Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

As the tale goes... It was in the first year of Bunsei (1818).
The shogunate’s glory had reached its zenith when people say their samurai era stood poised at a historic turning point.

In Kyoto within Lord Dainagon Hino Sukemasa’s mansion—then foremost among noble houses—there one day occurred an uncanny incident matching supernatural phenomena.

That year’s tenth day of Frost Month saw Lord Dainagon complete his solemn vow—having secluded himself in a mansion sanctum through many days’ purification rites to perform an impersonal Goma Fire Ritual whose culmination fell upon this date.
Though winter days run brief indeed yet at lantern-unlit dusk concluded flawless ceremony.
Thus ended prolonged ascetic observance.
What folk call abstinence-breaking held no variance from human feeling here.
For long-awaited respite now came inner chambers readied with lavish evening banquet.

Thereupon, the Noble Consort proceeded to the entrance of the southern hall to welcome Lord Dainagon who had entered the inner chambers.
It was Lady Fuji who came quietly walking alone down the long corridor adorned with chrysanthemums and crimson leaves—three rooms ahead as her vanguard—wearing a layered robe and crimson hakama with long trailing hems while maintaining a distance of about three rooms from Her Ladyship.

This lady-in-waiting was a renowned beauty; her age was precisely thirty-three—the same as Hino’s Noble Consort.
For about half a month, she had secluded herself from duties due to a physical ailment; on this day—with the ritual concluded—she had arranged her hair and appearance anew after a long interval to take her place at the celebratory gathering marking Their Excellencies’ fulfilled vow.
A shadow fell across the tatami corridor—lustrous yet pliant—her figure appearing to bend along with her black hair.

Behind her... emerging from the cabinet called "White Chrysanthemum" in a manner akin to a heavenly maiden was none other than the Noble Consort, her nobility resplendent.

The author did not know the details, but this was said to be fact.
There were no other young girls present.
In Lord Hino’s mansion at this time, those welcoming the lord consisted solely of these individuals.

Moreover, from the ritual chamber came Lord Sukemasa along the side corridor—entirely alone without even a single sword-bearing attendant.
One could not tell whether this stemmed from house tradition or simplicity.
In such cases during this period, one might compare it to the Edo shogunate—or rather, to the state of the inner and outer courts maintained by feudal lords.

With Lady Fuji’s hand, the partition door slid open.... There, Lord Dainagon and the Noble Consort were meant to proceed together to the inner chambers.

It could scarcely be termed an incidental occurrence.
From the cold half-light along the doorframe emerged a man of extraordinary height bearing a blade cold as hoarfrost.
Separated by mere two or three shaku, he abruptly confronted Lady Fuji.

When she instinctively swept her sleeve across like a folding screen to bar the space between them—in that same instant—the Noble Consort turned sharply away. Her torrent of black hair rippled against crimson robes; that noble profile—paler than snow—seemed to glance back for but an instant before she withdrew down the corridor with the evanescent beauty of moonlit frost yielding to dawn.

“First.”

As Lady Fuji called out, softening her posture with one hand gracefully resting at her knee, the sound of Lord Dainagon's footsteps—which had earlier assumed readiness at the sliding door's edge—could now be heard quietly receding. Through the door's latticework from the original side corridor, his imposing figure in ceremonial court robes and headdress—evoking the mansion's former grandeur—filtered into view alongside the fragrance of yellow chrysanthemums.

Lady Fuji did not panic.

"Who are you? What manner of being?"

"Ugh..."

With a groan, he violently trembled and jerked his head as if convulsing. He was a samurai of about forty, wearing a black crested robe and hakama, barefoot without his tabi socks. His temples were disheveled, his topknot burst open; his faintly pockmarked face was deathly pale, both eyes bloodshot and red. He bore no trace of alcohol. He appeared every bit the madman—a deranged figure—yet even in this noble guise made no move to retreat in panic. As he swayed unsteadily forward, the cold gleam of the drawn sword from which blood dripped profusely pulsed with an ominous glint. Though his arm hung limply, the blade's tip gradually curved upward inch by inch.

Without hesitation, Lady Fuji pressed close enough for their shoulders to brush against each other,

“You… this way.”

While gazing sharply at unflinching painted eyebrows, the disheveled samurai with drawn sword turned about.

Guiding him incrementally toward the exit, Lady Fuji serenely trailed her crimson hakama along the corridor.

