Pathway to Japanese Literature

*Kerria Flowers*

Prologue

Kerria flowers—especially those blooming white—the color of their rain-drenched leaves, could it be said they resembled the charm of a beautiful woman fresh from her bath, her eyebrows tinged with blue?—

Time: Modern era.

Place: Backstreet of Shuzenji Hot Springs.

Place: Mountains along the shortcut to Shimoda Highway.

Character: Shimazu Tadashi (45–46), Western-style painter.

Nuiko (25), Viscountess Koitogawa, formerly the daughter of the restaurant "Yukari."

Heguri Tōji (69), an itinerant puppeteer.

Sacred child attendants of the procession.
A sacred boy and a sacred girl—two in total.
Proprietor of the general store.
A groom—one in total.

Additionally, villagers—fourteen or fifteen people.

Time: The beginning of late April, afternoon.

——

**Scene**

**Scene.**
Amidst three double-layered late-blooming cherry trees in full bloom stood the general store.
On its locked glass door were affixed cotton, paper, cloth bolts, and similar wares.
Fresh shiitake mushrooms lay displayed.
Kihaisan paralysis remedy and Seishosui summer tonic stood among various labeled medicines.
In the earthen-floored entrance where a single door was left open sat a table and chairs.
Jars of beer and cider lined the space alongside a straw-covered barrel and bottles of shochu.
Rice fields spread immediately beside this store.

A long cedar hedge with stone-walled foundations ran parallel, its roots traced by a small stream.
Saffron flowers bloomed upon the stone walls where weeds sprouted.
Within the hedge, a willow tree in fresh greenery leaned over the road, branches trailing downward.
Purple magnolias might optionally grace the background.
Between store and hedge, the path yielded to unplowed rice fields still blanketed with aquatic weeds.
Chinese milk vetch flowers dotted here and there, rapeseed flowers spilling forth in bloom.
Winding along the hedge, the path deepened into secluded depths where a moso bamboo grove and towering zelkova tree stood.
From this shaded refuge rose the mountain path.

The puppeteer—Heguri Tōji—sat facing the modest table in the cramped earthen-floored entrance, stroking his mustache sideways as he spoke.
He remained turned away.

“Boss—boss—pour me another cup.”

The Proprietor emerged from behind the store’s glass door into the earthen entrance: “No need for such formalities with me, Boss—” He forced a wry smile. “Old man, haven’t you had more than enough since earlier? Drink like that and you won’t make a living, you know.”

“Heh-heh—today’s takings are done,” said the puppeteer. “Right here before you, boss—from now on it’s just staggerin’ back along the mountain path to my roost.”

“Old man,” said the proprietor, “spare me tales of your staggering. Isn’t it too early yet for roosting? I’m minding the shop alone today too—cross just one bridge from the spa district and it’s dead quiet here, hardly a soul passing through. But Shuzenji’s packed to bursting. Shouldn’t this be prime earning time for you?”

“So between the locals and them pilgrimage crews swarmin’ in from every province—old crones, grannies, gramps, brats—a seething black mass, ruckus like goma incense smoke whirlin’ up.”
“This here mob—they ain’t budgin’ an inch even with these sputterin’ rainy-season showers comin’ down.”
“Made decent coin already, but soon enough Kōbō Daishi’ll be comin’ down from the inner sanctum to Shuzenji Temple.”
“Even if them boom-boom drums from the portable shrine echo way off yonder, nobody here gives two shits about us.”
“Since them showbooth folks packed up their clang-clatter—‘Cross this bridge an’ bye-bye!’... haha!—come dusk I’ll pull another haul, proper-like. Long’s I get my drink money today, don’t need nothin’ more. Even if shit goes south... just gonna... pass peaceful into nirvana.”
(Slumping forward in a deep bow, thrusting his glass above his head) “Boss—gimme another pour.”

The general store proprietor: His gesture was like that of a boat ghost asking to borrow a ladle.
This might be the start of true recklessness…… It was business—he’d sell any amount—but…
(Twisting the sake spout)—“Old man, you mustn’t go collapsing around here again.”

“Only to attain peaceful nirvana.”
(Gulped it down and sucked his palm with a slurp.) “Especially today bein’ the memorial—the Great Teacher Kōbō Daishi’ll be ridin’ off quick in some shiny golden automobile, see?”

“If the Great Teacher Kōbō Daishi would take him away, it’d be no trouble at all—but if it becomes a bother for the village office, that’d be a real problem.”
“That’s enough now.”

(He attempted to reenter the store’s interior.)

“Boss—give me another cup!”

“It’s Kōbō Daishi’s festival.”
“We can’t have potatoes turning into stones.”
“I don’t want to seem stingy—fine, drink all you want.”
“But did you just down that full *gou* in one go?”

“Up till now it’s been snow-viewing sake—five *gou* vanish quick. …What’s next is flower-viewing sake. …Boss, those double-layered cherries at your eaves—all three trees… young trunks bloomed real fine.”
“Full bloom.—In all Shuzenji, no house has this many blooms at its gate.—Viewing this costs nothing.”
“The sake’s pricey—no, but splendid.”
“Ahh, damn good.”

“Stop your nonsense—you’re drunk, old man.”
……

“But y’see—it’s just a cup or two o’ sake! Think of it as fertilizer you’re givin’ now an’ then—all thanks to the Great Teacher Kōbō Daishi’s blessin’s.”

“Spare me your empty flattery.”
“This area’s truly wretched for being so deserted…… After those two Sacred Children from Tateno came through the mountain pass with their whole escort earlier—not a single horse guard since.”
“Tedious keeping watch here—ah—I can hear the drums……”

This drum—hung from a pole—was struck alternately on both sides by two people from left and right: boom... boom-boom... boom... resounding faintly.

