Pathway to Japanese Literature

The Infant's Severed Head

I

There was a scorching sunlight like red ink bleeding through paper.
The sunlight illuminated young leaves visible beyond the valley houses' fences.
Among the leaves—likely from Shiogama cherries—lingered scattered white petals, faded and tattered, fluttering down like butterflies in the bluish-tinged wind.
Petals fell too onto butterbur leaves crowning the cliff.

She felt the tram transfer station's soil-flecked rain still seeping into skin and collar where lukewarm water had been wiped.
One side of the tram crossing hosted a factory with towering red-brick walls.
Young plane tree leaves lined the wall along the street.
Their branches thrashed like a madman whipped by wind.
The yellowish soil-rain painted everything in desolate hues.
Kyōko lay recalling that morning's hospital commute.

Kyōko lay with her heavy head on the left pillow.
The pale blue electric light dismally illuminated her figure wrapped in a quilt.
The futon felt unpleasantly warm—when she kept her dust-covered body still in one spot, that area began to feel increasingly hot.
She shifted her hands and feet from one cool spot to another.
The momentary sensation of finding a cool place was pleasantly delightful.
She suddenly remembered the sympathetic words that had slipped from her husband’s lips during dinner.

“When around the 10th of next month comes, school will be on break, so I’ll take you to the coast. A month or so of carefree rest should cure you.”

The branching shapes of young pines planted on sand dunes, the shoreline’s fine-grained sand, the indigo-blue water and sky melting into an endless seascape—all these rose in her memory.
These were impressions from the coast where they had stayed about two weeks during their newlywed year four or five years prior.
Though she had detested the glaring sunlight, she could never forget the evening wind that stirred through the young pine needles.
That same wind now seemed to blow through Kyōko’s very nerves.
If being taken there were possible, she would have gone tomorrow.
She thought that standing on that coast again, bathed in that wind, might dispel this oppressive gloom at once and lighten her body.
She wanted to tell her husband this.
Yet as the words began taking form, her urge to speak them vanished.
Reaching her husband’s cramped second-floor study—where he translated documents for the Naval Ministry—required climbing a steep ladder stair; summoning him to her side meant clapping for the maid.
All of it felt unbearably tedious to her.

Kyōko turned over to the right pillow.
A new coolness felt pleasant against limbs.
She had experienced no definite condition since miscarriage in the spring before last, yet was constantly plagued by headaches and slight dizziness, with body feeling sluggish and feverish on top of it all.
Menstruation absent for about a year had resumed since last year, but remained irregular enough that there were times pregnancy seemed possible.
That day too—body having been sluggish since two or three days prior—it had become feverish and burning as if contracted by some terrible illness since the previous evening, so she had just visited her regular doctor.

“Have you experienced any nausea?”

The doctor seemed to suspect she might be pregnant.
The menstruation that should have come around the 5th or 6th of the month had been delayed by about ten days at that time as well.

A sound like ceramics shattering came from the kitchen area.
She thought the maid must have done something like that again.
There was the maid’s hand—fingertips stiff as sticks, dark red veins bulging like earthworms—right there.
A dark, hazy melancholy—accompanied by a noise that might have been wind or perhaps the sound of a distant train, the kind of everyday clamor that usually reached her ears—had become entwined with this noise.
She shifted her sluggish body again.

A pleasant, clear wind blew.
And then, each blue pine needle moved in the wind.
The moonlight was shining on the pine needles.
The black pine trunks were visible intermittently.
At her feet was flour-like white sand that made no sound when stepped on.
Occasionally, the sound of waves crashed as if suddenly recalled.
Kyōko became mindless, walking on without thinking, going wherever her feet led her.

When she descended the small sand dune in a gentle slope, there was a small river flowing with a plank bridge laid across it.
Beyond the bridge lay a pine-covered hill dimly lit by moonlight, where two or three cottage-style houses were visible.
Kyōko, having carefully crossed the plank bridge, grew weary and wanted to rest, so she headed toward the nearest house.
In front of the house, a fairly wide road paved with masago sand extended.
She crossed that road and went to the entrance.
On both sides of the gate stood bamboo lattice fences, and the door fashioned from ship planks had been closed.

