There was not a single white cloud in the sky. The blueness of the sky and the greenery surrounding the house were both filled with light, which seemed to intensify the midday stillness. As he gazed fixedly at the distant sky, Shunsuke naturally teared up. It wasn’t only because of the brightness. After a while, from the grove of trees on the back mountain where pines mingled, the sound of spring cicadas singing could be heard. However, they too sang briefly in hoarse voices and immediately fell silent.

Komapei came to the side where he was lying and stood. “How’s the pain?” “Don’t need to show it to a doctor?”

“Yes.” “It’s a bruise, you see.” “With time, it’ll heal on its own.” “And I’ve applied iodoform to the wound.”

Whether a crack had formed in the bone—that was what Shunsuke feared. However, he did not voice it.

“I think you should have it checked once—if you’re going to show it to someone, there’s Sawai’s Moriguchi—his son has come back home recently, see.” “Since he’s freshly out of school, I reckon he’d be better than someone like Sakuma. Though mind you, Moriguchi’s boy isn’t a surgeon either.” “I see. “Has Moriguchi’s son already finished school?” “Of course that’s probably the case—he was five or six years older than me.”

In the countryside, people from nearby villages who had attended secondary school or higher remained clearly etched in each other’s memories. “You did say his name was Shin, didn’t you? Is he coming back to take over his father’s practice here in the village?” “Well now, seems there’s quite the tangle around that. Old Man Moriguchi’s no spring chicken anymore—must be nearing seventy by now—making his rounds by bicycle ain’t exactly easy living these days.” “Grown especially frail lately from what I hear—that’s why they must’ve dragged his son back from some Tokyo university lab or such. But that boy—young folks nowadays—after all that trouble graduating Tokyo University and becoming a proper medical doctor? Not a chance he’d want to waste away in this backwater treating farmers.” “Though mind you—the old man himself—when you speak of Moriguchis, they’ve got heirlooms bestowed by feudal lords! Finest old medical family in these parts.” “Can’t just up and abandon Sawai land that’s fed their ancestors for generations.” “Even if he tosses aside old-fashioned thinking and looks at pure profit—what advantage does Tokyo hold?” “PhD holders these days are thicker than weeds swept up with a broom.” “You think some hospital salary or opening shop in strange lands could replace generations of good income from this Sawai practice? That’s what his old man says.” “So now the son’s stuck betwixt and between—all stirred up with indecision.”

There was a family-recipe kneaded ointment at an old pharmacy in town—one dissolved in egg whites and pounded—that was said to be good for drawing out the inflammation from bruises, so he began to leave while saying he would go buy it tomorrow,

“I’ve decided to ask Genji for help.” “When I sent Jun on an errand earlier, she said he’d come right after eating.” “Will the work be finished by tomorrow?” “Hmm...” “Well, I suppose it’ll take all of tomorrow.” “Today we’ll remove the well’s structure; tomorrow we’ll drain the water, dig out the bottom, and have to rebuild the stone lining.”

Regarding himself—now reduced to standing by with folded arms, watching all these tasks unfold—Shunsuke wanted to say something. However, he couldn’t say it. Komapei, too, did not utter a single word—not even sarcastically—of anything resembling "That’s why I told you not to do it."

By afternoon, his body seemed to be running a fever. It might have been nothing more than an illusion from the sweltering heat. Either way, staying quiet alone in the house left him unable to focus on anything. Genji must have arrived—his youthful, vigorous voice carried from behind the house. The pulley’s creak and rustling movements of people hauling things reached him too. Drawn by these sounds, Shunsuke went out back.

The young man working there, drenched in sweat, was large for eighteen, with a well-developed physique that could pass him for twenty or twenty-one. Though his physique was that of an adult, when their eyes met that face which still clearly retained traces of his fourteen- or fifteen-year-old self, Shunsuke gave a familiar smile. Genji, too, smiled bashfully in the manner of a shy, hardworking youth of that age, for no particular reason. They had not met for quite some time.

“Hey, long time… Thanks for your hard work today.” “I’d already heard you’d returned through the grapevine, but I kept missing chances to welcome you proper—my apologies. And your illness—it’s completely better now, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, thanks. I’m completely fine now.” “Tried helping Father again today—completely unlike me—and this is what happened.”

Shunsuke laughed, pointing at the bandage on his foot where his straw sandal barely clung on.

The next day, early in the morning, they combined three long logs into a tripod, splayed the legs in three directions, and erected it over the well. They attached a pulley to this and set up a water-drawing device. The water was completely drained before much time had passed. At last, when the time came to begin digging out the well's bottom, not only Genji but also his father Heizō arrived to lend their strength. “Hmm, left the lower half as it is, haven’t you? Will it hold?” Heizō peered into the dark depths and asked with evident concern about the well’s structure.

“It’ll hold,” Komapei answered with immediate confidence and lowered the ladder. He climbed down using it and stood at the well’s bottom. Then he began digging. The clay soil at the bottom had hardened like stone, Komapei had explained earlier—each strike of his hammer driving the iron bar clanged through the shaft, the sound resonating outward in widening waves before fading into a lingering echo. Progress proved sluggish, and until a voice called up from below, the two men above remained idle. Those stationed topside were tasked with hoisting up excavated soil and water. That day too, Shunsuke went out to join them, passing the time in casual talk with the two waiting workers.

After about an hour, Komapei came up. When he looked, he saw Komapei—who had put on a wool sweater over his shirt—trembling, his teeth chattering. His lips had turned purple. That the cold at the deeply dug well's bottom was of such severity that one couldn't stay long and had to switch every hour—this was something Shunsuke could only truly comprehend and nod at in understanding after hearing about it and seeing it firsthand. Heizō stood up to take over for Komapei who had come up. But Genji interjected, "Now, Father, I'll take this one," and before Heizō could say anything in response, he was already waist-deep in the hole. Those brief words overflowed with both consideration for the elderly and the pride of a young man who had come into his own.

They stopped digging at a depth of about four shaku, then embedded the pre-prepared unglazed earthenware well lining into the newly excavated section. In places, they reinforced it with stones. With that completed, they now had to begin piling up again the stones removed over yesterday’s full day of work. Though they would bring stones and lower them down, building up was undeniably harder than taking apart. The one directing at the well’s bottom couldn’t be Genji or Heizō—it had to be Komapei. This time alone, rotation wasn’t allowed. Komapei, refusing to delegate, must have been brimming with confidence as he took measured care. He issued precise instructions for each step; the two men above lowered stones they judged suitable in response. But when a lowered stone failed to fit its spot properly, they had to hunt for another fitting piece and redo it however many times needed.

Stones were arranged along one side. Then Komapei shouted, “Backfill gravel!” By morning, Genji had transported the gravel, and there it stood piled into a mound. A fine-meshed basket was brought out. Gravel was put into the basket and lowered down. Countless basketfuls were lowered until someone below called out that it was enough. As Shunsuke peered in, Komapei was tightly packing that gravel into the approximately eighteen-inch gap behind the aligned stones. That was what they called “backfill gravel.” It was. Shunsuke asked Heizō.

“What exactly is the purpose of backfill gravel?” “You see, this here’s an extremely important thing. In other words, when it rains—during heavy rains or prolonged downpours—the force of water soaked into the soil pushing against the well lining from all sides—that’s incredibly powerful. Not only does mud flow inward, but the soil softens and the lining stones collapse. That backfill gravel—it’s what stops all that from happening. If you don’t put in enough backfill gravel or skimp on it, every time it rains the water’ll get all muddy, and the stones you worked so hard to stack up’ll just clatter down. This isn’t just about well linings, mind you—take stone walls, for instance—they follow the same principle. These days, with all that shoddy work going around—they usually skimp on the backfill gravel here—so of course it won’t last long.”

The work progressed smoothly in that manner.

Shunsuke could never tire of watching the movements—so perfectly coordinated and brimming with vigor—of the two old men and one young man. He was immersed in a strange exhilaration and emotion. Without joining the three, he was able to be together with them. It felt as though he had recovered something lost long ago.

Part 3

The foot injury hadn't been examined by a doctor, but it wasn't serious enough to cause concern and appeared to be following a smooth healing process. The torn flesh quickly closed up. Blood had gushed out between the nail and the flesh, turning it a purplish-black, lifeless color, but by the time that hue gradually faded and a healthy tone returned, the entire swelling had subsided considerably. The rapidity of this recovery might have been due to the medicinal plaster Komapei had bought for him. As for whether the bone had cracked—once the immediate pain subsided, such concerns no longer occupied his mind. Komapei,

“Always be careful when winter comes around. Even if it seems healed now, bruises like that’ll start aching every year when the season turns.” And Shunsuke did not remain idle during that time; once healed, he threw himself even more vigorously into work both inside and outside the house.

The Sugino house was a two-story structure spanning about twenty tsubo. Four years earlier, they had torn down their long-inhabited old home, salvaging what usable timber they could before supplementing it with purchased aged wood for rebuilding—the total labor fee for carpenters and plasterers then being sixty yen. This being why upstairs, while one window retained its glass-papered shoji screen, its counterpart stayed boarded with an old door nailed fast, leaving even midday light dim through straw matting spread where tatami should have been. Shunsuke had occupied this room till now, but with summer's approach intensifying the heat, that sealed window demanded first attention. When his foot's ache dulled enough, he immediately commenced work. His plan involved extending eaves above the window to block wind-driven rain.

He searched the storehouse and brought out the necessary amount of wood scraps and board pieces. Saws, chisels, planes, hammers—tools of that sort were all available. As for the planes and hammers—tools that had seen thirty years of use—Komapei could still recall the circumstances of their original purchase and would speak of them. Their lives were so monotonous that thirty years might have been one; they cherished their tools so deeply; and even small cash outlays spoke to their considerable hardship.

Work such as drilling holes in wood with a chisel or fitting other pieces into those holes to interlock them brought Shunsuke considerable difficulty. Carving a single hole into a thick pillar took three hours, and fitting a crossbeam snugly into that hole consumed the entire morning. Though the completed form of what he was attempting to create existed clearly in his mind as a general shape, when it came to the actual process of fashioning the object from the materials now in his hands, everything grew exceedingly vague. Sawing, planing, drilling—each of these concrete tasks gradually clarified those indistinct individual processes, yet simultaneously gave rise to new questions about details he had never contemplated before undertaking the work. To construct a window eave six feet long and eighteen inches wide required nearly an entire day of the lingering early summer light.

The next day, he made a chair. Since there was a table but no chairs, he took advantage of the suitable wood scraps that remained and tried making one. Again, it took an entire day, resulting in an awkwardly shaped chair, but this was somewhat easier than the eaves, and the process itself was enjoyable. He told Jun to make a small cushion for the chair.

Once his foot had fully healed and he could no longer wait to move about freely outdoors, Shunsuke rode his bicycle one day to what served as the village's main street. The distance there was roughly halfway to town. At a store there, he bought a sack of cement and strapped it behind the bicycle seat. The cement sack weighed heavily. Lacking confidence to ride with such a load, he pushed the bicycle along for some time, but when the road began sloping downward, he decided to give riding a try. The bicycle started moving but lurched unsteadily from the outset, Shunsuke's hands rigidly gripping the handlebars. As his speed gradually increased, so too did his anxiety and lack of confidence, until finally he gave up midway. He slammed on the brakes and leapt clear of the bicycle all at once, abandoning it to fall sideways with a loud crash.

Across the wheat field lay train tracks about ten ken ahead. The plodding train ran between rice paddies, connecting the villages around here to the town with the prefectural office. Shunsuke, straining every muscle as he lifted the sack of cement, heard the rumble of a train heading east to west toward town. He had been looking down when he casually raised his face. A few faces were looking this way from the window. His eyes suddenly met one of those faces.

The individual features of that oblong face couldn't be clearly distinguished from afar, yet the face itself was undeniably familiar. Who on earth could that be? Before he could dwell on it, the train receded into the distance. As the face at the window turned sideways and eyeglasses flashed in the light, the name surfaced in Shunsuke's mind. (That's it. Shimura Katsuhiko. He hadn't realized the man had returned.) Shimura too had been gazing fixedly in this direction. Even dressed like any common farmer, he must have recognized who I was.

(When on earth had he come back?) (And what was he doing now?) Then arose within him an irresistible desire to meet and speak with this man—a man who, though not separated by many years in age, belonged to a generation preceding his own; a man who had lived through that era as a youth ceaselessly pursuing lofty ideals, fighting his battles accordingly. After returning to the countryside following his stumble, he wanted to know what exactly he was thinking now, how he was spending his days—those sorts of things. He had even convinced himself that this was absolutely necessary for him.

Yet on the other hand, he also felt that perhaps it would be better not to meet at all. Not just Shimura—he began to feel he should avoid meeting anyone at all for the time being. Above all, Shunsuke knew Shimura’s rather intense character. In the past, to repel the overwhelming force that he brought to bear, Shunsuke had had to exert extraordinary strength. Of course, the source of his power back then hadn’t been something as simple as the intensity of his personal character, but Shunsuke’s current desire to avoid Shimura differed entirely from his past reasons for keeping distance. Lately, after a long period of stagnation, he felt he had finally groped his way toward something. He felt as if something was taking shape within him. Precisely because of that, regardless of what nature that something might be, he harbored a fear of being influenced by others.

Shunsuke, having returned while pushing his bicycle, next went to the mountain, gathered small stones and rock fragments into a bamboo basket, and carried them. He made about five round trips. Then, using a stone hammer, he broke them into pieces, spread them around the well's edge, poured cement over them, and solidified them into a concrete foundation. Next, he applied an overlay of cement mixed with gravel. The finished structure formed a gentle slope so that wherever water was poured along the well's edge, it would flow into the sunken basin at the corner. With this completed, next came installing the wheel well mechanism. Even before now, the bucket-and-pulley system had been difficult to use due to the well's depth, but now that depth had increased further. To construct the wheel well—a gate-shaped wooden frame with an attached wheel—the task of carving convex notches into two pillar tops and drilling matching holes in the crossbeam seemed simple in concept yet proved unexpectedly challenging in execution.

Somehow he managed to complete that as well. Throughout all these tasks, whenever Komapei returned from the fields at dusk and spotted Shunsuke still working there, he would come over and offer whatever practical advice occurred to him, but beyond that, he said nothing particular. He seemed to be saying, "Let him do what he likes in silence." And Komapei had always been that way.

Since childhood, Shunsuke had hardly known a father who was talkative. When Shunsuke graduated from elementary school and harbored the socially incongruous wish to attend a higher school—even after securing a path to commute to middle school by eating cold meals at a wealthy household—considerable hesitation preceded his voicing this desire to his father. Before Shunsuke, two boys had died. Being the only remaining son, he thought that pursuing such an unconventional path would inevitably bring one upheaval after another. Yet in reality, Komapei had agreed without incident—with such an immediate assent that Shinji Uehara, the distantly related landlord who had come to negotiate Shunsuke’s education, found himself thoroughly deflated.

“I can’t make heads or tails of what your father’s thinking or how he’s thinking.” “He didn’t oppose it, but then again, he didn’t seem particularly pleased either…” Uehara later said to Shunsuke. There can be no doubt that Uehara would have felt motivated in either scenario: either brilliantly persuading Komapei out of fierce opposition or wholeheartedly rejoicing at his son’s newly opened path to success. However, that Komapei had not lost his mental fortitude—that he still considered what needed considering and observed what required observing—could be understood through examples like how he had managed to repay the enormous debt left by his predecessor, who, though not without his own merits, had been careless, doing so in a shockingly short period. To do so, he had to part with almost all his land, but the decisiveness he showed at that time was both surprising and admirable. Since then, while he no longer had the strength to benefit others, neither did he lean on anyone else, living modestly and with integrity. Like a farmer of these times, he was having considerable difficulty making ends meet, yet from the outside, it didn’t appear he was struggling at all. In his skillful navigation of crises lay the seasoned efficiency of experience. It gave the sense that he had a firm grasp on the essence of living. In the village, such a person would likely become the subject of at least some backbiting, but Komapei avoided this because he never proactively drew attention to himself through even the smallest word or deed. While some regarded him as an elusive, peculiar man, others held him in quiet respect.

After the implementation of universal suffrage, some villagers who felt indebted to the previous generation had gathered and discussed putting Komapei on the village council, but Komapei adamantly refused to accept.

Regarding his father's such tolerance, Shunsuke had contemplated it since entering adolescence. He thought it stemmed from various factors: an open-minded nature; a farmer's conviction that things could only unfold as they did; a belief that each person had their own guiding star—that a son had his own star none could oppose; and above all, having witnessed his predecessor's collapse after meddling in local politics until immobilized. For himself, he merely wished to live modestly, yet he did not consider this humanity's sole or supreme way of living. Rather than his own path being desirable, he believed this sentiment—that if impossible, one should at least refrain from imposing will on others—stemmed not only from innate humility but also such existential philosophy.

Of course, Shunsuke never believed that Komapei wasn't thinking deeply about his son or refraining from agonizing over attempts to penetrate his son's inner world. Though lacking formal education, Komapei actively tried to comprehend the realm of "today's youth" by synthesizing his observations as a practical man of life, guided by sound common sense. Yet Komapei himself didn't feel he truly understood them. As long as this yearning for understanding didn't collide with utterly incomprehensible resistance, he could remain content. From a distance, he could offer a hesitant smile to the world of young people. But when resistance arose, this approach faltered. Komapei—who subconsciously understood that tolerance must rest upon warm, thorough comprehension—had no choice but to suffer through attempts to grasp what eluded him. Yet understanding did not come easily.

Only once did Komapei come up to the dim second floor with its spread-out mat where Shunsuke was inspecting the nearly finished chair. It was dusk. Komapei, who quietly climbed the stairs, stood there peering suspiciously inside.

“The window eaves must’ve been finished already… What’re ya makin’ today, huh?” “I tried making a chair.” “A chair?” “Yes, since there’s a table but no chairs, I thought it’d be good for reading… but this is what came out.” He put his hands on it, testing its wobble with a laugh, “I shaped it like an armchair, but when you sit down, it pitches you forward.”

And he sat down to demonstrate. “Mmm.”

Staring intently, Komapei wore an expression that seemed both perplexed and as though something he wished to say remained unspoken. But he didn’t say anything. Eventually, he descended and left.

After he had descended and left, the impression of him—somehow inquisitive, seemingly regretful—lingered in Shunsuke’s mind for a long time. Shunsuke knew about the matter that remained inexplicably lodged in Komapei’s heart.

When Komapei was alone with his wife Omura, he would often say such things.

“What on earth is going through Shunsuke’s mind?” “What on earth does Shunsuke intend to do about school—I can’t make heads or tails of it.” “Didn’t he say anything to you?”

“He hasn’t said anything to me,” replied Omura—a woman of few words and quiet demeanor who perfectly embodied the adage “like husband, like wife.”

“Is it that he got tired of school or somethin’ happened in Tokyo…? We can’t help but feel it’s different from comin’ back just to recover his body weakened by illness.”

“Lately he hasn’t been reading as much as before.” “And on top of that, seems he’s been throwing himself into helping us with our work.” “It’s good he’s helping with farm work.” “Does his body good too, and no harm in learning things proper.” “But with Shun here—looks near about decided he ain’t going back to Tokyo at all.” “Might be he’s still got money saved… Or maybe different from messing up with that rich Tokyo family that was seeing to him—ending up unable to go back to school?”

Having long supported himself while attending school and not placing any financial burden on them, the parents did not understand the minutiae of their son’s student life, which existed in an entirely different world. “Father, since you’re going to Aoyagi anyway, why not stop by Uehara and casually inquire while you’re at it?” “Mmm.” “I tell you, Father—this won’t do.” “You won’t even try asking anyone and just keep fretting all by yourself.” “You haven’t even tried asking Shun anything yourself—just going on about ‘don’t know this’ and ‘don’t know that.’”

“I don’t need to ask anything.” He had been asking from time to time. However, Shunsuke’s replies were always vague. He never came out with anything like “I intend to stay a bit longer.” When conversations touched on that matter, he seemed to want to avoid it, sometimes even letting his feelings show. Komapei could not press further.

Even something as seemingly trivial as making chairs could not evade Komapei's keen notice. Why would he make chairs? If he were truly someone about to return to Tokyo, such things would surely be unnecessary now.

Regarding that matter, Shunsuke too had thought he wanted—nay, needed—to speak with Komapei thoroughly once and for all. He had indeed grasped the opportunity to return to his hometown for post-illness recuperation. Even matters he had secretly considered for some time could not be carried out without some catalyst. He had even come to regard his illness as an unexpected boon. He had not returned merely for recuperation. He had contemplated he might end up staying permanently. And though three months had passed since then, his resolve remained unsettled. To abandon life among the intelligentsia and return to his former class—while seeming straightforward—in truth required formidable resolve. Even if he could somehow strip away the vestiges of urban life accumulated from adolescence through young adulthood—what exactly would this return to his ancestors' ways bring him? Traditions and customs likely wouldn't prove as manageable as intellectual contemplation suggested. Might he not become hopelessly entangled until defeat became inevitable? Even should he achieve something, wouldn't that life amount at best to that self-righteous "Return to the Soil" ideology—scarcely different from those very ideologues? This turning point he sought to create was, upon reflection, a terrifying gamble. It concerned nothing less than his entire life. Societal matters couldn't be resolved through his solitary struggles. His influence over such affairs was negligible regardless. In the end, peace must lie in following one's chosen path without doubt. Such thoughts would come to him repeatedly.

While all this was going on, harvest time arrived for the wheat at the Sugino household.

Shunsuke woke at half past four, prepared himself, and by five o'clock was already standing in the field with a sickle alongside Komapei.

Memories of helping with farm work during his distant boyhood flooded back. It had been years since he last held a sickle. Though he had carried baskets to cut grass in the mountains before, he'd never experienced harvesting wheat. Most wheat in this area was ridge-sown. The Sugino family's fields used broadcast cultivation instead. Each furrow measured nearly five shaku wide - nearly double ordinary furrow widths. Two seed rows ran through each furrow at one shaku two-to-three sun intervals. Yet now at full maturity, ready for harvest, the single furrow had split into two, appearing as if originally formed that way. From January's first sprouting leaves through April's ear formation, they'd exhausted soil between ridges through repeated replenishment, then dug between seed rows with hoes thereafter.

The wheat yield was excellent. The ears turned yellow up to their necks, their awns like golden needles—now was precisely the time for reaping. The plants spread out fully, making walking between the furrows so difficult it was nearly impossible. When the wind passed through, the wheat did not bow its heads as low as rice; remaining upright, it swayed with a pleasantly dry rustle. "Is broadcast sowing really more profitable after all, Father?" "When you walk through the village, there are areas with broadcast sowing and others with ordinary sowing—quite a variety..."

“It all comes down to how you do it—the same method can bring loss or gain. "But broadcast sowing tends to gobble up fertilizer." “That’s only natural.” “’Cause compared to ordinary sowing, it uses more than twice as much land.” “Where two hundred kan of compost would suffice, it ends up being something like two hundred fifty kan.” “So if they screw up somewhere and don’t get a good yield, then right away broadcast sowing’s no good—it’s a loss, they’ll say.” “About how many bales do we get here?” “Well, I’d say around twelve bales.” “In other places, it’s often around eight or nine bales.”

“What variety is this?” Shunsuke asked, holding an ear of wheat and feeling the pleasant prickling of its awns against his palm. “It’s called Shirachinako.” “Wheat’s gotta be cut a bit sooner than this, y’know…”

Having said that, Komapei walked ahead through the furrows. Perhaps the day had been slightly delayed. They had postponed harvesting for a day or two while waiting for rain, fearing it would fall after they'd begun cutting. Then the rain came. It poured all day on the first day, turned cloudy on the second, then drizzled slightly the next. This began from the day after Shunsuke had finished building the well's edge. Komapei said, "With the tobacco sorted out, I can finally breathe easy," and after eating breakfast, lay down with apparent aimlessness, drifting in and out of sleep.

Komapei began cutting from the far end of the furrow and steadily made his way forward. He looked up, “Gonna try? But you won’t be able to cut it. Have you ever even harvested wheat before, huh?” he laughed.

The raised forehead already shone with sweat. Shunsuke nodded and said "Uh-huh," continuing to closely observe Komapei's hand movements and posture as the older man resumed cutting. With a steady swish-swish-swish rhythm as he moved from stalk to stalk—light and refreshing—Komapei's left hand already clutched more cut wheat than it could hold. He laid them out on the furrows. He moved to the next. Light and brisk, it seemed to require no effort at all. To Shunsuke's childhood experiences of grass-cutting, there didn't appear to be anything particularly new that needed adding. And he too began cutting the adjacent furrow, starting from this opposite end.

He grabbed a handful of stems with his left hand, placed the sickle at their base, and yanked it toward himself. At that point, it should have sliced through with a satisfying swish. But it wouldn't cut through. The sickle's blade had struck the base of the stems, bending them over, but their cores felt tough and unyielding, sending a rebounding shock through the handle. So he tried putting even more force into it than before. But the result remained the same. Shunsuke found himself growing impatient involuntarily. Strength poured into both his right and left hands, making him clench what he held even tighter until his palms turned sticky with sweat. He didn't think he was gripping too many stalks at once. He couldn't bring himself to saw back and forth with the sickle like that, even if no one was watching. Applying too much force might just tear them out by the roots instead. Realizing this, he slightly loosened his grip. He felt ashamed of his own rigid posture - tensed up like a stone shachi ornament in some awkward pose. That morning, the blade Komapei had freshly sharpened shone white and useless in the summer sunlight.

Komapei had advanced steadily with his cutting and was now right before him. Seeing Shunsuke stand up, Komapei also stood up. “What’s this? You ain’t even gonna try cuttin’ proper?” Immediately recognizing this, Komapei laughed and said as much, stepping over the harvested furrow to come to his side. “Wheat’s gotta be cut like this here.”

He demonstrated how to do it while, “There we go—it’s all in how you handle your left hand, y’see.” “You can’t just be gripping it tight like that.” “Push it like this toward the other side,” Place the sickle at the base of the stems, then as you pull the sickle back, push your left hand—which is gripping them about two or three inches above that point—toward the opposite side. Then it sliced through with a clean swish. Shunsuke tried doing it exactly as instructed and succeeded. When he tried it as instructed, it seemed almost laughably simple—something that made him want to say “Is that all?”—and yet felt no different from what he’d been doing earlier. But given how he’d struggled to cut through before, there must indeed be a knack to it after all.

The two men began cutting two furrows side by side. Shunsuke found himself steadily being overtaken. Though competitive spirit was naturally absent from the start, an impatient urgency gripped him—his mind fixated solely on how to cut faster. He first tried increasing the handful of stalks gripped in his left hand, but overreaching forced repeated readjustments that only wasted time. Only after cutting extensively did he come to understand his capacity—how to grasp instinctively just the right amount that matched his limit without conscious calculation. While cutting, he thought of nothing beyond cutting well and cutting quickly. He felt no physical pain whatsoever. When stretching his arms, only the drenched shirt clinging to his skin registered. Yet even this brought peculiar satisfaction. Upon finally reaching the far end and straightening up with relief, he turned to find Komapei—who he thought had just passed that spot—already finished with the second furrow and now cutting back along the third from its opposite end. Komapei's cut rows lay perfectly even, their uniformity so striking they might have been machine-trimmed. Shunsuke's showed uneven heights, their severed ends barely demonstrating the sickle's vaunted sharpness.

They started work thinking to take advantage of the morning coolness, but by seven o'clock the sunlight already blazed with midday intensity. After a rain shower, he could feel how fiercely the sun had strengthened. When he looked down, sweat dripped into his eyes and blurred his vision. Shunsuke finally grew tired. The pain in his lower back was first to take its toll on his body. Regrettably, he had no choice but to comply with Komapei's words—"Since your body ain't used to it yet, best call it a day today."

In the afternoon, he slept in the shade. After waking from a good nap, he pushed the wheelbarrow to the fields. He gathered the wheat that had been cut and laid out on the furrows into bundles, loaded them onto the wheelbarrow, and transported them to the home garden. He piled them high in the garden, covered them with a straw mat, and left them overnight.

The next morning, he began threshing with the rice thresher while it was still dark—a task he had learned by helping out when he was a grade schooler. With his left hand pressing down on the rice thresher's pedal to rotate the gears, he took wheat stalks in his right hand, switched his grip to his left hand, pressed them against the gears to thresh, then piled the separated husks to his left side. Just as one never forgets skills like bicycle riding or swimming once mastered—no matter how many years pass without practice—Shunsuke's nerves and senses attuned themselves to operating the rice thresher's pedal after a decade's absence, finding their rhythm without requiring much time at all. Only his right foot remained motionless and still. His left foot and both hands fell into a single rhythmic motion, and his spirits lifted cheerfully as he surrendered to its flow.

The threshed wheat grains were put into the winnowing machine to remove husks and straw debris, then run through a mortar to separate stones and sand. Then they would spread them out on straw mats to dry in the sun for several days, and once thoroughly dried, pack them into straw bags.

IV

That evening, after finishing work, bathing, and eating dinner—though exhausted—he retreated to the second floor intending to read during the time still too early for bed. He had scarcely settled in when Jun came upstairs to announce a visitor. The notion of someone coming specifically to see him was unimaginable; when he furrowed his brows suspiciously and asked who it was, Jun replied it was someone they'd never seen before—a man who had introduced himself as Shimura. Exclaiming involuntarily under his breath, Shunsuke stood up and hurried downstairs to look; there in the dim earthen-floored entryway stood none other than Katsuhiko Shimura himself.

Shunsuke led Shimura up to the second floor. Since there was only one chair—a crude handmade one—he unrolled the straw mat that had been rolled against the wall, spread a futon over it, and invited his guest to sit. The two men sat facing each other. They exchanged terse greetings. Shimura surveyed the room methodically. Only Shunsuke's work jacket and trousers hung on the wall. A meager stack of books lay piled directly on a straw mat in one corner. One volume remained open on the small table, abandoned mid-reading. Nothing else occupied the space. And imperceptibly, the room's occupant had reshaped himself to mirror this stark austerity.

“I had absolutely no idea you’d come back,” said Shimura. “I didn’t know you were staying here either. Though I’d heard the rumors back in Tokyo.” They differed in age by five years, their relationship being less friendship than senior-junior hierarchy. Coming from rural roots, their status as fellow Tokyo students from the same region alone might have brought them together—yet it was their mutual proactive natures that truly drew them close. Every province had its legends: students whose academic brilliance grew mythic through retelling, becoming paragons for later generations. For Shunsuke and his peers, Katsuhiko Shimura had been precisely such a figure. When young Shunsuke learned this Shimura was a landlord’s son from the next village—during those days when even a white school cap seemed haloed—his heart could not remain unstirred. Thus began his visits to this senior. Yet Shimura too had motives—ulterior ones that later drove him to deliberately cultivate Shunsuke’s acquaintance. Still, whether in worldview or human connection, they never achieved true alignment. This dissonance stemmed less from personal differences than from the era’s violent shifts—brief in years yet profound in nature—that each had weathered upon entering adulthood.

“Sooner or later, there won’t be any decent rumors about you.” Shimura said this with a soundless laugh. When Shunsuke heard that dry, oddly senile, and dismissive tone, he felt an unexpected dissonance somewhere in his heart as he stared fixedly at Shimura. “It’s been an age, hasn’t it? The last time we met was when I still kept my university enrollment and you’d just entered high school, I think.” Every detail of that time remained vividly clear in Shunsuke’s mind—down to each exchanged word. Back then, they had spoken of the ideology Shimura had been rapidly cultivating within himself. Or rather, Shunsuke had been subjected to lectures about it. Though Shimura spoke with fervor trying to pull Shunsuke to his side, Shunsuke’s attitude fell short of satisfying him. Not that Shunsuke failed to understand—he’d read deeply into those principles even before hearing them from Shimura, yet hadn’t reached the point of attempting immediate self-transformation through them. Shunsuke appeared so cautious by nature; though barely stepping into youth, he seemed a pitiful creature destined to pass through life never knowing idealistic fervor—his feigned earnestness barely concealing actions already guided by thoroughly worldly motives. This irritated Shimura. He saw it as cunning—this obstinate persistence despite knowing full well what was right. He couldn’t help adopting a spiteful attitude. Thus their final parting had been excruciatingly awkward.

It was about a year later that Shunsuke learned through hearsay of Shimura’s apparent abandonment of school just before graduation.

“The other day on the village road, I saw you struggling with your bicycle loaded down with something heavy.” “I was on the train.” “At first I didn’t realize.” “When I saw the profile, I thought it was someone I knew.” “Then when you looked up, I was genuinely startled.” “Even so, I remained half-convinced.” “So when I went to Aoyagi a couple days back, I stopped by Uehara’s place to ask.” “I knew about your special connection with him, and since Uehara’s son was my junior in middle school—someone I know well—it made sense.” “And I asked about you.” “I heard you’d been ill.” “Are you all right now?”

"Yes.—Uehara’s son would be Mr. Tetsuzo, then? What’s he doing now? From Uncle, I’ve only heard he’s in Tokyo—nothing definite." "That one’s gone off the rails.—But you’ve changed too." Shimura’s dry chuckle carried through his words. "The old man Uehara had plenty to say about it." "I’ve changed as well," he added with a sigh that seemed to trail into further confessions left unspoken. Shunsuke needed no clarification—he could well imagine what Uehara might have shared—and so simply murmured, "I see," before letting silence reclaim the room.

“Have you been staying at home all this time?” “Yeah, I’m here.” “I have no choice but to stay here, do I?” “Well, I’m under self-imposed discipline, you see.”

And again he gave a wan smile. Though casual, that smile weighed on Shunsuke relentlessly. Even unaccompanied by words, that lone smile laid bare his present state of mind as though transparent. It chilled to the bone. None could laugh thus save those nursing bitterness toward themselves and others—people who deliberately revealed their inner selves through such forced smiles were commonplace in Shunsuke’s Tokyo circles. Shunsuke himself couldn’t deny there had been moments when his own words and deeds mirrored theirs; alone now, he’d recall these with shame burning across his cheeks. Yet Shimura differed from them. Without needing inquiry, Shunsuke believed he grasped the depth of wounds Shimura’s spirit had sustained. Simultaneously, unease gripped him. He dreaded that meeting Shimura might become something to rue.

Shunsuke was now finally attempting to take a new step forward. However it might appear to others, for him this represented the culmination of having striven to his utmost limits. Yet he could not clearly foresee the ultimate destination of the path he was trying to follow. It was not as though he had begun treading this way only after fully comprehending it and gaining absolute certainty that it constituted the sole unerring course. He sought merely to wrench himself free from this sodden, rotting state of both body and mind, groping for some path of transformation within whatever lay near and feasible for him. And he clung firmly to the expectation that from this effort, something new would inevitably be born for himself. Though uncertain of the outcome, one could not deny there was a pragmatic aspect to this approach—that rather than endlessly pondering, he would simply try doing it regardless. This was precisely why he still remained unable to reach a definitive resolution. Knowing himself thus, he felt not that conversing with Shimura would strengthen any convictions within him, but rather feared it would instead intensify his wavering and shatter the resolve he had painstakingly gathered to take this new step.

“Uehara was saying something about not being able to make heads or tails of your recent state of mind… Are you not returning to Tokyo?” “Yes… I intend to stay here for the time being.” “Then what about school?” “Well… I might end up quitting.” “What a waste—don’t you think? You.” Shimura gave a sardonic smirk. “You’ve been working your way through school all this time, “Just when you’re almost there.”

He laughed sarcastically because he was recalling the Shunsuke Sugino of old—the inflexible model student. That Shunsuke appeared timidly cautious—a rigidly diligent worker—was not necessarily his true nature, but rather stemmed from being a poor student with neither financial nor temporal leeway. Yet such poor students, far from earning peers’ respect, tended to become targets of scorn through remarks like “Look at this paragon of diligence,” a universal phenomenon wherever one went. This is because the appearance of poverty never gives a pleasant feeling to those who see it under any circumstances. Shimura recalled the last time he had met and spoken with Shunsuke about how young intellectuals of this era lived their lives. He recalled how Shunsuke—clinging desperately to the notion that he must graduate no matter what—had provoked in him an exasperating frustration that made him want to chew the young man up and spit him out.

“Anyway, you should at least graduate—it’s for your own sake.” “Even in times like these, a graduation certificate—even a speck like fingernail dirt—carries weight.” “Ha ha ha! How absurd,” he said with forced laughter. “Four or five years ago—when you were like that—I was the one being told such things by you back then. And now here I am saying the opposite.” “This must truly be what they call the spirit of the times.”

Shunsuke remained silent.

“What’s the matter? Did something unpleasant happen between you and your patron?” “No, nothing in particular. If we’re speaking of unpleasant things, they’ve existed from the very beginning—this isn’t some recent development. But I’ve been forcing myself through school from the very beginning—since middle school—and all that’s happened is I’ve lately come to feel there’s no need to push myself that hard anymore. To start thinking this way only now seems rather slow on the uptake, though.”

“If we’re talking about forcing oneself to attend school, then most students these days are probably doing that in some sense or another. Moreover, it’s not a place worth attending even if you go to such lengths—and that’s probably what most people think as well. But just because that’s how it is doesn’t mean anyone actually quits. There’s no need to quit either. They don’t quit, nor are they particularly enthusiastic—just dawdling along until they get pushed out like agar jelly from the bottom end. That’s perfectly fine. And when you look at reality, those who get squeezed out end up better off than the ones who quit halfway through, after all.”

“Well, I suppose that’s true.” “However, I’m not making any general claims about whether one should quit school or not.” “Those who can keep going without quitting should do so, and those who can no longer stay should quit—that’s all I think.” “It’s something that varies from person to person, after all.” “I find my current student life in Tokyo utterly meaningless, and I believe continuing like this for three more years will only rot me as a person.” “If I endure and keep going, I don’t know what compensation I might gain later—but whatever I might gain, I simply can’t bear it anymore.”

