Pathway to Japanese Literature

When Jujima saw that secret photograph of a beautiful woman—a married woman—within the shadow of the temple bell gaping like a dragon’s maw through trees beneath a lapis lazuli-clear sky, his blood turned cold as he shuddered...

From the mountain’s base welled water that trickled steadily over a weir there, pooling in a basin where the bell tower’s shadow reflected above—thus called Temple Bell’s Clear Water.

From the town’s outskirts, a narrow path sloped downward, then from that low point wound upward along a mountainward trail.
Where it met that hollow, though shallow, it formed a valley floor.
On one side rose the cliff of a hill bearing the bell tower high—though late autumn already, mixed trees thrived there, and through their parched leaves one might spy both midday moon and bell-star reflections—yet it remained no sight worthy of an inscribed marker.

The people of the surrounding wooden and thatched houses washed daikon radishes here, washed leafy greens there.
Parting the withered onion leaves, they would do laundry.
They hung a bamboo pipe on the roots of mountain bamboo grass and set up a small waterfall outside the flow’s outlet.
Let those who drew water to drink do so; let those who wished to see gaze upon it. Thus stood the clear water’s renown.

On one side of the path flanking the water lay the backyard fields of small houses, where daikon radishes and onions were planted.
A sparse bamboo fence bore clusters of wisteria beans blooming vivid purple, while red dragonflies glided smoothly through the air—no—rather, upon their wings rode luminous phantoms: thread-like shimmers and heat hazes, floating and dancing as though in spring's fullest flourish…

About an hour earlier.
Jujima—sitting on the collapsed embankment of this sunlit backyard field to rest—saw the owner of that photograph in the flesh, as we now say.

Before that, he had visited the graves at the family temple of his mother’s family—a temple in this area.

It is commonly called Akamon Temple... The gate being vermilion-lacquered and the statues of Vajra deities enshrined on both sides being cinnabar-red meant it could be referred to by either name.
The Chief Priest was known for his erudition, and the temple itself was renowned.

On the pillars of the Deva gate hung large straw sandals—some reaching chest-height on a standing adult—piled like mummified rice sheaves. That this sight he had known since childhood remained unchanged even now.
The offerings—small chrysanthemums mingled with what locals called “monk’s flower,” tied with cords into packets as if bound with irises—bore the aesthetic of *The Narrow Road to the Deep North*. They gleamed in sunlight like sacred bouquets adorning blessed deities’ straw sandals, their radiance stirring wanderlust even as their homely familiarity pierced his heart with nostalgia.

The sound of wind through pines was heard quietly in the distance.

When word reached the temple quarters requesting grave sutra recitation, the Chief Priest—without summoning either treasurer or acolyte—promptly proceeded to the graveyard in geta.

Caw caw—the crows cried out.
The graveyard lay in shadow.
Bewildered by moss and slipping on dew, Jujima had become somewhat flustered because the Chief Priest—moving with such nimbleness—had promptly taken the lead ahead, causing him to lose his way along the grassy path among stupas he had neglected for eighteen or nineteen years while searching for the intended gravestone.

With the ritual gong wrapped in purple silk cloth in one hand,

“Whose grave might this be?”

The situation being somewhat awkward... when he stated his surname,

“Ah, you’re standing right there—that’d be the one.”

“I apologize for my long absence.”

He silently bowed his head and offered incense.
Thin smoke wavered and scattered; the grave’s fallen leaves lay piled high.
A candle stood planted in the damp moss, utterly still, its match-lit flame rising straight and white.

Clang, clang—caw caw—the crows cried out.

Eventually, he ceased his sutra chanting,

“Shall I conduct the memorial service as you wish?”

“Please include all of them together.”

“All ancestral spirits through generations... May this merit universally bestow boundless paramita.
Complete perfection, equal benefit—Namu Myō... This sutra is hard to uphold, yet if briefly upheld, I shall rejoice... All celestial beings must be venerated.—”

Clang.

“I offer my deepest gratitude.”

“Aye.”

“Thank you for your kind service.”

“Aye.”

With that—raising his elbow holding the ring-shaped gong in his sleeve and tilting it—he gazed intently at the grave-visiting man.

“Many have passed beyond, others gone to distant lands—it’s been an age since any came to tend these graves.”
“...Might you be bound by blood ties?”

“Your Reverence.”

The hem grew cold; raising his pale face,

“My mother’s parents, elder brother, and others are being cared for here.”