The gate door did not obstruct Kyōko.
She entered as if walking into her own home.
The closed entrance door also did not refuse her.
Inside was an entrance hall of about four and a half tatami mats.
She stretched out her tired legs and sat down there.
The facing wall was made into a solid surface, upon which hung a framed bust portrait of a white-haired Westerner.
It resembled the face of a man called Tolstoy that had been in her husband’s books.

Could this be Tolstoy?

When Kyōko thought this and raised her face, the baby cried out.

“Oh, there’s a baby here.”

She grew curious to see the baby.
She opened the right shoji.
The space beyond was a tea room, with another shoji leading to an engawa.
She moved along the engawa.
The baby’s cries came from the next room.
She opened that shoji.
Two futons lay there, the couple sleeping with their pillows facing her.
The young wife—her hair in an actress’s chignon—slept with her breast offered to an infant swaddled in a gaudy merino makura futon.

Kyōko crouched at the wife’s bedside and peered at the baby.
The round-faced wife suddenly turned her head this way.
The wife let out a quivering voice as if she had seen a demon.

“Who are you? Who are you? Why have you come here?”

Kyōko did not stir.

“Madam, there’s no need for alarm—I’ve merely come to see the baby.”

The wife worked her mouth wordlessly and finally looked at her face again.

“Who are you? Why have you come here to where we were sleeping? Why have you come here? Why have you come here?”

“I’ve come to see the baby.”

“You say you’ve come to see the baby—without asking anyone’s permission, barging into where we were sleeping—how rude is that? Get out of here at once!”

With that, she turned her back, paying no heed to the baby’s cries,

“Please wake up! It’s terrible, it’s terrible!”

The man jumped up in surprise.
Kyōko was also startled by the noise.
And his consciousness faded.

Kyōko was serving breakfast.
The husband attending Hibiya Middle School wore his everyday suit and sat cross-legged.
The faint aroma of wakame lingered—the kind he liked and made a habit of adding to miso soup every morning.
Kyōko couldn't help feeling it seep into her nostrils.
Through some association, she suddenly recalled the coastal house.

“Last night, something interesting happened.”

“What’s wrong?”

Her husband seemed to stir with mild curiosity.

“Last night, when I went down the coastal sand dune, there was a small river with a plank bridge built over it. After crossing that bridge, there was a wide path paved with pebbles ahead, and along it stood two or three houses, you see? Since I was exhausted, I thought I’d rest a moment and boldly entered a house with a ship-plank gate. Inside was an entrance hall—about four and a half tatami mats in size.”

“While resting there with my legs stretched out, I looked around and saw a Westerner’s portrait hanging on the wall—isn’t that Tolstoy? You know, the great Russian novelist whose portrait you once showed me.”

“What? That was a dream?”

The husband laughed as he received his meal.

“But it truly didn’t feel like a dream at all. The pine trees’ color, the leaves’ hue, the sound of waves, the house’s appearance—every last detail—I perceived them all clearly.”

“That’s precisely why it’s a dream—you must have dreamed it because we discussed the coast last evening.”

“Yet it wasn’t like any dream! When I rested in the entrance hall, didn’t I hear the baby crying? I grew desperate to see the child, so I entered from the right side—there was a tea room, and beyond it lay an engawa. Stepping onto the engawa, the baby appeared to be sleeping right in the next room. When I entered there, I found a couple asleep—the madam with her round face styled in an actress’s chignon looked quite severe! As I peered at the baby, she awoke and shouted ‘Who are you? What brings you here?’ Keeping my composure, I explained I’d come to see the baby—but she flew into a rage and shrieked to wake her husband. The master lurched up half-asleep—in that startled moment everything became confused—that must have been when I awoke from the dream.”

“That’s why I’m telling you it’s a dream—it’s just a dream. Since you had the coast on your mind, you ended up dreaming about it. It’s still your nerves acting up. Let’s go next month—the translation should be finished around then, so we can take our time going there for about a month. It’ll be good to work there.”