The puppeteer: “The shō and hichiriki players wear crested hakama.”
“Firefighters stand guard in formation, escorting the Sacred Children.”
“Monks before and behind burn incense and chant sutras.”
“Mikoshi bearers from eighteen inner sanctum households don suikan robes and eboshi hats.”
“Namu Daishi Henjō Kongō!”
“Both sides of the road—a black mountain of people.”
A spiraling rain fell.
...Village brides went praying in long-sleeved kimonos.
“From Tokko no Yu springs a naked granny—Ahahaha! Were it reversed, Kōbō Daishi’d rejoice!”

“Do as you please—you’ll get what’s coming to you.”
(He entered the store.)

Puppeteer: Namu Daishi Henjō Kongō.—(Sipping in small gulps, he slumps over.)

The viscountess furled her rain umbrella, holding its handle in one hand and supporting it with the other.
She emerged wearing a comb-bound hairstyle, a draped obi sash, and curved wooden clogs.
She gazed at the late-blooming cherry blossoms,

"My, how beautiful—after all your hardship, to have bloomed so splendidly—(Pause)...I feel I must offer thanks—ah, truly beautiful."
"How magnificently you've bloomed."
(Thus she walked along the small stream.
Noticing saffron flowers on the stone wall—"Oh, a carp—a large carp—"(peering into the stream) "My, it's dead."

A brief moment.
As she startled back and stepped away, her gaze caught on the puppeteer’s puppet propped against the stone wall.
At the tip of the control bamboo, the form of a Shirabyoshi dancer’s pose was exquisitely poised.
The viscountess stopped and stood still, gazing intently.
Silence.
The sound of rain.

Ah—it had started to fall.
(Opening a large oil-paper umbrella marked “Iikiku”) My—it was as though the puppet were weeping—droplets clinging to its eyes and even its lashes.
…(She shielded the puppet with the umbrella.)

The puppeteer parted the short curtain with his head—mouth agape, wrinkles deep, brows furrowed, stiff salt-and-pepper beard, face flushed crimson with drunkenness—and fixed a sharp gaze upon the viscountess’s figure. When he had first worn the thick cloth hood, his face had been gentle. Now that he had removed his hood, his square forehead was exposed, with long white hair growing thick and healthy, making his face fearsome.

The painter wore a pale fedora and thin overcoat. His face was slender and cleanly gaunt. His eyes half-lidded as if drowsy; beneath a straight nose lay a mustache—neatly trimmed short with a few white hairs mixed in. His complexion was somewhat somber, mild yet dignified. Wearing the inn’s rental clogs and unconcerned by the rain, he quietly tapped his cane and glanced once at the cherry blossoms.

The puppeteer bowed his head again toward the dirt-floor table.

The painter remarked near the viscountess with detached politeness: “Ah—a marionette.”

“Master—is that you? Oh, this… this isn’t mine.”

Painter (as if noticing for the first time): “I must apologize for this.”
“No—I didn’t assume from the outset that you were handling this.”
“It’s simply that such things have grown rare these days.”
“Lately, even at festivals on Tokyo’s outskirts, one seldom sees them.”
“……This must depict Shizuka.”
“Turn it over, and Benkei stands there brandishing a great halberd.”
“……When this Benkei transforms again, he becomes an octopus wearing a red headband and dances—yet there seems no particular mechanism enabling this.”—(Peering closely, he leaned halfway into the viscountess’s outstretched umbrella.) “Jun—this appears solely a dancing maiden.”
“Ah, this puppet is a masterwork.”
“Do observe—it seems remarkable. …Who owns it? …Why discard it in such a place?”

“The puppeteer—over there,” she pointed lightly while lowering her voice, “appears to be drinking… I saw an old man who fit that description.”

“It must be quite well-made… I’d very much like to try operating it.”

“Please stop, Master… Because he seems to be quite drunk.”

“Indeed—it would be troublesome if he’s drunk.”
“Ah, but the puppet is a masterpiece—I may encounter it again on my way back.”
(Muttering) “You—I must apologize.”
(He coldly headed toward the mountain path.)

Viscountess (clinging a few steps behind him): "Master… um… Master—where are you going?"

The painter noticed her again as if for the first time. "Ah—" he said lightly.
(Pause)... Master had been troubled.
"But since both town and village were so clamorous, I thought I'd head toward the mountains." His eyes remained half-lidded as he continued, "You—I must apologize for failing to recognize you earlier—are you staying at the same inn?"

"Yes—soon..." Her voice thickened with unspoken longing to remain by his side. "...but in the back of the lower floor."
"Um..."

"Well then—I must take my leave."
He left again.

The Viscountess (clinging closer): “Master—on your way here, you didn’t happen to meet any men wearing Iikiku-marked happi coats, did you?”

“Ah, I met them.”

The Viscountess: “They didn’t say anything?…”

The Painter (slowly folding his arms): “Well… When you cross that bridge called Togetsukyo leading toward Kikuya and Nodaya, there’s a long pole set up on the railing with a straw raincoat hung on it.”
“At this Daishi Market, they seem to be selling straw raincoats quite vigorously.”
“That signboard—it looked so comical, like a scarecrow’s banner—and I stood there absently.”
“Though I myself do resemble a scarecrow,” (smiling) “I thought of buying one but stood there thinking it would only become more luggage—ah sure enough, the inn’s man happened to pass by.”