“Hmph… Rotting yourself as a person?” “Well, I suppose that’s true enough.” “And it’s not just you spouting such platitudes.” “But tell me—who can guarantee this new life won’t rot you too, once you quit school and dive into something else?” “What exactly awaits you out there?” “Our generation’s struggles were different.” “First off—what transformed Mr. Perfect Student into this? I can’t make sense of it.” “Even if there were reasons, they’d be trivial.” “You’ll regret this later.” “Or are you claiming you’ve still got real passion—the kind that severs ties with the past, like we had?”

Shunsuke remained silent. “Student life itself isn’t inherently bad.” “There still exists a proper way to live as a student today.” “If you can’t grasp that, quitting school would amount to the same thing in the end.” “You couldn’t manage a decent life that way.” “Of course that’s true.”

Shunsuke believed his current resolve had crystallized only after fully grasping such matters. Yet when it came to those subtle emotional currents overflowing beyond mere logical rigor, he found himself powerless to articulate them. “But whichever you choose amounts to nothing,” Shimura sneered anew, his voice dripping with contempt. “When fifty steps differ little from a hundred, you’d profit more by following tradition’s steady path. This profit-mongering principle may be laughable when observed in the masses—yet how many can truly turn their backs on it? Not one righteous soul exists. Learn your station.”

Shimura said with a dismissive sneer.

“So, having quit school and come back, what exactly do you plan to do?” “I plan to become a farmer.” “A farmer? You yourself?” “Yes.” “I see,” said Shimura, looking at him anew as if scrutinizing the transformation that had even manifested in Shunsuke’s outward appearance.

“And with what mindset are you doing this? Surely you’re not doing the kind of things I did in the past.”

“Of course, it’s nothing like that.” “But you’re just quitting being an intellectual to become a farmer. It’s not merely about taking over your father’s work, is it? You must have some sort of ambition behind this.” “At present, I have no such ambitions. Right now, I’m simply helping my father—who’s aged and grown weaker without realizing it—and though it’ll be difficult going forward, my sole purpose is to learn farming until I become competent. Not that I lack thoughts about rural conditions and farmers. It’s not that I have no ambitions based on those thoughts—to claim otherwise would be false—but I currently have no intention of starting by proclaiming them publicly. If I must say, I lack confidence. Before thrusting them forward, there’s something I must do. In time, it’ll become clear how true these ambitions are—for society and myself. That’s what I think. Proclaiming them later won’t be too late—so for now, farming itself is both my hope and purpose. Though this approach might prove harder—fully committing to this mindset may not come easily. Still, I believe even this life surpasses my former one. If only because it can truly be called living. There’s something there—not hollow, but substantial, filled with substance. Something where I can focus body and soul completely. That’s all there is now. What results will emerge from this—what new things for me—even I cannot predict.”

“Nothing new will ever come from that—nothing at all,” Shimura said with composed detachment. Without explanation, he hurled only the conclusion at him first and stared fixedly at the other man. He waited for the other man to say something. When the other man didn’t speak up, he continued. “That you, in your own subjective view, feel as if something new has emerged from there and take joy in that is, of course, an entirely separate matter altogether.” “If someone wants to feel that way and take joy in it, that’s their own business, and if they can remain happy like that, then more power to them.” “At least that person can manage to feel redeemed.” “Such child-like adults exist everywhere, at any time.” “They’re children in that they can’t take what they think and do and examine its true form within the broader context of society.” “In that they’re each delighted to be given some toy to hold—that’s what makes them children.” “There are all sorts of toys—sacred labor, mother earth… The way you declare that farming life has, above all else, something fulfilling rather than hollow, something substantial, something wholesome—it reminds me of rural youth representatives on radio evening programs, political operators rooted in farm villages, certain types of ideological evangelists, that sort of ilk.” “The fact that you would say such things is something that arouses a certain kind of interest in me indeed.”

“Why must you always frame things that way?” “You insist on phrasing it like that every time.” “Then nothing can ever take root, can it?” “At any rate, I’m resolved to try doing something.” “Why not simply let me attempt it?” “I’ll try altering my course.” “This determination to stake something on a fresh endeavor—whatever form it takes—grows scarcer by the day in our midst.” “The very fact I’ve attained such resolve strikes me as profoundly valuable in itself.” “From there, one might reasonably anticipate creation and development—”

“Aren’t you going to examine the orientation of your resolve—its substance? Won’t you interrogate its social character?” “Of course I’m not ignoring those questions.” “You stake something, make a resolution—and already delude yourself into seeing it as magnificent, wallowing in sentimentality. You’re submerged in it. In our time, vague resolves divorced from concrete content weren’t even worth debating. We settled this long ago. What pathetic backwardness!”

“That may indeed be backward, but merely blaming it as backward won’t get us anywhere.” “There are various complex reasons why it’s come to this.” “However, we can’t just wash our hands of it by saying it’s not our fault or that there’s nothing to be done.” “If we find ourselves in such a state, then we have no choice but to start from where we are.”

“You should at least understand by now that emphasizing resolve in general is rather dangerous in today’s world.” “By your logic, even today’s intellectuals fawning over certain heroes would be justified—‘Say what you will, but at least they act on their convictions,’ or so it goes. Your plausible protest—‘Why not let them try first? Criticism can wait’—depends entirely on the nature of what they’re attempting.” “Despite your resolve—your abandonment of intellectual pursuits, your so-called ‘return to farming’—posing as though they hold some novel significance, socially speaking these are already tried-and-failed notions. They’re such shabby, antiquated things that there’s no need whatsoever for this ‘let him try first’ leniency. I can’t believe you’d fail to realize this.”

“I certainly don’t consider this some untrodden new path that no one has walked before.” “It’s simply that for me, it’s one path.” “And I hold the hopeful expectation that this may yet lead to a new path in the truest sense of the word—I don’t believe what you’re saying is incorrect.” “But I get the feeling that you say the same thing to everyone in the same way.” “It’s not that I’m asking you to show us any special leniency or anything like that.” “Even if someone who once shared your position—or anyone who held some ideological or activist stance—were to start saying things similar to what I’m saying today, I believe that while the words might appear the same on the surface, their essence would be fundamentally different.” “For those people, that is the endpoint.” “It’s as if they’ve found a place of rest after much wandering—a safe haven where they’ve finally settled.” “What arises from there is naturally understood.” “—But for me, that place is the starting point.” “I am someone who has never once held a firm ideological or actionable stance up until now.” “I will now gain something.” “I cannot simply dismiss things by saying I don’t need them or that this modern age makes it impossible to hold such convictions.” “Society is changing.” “And so we live.” “However, we do not wish to live aimlessly, merely being swept along by the current.” “We are earnestly seeking something like a stance.” “But that cannot be attained by merely shuttling back and forth in the realm of abstract ideas. I believe you are conflating those like us with them.” “As a critique of them, your words may be correct.” “However, it doesn’t hold as a critique of us… Not having a position yet is not the same as abandoning one.”

“If everything lacking an established position or direction is considered worthless, then what becomes of the very process of reaching such a position?”

“So you’re saying we should have warmer understanding for us youth these days—that’s your reasoning, huh?” Shimura said with sarcastic inflection. “Whether it’s truly a starting point or merely a process of seeking—this is quite a troublesome thing to discern, you know.” “Whether that was truly the starting point can only be said in hindsight, you know.” “It’s something you can only declare when looking back from the endpoint you’ve reached, you know.” “After all, one can’t deny people might grow complacent at that starting point, settling in cozily… But let’s set that aside for now—it’s not something to be said at this juncture.”

“But even if it were a starting point in the sense you mean, my critique wouldn’t be troubled in the slightest.” “Even when viewed as a starting point, in our eyes, such a thing as this—to speak without reserve—appears far too dull-witted to be considered modern.” “The path you’re attempting to take—you may dislike the term, but its social and historical nature has long since been clearly established, quite apart from your subjective intentions.”

“How these old things—already tested and criticized both theoretically and practically—reappear time and again, changing their methods and forms, donning attire befitting each new era! And how they deceive the younger generation! Even if they sport a new guise, they’re mostly just replicas of antiquities! In your case, it’s all too clear. —If I were to list two or three well-known names, wouldn’t that suffice? Mushanokōji’s New Village movement; going further back, Roka with his earthworm-like ramblings; and then there was someone like Etō-someone—a shoddy, scaled-down version of Roka. Someone like Soma Gyofu, who withdrew to Itoigawa, might also be worth mentioning. Take Shimazaki Tōson—didn’t he write some seemingly profound reflections after sending his son off to become a farmer in the countryside? And in novels, there’s that Levin fellow under Tolstoy. The likes of you might actually fancy that. Of course, for you to become a Levin, you’d first need to acquire that level of landownership, you know. ……These are all literary figures—we know about them because they write and talk—but there must be a great many imitators of this school that we’re unaware of. What they all share in common is first and foremost a kind of agrarianism. It’s the Return-to-the-Soil doctrine. Glorification of Mother Earth. The significance such emphasis holds in the present age should go without saying by now. Of course they lack the courage to confront the root of evil that ought to be eradicated—they don't even possess the courage to discern it. This 'return' is nothing but a mask donned by the petty bourgeoisie to scurry into their burrows.”

“The second point—though ultimately amounting to the same thing—is their insufferable self-righteousness.” “And this is precisely what I detest most.” “Do they truly believe their lives hold such positive social significance that they imagine having any power against the societal evils they must have at least contemplated?” “There probably isn’t a single soul who genuinely thinks that!” “They know their own powerlessness better than anyone.” “What’s so admirable about that sort of existence anyway?” “They want to distance themselves from this bothersome world, couldn’t care less about others, just crave cozy comfort—what else could it be?” “If they could actually acquire decent farmland and live off it alone, that would be impressive—but their cultivation is mere dilettantism, something their privileged status lets them pass off as rustic charm.” “In Tokyo’s suburbs, they’d just be pensioners—there’s no real difference, you know.”

“Well, that’d be fine. If they could properly recognize that and live modestly, then that’d be fine enough. But in reality, behind their affected solemnity, they barely conceal every form of vulgar worldly desire. They keep sneaking covetous glances at something. They want to make people believe their lives hold some special social significance. They want to show off that even while doing this, they’re agonizing over the state of the world. And then they even start writing books.”

Abruptly, Shimura fell silent. He may have only then become aware that his own words had gradually escalated into fierce invective.

While delivering scathing denunciations, Shimura did not appear particularly impassioned. His agitation remained somehow subdued—a smoldering intensity that never fully ignited. He spoke in an inwardly turned voice, his bluish-black, angular face with its elongated features slightly tilted downward. Shunsuke’s face reddened faintly. This was not because he felt personally mocked or berated. The other’s smoldering fervor had naturally transmitted itself to him. Yet this differed from genuine personal excitement. He did not sense the harsh words were aimed at himself. Nor did they seem directed even at those named earlier or so-called agrarians in general. Shimura’s resentment carried a resonance as though hurled toward something else—something undefined. Shunsuke perceived it as being aimed at a target that included even Shimura himself.

Shunsuke did not attempt to refute. What I truly am—even I do not fully comprehend it. However, I am not the same as those people Shimura mentioned. They probably do share some common aspects in that regard. Yet I thought there were also things they couldn’t conceal—things spilling out from them. It was not at all because I was superior to them as an individual. It was that we had surpassed them temporally. The state of mind they could find peace in is one we can no longer attain. It is fated to be so.

Soon, Shimura resumed.

“It’s a harsh era for intellectuals these days.” “You lost to that hardship—and what’s more, you did so after merely tasting it on the tip of your tongue.” “You fled.” “And to rationalize that, you’re forcing upon both others and yourself the notion that living as a farmer or laborer—simply by existing as such—is inherently nobler and more admirable than living as an intellectual.” “You’ve quietly borrowed only the convenient parts of the old leftists’ mechanical thinking, but contrasting intellectuals in general against workers and farmers in general to judge superiority isn’t done these days—it’s absurd.” “Because speaking of the historical characteristics inherent to each class and social stratum is an entirely different matter, you see.” “No matter which class or stratum one belongs to, when it comes to the individual, isn’t it simply a matter of their concrete way of living that determines their value?” “There does exist a true path for intellectuals in this modern age.” “You should follow that very path.” “You don’t have to go back to the countryside and haul manure buckets, you know.” “Your path is ultimately one of escape.”

He declared thus.

“The fact that you have a home to return to and land guaranteed for cultivation—that’s what’s let such extravagant notions take root in you.” “Those without such privileges couldn’t quit being intellectuals even if it tormented them.” “Putting aside your conversion’s inner justifications—judging purely by outcome—you’ve simply chosen the path of least resistance from your privileged position.” “You ought to thank your stars you were born a farmer.”

“Well, I am grateful,” answered Shunsuke. He said this without sarcasm, simply expressing his genuine feelings. Even if not in Shimura’s sense, Shunsuke was gradually deepening his gratitude for having been born into a farming family. “The path I’m attempting to take may unexpectedly connect to an old road—or rather, I fear it might easily sink into an old rut. But if we were to think this so-called self-completion we’re suffering for could be achieved through the same self-righteous approach as those in the past, then our current suffering would never have existed. There is no such thing as my conversion. I think the very fact that I’m struggling to transform myself demonstrates it cannot settle into mere self-righteousness. Even in times like these, if one were to shut themselves away in a small shell and tend solely to their own life like a shade-loving flower, it wouldn’t necessarily be difficult. The tools to comfort such a lifestyle—or perfect it as such—are all readily available. In past eras, such completion was considered self-completion. But now, even an individual’s life cannot be contemplated except through its relationship with society from the outset. Self-completion can never be sought except through actively engaging with society—through transforming one’s will into social value. Even regarding this path of transformation, we at least recognize its self-serving aspects and have been given means for self-criticism… So unless we abandon the effort entirely, I believe we can avoid sinking into past-era self-righteousness.”

“Self-completion? The way you phrase that intrigues me,” said Shimura, his voice laced with intellectual disdain. “You sound like some youth from twenty years past… Do you mean to bury yourself in farming with self-perfection as your guiding principle? I’d love to hear what someone spouting such antiquated notions actually thinks about rural issues.” Shunsuke met his gaze steadily. “Regarding intellectuals versus workers and farmers—my perspective differs entirely from what you described earlier. It’s precisely the opposite. I didn’t arrive at this path by theorizing about class structures or measuring my fate through academic frameworks.” His calloused hands tightened imperceptibly. “For me, this became a concrete question of how to live—exactly as you said yourself. To contrast some idealized ‘true intellectual’s path’ against who I am now strikes me as absurd. What matters isn’t which social stratum I belong to, but the actuality of how one lives.” A weary edge entered his voice. “If we continue like this, you’ll just circle back to debating positions and directions endlessly.”

Shunsuke had finally grown weary of the debate. I thought it was about time to end the conversation.

However, by then Shimura no longer appeared engaged in listening. He seemed to be contemplating something else entirely. This deliberate pretense might have been his way of showing contempt for the other party. The silence between them lingered.

After a while, Shunsuke asked. "How have you been managing these days?" People talk in various ways about life, but what exactly has become of your own? Setting aside such condemnatory impulses, he had wanted to inquire about it. Yes, asking about that was precisely what he had expected from his conversation with Shimura. Even before, the reason he had wanted—had felt compelled—to meet him was precisely for that purpose.

The conversation up to now had revolved far too exclusively around my own affairs.

“Me?” Shimura said coldly,

“I’m not doing anything worth telling others about.” Was it that he disliked talking to me for some reason? However, his tone carried a listless weight. “Well, I’ve been back here ten months now myself—there were times I got involved in village matters now and then. My family counts among the influential here, I suppose. With my father entangled in various affairs and me being one of the few educated souls around since returning, people come seeking counsel. Proposals about forming shipping cooperatives or setting up vegetable markets in the village.” “But truthfully, I can’t muster any real passion for such work. At best these days, I stoop to their level—stand alongside them—offering advice or patching gaps in their knowledge. But what’s the point? What exactly are cooperatives and markets if they remain mere tools? Ensuring a penny more for laborers’ pockets—that understanding varies wildly, doesn’t it? Work done while vaguely hoping accumulated pennies might amount to something—how could anyone throw themselves into that? The path ahead lies barren before we even tread it. Limits glaring from the start. What does it achieve?!” Doubt seeped through his words. “No matter how free your ideals soar, practical work chains you to earth.”

Shimura’s words now carried a sincere resonance. There was now none of his previous manner—that tone which had been laced with sarcasm, mockery, and anger, and which could not help but be accompanied by a certain degree of pretense. “Eventually, I plan to go to Tokyo,” he added.

“Why do you think that’s meaningless? Even if it’s just that kind of work, isn’t it better to help them than not to?” Shunsuke said earnestly. “Do you truly believe that?” Shimura said, looking directly at him. “Can you really convince yourself of that without doubt?” “Yes… I suppose I might be simple.” “Hmm…” Shimura murmured, as if lost in thought,

“Being able to convince yourself like that—regardless of anything else—you’re fortunate.” “You’ll manage somehow in your own way.” Shimura said this without any sarcastic tone.

After that, the two of them fell silent once more.

After a while, Shimura stood up.

“Well, I’ll come again.” Even as unspoken words and unasked questions seemed to twist thickly in his chest, Shunsuke found himself unable to stop him. Shunsuke saw him out to the front entrance and watched as Shimura lumbered off into the dark.

In the room he returned to, purplish smoke from the cigarette butt Shimura had left behind drifted quietly. Shunsuke felt an indescribable loneliness. And he sank deep into thought.

Five

A letter had come from Shinji Uehara of Aobaemura Village. "It has been some time since we last met. How is your health? There are various matters I wish to discuss." "Why not visit around the day after tomorrow?"—such was the wording.

It was two days after Shimura’s visit. After finishing reading the letter and placing it beside him—on that rainy day when Komapei was home—Komapei called out from across,

“From Uehara?” he asked. Komapei had received it from the deliveryman and brought it to him. “Yes.” “The other day when we went to Aoyagi—since it’d been ages since we’d shown our faces there—we stopped by Uehara’s place. Then your business came up—about what you meant to do—and since Shun ain’t a child no more and must have his own thoughts brew’, I told him plain I meant to leave it all up to Shun’s own mind, see.”

He could sense his old father’s meticulous consideration. “Yes, thank you,” Shunsuke said, inclining his head slightly.

The contents of the letter were something he understood without needing to ask. Even without waiting for a letter from him, the time had come when he had to go and speak from his side.

Now, with a new emotion, he vividly recalled his long student life in Tokyo—from its very beginning to the present—in both mind and eye. There were several particularly vivid scenes that came to mind, and along the line connecting them, his recollections spread out. In the din of the morning platform at Tokyo Station where he had first stepped down ten years prior, the heart of the boy he was had quivered uncontrollably. In the excitement where expectation, joy, and fear had gotten all jumbled up, his cheeks were tinged. Even now, whenever he faced the photograph taken just before that first departure from his hometown—showing him in a smiling-patterned kasuri kimono and hakama that resembled narrowed work pants—he could not suppress the feeling of tears welling up. He could not help but recall the earnest feelings he had felt at that time.

Everything he saw was blindingly bright, every sound a single deafening roar crashing over his head, and there in the shadow of Shinji Uehara's advancing form, clinging to that figure, he was spat out into the outside world. He boarded some vehicle without knowing where it went or by what route. They arrived at what appeared to be the inn where Uehara was staying. That day and the next full day, Uehara took him around to show Tokyo's famous sights. For once he took up residence in another's household, casually coming and going as he pleased would hardly be something he could expect.

The household where he was to take up residence was that of the Okajima family—natives of his own hometown who were considered newly successful entrepreneurs having rapidly built their fortune in recent years. It was through Uehara’s influence—Uehara being long acquainted with Okajima—that Shunsuke had been settled there as a live-in student, creating an opportunity for him, a farmer’s son, to pursue advanced education through his own resolve alone. When imagining he would now dwell in this place, within the innermost chamber of a vast mansion that felt almost dreamlike, with Uehara standing beside him during his first formal meeting with Master Okajima, tremors coursed uncontrollably through his entire body. He shrank into himself, avoided meeting the man’s gaze, and swallowed his words of greeting unspoken.

“Hmm, quite a fine physique you have there.” He did not know how to respond to what Okajima had said. Uehara said something placatingly from beside him. In his boyish heart, for the first time at that moment, the bitter lesson of navigating society was etched deeply. “You must endure any humiliation. Do not offend this person—to put it precisely, those whom this person represents.”

Okajima’s comment during their first meeting—“Hmm, quite a fine physique you have there”—was something that should be regarded as truly meaningful beyond a mere conventional remark. He was appraising Shunsuke. That was a fitting act for him, who employed many people at his business enterprise. When he moved in, what Shunsuke initially worried about most was how he, a country boy, could quickly acclimate to city life. It was things like handling guests with smooth language and skillfully making phone calls. However, that concern proved unfounded. Even if such things were necessary, they were not significant. For handling guests and phone calls, there was a maid. As a country boy, it had been enough for him to serve with that "fine physique" of his.

For a fourteen-year-old boy, this kind of work as a live-in student for a wealthy family was truly no easy task. It rivaled substantial labor. Mornings began at five o'clock regardless of season; from then until evening, he had scarcely any time to call his own. From the wide veranda polished like a mirror to the long corridors and even the ladder steps, he would wipe them all down with either rice starch water or water steeped with bagged bran. He swept the garden clean with a bamboo broom—a garden that had an artificial hill, a pond, an arbor, and even a dimly lit grove of trees. The front garden from the gate to the entrance was also treated the same way. He would draw bucket after bucket of water and sprinkle it down. He sprinkled water over the earthen floor and scrubbed it with a long-handled brush. After finishing cleaning, without even a moment to rest, he found various errands waiting to be run. In this frugal household, even when sent on errands quite far away, transportation expenses were never provided. He went by bicycle. For the first month or two, he found this more challenging than anything else. His nerves, accustomed to traversing flat rural roads, had to endure being stopped several times by traffic officers at intersections and being knocked aside by vehicles from behind or the side before they could grow adept at deftly navigating streams of all manner of traffic.

Therefore, at night school, he sometimes fell asleep. No matter how fervently his desire to learn burned, his body would not obey. The school was a night junior high school. This came as no small surprise to Shunsuke’s expectations. Uehara too must have been taken aback—though there had been no clear prior agreement specifying day or night classes when told about providing school fees to enable a promising boy’s education through higher-level schools, anyone hearing this would naturally envision an ordinary daytime student as was common in society. However, there was a man who served as Okajima’s steward or secretary, and everything had to follow his arrangements. In response to this, Shunsuke naturally said nothing—and neither did Uehara. Because he did not want to feel disillusioned, he had no choice but to find satisfaction in attending a night junior high school—even if it was in Tokyo and one of the few institutions where he could obtain the same qualifications as a daytime school.

Three years, four years passed in an instant. Endure the humiliation. Do not offend people’s sensibilities. There were times when he wanted to rip this teaching from his chest and smash it against the ground, but each time he somehow endured. He persisted single-mindedly as a diligent, upright, timidly cautious model student devoid of any charm. The first time he had to violate that prohibition and argue was when advancing from middle school to higher education.

“You will enter the specialized department of Commerce University,” said the steward and secretary.

At that time, he had withdrawn in silence, but turmoil still churned within Shunsuke’s breast. He was now a young man who could not help but plunge into deep contemplation and assert himself. When he had first come to this house, what had they said? “Whichever direction the person himself may advance in the future—well, as for me, naturally I have nothing to say about it. Let him advance in whatever direction he prefers. Just because I’ve taken care of him doesn’t mean I’m asking you to take any responsibility afterward. The education of young people is, so to speak, my avocation.”

Okajima himself had spoken those words to Uehara, and they still remained etched in his memory. Shunsuke was a student who held an interest in natural sciences. He had not yet been able to decide concretely whether it be agricultural science proper or agricultural chemistry, but in any case, out of an awareness regarding his origins, he wanted to pursue academic study in that direction. And if he was going to endure the same hardships of studying regardless, he wanted to take the path from higher school to university. When he met with the steward for the second time and stated his aspirations, the man made a rather surprised face.

“You’re quite the odd one, aren’t you? When you could become fully capable in three years, why on earth would you want to suffer through six? Going to university—that’s just to create better conditions for employment, isn’t it? But even if you graduate these days, there aren’t any decent positions to be had. For someone like you, ever since entering middle school, your whole future—your entire life’s livelihood—has practically been guaranteed. Such a splendid arrangement isn’t something you could even wish for, now is it?”

His comprehension appeared genuinely incapable of progressing any further than that. “Look at Mr. Onoue. Look at him!”

“Mr. Onoue?” Shunsuke knew him. He was a young employee at the commercial company Okajima presided over, but he frequented Okajima’s private residence and seemed to maintain an especially close, personal rapport with the family members. It could also be seen as paying courtesies to inquire after their welfare. During memorial services or celebrations—occasions when crowds of guests gathered—he would invariably appear, busy himself diligently, meddle even in private household matters, and call out “Hey, you! You there!”, directing Shunsuke with a jerk of his chin.

“Mr. Onoue too was once in the same circumstances as you.” “When it comes to Mr. Onoue’s current position within the company, that’s quite impressive.” “Those university graduates who joined in the same year can’t hold a candle to him.” Shunsuke recalled Onoue’s affected demeanor when ordering him about and the coldness in those eyes. He felt certain he was being hated. He felt he could somehow discern the source of that hostility. However, at the same time, Shunsuke also came to know something even more revealing. Okajima’s education of young people was, as he put it, one of the wealthy man’s “diversions,” and among his various diversions, it was undoubtedly the most noble and socially significant. Yet if through this noble diversion he could attain spiritual satisfaction while securing within his affiliated companies several individuals who would willingly submit to his command without error throughout their lives, it would have been all the more convenient. “You are free to advance in whichever direction you may choose,” he had said. But it would be difficult to expect boys under his care—those who would not prefer such freedom over the constrained safety of living under Okajima’s wing—to wish for anything else.

But Shunsuke loved that freedom. Even if his desire to study agricultural science and advance to university wasn't absolute, the fact that the initial agreement was being disregarded without any reflection, that the course of his entire life was being arbitrarily dictated by others' hands—this was an unbearable insult to his youth. This was different from other matters. Thus, it was then that he broke his oath for the first time.

During winter break, Uehara came up to Tokyo from his hometown. He mediated between the steward-secretary and Shunsuke through various discussions. Shunsuke displayed for the first time a stubbornness so intense it astonished others—an unyielding resolve. He had even considered abandoning his studies to return home, but through Uehara’s deft mediation, he ultimately entered higher school as desired. Yet it was for humanities rather than sciences, with the tacit understanding that after graduation he would follow the predetermined course—economics or law—softly yet firmly imposed through unspoken agreements. Youth proved no match for seasoned cunning. The thought of what Uehara might be telling Okajima and the steward-secretary in his name—posing as his own will yet beyond his knowledge—filled him with discontent, but he could do nothing but remain silent.

However, in his third year after entering higher school, he finally clashed with his guardian once again. The direct cause had been no more than a trivial matter, but there were accumulated grievances. This time, even Uehara’s mediation held no power. Even if called an ingrate, Shunsuke had no choice but to decisively sever all relations with the Okajima household from that day onward.

Uehara was not a man of rural obstinacy or single-mindedness, but rather one possessing both breadth and depth. He did not cast aside Shunsuke, who must have made him feel like a cherished dog that had bitten its master's hand. He secured tutoring work for Shunsuke, who thereby managed to continue his student life for over a year more.

The psychology behind Shunsuke’s second rebellion differed from the first; it was no simple matter. He felt that the youth’s burgeoning spirit had already begun to rise anew within him. Even he, who had been forced into such abasement, could not help but pierce through his own small, hard shell with his very spirit. He tried to devote his entire being without reservation to that unbridled and free, soaring spirit of his.

His misfortune lay in this: the moment he began sensing within himself that vigorous spirit—the privilege of youth—did not necessarily coincide with a time when he could perceive such spiritual plenitude surging through the external world. The two temporal currents flowed out of phase. Of course, no era or society had ever been wholly barren of new vigorous spirits rising. They persisted as subterranean streams. Yet this inner vitality and outer reality had failed to achieve resonant harmony. One might truly say the age had congealed into stagnation. And when the external world stood thus petrified, the youthful spirit—having gestated within its cocoon and now striving to emerge—found itself unable to fully unfurl its wings or discern any fixed bearing.

It was like something trying to blaze up fiercely only to meet dampness midway—though not extinguished, forced to smolder resentfully instead. It resembled a current seeking an outlet yet finding none. Until then, he had strained to cover his eyes and block his ears against the surrounding din. The undulating tides of society over recent years had inevitably lapped at his academic surroundings. He had even bid farewell to several students right beside him—those who abandoned their studies midstream to plunge willingly into those waves. Yet he answered this trend by fortifying his narrow world ever more solidly, retreating into its confines. Students in circumstances like his, he told himself, ought to follow the conservative path single-mindedly, never glancing aside. But matters could never be settled so simply. This conscious effort to reinforce his cramped realm was itself a confession—an admission that he sensed his world’s contradictions and frailty against external pressures. Gradually, his gaze stretched outward toward society. He began situating himself and his work within that broader expanse, earnestly pondering where their proper place should lie.

He opened his awakened eyes and looked at society. Moreover, at that time, society had undergone a great transformation over the past two or three years. Even if principles existed that outward-turned young hearts could rely on, the era had reached a point where they could not be found without passing through countless doubts and hesitations. He could not help but suffer. He could never have become like those students he had once bid farewell to right beside him.

Alongside many youths, Shunsuke concentrated his thoughts on the state where the path of living as a truly social being and the path of individual survival might be unified without contradiction. Such a path—how exceedingly rare in modern times, and even if discovered, how arduous it would be to follow. With envious longing that verged on anguish, he contemplated the happiness of those born in society's younger days of development—those who had lived and died in action. In that era, unifying these two paths had not been so difficult. Often it happened that career paths chosen with scarcely any deliberation—almost by chance—objectively coincided with what constituted society's true path for living humans. Yet with youth's characteristic fervor, he also pondered the profound significance of existing in this stagnant age. Were one to discover such a path in these times and follow it through to the end, how much more magnificent this would prove compared to those envied people of former days.

He gazed at the crowd of students around him. Until now, he had viewed himself without question as one among them, but now this student body sometimes appeared before his eyes as indescribably strange beings. Those who gave serious thought to paths beyond their careers were by no means numerous. Those called honor students competed to rush headlong into scientific disciplines. Their psychological foundation was that of a socially indifferent faction. This was likely a reaction to a previous era. The comprehensive understanding of society had been deliberately rejected from the outset; only that single aspect proving technical specialists' path would prosper—that it would prosper in any societal era—was extracted and understood.

The career path that had brought prosperity to the path of technical specialists simultaneously fostered flourishing in sports, dancing, Noh chants, haikai poetry, calligraphy, and a multitude of other pursuits among students.

The sons of the Hirayama household where Shunsuke worked as a tutor—the two university students who were older brothers of the boy he taught, along with their companions—were again of a somewhat different sort. They had little need to trouble themselves over career paths. They would appear in Ginza once a day dressed in suits, but their commuting attire consisted merely of replacing their jackets with student uniforms—wearing sharply creased trousers in varying colors, shoes in red or white with chocolate-brown patterns, and light blue shirts whose sleeves protruded conspicuously from their jacket cuffs. Most carried neither wrapping cloths nor bags, but instead walked about hanging or clutching large leather briefcases like those of lawyers or university professors. From these would emerge movie magazines and celebrity photo cards. At the Hirayama residence, the parents would leave for their villa on weekends to recuperate, leaving the house empty. On Saturday or Sunday nights, university students who had drunk heavily elsewhere would come pouring into the house with the sons at the lead. From the entranceway down the long hallway to the sons’ room at the back, they chanted rhythmic nonsense like “Tera, tette tette! Tora, tot tot tot!” and “Tara, tattatta!” while shaking their hips and gesturing wildly with their hands as they danced their way into the room. There they immediately cracked open more beer. All sorts of food were sent for. The record player started up. They danced. Some intoned naniwa-bushi ballads in corners. Then mahjong began. When exhausted, they would sprawl out and begin talking noisily while dabbing their noses with perfumed, dyed handkerchiefs—tea house gossip, talk of women there, discussions of what they considered love.

The Hirayama household also had daughters of marriageable age who tried to take Shunsuke along on their sightseeing outings. He would refuse, but one out of every three times—particularly when the middle school student he tutored was also going—there were occasions when he couldn’t decline outright. Once, in a theater corridor, he overheard the daughter speaking with someone who appeared to be a friend. Sensing they were discussing him, his nerves stayed sharp even at a distance. “Who’s that?” “And who’s with him?” The friend asked in a breezy tone. “Oh, that’s our house tutor,” the daughter answered. On their return trip, after stopping at a department store to shop, the daughter didn’t have her purchases delivered but instead told Shunsuke to carry them. With him trailing behind like an attendant, she didn’t hail a rickshaw immediately but walked awhile through crowded evening streets. Shunsuke remained too young to muster the composure that might let him join the crowd and laugh at his own absurd role in this farce.

The poor performance of the middle school student Shunsuke was tutoring was truly dreadful. It was not the kind of deficiency that could be attributed to mere lack of study—the sort that might be overcome through regular application of proper methods. He had absolutely no intention to learn; at the prestigious middle school he attended, this seemed to suffice; but above all, with his impudent precociousness—bereft of humility toward people or things and lacking in earnestness—it was impossible for him to acquire even a middle-school-level education.

As summer finally grew hot and semester exams drew near, one day Shunsuke came to his study room at the usual time and waited. The boy was out and not home. He returned after quite some time had passed, fuming and seemingly unable to refrain from taking his anger out on something. The fact that he had to return from his outings for his daily obligations appeared to be the root of his foul mood. With his large frame, he plopped down cross-legged without a word. He called the maid and demanded, "A glass of cold water." When he took up the cup from the brought tray—a menacing hue rising to his face—or so it seemed. She appeared to sense this yet remained uncertain, fidgeting uneasily as she hesitated to leave—but no sooner had he glared at her than his hand gripping the cup shot out, drenching her face in an instant. Startled, as the maid tried to adjust her disheveled posture, a slap came flying—the sharp smack of a hand striking her still-wet face. In a hurried tone, he barked that there was no ice in the water—hadn't he told her to bring cold water? Then he roared in an adolescent-cracking voice: Don't go plunking ice into it now! You should've known without being told, you half-wit! As Shunsuke stared at the boy's turbid eyes—too murky for a youth's—he felt he wasn't looking at a human being. The middle school baseball player loomed unnaturally large for seventeen; when seated, his knees rose like mounds, his hands appearing excessively long as he ranted while licking his thick lips. The cup had rolled near the woman's knees, and as she endured the scolding, droplets continued dripping from her unwiped face and kimono collar.

The boy’s poor aptitude was inseparably and fundamentally tied to what compelled him to such behavior. To Shunsuke, the corrupt stupidity of this boy and his brothers felt deeply rooted in something primordial. Contemplating this evoked a mood even tinged with fateful bleakness. Shunsuke did not know how the Hirayama family’s vast wealth—so often discussed in society—had been accumulated. Yet he could not help feeling there was some connection between this wealth amassed within a single generation and the children’s sheer idiocy—they were by no means unrelated. It wasn’t some abstract karmic causality as Buddhism teaches—he felt there existed a tangible relationship one could clearly grasp and demonstrate to anyone.

What did it mean for them—these young men and their peers—to be university students? Shunsuke could find no positive or proactive significance in it whatsoever. Not for society, nor for themselves. Among these youths, those who had come from rural areas particularly gripped Shunsuke's attention. They would soon graduate. Some might remain in Tokyo, but most would likely return to their hometowns. When they did, many being scions of old provincial families and influential households, they would secure respectable positions and form part of the "solid" grassroots leadership stratum. University-educated men like them would emerge as standard-bearers of regional enlightenment. Indeed, small country towns could be molded entirely by just two or three such individuals. Their standards would become the standards of local culture. The sheer mass of such accumulated mediocrity must have been terrifying. National culture would unwittingly be "lowered" to match their level—or perhaps "raised." The flood of what they could tolerate would ultimately define an entire nation's culture.

Shunsuke recalled those from his rural hometown who had possessed keen intellects and burned with scholarly passion, yet ultimately remained there all the same. They must now be silently tilling the soil, planting seeds, weeding fields, and bringing in harvests.

Of course, the students surrounding Shunsuke were not all like this. However, the intelligent and earnest ones had largely lost their vigor. They would envision beautiful dreams inevitable to youth. They would act. They would stumble. It was there that they would first fall—into states of listlessness, doubt, and despair—but as things stood now, they had already sunk into these states even before undertaking any action. On the surface, even that could be considered reasonable. All types of dreams had already been exhausted in the past. Because it could not be denied that even the acts of attempting to realize them had already been tried and tested.

There were not a few people who had not lost their vigor or dreams. They were upstanding individuals who, in all matters, could not rely solely on others’ experiences, could not base their judgments on those alone, and could not help but verify things through their own actual deeds and confirm them with their very beings. They earnestly pursued. From there, they began to develop various demands as modern intelligentsia. They directed their enthusiasm toward the path of realizing those demands. But as students, they would soon strike out into society as professionals. The various demands that had once remained in the realm of abstract thought now arose as inexorable necessities emerging from within their daily lives. In order to live truthfully, those various demands must be fulfilled. Moreover, when that time came, could it truly be said there were many people who deeply considered both the realistic path by which those demands should be fulfilled and their very possibility—and then took action themselves?

Encountering formidable difficulties and groping through uncertainty, they began with a passive approach. They tentatively abandoned their previous life demands. Then sought to sustain themselves in realms unrelated to those pursuits. They deliberately split their lives. When manifested formally, this became opposition between one's occupation and "original work"—their inconsistency or complete disconnect. The life expressed through their occupation was disregarded—resigned to as irremediable regardless of dissatisfaction—left untouched while constructing another life through "original work," seeking fulfillment solely there. Such dual existence proved nearly impossible in modern times. For work to put food on the table demanded every last drop of time and energy. Yet people summoned superhuman courage to strive toward it.