“Oh,” he said, drawing back one foot and his chest as he looked him over again.

“So this is Jujima’s son?”
“I’ve heard bits here and there.”
“Most importantly, you seem well.”

“And you as well, Your Reverence.”

“Ah, but I’ve grown old.”
“All my acquaintances are in their second generation—some even their grandchildren’s... Yet you’ve become splendidly grown.”

“I am deeply ashamed.”

“It’s been ages—come to the temple quarters awhile. I’ll brew you some bitter tea.”

“I appreciate your kindness and will certainly visit another time, but I have matters requiring attention on my journey, and there are also nearby places I wish to pay my respects at.”

“Ah, you were led by the hand of your young mother—who still looked like a maiden—to visit Queen Maya’s temple, I suppose.”

Led by the hand of his deceased mother, his small body would have ridden upon spring and autumn butterflies and dragonflies.
He remembers it as though it were a dream.

“My my.”

nodded and

“And now—for your kindness—I shall promptly arrange offerings before Buddha’s altar. Young sir—in that case—proceed quietly.”
“Ah—that upper gate’s lock and key—all rusted and loose.”
“Leave it open.”
“The temple worker will mend it later.”
“Mind your step ascending—stone stairs crumbled—overgrown with weeds.”

This stupa stood in a depression.

When four or five stone tiers lay concealed beneath withered pampas grass that weighed down like mouse-hued priestly robes, there came a dry rustle as a mountain crow alighted on a branch near the grave marker.
Amidst the foliage, it resembled a tengu's ceremonial cushion.
It waited for the human to depart before pecking at the candle.

When snatching its prize with a sharp clack, it typically flew safely mountainward—but should the stolen wax fall upon one of these thatch-roofed temples, disaster might follow.
Jujima extinguished the flame with practiced care.
As candle-scent sliced through incense smoke—pale aromatic layers rising swift—the crows burst into raucous cries that shook the air.
Wingbeats whispered through autumn stillness; among them piped youthful calls from nestlings still soft-feathered.

“……Go ahead and eat.”

He had heard that this too could serve as an offering.
Here too was one; clad in a coat of the same hue, holding an umbrella and carrying his removed fedora, he exited the thicket.

It was not limited to Akamon Temple. Whether on hills, slopes, or valleys—along paths threading left and right—there were only two or three townhouses at each temple gate; one could almost say the temples formed an unbroken chain. At Akamon was enshrined Kiyomasa Kō. The Hokushin Myōken Shrine, Marishiten Hall, and Benzaiten Shrine each had renowned red plum trees with drooping branches in bloom. Myōjō Hill's Bishamonten. The Bodhisattva Jizō at Tsuji Slope, where chopsticks were offered to ward off tooth decay. Shigure's Nyoirin Kannon. The Kasa Guardian Deity. The Kokuzōdō Hall deep in the forest where owls were said to cry even in daylight—

On Clear Spring’s lofty Shinkū Hill, where they erected a bell tower—though its official temple name may differ—all remember it as Umebachi Temple. At the precincts under cherry trees where stone steps had been climbed—particularly around the bell tower’s foundation—the Grass of Parnassus bloomed mysteriously as alpine plants rarely seen near such towns. As the story went—though scholars might see them as distinct from other varieties, and thoughtful adults would surely agree—the children delighted in plucking those small white flowers with their five petals. Of course, for children up to about ten years old to come all the way from home, packed lunches were essential.—That alone made the memories all the more profound.

Though not a grass that blooms now, he drew comfort from the scent of the soil.

...Jujima left Akamon Temple and, using the Deva gate’s giant straw sandals as a boat, moved as if rowing through temple-lined streets along an autumn pilgrimage path. He had climbed this bell tower once before—but the ascent proved too hurried, sweat clung to him, and here in these precincts where divine traces manifest, one’s body instinctively tightens in reverence.

The weariness of travel shared a breath like a kiss at the edge of the radish field now facing the clear spring.

……From somewhere far away drifted the faint scent of smelt—caught in the lagoon—being grilled for a late lunch. It was too warm, but rain seemed unlikely. Red dragonflies scattered maple leaves with their wings as they pierced through the blue sky. The bell hung high, its dragon-headed fixture swirling with thin mist.

At the foot of a slope rising from Clear Spring stood a dilapidated storage shed cluttered with discarded firewood, pickling tubs, and a millstone; the area remained utterly still—devoid of human activity—until the shed came to resemble a charcoal hut.