“Yes, and then…”

“Ah, yes.”
(Unfolding his folded arms) “…‘Madam is there,’ he said as he passed by.”
“I see… So it was about you.”
“They must have thought we went out together—my apologies.”

“Oh, Master.”
“…Though we’re apart now, when we arrived late last night, we were together.”

“You and…”

“Yes.”

“I’m afraid I don’t recall.”

“How magnanimous of you.”
“The automobile ended up being separate, but… at the same time――”

“As for me, I took the public carriage—yes… There was someone who had dressed up—with an exceedingly modern hairstyle, parted seven-to-three…” (he said halfway through.)

“That woman…(slightly breathless) that woman—Master—when she reached the inn, right away…well…she shaved off her eyebrows.”
(Raising her face while suddenly growing pale) “And curled her hair into these tight coils too.”

“Ah.”
(Listening with skeptical calm.)

“Master…”
(Holding the oil-paper umbrella askew, her head bowed low as she stared at the ground.)
(Her neck and limbs white as snow) “The inn’s men didn’t mean I was someone else’s wife.”
(With growing agitation) “They meant I was your wife.”

——Pause——

Painter (calmly composed): “…Are you suggesting this?”

Viscountess: “Last night—when I reached the same inn—I immediately told the staff—‘I am Master Shimazu’s—’ that I…” (her words faltering).
“I’ve known you through your photographs and exhibitions, if only from afar.—‘I’m Shimazu’s wife,’ I told them—‘I followed on the same train to avoid detection.’”
“Though ‘vagrant’ may not suit perfectly, that’s what I claimed… The reason being: ‘Shimazu has been unfaithful lately, meeting another woman there.’…”

“I did?”

“You—well—and then—suppose my husband were to…”

The Painter: “That does not seem entirely plausible.”
(He forced a wry smile.)

“Please forgive me.
Master,” she pleaded, “I told them—‘I’ll take a separate room and hide here to catch your infidelity in the act, but if we’re spotted unexpectedly in the hallway, it’ll ruin everything—so I must alter my appearance.’” With that, she—suddenly at the mirror—shaved off her eyebrows, loosened her hair, tore off her haori and flung it aside, then tied her obi carelessly (“gracefully,” she added, turning her head) in that slovenly way. “I begged them—‘Keep this secret!’”—and after making them swear silence, right after your name in the guest ledger… Well… I’m terribly sorry, but I wrote us as…

The painter furrowed his brows slightly yet tolerantly. “Since this is a place for recuperation, such mischief might be permissible—I must take my leave.”

“Oh, Master—please do not trouble yourself with anger…”

“Being tricked by a beautiful wife—I might actually be pleased,” he replied. “—However, I must take my leave.”

“What am I to do, Master? I… This is no time for mischief.”

“You say this is no mere mischief?” he asked—for the first time speaking with certainty.

Viscountess (agitated, trembling slightly): “I beg you.”
“Please look.”
“There is something I want you to see.”
(Pulling at the sleeve of his overcoat with restrained force, she pulled the painter back to the edge of the small stream.) “Please—look.”

She pointed at the carp—the dead carp—which at this moment had yet to catch the guests’ notice.

Painter: “Oh, this is dreadful.—This is tragic.”

“Master,” she said, “I lie here dead like this carp—in the same state as it was at death’s threshold, one breath away.”

Painter: (Silent…)

Viscountess: (Pause) “I am being pursued relentlessly.”
“If they find me, I’ll be captured at any moment.”
“On the way—I caught sight of you—followed you to the inn—and in a sudden impulse—committed this rudeness.”
“I’m doing my utmost.”
“And in this brief time—I intend to steel my resolve.—Even if I shave my eyebrows—alter my appearance—and hide as your wife—in an inn teeming with comings and goings—my mind finds no peace at all—which is why I’ve ended up wandering astray like this.”
“Please forgive me… This is no mischief—not even in my wildest dreams.”

“There is no alternative.”

(Dissatisfied and insincere) “Have you grudgingly forgiven me?”
“……Though I may be overstepping your generosity… if you’d permit me to join your walk… Even trailing behind, staying together would let us avoid notice splendidly.—You—” (weakly coquettish) “Please… take me along.”

(Decisively) “That would inconvenience me.”

“Oh! —No, even if you were to take me with you, during that time, I would only be steeling my resolve to end up like this.” She pointed again at the carp.

“That would be unacceptable,” said the Painter. “Whatever your circumstances may be, once matters have reached this state, there is nothing to be done.”

Puppeteer (lurching forward before fiercely raising his face): "Boss—another cup!"
"Boss."

Painter (heard this voice but deliberately paid no heed): “As for me alone, I must firmly entreat you not to take on such an appearance—I must take my leave.”

(He leaves the crossroads and heads toward the hillside.)

The Viscountess fluttered after the painter as his figure disappeared into the zelkova grove, then turned back.
"How fleeting!" she murmured while watching him depart.

Startled by her own voice, she instinctively scanned her surroundings.
She opened an umbrella against nonexistent rain—as if hiding her shame—and vanished despondently down the same path, disappearing into the same grove as the painter.

“Boss—another cup!”

“Hey, you’re making a nuisance of yourself!”
(He handed him one.)