One path for conscientious people in modern times undoubtedly lay here. But in this case, the two lives remained unrelated. At the very least, they did not share a relationship where they strongly influenced each other. Was that truly acceptable? Shouldn't the two have existed in an inseparable mutual relationship? Could there truly have existed such a thing as original work that began by abandoning the various demands of real social life?

People were tormented by this dual nature of their lives. Moreover, in this state of intractability, he considered there existed both the era’s distinctive character and the particularity of the intelligentsia. Workers and farmers—people for whom production formed life’s core—wouldn’t they inherently discover the path to resolving these contradictions more readily? As for these matters, Shunsuke still did not fully grasp them. A state where one’s livelihood activities merged with the very path that sustained their entire being—this was what many people sought. Shunsuke too sought this.

And gradually he came to consider abandoning his academic pursuits midway and returning home. After quietly pondering his origins, past and present, his talents, and his future life as a member of the intelligentsia after graduation, he had resolved to cast aside his recent ten years and venture forth anew along a different path. Even if a weariness with his struggling student life and an inability to endure humiliation had been working deep within him, that had not been the fundamental cause. He had sought to obtain what he desired through such a transformation. He might have avoided what was difficult and taken to what was easy. The conditions upon which he was attempting to build his new life were not something he himself had painstakingly created—they had been given to him. But he thought there was nothing to be ashamed of in that. He declared there was no distinctive spirit or standard in today’s world, proclaimed tomorrow unknowable, spoke of anxieties and doubts—yet could not side with either those who, in their personal lives, stood upon commonplace standards, trusted in years yet to come, and cheerfully formulated surprisingly modest designs; or those who considered endings before beginnings even commenced, affected a cleverness that saw beyond horizons, denied anything new as merely old and tried-and-tested, yet themselves performed no deeds whatsoever, appearing to hold firm beliefs while in truth possessing none.

Six

On Sunday, Shunsuke went to visit Shinji Uehara. Since returning home, Shunsuke had met Uehara twice. Apart from the postcard he had sent informing of today’s visit, he had once received a somewhat detailed letter. In every instance, they had yet to delve deeply into the matters that needed to be addressed. In villages with deep-rooted traditions, it was not uncommon for every household in the area to share some distant kinship tie if one traced their lineages back through generations—and the Sugino family’s distant relation to the Ueharas was merely a matter of that same degree. The Uehara family had moved to Aoyagi Village about forty years ago.

Shinji Uehara was a man in his fifties, his hair and mustache already half-white—a small-statured, gaunt figure who nonetheless possessed an intensely energetic demeanor. A landowner of some fifteen chōbu, he had served as village mayor and prefectural assembly member, though in recent years had withdrawn entirely from such public roles and severed all connections with local politics. An unusual bibliophile among elderly country dwellers, he satisfied his scholarly mind through research into regional folklore and customs. His reputation in this field was such that scholars from the capital often sought him out when visiting the area.

When Shunsuke was shown into the study, Uehara had just cleared away something like a Japanese-style bound old document that had been spread out on his desk and turned to face him. “It’s gotten hot, hasn’t it. Is everything unchanged?” he said with a calm smile, looking up. “I’ve been remiss in visiting.” No matter when one came to see it, the room remained much the same—the mountains of piled-up books had only grown slightly larger—and Shunsuke caught the musty odor steeped in that room. The atmosphere of the old man’s life—secluded as he had lately become for reasons unclear, continuing to sit in this dimly lit room—was something Shunsuke could neither definitively say resisted what he had been thinking and trying to articulate along the way, nor conversely accepted it.

“How was your family’s wheat harvest this year?” “It seems to have been excellent overall.” “That’s good… Around here also seems to have been a good harvest. Hearing that the yield is favorable—merely hearing about it warms the heart. Even for the likes of us, you know. Let’s just hope it stays sunny come planting time.” “Since it’s been so relentlessly sunny since spring, everyone’s been saying it’ll likely rain right around then.” “Hmm.” Since he sat upright without slouching, Shunsuke’s feet remained hidden from view. Lowering his gaze to knee level, Uehara—

“I heard you injured your leg recently,” he asked. “Yes... It wasn’t anything serious,” he replied, realizing as he spoke that his father must have mentioned it. “But what do you intend to do? Specifically—” Having said this quietly, Uehara moved to the main issue. “Since your letter stated you wanted more time to consider matters, I had intended to wait. But Hirayama from Tokyo has been pressing me quite insistently of late. He appears irritated by the situation—we have our own circumstances to manage here too.” “He said it was only on your recommendation that he specifically requested that student. If you mean to withdraw him, he wants you to inform us frankly and promptly—as we must arrange a replacement—and I find this perfectly reasonable.” “What do you intend to do?” he pressed.

Shunsuke began haltingly to speak of what he had been contemplating these past days. He wanted to convey his feelings to the other person with utmost fidelity. What he himself did not understand, he would leave unexplained as it was; what he did understand, he wished to communicate without ambiguity or falsehood—such was his resolve. As their talk progressed, he sensed that matters which had been unclear until now were gradually coming into focus. Yet simultaneously, he became aware that things which ought to have been clear remained unexpectedly beyond his grasp.

Throughout their conversation, what weighed most heavily on his mind was less the difference in their ages than the gulf between their eras. Though the other man never interjected—merely listening in silence—this divide pressed down with such weight that his words kept faltering. He had taken care even with individual terms—words that had emerged from social movements and now passed as common parlance. For he had realized that certain qualities lingering at the edges of speech—an aura common among today's youth—provoked instinctive revulsion in older people regardless of their actual merit. This caution didn't stem from wanting to avoid disapproval. He needed this man who had shown him kindness to grasp his true intent—and wished above all to evade debate. Such were the myriad considerations that had guided his every word.

“In the past, there was the matter with Mr. Okajima—though it arose from my own selfishness—and even then you refrained from reprimanding me while having Mr. Hirayama assist me. Now to cause you trouble yet again weighs heavily on my conscience.”

He spoke with genuine feeling. The man's kindness over these past ten years—his tireless efforts to forge a better path for him—had sunk deep into his bones. He contemplated how this had ultimately rendered that kindness void.

“Hmm... So that’s how you’re thinking about it... Though I don’t believe I’ve fully grasped everything you’ve said.” Uehara’s face hardened as he spoke. The deepened wrinkles made his countenance appear smaller and gloomier. His expression seemed less one of displeasure than of profound contemplation. “It’s not that you find the Hirayama household disagreeable, then?” “No, that isn’t the case.”

“If that were the case, there would be plenty of other methods,” Uehara said as if muttering,

“There’s nothing like that, I think. It’s an old but common way of thinking—this mentality that disdains relying on others, particularly seeking material assistance from the wealthy. What Arai Hakuseki called ‘a one-inch wound on a one-foot snake becomes ten inches when the snake grows to ten feet.’” “Such feelings belonged rather to the past,” he said. “To my childhood. I no longer feel that way now.”

“You mean Shimura—Katsuhiko Shimura.” “That one.” “Haven’t you met that man?”

Suddenly, he brought up a different matter.

"I met him just a few days ago, after a long time." "Hmm..." "Didn't you keep company with him in Tokyo?" "When he was still at school, I saw him occasionally, but we weren't particularly close." Why had Uehara suddenly asked about Shimura? Was he suspecting how closely Shunsuke had aligned himself with the ideology Shimura once embraced, probing indirectly? And was he now trying to find the key to understanding Shunsuke's present self in some aspect different from what had been discussed? If that were so, Shunsuke could only answer in denial. It hadn't been meant as camouflage—that was simply how things stood.

“What do you think of that man?”

Uehara spoke a few words concerning Shimura's recent circumstances. They served to substantiate how he had lost interest in all things, confirming what Shunsuke himself had heard directly from the man's own lips. "Well... I don't know much about his situation these past three or four years, and when we met the other day, we didn't delve into any serious discussions either."

Even as he said this, there was one thing about Shimura he had been thinking for some time that he simply couldn't keep from saying.

“But given how he is now, there’s something I must say.” “I meant to tell him directly but held back—why won’t he attempt a fresh start?” “When the path they were following becomes blocked, does that truly leave no alternatives? Even someone like me—without his past—can grasp his difficult position.” “For one who acted based on ideological conviction and met inevitable failure—rebuilding oneself would be arduous regardless of future choices. Those watching from afar shouldn’t dismiss this as simple.” “If we let Mr. Shimura explain, he’d claim this is time for correcting his stance—but endlessly going in circles within mental abstractions solves nothing.” “If you first settle every theoretical detail before acting—deciding ‘this must be so’ from start to finish—you’ll never accomplish anything. Yet he knows this full well—that’s precisely why he’s tried those very things he describes.” “But nothing satisfies him—he claims his critical faculty activates, sees through every endeavor’s nature, then abandons it all from lost interest and passion.”

“I consider this to be a truly significant matter.” “While I can first say that this so-called critical eye of his is mistaken, what I sense runs even deeper than that—something more fundamentally rooted.” “The fear that he has become someone incapable of harboring love for life.” “A person who cannot honestly and vividly feel joy, sorrow, anger, or hatred toward the beauty and ugliness, abundance and poverty of human life.” “As a human being, this is the most important thing.” “Only with such love can one become an active participant in life.” “From within life itself, one would increasingly deepen such love, and that in turn would make his life ever richer and more admirable.” “Even if one suffers setbacks, the strength to rise again can be drawn from there.” “That is not unrelated to theory and ideology.” “While they must ultimately be connected, one can temporarily consider them separately—and in practical terms, I believe there are many people living with these two elements disjointed or even lacking one entirely… Take Mr. Shimura. He may seem that way now, but I doubt whether even his past actions were ever truly grounded in such deep love for humanity and life.” “Without such deep roots, ideology remains superficial; even while rejecting conceptualism, they cannot help but become conceptual.” “If they were to lose even that ideology which had been their pillar, it seems only natural that they would end up as they are now.” “…Compared with those insensate beings among us from a period following Mr. Shimura’s time—they may perhaps prove even less curable.” “…In any case, such unfeeling people who have lost both love and hatred toward life are increasing.” “That is a reality that cannot be fully explained away by simply saying they lack vitality for life.” “That must be a kind of modern disease.” “Its causes are likely complex.” “That must be sought in social foundations… As I am now, I don’t fully understand it.” “But I do not want to become such a person.” “…But when I was in Tokyo, I somehow felt myself on the verge of sinking into becoming that very kind of person without even realizing it.”

“That experience has become one of the primary reasons behind this decision.”

Shunsuke no longer had the leisure to extend meticulous consideration toward his interlocutor as he had initially. “First and foremost, I need a life where I can truly feel myself living. Then, whatever form that life may take, I believe a path will surely open from there.” “I believe one must first be faithful to oneself.” “Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to feel responsible for whatever results may follow.”

Uehara did not stir and listened in silence. He stared fixedly at Shunsuke. Then he said. “You cannot find fulfillment through others’ experiences alone.” “Others’ experiences remain strictly others’ experiences.” “You must tread each step yourself and test it before finding conviction.” “Such sentiments should indeed be respected.” “Even these bare feelings alone have been growing scarce these days.” “And yet you mean to act on these thoughts you’ve conceived.” “Compared to men like Shimura… or my Tetsuzo… that very resolve makes you admirable if only in that single aspect.” “Regardless of direction.” “But having granted that much, I still cannot let pass the question of direction.”

“How is Mr. Tetsuzo faring these days? I haven’t heard any news about him lately,” asked Shunsuke, though it interrupted their conversation. When he spoke Tetsuzo’s name, his tone carried a hint of hesitation, an awkwardness that seemed out of place.

However, Uehara continued without attempting to answer the question. “Even if you say you can’t be satisfied with others’ experiences, you can’t ignore the causes that produced those results. And if there’s only one cause, then you’ll have no choice but to acknowledge in advance that you’ll end up with the same result others experienced.” “You can’t very well not believe in history.” “To state my conclusion—I cannot first and foremost agree to your having returned to the countryside now in pursuit of what you call a new life, a life of substance—to having returned to the work of farming.”

There was something interrogatory in his tone. Though Shunsuke hadn't spoken with him often, this was the first time he had seen Uehara speak with such vehemence. This was naturally also the first time he had heard this kind of content from his mouth. "Your conversion, your implementation—these aren't grounded in clear theories or ideological positions." "Rather, you'll seek such things from within the life you lead henceforth." "Or rather, it's precisely there that your contradiction lies—the coexistence of proactive and passive aspects within you." "As far as you alone are concerned, you're undoubtedly proactive." "But when viewed within the broader context of society, can you truly claim that?" "I'm saying the same thing Shimura said." "If we—Shimura and I—were to say such things, we may lack authority, but set aside us who spoke them—consider only the substance itself."

“You’ve returned to this present-day rural village—part owner-farmer, part tenant farmer, barely scraping by—returned to your parents’ home, and what exactly do you intend to accomplish here? You could still learn farming work even now. At least you can eat. Even with hardships, you should manage to make a living without enduring the same miseries as city salaried workers. But that alone isn’t your aim—nor is restoring your household to its former prosperity your goal. Your gaze turns both inward and outward—no, rather, that’s precisely your starting point. In that outward movement, what exactly can you achieve? I’m not belittling you or underestimating your capabilities. Even with a sharp mind, courage, and sound methods, you alone can accomplish nothing. Can you truly find collaborators? Do you even grasp what this rural village you’ve returned to and immersed yourself in truly is? You’ll claim you came back precisely because you don’t know—to find out. But mark this: when you do know will be when you lose those former dreams and hopes. You might become a youth group officer in your prime, work like a model farmer in old age—such things may be possible for you. But look at me—look at me!”

He said fiercely, as though scolding.

“I am a landlord.” “In this region, I’m considered mid-tier among landowners.” “The land I inherited from my parents—about a quarter of it’s been lost under my stewardship.” “Now trust companies have taken my place as landlords—those tenant farmers who once worked my fields now answer to corporate masters.” “It’s not just losses I’ve had—there’ve been gains too.” “My debts now stand over ten thousand yen.” “Most creditors are the Hypothec Bank and trust companies.” “Autumn installment repayments at five-and-a-half to six percent annual interest.” “Before long, more of what land I still hold will likely fall to the companies.” “I speak of this like it’s another man’s trouble, sitting here arms folded, waiting for the axe to fall.” “Thrashing about changes nothing.” “Only mires me deeper in the swamp.”

“Was I undisciplined in some way? Was I a slacker? Even if one couldn’t jokingly call me skilled in profit-making, I wasn’t some exceptional landlord either—just an ordinary one through and through. If there was any difference at all, it was that long before those endless disputes between landlords and tenants started up—from late Taisho right through recent years—I’d already been practicing benevolence by keeping my tax rice slightly cheaper than others’. Just a little—no, barely a fraction lower. But that tiny difference made certain fellow landlords seize on it—claiming I was making a show of novelty for its own sake or that it stemmed from ambitions to enter the prefectural assembly. They even dragged in my bookish habits—utterly unsuited to my character—pestering me with their spiteful remarks. And now they prattle on about how ‘Uehara’s gone to ruin—all because of that!’ But what exactly are these people? They’re landlords like me, yet also shareholders in the trust companies and local banks I borrow from. Tied up with all sorts besides—but those who’ve avoided bankruptcy since the old days must be more than mere landlords. If they’re laughing at me for failing to become one of those... well, I suppose I understand their point.”

“I don’t blow money on political squabbles like your grandfather did… Starting with tax payments and all those land fees—they eat up half a landlord’s income right there.” “Then there’s schooling costs for the children.” “Girls might scrape by with just girls’ schools, but boys need vocational colleges and universities.” “You know what that runs per head?” “Most debts for landlords like us come from these education bills—but what happens after they graduate?” “They keep draining the land dry for years after—like that’s just normal.” “And it’s not just landlords—say someone catches a real bad sickness.” “My late wife’s treatments cost fifty bales’ worth of rice.” “Then there’s weddings, funerals—every damn ceremony’s got its rules and airs to keep up.” “Fool expenses townsfolk wouldn’t dream of.” “…So the rice comes in.” “You trade it for certificates at the Industrial Association.” “But when selling time hits, nobody lets you hold those certificates till your grain actually sells.” “There’s this ‘official price’ under the Rice Control Law.” “They take twenty percent off the top, flip your rice to cash quick as passing salt.” “By settlement time there’s barely crumbs left.” “Then some monster expense rears up—makes you paw at your land again whether you want to or not.” “Land’s scarce here—curse or blessing—so even unprofitable plots sell easy enough.”

He sipped his tea. And he continued. He had many things pent up inside him. Yet he rarely found anyone to whom he could unburden them. Shunsuke sensed that he was being seen as precisely such a confidant. Then Shunsuke felt warmth rise in his chest. “……It’s not just tenant farmers who suffer." "Landlords struggle too." "A dullard like me only began looking beyond my own affairs to consider society’s problems when I reached middle age." "And even that came not from pitying others’ misfortunes, but from being pricked by my own household’s tightening finances." "I kept thinking there must be some solution." "I wanted to discover a path for the whole village to reform itself." "With debts snowballing like this—it’s unmanageable." "With prices for what we grow being so low—it’s unmanageable." "This isn’t just about individual virtue or vice." "If there were root causes to eliminate, if even someone like me could do something—that’s what I resolved to try."

“Starting with my participation in the county assembly—serving on the prefectural assembly, becoming an officer of the prefectural credit union, even becoming village mayor—all while not knowing my place, my involvement with various public organizations came after that.” “If I think about it now, it truly makes me break out in a cold sweat.” “I have not a clue why.” “It was not as though I had read books and grasped theories, nor did I have any experience.” “I simply possessed this earnest, sincere desire to do something—anything—and thought that as I kept at it, even the things I did not understand would gradually become clear.” “In other words, I suppose you could say I resembled you as you are now.” “You have read far more books than I ever did back then—so many that there is no comparison.” “But society has also become incomparably more complex than it was in our time.” “You still do not have a social theory to rely on, I hear.” “In short, it means throwing yourself into the tides of society with nothing but sincerity—whether you will drown or ride them out, neither you nor anyone else can know. …I tried it myself.” “I tried my hardest.” “I kept at it for a full eighteen years.” “Even things I did not understand gradually came to make sense.” “But the more I understood things, the more things I did not understand also increased—that is how understanding works.” “This is, in other words, a lack of ability to realize what one has understood; it is likely that the awareness of this vast gap in between made it seem that way.”

“When I attended county and prefectural assemblies and became involved in local politics, I didn’t belong to either the Rikken Seiyūkai or the Kenseikai. I would think things through carefully on my own, aiming to learn anew through acting on those thoughts and their results. What I gained this way should hold no falsehoods. I can’t say I lacked foundations—I relied, if you will, on society’s sound common sense. I believed in its ultimate victory. While I knew politics largely meant party conflicts, I refused to be constrained. Standing on what most considered common sense, I believed even alone I could act. Sound common sense wouldn’t obscure social justice—if anything, justice might lie beyond it. But common sense isn’t fixed; its refinement must align with justice. Grounding oneself in today’s common sense should suffice initially. Then what is social justice? I’d avoided pursuing that question fully—not considering it then returning to common sense. That gap was likely my failing. What treatment did my ‘sound common sense’ face in real politics? Take the rice coupons I mentioned earlier: they deposit rice with industrial associations for timely sales. Tenant farmers have nothing to deposit—they haul one or two bales to market themselves, while small landowners up through landlords mostly use deposits.”

“The prefectural association would notify the village association about the best time to sell.” “But you can’t sell everything at once.” “Now, when you sell just before prices are sure to rise higher—it’s always the meager rice stores deposited by smallholders that get sold off then.” “The large landlords’ shares wait until prices peak.” “Wouldn’t anyone call this unfair?” “Shouldn’t we be doing precisely the opposite?” “That’s why I kept raising objections.” “Yet what people doubted and mocked was my very notion of ‘common sense’.” Uehara was a landlord. A mid-level landlord at that. Since he wasn’t personally suffering losses anyway—why get so worked up? What an eccentric—that’s what they meant. If I listed every instance, there’d be no end. One example tells all.

I first had to wage battle against this topsy-turvy common sense of theirs.

For a long time, I continued my lonely, powerless struggle. Gradually, I began surveying my surroundings. I started seeking collaborators. However, I could find no such people. Even those who might have become collaborators turned their backs on me and rapidly drifted away during that time due to certain circumstances. The reason being that forces which later formed the Proletarian Party’s foundation were finally beginning to rise. “I was no ally of these new forces,” I told him. “My common sense criticized them just as it had criticized the landlords of the established parties. But naturally, there remained a difference between myself and those who’d hardened in opposition to these new forces—this goes without saying.” My voice grew heavy. “I found myself caught between these two powers. Neither side spoke well of me. In the end, my common sense never coalesced into a political force.” I leaned forward, hands gripping my knees. “Behind me as an assemblyman stood constituents, of course. But to my eyes, they seemed the most apathetic among all who’d elected me.”

Finally, the time for my retirement came, but its impetus was a major dispute between landlords and tenant farmers. I threw myself into mediating between them. "I'll take responsibility—leave it to me," I told representatives from both sides. Yet the solution I'd painstakingly crafted ultimately satisfied neither party. The proposal was rejected. They blamed me—saying entrusting mediation to me alone had cost them their chance at victory. It proved utterly disastrous. Given this was mediation, I'd focused entirely on finding common ground—a path where both sides might stand together through coexistence and mutual prosperity. I'd demanded concessions from each. And failed. But reflecting now—hadn't I always been a mediator from the very start? Was mediation not my fundamental nature?

With that as my limit, I withdrew completely from all public duties.

What would become of the villages from here on out, I wondered. I simply couldn't grasp it. I merely sat there in silence, doing nothing but watch. I too grew more confined with each passing year. Yet even when we landlords complained of hardships, our standing remained different from tenant farmers. We sent our children to university, spent fortunes on daughters' weddings, paid for illnesses and hospital stays—then had the gall to call it hardship. But that wasn't true hardship—I thought real hardships also came gradually with the years. The children I'd sent to school all turned out good-for-nothings, and our lands kept vanishing. But what did that matter? When those without land and burdened by debt faced hardship, it merely meant they'd become equal to ordinary villagers. Well then—let things take their course while I watch, I supposed.

Shunsuke thought about Uehara—different from others as a landlord. This was something he had come to know through rumors. The tenant fees for his land were incomparably low compared to neighboring areas. Moreover, there had never been a case where cultivators couldn't demand rent reductions for poor harvests or repair costs for land and irrigation. At first they'd all gotten carried away making demands, but ended up growing so uneasy they backed off. When a tenant farmer who'd scraped together some savings wanted to own the land he cultivated, Uehara relinquished it without hesitation—at an unbelievably low price. He seemed to be charging forward as if discarding everything.

The fact that Uehara had recently been devoting himself to the study of folk customs and local traditions also led Shunsuke to consider this with fresh interest. That must be an escape. Yet country landlords who had withdrawn from political and social life's forefront surely had countless other ways to pass the time. Even if one's desire to satisfy intellectual curiosity were quite advanced, there should be other means to fulfill it.

His choice was not accidental, and in the fact that he, now past fifty, had begun devoting himself to such scholarly pursuits, there seemed to be something sorrowful. It appeared to stem from a deep love for local people's lives. He had tried to pour this love of his broadly into the people's present-day existence. When that ended in failure, his gaze turned toward the past. In investigating one by one the folk customs, traditions, languages, legends, and beliefs born in bygone eras yet passed down to the present, he sought some measure of solace. However thoroughly they might trace the material relations underlying those old folkways and legends, precisely because such efforts failed to stir any consciousness of present-day interests among people now, those who once condemned him merely dismissed him as an eccentric landlord and let him be—and he too could remain untroubled. He might have finally begun detesting his own existence as a landlord. He might already be advancing in this manner, foreseeing from now the self who would one day lose his homeland. In his manner of immersing himself in such scholarship, there might be a love for his homeland—soon to be lost—choking within.

“You’re not me. But there’s no guarantee you won’t become me either. Forgive my bluntness, but how far you’ll manage to break free from me—that’s anyone’s guess. Times are harsher now than in my day, and they won’t get any gentler from here. If you strive with all your might to harmonize inner ideals and outer reality, only to have it shattered once—then turn utterly cold afterward, chasing nothing but self-interest—well, that’s another story altogether. Such men exist. To dismiss everything as youthful delusions... If you could fully embrace that view, it might even prove a blessing in its way. But few manage it. Even if you try to rally your strength again for that former path after stumbling once—it’s as if your very marrow’s been drained away. What’s lost this way can never be reclaimed. The end result? Becoming someone like me... or Shimura.”

“So then, Uncle—what exactly are you saying I should do? Then isn’t the form I’m attempting to take a secondary issue? Does the very fact that we’ve come to harbor such demands—that we’ve passionately devoted ourselves to them—make it wrong or unfortunate? I don’t know whether it’s unfortunate. That’s beside the point. If one could manage without having them, that would be one thing—but once one has come to possess them, there’s nothing to be done about it. To persist in those demands, there must be various forms. Whichever of those paths one takes, there will be stumbles and achievements. I understand that in times like these, once you stumble, that might very well be the end of it…… However, even if that’s the case, it doesn’t matter. As for the consequences that my own actions bring about, I alone must take responsibility for them. I spoke earlier about Mr. Shimura in that manner, but on another note, even if he were to continue living like a hollow shell from now on, I also hold the sentiment that I must let it be and watch silently as matters stand.”

Uehara did not answer. He himself knew well that his words lacked the power to convince the young people. The weakness and ambiguity of his attempts at persuasion stemmed from his own lack of confidence in what he was advocating. Even after using so many words, ultimately, he had simply wanted to say this.

“Don’t get any foolish ideas. “Don’t lose focus.” “Proceed straight along the path you’ve been on—the conventional path of society.”

He did not state it explicitly. He could not say it. Because he himself detested such a path. He did not consider his current life apart from society as suffering. He did not regret the past that had brought about his current circumstances. Moreover, to the young men coming after him, he wanted to recommend taking society’s safe path if at all possible.

“……When I first arranged your placement at the Okajima household, I hadn’t deeply considered your future." "A bright, studious child left buried in this remote village would be pitiful—a waste." "My sole thought was to somehow open academic opportunities for you." "Naturally, my own indebtedness to your grandfather in youth fueled these intentions." "But as you approached adolescence, I grew compelled to intervene—having witnessed how the era’s turbulence seized even youths around me." "Shimura’s father and I maintained ties. When I learned his son Tetsuzō had strayed—abandoning school to cohabit with some dubious woman—weariness crashed over me like sudden aging." "Tetsuzō had been their most promising child." "I became unable to disregard your fate." "I actively desired you to tread society’s conventional path—nay, the philistine’s road—that Shimura and Tetsuzō would scorn." "Flatter your patrons’ sensibilities; fret over academic rankings; groom yourself for employment; then make salary hikes and promotions life’s sole purpose." "You must deem this intolerably insulting—yet I deliberately wished this existence upon you."

“Even now—even in today’s conversation with you—this desire of mine wishing you to become that sort of person has been speaking through me. That would bring happiness to your household, and I thought my responsibility for sending you to Tokyo might thereby be fulfilled. I do have such tendencies... Yet fortunately, you did not turn out as I had hoped. Though I outwardly expressed these hopes—even spoke them aloud—deep within, I was expecting and wishing for you to fiercely oppose such a version of myself. Had you become exactly the kind of person I told you to be, I would have feigned delight while secretly despising you in my heart. But you rebelled. You rebelled against Okajima, against Hirayama, against me—against all your past ten years. You possess a heart that loves truth. It’s in your nature to be unable to casually dismiss doubts etched in your mind. You are someone incapable of self-deception. Discovering this aspect of you through this opportunity brings me greater joy than anything. It’s the blood, I tell you. Truly the blood. These are things the Sugino family has inherited through generations. Grandfather Iyozō, your father Komapei—they’re all stubborn in that regard...”

Uehara gradually grew excited, his face flushing with youthful vigor. Shunsuke stared at the old man in surprise.

“Speaking of blood—but what about that Tetsuzō fellow?” As he uttered this, a pained fragility—like that of someone stripped of all support—suddenly surfaced on the old man’s face. The abrupt transformation from features that had moments ago seemed almost radiant left Shunsuke startled anew. No longer did he shy from the name of his son—the name he had avoided invoking time and again.

“You’re all fine. Whether it’s you or Shimura, at least you’re both striving to gain some kind of conviction. You have the fortitude to stake your own bodies on experimentation. The Shimura of today is exactly as you see him now—but he probably ignited his heart more fiercely than any of you and carried it out with equal intensity. That’s what’s made him what he is now... But what about that Tetsuzō of mine?! That wretch hasn’t changed one bit since the day he was born. He puts on this face like he came into this world without a shred of energy or interest to try anything... dismissing everything as trivial without even lifting a finger. Completely lifeless! It’s as if he’s never once known that youthful restlessness—that urge to act, that bounding enthusiasm that makes young men unable to sit still or resist doing something. Not that he’s a fool—he understands things well enough when he bothers. What a repulsive creature he’s become! Is that supposed to be my blood too?... They’ve simply seen and heard too much, those ones—lost all capacity for genuine surprise or wonder, I suppose.”

Shunsuke had no inclination to probe deeply into Tetsuzō. They remained silent for a while.

Eventually, the old man lowered his voice and said.

“Such people probably need to truly suffer just to eat. But that time will come, sooner or later. If the tree a mistletoe inhabits withers, the mistletoe itself will wither. When that time comes, if they still don’t wish to wither, they’ll have no choice but to move on their own and take root elsewhere, whether they like it or not.” The old man even appeared to be trembling from excitement. His wide-open eyes appeared moist with tears. Shunsuke tried to speak but couldn’t, gazing at the old man with eyes filled with unspoken emotion. Then there welled up in Shunsuke’s heart all at once an indescribable affection toward this old man—a pitiable sort of tenderness mingled with respect and gratitude. He felt an impulse to cradle in his palms the old man’s small face—its temples gone snow-white, its forehead carved with deep furrows of hardship, its crow’s feet creased with gentle wrinkles that seemed perpetually poised for a smile—along with the thin, bony hands resting on emaciated knees.

Seven

Busy days flowed over Shunsuke. He now plunged headlong into his new life without hesitation. Though positioning his awkward self among people and sometimes looking around, he felt no faltering. Now he existed in a state of humility he had never before known. It might not have been entirely accurate to call it pious. Above all else, he first had to master farming's essentials. The fulfillment of all his hopes and dreams would follow afterward. To achieve this, he first needed to discard his former self. He would cast off everything acquired during ten urban years—discarding them one by one until reaching a state where none who saw him could detect any trace of that past. Not just in appearance, but even his perceptions and preferences would become wholly those of a farmer. Urban elements didn't necessarily entirely clash with rural ones, nor were they all necessarily rejectable—yet to fully assimilate with farmers working the land completely, he deemed it necessary to temporarily negate them all. While sensing that modernity's great misfortune lay rooted in this need to view urban and rural elements as diametrically opposed.

When he visited Uehara and frankly shared his thoughts, the lingering ambiguity and hesitation disappeared. There were even aspects where, through expressing his thoughts to another, he had managed to reach personal conviction and assurance for the first time.

On the night of the day he returned from Uehara, he discussed the same matter with his father.

“How did things go at Uehara’s place?” Komapei asked hesitantly one night when he had relaxed before bed. His mother and sisters were also present there. “Yes, I talked about various things with Uncle today—it’s been a while.” He found it difficult to convey what had been discussed. Shunsuke spoke not so much about the details of today’s discussion as about matters he had long needed to address when an appropriate opportunity arose. He announced his decision. He said he wanted to quit school and stay home to become a farmer.

“At this point, wanting to change my path might seem like defeat—like spinelessness—but for me, that doesn’t matter at all.” “Because I don’t want to let the things I’ve felt or questioned slip by without pursuing them, diverting them aside to pass away in vague obscurity.” Shunsuke had felt an even greater chasm of age and era between himself and his father than he had with Uehara. That was because his father’s life lacked the social breadth that Uehara’s possessed. That’s why it had been difficult to talk. No matter how careful he was, he couldn’t avoid using words that sounded unfamiliar to his father. It felt nearly impossible to put into words the minute workings of his heart. Yet at the same time, he felt no particular need to force those things into words—this conviction grew even stronger within him. He intuited that while he felt an even greater generational gap with his father than with Uehara, his father must nevertheless understand him more directly than Uehara ever could. Father must understand my feelings better than my contemporaries—he felt, even without needing to put it into words.

Komapei listened in silence.

After some time had passed, “It’s not… something like feeling sorry for your old parent who’s still working in their dotage, is it…?” “That’s not the case.” “Right.”

He nodded, then began to speak haltingly. “I ain’t got nothin’ to say. “As for your own affairs, do as you please. “Ever since you first left for Tokyo, I’ve made it a point not to say anything about your affairs. “Though even if I tried to say something, I ain’t got the power to tell you—a school-educated man—what to do or be your advisor... “When it comes to human beings—each person’s got their own capacity. Even if someone tries pushing from the sidelines, they can’t rise beyond that capacity. “Moreover, as long as one’s intentions aren’t misguided and they stay firm when it counts, whatever they do won’t make much difference. “What’s in a person’s nature will show itself in the end. “Whether you graduate from school and become a company man or official, or come back home to farm—there ain’t no great difference. “When you first decided to go off to school in Tokyo, I neither rejoiced nor mourned—they said even Uehara was taken aback afterward at how cold I seemed about it. Just as I was then when you left, so I am now when you’ve quit and come back—there ain’t no difference in me. “...But to be honest, I can’t say there wasn’t a time when I hoped you’d graduate from university and become what folks call someone great. “Mother and all kept on about it, but it was more Grandfather than her. “Our Grandfather was a man who served society widely. “I’m like this, but... “But such things didn’t matter anymore. “If you want to farm, then farm. “That’s all well and good. “When you’re just reachin’ your age and startin’ out—specially someone school-educated like you—crawlin’ through muddy fields must be a real hardship, but you can’t do it. “It’s tough, but there are enjoyable parts too. “Our way of life is just as you’ve seen and come to know every day these past three months.”

“Our owned land totals four tan when combining residential plots, farmland, and miscellaneous areas; we have four tan of paddy fields, plus over three tan of tenant rice fields.” “As farmers around here go, you’d have to say we’re on the better side.” “……If that’s how it is, then I can’t say these past ten years were just some useless detour.” “It might’ve been a detour, but it wasn’t in vain.” “In the end, there’s no such thing as uselessness.” “What you’ve seen and heard, and whatever else you’ve done—they’ll live and work through you someday down the road.” “Even if it’s a completely different path—they’ll still amount to something.” “That’s how it’s meant to be.” “No need to fret.”

Shunsuke felt he must say something in response. Yet at that moment, he found himself unable to speak. His mother and sisters too had maintained such quiet restraint throughout the men's conversation that they never once interjected a word. The air within the room lay hushed, yet carried a warmth that seeped into the heart.

The time had come when insects drawn to light from the open veranda grew large enough to startle people. The whirring of wings around the lamp made one feel night's deepening hour. Komapei rose to his feet.

The season was heading into what was, for farmers, the most crucial time of the entire year. It was about time they had to start drawing water to the rice fields. The rain was earnestly awaited. The winds arising over the southwestern sea were something that had to be especially guarded against during this season. For the leaf tobacco was now on the very brink of reaching its optimal maturity.

June had arrived when one day, a neatly dressed man around forty with a mustache under his nose came visiting, accompanied by two men in Western suits. Komapei, who had apparently been eagerly awaiting their arrival for some time, welcomed them. Before exchanging initial greetings, Shunsuke had already realized that he was Matsukawa, the chairman of the village’s tobacco growers’ association, and that the men in suits were officials from the Monopoly Bureau. They had come to inspect the leaf tobacco. “On such a hot day as today, thank you for coming all this way.”

Komapei delivered a formal greeting. The three of them settled onto the engawa and rested briefly. Jun emerged carrying a tea tray with a dessert plate heaped with biscuits coated in red and white sugar. They sipped their tea, but no one laid a finger on the sweets. The Monopoly Bureau officials fluttered their fans with exaggerated busyness while skimming through documents from their briefcase. Even when Komapei spoke, they barely uttered a word. It couldn’t help but look as though they were doing it on purpose.

Komapei guided the group to the mountain tobacco field. Shunsuke followed behind them. “It certainly has been burning down relentlessly every day.”

Komapei said as he led the way, wiping his bald head and face repeatedly with a multiply-folded hand towel. Beads of sweat surfaced anew each time he wiped them away, visible even to Shunsuke. On Komapei's fully bald, rounded head grew sparse fuzz resembling infant hair - even these downy strands appeared sun-scorched. The gentle narrow slope leading to the mountain fields lay buried under thick white dust that emitted a muffled dragging sound with each step, like women's rubber-soled sandals being scraped across earth. The dust soiled their shoes and trousers. Watching his elderly father meticulously attend to others' moods - forcing smiles even when unnecessary - Shunsuke felt an inexpressible wretched sorrow. For he had never before witnessed Komapei thus.

The Monopoly Bureau officials stood at one corner of the tobacco field and surveyed it for a long while.

“Is this Plot Number One?” he said, pointing. “Yes,” Komapei replied. “And the area in tan?” “Yes, one tan.”

The inspectors measured the furrow width with a measuring tape. From that alone, the number of plants could already be determined, but he went on to meticulously count each one by one. They performed the same process for each plot. And finally, they came to Plot No. 8. “Is this the reserve plot?” “Yes, that’s correct.” The number of plants was counted. That was fifty plants.

The younger inspector who had been conducting the examination then went over to where the other man was standing a short distance away. The inspection had probably concluded with this. Shunsuke, who had been watching, felt an inexplicable sense of relief.