On moonlit nights, frost would form from this shed’s roof.
The wild asters blooming there, clinging to that millstone, were a pitiable sight.

Ah, pampas grass plumes fluttered wildly around the bucket’s hoop.
Even in this splendor lay autumn’s melancholy…

Jujima, without a thought for poetry or verse, slid down onto the field’s soil against his coat’s back, half-reclining yet entranced by the sensation of riding upon the Vajra deities’ straw sandals.

Suddenly, a bird’s shadow… cast its shade.
There, right before his eyes, stood a graceful woman.
Rather than detailing her attire—a splashed-pattern kimono resembling spun yarn, dyed in deep indigo hues, with a narrow satin obi tied in a drum bow using cords over faded peach sashes—it would be quicker to say her arms were bared, elbows fully extended as she cradled a basin against her side.
She had come to do laundry.
There was nothing delicate about her posture as she did laundry in the roadside stream.
—And yet, at a glance she appeared delicate; her hands gripping the basin with force seemed to dissolve the mist.
Her pale skin, translucent through and through—her very bones must be beautiful.
Moreover, she wore cooled straw sandals on her bare feet.
That she approached without making a sound now made sense.

The woman stopped at the water's edge—laundry basin in hand (within which lay a bunch of wild asters likely plucked as roadside forage)—and bent at the waist to set it down on a stone before straightening up as smoothly as a willow. Moving out of the sunlight—and appearing slightly sweaty—she took a towel from her headscarf tied in the older sister fashion and lightly wiped her neck and nape rather than her forehead. The slightly tilted neck rivaled snow in whiteness. When she took the towel between her teeth, there was an air of someone shielding their face from view—her brows soft, her profile slightly tilted, her eyes glistening and dark-lidded—all of which seemed to flicker toward Jujima. She briskly lowered her gaze, thick lashes veiling her eyes, and swept back the stray hairs at her nape with a pale arm—down to fingertips like snowflakes scattered on lacquer, she gathered her black tresses tightly at her ears, bound into a chignon with a comb. She was twenty-five or twenty-six. Immediately tucking the hand towel into her obi—to bend over from the bank right away required stretching one's hand toward the low stream—stone steps had been built there. The moss and grass drew dew, all blue. As they descended, they suddenly seemed to hesitate. Ah, this shows no consideration—he thought, yet when the observer’s heart caught on, she gathered her hem and tucked it high. The woman was not necessarily wearing a nagajuban undergarment. A single layer of cloth did not cover below the knees; gathering her stride, clinging in pale hues, her calves—white, smooth, and slender—flowed long into the stream as she stood.

What obscured his vision with flickering crimson amidst the lapping water was not the inverted reflection of the temple bell’s dragon-shaped flames. Nor was it the shadow of a single red dragonfly darting swiftly over discarded straw sandals. Amidst crumbled cliffs among tangled trees and thickets, upon ancient stupas decayed like skeletons in moonlight, red spider lilies bloomed lingeringly—burning as they endured.

The woman was beautiful in a way that transcended human bounds.

At this moment, recalling Kume no Senjin, who among us would not suppress a wry smile?

Having fallen from the Deva gate’s straw sandal boat, Jujima stood up and brushed the dirt from his waist.
His beard had grown without him noticing.

“Excuse me—might I trouble you with a question? I’m a traveler.”

“Ah.”

“Is this Rengeiji Temple?”

“This is Queen Maya’s temple.”

Hearing that voice—now grown even more refined and august, as if a noblewoman of Trayastrimsa Heaven herself were attending to him—he reflexively bowed in reverence.

The woman was idly soaking wild aster stems in the bamboo pipe’s water. Using pale blue flowers dripping with dew as her shield, she gestured toward the upper path of the dilapidated shed.

“If you trace your way up that slope—though the door is closed—you should see a two-story house.”
“You see, beyond that lies Kokuzo-sama’s temple—the one that’s densely blackened.”
“The area right before that has turned a clear blue, and you can see flickering maple leaves… That is where Her Ladyship Queen Maya resides.”

“Thank you—I’d wanted to ask someone, but with no passersby, I was at a loss… Your guidance—”

“No… think nothing of it.”

“Pardon me.”

“Please pay your respects quietly… There will be blessings for you.”

With the wild aster at her lips, her eyelids faintly curved in a smile.

It was the photograph of this woman.