Puppeteer: “Instead—heh heh—this time it’s moon-viewin’ sake.”
When clouds rolled in, the full moon vanished in a blink.
(Gulped it down in one swig) “Agh—u—h…”
“…Payment…” (Yanked the grimy string from the toad-mouthed purse around his neck, wringin’ out coins.) “For Kōbō Daishi ’n’ the moon too, see?”
“Money shines on all vajra alike, eh?”
“Hah!”
(Stood up.)
With his spindly legs poking through torn hakama, he staggered like a broken marionette.
(The liquor seller cleared up quick ’n’ ducked back inside.) “Hah!”
(Stagger-stumbled.)
(Stagger-stumbled right up to the puppet.) “Hah! Lady Shizuka.”
(Suddenly cowered low, near prostrate.)
Pause.
(Turned bleary eyes to the carp.) “Hey brother—still floatin’ unascended?”
“Don’t know if ’twas otter-carried or weasel-bit, but that gapin’ hole’s crawlin’ with maggots—can’t abide it.”
“Just now saw a stray dog sniff ’n’ scram.”
“Not even mutts’ll touch ya now.”
“You who coulda been a dragon—this yer past-life karma? Dyin’ shameful like this ain’t right.—I’ll give ya proper burial.”
“But snake mounds, cat mounds, fox mounds—”
“Talkin’ mounds—can’t just chuck ya here.”

“I’ll bury you in the ground—a proper burial.”
(He pulled up from the water a half-rotten carp, plump and large.)
(Visible to guests) “Don’t know any funeral chants.”
“Haunt those who bear grudges! Appear as a vengeful spirit! Make ’em pay a hefty entrance fee—Hah!”
(Wrapping the purse together with the headcloth he’d tucked into his pocket, hanging it at his waist, he crouched again.) “Hah! Lady Shizuka.”
He stretched out the old hand towel wrapped around his throat to cover his face—binding his own mouth like a horse’s bit.
This heart recoiled before the beautiful woman at the stench of overripe persimmons.
He hoisted the puppet’s bamboo pole high.
(toward the hillside) “Hah!”
(Staggering.
Staggering staggeringly.)

The Viscountess, emerging halfway from the shade of a stand of trees, was observing this figure.

“Hah!”
(He staggered.)
“Hah!”
(He staggered unsteadily.)

The Viscountess (gradually stepped out, passing by while drawing back.
(while still staring intently at the puppeteer) “Old man… old man.”

Puppeteer (tall in stature, with a red face) glared ominously.
(Like a demon.)

Viscountess (boldly drew near): “I have no wishes left in this world—none of my own were ever granted. So I’ll grant yours instead.
“I have many jewels.
“I have money—though it may be rude of me to say—if it’s just one thing you desire, I’ll surely grant it for you.
“Wish for it, please.
“Old man, let me grant it for you.”

The Puppeteer (silently stared at her as if glaring; after a moment, picked up an old rope beneath a decayed rice stack by the roadside, dangled it loosely, and edged closer step by step.)
(The rope quivered.)

Viscountess: “Ah!”
(She retreated.)

The Puppeteer grinned.

Viscountess: Oh! I thought it was a snake.
I don't care anymore—even if it's a snake.
What will you do—what will you do?

The Puppeteer extended his wrinkled hand without speaking and merely beckoned.
Still beckoning，he gradually backed into the grove.

“What will you do?”
“What will you do?”
(She too retreated gradually, thus hiding in the grove.)

The stage remained empty for a time.
About five white ducks emerged in a line and foraged among the grasses of the field.
They appeared as though symbolizing a scene of departing spring.

Horse Handler (emerges from the grove leading a horse, glancing back as he exits.)
Two rice bales on the horse’s back.
Offering.
White rice.
(Erecting a placard inscribed with “Namu Daishi Henjō Kongō”) How eerie.
What in the world is happening in broad daylight?
No—ah, in times like this, rice turns into gravel, don’t it?
(Licking his eyebrows while feeling through the bale and chewing the rice) It’s safe, at least.
(The sound of drumbeats draws near.) —Must be Saint Kōbō Daishi’s protection, don’t it.
Ah, how eerie—it’s some kind of demon. Ah, terrifying!

――Revolve――

Act Two

Scene.—A slightly elevated hill connected to a field of flowering rapeseed and a young wheat field two or three feet tall.
At the edge of the hill, kerria flowers had bloomed in full.
Below lay a vast depression deeply sunken into the mountain’s embrace—a grassland.
Mulberry saplings, their sparse new growth resembling bamboo grass, stood unevenly.

On one side lay a mixed forest mountain—particularly, a great oak tree with two trunks, one tall and one low, its leaves so dark they blended with the branches and flourished like a whirl of black clouds—thus contrasted with the bright sky above the rapeseed flowers.

A single path spanned like a flower-lined aisle; all were narrow trails nestled between the hills.
In the distant vista lay the Izu mountain range.

The Painter sat alone on a high ledge between kerria flowers blooming over the cliff and rapeseed blossoms in the field below, quietly sipping from his pocket whiskey. A bush warbler’s call drifted in from afar. Twice, then a third time, a rooster crowed. A frog croaked faintly in the distance. After a while, he stood—startled by something—and peered around before hiding himself among the thick clusters of flowers and leaves.

Viscountess (enters—holding an umbrella in one hand and gripping the end of a rope in the other.)

The puppeteer emerged—still gagged, a bat-shaped umbrella held sideways; the puppet strapped crosswise on his back; his hands, clasping the puppet’s bamboo support behind him, bound together by that rope. His shoulders drooped, his head hung low, as if heading to a slaughterhouse. With drunken steps, he staggered ahead, led them into a dim hollow deep within the mountain’s embrace, and upon untying both arms, let the rope fall away. In truth, it had not been bound—he had merely arranged it so with his hands. He propped the puppet against a mulberry tree, knelt down, and worshipped it. Having moved to a spot slightly apart, he removed the gag from his mouth. “Young madam. That—do it as promised.” He stiffened his limbs, thrust them out, then went limp and collapsed face-first into the grass.