The two inspectors conferred in hushed tones for some time. Their whispers didn’t carry across the distance to where the others stood. Eventually, the younger official returned to Komapei and issued his decree. “Uproot twenty plants. From Plot Eight.” His voice remained low yet carried undeniable authority. “What?” Komapei stared up at the inspector’s face, struggling to comprehend. “Twenty plants—uproot them.” The man’s features stayed impassive. Without meeting Komapei’s gaze, he jerked his chin toward Plot Eight at their feet.

“In that case, the reserve…” “The reserve is thirty plants.” “But the reserve was supposed to be allowed up to fifty plants.” Komapei protested softly. “No, thirty.” “No… The authorities’ permission allows between thirty and fifty plants, and we’ve always been allowed to grow up to fifty every year until now…”

Komapei, though his approach was meek, protested with desperate intensity while casting a fleeting glance toward a spot slightly off to the side. There stood Matsukawa. Komapei was seeking help. Matsukawa, however, pretended not to see and stood stock-still. “The regulation does specify between thirty and fifty plants,” “but in practice, the minimum number of thirty plants is what’s commonly done everywhere.” “The fifty plants—that’s just saying we can permit up to fifty, and this exists for some special circumstance.” “In other words, it’s an exception.” “You see? Do you understand?”

The one speaking in this lightly dismissive manner was a young man not yet thirty, while the one being addressed appeared old enough to be his parent—a contrast that rendered their opposing positions in this situation starkly apparent.

Komapei stood silently gazing at the tobacco field before him - its paired leaves spreading beautifully to cloak the ochre slope in lush green. "If you understand, then get to uprooting them. Now," the inspector pressed. "I've been growing tobacco for years now... Every season till now, this way's worked..." Komapei murmured, unable to accept defeat, turning once more toward the inspector. With his hand clutching a folded towel lowered near his knees, he forced a strained smile while,

“Please, sir, just this once,” “I’ve put my soul into growing these plants to this state, so just this once, won’t you show some leniency?” “I beg of you.” “No means no,” “If I say uproot them, you uproot them.” He spoke as if cutting off further discussion, finally betraying irritation as he tapped his toe against the ground, “What’s twenty plants?” he spat out. Komapei, who had been staring at the earth, suddenly jerked his head up and glared at the man from below with unprecedented sharpness. Watching from the sidelines while gripped by tense emotions—anxious anticipation of some impending outburst—Shunsuke involuntarily flinched.

However, Komapei immediately reverted to his former self. He silently descended toward the field. He gave up.

He began uprooting them from the edge. Though it wasn't work that required assistance, Shunsuke couldn't simply stand by watching; he went to his father's side. Father and son silently pulled up one tobacco plant after another. Uprooting twenty tobacco plants didn't take long. After gathering them in a field corner as if wanting to speak, Komapei looked toward the inspector. The inspector approached and counted the uprooted plants. "Burn them. Now," he said.

They had never dreamed it would come to this, so they had not brought bamboo baskets or the like. They had to carry them by cradling the plants against their chests with both hands. Next to the tobacco field lay what was called unreclaimed land. The term "unreclaimed land" referred to mountainous areas overgrown with mixed trees that could not be cultivated—so named in the land registry records. They carried the tobacco leaves to a somewhat wide clearing in that unreclaimed land—where trees had been felled—and stacked them there.

What now? As if wanting to ask just that, Shunsuke looked at Komapei.

“Go gather fallen leaves and brushwood,” Komapei said curtly. The two of them gathered fallen leaves and brushwood from the mixed grove. Because the drought had continued, the fallen leaves were thoroughly dry. After piling up a considerable amount, “Shun, you got any matches on ya?” Thrusting his hand into his pocket and checking, Komapei said. Shunsuke happened to have them and passed them to Komapei.

Komapei struck a match. The fallen leaves began to burn. At first emitting only white smoke, when wind slipped through gaps it burst into red flames that leapt to the brushwood. With crisp crackling sounds, sparks scattered. The fire grew steadily stronger. Standing beside it made their faces burn fiercely until they nearly swooned from dizziness. Komapei seized tobacco plants and flung them onto the flames. The fire momentarily weakened. The tobacco leaves scorched crisply as they curled inward, beginning to hiss and smolder.

In the clear early summer midday sky, white and blue smoke drifted upward as the tobacco leaves burned on. The fresh leaves burned poorly, never getting much beyond smoldering, but sustained by the fallen leaves and brushwood's vigorous flames, they burned. They continued to add fallen leaves and brushwood from time to time.

The two inspectors stood somewhat apart, watching this bonfire. As it burned, the area became filled with the intense smell of tobacco. Shunsuke, who didn’t smoke, choked on the smell; as if half-drunk, his head spun. The smoke stung both their eyes and noses. Komapei also let out a loud sneeze. The scorching sun and blazing fire made sweat ooze out in a drenching stream. It was only then that they noticed their faces, hands, and chests had become sticky with nicotine.

The tobacco leaves were gradually fed into the fire. The last two or three plants were thrown in. When they too had turned completely black, Komapei took a tree branch, poked into the flames, and stirred them about. Smoke and flames rose ceaselessly. Sparks occasionally flew. Some turned into white ash and flew, while others came drifting down to settle on their heads and shoulders.

However, the flames gradually weakened. Only the smoke and smell remained thick and heavy. Komapei and Shunsuke shed tears along with their sweat. Their eyes throbbed, and no matter how much they wiped them, the tears kept coming. The hand towels they used to wipe away sweat and tears had become sticky with nicotine and reeked. Finally, only jet-black burned remnants remained, forming a pile that was not overly large. Even those that had not turned completely to ashes no longer retained any trace of their original form.

The two inspectors had remained standing until they witnessed this final moment. After witnessing this, the two inspectors departed. Matsukawa also departed.

“Goddamn sons of bitches!” Komapei channeled his irrepressible fury into those words alone and hurled them in a low but forceful voice at their retreating backs.

Upon returning home, Shunsuke set about filling in the required details on the wooden tags he had been forced to purchase from the tobacco growers' association. The entry items column was branded onto the surface of the wooden tag with a branding iron. There, he would enter the items inspected today in the presence of the inspectors. For each lot, he entered the number, filled in the area in tan, wrote down the plant count, and finally recorded the cultivator’s name. When he had finished writing on all the wooden tags, he would attach each one to a thin bamboo stick and erect them in numerical order in their respective fields.

As he wrote, Shunsuke's heart burned fiercely. It was a kind of emotion he had never felt before. The events from moments ago in the tobacco field had been seared into both his eyes and heart. Was it because it concerned his aged father? Or because it was something that directly affected, however slightly, his own family's interests? That must be it. Yet he thought that couldn't entirely explain it. Even if he were to witness others in similar circumstances, he would undoubtedly feel the same emotion, he believed. He contemplated the farmers' hardships in tobacco cultivation—hardships he too had come to know through what he had seen and heard.

It all began with tasks like gathering fallen leaves to layer at the bottom of seedbeds and preparing hundreds of kan of compost to incorporate into the main fields. Those tasks had to be completed within the previous year. In spring, when the seedlings had grown six or seven leaves and were transplanted from the seedbeds to the main fields, what anxieties must they have endured until they safely took root? In this water-scarce region, the hardships grew all the more numerous. Just when they thought the plants had taken root, they had to stay awake through the night keeping watch against the wind. Before long came the optimal ripening period. Throughout that time too, they had to keep plucking unwanted buds while covering their entire bodies in nicotine. Finally came the time to strip and dry the leaves, but none escaped the struggle of scraping together funds to build drying chambers. They had lightened the burden by constructing drying chambers through joint investment, but when someone needed to add a chamber themselves, the cost came to at least a hundred and fifty yen—borrowed under strain at around six percent annual interest, leaving debts that dragged on indefinitely. The drying took over a month. Moreover, this being midsummer, the work required burning furnace fires while carefully regulating the temperature.

All those processes rose in Shunsuke’s mind. The figure of Komapei, carrying a water-filled tank on his back as he walked along the sloping field path, looking as though he were being crushed, remained especially vivid. Even now, after having roughly washed the hands that had been dirtied with nicotine in the field earlier, they still clung stickily to the brush handle. This deepened and strengthened his imagined world into tangible reality. He felt as though he himself had already confronted the realities of tobacco cultivation countless times before.

The requirement that the allowable reserve—which permitted between thirty and fifty plants—had to be set at the bare minimum of thirty was something Shunsuke simply couldn't grasp. If this broke with annual precedent, then it became all the more unjustifiable. Yet the truth was that Shunsuke knew nothing concrete about the Tobacco Monopoly Bureau's regulations or their practical enforcement. Were such knowledge obtained, there might indeed be some convincing rationale—a moment of understanding where one might say "Ah, I see"—but if so, it needed explaining in terms even the uninformed could follow. In any case, whether through flawed regulations or flawed people, there lay some fundamental defect.

However, for Shunsuke, that matter had not been such a significant thing. Or rather, there was another matter that struck his heart even more powerfully. He had now seen with his own eyes, for the first time, how those unconnected to production—or not directly involved in its processes—could handle the labor of those who did produce. Even facts that most people would lightly overlook now left an indelible impression on Shunsuke's tender heart.

VIII

The long-awaited rain did not come readily. Even when June arrived, there was hardly any proper rain. The farmers had gradually begun to feel anxious and grow unsettled. Natural causes were compounded by human ones. Last year, the prefectural authorities had encouraged repair work on ponds for paddy field irrigation by providing subsidies as part of their relief projects. Yet despite this repair work being a project the prefecture itself had promoted, approval for the application took unexpectedly long, only being granted after November had begun. When they began construction work, they had no choice but to discard water that still filled about three-tenths of the pond. At that time, the villagers had believed that by rice-planting season, the water would naturally have gathered sufficiently. The three-month drought spanning April, May, and June shattered that expectation. Even now, at rice planting time, the pond held only one-fifth of its water. They had to supply all pond-dependent rice fields with this one-fifth of water. Would it be enough?

The landlords had panicked, but the tenant farmers' anxieties ran deeper still. The allocation of water inadequate to satisfy all demands inevitably became a matter of grave consequence. Landlords convened irrigation delegates from pond-dependent districts at the village shrine they called "Yama no Kami-san." These delegates were elected from among landlords and landowning cultivators—the latter category including those who farmed both their own and rented fields—charged with deciding water rights for privately held lands. Shunsuke's family held no seat among these delegates.

The decision from that night’s general meeting of irrigation representatives reached the villagers’ ears late that same night. To Komapei’s house, Heizō from the neighboring household came to deliver the news before the village messenger could make his rounds.

“What did they decide?” Komapei asked impatiently, the moment he saw his face. “First off, they’ll draw water for five-tenths of the total pond-fed acreage. Once that’s done, dependin’ on how things look, they’ll plant the remainin’ three-tenths—that’s about the shape of it.” “Hmm,” Komapei pondered, though truth be told, he couldn’t think of any better solution himself.

“Then if eight-tenths gets distributed,” Shunsuke asked, having joined them, “where does the remaining two-tenths stay? Does that mean the lower fields will keep theirs after all?” “That’s right, you.” “Then it’s unfair, isn’t it? Just because their fields are downstream, they can’t plant rice... Won’t those lower-field folks start raising hell?”

“Well, that’s how it is, but there ain’t nothin’ we can do about it. If we’re just talkin’ ’bout gettin’ the plantin’ done, then with what water we’ve got now, we can somehow manage t’plant all them rice fields. But even if they do plant ’em, they’d just end up witherin’ right away if there ain’t enough water t’keep ’em alive. That’s why we gotta leave two-tenths of the water in reserve.”

“Then what ultimately happens to the rice fields left until last? So there’s no other way but to leave it up to the sun?” “That’s how it is. Ain’t nothin’ else we can do but leave it up to the sun. If it rains by then, good; if it don’t, that’s just how it’ll be.”

Was there truly no other way but that? he wondered.

Shunsuke felt bewildered. To him of course came no thoughts for a solution. He simply felt an almost unbelievable sense of wonder. The story of farmers suffering water shortages was known even to city children. It was dismissed without any novelty. Yet now that I found myself facing this reality as my own problem, an uncanny sensation came over me. How many centuries had passed since people first cultivated rice in this land? Hundreds - thousands - of years couldn’t have been wasted. Experience and techniques were surely passed down and deepened through generations. Today agricultural universities saw doctors producing voluminous works on rice cultivation while their disciples emerged yearly as technicians guiding practical farming. Yet must those who till soil still declare “There’s nothing but trusting to heaven”? Must they collapse so readily before mere drought? Must water disputes linger forever as rural curiosities?

Where did the root of this lie? Though agricultural scholars had already clarified solutions, had their practical methods still not reached the farmers? If that was so, what blocked them? Or was rice cultivation something that must forever endure nature’s capricious constraints? Did misfortune stem from water’s unique role in growing rice? Shunsuke remained silent afterward. He quietly felt his own profound ignorance deepen.

“What about the water distributors?” Komapei asked after a moment. “Three—Yamashita, Motoda, Ishiguro.” “Same as every year.”

Water distributors were those tasked with channeling water into fields or damming them up, hired for fixed periods at a certain daily wage. This was work that could not be done without detailed knowledge of how well water was retained in each individual rice field, as well as the customary practices surrounding water intake and drainage. Therefore, it became customary for generally the same individuals to be assigned this role every year. “What about the daily wage?”

“Fifty sen,” he said, glancing furtively at Komapei’s expression before

“About the daily wage…” Heizō began. “We’re tenant farmers through ’n’ through, so we never had no right t’be part of this decision-makin’ from th’ start.” “We just gotta sit quiet ’n’ listen t’whatever they decide—this ain’t nothin’ new that started this year—but we got our own thoughts ’bout it too, y’know.” “Don’t mean t’split hairs, but if they think I’m just makin’ excuses, that’d be trouble.” “That fifty sen daily wage gets decided at th’ general meetin’.” “I ain’t sayin’ fifty sen’s too steep, but who’s really gonna end up payin’ that wage?” “That’d be us tenant farmers, wouldn’t it?” “An’ yet there ain’t a single one of us tenant folk showin’ up at that general meetin’.” “The general meetin’s just landlords ’n’ owner-farmers—no matter how ya look at it, I say that’s a bit of an unreasonable setup…”

The fact that this household owned some owner-cultivated land must have weighed on Heizō’s mind; he spoke with cautious reserve. “That’s fair talk, but ain’t nobody steppin’ up to say such things out loud. If someone would just speak up first—seein’ as it’s only reasonable—things might go smoother’n you’d think… But everyone’s just sittin’ there thinkin’ it in their guts, nudgin’ each other like ‘You go ’head,’ so nothin’ ever gets done.”

“That’s how it is.” “That’s how it is.” “Everyone’s just a lot that don’t wanna be seen as the bad guys but still want to come out on top—there’s just no hope for ’em.”

However, Heizō himself did not seem inclined to take on the role of spearheading such an initiative. Rice planting began first near the pond, with water distributors and two or three rotating delegates going out to channel water into each field one after another, driving the flow downward. Three days after removing the pond's dam, water began returning to Shunsuke's hamlet. The notification from the general meeting delegates stated that water would enter their family's fields sometime after midnight.

That night, when it came to be around one o'clock, they were roused from their sleep. In the darkness, they ran to the fields with hoes. Komapei led the way, followed by Shunsuke, then their mother Omura and younger sister Jun. The density and thickness of the summer night’s darkness bore down on their flesh as if it had physical weight. The owl’s calls, pausing at intervals, sounded from unexpected directions. A dam had formed in the ditch, and water had begun to be let into the upper rice paddy. Even in the darkness, the water rushed in with such force that its presence was unmistakable. Narrow and swift in its inflow, yet its sound was quiet, heard with a charmingly pleasant quality. The water lapped against their bare feet standing in the field. However, the water quickly receded again. It wasn’t that the water had receded; rather, the parched fields had greedily sucked it all in. Because of this, the water did not easily rise to the surface of the soil.

After finishing that single field, they built a dam in the ditch and scraped away part of the ridge to channel water to the next field. When that area too had filled with water and they moved on again, this time they couldn't direct it from the ditch. They cut through the corner of the ridge separating the rice fields and let the water flow in from there. This variation in water channeling methods between fields was itself an established custom that couldn't be arbitrarily changed. As he cut through the ridge, Komapei explained this to Shunsuke.

Shunsuke imagined he could hear the soil drinking the water. He felt directly in his chest a warmth and familiarity from earth and water as if they were living beings. Standing ankle-deep, he sensed the temperature of water lapping against soil at his feet. Once it began rising, it moved with startling swiftness. (Would there be even less water than planned?) The anxiety struck him. Had those general meeting representatives and water distributors truly accounted for how parched earth guzzles water this greedily? He couldn't stop tormenting himself with these premature worries.

(What would happen if only about half the fields could be planted?) With a truly grave sense, he contemplated what such a situation would entail. Moreover, when it came to what should be done then, almost nothing occurred to him. There was not a single thing he could tell others with any real confidence. This lack of confidence bred fear. He felt struck in the chest by an urgent, pressing sensation—as though some critical burden were descending upon him alone.

Yet on another front, he could not feign the tranquil certainty that his family's fields had somehow weathered this trial through to completion. The darkness' depths seemed to thin by just the faintest degree. Somewhere a rooster trailed its drawn-out cry - faint yet distinct. Jun stood beside him,

“Oh, the third cockcrow already,” she said. “Thank you very much. Much obliged,” Komapei called toward the shadowed figures moving some distance away in the darkness. Thus his family’s turn had come to an end.

The general meeting representatives and water distributors, chattering noisily about something, hurriedly ran off toward the next field. The chill of dawn held a bracing freshness. The sensation of cold water and mud soaking his feet was a raw, vivid stimulus. As if peeling away layer after layer, the surroundings grew paler. The landscape around him, suddenly emerging like a magic lantern projection, took Shunsuke by surprise. It held a freshness that defied daily familiarity. Everything that had appeared utterly wilted now thrived with revived vitality, vibrant and lively. Water—what wondrous work it must perform.

Returning home, Shunsuke slept through what little remained of the night until dawn fully broke. The lingering coolness let him sleep deeply, his pleasant weariness carrying him through. When he awoke, Komapei—

“Shun, sorry to trouble you, but make a quick trip over to the Ishoka house.” “Since the mistress is overseeing the rice planting, go ask her what time our field’s turn will come today.”

Shunsuke set out for the Ishoka house. The mistress of the Ishoka house, still in her worn-out summer kimono without having changed into work clothes, looked at Shunsuke with a suspicious expression. But before Shunsuke could speak, she suddenly beamed and said, “Ah, Mr. Sugino from next door.”

“Good morning. You’ve gone through so much trouble for us this time around,” said the mistress of the Ishoka house. “When do you suppose our rice planting will be?” “Well,” replied Shunsuke, “only Mr. Kurayoshi’s eight-person shift and Mrs. Okiyo’s five-person shift have been settled for now, so I expect it’ll start after breakfast.” “I see,” she said. “Then I’ll be waiting around that time. Please do come by then.”

Having made the request, Shunsuke returned. Upon hearing this, Komapei said, “You’ll need to go get the seedlings.” With those words, he headed out. This year, his family had jointly established a seedling bed with other households. Komapei had done so for other reasons, but small-scale farmers who cultivated only one or two tan of paddy fields typically found it unnecessary to specially prepare their own seedling beds, instead usually having another household grow seedlings for them. Heizō’s household, who frequented Komapei’s place, were among those who did so. It was said that the cost of the seedlings was to be compensated through the day labor of Heizō himself and his son Genji.

In the afternoon, Shunsuke climbed Mt. Tenjin together with his sister Jun. Through the trees there, the view stretched clear and far.

“The rice-planting women aren’t visible anywhere. “Are they still having chameshi?” “This time it should be our tada’s turn, though.” Jun shielded her eyes and squinted into the distance as she spoke. In this region, rice fields were customarily referred to as tada. “It’s hot, and they must be tired—probably planning to rest another half-hour. “Where could the chameshi be?” “Well...” “I wonder if we’ll do something instead of chameshi at our place.”

Memories of his lively boyhood days came back to Shunsuke. Where five or six workers sufficed, households with slightly larger fields would typically treat the rice-planting women during chameshi time with offerings like rice cakes, udon noodles, and mixed sushi. “Well, I haven’t heard anything from Father yet… But I’m against serving ritual sake.” “Last year we did serve it.” “Then all those old ladies got completely drunk.” “They told lewd stories and ended up dancing—I’ve had more than enough.”

She said with a frown. “When are you going out?” “I’m going out the day after tomorrow.” In the village, it was customary for rice-planting women to come out one from each household and plant the fields collectively. Households that couldn’t provide female labor paid planting fees; some even sent two workers to earn those fees. Only what exceeded his own field’s assigned quota became his share. As they spoke, figures of rice-planting women appeared. The women walked with heavy-seeming steps, those at front and rear separated by nearly a chō. Moving in twos and threes while chatting, they headed toward Shunsuke’s family rice field. Seeing this, Jun descended Mt. Tenjin. Only Shunsuke remained behind watching.

The rice-planting women were all neatly dressed. The reds were red and the whites were white, each seeming to shine with light. The young women wore newly made indigo-patterned fabric with red sashes crossed over their shoulders, their obis neatly tied in drum-shaped bows. Even though they would get dirty with mud and water, it was the custom for rice-planting women to specifically change into new, clean clothes when coming to work. When they entered the field, they lined up four markers in a row and divided into four groups of two people per marker. The seedlings were bundled into clumps of several stalks each and distributed to appropriate locations. Taking them in their left hand and inserting them with their right, they planted. Once that happened, their posture became set; they stood poised, and their footwork aligned perfectly. It was a sight of sheer beauty.

No singing voices could be heard.

Five or six days after Shunsuke’s household had finished planting their rice fields, the initially planned half of the fields were completed. However, the rain still did not fall. When they rose that morning thinking, "Today for sure," not a single cloud graced the sky they looked up to. The heat only grew more severe with each passing day. Gazing at the unplanted fields, the farmers’ feelings grew increasingly frantic. Under a glaring sky, the ominous, volatile air swelled ever larger.

A rumor spread that the farmers of Yamashita hamlet had gone together to light a ritual fire at Hachiman Shrine starting from two in the morning. Then, in Shunsuke’s hamlet too, someone came forward saying, “We must light a rain prayer fire atop Mt. Konpira,” and went about persuading people and gathering supporters. Then immediately afterward, someone else came along saying, “What’s the point of doing such a shitty thing? Instead of that, why don’t we figure out how to get whatever little water’s left over here?” and began breaking through barriers.

Both sides were practically spoiling for a fight. And when these two groups happened to meet, they actually came to blows. They clashed violently. They clashed as though each blamed the other for the lack of water and inability to plant their crops, as though they were mortal enemies. And blood was shed. When mediation intervened and they were separated, both sides were so worked up that tears were streaming down their faces.

Disputes over water grew increasingly frequent. Komapei sighed deeply and said to Shunsuke: "Water's a fearsome thing. It makes brothers strangers and neighbors enemies. When one field gets water and another doesn't, them that went dry can't help hating them that got it through and through. After that, even when they meet face to face, not a word passes between them. They just turn sharp away. But then what happens? Once the water flows proper, they shrug it off right there, burst out laughing like none of it ever mattered."

When night fell, in the direction of Kunizakai, the sky above one of the mountains there glowed crimson as if scorched, like blood. The stars and moon were hidden, and precisely because this darkness raised hopes that rain might finally fall that night, the crimson glow in that patch of sky burned with a lurid intensity both terrifying and magnificent. Even within that same redness, what stood out so strikingly deeper, tinged with shadowy darkness—was it perhaps light reflected from clouds? The boundary with the dark sky was tinged hazy yellow like a lunar halo. And from one spot on the mountaintop surged a single blazing band of light—about the width of a sash—slanting diagonally into the heavens. Above that area hung something resembling black smoke, thickly blanketing the entire expanse.

“It’s a wildfire.” When he stepped into the garden and looked up at that sky, the thought that immediately flashed through Shunsuke’s head was precisely that. When he was six or seven years old, clinging to his mother’s waist, his teeth chattering as they watched a distant wildfire—that night came back to him. That too had been one of the mountains in this borderland. The chill of lined garments already bit into flesh on that late autumn midnight.

Shunsuke called out loudly to his father inside the house. Komapei came out. The other members of the household also came out.

“It’s not a wildfire.” Without taking his eyes off the sky, Komapei said. “If it were a wildfire, flames wouldn’t climb up in a single column like that. They’d spread sideways more and more, crawling along like they’re licking the ground as they go. That’s right—it’s a rain prayer fire after all.” “I wonder where that is.” “Yeah, probably over in Motomura village in the next county.”

“Yeah, probably around Motomura in the neighboring county.”

When he suddenly noticed, there was a clamor of voices coming from the direction of the lower road. Peering through the darkness, he saw people from two or three houses below the hill had gathered at the crossroads where the view was clear, likewise engaged in discussing the mountain fire. Excited, high-pitched voices could be heard intermittently. What kind of power did that fire hold to work upon the agitated people of this village? Shunsuke could not help but feel a tremor from within his very being—entirely different from the experiences of his childhood.

The next day, the village crier dashed off in all directions bearing notices from the irrigation council representatives.

“All tenant farmers are to gather at ‘Yama no Kami-san’ starting from the midday meal.”

Shunsuke was to attend the meeting as his father’s representative. For him, this was his first experience of its kind. He felt anxious. Naturally, he neither expected nor believed himself capable of participating in discussions about such critical matters. He simply listened in silence. He would listen and think. Above all burned his desire to absorb everything he could learn. Where others approached with life-and-death urgency pressing at their throats, I approached with such "composure". That his former self—steeped in ten years of urban student life—inevitably exuded its essence through every pore was what first made him timid among these people. I had not yet reached the point where my very gait and manner of speech blended with theirs. Like oil refusing to mix with water—whether they knew me or not—all eyes would naturally fix upon me. In such circumstances especially, people couldn’t help but harbor vague hostility.

However, such thoughts were nothing more than his own delusion. When he arrived at Yama no Kami-san's square—the meeting site—people were already packed there shoulder to shoulder. They were all cursing and clamoring in a hubbub, yet their minds remained wholly fixed on a single purpose. Not a soul turned to look at Shunsuke when he arrived at that moment. Shunsuke dissolved into the jet-black crowd as if being sucked into its depths.

On a slightly raised platform, one of the irrigation council representatives stood.

“Everyone!” he shouted. The voices in the crowd fell silent. "The reason we requested your presence today goes without saying—as those connected to Taro Pond, this concerns our discussion about water." "As you are well aware, the planting of the upper half has been completed, but the lower half—to our mutual profound distress—remains untouched due to the water shortage." “However, we cannot simply wait forever for rain and remain in this state.” “Therefore, after consulting with all those connected to Taro Pond, we must determine how to use the remaining water in Taro Pond...”

He then began to speak, sweeping his gaze over the crowd.

“What are your thoughts on this matter?” “Everyone.” “Since having everyone speak out haphazardly would lead us nowhere, we representatives propose first deliberating among ourselves to settle on a proposal to present to you all, after which we shall humbly seek your opinions on it.”

No one spoke up immediately. However, throat-clearings and guttural noises erupted sporadically across the crowd, swelling gradually in intensity. Then murmurs broke out. The man on the platform abruptly clapped his hands two or three times with hurried motions and demanded silence.

At that moment, someone in the crowd shouted loudly. “Well then, why don’t we hear this ‘decision’ the council’s cooked up?” “Then we’ll all say our piece—that’s the way to do it.” Many voices rose in agreement. “Aye, aye! That’s right, that’s how!” But even before hearing anything, an oppositional current smoldered darkly—a resolve to first drag out whatever they had to say, refusing to consent to anything rash. Struck by this wordless pressure, the councilman on the platform paled faintly. Though getting exactly what he’d proposed, he had to speak with a voice that trembled slightly.

“Well then, I shall explain… We will first plant three-fifths of the remaining fields.” “Some water will remain afterward, but we must absolutely preserve this reserve.” “We cannot possibly exhaust it all.” “If we cannot replenish irrigation water, even the crops we’ve painstakingly planted until now will inevitably wither away…” They did not let him address the crowd further. The latter part of his statement vanished into sudden uproar—like poking a hornet’s nest.

“Horseshit! What’re you spoutin’ here?”

“What’re you on about?! Spoutin’ nonsense!” “Idiot! Get lost!” “Only lookin’ out for yourselves—what about the rest of us?!” “Quit bein’ a damn rep already!”

However, there were of course also a group of people who remained silent—and by remaining silent, expressed their agreement with the council. They were, needless to say, people who had already completed their planting. One of the bold among them said: "Just planting without irrigation water wouldn't work. Ain't it just fine to do as the council says?" Suddenly, angry shouts erupted nearby, and the crowd around there swayed. Even the sound of blows being exchanged rang out two or three times. Eventually, pushing his way through the crowd, a man came staggering near the platform as if about to fall. Then he sneaked away and hid somewhere. His ally never appeared again.

Words in a somewhat calmer yet logically reproachful tone began attacking the council representative. “Did you call us all the way here today just to make us listen to this same old talk?” “If that’s all you’ve got to say, we’ve known it all along without needing to hear it now.” “You folks decided that way at the very first general meeting.” “What’s more, there’s a heap of objections.” “So you folks kept hesitating about what to do—that’s why you haven’t diverted water to the remaining fields till now.” “Then you tell us to gather ’cause there’s something to discuss.” “So when we come here thinkin’ we might hear some different, better idea than before—ain’t that just what any folks would rightly expect?” “Then if you plant three parts, what in blazes do you plan to do with the other two?”

This reasoning was sound. The council members should have come to today’s gathering with some new proposal, but what brilliant ideas could they possibly have had? If they were to push forward with implementing their previous resolution exactly as decided, there was no telling what kind of situation that very act might provoke. However, further delay was no longer possible. He had resolved to gather everyone in one place. So then, fully prepared for opposition, he had attempted to bring everyone together.

The moment he saw the inevitable outcome, the council representative on the platform could endure no more. Lacking confidence, he had neither the composure to calmly explain things anew nor the chance to exchange whispers again with the other council members crowded below the platform, their faces etched with unease. He suddenly bellowed: "Then what in blazes d'you expect us to do?!" "If y'got some better notion than ours, ain't we oughta hear it?" "Just opposin' ain't gonna solve a damn thing." "Well? What'll it be?" "If we use up every last drop for plantin' now—and then no rain comes—even what we planted'll all wither away. That sit right with y'all?" "If everyone says that's fine, then let's just do it!" "How 'bout it?"

He completely changed his attitude and planted himself there defiantly, as it were. He looked like a man driven to reckless abandon. And there he stood imposingly.

A hush fell. Those were ominous moments. Yet while the council representative's combative stance might have let him savor a fleeting sense of vindication, in terms of decisive victory, he had lost. Even disregarding win or loss, examining the outcome showed no desirable result had been achieved. His words stimulated and wrought destruction. He was answered in kind—taunt for taunt. “Let’s plant! Drain the pond down to its last dregs and plant!”

“That’s right! If they’re just gonna wither anyway, better plant ’em all and let ’em die! Clean break!” “We’re in this together—if we die, we die as one!”

Half-desperate voices erupted here and there. No force remained to suppress them. Those voices instantly engulfed all present. This became the final decision of that day's gathering. Half of the pond-connected fields had already been planted. Now the council representative declared they would plant three-tenths more. What remained for sacrifice was merely two-tenths of fields at the lowest elevation. The remaining eight-tenths comprised those benefiting from the council's proposal. Eight against two. Yet why did the minority's claim prevail? Because many who'd finished planting absented themselves from this gathering. They had chosen to avoid confrontation. Even attendees couldn't shake the sense of profiting from minority sacrifice. Though water turned brothers into mortal foes, men still faltered before such guilt. And those two-tenths bore fury beyond ordinary measure—murderous intent swelling their rage.

What would those who hadn’t attended today’s gathering say when they later heard of this forced decision? Would they truly stay silent and accept it? Jostled by the crowd and agitated by the unnatural excitement, Shunsuke returned home alone, disheveled and brooding darkly. He reported to his father. He couldn’t add a single opinion of his own. Komapei too kept silent. In that charged atmosphere, they tore out the pond’s weir again, drained every last drop of water, and the parched rice fields drank it all with desperate greed. What should have been a joyous annual event—rice planting, equal to New Year’s or Obon or the village shrine festival—now held no room for unclouded celebration. The communal effort had shattered; only girls from a handful of downstream hamlets came to plant.

The rice fields greedily drank their fill, yet no matter how much they absorbed, it never seemed enough. Eventually even the lowest areas became parched, creating patches where planting proved impossible. They had never imagined that draining every last drop would still leave them like this.

At night, about twenty tenant farmers from the lower areas formed a group and, reeking of alcohol, visited the irrigation council chairman’s house. Blaming the irrigation council representatives and water distribution officials, they shouted abuse in unison; however, the council chairman, being a shrewd man, said little—smiling placidly while murmuring "Now, now"—and devoted himself to entertaining them by serving sake.

They had already been drinking before arriving, and combined with the day's fatigue, they all became thoroughly drunk in no time, completely losing control. There were those who collapsed on the spot, those who babbled incoherently through tears, those who forgot they were in a landlord's home and relieved themselves on the earthen floor—and even one who stumbled into a puddle of urine. Then late into the night, two or three of them made their way home along dark roads where even frogs had ceased their croaking, staggering and bumping shoulders.

The next day, from morning onward, the roar of engines could be heard incessantly from the lower areas. It had been arranged by the irrigation council representatives. In this way, they managed to complete the planting somehow, but just as they had resolved from the beginning, they could hardly replenish any irrigation water. The three water distribution officials ran frantically from field to field, searching for areas where the water had run dry and racking their brains to somehow replenish it. From overwork and mental strain, their eyes had sunken in and they appeared terribly emaciated within mere days; even those who had denounced them in secret yesterday found themselves unable to refrain from offering some sympathetic words when face-to-face.

Another notice from the Irrigation Council Representatives had come around.

“At this point, there remains no alternative but to dredge out water pooled in river hollows.” “Work will proceed through two shifts alternating day and night.” “Daily wages shall be seventy sen, with costs borne equally by landlords and tenant farmers.” And here too a fresh complication had become entangled.

Indeed, not even an hour had passed before Shunsuke heard discontent rising among those who received the notice. The matter concerned bearing water-dredging costs. Resentment flared over splitting expenses equally between landlords and tenants. Yet these complaints were dismissed with only “Equal shares are every village’s custom.” “Now now,” “Cost talks ain’t pressing—April-May’s still ahead.” “No time for bellyaching.” “Put backs to dredging first.”

The man who had come to Komapei’s place also returned after saying the same thing.

Indeed, it must have been as this man said. Yet how many problems were sent onward in this manner—left unresolved, passed along one after another. The things sent ahead would someday circle back and return to their origin. And even then, one would hear only the faint, bubbling murmurs akin to crab foam before they were once again sent onward unresolved. As he listened, Shunsuke felt a desire that made his heart race over the one thing he wanted to say.

"Though we don't know how much the dredging costs might amount to, what if tenant farmers had them deducted from their tax rice?" The words rose to his throat, but he couldn't bring himself to voice them. He didn't know what sort of man had come to visit. He also feared how his words might be received. But more fundamentally, once he said it, he would have to take responsibility and work toward making it happen. Without that confidence, he thought he shouldn't carelessly utter such things.

In the evening, Komapei,

“I’ll go tonight.” “You join tomorrow’s shift,” he said, then left with a neighbor who had come to invite him, heading out for water dredging. Water dredging was twelve hours of continuous labor from six in the evening until six the next morning.

A little past nine o'clock, having prepared a late-night meal for Komapei, Shunsuke left home carrying it. It was a moonlit night. To reach the riverbed, he took the road below Konpira Mountain. Though called a mountain, it was really more of a hillock. From below, following its gentle slope, he could clearly see all the way to the broad, flat expanse of its summit.

On the mountain, several dark silhouettes were moving. Having heard about it during the day, Shunsuke stopped there and watched for a while. Before long, there was a sudden flicker of flame. It swiftly grew larger. The crackling sound of dry branches or something burning seemed to reach his ears. Since it was a windless night, the flames rose straight up in a soft burst. The expanse of sky and ground in that area were illuminated a bright red. The figures of fewer than ten people standing in a ring around the fire were also clearly visible.

However, the blazing fire’s vigor did not last long. It flared up once in a soft burst, its vigorous state continuing for a while before the flames gradually weakened, and after that, it never flared up again. It was barely larger than an ordinary bonfire. It bore no resemblance whatsoever to what he had seen on Mount Kunizakai several days prior. Yet even so, that it was a rain-prayer fire remained unchanged. The ones who relentlessly advocated for the rain prayers at Mount Konpira were several heavy drinkers. Their earnest persuasion was initially met with aversion, but gradually people’s hearts began clinging to it as if grasping at straws. The efficacy of rain prayers could no longer seize the hearts of those who had experienced them many times over, but driven to desperation, they began thinking this time might be different. In the end, they managed to obtain five yen from the hamlet’s reserve fund and some subsidy from the village office. They waited for sunset before climbing the mountain. There they poured sake offerings. Then they had the Shinto priest perform ritual prayers, and when those concluded, they lit the fire.

The flames gradually weakened, and the circle of brightness around them steadily shrank and narrowed. Only the base of the fire remained a vivid red. The people who had been standing also seemed to have crouched down in a circle around it. Soon, singing voices began to drift over from there. As they sang, the sound of clapping hands could also be heard. The village night was so still that even though the words of the song were indistinct, its melody carried clearly all the way down to the base of the mountain. It was terribly disordered, with drawn-out intervals.

Shunsuke continued gazing unceasingly.