Naturally, he kept hold of the lethal weapon.
His distracted feet jittered wildly, their propensity to snag on Lady Fuji's hem at every falter recalling a frenzied weasel amidst blazing azalea blooms.

"You appear to be a Kanto warrior-house retainer—what calamity befell you?"
"This stands as a most sacred precinct... So profoundly hallowed that it lies beyond the realm for such as you to tread. Will you compose your spirit and steady your mind?"
"I shall neither censure nor prosecute."
"As I intend mercy within my heart—will you compliantly quit these halls?"
"Strike leftward at that junction, then turn decisively rightward to reach the garden."
"The rear gate's lock remains unsecured."
"Will you comply?"

“Ugh...”

“You understand.”

“Hmm...”

However, when Lady Fuji came to a halt, the deranged man attempted to turn back toward the inner chambers with his sword; thus, catching the sleeve of his robes there, she took hold of his hand.
It was the hand not holding the sword.
To avoid facing harsh winds—this conduct of the delicate noblewoman was worthy of admiration.

Taking his hand and guiding him along just so toward the main entranceway—turning right at the corridor’s front, making a single bend to exit—they found the cedar door open, with a charcoal brazier placed at the center of the tatami mat.

There was no step to tread down, but it was one level lower.
To descend, Lady Fuji took the hand of the deranged man in his frenzy and nearly embraced him.
She had nearly embraced him, but to an outside eye, it bore no resemblance to a wounded eagle being clutched by a red-crowned crane—or anything of the sort.

Not a single night watchman or guard could be seen—most inopportune.
It was not a mansion with sufficient security; in the twilight especially, each seemed to stand apart from posts.
Through the transom, sunlight cast shadows of pale maple leaves; in the large brazier, the fire had nearly died out, leaving only ashes frosted over in desolation.

Lady Fuji first settled herself into a seated position.

“In any case, settle down here below.”

The deranged man stood like a wrathful temple guardian and glared down.
However, his footing was unsteady.

“It’s cold. Here, warm your hands.”

And the beautiful, elegant Lady Fuji reached out with her pale, slender hands to take the charcoal brazier and draw it closer.

“Ugh... Ugh...”

Though that was all, he nevertheless sat down heavily there.

“You don’t have any tobacco, do you?”

Then, this deranged man hurriedly opened the front of his robe and searched his sleeve.
Even so, he did not sheathe it but thrust the long sword into the tatami with a forceful stab.

Seeing the lethal weapon slip from his grasp, Lady Fuji rose swiftly during his fumbling for the tobacco pouch—her sudden movement blending with the ceiling’s painted clouds—and as her hakama hem swept through the corridor, the samurai lunged after her with martial ferocity.

“Ho, ho, ho.”

With a gentle smile, Lady Fuji took his hand once more as before and, this time guiding him diagonally across the dim wooden flooring, emerged at a side corridor’s edge where scarlet maple leaves blazed like fire.

Needless to say, Lord Dainagon was nowhere to be seen by now.

Maple leaves scattered sporadically, and small birds chirped incessantly.

“Chidori，Chidori...”

As they were halfway across while she murmured with dignified composure，there stood a place with a plain wood staircase.

“Chidori，Chidori，where are you...”

while pointing and adopting an entranced listening posture，

“Chidori, Chidori.”
And she raised her voice slightly.
As the figure of Chidori—the lady-in-waiting in deep purple—flickered into view at the edge of the garden’s narrow border, a ball tumbled wildly through the maple leaves and flew away.
Like plovers calling to their companions, black figures scattered in a flurry into the garden.
At that moment, as Lady Fuji guided him downstairs, she pressed down firmly with both hands on the deranged man’s sword-holding hand.

“Ugh... Hmm...”

“Ah, honorable guards—this unsightliness will become a public spectacle.”
“…If you must restrain him, use that sword.”
“Everything depends on His Lordship’s will… Given his derangement, handle it discreetly—pardon and release him.”

The honorable guards, having strapped their paired swords to their backs in a burdock-bundle style, advanced and, from both sides, pulled the deranged man’s hands to remove him.

Breath coming in gasps, her beautiful face growing deathly pale, Chidori the lady-in-waiting trembled as she wept, clutching with her long sleeves the hand of Lady Fuji—resplendent in crimson hakama—on the stairs.
Recalling the recent peril—they were tears of relief.

Word spread from the mouths of the lower classes, and in an instant all Kyoto buzzed with this affair—yet the deranged man’s whereabouts remained unknown.