“Is it true, old man?”

“Well—you don’t put on such an act for a lie. Now, do it proper.”

“Do you truly want me to strike?”

“Strike me until the blood flows. I’m beggin’ ya—do it till my last breath!”

“Is it true… do you truly want me to strike?”

“I can’t endure it no more—I can’t wait no longer.”

“...Even if you grow stubborn later, that’s all there is to it, I suppose. Since I made the promise—strike me properly. Go on. Endure this.”
(With the umbrella—three, four strikes.)
(and then five, six in rapid succession.)

The Puppeteer: “I can’t take it… Not one bit…”

Viscountess: (whipping him) “Like this—like this—”

The Puppeteer: “No good.”
(Twisted around while lying down) “Is this enough? Is this enough? Do it!”

Viscountess: “Even this—uh—even this.”

The Puppeteer: “That’s no damn good at all.
“Wait.”
(He removed his sleeveless padded kimono along with the soiled patterned work coat, exposing emaciated wrinkled skin.)
He staggered up and pressed his back against the tree.
(Turning around with eyes wide) “Tear that umbrella apart—make it just ribs and a handle!
“This way—it just flaps around—don’t reach the flesh at all.”

Viscountess (with a sigh): “Ah…”

The Puppeteer: “If ya think yer hittin’ just some drunken beggar geezer, ‘course ya ain’t puttin’ no force in it. Young Madam’s gotta have someone she hates—gotta be someone in this world ya despise. Mother-in-law? Father-in-law? Sister-in-law? Stranger? Kin? Friend? Don’t matter who it is.”

Viscountess: “Ah…”

Puppeteer: “Picture yerself whackin’ that hateful bastard—then swing like ya mean it! Good? Good?”

Viscountess: “Ah…”

The Puppeteer: “Now, do it properly.”

Viscountess: “Ah…”
“Right.”
(While agitated，she tore apart the umbrella with a rending sound.)
(Her hands now wounded，fingertips and arms soaked in blood—she regripped it)—“Damn you—damn you—damn you—damn you—”

The Puppeteer: “Ugh… (groaning faintly) Ugh… Yes… There.”
“Heh… just a bit… I’ll react now.”
“Ugh… Yes…”
“Not yet… Not yet.”

Viscountess: “Is this enough now?”
“Is this enough now? Damn you!”

The Puppeteer: “J-Just hittin’ the buttocks and backbone ain’t gonna settle nothin’—strike without carin’ ’bout the head or ears.”

Viscountess: “Damn you—damn you—damn you.”
(Unable to restrain herself, as if possessed by a demon, she lunged, leapt up, her hair disheveled, her face turning pale.)
(Striking, striking, beating him down while panting) “Ah… agonizing… painful.”
Agonizing, painful.

The Puppeteer: “Ugh... Can’t take it no more... Painful—but just right.”
“Can’t take it... serves me right.”

The Painter moved along the embankment and descended into the hollow.
Without making a commotion, yet he hurried over and intercepted her. “You—Madam.”

“Oh—Master,” said the Viscountess.
Her eyes snapped open, and her slender arms went numb; her legs gave way as she collapsed to her knees as if crumbling, half-conscious.

The Painter put his arm around her shoulder. “Whiskey—as a refresher—what on earth is this?”

The Puppeteer writhed like a convulsing insect.

The Painter observed this while speaking: "I don't know what's happened here," his voice retaining its characteristic calm detachment. "But you mustn't indulge in such extremes."

The Viscountess gasped between ragged breaths, her words dissolving into self-recrimination: "What have I become? To expose you to such shameful acts—acts unfit for the human world—how can I ever..." Her voice broke as she collapsed inward, shoulders shaking with hysterical sobs that seemed to tear through her body.

The Painter (unable to stop himself, rubbing his hands and stroking her back): “Please calm yourself.”

The Puppeteer (wrapping his bloodied skin with his coat, gasping as he braces his hands on the grass): “Yes… Is this… uh… the master here, sir? Yes…”

The Painter: “This lady… Well, not that there’s anything particular to say, but we’re somewhat acquainted.”

The Puppeteer: “Yes, this old man humbly conveys to the master you’re acquainted with.”
“Yes, well—this old man’s long-winded talk must be wearisome to hear, sir.”
“…To cut it short, yes—even this shriveled old man here, black and slimy like a half-dried eight-eyed eel, had his youth once. And back then, yes—he committed great sins.”
“It was concerning a woman.”
“There’s no way to put it into words.”
“It was like a snake coiling around a heavenly maiden in the transom—or rather, like a salamander gnawing through a carp in the inner garden’s pond, so they say.”
“…he sucked both life and blood.”
“Once the dream ends—the dreadfulness of that sin.”
“I had nowhere to be.”
“…I had nowhere to be—so I let the rain and dew strike at my life until I faded away, until I vanished—and during that time, on my Shikoku pilgrimage, I met a wandering monk—perhaps Kōbō Daishi himself—and from this reverend monk, I was mysteriously granted…”
“This bamboo-handled puppet is a beautiful lady, so when this old man drinks this liquor—thinking she must find it detestable—I keep her far away.”
“When carrying her back, too—fearing my liquor-tainted breath might reach her—this old man bites down on a hand towel over his mouth as precaution.”
“…The honorable maid is worshipped in this old man’s eyes as no less than a god.”
“Whenever I think of that—yes—my past sins come to mind.”
“At least—if this body were disciplined morning and night, made to endure the agony of torture and persecution—it might serve as some measure of atonement. And that—yes—is why I do not fear hell in the afterlife.”
“In this world, the suffering of my heart is unbearable—though I ceaselessly wish only for that [atonement]—when I lodge in cheap inns or sleep beneath temple eaves alongside old hags, they would gladly beat or kick me at any time, but that would not convey my resolve.”
“Ah, due to this beggar’s misconduct, even her very life was lost—and she was such a beautiful lady.”