Two days later, it rained. It poured down. It rained almost continuously for two days. It appeared as if answering every prayer of the farmers, yet at the same time mocking all their efforts and struggles for water up to now. In fact, the rain washed away all water-related problems in one stroke. The farmers’ tragedies and comedies surrounding water had vanished like a dream.

The farmers lay sprawled all day long, rising at random hours to eat and drink whatever they pleased, singing off-key late into the night. Some wandered through the rain from house to house wherever their feet took them, chatting endlessly from one home to the next. The village mayor, landlords, water distribution officials, agricultural association officers, and industrial cooperative directors paid visits to one another, exchanging congratulations and sharing their relief over past troubles. On the second rainy day's newspaper appeared sincere words of joy from the prefectural governor, who had just returned from inspecting drought-stricken areas within his jurisdiction. He renewed his gratitude for nature's abundant blessing of rainwater. In this age of advanced society—where some even clamor for liberation from science's oppressive weight—none dared reexamine what it meant that rainwater from heaven ultimately solved all problems facing those who cultivated these vast lands; that resolution's key lay entrusted to such primitive forces when producing humanity's most vital crops.

IX

The incidents in the tobacco fields and the problem of water for the rice fields.

These two things experienced in the mere month since he had begun his new life—though mundane events of daily existence—had, perhaps precisely because of that, sunk all the deeper into Shunsuke’s heart. He could not, like the adults whose lives were tainted by worldly grime, become numb to these "mundane matters." He had felt so much from those two experiences that he thought he would need to spend more time and accumulate further experience before he could properly draw out all the meanings contained within them or properly situate them within himself.

Within these daily endeavors that at first glance appeared utterly trivial—even tedious—how much of the farmers’ suffering, sorrow, joy, and indeed their ingenuity, inventions, wisdom, and creativity were interwoven was something he had never ceased to feel since his first well-digging experience. That feeling now deepened ever further. To think of it warmed his heart. In a word, he felt life. Not only was he gradually coming to understand the significance of the details that structured life, but he was also developing an affectionate feeling toward them—even feeling a sense of respect welling up. This signified that his positive emotions and affection toward humanity and life as a whole were steadily deepening. And it was precisely such emotions that should have been the mother of all truly positive attitudes and actions in the genuine sense. The path to delving deeper into the essence of humanity and life could not be opened except from there. The feeling of valuing oneself also arose from there. At night, when returning alone along the farm road and seeing the farmhouses clustered in twos and threes by the groves here or the foot of the hills there, Shunsuke would find himself tearing up as he contemplated the lives being lived within them. On its own, that would have seemed all too naive. Yet to feel such a state of mind deepening within himself was, for Shunsuke now, a joy greater than anything else.

He felt himself gradually losing the ability to casually look down on people and things as he once had. Toward both matters and others' words, he had come to adopt an attitude of profound humility.

The fact that modern youth refuse to acknowledge any authority and brush things off with a flick of their nose is, in most cases, nothing more than a reflection of their own lack of confidence and inner emptiness. Because this stems not from truly overcoming authority but mere posturing, beyond that paper-thin veneer lies nothing but servile ugliness. Given the right opportunity, such people instantly become unsightly sycophants. Shunsuke's transformation followed no such pattern.

No matter how small a fragment one might take from what shaped the lives of farmers, there was history there—not a single thing that wasn’t the crystallization of many people’s years of effort. They devised and invented things in their own way. Not a single method of inserting a hoe or holding a sickle arose by chance. In other words, there was the mental labor of those who produced. Needless to say, their lives were inseparable from production. Life was unified by production down to its every corner. Therefore, there was no waste or slackness, and from that arose a simple beauty.

While remaining within their primitive methods, they strove with all their might to be efficient. Yet it was only natural that the more Shunsuke grasped the realities of farmers' lives, the more contradictions and unresolved issues he began to uncover within them. The most typical manifestations of such tensions appeared in events like water disputes. To feel affection for life's rhythms and perceive beauty in existence unified through production—this did not mean accepting farmers' current circumstances as immutable. Doubts welled up within him, fueling a fervent desire to untangle them. He yearned to apply whatever modest influence he could toward necessary reforms, hoping to cultivate better conditions. But even to gain the right to speak, he first needed to remake himself into someone capable. He had to join their ranks as a fellow producer.

As the optimal harvest time for tobacco leaves approached, a notice was issued that tonight’s meeting of the hamlet’s tobacco cooperative would be held at the hamlet chief’s house. “Shun, you goin’?” Komapei asked. Komapei had lately made a conscious effort to send Shunsuke in his stead to gatherings where people assembled.

“Yes, I’ll go,” said Shunsuke. This was the time for the second weeding of the rice fields—work had reached a lull, leaving a period of relative leisure. Even after sunset, during lingering twilight when visibility still held, they would chop firewood, cut fodder for cattle, tend cucumbers and eggplants, so that dinner in every household didn’t come until eight o’clock. Thus it grew quite late before all who had bathed beforehand finally gathered. Those who arrived early were already being devoured by mosquitoes. Yet nobody gave it a thought.

Thinking it would be improper for a young man like himself to keep others waiting, Shunsuke went to the house a little past eight o’clock. Three people had arrived before him. “Pardon the intrusion,” Shunsuke greeted them and took his seat. The people seated there,

“Welcome,” they said as they greeted him. Despite Shunsuke’s inevitable tension and stiffness, there was nothing unusual in the people’s demeanor. They seemed to regard him simply as one of their own—the fact that he had come in Komapei’s place didn’t even register in their minds. They promptly resumed the idle chatter they had apparently been engaged in before. This put Shunsuke greatly at ease. Komapei had made sure to introduce Shunsuke to the hamlet’s residents at every opportunity, so even among tonight’s gathering, there were no unfamiliar faces. He had been absent so long that people had nearly forgotten his existence; even if he were to suddenly reappear now, he would only briefly become a topic of conversation before ceasing to be anything remarkable. In this region, sons coming of age were constantly leaving for the cities and returning again—if one were to find each instance noteworthy, there would be no end to it.

Even so, when their stories about past struggles with water for the rice fields came to an end, one of them turned toward him and asked with a smile,

“Mr. Sugino, what’s Tokyo like these days?” one of them asked with a laugh, turning toward him. And then, seeming to realize himself that the question was too vague, “With the wartime boom, things must be pretty lively there now, eh?” he added. “Well…,” he began, but unable to find the right words immediately, Shunsuke simply kept on laughing. “Tokyo?” another man asked. “I kept thinkin’ you’d gone off t’Osaka t’work, but...”

“No—you were in Tokyo, right? You were going to school in Tokyo,” said the hamlet chief, owner of the house. “School, eh?” “Hmm, is that so?” said the man who had asked, staring at Shunsuke for a moment before apparently losing interest and falling silent as he shifted his pipe. “Now, what could this be...” “Mr. Sugino.” “I reckon the day’ll come when airplanes end up replacin’ trains altogether.” “But first off, airplanes gotta multiply a whole lot more for that to happen.” “And they gotta get to where they ain’t never gonna crash again, not ever.” “Since there’s still a good long while before that happens, I reckon the work of building airplanes’ll just keep gettin’ bigger and more prosperous from here on out.” “And I’m thinkin’ that from now on, young folks leavin’ the village oughta first and foremost figure out how to become factory workers for airplanes.”

“…………”

However, Shunsuke suddenly choked. He burst into a coughing fit that refused to subside immediately. But more than the coughing, the smoke had been stinging his eyes for some time now, tears streaming down uncontrollably. A mosquito-repellent fire smoldered in the room. They had piled fresh mugwort high in an aged iron brazier, inserted kokuwa—pine needles—beneath it, lit the kindling, and were fanning the flames. Thick white smoke filled every corner, stinging eyes and choking throats. Yet everyone except Shunsuke remained utterly unperturbed.

“Ah, right, right,” said the hamlet chief, taking up a round fan and flapping it vigorously with a swishing sound. He then set about scattering the smoke that had drifted toward Shunsuke.

“You’re still not used to it yet, are you?” he said with a good-natured laugh.

“After livin’ so long in Tokyo, gettin’ used to life out here in this backwoods countryside must be mighty hard for you.” “At every turn, you know.” “However, since you ain’t no city-bred fella from the start, you’ll get used to it quick enough, I reckon.”

“Well…” Shunsuke pressed the hand towel against his eyes and nose. As the last person who had been waiting there arrived, the conversation came to an end. “Well then, let’s save the talk for later and discuss the drying process now.” Of the six people who had gathered, including Shunsuke, two still had green tobacco leaves and were in no particular hurry to begin drying, but the other four, whose leaves had already reached optimal maturity, wanted to set a date as soon as possible. After their discussion, it was ultimately decided that they would begin burning the fires starting five days later. Dividing the six into pairs for three-day shifts, Shunsuke’s group was assigned duty on the first day. When the main discussions had thus concluded, a man named Sugahara, who was paired with Shunsuke,

“Right, right. You’d better make sure to warn your father proper-like, y’hear?” he said. “This year your place is runnin’ a bit late with plantin’, so if you don’t really hound your father from the sidelines, there’s no tellin’ he won’t go pickin’ leaves while they’re still green.” “Mr. Komapei’s an uncommon stubborn man, see—since his crop’s late, he’ll end up stayin’ alone in the dryin’ chamber after everyone else has finished, sayin’ he don’t wanna trouble others, and he won’t bat an eye at takin’ a bit of a loss.” “He’ll end up pickin’ even leaves you’d think oughta be left to ripen a mite more.” “Even if everyone else finishes, they won’t leave Mr. Komapei behind all lonesome-like, so even if you tell him, ‘Take your time,’ he’ll nod along then, but when push comes to shove, he still can’t do it.” “Human temperament’s such a peculiar thing.” “At settlement time, you can’t help but feel sorry for him.” “But he himself remains plumb unfazed.” “This year with you here, there’s help handy and it’s reassurin’, but even so, it’s best to have a good talk with him.”

Shunsuke thought his father might have such a side to him. He couldn't help feeling somewhat taken aback. There was no denying Komapei was a man of principle, but Shunsuke had always viewed him as someone who rarely suffered losses regardless of circumstances. The conversation had already moved on. This highland area surrounded by mountains grew chilly against the skin by eleven o'clock even on summer nights. The tobacco drying chambers stood facing each other with opposing fireboxes. One measured four tsubo in area and over three ken in height. On both sides separate from the firebox wall, vents measuring three shaku by two shaku had been installed - adjustment windows for regulating indoor temperature. Perched atop the ridge sat another small houselike structure. This ridge measured about five shaku high, its smaller roof extending parallel to the main roof's slope. At its eave-equivalent section, three adjustment windows matching those below lined each side between pillars. These vent covers could be opened from ground level via wire mechanisms. Normally sealed tight, two inspection windows supplemented them - one opposite the firebox and another to its right, both positioned over two ken above ground as small double-doored windows. Opening their wooden panels revealed inner glass doors for examining tobacco leaf coloration.

Also, on the left side relative to the firebox at its center was an entranceway measuring one ken in height and half a ken in width, fitted with double doors—the inner one made of glass. Upon entering, one found an earthen floor where thin iron pipes about one shaku in circumference snaked across its entirety in the shape of the character “中,” devoid of any protruding parts. The protruding section at the bottom of the “中” character connected to the firebox. High-temperature hot air circulated through these iron pipes, raising the indoor temperature and lowering the humidity to dry the leaf tobacco—such was the principle behind it. The upper part of the chamber, beginning one ken above ground level, had numerous removable planks spanning both sides, from which ropes bearing tobacco leaves were suspended.

The boiler was a simple thing, resembling an enlarged version of a bath boiler. A chimney protruded from directly above the firebox, its interior constructed to allow fires to be built deep within. At its farthest recess, it connected to that iron pipe. The fuel was coal or split firewood. Since the indoor temperature had to be checked at the room's center at all times, the thermometer was positioned there. When inspecting it, since this had to be pulled over to the small window installed beside the firebox for examination, a thin cord was tied to it as a rope for this purpose.

On the day before the leaves were to be dried the following morning, they began picking them from evening onward. If one did not select and pick those that had fully matured and turned yellow, when dried and finished, their quality would decline. In drying, they were very strict about the proper maturity and yellowing of the leaves. First and foremost, yellowing was treated as the primary concern and established as the crucial standard for determining quality. When picking tobacco leaves, they first changed into work clothes specially made from rags for this purpose. Those doing it for the first time were startled by the nicotine secreted from the underside of the leaves. The clothes became sticky. As they picked each leaf one by one, their hands became stained black—stains that would not easily wash away even with soap.

The gathered leaves were inserted one by one into the twists of a left-twisted rope, each stem tip inserted about an inch deep. The rope was about one ken in length. That day, Komapei and Shunsuke changed into their work clothes and entered the tobacco field. There was still some time before the sun sank. Until then, they could not begin picking the leaves. In the meantime, the two of them decided to remove the side buds from the tobacco plants. Because there had been little rain, the ridges on the upper part of the slope were scorched, and everything planted there was short. However, those at the base had grown excessively large.

“Well, why on earth do they grow so differently?” Shunsuke exclaimed in surprise.

“When it rains, water flows down from the higher spots to the lower ones.” “When that happens, it carries all the nutrients along with it too.” “That’s why even if the upper fields dry out, the lower ones always stay damp through and through.” “That’s how things end up this way,” Komapei explained.

The leaves grew regularly—one on each side at every node—though some had sprouted buds from the base of their petioles, and among these were those whose buds had grown into branches bearing a few small leaves. The plants where they had missed topping had bolted flower stalks and bore pale purple flowers. Tobacco, belonging to the nightshade family, has flowers that closely resemble those of eggplants.

The two of them, taking care not to damage the leaves, plucked the buds and broke off the branches. If they didn't do this, the ripening period would be delayed. Because the leaves were brittle, even when being careful, something like a slight brush of their bodies against them would cause the tips to break. Carrying bamboo baskets, they walked around picking up each fallen leaf and branch one by one. This plant dislikes continuous cropping, so this was done to prevent tobacco's various components from being absorbed into the soil.

They waited for the sun to sink and then began picking the leaves. They put the picked leaves into straw baskets, made repeated trips along the mountain path, and piled them up in the house’s yard. Then they spread straw mats in the yard, and with the whole family pitching in, sat there threading the leaves onto ropes. In the gradually encroaching evening dusk, not a single person spoke as countless hands moved swiftly and mechanically. Each rope adorned with leaves was called an “ichiren,” and each time an ichiren was completed, they would spread it out on the grassy bank, sprinkle a little water over it to prevent wilting, then stack another ichiren on top—such was their method.

As darkness deepened, a swarm of mountain mosquitoes descended upon them. The buzzing was terrifying in its intensity. Their defenseless feet, hands, and faces were ravaged by bites everywhere—even as they saw mosquitoes engorged like dark berries before their eyes, their hands often proved powerless to drive them away. At intervals they would slap furiously at the insects while hastening to thread the leaves. This twilight urgency revisited them roughly every other day.

At dawn the next day, before breakfast, they loaded last night’s leaf tobacco onto a handcart and pushed it to the drying chamber. And then, the cooperative members scrambled to seize the most convenient spots for hanging. Because of this competition, they had to leave without even eating breakfast. By the time Komapei and Shunsuke pushed the handcart there, the good spots had already been taken by others. Right after the two of them, Sugawara arrived. Sugawara, upon seeing this,

“Tsk, had to go and snatch up the best spots early, didn’t they?” he spat out. The people who had arrived first glanced briefly his way. A palpable unease settled over them then—the kind that stifles conversation and stiffens shoulders.

After returning home once to eat and then coming back here—even while eating—Shunsuke couldn't help dwelling on this fact he had just witnessed. Amidst the considerable fatigue from the previous day, his refreshingly pleasant mood quickly became tainted, and he felt as though even his vigor was slipping away.

(What on earth was this?) The cooperative work and mutual aid among people through the Tobacco Growers' Cooperative organization had appeared beautiful to Shunsuke. True, when that "reserve" had been pulled out, Matsukawa's attitude had been incomprehensible to him and provoked antipathy—but as Matsukawa was the leader who had unified multiple hamlet tobacco cooperatives into a single entity, perhaps a privileged consciousness stemming from his position had also driven him to adopt such an attitude. Still, Shunsuke had believed that at least the six members within their own hamlet gathered and supported one another. When Sugawara had praised Komapei's "integrity" and advised, "Don't pick unripe leaves," Shunsuke had heard these as noble words. Yet now they had compelled even that same Sugawara to spit out hostile phrases like "Tch, acting all quick"—and to drive him to such words, there must have been actions by his fellow members that warranted them.

Even the slightest exclusive actions or words, precisely because they occurred within cooperative work, left an extremely jarring impression and attracted particular attention. Suddenly remembering something, Shunsuke asked Komapei: “How does the accounting work? Is it done jointly?” “The accounting?” “Yes, submitting it to the Monopoly Bureau and turning it into money. Everything involved in that process.” “That’s handled separately by each person.”

He thought one of the causes lay here. He thought it lay in the fact that accounts were settled individually. But what if they made the accounting collective and shared responsibility? If they meant to do that, they would have had to divide responsibilities communally from tobacco farming's very inception. From cultivation's entire process through drying and delivery until monetization, everything needed to be conducted under the tobacco cooperative's organizational responsibility, with each member acting solely through zeal to properly finish all leaves - free from notions of "these are my leaves" or "those are yours." Otherwise, there'd be no stopping those six people from competing to seize prime drying spots. Since other work phases were handled individually, forcing only drying into cooperative labor inevitably created strain. The cooperative had begun because financial necessity required joint funding for drying chambers and because drying's nature made individual work impractical - cooperation needing further advancement - yet with such contradictions, even drying's collaborative efforts remained woefully incomplete.

He thought this way. Yet given the village’s current state, this could only be seen as idealistic theory. To achieve it, first the farmland itself would have to come under collective management; if burdens were equalized, then the distribution of yields would also need equalizing. But then those who had cultivated more up to now could never be satisfied with such results. Various regions had producer cooperatives and shipping cooperatives. What sort of organizations were these? How were they run? Take the farmers in Hatano’s tobacco-growing areas—how did they manage?

However, even if a fundamental solution could not be hoped for, it still seemed possible to manage things a bit more smoothly with the current approach. And that could only be achieved through mutual compromise. When he dwelled on this with single-minded determination, he could not help but speak out immediately. He said it without even consulting Komapei. It was when the people who had finished breakfast returned once more to the drying chamber. “I’d like to discuss something,” he said. The people who were about to begin the hanging work all stopped what they were doing and looked this way. Shunsuke flushed deeply.

“It may be improper for me to say this… and I know I’m overstepping… but it seems there are better and worse spots for hanging. If we could take turns each day by yielding to one another… What do you think?”

Everyone was silent. And, in a loud voice,

“Yes, yes, that’s good, that’s how it should be,” came a voice. It was Sugawara. Then, all except Komapei—the other four—assumed postures matching their respective temperaments. The amiable, timid-looking man muttered, “Aye, that’d be best,” but his tone rang hollow, his lack of conviction betraying no genuine enthusiasm. “Hmm... not sure ’bout that,” another said skeptically, though his words plainly carried opposition. The rest feigned deafness, silently setting to work with renewed haste.

When the next morning of hanging arrived, reality made it clear that Shunsuke's words from the previous day held no power. The people's struggle to secure favorable spots and the raw clash of exclusionary feelings that surfaced in those moments remained unchanged from the day before. Later, Komapei said to Shunsuke.

“Getting people to go along with what you say ain’t no simple thing. “Specially when it comes to changin’ how things are done—even if everybody can plain see it’d be better that way—folks won’t just jump to it ’cause someone tells ’em. “First off, they’ll doubt ya. “That’s farmers for you. “Don’t go thinkin’ you can make folks follow your notions yet—it’s too soon by half. “Ain’t that your words lack sense. “Even if your words are well-intentioned, it all depends on who’s sayin’ ’em. “You ain’t got the heft yet. “To make folks feel they gotta follow what they reckon’s right—you don’t got the pull to drag ’em along. “To get there, first thing’s earnin’ folks’ trust. “What matters is becomin’ someone folks respect—no, someone they tip their hat to. “That takes layin’ down more years. “Puttin’ in more hard miles. “You’ve gotta let it happen natural-like, bit by bit without nobody noticin’, till everybody thinks ‘best listen when he speaks.’ “You’ve got your book learnin’, sure. “But townfolk aside, folks round here don’t put stock in that sorta schoolin’. “Book learnin’ won’t make men move. “Ain’t sayin’ you oughta hold your tongue. “I ain’t tellin’ you to keep quiet ’bout sensible things—speak your piece bold among folks even now if you must. “But you’ve gotta watch sharp not to let your tongue outpace the rest of you.”

“Also, no matter what happens, you oughta steer clear of things that’d make folks resent you.” “Not that I’m sayin’ what you brought up t’other day was like that, mind.” “Specially since there’s somethin’ about your nature that don’t quite match with other farmers, see.”

Shunsuke thought that was exactly right. It was something that, without needing to be told by Komapei, had already existed within his own awareness. Yet being told this proved to be a good thing.

But it was two days later that...

That day, after finishing hanging the tobacco leaves, at ten o'clock they lit the furnace fire. The cooperative's head recorded the date, ignition time, and pre-ignition indoor temperature on a blackboard, noting hourly temperature fluctuations to serve as guidelines for furnace operation. This was the general standard, but depending on leaf quality, daily weather conditions, fire circulation patterns and other factors, slight temperature adjustments became necessary. For experienced workers, such temperature charts proved unnecessary—they could stoke fires accurately by visually assessing leaf changes. Yet Shunsuke relied solely on these indicators as his guide, tending the furnace and operating adjustment vents accordingly.

The indoor temperature would be 32 or 33 degrees Celsius on rainy or windy days, and around 36 degrees on ordinary days. They would raise this to a maximum of 84 or 85 degrees Celsius. When they raised it this high, they could no longer stay inside even for five minutes. They felt anxiety and fear that the leaves might burst into flames. Of course, they thought that the ignition point of the leaves was probably not that low, yet... However, in reality, the leaves near the iron pipes would sometimes have their tips scorched. When it was someone’s leaves other than the person on duty at the time, complaints behind the scenes were unavoidable.

Shunsuke and Sugawara paired up and took turns tending the furnace. Though officially in charge that day, others concerned about their leaves came to check whenever free. They clustered around shogi boards or chatted idly. Beyond cooperative members, villagers with time to spare drifted in—perching on four-foot benches spaced six feet apart before the drying shed, sipping tea and trading stories before leaving. Farmers loved their tea fiercely. The leaves purchased with communal funds—tea so fine even Shunsuke recognized its incongruity among field hands—let them savor fleeting luxury through each sip. When Shunsuke transferred embers to the clay stove, set the kettle boiling, and brought out the tray, they blew steam from brimming cups, sweat glistening on brows as they drank.

Night fell. Once the communal baths were done and evening meals finished, the benches in this drying chamber grew even livelier from around that time. It was a kind of social gathering place. Many came reeking of alcohol. They talked in loud voices.

The fact that their conversations tended to dwell solely on the past was likely due to their simple, confined, unchanging daily lives. For this very reason, those who had experienced lives that were in some way distinct from others'—lives rich with change—became quite talkative, and people gladly listened to their stories. They spoke about the living conditions, working conditions, customs, local specialties, women, food, and such in the places they had gone for migrant work. The listeners, through such stories, naturally gained opportunities to compare their own land and lives with those of others, and each seemed to harbor quiet criticisms of their present circumstances. These men, who of course rarely read books and only sporadically glanced at newspapers, seemed through such exchanges to gradually deepen their understanding of the world beyond. When conversations didn't turn in that direction, they would ceaselessly pick apart every detail of their own narrow surroundings. They would dig into others' failures, scandals, quirks, and marital connections, showering them with fervent malicious gossip and condemnation.

The youth’s absence struck Shunsuke as both puzzling and unsatisfying. Thinking that if the young man were there, he might somehow manage to join the conversation, he spent the time until his shift with Sugawara arrived listening to people’s talk, baring his chest to the night breeze.

As the night’s dampness seeped into their skin and the air grew heavy with moisture, when one or two people began heading home, the others suddenly followed suit in a flurry. “Well then, we’ll leave the rest to you.” “Thanks for your hard work.”

When the cooperative members also left, only the two on duty remained. The area grew quiet. The buzzing of mosquitoes suddenly grew louder and higher-pitched. Sugawara rubbed his eyes blearily and let out a loud, prolonged yawn one after another. Shunsuke, “Why don’t you get some sleep? I’ve also gotten quite used to it by now,” he suggested.

“Haa, thank you,” Sugawara said, yet he remained. Having both of them keep watch through the night was unnecessary—their bodies couldn’t endure it that way either. At first, Shunsuke thought Sugawara refused to go sleep because he still felt uneasy about entrusting everything to him alone. Yet despite this, Sugawara didn’t tell Shunsuke to take rest either. He seemed to insist on having two people keep watch. The meaning behind this gradually became clear to Shunsuke as days passed—Sugawara wanted to avoid bearing sole responsibility should the drying fail and the leaves turn out poorly. With two people, the burden could be split. Depending on circumstances, he might even shift blame onto the other. It revealed nothing more than that calculating mindset.

The two of them spent several hours in silence. Their bodies and minds utterly exhausted, finding even speaking repulsive, they remained perfectly still, clutching their knees to their chests. The sound of burning firewood flaring up with a blaze drifted through their half-waking state. When he suddenly raised his head and looked outside, fireflies flew through the darkness over the fields, tracing lines of light. The swarm of mosquitoes had grown noticeably thinner. In the depths of the darkness lay a vaguely whitish expanse that made him think dawn might be near—but when he stood beneath the eaves to look, the night still ran deep, revealing nothing more than one of those vistas unique to summer nights.

Shunsuke tried suggesting once more to Sugawara, who was about to slip off his seat, repeating his earlier words. Sugawara let out a loud "Aaah," raised his hands high in a stretch, and this time obediently, “Well then, I’ll have you let me sleep for about two hours. I’ll leave the rest to you,” he said unsteadily, heading into the vacant drying chamber next door. He spread a single rough straw mat on the dirt floor there, and no sooner had his head touched down than loud snores began to resound.

Shunsuke had grown quite accustomed by now. From how the fire in the furnace burned, he could roughly gauge the room's temperature without checking the thermometer each time. He knew precisely how much a single split log would raise the heat. Once his drowsiness passed a certain threshold, sleepiness vanished entirely. He unfolded the magazine he'd brought and traced the rows of tiny type under the faint light. Until the night paled into dawn, Shunsuke kept vigil alone this way. Sugawara never came even after waking, nor did anyone go rouse him. Shunsuke went to the wellside beside the drying chamber and washed his face, wiping down his body. Beyond him, a great crimson sun climbed over the bamboo grove. Morning wind set bamboo leaves rustling with a dry whisper as they swayed, their surfaces glinting white. He drank straight from the well bucket's icy water and felt morning's fresh vigor course through him.

Shunsuke carried firewood several times from the woodpile and stacked it in the designated spot. He discarded the tea dregs from the teapot, lit the small charcoal stove to boil water, cleaned the area, and briskly tidied up. Just then, Sugawara came over, still wearing a sleep-deprived expression. “I’m really sorry about that. I completely conked out,” he apologized, coming down to the furnace and kept poking at the fire. Before long, the cooperative members began to trickle in.

“You had quite a time of it last night,” said one of them with an appreciative tone, his face etched with genuine concern. “How’s it coming along? Is the yellowing progressing well?” asked Sugawara. “Well... So far it’s only just begun,” Shunsuke replied. Since this was his first time handling full responsibility, anxiety gnawed at him.

At that moment, the thermometer showed exactly thirty-seven degrees. The temperature was not particularly high, but as moisture evaporated from the leaves, the indoor air grew humid and oppressive to those entering from outside. The tobacco leaves were now being steamed by this combination of heat and humidity. Thus they would yellow. Since this very process of yellowing determined the quality of the leaf tobacco, the cultivators treated it with deadly seriousness. He moved ahead, meticulously inspecting each one in turn while Shunsuke followed behind.

“It’s going well, Mr. Sugino. This’ll be top quality.” When the man looked back at Shunsuke, he felt relieved. His tense face—where fatigue had turned greasy and risen to the surface—involuntarily broke into a smile.

“Yours are fine, but isn’t this section here still a bit green?” Shunsuke said, pointing to a string of leaves he’d been concerned about for some time. “Ah, well, that’s ’cause they were picked a tad early when still green—can’t be helped.” “Ain’t the drying’s fault.”

As the group on duty today had gathered, Shunsuke and Sugawara switched places. They checked the thermometer and handed over all responsibilities,

“We humbly ask for your kind attention,” they said by way of greeting, and were at last released from the day-long tension.

The drying process ended in late August. By the end of this work that had continued for over a month, everyone had grown wearied and exhausted, their eyes sunken into gaunt faces. Even so, on the final day, their faces—tanned, grease-stained, and sallow—had brightened remarkably, and their movements, which until yesterday had seemed listless, now appeared infused with vivid energy.

Shunsuke went to the drying chamber around ten in the morning and began taking out the hooked tobacco leaves from inside. Among the cooperative members, there were those who had come pushing cat carts together with their wives, sons, and daughters, looking delighted. They took out the leaves sequentially starting from those hooked at the bottom. On the ends of the ropes, they attached name tags and markers to prevent confusion with others'. Those who finished early helped those who hadn’t yet, and they critiqued each other’s finished leaves. Everyone spoke modestly about their own work and lavishly praised others’.

The leaves, which had initially been gently moist with water, had now withered and gained elasticity; their greenish tint had vanished, transforming into a beautiful yellow tinged with brown. They removed each leaf from the ropes one by one, aligned them neatly, placed them into baskets, loaded them onto cat carts, and returned home. These were to be stored in the barn’s storage area. The storage area had been created by selecting a particularly dry spot within the barn and constructing it in a corner. The floor was raised half a ken above the earthen ground, straw was thickly stacked and covered with mats, leaves were arranged in a single layer atop them, then another layer of straw and mats was placed before arranging more leaves—this was the method employed. This was to prevent moisture. After stacking everything up, they piled straw thickly again and covered the entire thing with straw mats. When done this way, the leaves would steam, and even those still retaining some green would yellow during storage.

That evening was the drying celebration. Near the drying chamber there was a small open square where a single cherry tree stood. Beneath it they spread five or six straw mats and hung a lamp from the cherry tree's branch. Having resolved to hold a feast of homemade dishes, the people waited for the two chosen preparers to return from gathering ingredients.

Shunsuke had also gone out to help with that. “Mr. Sugino, what are you going to do? You, what’s your specialty?” one of them teased. “Well, I don’t have any specialty at all,” Shunsuke laughed. “Then why don’t you grill some fish or somethin’,” said the man holding a bundle of burdock roots in his hand, jerking his chin toward the straw mat beside him. Shunsuke saw there a large flat bowl heaped with several sardines and three or four thick octopus legs. Shunsuke was assigned the role of grilling those sardines. Some turned to cooking the rice, others began preparing the ingredients for mixed sushi, and so on—each took on their respective roles.

“Everyone, what should we put in the mixed sushi?” the person assigned to that role began consulting. “Like fried tofu, konjac, burdock, and octopus,” one person started, then another continued, “Kombu and taro stems. “Well, that should do it, I reckon.” Since that combination sounded tasty, everyone agreed. Shunsuke lit the charcoal grill, but finding the flames too strong, placed stones on both ends and set a wire mesh on top. When the savory aroma of grilled fish began drifting through the evening dusk, one person turned around,

“Make sure you grill that fish right proper now.” After giving that warning, they recounted how at last year’s drying celebration, one of their comrades had gotten sick from half-raw fish. He’d been laid up three days, had to call the doctor, and ended up with a bill that near broke him—that was the story.

“We won’t be done in by grilled fish or such, but when it comes to sake, we’re the types to get knocked out right quick.”

The man, widely known throughout the village for his formidable drinking capacity, declared this with a self-satisfied laugh. "How much rice ought we cook?" asked the member assigned to rice duty, coming to consult the group. "Well now," someone chimed in immediately from the side, "five gō per person oughta suffice, I'd say." When nobody batted an eye at this proposal, Shunsuke could only stare in astonishment.

“Well, that’s practically a day’s worth for us,” he remarked to no one in particular. “Nah, five gō ain’t nothin’. Even you, after bein’ here half a year, must’ve gotten to eatin’ that much in one sittin’ by now.”

And so, it was decided at five gō per person.

A string was tied to a cherry branch, from which a lamp was hung, and insects flew toward its flame. Some flew madly around the lamp's chimney, while others clung motionless to the inside of the shade. Some even fell near the plates of homemade dishes that had been brought over, but the people paid no mind—catching them with their hands, crushing them carelessly without even using paper, and wiping their hands on whatever they were wearing. The lamp’s wick was fully extended, and tongues of flame flickered restlessly. At two corners of the straw mat, mosquito-repellent incense smoldered, and only when blue smoke—swayed by shifting winds—enveloped the lamp did the surroundings grow slightly darker.

Six cooperative members and about five or six of their family members took their seats. The grilled sardines that Shunsuke had prepared were laid out one by one before each person. In addition, there were small dishes of cucumber salad mixed with flaked sardine meat and plates of simmered vegetables. The central open space was occupied by a platter heaped with assorted sushi. In the earthenware bottle placed on the charcoal grill, sake had been heated.

“Well now, seems we’ve managed to safely wrap up this year’s tobacco work today. “Everyone, thank you kindly for all your efforts. “Tonight being your first proper rest in ages, do make sure to eat and drink your fill,” the chairman addressed them. “Much obliged,” the group replied, bowing their heads. Though today’s celebration was funded collectively rather than being the chairman’s personal treat, his words served a dual purpose—expressing gratitude for his contribution of two extra shō of sake beyond their shared costs, while also acknowledging the respect owed to his position as chairman.

One of the stewards, reputed to be a drinker, tested the sake’s temperature a bit,

“Alright, let’s get going!” he said, starting to pour for the person beside him. He moved down the line, filling each cup in turn. Even those who didn’t drink accepted at least the first cup. Shunsuke too took one. As the evening gloom deepened, only the area where they sat seemed to float within a soft yellow glow, weaving a singular mood. Their eyes finally growing bleary, they surrendered body and soul to that atmosphere. When three or four empty sake bottles stood lined up, the energy rose; voices began singing from nowhere in particular, and even non-singers clapped along. One old man who’d stopped drinking early let his head slump forward—even when someone thrust a cup near his ear and shouted, he just waved a hand above his head—but then swayed upright. With wobbling legs and peculiar gestures, he began to dance. It was a Bon dance step. The crowd roared approval as two others joined in, circling around the straw-mat seating. A man famed for his voice boomed out,

“Round and round, become round—just a little rounder, come on! Like that moon on the fifteenth night.”

As he sang, the group raised their voices in unison and chanted: “Yōhoi yōhoi, yoi yana!”

Shunsuke drank three or four cups of sake as others urged him on, listening to the songs and watching the commotion. He had never been fond of alcohol. There had been nights in Tokyo when he drank with fellow students—not from the anguish of losing his purpose or failing to find one, but rather from a sentimental indulgence in his own suffering and the oppressive restlessness of youth that thrashed within him with no outlet. Had there been even ten such nights throughout that entire period? At first, the sake he thought merely bitter had come to sometimes taste pleasant to him, but soon enough he drifted apart from those companions. He had understood from the beginning that such means could never truly paper over even a moment of his troubles. He was not a man who could ever drink himself into oblivion, not even temporarily.

However, tonight he felt that if only there were someone to urge him on, he too might drink himself into oblivion. He could not sing along with the others, clap his hands in rhythm, or join in the dancing. At first he had been cheerfully chatting with those beside and across from him, but once the gathering descended into disarray, such interactions ceased. He appeared utterly alone. Yet his own heart was not as solitary as his outward demeanor suggested; it resonated fully with the feelings of those around him. He sensed no great chasm between himself and the others. Within himself, he felt nothing that jarred against or disrupted this atmosphere. Rather, by simply immersing himself in it—without singing or dancing—he believed he could share in the enjoyment everyone else was experiencing. And he thought that even someone like him could attain such feelings because, however brief it had been—just over a month—he had shared in their productive labors, enduring hardships and joys alongside them.

However, no one was offering him sake anymore. The weaker ones had already collapsed in drunkenness, while the stronger ones—neither offering drinks to others nor being offered any themselves—each poured for themselves and drank as they pleased. Some found the small cups too bothersome, pouring instead into rice bowls to drink. A voice called out something like, “The sake’s run out.” The scattered sake bottles were each picked up and shaken to test them. Some still held faint sloshing sounds at their bottoms. Then one person,

“Alright, I’ll buy one shō,” he said and headed toward where the bicycles were parked. True to his claim he could still drink, his footsteps remained steady and showed no sign of wavering. “Be careful. The road’s dark,” someone called from behind. “I’m fine,” he replied, then disappeared into the darkness. Soon after, Shunsuke left alone. He discreetly slipped away from his seat. The moon, which had finally emerged late into the night, hung slightly tilted in the sky. Along the road, insect sounds flowed like water.

10

Around the time the Bon festival was approaching, Komapei had been bustling about with some pressing matter. He could not stay settled at home. Entrusting the fieldwork to the family, he would leave early in the morning to go somewhere and often return late at night. Shunsuke neither knew the nature of his busyness nor particularly took notice of it.

Late at night, Shunsuke suddenly awoke to voices still talking about something in the direction of the tearoom. It was Komapei, who had returned late, conversing with O-mura. The elderly couple's hushed whispers—more anxious than merely cautious about being overheard at such an hour—though nearly inaudible in content, finally gripped Shunsuke's mind that moment. There had been more than one such night. And when he eventually came to understand the nature of his old father's worries, he felt ashamed at his own excessive obtuseness.

It was something he should have realized immediately if he had even known about the Bon festival in the countryside. The matter concerned money. There were payments to the village office and credit association that could not be postponed. The payments to the lumberyard-general store, soy sauce shop, doctor, and others were each substantial. As for the bicycle shop and blacksmith—so to speak, being junior members among their own kind—given Komapei’s temperament, he simply couldn’t delay them.