After the meal, the husband drank tea while talking about the trip to the coast and then left.
Kyōko, afterward, did not eat and remained propped on the low dining table with one elbow, lost in thought.

Two students passed by while talking.
The clacking of their wooden clogs struck against the fine sand of the paved street.
Patches of mist floated above the stream.
After crossing the plank bridge, Kyōko went to his house.
Neither the ship-plank gate’s door nor the entrance door supported her body as she entered.
When she stepped up into the entrance hall, she cast her eyes around wondering if last night’s portrait would be there.
The portrait was still hanging there.

“Tonight—even if it kills me—I will hold that baby.”

Kyōko passed through the tea room just as she had the previous night, exited from the tea room to the engawa veranda, and proceeded to the room where the couple slept.
The wife had placed the baby, swaddled in a padded quilt, beside her and was sleeping facing toward it.
The baby was a doll-like child who seemed to be about three months old.
The snoring of the husband, who seemed to have respiratory issues, rasped gutturally like a frog’s croak.

"Is it a boy, or is it a girl?"

Kyōko gazed at the innocent baby’s sleeping form but, wanting to hold it, extended both hands while remaining seated.
Her hands reached the swaddling quilt.
The wife’s eyes opened.
The wife’s hands coiled around Kyōko’s right wrist like snakes.

“What are you doing? What are you doing?”

Kyōko, startled by her ferocity, tried to shake her hand free but couldn’t break loose.

“Please wake up! Quickly, quickly! The one from last night has come—they’re trying to harm the baby! Hurry!”

The wife rose up and came at Kyōko, knocking her down sideways as she grabbed her hair with one hand.
The wife shouted again.

“Please wake up quickly! The one from last night has come to take the baby!”
“Quickly! Quickly!”

The husband leapt up.
And the husband’s hand clamped down on Kyōko’s neck.
“Ah—you! You’re the one from last night!”

Kyōko’s throat constricted.
The wife’s vicious hand struck Kyōko’s cheeks and brow.
Kyōko writhed in torment.

The baby’s wail pierced through.
Kyōko slipped into oblivion while that crying voice still faintly reached her ears.

Kyōko was shaken awake by her husband lying beside her.
While thinking her husband’s voice seemed to come from far away, she finally managed to open her eyes.

“What’s wrong? You were moaning terribly—did you have a nightmare?”

Kyōko opened her eyes.
The blue electric lamp’s light illuminated her husband’s hand resting on her shoulder.
Kyōko was left with a heavy pain from her neck to her face.

“Did you have a dream? You were moaning.”

“It really wasn’t a dream! When I went to hold the baby, something terrible happened—the madam grabbed my hair and mercilessly clawed at my face, and then the master jumped up and started strangling my throat!”

The husband laughed.

“It’s your nerves again—when your health fails, you get these morbid dreams.”

“It wasn’t a dream! It’s real! My face was clawed to shreds—I could’ve died! Even now, my face and neck ache all over—”

Kyōko put her hand to her face, stroked it from top to bottom, then held it out for her husband to see.

“How could that be? There’s nothing there at all—it was just a dream.”

“But it’s true! When I went back to last night’s house and tried to hold the baby, they attacked me again—it’s so maddening!”

“It’s your nerves again.”

“But can such things happen in a dream? Even now, it’s so infuriating—I wanted to somehow take that baby from the madam and hurl it at her!”

“It’s your nerves again—if they were sound, you wouldn’t have such dreams.”

Mist-like clouds drifted across the moon’s surface as a strong wind blew from the open sea.
The branches of young pines on the sand dune rustled.
Fallen pine needles brushed against a face.
As she prepared to descend the sand dune and cross the plank bridge over the stream, someone approached from the opposite side.
Kyōko retreated into the grass and waited for the approaching figure.
It was an old man—one not wearing the sort of hat typical of villagers.
After staring fixedly at Kyōko’s face, the old man turned and climbed back up toward the sand dune.