“Even so, the chastisement from such a beautiful lady does not reach my blood or flesh at all.—And this hope of mine is no different from the wishes of ghosts or grudges; merely showing this face alone makes most flee.”
“……Unless one is an eminent monk or sage—or a hero of great stature—they do not deign to listen.”
“It has been forty-one years this very month and day since this old man was born sixty-nine years ago and first conceived this desire.”
“Just now, that beautiful lady called over a passing beggar and declared she would grant any one wish he desired.”
“Though unskilled—due to my family trade summoning buddhas only to bring forth demons, wielding a fiend-commanding countenance—I tried to intimidate her. Yet discerning her resolve unshaken by ghosts or grudges, I proposed my long-cherished wish: ‘Then deign to grant it.’ Like a criminal bound to a stake paraded through streets, I humbly received this precious chastisement—this persecution—in this roadside hollow of collapsed earth.”
“……Master.”

“Oh—Your Ladyship… I humbly thank you.”
“I humbly thank you.”

Viscountess (for the first time calmly): “You don’t feel any pain, do you?”

The Puppeteer: “Ah, Your Ladyship—this pain brings me joy no different than a drunken face swaying in spring breeze or receiving nectar from Bodhisattva Kannon’s willow branch. …Even now, to these old eyes, Your Ladyship’s figure—a beauty fierce as yaksha demon or rakshasa ogre—appears no less than a heavenly being, a goddess revered in all her noble beauty.”
“Yes—so long as this pain lasts, my bones and sinews soften, my blood grows young again as in my twenties, and I would humbly spend my days in joy and delight.”

The Painter (while tilting his head and listening, calmly smoking a golden-tipped cigarette): “Old man, care for a smoke?”

The Puppeteer: “Nah now—if liquor’s dye-vat water, tobacco’s incense for hungry ghosts.”

The Painter: “Have one.”
(He presents a small box still adorned with pearls.)

The Puppeteer: “Hah! This shines like Saint Kōbō’s vajra!”
“Too fine for me.”
(Crawling forward, he sucks from the painter’s cigarette) “A fitting penance—too fine.”
“Let’s ride ’em... these purple clouds... float soft-like... dance up t’paradise skies.”

“Old man, are you leaving already? …Is it truly all right… right after being beaten?”

“Even if the Katsura River were to flow backward, there’s not a lie in this.”

“Ask something of me.”
“I simply cannot feel settled about this.”

“If I were to speak of further wishes—not once but thrice over—I only wish for your chastisement and beatings.”

“And then?”

“Ah—if I were to speak of further wishes beyond that—it would only be to receive Your Ladyship’s chastisement morning and night, every day and every night, until this body shatters to pieces.—My drunkenness has already worn off.”
“I’ll speak no more nonsense.”
“Though I refrain by day—at midnight, no different from raccoon dogs or otters or apparitions—nesting in Tatsu Field’s firewood lodgings for the joy of soaking in Tokko no Yu… Today marks my last treading this mountain path to Shuzenji—I’ll drift along Shimoda Highway to who knows where.”
“Though I spoke of clouds and water—once parted into Milky Way and ditchwater—your figure will cast no shadow.”
“May both your noble selves prosper eternally.”
“Lady Shizuka… humbly… I offer my service.”

“Wait, old man.”
(With resolved determination and straightened attire) “I shall flow into that ditch stream with you and fulfill your morning and evening wishes for ten years—nay, a hundred.”

The Puppeteer: “Oh—oh—oh!”
(Without uttering a sound, only his expression changed.)

“Master—I have run away from home.”
“I am another’s wife.”
“If I were to be taken back, they could stuff me into any corner—but as things stand, I have nowhere to go.”
“——When I saw the wretchedness of that carp dead in the Mizogawa, even knowing that a dead body’s ugliness would come to this, I had resolved to either drink poison, throw myself into the water, or commit suicide.”
“Even if only out of annoyance, you said, ‘You must absolutely prevent yourself from ending up in such a state.’”
“……Because of those words you spoke earlier, I have refrained from dying.”

“Master—though I am now but a poverty-stricken aristocrat in name only, the wife of Koitogawa…”

“Ah—so you are the Viscountess.”

“Viscountess… What is this now…? —Ah, you… Back when you returned from the West, you often patronized the Yukari restaurant in Nihonbashi… (gazing raptly at the painter’s face) —Have you forgotten? Nui… the daughter of Yukari’s proprietress.”

The Painter: “Ah, I see.”
“O-Nui-san… You’re the younger sister, then.”
“I had occasionally heard rumors that a beautiful young lady resided there.”