In rural life, Shunsuke contemplated anew the fundamental reality of how profoundly cash served as a source of worry. Even when substantial sums came in two or three fixed times a year, their outflow had long been predetermined before arrival. It was common practice for money to be borrowed against these anticipated inflows and already spent by the time they materialized. The cash-dependent aspects of consumer life could not help but expand yearly within agricultural existence. There was no stopping this. It was inseparable from what people called societal progress. Yet conversely, the avenues for income generation remained largely confined to traditional methods; even newly added ones brought little substantive improvement. Whether through migrant labor, sericulture, vegetable sales, firewood cutting, charcoal burning, wheat straw braiding, or other side occupations— The harsh realities of these endeavors were common knowledge by then.

This year during Bon, rumors that some would flee the village had reached Shunsuke’s ears in places where people gathered. They even began bluntly speculating about who exactly would flee—tossing out specific names without hesitation to satisfy their gossip-hungry curiosity. Of course, fleeing was merely a temporary measure; such people were said to exist in every village each year. Only children who knew nothing would be left behind. In the countryside, it was generally understood that if one could just scrape through those critical times—the Bon festival or settlement periods—the lenders would resign themselves to postponing payments until the next due date.

Shunsuke keenly felt the fact that he could do nothing—absolutely nothing—for his old father in this current situation. At present, by his own independent means, he could not produce even a single *sen* of new money. He too had long fought against poverty, but that experience was of no use in the present situation. He recalled Shimura and Uehara, and then a few wealthy students in Tokyo. But merely recalling them, he found himself utterly unable to muster the resolve to try speaking frankly to any one of them.

After much deliberation, he resolved to do the one thing he could do now.

One day, he shut himself alone in his room and spent a long time there. He took out the collection of books he had brought back from Tokyo—most of which he hadn’t had time to unpack since returning—and began examining them. They were packed into three trunks that were not overly large. Whenever he had even the slightest financial leeway, he bought books. For a poor student, he was one who possessed expensive books. When he returned home this time, he had sold off a considerable number of volumes, but a fair amount of the valuable ones still remained. As was typical for students, he had painstakingly acquired books—especially Western ones—that were deemed essential to read someday, whether he could read them now or not. Since he had not yet reached the point of mastering a specialized field of study, his acquisitions spanned various disciplines based on his shifting interests at the time, but it could be said that there were no books lacking in logical coherence. And he, who had often relied on secondhand bookstores, could estimate the resale value of each volume with near precision.

He was determined to get fifty yen no matter what. Assembling enough books to make up fifty yen’s worth would have been simple enough, but he couldn’t avoid agonizing over which ones to choose. No sooner had he selected one than he would feel more inclined toward another. Memories came flooding back—of straining to buy those books, of every aspect of his life at that time. The past clung to the tactile feel and smell of the volumes. And now, in many ways, he found this turning of his thoughts toward bygone days painful.

For the past several months, he had been wholly immersed in his new life, captivated by its fresh allure and driven by a pleasant busyness that left him no time to look elsewhere. He was wholly occupied with taking in new things and adapting himself to this new life. His self-reform had first to be realized through participating in productive labor. The absorption of knowledge through books had gone unconsidered for some time now. And forgotten as it was, this caused him no particular pain. Yet he sensed this pain would likely arrive before long.

What young Shunsuke sought through his rather vague self-awareness could be expressed in various ways depending on perspective, but from one angle it might be said he pursued a harmonious union of intellectual and physical labor—their unified state. None could deny this division lay at the root of contemporary society's misfortunes and humanity's woes. Yet what meaning could there be in pursuing such unity solely within an individual's personal life? The issue found its cause in society's very foundations—the crippling opposition between city and countryside.

Shunsuke recalled Shimura—recalled certain words of his. Phrases like "farming in fair weather and reading in rain" or "the experience of labor"—even Shunsuke himself could not have uttered them without a sense of irony. Yet it could not be denied that his own new life risked remaining confined to something akin to that very ideal of farming in fair weather and reading in rain. The farmers' life was finally coming within reach. At the same time, what had been forgotten—the intelligentsia within him—began to stir, demanding the unification of the two. New difficulties arose. And even overcoming those difficulties would likely end in nothing more than a "farming in fair weather and reading in rain" solution unless the principle of that unification was sought from a new and higher social perspective.

However, this new and lofty social perspective still wasn't something he could fully grasp in concrete terms. As basic knowledge, he understood it—but. He hoped that through life's realities, he might deepen an essential understanding beyond mere knowledge.

Shunsuke smelled the scent of books for the first time in ages and summoned back the life he had cast away. It truly felt as though it were a distant, far-off past. Then, a powerful nostalgia for that life surged within him all at once, and he came to realize anew the formidable difficulties of the path he was attempting to take.

After a long time, Shunsuke selected an appropriate number of books. He packed them into two suitable boxes, attached them to the back of his bicycle, took them to the town station about twelve kilometers away, and entrusted them to the railway parcel service. He wrote a letter to one of his close friends, explaining the circumstances and asking him to take care to secure as high a price as possible. After about a week, a registered letter arrived from that friend containing seventy yen. It was twenty yen more than Shunsuke had anticipated. This was because exchange rates had driven up the value of Western books.

Shunsuke handed it to Komapei. It was the eleventh, with the day after tomorrow being the thirteenth—the first day of Obon. This was while the tobacco work had not yet been completed. As for how he had obtained that money, Shunsuke did not particularly speak about it.

“Is that so? Well, thank you,” Komapei said with a slight bow.

“You really shouldn’t have gone to such trouble for me.”

Regarding what Shunsuke had not spoken about, Komapei did not attempt to probe further. However, he had likely noticed and known about it vaguely for some time. During Obon, every household took the day off work from the day before and bustled about with all sorts of preparations. Shunsuke’s family belonged to the Jōdo Shinshū sect, and aside from decorating the Buddhist altar with flowers and offerings, they did nothing particularly elaborate. The predominant sects in this area were the Jōdo Shinshū and Shingon schools. In most households, they did a major cleaning, and in those with comfortable finances, they seemed to take this opportunity to do things like house repairs and replacing tatami mats.

Two houses away from Shunsuke’s home stood a hill where the village’s communal cemetery lay. When standing in the garden, one could point out several tombstones protruding through stands of pampas grass. From morning onward, foot traffic never ceased before his house. Women and children passed by carrying bamboo rakes, bamboo brooms, hand buckets, flower vases and bouquets—among those tending graves, many came to draw water from the Sugino family’s well. White smoke from burning swept-up debris rose in multiple plumes from the grove’s shadows, its smell carried by the wind all the way to where Shunsuke stood.

The bustle of the cemetery for about two hours at dusk on the first day of Obon made Shunsuke recall his childhood. An elderly person bent double at the waist would come accompanied by their daughters, grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren. The fact that he could see not just one or two such groups made him consider aspects of human existence and daily life that had rarely occupied his thoughts before. He reconsidered the nature of family and blood ties. He contemplated the mystery of hereditary transmission. He reflected on the mechanisms of genetic inheritance. That even such an obvious truth—the resemblance shared by each face within a clan of ten—could feel nearly astonishing struck him with peculiar force. He found himself compelled to ponder human society's past, present, and future. Though accustomed to debating these matters as grand ideological or social questions, seeing four living generations linked before his eyes stirred emotions no abstract discussion could evoke.

In this region, fresh-cut pine logs were called *himatsu*. Here and there throughout the graveyard, flames burning *himatsu* blazed crimson as resin's pungent smell pierced the nose. It mingled with incense smoke. The clang of ritual bells and sutra chanting persisted even after darkness fell. Last year's Bon dance had been canceled this year by decision. Instead, comic dialogues were performed at Tenjin Shrine's precincts. From Shunsuke's neighboring households too, men and women went out together carrying fans. Shamisen twangs and drumbeats echoed faintly past eleven o'clock.

The next day, it was customary for every household to entertain guests. Blood relatives would invite each other as guests and visit one another. The village udon shop bustled from early morning. Women and children brought one or two *shō* of flour to have it made into udon noodles. It was so crowded they had to stand continuously for over an hour until their turn came. This udon was the main offering for guests.

Obon continued until the 16th. However, since there was a tradition of holding a special annual event on the evening of the 20th, jointly hosted by this hamlet and the neighboring one, the villagers remained immersed in the Obon mood until it concluded.

From the morning of the 19th, people from the two hamlets gathered at a nearby mountain, one person per household, each carrying ropes and hatchets. It was *Himatsu-giri*. They had previously purchased two large pine trees from the mountain, and now everyone worked together to cut them into logs about two feet long. First, they began cutting near the base using a two-person crosscut saw. Those who prided themselves on their strength and skill took turns sawing through the wood. Even a massive tree so large it would take two people to embrace was sawn through about sixty percent in the blink of an eye; then, everyone pulled on the ropes that had been tied to it beforehand and brought it crashing down. The fallen tree was sawn into two-foot lengths by nearly twenty people. Others split the logs with axes. They bundled the split pieces. With so many hands at work, all these tasks were completed in a short time.

From that mountain to the summit of Mount Konpira, the path followed the ridge. And between the ridge and the summit, holes for bonfires had been dug in over 130 spots. The townspeople brought bundled split wood and went around placing two bundles per hole.

This was one of the village’s annual events—the "Odaishi-sama" Festival. Within the hamlet stood Odaishi-sama, a small building that then served as a temple without any resident monks, maintained by a single caretaker. It was said that over two hundred years ago, the head priest of this temple had brought back small amounts of soil from each of Shikoku’s Eighty-Eight Sacred Sites and created a new Eighty-Eight Sites along the mountain ridges. There, stone Amitabha statues, stone shrines, stone pagodas, and the like were lined up every three to five meters on one side. The bonfires were for these Eighty-Eight Sites.

The 20th was bustling from morning onward. Along the road leading to the mountain’s base, street stalls set up shop, and even temporary huts for Naniwa-bushi performances were erected. The fire of Odaishi-sama in this village was widely known throughout the prefecture. From distant villages as well, many people came gathering toward this hamlet. Since they weren’t allowing people up the mountain, the road right below became exceptionally crowded. Beside the road, some spread out mats and began pouring sake.

The sun had completely set, and the moonless twilight darkly enveloped the surroundings.

Before long, the drums were struck resoundingly. At this signal, fire was set to the *himatsu*.

The fire burned fiercely. From one hundred and thirty spots at once, the rising flames seemed to envelop the entire mountain. Towering through the pine groves and racing from the foothills along the ridge to stretch toward the summit, the flames—resembling a crimson serpent—could only be called spectacular. Forests, rice fields, dry fields, houses, and people gathered on the road alike were uniformly dyed scarlet. The bonfires burned for over an hour before dying out. Only after the fires had completely vanished did the moon rise. The village night after the crowd dispersed felt lonelier than ever. The distant howls of dogs lingered late into the darkness.

Eleven

Autumn was the season of festivals.

Starting with the Odaishi-sama festival as the opening act, a jumble of gods began springing forth one after another, throwing Shunsuke into disarray. Shunsuke, who until then had seen the farmers only through their productive labor and engaged with them on those terms alone, now found himself required to understand them through entirely different facets.

One day, two men from the hamlet came to visit the Sugino house. One of them, Tatsuyama, was a young man not yet thirty who had gone to Osaka as a boy and worked in a file factory for nearly a decade, having become a full-fledged craftsman, but had returned to the village to farm after his father’s death. The other man, Maeshima, was someone who would give election speeches if asked, and it was known that if there were any characters they couldn’t read, they could ask him. Both of them were recognized as men of knowledge in the village.

“Your father isn’t here, is he?” Komapei happened to be out, so Shunsuke met them. However, this was not their first encounter. “No, it’s fine. Even if it’s not your father. If you’d hear us out,” they said, “The day after tomorrow, we’re holding the Ushigami-sama festival—if you’d be so kind as to contribute any amount you can spare.”

“Huh—Ushigami-sama?” “Ah, right. “Ah, right. I suppose you didn’t know yet?”

And so they began to explain. Four years ago, three cows kept by the farmers of this hamlet had died one after another within a very short span of time. Suspicious, they consulted Mr. Masakichi, the devout cattle breeder, and— "In your hamlet—isn't there a cow god? And isn't there something like treating that god carelessly?" Those who had been told returned to the hamlet, gathered people, and inquired, but no one had any idea. Before long, one of the elders spoke of a shrine in a certain mountain valley where now only traces remained. Decades ago, they said, there used to be an annual festival called Ushigami-sama. It was said this had fallen into disuse before anyone knew it. Then upon hearing this, one man recalled that he had cut down a pine tree right beside that very spot the previous year. That large tree might indeed have been a sacred tree. When he felled it, the tree came crashing down onto the shrine—a man came forward pale-faced and began saying that might have been what went wrong. Following this, similar accounts were told by two or three others.

It was definitively concluded that this must be the cause. And promptly, under the leadership of Tatsuyama and Maeshima, a lively festival was conducted. A new shrine was also built. Since then, the festival has been held every autumn. “The divine efficacy’s truly remarkable. “Since then, in this hamlet, every household’s cows have been sturdy and healthy, you know.” “None of them fall ill or die anymore.” Shunsuke, unable to find any words to reply, remained silent for a while.

At first, Shunsuke thought there was something sarcastic in Tatsuyama’s tone when he said, “The divine efficacy’s truly remarkable.” He suspected Tatsuyama knew exactly what he was doing—skimming profits from these festivals through cheap tricks. But he quickly realized this wasn’t the whole truth. While there might be some profiteering involved, Tatsuyama genuinely believed in Ushigami-sama. For Shunsuke, confronting this blend of sincerity and cunning proved more painful than facing outright deceit.

He felt as though he were only now realizing that this was what passed for social interaction in the village. He wasn't quite sure how much he should contribute. He felt that five or ten sen might suffice, but also felt that, given their household owned some land, perhaps they ought to contribute a bit more. That said, it wasn't something he needed to wait for Komapei to return and consult him about. So he asked how much he should give.

“Any amount. Whatever you feel inclined to give is fine,” they said, refusing to elaborate further. And so Shunsuke handed over fifteen sen. When he told Komapei after his return, “That’s perfectly fine. With fifteen sen. ――Ten sen would’ve been enough too.”

And he not only refrained from making critical comments about the festival but soon— “Right, right. We’ve also gotta hold the Bishamonten festival soon at our place this year.—Seein’ as we’re the festival organizers this time.” “What is Bishamonten?” “On a large rock beside the path leading out to our fields—there’s a shrine.” “That’s Bishamonten.”

There was indeed such a thing. It had existed since his childhood, he realized. Yet he hadn't known until now that it represented Bishamonten. Given his ignorance, there likely hadn't been any festivals for it in the past. "When did people start holding festivals for something like that?" "Well now," Komapei scratched his stubble, "I reckon that began three or four years back. Though we only joined their group this year for the first time." "They'd formed a confraternity-like group around Bishamonten, see." "Murai and Tsuchida probably started worshippin' him first, but now there's six households involved." "They kept pesterin' us to join till we gave in—wasn't worth kickin' up a fuss over." "Then they up and told us we're this year's festival organizers." "Another damn expense comin' our way."

“Why don’t you just quit all that? If it’s your first year doing this, then it’s not too late yet. Why don’t you cancel and back out now?” “Can’t be helped,” said Komapei, his attitude toward this issue being no different than toward any other. “It’s not like we actually believe in Bishamonten-sama or anythin’. With ’em pressurin’ us like this, we’re just sittin’ here not joinin’ their group. If someday somethin’ bad happens to our household, they’d start blamin’ us right away—sayin’, ‘That’s what comes from refusin’ to join,’ or ‘Divine punishment’s struck ’em,’ jumpin’ at the chance to nag us about it—no doubt. We don’t want none o’ that kinda bothersome trouble. We figure that as long as we can bear it, we might as well go along with what’s common in the world.”

“What kind of god is Bishamonten-sama?” “Well, I reckon he’s just another fortune god... Truth be told, I don’t rightly know myself.” “What do you do when you hold the festival?” “There’s nothin’ to it. Just folks gatherin’ to drink and eat, that’s all.”

After two or three days had passed, red and white banners were seen standing at a certain spot on the mountain's foothills, flapping noisily in the wind as people trailed along in a steady stream.

“So this Cattle God-sama you’re talkin’ about—is he just a god for cows? “Can’t he grant other wishes too?”

“Well now—just ’cause they call ’im Cattle God-sama don’t mean he’s only for cows.” “Otherwise there’d be no point for the likes o’ me.” “We ain’t got no cows at our place, see.” “No cows but goats we got—so might as well start worshippin’ some goat god then.”

Shunsuke heard the people heading to worship speaking in that manner as they went. On a large natural stone beside the field sat a small, weathered shrine. One day, Shunsuke opened its door to see what was inside. A palm-sized stone resembling pumice sat enshrined there, covered in dust. On the day before the Bishamonten festival, as evening approached, the prayer reciter came,

“Tomorrow is the Bishamonten festival, but owing to prior obligations, I cannot attend, so I have come today to offer prayers,” he said. The term “prayer reciters” denoted those in this region who made their living conducting ritual invocations, though they were not ordained Shinto priests. In the hour before sunset—the busiest time for farming families—the household members were all ill-tempered. They had to summon Komapei back from working in the fields.

The prayer reciter said, “Please prepare some clean straw, washi paper, salt, and washed rice.” He took straw to fashion a sacred rope and crafted ritual streamers from the paper. Carrying these along with the washed rice and salt, he headed toward the back field. The confraternity members changed into neat attire and began to gather one by one. Everyone bowed their heads in unison and worshipped.

The following day, on the day of the festival, the Sugino household, serving as the festival organizers, invited the group and hosted them as their guests.

Various gods were enshrined. Gods long buried in the earth and forgotten were once again dug up; gods that had never existed before were newly created—it could indeed be called a time of revival for the gods.

Festivals were social in one aspect. The form of work that involved taking up a hoe and tilling was solitary in itself, but within the entire process of agriculture, it became deeply entangled with complex relationships with other people. Such lives of theirs naturally sought many opportunities for social interaction. Festivals also served as solace and entertainment. And there were various other things as well. However, such things did not explain why buried gods were dug up or new gods were created.

Here again, Shunsuke recalled the commotion during the water crisis. He thought about how those who could resolve such critical life-and-death issues for farmers were being sought—nay, had to be sought—in forces beyond human power. And this would not be limited solely to instances of water crises. Moreover, it would not be limited solely to cases involving natural elements like water. When the price of cocoons plummeted, they would readily create and worship a silkworm god.

Shunsuke tried recalling his hamlet's festivals. Kōbō Daishi-sama, the Earth God, the Mountain God, Konpira-sama, the Cattle God, Bishamonten-sama, Hachiman-sama—these deities surfaced in his mind. What unknown gods beyond these might abruptly manifest and startle him remained an open question.

As for religious events of a different nature from these, there existed the Jōdo Shinshū sect's "o-za" (monthly Buddhist services).

In the Shingon sect, this o-za was called "okanki." Several households formed a group that took turns each month holding the o-za. The Sugino family’s o-za group consisted of six households. This was also called kumiuchi. On that day, there was a service starting in the evening. At the entrance stood hand-washing water, which they used to purify their hands before entering. Those who entered turned toward the master of the house,

“Thank you for having us this evening. You have kindly opened the o-za for us. We have come to pay our respects,” each and every one of them greeted him with the same fixed phrase. The master said, “You have kindly come to worship,” returning the bow. After engaging in casual conversation for about two hours, it was customary to commence the service. In every group, there was one person who served as the prayer reciter. This person served as a substitute for the priest. The prayer reciter for the Sugino group was an old man called Matashichian.

Before the Buddhist altar, Matashichian sat solemnly in formal seiza posture. The others took their seats a short distance behind him. Matashichian offered the oil lamp and lit two sticks of incense. Then he struck the ritual bell and solemnly began chanting sutras. To Shunsuke, who was listening, beyond thinking it was likely one of the Three Sutras, he could not tell which sutra it was. As Matashichian chanted the sutra, the people joined in harmony. It was quite lengthy, but one couldn’t help but marvel at how thoroughly they had absorbed it whole. Matashichian rang the ritual bell at intervals. When the sutra chanting concluded, Matashichian took the liturgical text in hand and read a familiar passage. The people bowed their heads and listened. Finally, when he finished reciting “Anakashiko anakashiko,” the people chanted “Namu Amida Butsu” in unison, bowed in worship, and rubbed their prayer beads to make them clatter.

That was all there was to it. Then, the women of the house brought udon and served it. Everyone said things like, “It’s well made,” and refilled their bowls multiple times.

When Shunsuke considered all the expenses demanded by these festivals and religious events, he could not help being astonished at how substantial they amounted to. The expenses came bit by bit—each one inconspicuous on its own—but when viewed in their entirety, they were likely thought to amount to several times the public levies. Among the monthly levies were three sen for Kōbō Daishi’s electricity fee and a rice offering left to individual discretion, amounting to one or two gō. For regular offerings: the Mountain Deity and Earth Deity required five gō of rice each in spring and autumn; Konpira-san demanded ten sen each season; and for Hachiman-san, twice yearly—spring and autumn—contributions were left to individual discretion, typically amounting to two or three gō of rice and about twenty sen in cash. In addition, there were many appropriate contributions required for the autumn festival held just once a year. All these numerous festivals were also conducted by grouping the hamlet into units of five or six households each and taking turns to hold them. Depending on the festival, they had to take days off work for preparations, and a house that became the gathering place for lion dance practice had to provide ample hospitality to the young men at its own expense. If they neglected their duties, they would inevitably face the consequences and could not escape them. For the so-called Seven-Night Vigil from the 1st to the 28th of the eleventh month of the old calendar and the Shōki Memorial Service in the twelfth month of the old calendar, every household among the o-za group members would host these services once each, inviting fellow members to conduct rituals and provide hospitality. However, for certain households, this hospitality expense was no trivial burden. What temples and priests receive is, needless to say, the largest portion.

Among what were collectively called miscellaneous expenses, Shunsuke thought religious expenditures likely constituted the largest portion. Due to complex social causes, farmers' livelihoods were becoming increasingly far from easy. One might expect costly festivals to be abandoned, but this was not necessarily so. The myriad gods of worldly benefits—some newly emerging, others being transformed to suit people's shifting desires—were instead worshipped with ever greater fervor. In their difficult lives, the strain accumulated heavier still. This dynamic was evident.

When would these people come to understand the proper relationship between the path to true human happiness and these acts of worship? And through what kind of path would that come to pass?

Shunsuke felt a bitter ache in his heart. Though not entirely separate from that anguish, there existed another kind of pain—more immediate and rooted in daily life—that Shunsuke alone had to bear. In rituals venerating idols, he could never content himself with being a mere spectator or detached critic. He had no choice but to join the people in action. He had to prepare for festivals alongside them and sit among them during ceremonial gatherings.

When roles were assigned by the group members, Shunsuke would sometimes be tasked with pounding ceremonial rice cakes, preparing sweet sacred sake as offerings, collecting rice from every household in the hamlet, or making assorted sushi—duties allocated depending on the occasion. On festival days, they would let even the youngest children taste a drop of sacred sake pooled at the bottom of cups. They arranged sushi on wooden platters to distribute among the villagers, and cut the round rice cakes into as many pieces as there were households in the hamlet before apportioning them. Shunsuke performed these rotational duties too—so willingly taking them on in Komapei’s stead precisely because he must not regard himself as special. He had to acclimate to every facet of life here. This stemmed from his conviction that assimilating required first submitting to local customs, though in practice it proved arduous and often painful. Compared to that celebratory banquet after the tobacco drying—both events outwardly similar in their communal revelry—how differently his heart responded now to what he had once embraced. Back then, he could accept even the seemingly foolish aspects with warm sincerity.

When he first connected directly with farmers through their productive work, Shunsuke wholeheartedly fell for them. He loved their simple and unadorned way of life. He loved their lack of wastefulness and their substantial way of living. However, he finally reached the point where he must also confront their various other facets.

Of course, he had known that from the very beginning. What was a farmer? What was their life truly like? Though he had been born into this world himself—and thus should have understood their character and traits as more than abstract concepts, despite his long absence from home—facing reality still stirred countless reflections within him. Shunsuke had read accounts from three or four individuals. He had studied writings by former intellectuals who had later chosen to live among farmers for various reasons. Generally, they left him either unsatisfied or filled with contempt. They had not failed to observe or feel farmers' negative aspects. Indeed, they had likely perceived these things more acutely and minutely than Shunsuke himself. Yet in that very act of perception, they deceived both themselves and others. Sometimes consciously, sometimes not. Most frequently, they invoked pastoral sentiments. What they saw and felt in both people and landscapes became embellished and beautified. This was only natural. For they could simply choose not to see what displeased them—could avoid what they wished to avoid. Their farming amounted to little more than a hobby, as they possessed other means of sustenance. They embodied Roka's description: "He is an aesthetic farmer." Their conception of farming resembled Roka's words—"Their cultivation is a pastime, not a means of survival."

However, Shunsuke could not be like that. Everything had only just begun. He would still have to experience a great deal more.

Twelve

Autumn gradually deepened. With the rice harvest looming ahead, the entire village began showing signs of vigorous activity. Each season brought farming households self-contained endeavors that typified that particular time of year. Yet summer held no such prominent activities. While there was a tobacco harvest, this concerned only a limited number of tobacco growers. Even regarding vegetables, this region produced nothing particularly noteworthy. Through the long summer, they did nothing but prepare for autumn. All their activities amounted to preparations for the day of a bountiful rice harvest. Thus their boundless energy stretched ever outward. Contrary to summer's vibrant nature, the farmers' movements during this period carried a quiet, introspective quality. Autumn became the season when this pent-up force manifested outwardly. As they approached the year's final reckoning, every ounce of their available energy was stirred awake.

Chestnuts, persimmons, grapes, akebi, and the like bore fruit and ripened. The mountains had already been mostly cleared, and gone were the days of his youth when he would roam from peak to peak gathering nuts, staining the area around his mouth with red juice—yet even now, one might still chance upon several clusters of wild grapes hanging like bells in unexpected thickets on the mountainsides. The mountains also bustled with mushroom foraging. Shunsuke felt deeply, for the first time in years, the abundant richness of autumn's harvest.

Shunsuke was also busy. He did not spend a single day idly with his arms folded. He was constantly devising one plan after another and working to put them into practice.

He felt dissatisfied that in his own home, aside from one ox for plowing, no other living creatures were kept. He thought that a farmhouse without things like chickens, rabbits, or pigs was, first and foremost, not like a proper farm at all. And in the past, his family had also kept chickens and rabbits. On a winter evening, Komapei was crouching by the clear stream below the house. He was washing something.

The boy Shunsuke, returning from play, was about to cross the nearby bridge and watched from above. Winter had come, and the water had grown so clear that every stone at its bottom - even the fallen leaves wedged between them - stood plainly visible. Beneath Komapei's hands churning the water vigorously lay a pale reddish flesh-tone. When Komapei stood up, what dangled from his grip was a lump of meat with its thin reddish skin freshly peeled away, leaving Shunsuke breathless with shock. The eerie revulsion of that moment - yet also the translucent pink flesh glowing beneath peeled layers, and the crisp murmur of that icy stream - remained etched in his mind with uncanny vividness even now.

However, the tender rabbit meat stewed with potatoes and daikon was indescribably delicious, and since he learned that the peeled-off skins would be bought by a man who periodically came around—the money becoming funds for his own elementary school paper and brushes—he soon stopped feeling anything about seeing the bare skinned flesh.

The rabbits were not kept for long, but he had a memory of the chickens being raised until quite recently.

When Shunsuke asked Komapei,

“Nothin’ particular,” “Just brings more losses than profits, see.” “So three years back—was it?—there came a time when eggs dropped below ten sen per hundred momme.” “Took that chance to quit.” “Ain’t worth goin’ through all that trouble raisin’ ’em, ’cause.”

Shunsuke did some calculations. If egg prices fell between thirteen to fifteen sen per hundred momme, raising a hundred chickens would result in monthly losses of ten to twelve yen. It seemed such price drops had become frequent occurrences lately. Under these conditions, larger operations suffered proportionally greater losses. But what if he tried raising four or five chickens using only his spare labor? Even when calculating losses for large-scale operations, labor costs went entirely unaccounted for unless they involved hired help requiring monetary expenditure. The work of family members was treated as completely free—the basic human needs of eating, drinking, and clothing oneself required by such labor had been forgotten. This held true across all aspects of peasant economies. If one were to value their labor at market rates and prepare proper balance sheets as others did, far more striking results would likely emerge. And if economists insisted on attributing entrepreneurial qualities even to poor farmers' struggles, then shouldn't they logically apply corporate standards to calculate labor costs?

Therefore, even if Shunsuke now claimed he would raise them using only his own spare labor, when losses were meant to occur, they would occur, and there was no reason the proportion should differ from those operating on a large scale. The only difference lay in whether the absolute amount of loss was large or small. And if the losses were small, he supposed it wouldn’t amount to much. However, more than such things, what made him proactive was his earnest desire to try various experiences. The chicken coop from three years prior had already been demolished, and he began by building a new, small chicken coop. On the evening of the day when he had finally finished assembling the coop using leftover old lumber and green bamboo cut from the bamboo grove, the sound of a motorcycle came to a stop on the road in front of the house. The young man from the transport shop in town—an acquaintance of Komapei’s whom he had asked earlier—had brought three White Leghorn hens. Asking him provided a way to obtain hens at a lower price than usual.

He promptly released them into the new coop. The young man took a break and left, and Shunsuke returned to the coop again. He added water and feed, but the chickens did not attempt to eat; instead, they stretched their necks, tilted their heads, and gurgled in their throats. They seemed startled and fearful, trembling all over. They still didn't seem to notice the perch yet. They tried to fly up to the high perch but slipped and fell, flapping their wings. Suddenly noticing something abnormal about one of them that had turned backward, Shunsuke caught it to examine. A red mucous membrane protruded from its anus, hung down limply, fluid oozed out, and the chicken’s rear feathers were soaked and soiled.

It was undoubtedly a prolapse.

Shunsuke grew angry. He became convinced the young man had brought this thing by underestimating his inexperience. He went to speak with Komapei. Komapei came over and, at a glance, “How’d you bring them chickens?” “He attached a basket to the motorcycle’s rear and put ’em inside…” “Ah, so he went tearin’ down the road on that contraption. Must’ve been buckin’ like mad. The basket’d be jumpin’ up n’ down like a jackrabbit with every jolt. Chickens inside gettin’ tossed every which way. That’s what done it.”

“That said,” he added, “When you raise a lot of chickens, things like prolapse ain’t exactly rare. Happens sometimes when they’re layin’ eggs. Better to think it happened on the way here than believe he brought it knowin’ full well. Leastways I didn’t lose my temper.” He laughed. “So what’ll happen then? Will this chicken get better?” “Mostly they don’t. Likely end up dyin’ soon enough. Even if it heals proper, won’t lay many eggs.”

Komapei caught the chicken and tried pushing the prolapse back in with his fingertips, but as it breathed, the protrusion popped right out again. He tried doing it over and over again, but it was no use. “Well, there’s no choice but to give up in the end—but giving up straight off seems pitiful.” “You should keep raising it awhile and see how it goes.”

Having said that, he left to wash his hands.

Dusk had already grown dim. Shunsuke caught the chicken and put it into the roost. For the time being, he thought, he would have to teach it its sleeping place. And he closed the coop door.

The next morning, when he awoke and looked, two eggs had been laid in the roost. They had undoubtedly been laid by the two healthy hens. Looking at the eggs made the chickens seem more endearing, and he began to find both joy and a sense of purpose in raising them. The warm sense of familiarity he held toward the chickens grew significantly deeper. He felt as though his own efforts had also contributed to the eggs that had been laid. There was a genuineness to this mercenary turn of mind—one so transparent it could make even him smile.

However, after that, the chickens did not lay eggs for some time. Komapei said it was likely due to the rough handling during transportation, the change in their surroundings, and the alteration in their diet. He also said that the chickens were of good quality.

Then, after about ten days, they began laying again. And from then on, both hens continued laying steadily. They rested once every three days. One morning, a little over a month later, Shunsuke was startled to find three eggs in the box at once. By then they’d already given up on the prolapsed hen, paying it no particular heed and letting matters take their course. Before anyone realized, it had healed properly and laid an egg unexpectedly.

They ate some of the eggs at home as well. However, he saved most of them, and once they reached a certain number, he took them to the farmers' cooperative and exchanged them for money. The farmers' cooperative claimed to buy eggs at one sen per hundred momme higher than the merchants who went around to farmers, but Shunsuke observed that this was not necessarily the case. The only reason was its convenience—whenever he needed money, he could take them there at any time and they’d immediately convert them into cash. The money that occasionally came in as thirty or fifty sen had the air of unexpected windfalls, and there were more than a few times when they were saved by it. Komapei said, "Use this for your pocket money," but lately, even when receiving it, he had been trying to avoid spending it as much as possible, setting that money aside separately. The chicken manure was gathered little by little and put into straw bags. There were those who would buy this for fifty sen per straw bag, but they intended not to sell it and instead use it as fertilizer for their own fields. Shunsuke thought he could probably keep up to twenty chickens, but he still hadn’t been able to make up his mind.

Around the same time as the chickens, Shunsuke decided to try keeping goats.

“Goats do not take much effort or money. “They’re clean, do not smell, and are gentle, good-natured creatures. Why don’t you try raising one for enjoyment? You can drink their milk, and it’s good for your health too.” This was something Heizō had recommended. At Heizō’s relative’s house, they were raising goats. It was said that the kids born this year were already old enough to be weaned. If desired, they would sell them cheaply. Shunsuke gladly decided to raise them.

One day, Shunsuke went alone to visit that house in a village about four ri away. The owner guided him to the goat shed. There were four or five pigs, and next to their partition was the goat shed. There were two adult goats and two kid goats. When he reached out his hand, they took turns approaching, pressed their snouts against it, and looked up at Shunsuke with eyes as friendly as a human’s. “Goat’s milk is good stuff,” “If you want to drink milk, you’d do better taking one of these parents.”

“Are both parent goats female?” “Yes, they are.” “What about the kids?” “The kids are a male and a female.” “If it’s the kids you want, I’ll let you have both of them.” “How old are they?” “They’re a little short of three months, I’d say.” Shunsuke thought for a moment,

"Well then, I'll take the kids after all," he said. If he took only a single female goat, there would be the hassle of mating to deal with, and more than anything, he strongly wanted to raise them with his own hands from when they were young. Even so, how was he supposed to take them back? When he looked at the owner with a questioning expression, the man turned back into the house and returned carrying a rather large box that seemed to contain fruit or something. Then he bound both kid goats’ front and hind legs together. Shunsuke was startled,

“Are you putting them in that box?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Is this all right?” “Yes, indeed,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument. Then he pushed them into the box and crisscrossed a rope over the top like a net. The owner carried it to the train station, spoke to a station attendant he seemed acquainted with, and had them check it as luggage. The box was loaded onto the same train Shunsuke boarded. He spread a large cloth over it and placed it near the conductor’s feet. Throughout the journey of the sluggish train passing through villages, Shunsuke remained fixated on the box holding the kid goats. The goats made no sound—not a cry nor a clatter. The cloth covering them seemed to lift slightly once from below, though it might have been his imagination. The unnatural silence fed his anxiety—had they suffocated from being crammed in? The plodding train became an agony; he could only wait desperately for their arrival.

Upon arriving at the terminal, he felt relieved to see the two goats piled atop each other, immobile except for their restlessly darting eyes. From there they traveled by automobile, and with no other luggage aboard, he felt somewhat lighter in spirit. As dusk approached, he reached home and promptly released them from the box. The box's bottom and sides were soaked through with sweat—when tilted, water pooled so deeply in one corner it might have been poured there. The kid goats' bodies dripped wetness too, their fur plastered flat against their skin, so he wiped them down with a hand towel. The kids skittered nervously about the area. Neighborhood children who'd been playing nearby came clamoring over in excitement; each plucked grass and pressed it to the goats' mouths, but they refused to eat. That night he secured them with rope in the barn, then the next day enlisted Komapei's help to build a proper goat shed. Behind the barn they erected a fence and thatched its roof with straw. Cut straw spread across the ground served as flooring.

As Heizō had said, the goats cost neither money nor effort, needing only grass and leaves provided for them. They had been told not to give them water, and though they never learned the reason why, they followed the instruction as given. The manure trampled by goats was considered the finest fertilizer, said to surpass even that from cows or horses. While watching over the kid goats growing steadily before his eyes, Shunsuke felt a warm affection for these animals—one that could only be understood through firsthand experience of raising them.

Instead of the drought persisting from spring through summer, autumn brought frequent rains. However, fortunately for the farmers, there were many days when it rained at night and cleared by morning.

On such a morning, Genji from Heizō’s place came to invite him. “Let’s go mushroom foraging. Since it rained from last night, today’s sure to be splendid!”

Some time ago, Shunsuke had asked him to invite him once on whatever day was convenient for him. "The mountains get slippery after rain, so you'd better make sure to prepare your footwear properly," said Genji, so Shunsuke put on his tabi and wrapped his gaiters. The gaiters were ones from his student days, worn and frayed but still kept. Genji was also wearing tabi. "What about lunch?" he asked. "You're being greedy. Planning to gather that much? A portion of mushrooms for a meal can easily be gathered before lunch," he said with a laugh. After deliberating over which container to use, they found a basket that wasn't too large but had considerable depth,

“I’ll go with this one. But maybe this is still being greedy too,” he said with a laugh.