Kyōko crossed the bridge.
Kyōko’s heart was tense.
Kyōko strode resolutely into the plank-built gate.
He entered the couple’s bedroom without even glancing at the wall’s framed picture or living area.
In the wife’s bed lay only the baby; she herself was nowhere to be seen.

“She’s probably gone to relieve herself—good riddance.”

Kyōko abruptly picked up the baby and sat down on bedding.
The baby slept soundly without waking.
The husband’s guttural snoring lodged itself in her ears.

"As long as I hold this hostage, that woman can’t possibly win, no matter what she does."

Kyōko felt the pleasure of a victor as she thought this.

“Terrible, terrible! You must wake up quickly—that wretch has come again!”

The wife who had taken position at the entrance shouted as though stamping down the wooden veranda.
Kyōko wore a scornful smile and looked at that face.

“Madam, tonight I have won—for I hold the hostage here.”

The husband also sat up.

“What grudge compels you to do such things?”

The wife said resentfully.

“I bear no grudge—none at all. I came to hold this baby simply because I adore it,”

Kyōko said with a scornful smile.

“Whether you ‘like’ it or not—who authorized you to come barging in here?”

The husband stood up and came toward Kyōko.

“There’s no need to hear that! You can’t hold the baby—hand it over here!”

The wife also came in.

“Hand it over! That’s my baby—I won’t let you hold it!”

Kyōko stood up still holding the child.

“No matter what you say, I won’t hand over this baby anymore.”

The husband’s hand came to rest on Kyōko’s shoulder.
The wife’s hand came to rest on the baby.
“No.”

Kyōko brushed aside their hands and made her way toward the family room.
The couple let out a shout and gave chase.
Kyōko entered the family room.
Under the electric light in the family room lay a folded bundle of the wife’s half-sewn laundered kimono fabric and a small sewing box.
Inside the sewing box lay a pair of flower scissors with red-painted handles.
Kyōko took the scissors in one hand, opened them, and brought them toward the baby’s neck.
The couple arrived at the entrance.

“If you resort to violence, I’ll do this.”

The wife’s anguished scream was heard.
The wife’s hands came down on Kyōko’s hand holding the scissors.
Kyōko’s hand jerked from the force.
The baby’s neck, stained with blood, tumbled down onto the tatami mat.

Kyōko was held tightly by her husband and lay on the bedding.
Kyōko darted her eyes about, surveying her surroundings.

“There’s no baby’s head! Where could such a thing possibly be?”

The husband said scoldingly.
Even so, Kyōko continued to survey her surroundings with terrified eyes.

“It’s just a dream after all—your body’s unwell, so you’re having such nightmares. Today we’ll go to the brain hospital and have Dr. Ishikawa examine you. It’s all your body’s fault.”

Kyōko began to calm down slightly.

“Was it a dream? It was truly terrifying, you know.”

“It’s a dream. When neurasthenia worsens, you end up having these nonsensical nightmares, you know.”

II

Having waited impatiently for the school break to arrive, Kyōko’s husband brought her to the coast.
The area was a stretch of land nestled at the foothills of a mountain, where hot springs could be found in the mountainous region.
The two had decided to first go to the seaside inn they had heard about from a friend and then search for a rental room afterward. Upon getting off the train and heading toward the coast, they learned that while taking a rickshaw to that shore would require traveling fourteen or fifteen *chō*, walking would cover less than five *chō*. Thus, having their hired rickshaw puller carry the trunk, the husband and wife walked holding one small basket each.

It was just after two o'clock.
It was a windless, sweltering day, and the pine needles stood straight.
As they left the pine grove and went down a sand dune planted with young pines, a small river flowed.

“Somehow, this place feels familiar to me.”

Kyōko said while walking behind her husband.

“You must have come here with someone when you were small.”

The husband half-turned to show his left cheek.

“I’ve never been here before. Father and Mother were too old-fashioned—they never traveled anywhere like this.”

“Is that so.”

When they had descended the hill, they came to a small plank bridge. Beyond it lay a wide road paved with glittering sand.

“So this connects to that road up ahead, right?”

The husband said to the rickshaw puller.

“That’s right—since it loops all the way around to get here, it’s over ten chō, I tell you.”