Viscountess (with fragile resolve): “Yes… Master likely paid no more heed to me than one remarks ‘It’s cold’ when it is cold.”
“I was too ashamed to let you see me—so I never once crossed the threshold of your parlor—but in secret, when you graced those rooms, there was not a single word of yours I failed to hear.”
“When you came to the inner parlor, I would lie face down above the ceiling and listen.”
“When you were in the back parlor, with the small garden between us, I would enter the bath and, unable to remain clothed, press myself against the wall naked.”
“In all other places—whether in small parlors or grand halls—my body, hiding in the shadows of my home, was like a mouse, and my heart was like a moth fluttering around your light.”
“But it was never noticed by the experienced maids, the knowing sisters, or even my outward demeanor.”
“Not revealing through gestures or demeanor is my true body; what I cannot put into words is my true heart.”
“What is shameful is love.—But even back then, they said I might be hysterical—that I was a little unhinged.”
“…You must understand.”
“……I have gone entirely mad.”
“After you deigned to marry, for a full year thereafter, the only things that welled up were tears, and the only thing that grew annoyingly was hair.”
“It was not a prison cell, but I lay like uprooted seaweed under the attendants’ care.”
“I didn’t even die—how vexing. …I didn’t vanish either—how wretched—I lived on without dying.”

“When I came back to myself, I was already three years past twenty.
The mother who had spoiled me rotten in our spacious home was gone.
When blind love vanishes, even a bright world turns dark.
Having been too self-indulgent until then, it became my duty to indulge no further.
Still willful—I refused the matches my siblings and relatives arranged with solid merchants and steady clerks, and entered this household.”

“A mother-in-law alone，a sister-in-law，and two returnee divorcees—four women—they say that even serving my husband must follow family tradition first. Since we live in the suburbs，drawing water falls to me—hauled up from the well bucket.”

“I cut vegetables too.”

“...At night I accompany my mother-in-law，carrying a furoshiki to buy side dishes.—Would I resent such things?”

“From our Nihonbashi family home，daily snacks and evening feasts come by bicycle each day—male servants transporting tiered boxes and tubs.”

“But if she complained about limp sashimi edges，she’d berate the cook；if tamagoyaki lost shape，she’d call leftovers an insult—my mother-in-law even kicked over tiered boxes.”

“At first I blamed only my incompetence，bottling resentment—but after years，I understood their true hearts.”

“Starting with my husband... they covet property managed through my family home.”

“Now its monthly interest... though I shouldn’t put it so... sustains our inner kitchen，but barely.”

“When nieces meet suitors or cousins marry，my formal kimonos，combs vanish each time.”

“For Bon gifts and obligations—yuzen silks，white cloths，habutae，chirimen bolts—all get taken.”

“I’ve hidden this from home，but chests stand empty.—............. So my husband writes poems，reads songs，drafts scripts to submit.”

“That is troubling,” said the Painter.
“But there must be prospects for what lies ahead.”

“No—those very prospects mean that unless I bring wealth into this house, they’ll only torment me until I’m driven out,” countered the Viscountess.
“If I coughed—whispers. If I complained of a headache—more whispers.”
“The mothers-in-law gather their brows and scheme plots worthy of stage plays—‘That consumptive wretch can’t be kept for the household’s sake.’”
“My husband merely repeats ‘Endure—endure,’ but I’ll perish before enduring runs its course.”
“Only days ago I took ill—three days abed with fever.”
“When fetching water in the corridor—‘Now’s the tide’s turn… Send her home under guise of convalescence…’”
She pressed a hand to her breastbone. “Their words pierced me here.”

Shimazu Tadashi: “That is heartless.”

Nuiko Koitogawa: “Do you think ‘heartless’ even begins to cover it? My frustration burned away the last traces of cold—I confronted my husband anew: ‘Even if we quarrel until heaven cracks, I’ll bring property from my family home. Just once—in exchange—with your own hands—push that mother-in-law from the room! Grab one sister-in-law’s topknot—slap the other’s cheek—one clean strike!’ And—”

Heguri Tōji (leaning forward until his joints creaked): “There! There! That’s the marrow of it!”

The Painter: “Ha ha ha, how exhilarating.”
“But this is improper.”

Viscountess (having flown into a rage, yet smiling as if she had forgotten): “Is this not improper?”

The Painter: “First... Then.”

Viscountess: “When my husband said, ‘You’re a demon,’ suddenly I was shoved out of the parlor, and as I fell, he grabbed my topknot and struck my cheek.—That night—last night—because the night burned itself into my eyes, I ran away from home yesterday.”
“Master… Had I become a goldfish or a potted plant and stayed quiet, even my family or relatives would have taken me in as I am.”
“I am stubborn—that is detestable. …For this body that has nowhere to go but death, I have found its destination.”
(Resolutely turning to face him) “I will go with this old man.”
“This man, knowing his sin of oppressing women, wishes to receive the rod’s chastisement morning and night.”
“On behalf of all women in the world, I shall resolve their resentment.”
“This person worships Shizuka Gozen’s puppet—a beautiful being.”
“I was born a woman—let me receive both shame and blessings through this person.”
“—This person retrieved the ugly corpse of a dead carp.”
“……I wish for this person to gather up the flesh of my weak body when it collapses by the wayside.”

The Painter nodded at times, tilted his head at others, then sank into thought. “Madam… Nuiko.”

The Viscountess smiled with innocent delight. “Hee!”

“Is there truly no alternative to this resolve of yours?”

“Yes—save for you taking my hand right now, Master, and leading me back to the inn—”

“That’s it! That’s exactly it!” interjected the Puppeteer.

The Painter (fell silent again.)

“Master…” she murmured, sidling closer.

“You… are unwell,” said the Painter.
“It is an illness.”
“But I am no physician—I cannot say for certain.”
“Your resolve is misguided.”
“Yet I myself know little of human morality.”
“I can offer no counsel.”
“And if I were to take your hand…”
“Setting aside right and wrong—here and now, I cannot decide.”
“This is no coward’s evasion.”
“My work consumes me.”
“I lack even the leisure for discernment—and such is human frailty that I feel no shame in it.”
“But wait a month… half a month… a little while… In that time, I may yet find resolve.”