The photograph had been discovered in a corner of the altar within Queen Maya’s Hall at Rengeiji Temple, among photographs piled like a thousand scattered karuta cards. For instance, a thousand women across a thousand sheets—each cradling an infant. Those who had received answered childbirth prayers would present these during their thanksgiving pilgrimages, making them living votive tablets. Some clasped infants to their chests, others settled them on laps; among them were those who carried babies on their backs while pressing palms together. Yet since none exposed breasts or allowed suckling—nothing remained hidden; the photographs lay utterly bare. Still, being women mindful of propriety, it went without saying that all such details were discreetly veiled.

Until these photographs came to resemble the Hyakunin Isshu karuta cards just mentioned, the hall remained resplendent in gold and azure while subduing the gleam of lacquer and vermilion—appearing only as blue brocade under moonlight—solemnly dignified and pure.

Before the sacred shrine stretched a space of twenty ken in length, arranged into five tiers—missing only crimson hakama trousers, white-robed court ladies, eboshi caps, and five musicians in plain robes to complete the resplendent furnishings. From black shelves down to dining utensils and a carriage with shafts, all could be compared to a doll platform adorned without gaps in raised gold lacquer and mother-of-pearl inlay.
Instead of crimson felt, there lay a spread of fine brocade.

It is said that all of these were offerings from the local daimyo, castle-town aristocracy, landed clans, and wives of wealthy merchants.
It may be regarded as a collection of family crests from each household.

Amidst celestial dance-music and the violet hues of vaulted ceilings, beneath the shadow of an antique brocade canopy, they placed a black-lacquered stand adorned with maki-e of a thousand cranes—alternately stacking crimson and white cloths into a charmingly towering pile.
They were all new belly bands.
On the day those who made pilgrimages with devout intent arrived, it was said that if crimson marked the offering time a girl would be born; if white, a boy—and they were received without disturbing the order.

Large vases were placed to both sides, and around here, flowers so splendid one might think five to seven florists had emptied their underground storehouses were abundant.
White and yellow chrysanthemums—among the large blooms mingled bellflowers, and maidenflowers yet unwithered, likely through the blessing of merit-bestowing waters—their last leaves still clinging, dew dripping.

At that moment, the belly band was crimson.

When he visited, two candles were lit, and beside the belly band platform, an old woman and a young woman with a round chignon were worshiping amiably.

After some time had passed—with prayer beads being reverently counted once more at the entrance as the old woman stood before—once those two had departed, there remained no one in either the main hall or side hall.

It should be noted there.

This was something not found in the city.
The temples in this area maintained neither partitions nor locked doors anywhere; from morning services until evening, devas and buddhas—and above all, when attending upon that exquisitely beautiful noblewoman in her inner sanctum—required not the slightest need for gatekeepers or attendants.

The temple belonged to the Hokke sect.

The Founder’s Hall—canonical in form though separate within the same structure—connected via slender old tatami mats that traced a black rainbow across transom spaces as they extended from Her Ladyship’s austere mausoleum to that sacred hall.
...The broad corridor lay cold as frost beneath Kokuzo’s forest, steeped in stillness.

Through one narrowly opened kotoji window designed to channel breezes—beyond the forest—the peak of Akatsuchiyama came into view with its shapely pines turned white by autumn light, while across Mukōeshi’s foothills glittered a mirror-flat expanse that marked part of a distant lake.
The blue water—loosely winding around this mountain’s middle slope where pale maples tinged its base—curved once in a serpentine shape before becoming the river flowing through town.
Mist veiled the town.
Piercing that mist rose what towered into blue sky—the old castle keep.

Listen—there hangs in this rainbow transom a famous framed oshie of raised-cloth pictures. It was crafted with devoted care by the women of the castle’s innermost quarters—the very castle whose keep we just described.

By Bantei Ōga, painted by Toyokuni.
The kusazōshi chapbooks from Nishikijūdō Press—published in Edo at that time and circulated so widely it was said to have necessitated building a storehouse—included among their illustrations for *Shaka Hassō Yamato Bunko* a raised-cloth oshie of Queen Maya’s august form. They recreated the exact likeness of the illustration using habutae silk, tomodzome-dyed fabric, damask, brocade, and even coral inlays for the padded relief……

At King Śuddhodana’s hunting path—from where Sujata’s younger princess of Devadaha Castle in India first appeared alongside her elder sister Gotami, to Udāyī acting as betrothal envoy, and later to Gotami’s jealousy.
Before long, the sight of Queen Maya—clutching just once the phantom of her unborn child to her afflicted bosom during illness—pained even those who beheld it.
The gentle black hair that draped those shoulders, veiling the infant’s neck—whose maiden tresses were these, set here as living strands?……

Though likely a folk belief among our townspeople’s elders, they say the cursed oshie of Gotami was crafted not by the official wife—the principal consort—within the castle’s innermost quarters, but rather by a concubine, a favored mistress of that era.
Moreover, it held significance to hear that this concubine was skilled in painting and that all facial depictions in the oshie had been created by her brush.
Among statues of Her Ladyship was one where her chest lay slightly exposed as she cradled the infant Shakyamuni—though with due reserve, I shall humbly describe it.