The rickshaw puller switched the trunk to his other shoulder and wiped the sweat from his face with the hand towel he held in one hand.
The husband crossed the bridge.
In the water, short reeds grew in a dense expanse.
Across the road was a slightly elevated hill with a pine forest, upon which stood about three villa-style houses.

Kyōko made a disgusted face and looked again at the house at the far end of the bridge.

“You... you...”

Kyōko called out to her husband.
She crossed the bridge.
The husband who had climbed up onto the road turned toward him.

“What is it?”

“That house from before... It’s just like this one.”

The husband couldn't comprehend it.
"What do you mean 'house'?"
"It's that dream house, I tell you."

Kyōko's voice trembled.
The husband turned his gaze that way.
A house came into view - its gate of ship planks lashed with bamboo fencing, door shut tight.
The husband laughed.

“How could there be such nonsense?”

“But it’s true! From how the hill with young pines grows to the condition of this plank bridge—it’s identical. That’s why I said it felt familiar.”

“No such thing—absolutely not. Though the gate being closed makes it look vacant... If it’s vacant, I’d want to rent it.”

The rickshaw puller carrying the trunk arrived.

“Rickshaw puller, is this house vacant?”

“It is vacant.”

“Would they rent it out for about a month?”

“They might be willing to rent it out, but this house is... strange. A Tokyoite who was here until last month had their baby strangled by some strange woman—that’s why there’s been no one wanting to rent it.”

The husband made a peculiar face and glanced briefly at Kyōko.
Kyōko’s face turned deathly pale.

“Well then, let’s decide after we get to the inn. An ill-omened house won’t do.”

Having said this, the husband started walking toward the coast.
Kyōko walked as if to keep pace.
The two of them said nothing more.
An old man approached from the opposite direction.
The old man, trying to pass by them, stared intently at Kyōko’s face.
He shifted his gaze to the rickshaw puller—their expressions showed mutual recognition.
The two men stood talking about something.

The husband and Kyōko were walking about half a chō ahead.
The rickshaw puller who had parted with the old man quickened his pace to catch up.

“Master, that man just now is the landlord of that house.”

“I see.”

The husband said this and then fell completely silent.
The rickshaw puller addressed Kyōko.

“Madam, have you ever been here before? The man from earlier says he thinks he’s seen you somewhere.”

Kyōko did not respond.

“No—this is our first time here. You must have seen her somewhere in Tokyo.”

Kyōko and her husband were shown to the second floor of a seaside inn.
Kyōko sat with ashen eyes, her face turned downward.

“Change your clothes. It’s nothing. Your dream just coincided with some strange happenstance—there’s no such absurd thing.”

Kyōko still did not move.
While changing from his Western clothes into the inn’s sleepwear, the husband drank the tea the maid had left.

“If you change into a kimono, it’ll shift your mood. Go change,”

Kyōko still did not respond.
The innkeeper entered.
In the innkeeper’s hand was a business card.

“This person says they wish to see you for a moment,”

The husband took it and looked at it.
It was a police business card.

"The police? What business could they have?"

Having said this, the husband thought.

"Lately, the police have been coming to meet anyone and everyone—it's quite bothersome. Shall I show them in here?"

"Then have them shown in."

"How truly dreadful."

The innkeeper rose.

Kyōko stood up while letting out a terrifying scream.
When the husband started up in surprise, she was already out in the hallway.
And placed one foot on the railing.
The husband chased after her and grabbed hold of her.

“What are you doing?!”

As he said this, the husband turned his gaze toward the garden.
By the red pine tree in the garden, a woman who looked exactly like Kyōko ran past.
The husband stared wide-eyed and looked back at Kyōko’s face that he was holding.
Even so, because he found it strange, he looked toward the garden again.
The figure of the woman who had run off was nowhere to be seen.
Kyōko struggled frantically, trying to shake off her husband’s grip.

Yajima Bungakushi, Kyōko’s husband, sat dejectedly in a corner of the Tokyo-bound train the next day, tending to Kyōko’s body, which had become something like a mass of terror.