“Master, even by hiding for a single night, I have altered both my face and form.”
“Fate is closing in.”

“Quite right.”
(As if unable to endure her gaze, he turned to the puppeteer) “Old man—will you accompany me for certain?”

“Become a dog—”

He lifted the puppet and the viscountess, crawling beneath her waist to offer his back—she settled onto it naturally—and as her hand began to falter, the painter steadied it.

“I’ll become a horse and accompany you.”

“Madam—do as you wish.”

“You—please give me that sake you are holding.
And please serve as our mediator.”

The Painter silently handed her the whiskey jar and poured.

Viscountess (taking a swig of whiskey, pursing her lips and exhaling): “Old man, give me something to go with this.”

The Puppeteer: “Shall I perform a little Noh chant for you—something like a formal address?”

Viscountess: “No—bring that rotten carp here.”

The Puppeteer: “Right.”

Viscountess: “Bring it out, won’t you? Don’t you have a blade?”

The Puppeteer: “On country paths, mountain paths, sleeping outdoors—I carry a dog-scarer.”
(He pulled out a rusty knife from the bowl fastened at his waist.)

The Painter: “Ah, Madam.”

“I must go with this person—if I cannot eat something like this…”
……

“Well, this is amusing.”
“I’ll eat too.”

The Painter stood abruptly and turned away.

“Namu Daishi Henjō Kongō… Namu Daishi Henjō Kongō…”—in the distance were the voices of many people.
Only the two sacred child attendants—a boy and a girl—began to process out—

Sacred Child Attendant 1 (innocently): Namu Daishi Henjō Kongō.…

Sacred Child Attendant 2 (even more innocently): Namu Daishi Henjō Kongō.…

First came two.

With purple-cut hanging hair and white-length child’s topknots, they processed solemnly, then—as if suspicious of the puppeteer, viscountess, and painter—clattered past in haste toward the center of the flower path. The painter and the viscountess, the two of them, as if by prior agreement, stood facing the same direction. The puppeteer too, as if mimicking them, gestured in unison and beckoned in unison—this spectacle was eerily dreadful. An eerie aura naturally filled the space. The two sacred child attendants were led back.

“Good children,” said the Painter. “Indulge me briefly.”

“How precious—the sacred attendants,” murmured the Viscountess.

The Painter removed his coat and spread it across the grass. “Madam, sit beside the old man.”

“Oh, such extravagance!”

“It’s no trouble at all,” he replied. “Through your affliction, I may have contracted my own.” He gestured between them. “Now—pour for one another.”

The viscountess sat alongside the puppeteer.
The two sacred child attendants, as if cast in demonic roles, took turns pouring drinks.
Silence fell; clouds darkened the sky.
A bush warbler trilled incessantly.
The distant notes of shō and hichiriki instruments drifted through the air.
"Namu Daishi Henjō Kongō..."—the chanting voices drew nearer until fourteen or fifteen villagers of all ages appeared, repeating the invocation as they approached.

“Well now—what’re y’all doin’ there?”

“We reckon she’s the Great Teacher’s messenger princess—that’s why we’re keepin’ our distance on purpose.”
“Let’s just keep walkin’ an’ worshipin’ from behind—y’all mustn’t go causin’ trouble.”

“C’mon, c’mon,” Villagers 4–6 called out in unison. This time placing the sacred children at the center, they chanted, “Namu Daishi Henjō Kongō…” And thus, the curtain fell.

Viscountess (taking off the coat, brushing off dust, and attempting to drape it over the painter): “There was just that one time, wasn’t there?—You wouldn’t remember.”
“You were drunk and placed your hand on me.”
“In this hand—once more, for a memory of this life—once more.”
“This is all I could wish for.”
(placing her hands on the grass) “You—how reluctant I am to part.”

“If anyone should feel reluctance, it is I.”
(He heaved a deep sigh.)

“Old man—let’s go.”

The Puppeteer: “Yes, yes. Goodbye, Master.”

Viscountess: “Let’s go, come on.”

The two began to walk away.
The rain began in earnest.

The Painter (strode out abruptly, opened an umbrella, and sheltered the two) “Please take this.”

“You…”

“The rain is no hindrance at all.”

“I gratefully accept your kindness,” said the Viscountess.
(As she took the umbrella) “Oh—like this?”

She violently became barefoot, pulling up one hem of her robe—the crimson-patterned crepe underrobe was dazzlingly beautiful.
She yanked the old man’s hand.

The Puppeteer (staggering onward while continuing to chant): “Namu Daishi Henjō Kongō.”

“Master,” said the Viscountess as she turned back halfway along the flower path.

The Painter followed slightly behind them, watching them go.

“Give my regards to the world... Goodbye...”

“Farewell.”

The Viscountess (tucking the puppeteer’s wrinkled hand under her arm and leading the way, holding up the oil-paper umbrella toward the curtain)——)

The Painter stood still.—Pause.

(The puppeteer’s voice resonates from within the curtain.)

――Namu Daishi Henjō Kongō――

The viscountess's voice was heard once more.

――Namu Daishi Henjō Kongō――

The Painter: Hmm—is this the realm of demons? What is this—a dream? No—it’s reality.—(Noticing the viscountess’s geta) Yes—should I cast off my body and my name?
(Taking the viscountess’s geta into his hand.)
(With a tormented expression) No—I have work to do.
(He throws away the geta.)

The sound of the rain stopped.

The evening bell of Fukuchi-san Shuzenji Temple tolls six times.

— CURTAIN —

June 1923 (Taishō 12)