“If you’re used to it, you could fill this eight-tenths full,” he said, so they decided to take that basket. Shunsuke threaded the basket’s strap through his arm and over his shoulder, grabbed a bamboo stick to brush aside fallen leaves, and followed Genji. They reached the mountain’s edge. Though still faintly dark when leaving home, by now dawn had fully broken. The distant peaks that had loomed pale blue began unveiling autumn’s kaleidoscope through vanishing mists—both from the risen sun and their own gradual approach. Conifers mingling with broadleaf trees created a dappled tapestry of color. Being October, nothing yet showed decay. These woods—damp from night rains that had fallen just right, glistening under new sunlight—presented a composed beauty of profound depth. The post-rain wind sweeping down from summits carried a bracing chill, fresh as springwater against the skin.

“Mr. Shunsuke, do you know how to tell edible mushrooms from inedible ones?” Genji asked as they climbed the mountain. “I think I can tell most of them, but... When it comes to mushrooms that grow in these mountains, what kinds were there again? I believe I know all the names at least. Excluding *matsutake*... *hatsutake*, *iguchi*, *tamagotake*, *shimeji*, *jigobo*, *soumentake*...” He listed them off, but even after that, it seemed like there was still something more he couldn’t recall.

“And *nezumi-take*,” Genji said. “Ah right—*nezumi-take*. There was that *nezumi-take*, wasn’t there? What did that one look like again?” “That one’s got a thick stem,” he said. “Purplish-red color... ridiculously big thing too. Some call it *hōki-take*.” “Which was bigger—the *soumen-take* or *nezumi-take*, I wonder.” “Can’t even compare ’em.” Genji scoffed. “The *nezumi*’s way bigger... First off—colors don’t match up.” He snapped a twig for emphasis. “And *soumen*’s yellow through and through.”

“Ah, that’s right.” The shapes and colors of the mushrooms he had forgotten—the brittle sensation as they snapped between his fingers—even their scent gradually grew vivid in his memory. “Mr. Shunsuke，you must have gone mushroom hunting when you were a child，right?” “Yes，I did come often.” “But I never found any matsutake myself.” “The skilled adults always got them first... Though back then，people didn’t make such a commotion over mushroom hunting like they do now.” “Just shows how calculating the world’s grown，” said Genji with premature worldliness.

“That’s just how cutthroat the world’s become,” Genji remarked with affected worldliness. The rain-drenched mountain path proved treacherously slippery. Though fallen leaves carpeted much of the trail, exposed patches of red clay soil made footing especially precarious. While oak and chishiya tree leaves provided modest traction, pine needles layered across the path felt slick beneath their feet. “Should’ve worn straw sandals instead of tabi.” Genji nearly buckled at the knees before righting himself, his words punctuated by unsteady footing.

Where the path narrowed and trees pressed in from both sides, their faces frequently snagged on spiderwebs strung between the trees on either side. In such spots, the path was dark, making them hard to see. The spiders scrambling away in panic were quite large, all of the same yellow-bellied variety. “Alright, I’ll take over,” said Shunsuke, stepping forward to lead the way. This was because he had the stick, while Genji did not. Carefully observing his surroundings, he used the stick to brush away the spider webs one after another as they proceeded.

When they emerged into an open vantage point, the two of them looked back. The path twisted in an S-shape, with four or five people clustered right around its midpoint and two or three others visible a short distance away. Far below, figures appeared as mere black specks, but there was no doubt they all belonged to the mushroom-hunting group. Shunsuke thought they had come quite early after all. From there, Genji took the lead again, picking up his pace even more than before. He clearly had the people following behind in mind. When they reached a fork in the path,

“Let’s go down from here,” Genji said, and they briskly descended the mountainside. This was a north-facing valley whose lower reaches had long been known as this mountain’s prime mushroom-hunting grounds. Pines formed a substantial forest only there, and since matsutake mushrooms could scarcely be found elsewhere, the area around that pine grove had naturally become the designated foraging spot. When they reached the bottom, the two were struck by an unexpected sight. What in the world? Those who had thought themselves early now realized they were actually the last to arrive. Men, women, children, and elders—a veritable crowd—were crouching or half-kneeling everywhere: under distant trees, around nearby stumps, at shrub bases here, all fiercely competing in their chosen spots.

“Well, well.” Genji stood momentarily taken aback, gazing at the scene. At any rate, deciding to head toward the pine grove, the two of them made their way across there. Along the way, whenever they encountered familiar faces, Genji would— “Hey there, you’re early!” he called out with a laugh as he approached—

“You’ve gathered quite a lot already, haven’t you?” “Already?” he said, peering into the baskets placed at their feet. However, those spoken to only mumbled vague responses like “Ugh” or “Ah” under their breath, sullenly keeping their hands moving without pause. There were also those who glared at Genji with sharp eyes as he peered into their baskets. Naturally, not all of them were like that. Some greeted them normally; when they smiled at someone, the other party smiled back, and if asked, “Have you gathered a lot?” they might reply, “No, today’s been completely hopeless.” In fact, such interactions were rather more common—yet even there, one couldn’t help sensing a kind of lingering tension. Their interactions were anything but casual. They couldn’t help but feel that they, having arrived late and newly joined, were being watched with a certain kind of gaze.

After such exchanges had been repeated three or four times, Genji too stopped speaking to them. Being a sensitive young man as he was, his own expression had turned sullen as he followed the narrow path that disappeared here and there under fallen leaves and grass, making his way toward the pine grove. Shunsuke also followed in silence, treading on the fallen leaves behind him. “The matsutake might already be done for today.”

When they entered the pine grove, Genji said, “They’ve likely stripped it bare already.” That was how Shunsuke felt too. While other mushrooms might be plentiful, matsutake could hardly be called abundant in these mountains. It was said you couldn’t gather them unless you came constantly and knew the terrain well. This very scarcity made people prize them all the more. The villagers they’d passed on their way here must have already combed through this grove.

The pine grove was dim and damp. Because the eastern side lay open, morning sunlight seemed to stream through gaps in the pine needles, dappling the thick carpet of fallen leaves below with flickering stripes of light—a beautiful sight. Dew pattered down from above. Shunsuke moved onward, occasionally thrusting his stick into drifts of leaves as he went. The forest stood eerily silent, its emptiness of human presence striking him as unexpected. Genji stopped at what seemed a likely spot and began raking through the fallen leaves here and there. They found nothing. Where mycelium had whitened the ground—exactly where they thought mushrooms should be—they searched meticulously but found none. The season seemed still too early. Here and there lay signs that someone had recently scrambled through the area.

Suddenly sensing someone’s presence, the two looked ahead. A man stood alone in the shade of a tree about eighteen meters away. When he realized they had spotted him, he put on an air of ignorance and began to hurriedly take his leave, but at that moment, Genji— “Oh, Mr. Kensuke. Good morning,” he called out as he approached, causing the man to stop. “You’re early. Mr. Kensuke here. So? How’s the haul? You must’ve hit quite a few good spots already.”

“Nah, not really,” replied the young man who looked seven or eight years older than Genji, standing there sullen and unapproachable.

“Well, c’mon, let’s have a look,” Genji said, paying no heed to the man’s demeanor as he brusquely reached for the basket hanging from his left hand and peered inside. Seeming as though something like leaves had been spread over the top, he thrust his hand into the basket while— “Well, well—look at this haul! You’ve hit the jackpot early, haven’t you? … Mr. Shunsuke, come take a look at this.” “You’ve already finished up quick, haven’t you?” “…Mr. Shunsuke, c’mon and take a look at this.” He turned back toward them. Shunsuke merely laughed.

“Well now,” “Mr. Kensuke knows all the prime rootbeds, so naturally he’s a cut above folks like us.” “Since we’re still greenhorns here, we can’t seem to find any rootbeds at all… What do you say, Mr. Kensuke?” “We’re not asking you to spill your secret spots or anything crazy like that—how about letting us tag along when you go out? Then we’d at least get a general sense of where to look and how to search.”

Genji smirked as he said this. “I don’t know a thing about rootbeds,” Kensuke said curtly.

“Askin’ ’bout rootbeds’s forbidden. “If matsutake went extinct from this mountain, it’d be a right disaster, y’know. “All we want’s to trail ’long behind you—that’d do us fine.” “We don’t know squat more’n you lot.” “Aw, c’mon now,” Genji needled stubbornly. “I’m done for today—tak’ my leave now.”

Having said that abruptly, Kensuke turned toward the path leading out of the grove and started walking briskly. And so Genji could not press him any further. He watched Kensuke’s retreating figure, let out a “Hmph,” and wore a sarcastic smile that seemed both teasing and derisive. The two then proceeded even deeper into the grove. Genji was first to find one of the neda. The term “neda”—for reasons unknown—was what people in this region called spots where matsutake mushrooms grew. The mushrooms, their caps still unopened at just the right size, stood perfectly aligned in splendid formation beneath a deep blanket of fallen leaves, utterly still. Encouraged by this find, he continued raking through the leaves when Shunsuke discovered a cluster next—mushrooms ranging from ones not even an inch tall down to pea-sized specimens. However, Genji—

“Mushrooms that small—you boil ’em whole in raw soy sauce, simmer ’em down tight, and I tell ya, nothin’ tastes better’n that,” he said. At this, Shunsuke meticulously collected even the pea-sized ones one by one. But after that, they did not encounter a single matsutake mushroom. Though he grew quite weary and thought of giving up to head back outside, a lingering reluctance kept him persisting—just a bit more, just a bit more. They had ventured deep into the grove until the exit on the far side seemed near, when Genji silently slipped over to Shunsuke’s side. With a face suppressing laughter, he poked Shunsuke’s elbow. Then, whispering “There, there,” he pointed far ahead.

When Shunsuke looked, a man had turned his back to them and was bending down. There was no need to wonder who it was—it was clear. It was Kensuke—the very same Kensuke they had just parted from, who should have already returned home. On Genji’s face, as he stared fixedly at Kensuke’s retreating figure, the same derisive sneer from earlier resurfaced. “Hahahahaha.”

Suddenly Genji burst into raucous laughter—so loud it startled even Shunsuke standing beside him, while Kensuke jumped in involuntary surprise. Yet Genji clearly aimed this at Kensuke, laughing with undisguised scorn as he continued his derisive "Hahahaha!" meant to humiliate. Startled, Kensuke whirled around. His eyes met theirs. Immediately he spun back, slipping furtively between trees until his figure vanished into the woods.

“Hmph! You idiot!”

Genji cursed from behind him as he fled. “It’s just some damn matsutake mushrooms. What’s the big deal? That’s what he’s like! Mr. Shunsuke, everyone in the village acts that way when it comes to mushroom hunting, I tell ya. Especially with matsutake hunting. They get up at dawn, sneak into the mountains alone, and after picking the big ones, they cover their tracks with fallen leaves so nobody else finds their rootbeds. They keep their found rootbeds absolutely secret from everyone—even close friends—dead serious about believing that if they tell anyone, the matsutake will disappear from these mountains in a year or two. It’s so damn ridiculous it ain’t even funny. You could maybe excuse old folks for that—but even a young punk like Kensuke? And that guy’s supposed to be a Youth Group branch leader or somethin’! I knew that, which is why I messed with him earlier about takin’ me to his spots. There was this time somethin’ similar happened. My cousin from Tokyo came visitin’. Was right around this season too. Figured a city boy’d get a kick outta matsutake huntin’—he kept sayin’ so himself—but we didn’t know any rootbeds. Didn’t wanna disappoint him after he came all this way, so I begged this old pro everyone calls the mushroom expert to take him along. Pestered him real good about it too. Had business that day myself, so I didn’t go. But when he came back at noon, the guy was actin’ all spacey-like. Looked bored outta his skull. Peeked in his basket—just a few lousy hatsutake and shimeji mushrooms. Not a single matsutake in there! Turns out that bastard old man ditched my cousin in the mountains somehow.”

“Before they even reached the pine grove where the matsutake grow, my cousin thought he shouldn’t leave the spot where he’d gotten separated, so he stayed there. Then after quite some time had passed, that old man suddenly reappeared, acting all nonchalant like nothing happened, and said, ‘Oh, you were here? Let’s head back now,’ or so I heard. So my cousin came back feeling completely bewildered—like he’d been tricked by a fox. That’s how everything goes around here. Mushroom hunting in autumn mountains—it’s supposed to be fun, but instead they end up glaring suspiciously at each other, sneaking around to hide their spots, or outright shoving elbows like they’re at war. Even if it’s not like how townsfolk go picking mushrooms for outings, I wish they could manage to do it a bit more cheerfully somehow.”

What in the world could this mean?

Shunsuke remembered, though not very clearly, the mushroom hunts in the mountains from his boyhood. Of course, even back then, it had never been a pleasure outing. It was undoubtedly one of the tasks for sustenance. However, ten years having passed since then, what he now heard about, saw with his own eyes, and felt firsthand—this atmosphere surrounding the facts—was something unknown to him in those days. It might have been that way from the start; perhaps he had simply been unaware. But considering how mushroom hunts back then typically involved neighbors inviting each other to go out in groups—how scenes still lingered in his memory of everyone roasting gathered matsutake on the spot and drinking sake together in lively camaraderie—one could never claim things remained exactly the same now as they had been then.

The gathered mushrooms were soaked in saltwater, left to sit briefly before being washed and drained, then boiled in raw soy sauce or simmered with a bit of sugar added. This was greatly welcomed by farmers. For farmers, it served rather as a luxurious supplementary food. Yet the true purpose of gathering mushrooms lay beyond even that. They dried those washed in saltwater. Then they stored them. These were used as substitutes for shiitake mushrooms.

When people gathered for meals during New Year, Obon, festivals, memorial services, or any other celebration in this region, they would first make assorted sushi. Assorted sushi required shiitake mushrooms. The cash expenditure this necessitated was by no means insignificant. And to store enough mushrooms as substitutes for shiitake, the quantity preserved could not possibly be small. This was precisely why they competed with one another. Mushroom hunting carrying such significance must have come to occupy an increasingly vital position in the farmers' lives with each passing year. What had been permitted to be done with a leisurely mindset ten years prior must no longer have been permitted today.

The circumstances that had made this no longer permitted were likely varied. Cash expenditures must have increasingly weighed down the farmers’ economy. By utilizing what grew wild in the mountains and fields—even if only slightly—if there had arisen a prospect of blocking one avenue of cash expenditure, they must have been loath to spend even a single sen there. Those who until then had not gone to the mountains much must have started rushing out in droves as well. Mushroom production must have been decreasing both relatively and absolutely. The result became mutual competition among them, and entanglements of delicate emotions that had once been inconspicuous must have come to arise there.

Over ten years, various things had changed. The transitions of farmers' lives could be glimpsed through such a small point as this. No matter what he looked at or heard, there was nothing that was simply overlooked or ignored. Everyone was constantly stirred by a multitude of impressions.

Even mushroom hunting in the mountains, undertaken to enjoy a pleasant day, could not simply bring Shunsuke uncomplicated joy.

Thirteen

From September to October, Shunsuke went into the mountains every day to reclaim wasteland.

This was not the mountain where they had gone mushroom hunting. This was a mountain that included tobacco fields as part of its terrain, and the Sugino household still owned a little over two tan of wasteland there. Pines, cypresses, chestnuts, Japanese chestnuts, mountain azaleas, sasa bamboo grass, and the like grew densely. There were few exceptionally large trees, but the growth was so dense that even at noon it remained dimly lit. This year, the frost covering the ground had come earlier than in ordinary years. At the end of October, when he suddenly woke in the night to find the back of his neck unnaturally cold, morning revealed a fog like white smoke clinging to the earth where thick frost columns now stood. When such days persisted, the mountain leaves began falling with sudden urgency. Some dropped before fully reddening. Every morning as he set out, Shunsuke found himself feeling oddly rushed, as though driven forward by some invisible force.

“It’s gotten really cold all of a sudden. I’ll take the foot warmer again today.”

With those words, Shunsuke set out. The sky was high and clear, everything bone-dry, and even on days when the wind had grown quite cold, entering the woods felt damp and warm. Shunsuke swung the felling axe and first proceeded to cut down the undergrowth, excluding the tall trees. When the felled undergrowth reached a certain volume, he would gather it and pile it in one place. Then he moved forward again. At dusk, he bound the day’s felled wood with kudzu vines, making several bundles. It took about twenty days just to clear the undergrowth.

Fallen leaves from this year had piled thickly atop those that had fallen late the previous year. He would rake them together with a bamboo rake, pack them into bamboo baskets, shoulder the load, and transport it down from the mountain. He made countless trips up and down each day. This would be used as compost for the tobacco fields. The old fallen leaves had decayed and were half turned into soil. He gathered these as well. This was known as “mountain grime,” one of the most effective fertilizers. The cleared mountain had its bare surface exposed, and the tall trees standing here and there appeared to stretch smoothly and immensely high into the sky, creating a neat and tidy view.

“That’s quite a view,” Komapei said as he came to look.

“Somehow it feels like a waste to turn this into fields. If we were to put benches under those trees and dig a pond there, it’d be just like a park.” “Even the wealthiest people can’t have many gardens as fine as this.” However, the tall trees had to be uprooted, and at the mountain’s base, the mattock had to be struck. To fell a tall tree, one dug deeply around it and severed its firmly entrenched roots. Then, utilizing the tree’s own weight, those not too large were pulled down by hand, while those too big to handle were brought down with ropes. When done by hand, pushing forward sufficed, but when using a rope, one had to pull toward oneself. As he pulled with all his strength, the tree gradually began to tilt, its branches swaying back and forth as leaves showered down onto his body. Before long, when a creak came from the area around the remaining severed roots, the tree came crashing down over him with a rustling roar. In an instant, Shunsuke released the rope and leaped sideways to escape. At the same time, he heard the satisfying thud of the earth shaking.

The felled trees were sawn into lumber and firewood. Processing a single tree could take half a day, a full day, or sometimes even longer. When that was done, Shunsuke drove the first mattock forcefully into the mountain's base. Then he began digging up from the roots of sasa bamboo grass and undergrowth. He was no longer the same man he had been that spring. Over these months, his body had grown astonishingly robust. Though never particularly frail to begin with, his chest and shoulders now bore muscles seen only in those who labored without respite. His posture had acquired an unshakable solidity. Blisters formed and burst repeatedly until his palms thickened gradually. Soon he'd likely grasp hot coals barehanded without flinching. He could lift millstone-sized roots and carry them far away; even when swinging the heavy mattock dozens of times into soil hardened by sasa roots spreading like wire mesh - even as sweat drenched his entire body - he no longer felt breathless enough to call it strain.

While digging up the soil, Shunsuke cherished various plans in his mind. The waste land should have been cultivated long before. They were not farmers who could afford to leave even a little over two tan of land lying fallow. Leaving it as waste land would merely ensure they didn’t go short of firewood or brushwood—nothing more. It needed to be cultivated quickly and fully utilized as farmland. The reason it had remained in that state for so long was that until now, Komapei had been the only male laborer, and being constantly occupied with seasonal work, he had never found the time.

Having reclaimed the land—what should he plant there?

Taking into account that it was land at the foot of the mountain, Shunsuke considered various possibilities. He first thought of planting fruit trees. However, even crops like grapes and peaches would take three years to bear fruit. The slow capital recovery made him hesitate. Given his family’s current circumstances, it didn’t seem like a suitable choice. What about pyrethrum? While it suited the local conditions and was something he wanted to try cultivating, the issue was how wildly unstable market prices were. There was also the danger of being skillfully exploited by middlemen and ending up essentially working for the merchants.

After much consideration, he decided to make this area a tobacco field as well. Newly reclaimed mountainside land offered the most suitable conditions for tobacco cultivation. Moreover, from the aspect of profit, there was nothing else that could compare to tobacco. He also considered digging a pond of appropriate size here. It would serve as a water reservoir. This would spare them the laborious effort of having to carry water up from the mountain's base.

He refined his thoughts, and devising one plan after another became an irresistible delight. This was a delight he had not known at all until six months ago. He felt as though he had made a new discovery—that he could be such an active person. His plans were based on his own desires. It was neither done reluctantly nor compelled by others. And at present, he could immediately put his plans into practice. The results of implementation manifested there in clear, tangible form as the concrete products born from his labor. The refreshing delight he had never known before came from that.

Shunsuke put down the mattock, sat on one of the tree roots, and rested for a while as he wiped his sweat.

Along the path below the mountain that led to the neighboring village, two lion handlers passed by, leisurely beating their drums. The neighboring village's tutelary deity festival began today. They were probably heading there.

Shunsuke knew, of course, that tobacco cultivation was a government enterprise. However, he did not know the detailed regulations. He did not know what various restrictions the Monopoly Bureau had established regarding cultivation permits. And what he learned about that became his first experience of the obstacles he would have to break through.

This autumn’s rice harvest was generally extremely poor. There had been almost no damage from drought. However, when heavy rains continued into September, the rice had reached precisely the flowering stage of its mid-season growth. Pollination was severely impaired by this. To compound matters, a violent storm struck at month’s end, violently shaking the rice plants until their ears rubbed together—resulting in grains that failed to develop properly and produced what they called white ears. Shunsuke too suspended his mountain work temporarily to harvest rice. The anxiety over this year’s yield wouldn’t let him remain alone in the mountains. They immediately dried the harvested rice on deko racks built right in the fields. Crossing two long logs with their bases splayed open to stand upright, they made two such frames, then laid a crossbeam between their intersections to hang the rice. This was what they called a deko drying rack. Thus they prepared against rain. After drying two or three days, they carried it into their yard, threshed it with the rice machine, then spread the unhulled grains across dozens of straw mats laid out for drying.

There were hulling machine operators who made their rounds from house to house hulling rice as their trade; nowadays, not a single household used mortars for their own hulling anymore. This fact too was both a new reality for Shunsuke and a change worthy of attention. All work was power-driven. Even mortars had now changed to rubber rollers. This was likely one of the most striking examples of machinery's encroachment into agricultural labor. Through machinery, the unhulled rice from one tanbu could be processed in thirty to forty minutes. This was indeed likely a great step forward.

Progress, however, is accompanied by contradictions. Under certain living conditions, if there is a step forward in one aspect of life, all other aspects must also advance accordingly. As long as this does not occur, there can be no harmony, and contradictions will not cease.

Shunsuke saw that even the mechanization of farm tools—an obvious advancement—was not necessarily welcomed by the farmers. If society in general had come to be that way, then there was no help for it. Since they couldn’t very well keep clinging to the old customs alone. He came to understand that this was an extremely passive form of adaptation. He came to understand that there were circumstances preventing them from simply rejoicing in just the faster work and reduced labor.

Per bale, a ten-sen hulling fee was required. If you did it yourself with an earthen mortar, this wasn’t necessary. And while one might argue that this overall burden—viewed in its entirety—was not light by any means, it shouldn’t be questioned as anything other than a necessary burden to bear in exchange for such benefits. The greatest concern was that since the implementation of machine hulling, the four-to bale could no longer be treated as the same four-to bale as before. With machine hulling, the rice was hulled more cleanly than before. The surface of the brown rice became smooth. When such rice was packed into bales, the grains settled firmly under their own weight, each kernel nestling snugly against the others. This tightness—this complete absence of gaps—formed a stark difference from rice hulled using an earthen mortar. As a result, even though they were the same four-to bales, compared to those of the past, farmers had to pack a significantly greater amount of rice into them. According to what people said, the difference amounted to 2 to 3 sho by volume or 3 to 4 kilos by weight.

The rice packed into straw bales had to undergo rigorous inspection for each and every bale. It was an inspection conducted to improve production quality and maintain the market reputation of prefectural rice. When inspections were conducted by weight, the weight of a machine-hulled bale became the inspection standard. The standard had risen by that much. When farmers stored rice in bales for their own households, whether they packed more into each bale or whether inspection standards became higher was of no consequence. However, more than half of the rice packed into bales was their rice, yet in truth, it was not their rice. They had to take it to the landlord’s place. They now had to take three shō extra per bale for free compared to before.

The farmers pleaded their case about this. This was likely an inevitable outcome of machine hulling. Yet to claim that machinery was bad and they should revert to earthen mortars missed the point. If progress in production had not yet become true joy for the producers, then everything needed improving until it reached such a state. If this extra packing was an undeniable fact, shouldn't those receiving this surplus show some consideration regarding it?

Shouldn’t the rice inspection system also adopt appropriate measures to compensate for producers’ losses arising from weight discrepancies?

Shunsuke took some brown rice being spat out from the hulling machine's mouth and examined it. That there were many so-called immature grains - their kernels unfilled and bodies grown thin and shriveled - was something even someone like him could plainly see. With this state of things, how could it ever pass as acceptable rice?

Komapei also took a pinch between his fingers, placed it on his palm, and stared fixedly with a severe expression.

There were many things that needed improvement. And everyone felt this. As for how exactly these things needed improving, few lacked understanding. What was truly lacking was people. Someone needed to step forward—to systematically articulate what everyone was thinking and actually begin working toward its realization. No such person existed. Shunsuke remembered what Komapei and Heizō had once discussed. Their lament—that though everyone privately agreed, nothing could be done while they kept shoving responsibility onto one another.

Is it not that someone like myself must become that kind of person? Whether I currently possessed such strength was doubtful. However, unless I strive to become such a person, even my decision to enter this life would not be illuminated by new light.

While staring at the few grains of broken rice in his palm, Shunsuke continued to think. As days passed and the rice underwent inspection, half of the bales were deemed unqualified. The inspectors wrapped qualification certificates around the ropes of approved straw bales and pasted the ends firmly with glue. The certificates were made from sturdy kōzo paper, had revenue stamps affixed, and bore numbers indicating their grade stamped in blue ink with a rubber stamp. “For the unqualified ones too—wrap ’em with the black rejection paper, would you?”

Glaring sideways at the inspectors, Komapei said with an uncharacteristically displeased expression.

Fourteen

The morning and evening mountain winds took on a biting cold. The mountain shed all leaves from its deciduous trees, and even the evergreens had turned a gloomy, dull blackness that contrasted starkly with the gray sky. Days when the sky stretched high and crisp had become scarce of late. In the high mountains of the neighboring province, snow must have been falling; here too, the sky looked as though it might bring sleet that night.

In the empty fields, there were no human figures, and only the fierce sky wind raged with swift, terrible force.

Had everything truly come to an end?

The farmers’ labors through the seasons were varied and diverse. But it would not be an exaggeration to say that the center of all their endeavors, all their activities, was ultimately directed toward and unified by rice. The farmers’ labor—from selecting rice seeds to harvesting the crop—could be viewed as a single cycle. Now that they had finished the harvest, stacked the rice bales in the inner room, and offered sacred sake, had everything come to a temporary end? And so, were the people quietly settling into winter?

That was not so. Stacking rice bales did not in any way signify their completion.

Look at the highway. On the highway where carts kicked up whitish dried earth into the sky, the sound of wheels could be heard. There were carts pulled by oxen. There were also carts pulled by people. Yet rice bales were loaded onto them all alike. Though wearing work clothes, the farmers had made themselves neater than usual, new hand towels wrapped around their necks. In some cases children pushed from behind as the carts moved forward. Thus they headed toward houses with storehouses or warehouses - some in their own village, others in villages far away.

At the Sugino household as well, on the night before the day they were to deliver the tenant rice rent, Shunsuke’s mother Omura went to inform the landlord Yamashita of this.

During the tax rice delivery period, which lasted about a month, it was customary for landlords to remain at home, and even those who were usually elsewhere would return to personally meet with their tenant farmers.

“Did you go?” Sensing Omura had returned, Komapei called out from the back room. “Yes, I went.” She fell silent after this reply, but Omura had been hearing Shunsuke arguing with his father in an unusually loud voice ever since entering the tea room. “But Father—what I’m saying makes sense to anyone who hears it. Not a soul would call it selfish.” “This isn’t about defying Yamashita or anything.” “It’s perfectly reasonable—if we explain it to him properly, even Yamashita would agree.”

“It ain't that we're sayin' what you're sayin' is unreasonable or nonsense.” “That's exactly as you say.” “But just 'cause somethin' makes sense don't mean that's all there is to it.”

“You’re saying that even though it’s reasonable, that alone still leaves something unsettled?” “Nearly half being unqualified—this isn’t some lie, it’s the actual reality.” “And this didn’t happen just to us—it wasn’t because our methods were poor, but due to the weather. It’s the same everywhere.” “So there’s no need to take only qualified rice for the tenant rent.” “I think there’s absolutely no issue with mixing in some unqualified rice.” “If we deliver eleven bales of tenant rice using only qualified grain, what’ll remain afterward?” “Nothing but unqualified rice, right?” “If we were to use all of it for household consumption, that’d be fine—but even we need to sell some eventually.” “The Yamashitas don’t sell all theirs either.” “They’d keep household rice for themselves at their place, wouldn’t they?” “Even if they receive unqualified rice, they could just allocate that for their own meals.” “I believe it’s an extremely balanced approach that inconveniences neither side.”

“We actually thought the same thing at first,” Komapei said. “We considered taking maybe half qualified and half unqualified rice. That’s precisely why we asked the inspector to put those black disqualification labels even on the unqualified ones, see? If it was just for our own household rice, there’d be no need to bother with labels at all.” “Then why did you change your mind again?” Shunsuke pressed. “Why decide to use only qualified rice after all?”

Komapei did not answer. He held his hands over the hibachi, leaning forward slightly, and remained silent. “Are you saying taking unqualified rice would displease Yamashita? Put him in a bad mood?” “Or that you won’t feel right unless we do this?” “Or you don’t want to lag behind the others?” “Whatever the reason, I think they’re all petty concerns.” “I’ll talk to Yamashita myself.” “Matters of principle must be clearly stated.”

Shunsuke was more agitated today than ever before. And he was persistent. Even then, as Komapei remained silent, finally—

“Father, you’re being utterly single-minded in your dutifulness. “Being dutiful is fine, but I don’t believe humans should be defined by that alone. “We must stand up for what needs asserting,” he pressed on.

He was simply frustrated. He harbored no particular ill will toward Yamashita himself, but unless clear logic—common sense that anyone could understand—was followed, his youthful single-minded determination simply could not endure. And he also had doubts about the attitude and feelings of his utterly stubborn old father. Was it simply excessive dutifulness, or was there something else to it? He sensed something servile in this excessive deference to their opponent, and it irritated him.

“What on earth do they do elsewhere? Why don’t you go ask and find out?”

Shunsuke muttered as if talking to himself.

Komapei remained stubbornly silent even then. He thought his son’s ideas were naive. Due to his lack of worldly experience, he believed more time needed to pass and various hardships endured before understanding could come. What did his son truly know about the actual relationship between landlords and tenant farmers? He only knew what was written on paper. “Landlords and tenants have a parent-child relationship, they claim—but that’s pure nonsense.” His son had merely read such statements in books. The boy had suggested asking how others handled it, but if he actually investigated, he’d surely be shocked to find everyone—even those borrowing from elsewhere—trying to deliver only qualified rice.

The fear of displeasing Yamashita, or the compulsion to submit only rice that passed inspection—both were precisely what they appeared to be. Yet if causing offense had merely meant provoking temporary displeasure, even Komapei would not have hesitated to risk it. To keep secure in their hands, year after year, the tenant lands they were permitted to cultivate—how finely those farmers had to hone their nerves! They had to refine nerves as thick as wire into threads as fine as needles. Beyond their dealings with landlords lay the relationships between tenant farmers themselves. Even those who typically exchanged smiles would watch for weaknesses when tenant plots were at stake—intricate dynamics his son could not yet grasp.

However, Komapei said nothing about any of those things. Through his own experiences, the son would gradually come to know everything. The next morning, the father and son loaded rice bales onto the oxcart. They silently shouldered the rice bales. Mother and Jun stood in the dirt-floored room watching. What they had loaded was only qualified rice. Shunsuke also no longer argued about anything. All eleven bales of tenant rice rent were loaded. Among tenant farmers, even those with only a small number of bales rarely took them all at once. They would spread it out over about two days, loading them onto the cart little by little. Various psychological factors were at play there, but Komapei took them all at once.

“Shun, you don’t have to go if you’d rather not.” When it came time to depart, Komapei said so. “Yes… but I’ll go.” Komapei turned toward O-michi, who was standing nearby, “Michi, are you comin’ too?”

O-michi glanced at her mother. Since her mother remained silent, "I don’t have to go." she said in a low voice.

It was common for husband and wife to go together, often with their children in tow. While the man went up to greet the master, his wife met the mistress at the kitchen entrance. Women had their own conversations among themselves. And then they would receive a single new hand towel, and the children would return home with small paper bags of sweets.

It was just that simple, yet these exchanges between women carried a multitude of meanings. The conversations might dwell on children growing up—remarks like "Your so-and-so will be fifteen next year; if you're thinking of sending them into service somewhere, I could help arrange it"—or discussions about crop quality, or the mistress's accounts of her autumn sightseeing trip to Kyoto and Osaka. While such exchanges remained in these realms, they could sometimes delve deeper, touching upon matters that directly impacted their livelihoods. Blending a deftness and tenacity unique to women, these approaches came creeping in from the flank. If they carelessly made some offhand reply, it could be taken as binding words, leading to irreversible consequences later. When a tenant contract's term neared expiration, this might become the reason for its renewal under unfavorable conditions.

And while Yamashita’s husband was relatively calm and composed, his wife had earned a reputation as a shrewd woman who excelled at employing such flanking tactics. That was why Shunsuke’s mother did not wish to go. “Well then, we’ll be off.”

The oxcart began to move.

Yamashita’s house stood at the village outskirts. He was a mid-level landlord without any white-walled storehouses. There existed one sizable wooden warehouse. The oxcart that had passed through the gate halted before this warehouse.

Hearing the noise, a young man who frequented the house emerged from the open warehouse door. He was a townsman-style man wearing an apron who looked like a shop clerk. This was a face that even Komapei seemed to be seeing for the first time this year. He was holding a thick ledger in his hand. “Aah, thank you for your trouble,” he responded to Komapei’s greeting, then took out what appeared to be a memo slip that had been tucked between the pages of the ledger and examined it. “For Mr. Sugino… eleven bales, was it?”

He approached the oxcart and began inspecting the stacked bales. After meticulously checking each certificate of qualification,

“Confirmed.” He gave a firm nod, then opened the ledger and wrote in large ink characters visible even to Shunsuke standing at a distance: “Fourth-grade qualified rice—eleven bales. Sugino.” Komapei and Shunsuke shouldered the bales and entered the warehouse.

The warehouse had a high ceiling, was simply vast, and dim inside. The lime-plastered floor stood out with a hazy whitishness. The warm scent of new straw and grains hung thickly in the air. The bales had already been piled up quite high. The base was wide, narrowing gradually toward the top, stacked into a triangular shape. Since one pile had already been completed, the bales they carried were placed as the very bottom foundation for building a new pile.

With an indescribable emotion, Shunsuke listened to the thud of the rice bale falling from his shoulder onto the warehouse floor. This feeling had persisted unbroken since last night when he had finalized plans with his father to deliver the feudal tribute tomorrow, and since this morning when they had loaded the bales onto the oxcart. That same feeling now reached its peak when he heard the sound of rice bales falling onto the warehouse floor.

These rice bales were heart-wrenching. To state it plainly, this feeling amounted to nothing more than that. It pained him to give away these rice bales. Such was his attachment—yet the intensity and ferocity of that attachment surpassed anything he himself could have imagined. He had occasionally noticed how his attitude toward produce in general—and particularly agricultural products—had changed from before. Among these changes, what stood out most fundamentally was an irresistible compulsion to handle things with utmost care. During his student days, extreme poverty had naturally prevented him from being wasteful, yet even so, those feelings seemed vastly different from what he felt now. When he heard a fellow tobacco grower say that since taking up cultivation, he'd begun picking up discarded cigarette butts on roadsides without shame—even in public—Shunsuke felt he understood that sentiment perfectly. Reading biographies of old farmers, he found their profound dread of wasting even a single grain of rice resonating within him with startling clarity. While sensing deep authenticity in these accounts, he simultaneously detected unbearable hypocrisy in anecdotes about feudal lords who would reverently gather rice grains fallen on tatami mats. Then too came thoughts about certain modern teachings that sought kinship with these farmers' simple sensibilities.

This bale was hard to part with—this feeling he now had differed from those previous ones. Yet this too belonged to producers. Not to all producers generally, but specifically to tenant farmers as producers. As he carried and dropped the bales, Shunsuke distanced himself during these moments to observe the workings of his own mind.

When they had finished stacking all of them, the young man said, “Ah, thank you for your hard work. Now then, please come this way—the master has been waiting since earlier,” and ushered them toward the main house.

“Right away,” Komapei replied as he untied the hand towel from around his neck and brushed the hem of his clothing, fidgeting somewhat nervously. Even as he did so, his eyes kept darting glances toward the entrance across the way. Tenant farmers delivering their feudal tribute strongly disliked having two or more of them arrive at the same time. One of the reasons for transporting the feudal tribute in multiple trips lay precisely there. When they saw that someone had already arrived and entered ahead of them, they did not wish to be present together. If they had not brought all the tribute, they would of course turn back, but even when they had finished transporting it, they would engage in idle talk with the young men and wait for those who had come before them to leave. Losing patience, some would make various excuses—“I’ll come back later”—and return home. There were cases where they could not receive proper hospitality unless alone, but those who had some petition absolutely required being alone with the master.

Komapei also seemed to be anticipating this. Before long, he folded his hand towel, held it in his left hand, and then glanced at Shunsuke beside him. “Well then, shall we go pay our respects?”

They went up to the tea room and waited for a while. Soon, the landlord Shōta Yamashita appeared at the seat. He was about fifty years old, an ordinary good-natured old man. He emerged with a grin. “Ah. Good day. It’s good of you to come.”

Komapei placed both hands together and lowered his head very deeply. "It is always most gratifying to see your good health." "Oh, you're always so hale and hearty..." "Today, we have been allowed to deliver the feudal tribute without incident, and for this we are truly grateful." "Ah, well, this year too has concluded without incident—truly the best outcome we could hope for. Back at planting time, the water was so terribly scarce like that. In September, the wind blew fiercely. It's been one hardship after another. To be honest, I was quite worried things might turn out badly, but thanks to your efforts, nothing too serious came of it—it seems about average for the year. Though I suppose there's little cause for celebration on either side."