Among the oshie here was a panel showing Queen Maya beneath a mirror taking a black-lacquered maki-e basin to draw purification water. White habutae silk like snow-wrapped pearls clothed the area around her bared breast. Her shoulders and back lay half-exposed.

One work depicted the white-robed Queen Maya astride a six-tusked great white elephant descending through clouds from Tusita Heaven to stand by the dream-pillow of her reclining form; another slightly larger frame showed the pond in Lumbini Garden where blue lotuses bloomed. The Ashoka flowers—vivid in hue and fragrance—and the panel of Shakyamuni’s birth showing Her Ladyship holding a blossom in her right hand with sleeves still draped were said to be creations of the castle’s official wife.

Both countenance and colors hazed mistily, emerging amidst the transom's clouds.
Though the shadow did not pierce through—spilling into fragrance while lingering behind—the feet upon the tatami naturally rose onto tiptoe.

Turning back along the tatami corridor, he exited over the threshold... At the edge of Queen Maya's mausoleum altar, those photographs lay stacked in numbers.

After viewing the oshie artworks, peering at photographs from another era became its own scholarly pursuit.

The image of the beautiful woman washing laundry in clear spring water caught his eye by the fourth or fifth sheet.
Though her hair was bound in a round chignon and she wore no haori overgarment as she held an infant girl who appeared to be her daughter—seated in the photographer's chair—the image showed not the slightest discrepancy.

These photographs might as well have been publicly displayed.
In hopes of safe childbirth and a child’s robust health—to receive blessings matching their prayers—they were permitted to select that single photograph, borrow it, and secretly take it home.
However, setting aside the matter of timing, it went without saying they should make a copy and return it to Her Ladyship’s people.

Today, offerings were plentiful throughout the temple.
As a precaution for travel, his newly arranged pocket contained hanshi paper.

Taking the photograph—its subject’s eyes glistening with moisture, lips nearly parting—he instinctively glanced around and tried to wrap it in the hanshi paper.

Suddenly, there was a clamor against the corrugated iron.

Jujima flushed crimson.

He was suddenly struck by a memory.
He must have been eight or nine years old at the time.
The hina dolls are alive.
The Hina Market exists only in March; for instance, suppose its presence were in an antique shop.
...it was said that if one devotedly stared at a particular hina doll—one that had captured their obsession—day after day for roughly seven to ten days, that doll would smile gently.
As for the season—he could not recall.
In the town beyond Ōkawa Bridge—which he crossed on his way to elementary school—there stood a single antique shop where only one large female hina doll was displayed.
The beauty of its aged elegance required no elaboration.
——Jujima would fix his route home from school and stare intently for about half an hour each time.

The eyes had already begun to move by the third or fourth day. When finally those lips smiled—warm as a veil of mist from the border of the netherworld—the child’s limbs trembled violently. At the same moment. Parting the curtain of the inner partition, a woman—whether an older sister or aunt, beautiful and well-kept—slipped out and said, “I’ll give it to you, young master.” Wait… that wasn’t the hina doll. On the pillar beside the hina doll in crimson hakama trousers placed atop the lacquered long chest bearing the family crest hung a quiver of arrows, a slender gourd, and something resembling a lingzhi mushroom—now, this was strange. Even later, when he thought back on it, it remained strange—...what he had been given resembled a Buddhist hossu whisk: its wooden handle coiled like a caterpillar larva, painted shrimp-colored at the tip where about a foot of leather cords hung in a loose bundle. It resembled a simplified version of the commander’s baton seen in illustrations—to this day, he could not fathom its purpose. But in every town and crossroads, all the children held toys—swinging them, spinning them, waving them through the air—as they frolicked. It had fallen out of use after about half a year, but one could deem it a sort of spectral object. If he didn’t hold it, he wanted it so desperately that the longing itself felt futile. But Jujima did not have it. It had been bestowed upon him as if in a dream.

He swung it around on the bridge and ran back through the sliced air.
But upon reflection—...he had to conclude that the spectral hossu, sprouting a tail as it flew midair, had pursued him through the void.
This was the year marking the first memorial of his mother's passing.

When Father saw the cursed object in his child’s hand, he turned pale and trembled.
The father, who never allowed his child to handle pocket money directly, suspected theft—but feared more than he became angry.

To verify the truth at the antique shop, his grandmother accompanied him. Midway across Ōhashi Bridge, she prayed to the mountain peak where his mother lay enshrined for her grandson’s sake, and the child too pressed his small hands together in prayer.
The dread of the river’s flow at that moment was as if the earth were splitting apart.
“Ah, I did not know that.”
“Children are innocent—I thought they must want what they desire, so I gave it to them.”
“…Was it the doll you were looking at every day?”
“Ah, that’s… that’s…”
“...As this doll is rather costly, I cannot offer it—but if it’s no trouble, take that plaything instead,” the antique shop owner said clearly to Grandmother.

But at that time, it had been neither a beautiful older sister nor an aunt—he was an old man with a scruffy salt-and-pepper beard. And so the monster, drawn by human greed to pursue wickedness, meant that kind woman had been nothing but an illusion. The antique shop owner had likely taken pity on his childishness and shielded him with a lie.—Every time he recalled it, he was filled with hollow dread.

The same emotion struck his chest.
It was simultaneous—there came a clamor of people—

The Kannon-biraki door with its lattice-patterned curtain—positioned at the front of the wooden corridor leading behind the mausoleum—stood half-open and dimly lit.
...peering obliquely at it—there was a noble woman in half-profile.
If one imagined her appearance—a white underrobe layered with scarlet—she might have been a woman attending the overnight vigil hall.
If one considered [her attire] a finely patterned kosode with a maruobi sash, then this temple indeed maintained the custom of respectable families sending brides.
——When I later reflected on it, even that memory grew hazy.
She resembled both that beautiful woman from the phantom antique shop and a figure from raised-fabric artwork—a maiden in hitatare-style robes with long flowing sleeves...

In that instant—turning his anxious thought of being observed into a rod—he rushed forward without glancing back or sideways, then knelt with both hands pressed against her robe.

“The child is not even granted a shadow.
“…I merely wish to receive its blessing.”
“The photograph… might I be permitted to borrow it?”

Even if his tongue were to rot there, he could not say that he loved another woman.

“Which photograph?”

Her voice rang out clearly, soft and tender.
Truly, ethereal was the word one should have used to describe her tone at that moment.

“Ha,”

She left it on the blank paper.

“Please take it.”

With your hands—a faint swish—...the sound of hanshi paper being folded in two.

“Ha, ha.”

When he pressed it to his forehead, the fragrance—unexpectedly alluring—rendered his soul void even as terror and shame compelled him to drag himself backward on his knees.

As he swayed unsteadily to his feet, her figure from behind vanished.

Grabbing his coat and hat, he descended the stairs—his foot slipped.
Had not the shadow of the Vajra deities’ straw sandal—enveloping his entire body—appeared dimly before him, he would surely have tumbled from this mountain temple’s stone platform onto the path below.

Even the doll’s smile floated before his eyes in the cerulean vault.
The Vajra deities’ great straw sandal stepped through the void and sledded him down the slope.

To the collapsed embankment of Mukahatake by the clear spring water, he slumped down and propped himself up by the waist.
The woman from earlier was, of course, no longer there.
But, as it seemed only a short time had passed, there were neither people coming to draw water nor those washing vegetables.

In the warmly sunlit spot, the wisteria bean flowers gazed wide-eyed at him.
...How he envied those who had toyed with those straw sandals... The red dragonflies laughed.

“Should I show it?”

Lying on his back while gazing at the bell, he spoke recklessly to the flickering dragonflies.

“No—...I’ll pray myself.”

At that moment—the temple bell that had been veiled in mist against the blue sky suddenly turned black and covered overhead; the stone mortar in the ruined shed appeared like a skull with sunken eyes and a broken mouth; the red spider lilies blazed like will-o’-the-wisps—and all surroundings plunged into utter darkness because he felt a dazzling sensation.
How—how—the infant in the woolen cap and hemp-leaf-patterned swaddling clothes, which the photograph had so vividly pressed against his chest, had vanished as if wiped away into the beautiful woman’s sleeve—this was why.