“This is all thanks to you, master.” “Next year as well, without any change, I humbly ask for your continued favor.”

He bowed his head low once again. Following this, Shunsuke too bowed with polite formality. This was not Shunsuke’s first meeting with Yamashita. He had come once this spring to pay his respects and met Yamashita. “Well now, you’ve become quite sturdy too,” Yamashita said with a grin, looking at Shunsuke with apparent approval.

“Since I last saw you, you’ve become completely unrecognizable. “You’ve gotten awfully tanned, haven’t you?”

Shunsuke responded with a quiet "Yes," answered with a smile, and then fell silent.

At that moment, the wife of this household appeared. Between the wife and Komapei, there were greetings similar to those exchanged earlier. As they exchanged a few pleasantries, the master turned to his wife and, “Well then, you,” he signaled with his eyes. When the wife withdrew to the inner rooms, ceremonial meal trays were soon brought out. High-legged, black-lacquered imposing ceremonial meal trays were placed before each of the three. There were whole fish with heads and tails attached, vinegared salads, simmered vegetables, herring roe, soup bowls, and so on.

The master held a large-mouthed, clumsy sake decanter of the sort seen only in the countryside. “Come now, have at least one cup,” Yamashita urged Komapei. Komapei, overwhelmed with deference, adjusted his posture while, “This is far too generous,” he said, extending his hand holding the sake cup. Shunsuke also silently accepted only the first cup, took a sip, and set the sake cup down. “Come now, today’s an informal gathering—make yourselves comfortable and take your time.” Komapei was a decent drinker by ordinary standards. After drinking a little, he quickly turned red. And so, as instructed, he relaxed his posture. His voice gradually grew louder. Before getting drunk, one must have something they need to bring up, but he currently either had nothing or, even if he did, had no intention of speaking of it here. The fact that Yamashita did not appear to bring up anything new regarding the coming year also eased his mind.

“Well, here we are. “You all have it terribly hard, but we’re having a rather rough time ourselves with this too,” Yamashita blurted out, “Though mind you—having even a scrap of your own land makes things better for you lot. But those who’re nothing but tenant farmers? Now that’s truly wretched.” “Oh I know it well enough...”

There must have been something else concerning other tenant farmers weighing on his mind. But suddenly, “No—today wasn’t the day to make you all listen to such talk. “Well, my apologies.” He dismissed it with a loud laugh. And he kept pouring his own drinks and gulping them down one after another. He was already quite drunk. Shunsuke was the only one sitting idle; seeming bothered by this, he kept trying to strike up a conversation with him. “You seem to have fully recovered now—don’t you have any intention of returning to school?”

Shunsuke had left school due to illness—this was what had reached Yamashita’s ears.

“Seems farming suits him better now,” Komapei interjected from the side. “Right, right. Farming’s a fine thing indeed. Say what you will... But for you to have gone so far in your studies—what a waste that truly is. How about you take a look at my son’s studies one of these days? He’s in his fourth year of middle school now.”

However, Shunsuke was quickly forgotten. Yamashita repeatedly urged Komapei to sing. And then, “Well then, I’ll start us off with one,” he said, and began to sing. It was a folk song from this region.

Komapei then sang next. Shunsuke heard his father’s lonely, somber singing voice for the first time in years. He stared intently at his father—drunk, eyes closed, face turned toward the ceiling whenever he raised his voice. The protruding Adam’s apple looked forlornly exposed. He left his father like that and went outside first. The sky remained heavily overcast in gray, and the wind whipped up white dust.

Someone’s oxcart loaded with rice had just arrived at the entrance.

Fifteen

After returning home and telling his mother that the rent had been settled without incident, Shunsuke asked, “Has there been any letter or something from the Monopoly Bureau?” “No, nothing.” “So there wasn’t any message from Matsukawa either?” “Well, not particularly.”

Shunsuke was disheartened. He thought about how to use the remaining half-finished portion of the day—perhaps go gather fallen leaves for compost in the tobacco fields after all. Yet even that work felt draining unless the pending issue was resolved. It wasn’t just a mental obstacle—it directly impacted the practical matter of how much compost they could produce. The single thing that had occupied his mind daily lately was this.

When he resolved to turn the newly reclaimed mountain land into tobacco fields and eagerly told his father about it, his father brushed him off with an effortless laugh. "If you think you can just start plantin’ that very year with nothin’ but your own ideas once you set your mind to it..." "What? Why?" "Tobacco’s the authorities’ business. You can’t go expandin’ fields without their say-so."

What careless, utter foolishness this had been. Shunsuke knew from direct experience that every tobacco plant he cultivated would be counted stalk by stalk, that not a single leaf could be neglected—yet he had somehow imagined the actual acreage itself could be freely expanded or reduced through his own decisions alone. "In time, that area might yet become tobacco fields as you envision." "There's hope for gradually increasing our permitted acreage, true enough—but heaven knows when that might come to pass." "Even an old hand like me—farming all these years—still only holds seven tan to my name today."

“So how much have you managed to increase the acreage up until now?” “Just two tan.” “I only managed to increase it once.” “Even if you manage to get an acreage increase, you’ll practically never get more than two tan.” “So even if they granted us an acreage increase every year, turning that mountain into tobacco fields would still take ten years by my reckoning.”

Shunsuke fell into deep thought. Was there truly no way to secure some leeway? He suddenly felt as if a beam of light had pierced through. “Can I become a tobacco cooperative member too?” “Yeah, that’s doable.” “So having two members per household is allowed? That means a parent and child can each be approved as independent cooperative members?”

“That’s possible,” Komapei said. “If you get the cooperative’s approval.” “Then naturally I’d be allowed my own separate acreage, wouldn’t I?” Shunsuke pressed. “That’s right.” “Then let’s do that.” Shunsuke’s voice tightened with resolve. “First, I’ll submit the application.” He jabbed a finger toward the window where mountain soil clung to his boots. “And then I’ll work that reclaimed land myself.”

“That’s fine—but even if it’s your own acreage, you won’t get more than five tan.”

“Five tan?” “That’s right. They don’t allow first-time growers to plant more than five tan.” “Is that absolutely certain? Is there an actual rule prohibiting anything beyond that?” “Whether there’s a written rule or not—I couldn’t say. But in this village, far as we’ve ever known, everyone’s stuck to that. Hell, ain’t we ourselves the same way? We got a two-tan increase once, brings us to seven now. Started with five tan ourselves at the beginning too.”

“In this village, that’s how it’s been up until now, I suppose.” “What about other villages?” “We don’t know nothin’ about other villages.” “But if this village’s like that, there’s nothin’ to be done about it, right?” Shunsuke stubbornly pressed even such points, but his confidence kept crumbling away into uncertainty. First get approval for five tan. Then wait for two-tan increments. He simply couldn’t be satisfied with just that.

“In the first place, what’s the maximum acreage allowed per cooperative member?”

“The authorities have established that they’ll permit up to four tan.” “But there probably aren’t any cultivating that much.”

“So after all, everyone’s hoping to get their acreage increased, right?”

“They’re hopin’ for that?” “Wishin’ and hopin’ to make it happen somehow—but when it’s the authorities you’re dealin’ with...” “So they’ve all been petitioning the Monopoly Bureau about this?” “Even if they petition, you mean it’s no use?” “Thing is, they can’t have everyone submit petitions willy-nilly like that.” “Tobacco matters get handled by the cooperative chairman—he negotiates with the Monopoly Bureau for all us cultivators, see.”

Shunsuke truly could not help but feel cornered from all sides. However, a single doubt immediately arose within him. Who was this cooperative chairman shouldering such significant responsibility? The name Matsukawa floated into his mind. Along with it came the memory of that June day in the tobacco field and Matsukawa’s attitude—an attitude Shunsuke had found utterly insufferable. “The chairman is Matsukawa, right? Is he actually conveying everyone’s intentions properly to the authorities?”

“Well, I really can’t say about that.” When it came to that most crucial point, Komapei was evasive.

And it was precisely in that point that Shunsuke intuitively sensed lay the path to a breakthrough.

Shunsuke came to understand various things. The Monopoly Bureau had established various restrictions regarding cultivation permits. Firstly, they did not permit individuals to apply directly. Applications had to be processed through lobbying via the village office. In the village, there was a single tobacco cultivation cooperative. The current total number of cultivators in Shunsuke’s village was approximately forty, with a cultivated acreage of over six chō. Each hamlet had its own hamlet cooperative with one representative. These representatives constituted the representative council under the cooperative chairman.

The Monopoly Bureau made this cooperative bear all responsibility, with various administrative negotiations customarily conducted through it. As for how individual cultivation allotments were determined—first, the village cooperative received the next year’s allotment allocations from them, which the chairman and representative council then reallocated to each hamlet. This reallocated amount was divided among individual cultivators within the hamlet. Though these were the procedures, they had now become nothing more than formalities. This was only natural. The previous year’s allotments were firmly established, and there was practically no instance of them being altered in the following year. Moreover, when increasing allotments, the Monopoly Bureau generally specified them individually. Even initial allotments for new cultivators were handled identically. However, it was said that the cooperative chairman or representative council held authority to adjust these allotments somewhat through discussion.

Shunsuke learned these things. And he had various doubts. First of all, had not all these relationships and functions now become entirely formalized and rigid as a whole? To what extent were the hopes of ordinary members reflected in entities like the cooperative chairman or representative council? Were they earnestly striving to realize those hopes? Hadn’t it become nothing but a dried-up formality, handling purely procedural tasks?

And what about the government offices? Government offices might also have aspects where they’re simply working by convention. The various restrictions he had heard about from Komapei and only come to know through his own research might not be absolute at all. There must be cases where things started out that way initially, then became fixed over time and had continued unchanged ever since. If someone tried to change them, couldn’t they be changed? And here too, there was probably no one who dared to try to change that.

And regarding this matter, Shunsuke felt that he himself might be able to effect change. When he recalled the Monopoly Bureau inspectors’ demeanor on that day in June, such optimism should have been hard to muster—yet somehow, he found himself feeling that way nonetheless. Whether it worked out or not didn’t matter—he simply felt compelled to try. That Shunsuke had become so enthusiastic was, of course, based on his own desire to obtain even slightly more tobacco cultivation allotments and his eagerness to undertake some kind of proactive work itself. That was his personal desire. But at the same time, it was also based on other factors. It was that he had spoken with his fellow tobacco growers in the hamlet and learned just how earnest their wish for increased cultivation allotments truly was.

His own problem was simultaneously their problem as well. Shunsuke began to fervently wish that he could contribute even his small strength toward achieving the farmers’ earnest desire. Even if he couldn’t bring immediate, tangible benefits to the people right now, he desired to do at least something that held promise for the future.

In this way, his gaze had gradually shifted from his own individual problem to the world beyond as well.

This was only natural. As he himself had long maintained, it was utterly impossible for his personal internal problems to exist independently from the issues of the external world. From the very beginning of the problem's occurrence, the former had been inseparably connected to the latter. No, it was because the very relationship where the two were intricately intertwined had been pressing upon him in the form of a question about how to live his life.

And since humans are social beings, this must be true in every era. However, their way of posing or receiving problems bore the distinctive features of each respective era. Had they been youths just a few years earlier, their eyes would have been directed solely toward the external world. And their actions would have corresponded to that as well. But Shunsuke was different. He could never separate himself from himself. Therefore, his starting point too began from a way of framing issues—one that carried a faintly antiquated air depending on perspective—like his own approach to living. Compared to youths of the past, he was said to be introspective, individualistic, and stagnant. And that wasn’t something one could call either good or bad.

Even if it appeared personal, his concern for issues such as politics, society, and the people—setting aside for a moment the depth of his understanding—could not be said to have particularly diminished when compared to those who had once proclaimed those issues so vociferously. And the fact that these problems were exerting pressure on Shunsuke’s transformation remained true, whether he was conscious of it or not. In his case, it was merely that he could not begin with such rallying cries of social concern.

“For society. For the people.” He could not begin by shouting such things. It might also be said that he had all the more strongly desired unity between the internal and the external. Now this same man had begun to voice—albeit in a small, faltering way—“For the people.” And so he resolved to begin from what was close at hand and feasible. Precisely because his voice was small, precisely because his progress was gradual—was there not in that a certain kind of steadfastness one could recognize?

Shunsuke first met with Ishiguro, the tobacco cooperative’s representative for his hamlet. He was on close terms with Komapei, and since he had been working together with Shunsuke since the drying season that summer, theirs was a relationship where they could speak frankly with each other.

Shunsuke asked Ishiguro various questions about the representative council and the cooperative chairman. “Even if ya call it a representative council, they don’t hardly ever hold proper meetin’s,” said Ishiguro. “Might as well not exist at all.” “Practically all Matsukawa’s doin’ whatever he pleases.” “How much cultivation allotment does Matsukawa have?” “Three tan five se.” “Biggest in the whole village.” “Man’s been around since forever, see.” “Ended up chairman ’cause he’s hoggin’ so many plots—that’s how it goes.”

"Speaking of three tan and five se—with four tan being the limit—it was nearly that much. He himself could now be considered entirely satisfied. That Matsukawa didn't wholeheartedly work for the cooperative members' benefit was not without reason. Shunsuke intended to have tobacco cultivation permitted separately from his father. Since he would eventually have to join the cooperative as well, he asked for their cooperation. However, he requested they not say anything to Matsukawa a little while longer until he gave the word."

“Yeah, that’s fine. But I hear they decide next year’s planting allotment increases and decreases every autumn, so you’d better get your application in quick.” In Shunsuke’s plan, before completing the cooperative membership procedures, he intended to meet directly—alone—with high-ranking officials at the prefectural Monopoly Bureau and request his desired cultivation allotment. Once he had met and spoken with Matsukawa even once, he could not proceed by ignoring him; yet if he were to go through Matsukawa, he reasoned there would be no chance of his request being approved.

Ishiguro,

“Well now, hard to say...” “Reckon it’s likely pointless,” Ishiguro dismissed offhandedly, but Shunsuke paid it little mind as

“No, I’ll try it regardless. Right now it’s just my issue, but if I can break the customary practice here—where new cultivators get five se at most and allotment increases never exceed two se—and secure even a little more, it’ll set a new precedent and pave the way for better outcomes down the line. And if this works out, I think folks will naturally start feeling they can’t just leave everything to the cooperative chairman anymore—they’ll have to take a more active stance themselves.”

“If my request gets approved as I hope for a sizable cultivation allotment, I’ll share part of it with our hamlet’s community members,” he laughed with a chuckle. Shunsuke obtained detailed information from Ishiguro about their hamlet and village’s actual tobacco cultivation allotments—the ratio and pace of increases, comparisons with other villages’ figures on these points, and related matters. Ishiguro, being the cooperative representative through and through, knew even the minutest details thoroughly. Shunsuke methodically noted down every item in his notebook.

Even after getting into bed at night, he kept wrestling with how to organize the matters he needed to discuss the following day into coherent explanations. The next day, Shunsuke immediately went to visit the regional Monopoly Bureau.

The daytime was still hot. Along the white seven-ri road, covered in sweat and dust, Shunsuke rode his bicycle to the town where the Monopoly Bureau was located.

He presented his business card at the reception desk and directly requested a meeting with the business department chief. He knew nothing about what kind of person that individual was—not even a little. He did not even know the name. But he had looked into and understood the general structure of the Monopoly Bureau—what departments and sections existed and what work each handled—and thus reasoned that the Business Department would be most appropriate for his purpose today.

Even though he presented his business card—which bore no title or anything else—there was no way for them to know who he was. He had merely conveyed through the receptionist that he had come to make a request regarding tobacco cultivation.

Reckless it may have been. Yet on another level, he found himself thinking with unexpected ease and optimism. An office like the Local Monopoly Bureau must have constant contact with local residents given its administrative nature. Perhaps he wasn't overcomplicating things after all. They might see him more readily than expected - that receptionist who'd taken his card without listening properly had paradoxically given him a sliver of reassurance. Rather than discourtesy, he interpreted her manner as routine competence born of long familiarity.

As he waited, even he felt anxious. It seemed almost inevitable that he would be effortlessly turned away. The previous sliver of hope vanished, and that feeling gradually grew stronger. In that brief span of time, his emotions swung back and forth repeatedly from one extreme to the opposite. The receptionist returned.

“This way.” Shunsuke reflexively bowed his head once.

He followed after her.

One corner of the earthen-floored area had been partitioned off into a small space; this was the reception room. Having been told to wait there, Shunsuke waited for a while. It was barely about one tsubo in size, with a small table at its center flanked by two chairs. There was nothing else. Could it be that someone had been here until just a moment ago? The tobacco smoke hung thickly, and a faint trace of human odor lingered. The person who entered was a gentleman who appeared to still be in his thirties. He might have been forty. Perhaps his beardlessness made him look younger? In any case, he differed considerably from the image Shunsuke had conjured based on the title of Business Department Chief. Because the man—with his protruding belly and complete lack of solemnity—seemed approachable, Shunsuke felt he could speak with considerable ease. However, this might not be the chief after all—perhaps someone subordinate to him.

“What is your business?” he replied to Shunsuke’s greeting with a slight bow, then sat down and said curtly. Rather than brusqueness, perhaps it was better viewed as businesslike? Shunsuke also took a seat. He held Shunsuke’s business card in his hand, glancing at it briefly while...

“Ah, you’re from Kashiwano Village,” he said, seeming to visualize the general layout of the village in his mind. Shunsuke had noted his address in small letters with a pen in the left corner of his business card.

“Are you currently cultivating tobacco?” “No... I was hoping to be allowed to begin cultivation starting next fiscal year... That’s actually what I’ve come to request.”

Having said that, Shunsuke began to speak. Ah, he feared they would tell him at any moment that he should submit his request through the cooperative or village office, but no such words came.

He concluded there was no choice but to lay everything out with complete honesty. Not knowing what sort of person he was dealing with made this approach all the more necessary—one mustn't let oneself grow needlessly suspicious or contemptuous of the listener, he resolved. What would prove most detrimental, he realized, was entertaining even the faintest doubt that speaking up might accomplish nothing at all. One had to speak with absolute conviction—the conviction that reason would prevail and that this official before him possessed the decency to listen. Though his own observations of how the world truly worked made such faith difficult to sustain, he determined to voice his case with precisely that level of certainty while making his appeal. Without it, he knew even a justified request would meet rejection. None of these considerations were spur-of-the-moment realizations born of this encounter.

He began by outlining the general circumstances of his past. He explained that he had been a student but, due to circumstances, had left school midway, returned home, and was now working as a farmer. He explained that while farming, he wanted not merely to avoid burdening his family due to his return but to add something more—to ensure his homecoming proved truly worthwhile. As a first step toward that end, he explained that he wanted to undertake tobacco cultivation and thereby establish at least the foundation of his own livelihood. He explained that this was because he had a small plot of land at the foot of the mountain where no crops other than tobacco would be profitable. And he also talked about the reclamation he was currently undertaking. He went on to explain that according to what he had heard, first-time cultivators were generally only permitted around five *se*, but with an allotment of that size, it would be utterly impossible to fulfill the hopes he had just described. He explained that he hoped to be permitted as large an allotment as possible. At the same time—though it may be presumptuous for me to say this myself—since it also concerns my father, I must ask: recently, members of my village community have been excluded from allotment increases. And they are all fervently wishing for an allotment increase. He went on to say that he earnestly wished to trouble them for their consideration regarding this matter as well. And he spoke based on the figures he had investigated. Regarding this final matter—since there was a risk of appearing overly presumptuous—he had agonized back and forth last night over what to do but had resolved to speak his mind.

The man listened in silence.

When Shunsuke finished speaking, "I see. "No, I fully understand." he said. And with that, he fell silent once more. Shunsuke became extremely tense.

“By the way, this may be an odd question to ask...” the man began, “You said you left school midway… Was it related to ideological matters—something like a red incident?” he inquired. In that instant, Shunsuke was startled. Though his past had no connection whatsoever to such matters, he instantly wondered if the man had detected something in his earnest tone of speech and thus misunderstood. He thought it couldn’t be helped if his transformation appeared as something eccentric in others’ eyes. But then again, he likely hadn’t asked after such deep consideration—it was probably just a matter of needing to inquire for reference purposes, Shunsuke reasoned.

“No, it’s nothing like that. Mainly due to tuition issues and circumstances where my health didn’t permit me to continue working my way through school.” “Ah, right… Well, I only asked about such things because it’s better to have the information—nothing more to it.”

Changing the topic, “So, how much cultivation allotment are you requesting?” “Though I can’t necessarily guarantee it will turn out exactly as you hope.” “I would like at least three tan.” He thought he might either be suddenly laughed at or else be flatly and harshly denied on the spot. However, the man fell into deep thought, so Shunsuke was inwardly surprised. “I’m afraid three tan would be quite difficult… In any case, I cannot give you any definite answer here and now…” he said, still seeming to ponder something.

“Yes, of course I’m not expecting an immediate answer…” “Just a moment,” he said, and left the room.

Shunsuke waited. In that brief interval, myriad thoughts arose within him. The man who had returned was holding something resembling a large ledger. "Excuse me," he said, opening it to examine a page for some time. Though he had slightly angled the ledger's spine upward—positioned so near that Shunsuke could have easily glimpsed its contents—Shunsuke deliberately averted his gaze. He fixed his eyes instead on an ink stain marring the desk's surface.

“Hmm, it appears some in Kashiwano Village have been allotted too little – truly pitiable.” He snapped the ledger shut and set it aside, “I’ve fully comprehended your account and shall give it due consideration.”

He had already risen to his feet.

Somewhat flustered, Shunsuke also stood up. “I humbly ask for your kind consideration.” He felt he had forgotten to mention something crucial. Yet it eluded his grasp. He thought he ought to repeat his points once or twice more—to make absolutely certain. But given how clearly the man had stated his position, what more needed saying?

“Thank you very much for everything.” From behind Shunsuke, who was opening the door to leave, he called out as if suddenly remembering—

“Ah, regarding your case— “Please have your village mayor submit a formal request addressed to the Monopoly Bureau Director, petitioning them to allow you to cultivate tobacco.” “This is merely procedural formality, but we must adhere to established protocols.” “The forms and such will be handled at the village office.”

Shunsuke expressed his thanks once more and left the room. As he descended the stone steps and was about to step onto the ground, he suddenly remembered something crucial he had forgotten and hurriedly turned back. That's right—I was supposed to ask his name!

Shunsuke turned back and went as far as the previous room’s entrance, but there was no reason he would still be lingering there. He peered down the dimly lit corridor ahead but could not spot any retreating figure resembling him. He had no choice but to ask the receptionist. "The person I just requested a meeting with—the one from the Business Department." "What is that gentleman’s name?" "Mr. Kōno." "And his given name?" "Mitsutarō—Mitsu is written with the character for ‘light’."

He had also wanted to ask whether he was indeed the Business Department chief, but thinking it might seem impertinent, he refrained.

While giving a wry smile at his own flustered state, Shunsuke set off for home.

Such small experiences—being his first as someone making his own way in life—left him excited. Yet beneath that excitement lay a joyful sentiment. To him, he could only think that today’s meeting had gone favorably. At the same time, he felt something lacking—a hollow, almost deflated sensation. He had expected to face far more resistance than this. A multitude of thoughts flooded his mind. He’d never know unless he tried. Above all else, reinforcing this simple yet vital conviction now was what mattered most.

Several things that had seemed immovable were clearly shown not to necessarily be so. The fact that individual cultivators were said to not be taken seriously. The regulation that new cultivators were not permitted more than five se, nor could allotment increases exceed two se. Of course, while these cultivation allotments still remained completely undecided, it had at least been acknowledged there was room for consideration beyond previous customs.

Suddenly, an unpleasant doubt surfaced. Wasn’t that sort of response just another routine tactic? Wasn’t this just another tactic by someone who had grown thoroughly weary of handling countless others like me, skillfully giving them the slip? He was talking enthusiastically, even while somewhat excited. The man also seemed to be listening intently, but in reality, deep down, he was thinking about something else entirely. It was something he already knew without being told. If that’s how it was stated—merely suggesting he should consider it thoroughly—the process of reaching that conclusion had been far too simple.

Imagining such a reality where someone had peeled back his facade, Shunsuke flushed red. He wondered if he might be either an utterly preposterous fool ignorant of worldly ways or simply a hopelessly naive man. Yet even so—if that were truly the case—would there have been any need for the official to go through such a cumbersome procedure, bringing out the ledger and making all those remarks?

However, Shunsuke immediately ceased vacillating between these two thoughts. And once he resolved to stop, he could do so at once. In such matters, he now found himself capable of acting with a resolve that differed from his former self.

He might be naive. He might be socially inexperienced. But the fact remained that I had been able to believe it with sincere conviction. There’s no need to bring any doubts into this. If I had been deceived, then let me have been deceived.

He returned to the village. And that very evening, he immediately visited Ishiguro and spoke with him. Ishiguro was just as delighted as if it were his own affair.

The next day, Shunsuke visited the village office with Ishiguro to see the mayor. Shunsuke explained the general outline of the matter. Stating that it had also been mentioned by the Monopoly Bureau, he requested they provide a written document. Ishiguro added his support from beside him. The mayor readily agreed.

Four or five days passed in such busyness that Shunsuke hadn’t met with Ishiguro when one day the latter came to visit him and suggested it would be better for him to meet with Matsukawa at least once. It was said that Matsukawa had likely heard about Shunsuke through a leak from the mayor and had voiced his dissatisfaction to those nearby.

Shunsuke had not the slightest intention of looking down on the cooperative. His respect for the cooperative was in fact stronger than anyone else’s. He only thought that the cooperative must more fully fulfill its true purpose. The reason he had taken personal action without going through the cooperative was that, given the cooperative’s current state, it had been unavoidable—it was not his true intention.

Accompanied by Ishiguro, Shunsuke visited Matsukawa.

Matsukawa sat cross-legged with an arrogant demeanor. Shunsuke offered a formal greeting and explained that while he had secured a written document from the mayor, he would need to join the cooperative once permission was obtained, earnestly requesting their consideration. Matsukawa nodded. Shunsuke confined himself to these courtesies and refrained from mentioning recent events. He had been prepared to explain if questioned. Matsukawa never asked. Afterward came only a few exchanges of trivial talk, with Matsukawa remaining unsmiling the entire time, clearly in a foul mood.

“That guy must be really pissed off—no wonder, seeing as he’s such a coward.”

Ishiguro kept saying such things all along the way back.

Suddenly, Shunsuke thought of this: If his request were granted and the permitted cultivation area broke precedent in size—what then? The regular cooperative members would surely be stunned by this newcomer's achievement. Envy and jealousy would inevitably follow. Wouldn't they start raising various complaints using his bypassing of the cooperative as their excuse? The established customs weren't absolute after all. Such things could indeed happen. But wouldn't this produce outcomes entirely separate from—or even opposed to—his original intent of making people recognize this truth through lived experience and encouraging proactive approaches to livelihood?

Moreover, if I were to join the cooperative, the matter of improving its current functions would immediately come into question. As for what specific points required improvement and how—that was something one couldn’t understand without entering the organization and confronting its actual operations. However, speaking in the broadest terms, it remained an undeniable fact that the members’ intentions weren’t adequately reflected in the cooperative’s various organs. And this very point was what had to be reformed first and foremost.

But there, a confrontation between myself and the chairman, along with certain executives surrounding him, would ultimately become unavoidable.

Shunsuke felt himself emerging from his position as a kind of observer of village life and gradually being woven into its framework as one of its constituent members. And the deeper he immersed himself into it, the more he encountered one unexpected new fact after another. These were problems that had long demanded resolution and were accompanied by various difficulties. Yet without exception, there was nothing there grand enough to astonish people's eyes. What triviality, what vexation, what tedium this must be.

The day would come when Shunsuke too would find himself gnawed by that very thought. There would surely come times when this very tedium itself emerged as the greatest enemy, surpassing all other hardships. That itself would surely be the crisis. But he, having only just set out, still maintained a fresh sense of emotion even from this far side—far removed from the point where one must endure by telling oneself that this was what village life, the life of the majority of laborers, truly was.

Shunsuke eagerly awaited word from the Monopoly Bureau. He waited, convinced they would surely contact either him directly, the village mayor, or Matsukawa. Yet nothing came - neither message nor visit.

Shunsuke felt uneasy several times. He found himself thinking back again to how they had questioned him suspiciously about leaving school halfway. Putting aside the cultivation allotment for now, he thought the notification about the cultivation permit should have come much sooner. He should have pressed Mr. Kōno during their meeting to confirm when the decision would be announced. He regretted that inexperience led to oversights in small details. The thought of visiting Mr. Kōno again had crossed his mind, but he reconsidered and dismissed it. Even if they met, it would only mean rehashing the same discussion—he told himself not to be so insistent and held back. Besides, after returning from his earlier meeting with Mr. Kōno, Shunsuke had already sent a thank-you letter reiterating his earnest request.

Ishiguro,

“They always send next year’s cultivation allotment notices in December anyway—everything’ll likely get sorted out then,” Ishiguro said optimistically.

Even as they were doing so, the time had already come when they had to begin preparations for next year’s tobacco cultivation. Due to having been unable to start work while anxiously awaiting notification from the Monopoly Bureau and because of the mountain reclamation efforts, they were already somewhat behind schedule. Without a clearly decided cultivation allotment, there would be obstacles in preparing seedling beds and making compost; however, they could not afford to keep postponing things indefinitely.

Komapei could not overexert himself from autumn through winter due to his neuralgia. Under his father’s supervision, Shunsuke had to perform the main labor. It was physically demanding work, impossible for the elderly. A seedling bed measuring one ken by four ken corresponded exactly to one tan. To gather the fallen leaves needed for the base of these seedling beds, Shunsuke went into the mountains every day with a bamboo basket on his back and a rake in hand. He made countless round trips in a single day. The load from a single trip weighed over seventy-five kilograms.

Making the gathered fallen leaves into a load required considerable skill, and even after being taught how to do it, becoming proficient enough to match others was a real struggle. As for methods of bundling things like fallen leaves into loads, the farmers had devised their own techniques. First, they carried the fallen leaves to a treeless open area in the mountains and piled them up. Next, they would rake it little by little with a rake, then stamp down on top of it with both feet as hard as they could, over and over. Then, the wet fallen leaves would stick to each other and form into a flat, compact mass. They would bring up fallen leaves little by little, layer upon layer, continuing this process until eventually something resembling a leaf board—about four shaku in width, three shaku in length, and five sun in thickness—would take shape.

Then they would cut bamboo or tree branches, place them against both sides of the leaf board, and using their support, lift it by cradling it gently against their chest before laying it atop two lengths of vine prepared in advance. Until one became accustomed to it, the fallen leaves would crumble and collapse when lifted, forcing them to start over repeatedly. They would stack five or six layers of these, bind them tightly with vines, and thus complete a load of fallen leaves. He would gather the scattered leaves around him into a bamboo basket, place the previous load on top of it, secure them together with rope, and then carry this bundle on his back. Mere fallen leaves—yet seen this way, what an immense weight they became! With this load on his back, heaving himself upright in one motion using the resilient power of his hips proved no simple task. If only he could thrust through decisively in one movement. If he faltered even slightly, standing became impossible. Even when he finally rose, he teetered unsteadily, perilously close to collapse. Once, Shunsuke truly fell—legs kicking skyward, neck nearly snapping—or so it felt.

Even when he started walking with the load on his back, his legs seemed to float with each step. His shoulders were cinched tight, his collarbone aching as if it might snap. When he reached a slightly steeper slope, Shunsuke felt genuine terror. Yet seeing a boy of about sixteen performing this labor with ease, he understood it wasn't just strength—this required backbone too. The seedling beds needed a forty-five-centimeter layer, meaning this load had to be carried over a dozen times.

Once the seedling beds were completed, next came the compost for the main field. They used fallen leaves gathered earlier from the mountain in their reclaimed land for this purpose. They had estimated roughly two hundred kan would be available, but doubted it would suffice. Yet nearly all fallen leaves had already vanished from nearby mountains. This was because once autumn harvest ended, women formed teams to gather leaves daily for fuel. To find more now would require venturing deep into remote mountains. That fallen leaves held such importance for farmers was something Shunsuke had never once recalled during his city days. Just as he faced this predicament, someone arrived bearing precisely the favorable news he needed.

There was a household in the village community selling rice straw. Shunsuke promptly went to see that house. There were exactly seven bales’ worth, and they had once agreed to sell them elsewhere for two yen and seventy sen, but due to poor handling, rainwater had seeped in and begun to rot, making the straw unusable for crafts, so the sale had been called off. "If you understand it can only be used as fertilizer, then buy it," they said. Shunsuke gladly decided to purchase it for two yen and seventy sen. While loading the rice straw—which had been stored in straw bales—onto a cat cart at the edge of a field five or six chō away from the house, he felt a wave of relief at the thought that he might now avoid having to go into the mountains.

This straw was cut to three or four sun (approximately 9-12 cm) in length using a fodder cutter. When it swelled like a mountain, they would rake it level and pour several bucketfuls of water from above using manure buckets. On top of that, they would layer more cut straw and sprinkle water again.

After completing the compost preparation, the remaining task was weaving wheat straw mats to cover the seedling beds. These measured half a ken by one ken and required twenty-four or twenty-five sheets. Then they had to construct pillars and frames to surround the seedling beds.

When engaged in stationary work like weaving straw mats, Shunsuke’s thoughts would sometimes wander to the past. He could still be said to be in a state of chaotic thoughts. It could not yet be said that the path he had taken held any clear prospect. Occasionally, he would fleetingly wonder if he might be making some preposterously foolish mistake. But he felt no regret. On the whole, he found himself more often quietly focusing his heart on hopes and plans for the future.

And so that year too entered December.

One evening, about a week after the day he had gone to pay the tenant fee, Ishiguro and two other companions involved in tobacco hurriedly came to visit Shunsuke. It was a day in the latter part of December.

Shunsuke, who had been weaving straw mats in the barn, was called by Komapei and left the barn. He thought Komapei’s voice calling him somehow seemed to betray a heightened emotion. For Komapei, such things were almost nonexistent in daily life. When he entered the dirt-floored area, Ishiguro—who had been sitting on the raised threshold—no sooner saw his face than— “Shunsuke-san, it’s terrible!” he said. However, his face showed no trace of distress; rather, it seemed barely able to contain some hidden delight. The same was true of the other two men.

“What is it?” “There’s nothing at all—it’s terrible! The allotment from the Monopoly Bureau has come.”

Even Shunsuke couldn’t suppress the turmoil rising in his chest. “Really?” “It certainly is. A little while ago, the notification came to the cooperative chairman. So they came to inform me as well. There’s your share too. It’s just like I told you before. The cultivation permits, the allotments—everything came through together.” “Is that so? So how did it go? What’s the outcome?” “Well, why don’t we go on up?” said Ishiguro with forced composure, flapping his hand towel to dust off his hem and legs before stepping up as casually as if this were his own home.

They were shown to the sitting room and sat down. “Mr. Shunsuke, you’ve done something truly remarkable here,” Ishiguro said, taking out a sheet of paper from his pocket and spreading it out before them.

“You get one tan and five se, your father one tan. Combined, that makes two tan and five se. Your father gets a three-se increase. Well, take a good look at this,” he said, pushing the paper forward.

Shunsuke took it in hand and looked. There were recorded the cultivation allotments for all members of the village community’s tobacco growers in the coming fiscal year. And below that were noted the figures for allotment increases. It appeared someone had hastily copied this from an official notice—written in pencil on Japanese paper. The portion for Shunsuke and the others was exactly as Ishiguro had stated. The allotment increases were two or three se, with every single person in the village community having received one. “Shunsuke-san, this is all thanks to you. From me too—my deepest gratitude.”

When Ishiguro spoke, the other two also began to follow suit. All three were terribly excited. For them, Shunsuke’s one tan and five se was an astonishment almost beyond belief. The three-se allotment increase was similarly astonishing. Ishiguro’s words—“It’s terrible!”—were no exaggeration but an exact expression of their true feelings.

However, Shunsuke felt somewhat dazed. He felt a sense of anticlimax. Was this truly due to "my" efforts? If that were the case, then which part of my words had held such power? Wasn't this result almost akin to mere coincidence? The greater the role chance played in this victory, the more he couldn't help but dread what lay ahead. But there would be time enough later to think about such things. He too now simply wanted to rejoice. He wanted to rejoice for himself and for the people. Whether this matter would succeed or not was a significant issue for him. Beyond the matter of material interests, what mattered crucially was that the nature of his bond with the villagers would differ depending on whether this endeavor succeeded or failed.

The people were talking incessantly． Komapei was among them， simply smiling． “I bet even Matsukawa’s shocked this time around．” “What about the other villages？” “Well， I haven’t properly inquired about them yet．” “Mr． Ishiguro． I’m still new to this， and besides， my father already got a three-se increase， so truth be told， I don’t really need one tan and five se． I’ll yield five se of mine to the village community．”

Ishiguro and the other two also looked at Shunsuke in surprise. “I did say once that if things went well, I’d share some with the village community, but back then, I never actually thought it would become possible.” “It has turned out just as I said, and I am truly pleased.… We could divide the five se into one se each for five people, or distribute it among those with smaller allotments. We can discuss such details together later.”

Ishiguro and the other two offered their thanks with few words. The very paucity of their speech seemed to lay bare the full depth of their joy and gratitude. Shunsuke felt his chest grow warm. How profoundly they must have been able to feel joy from something so simple. Was this not truly what mattered most? Without particular cause, Shunsuke suddenly recalled Shimura and Uehara - two men he had not seen in a long time.

What had been achieved was truly a single modest thing. However, it gave Shunsuke new confidence and courage.

(End of Part One)