Jujima squeezed his eyes nearly shut and desperately ran back to Queen Maya’s Hall.
Needless to say—though he would claim he’d deliberately closed his eyes—the Vajra deities’ straw sandal struck his backside to drive him back.

When he returned it to Queen Maya’s altar, he placed it face down and left it there softly.
Whether the infant had returned to the photograph was something he apparently lacked the courage to doubt.

“Oh, it’s nothing at all.
“…On the shelf… it is there.”
“The ones with gold and polychrome… are those plain wood carvings over there. No—rather—how should I put it… masterpieces by ancient artisans.”
“Th-th-these are all treasured possessions from various households—but as each requires some repairs—I’m entrusted with their care. Ah yes—the one at the shop entrance wearing the purple kesa robe—that one I carved myself.”
“This is a statue of the venerable Patriarch—but though it may resemble Kisen Hōshi—this stems from my inadequate skill and lack of refinement.”

The unassuming Buddhist sculptor spoke haltingly, his words slightly stammered and tinged with humility.

Yet this was not an attempt to test the artisan’s skill through questions about the Buddhist statue enshrined on the shelf altar.
By this time, Jujima had already commissioned the statue of Queen Maya.

In a narrow alleyway—a remote, slum-like path at the valley’s edge leading out from the town entrance, where temples clustered across the mountain—amidst sweltering humidity reeking of mold, arose the fragrance of sandalwood and incense.

It was a small Buddhist sculptor’s house.

Beneath a small glass-paned alcove where miniature Buddhist shrines, pagoda replicas, and statues of patriarchs were arranged, sat a man who appeared young in years but bore a receding hairline—his round face framed by thick eyebrows and gentle eyes. With his mouth pursed in a slight frown, he sat cross-legged and composed before his workbench, facing a large pile of dust across the sloping road.
“May I take a brief look,” said Jujima as he quietly stepped into the earthen-floored entryway—bowing slightly toward what he would later learn were statues of Buddhas and Bodhisattvas entrusted for repair—“I merely wish to make an inquiry.”
“A statue about this large.” He ventured an approximate price.

It was a chilly, humble dwelling steeped in rustic austerity.
Brushing off the cotton-striped lap blanket, he straightened his knees clad in cylindrical-sleeved work trousers and offered his greetings.
Upon hearing this—the cost being but one-fifth what he had secretly feared—he seized momentum and immediately commissioned a statue.

——

“H-however… regarding the commission I’ve been entrusted with… given your intention to take it to Tokyo… I have devoted p-painstaking care to its crafting,” he said stammeringly.

“Your devotion to the Buddha is truly commendable, but given your generous gratitude, such efforts on my part only deepen my unease. Moreover… as I mentioned earlier, I lack a proper altar. As long as it isn’t too imposing, I intend to place it in the tokonoma alcove or atop the tobukuro door casing, so I humbly requested it be styled after kusa-zōshi illustrations.”

“It’s not the formal style.”

“I think it would be too grand for Tōriten Heaven’s form... Please rest assured.”

“Yes, I have tentatively noted that.”
“For thoroughness’ sake—may I confirm it would take the form of a palace princess or noblewoman from times past?”

“It’s kusa-zōshi illustrations.”
“It’d be handy to have the book.”

Jujima smoked a rolled tobacco while pondering,

“Wabunko…”

“W-well, the Eight Phases of the Buddha’s Life—they were at my master’s house, and I saw them often enough to know them well.”
“Oh, not at all…”

and crossed his arms as if clutching his chest,

“I was trained up from apprenticehood… but then that master of mine passed away three years later.”
“I had relied on him as both cane and pillar—now I’m utterly adrift.”
“At last in recent years, I managed to set up a modest workshop for imitation works.”
“It is but a newly opened establishment.”

“Excuse me,”

A gentle woman’s voice came from beyond a single partition in the dim storage room.

“They’re incomplete sets, but there were five or six volumes.”

“Ah, I see.”

“No need to look for them now.”

Sensing the situation, Jujima called out from the threshold.

“Ah, I just...”

“Milk.”

A sweet child’s voice sounded.…

“Mimi, wake up.”
“Yes… I’ll give you some milk now.”

“Mama, milk.”
“Mama, milk... Mama, milk.”

“Oh, not ‘Mama,’ it’s ‘Mommy.’”

“Nuh-uh, I don’t want any—I already drank Mama’s milk.”
“Mama’s milk—like a Hina doll’s.”

“Oh my, you had a vision.”

Jujima felt the tremor in his shoulders reverberate through his chest.

“Is she your daughter?”

“Yes, well—she’s just turned three years old—yes, already—oh! What am I—let me offer you some tea.”

She poured and served it on the tea table.

“Ah,”

A beautiful woman washing silk at the clear spring.
Unchanged from before, she hung the washed meisen haori.

“Earlier.”

“Oh my, you.”

“Have we met?”

“Yes, at the clear spring of Umebachiji Temple—the one where you inquired about Queen Maya’s temple.”

He shed a cold sweat.
It was not a path he had inquired about unknowingly.

“That’s true devotion, isn’t it?”

With eyes downcast, she flushed crimson.

She tapped her plump knees,

“This sacred bond—we’ll devote even more... more care to it.”

“Ah, so this is the young lady here?”

He inadvertently let slip.

“Oh no—well, that is… I’m the master’s daughter.”

“What is this—hey… little one.”

And then—stepping inside the threshold… leaning on one hand—he turned his back to face away from the storage room.

Jujima presented a token of gratitude.
When the sculptor declined, citing the statue’s quality, and Jujima persuaded him to accept the payment graciously, he meticulously prepared the inkstone, vigorously ground the ink, and wrote out the receipt as if performing formal calligraphy—

Record

One sum: … yen.

“M-M-Ma...ya? The character for ‘Maya’?”
“…Ah, I understand.”

“Husband.”

And Jujima raised his hand,

“Regarding Madam’s name—not beneath the sum, but placed alongside… or perhaps above it—I would ask.”

“Ah, y-yes, understood.”

“How very thoughtful of you.”
“Well then, please… I’m not trying to interfere, but… please make the face as beautiful as you possibly can.”
“...I don’t know if this aligns with your craft’s principles.”

“Ah, no...
“Above all, the countenance holds paramount importance. Your Reverence of Akamon Temple often visits our workshop and knows our ways thoroughly… As he says—‘preaching through visage’—those blessed with such faces need only be seen for faith to awaken in heart, body, and soul.”
“Especially for Her Ladyship’s form—it must already bear an exquisitely graceful countenance… B-but whether my hands—whether this skill suffices… I can only wonder… Y-yes.”

Jujima, resolved to flee back to Tokyo in one go, rushed headlong to the station and said—

“If it bears the young lady’s likeness, my purpose shall be fulfilled.”

It was mid-December.

In the brief twilight of a short winter day, he pulled open the cold veranda door—its warped frame from the post-earthquake damage refusing to close properly—and tried to set up a bamboo prop. As he wedged it fiercely between the pillar and door frame, then slipped it loose in an inexplicable recoil, the thick bamboo bent like a supple sapling and snapped back, striking two fingers of his right hand.
He thought his arm had shattered—so much so that he nearly lost consciousness.
The previous day, he had received a postcard notification that the statue of Her Ladyship had been completed, its journey would be safe, and that it would be shipped.

Two days later in the afternoon, the package arrived.
It hadn’t been severe enough to require summoning a doctor.
But with his bandaged hand, he unwrapped the long-awaited package, separating layer upon layer of silk floss.

Cradling it reverently in both hands—sacrilege... he thought to press his cheeks, his lips—but when he met its gaze, it was not the face of the Buddhist sculptor’s young wife. There, preserved from childhood, a visage he could never forget even in dreams—the likeness of his departed mother.

Jujima started, turned pale, and leapt back while still clutching the silk floss. He planted both hands on the floor. His fingers throbbed in visceral sympathy.

When he steadied himself enough to look again—ah—the statue’s hand had split clean from the wrist, middle and ring fingers lying broken like slender white stamens.

Had that divine mercy not intervened, his own arm would surely have shattered two days prior. He gathered the figure to his chest and wept.

The statue came accompanied by a letter from the sculptor: Whether your previous remarks regarding my humble wife were made in jest, I cannot presume to say… During my labors, Your Reverence of Akamon Temple visited my workshop four or five times with great frequency, instructing me most precisely in crafting this likeness after your honored mother’s countenance—such was the essence of his message.

—Recording Jujima’s story here—

The author attempted several times to sketch the honorable statue of Queen Maya—at the Ashoka tree, Mineshaya Shinjū, and Lady Hall, among other sites.
Even now, as I attempt again and again, I must feel ashamed of my ineptitude in being unable to capture even a shadow of that visage’s shadow.

Taishō 13 (1924), July