II

“Well now, Venerable Kobōshi…”

Imagine now Hakone Mountains at midnight.
Simultaneously envision maple leaves mist frost Lake Ashi and stars in vast sky.

To reiterate—it was the deep night of the tenth day of the eleventh month in the first year of Bunsei [1818], on the shore of Lake Ashi in the depths of Hakone.

The fog hung thick, yet the checkpoint stood not so distant.
At Mishimazuki shore near the mountain pass, something thrashed unrestrainedly with loud splashes.
Both solitude and silence—with frost-glittering stars seeming to clatter so—made this clamor resound more sharply than even an unceasing waterfall.

One could hardly claim that herons, otters, or monkeys were fishing here. Considering both the time and place, the unsettling and terrifying scene was as though a wolf had emerged to chase the beauties of the Dragon Palace. Yet there he was—a bald-headed monk lacking ears or fangs—bending backward until his shaven pate nearly touched the water, splashing icy torrents onto his bare arms and hands that had shed their hempen robe. On such a frost-laden night, the disturbed water seemed like lightning streaking across ice.

Ah, what a pious monk—one would think he was performing ascetic water austerities, yet he placed a single basket amidst the reeds subduing the withered grass. But it was neither a basket for releasing carp nor a tool for cutting grass. It was a large cylindrical basket carried by a junk dealer, with bamboo tongs thrust upright in it to boot.

“Well now, Venerable Kobōshi, Venerable Kobōshi...”

In the illusory mist, where the radiance of the Morning Star permeated the marrow of jagged peaks—a horizontal swath of water gleaming while a vertical streak burned crimson through purple-congealed maple leaves—from the uppermost boughs of a cedar tree so massive it would take three men to embrace its trunk, there resounded an owl-like cry of uncanny timbre.

“Could it be Haguro Kobōshi?
“—Venerable Kobōshi.”

As the voice called out repeatedly—branches rustling as if stirred by wind—what descended soundlessly into the reeds was a visage denser than mist: that of a mountain ascetic. Clutching a vajra staff beneath his arm, he seized the knot of the samurai’s obi with one hand and hauled along the black-crested, hakama-clad figure face-down.

The samurai had his chest bound with a cord and was made to carry the daisho swords on his back.
It may be a vulgar analogy, but in the manner of a child being made to parade three times around the neighborhood—needless to say, this was the madman who had thrown Lord Dainagon’s mansion into turmoil.

“Oh,”

The nose on Kobōshi’s upturned face was hooked and pointed, its color matching that of a kite.
The bluish-black, slickly wet skin of his back, with star reflections flickering across it, was like a giant catfish tattooed with waterweed blossoms.

“This is Akiba Mountain’s Ascetic Master.”

As he spoke, he sent up a spray of water and shook his body like a dog.

“You are returning to Kyoto, then.”

“In that case, we’ll pass through the sky.”
“—When I saw someone uncannily resembling you, Venerable Monk, behaving strangely, I halted at a great cedar and called through the leaves—only to realize it was unmistakably you! This unworthy path nearly froze his own guts.”
“Well now—what’s this untimely water mischief for?”
“The prank itself was harmless enough, but with this injury to my wing, I thought I might have fallen into the lake and drowned.”

“Ha ha.”

He laughed nonchalantly,

“Ah, I had a bit of grime on me, so I gave myself a lazy cat’s wash.
Just a quick swish-swish.
Ha ha ha—clear skies come dawn.
Now rest.”

he said through the sleeve of his priestly robe.
The gray plumes of their exhaled breaths lingered unlike any human’s; both figures remained entwined for a moment before abruptly taking flight, sending a flock of nameless birds scattering across Lake Ashi’s surface.

Haguro Kobōshi and Akiya Gyōja—the two were undoubtedly a faction of the demon realm, beings of the tengu breed.
Both Tōkai and Ōshū had their renowned tengu.

III

“Indeed, indeed... So the Venerable Monk was once a samurai.”

When the ascetic released him with a thud—sending the madman toppling into the grass—it was Kobōshi who spoke.

“In that case，here we are... Abducted from Hamamatsu’s honjin and brought here，then—as promised—to Lord Hino Dainagon’s mansion，and even meticulously deposited with a thud in the twelve-ken corridor.”

“Ah—at the mansion，Lady Fuji—humble and delicate—a noble lady indeed．Moreover—all alone—she deigned to handle it with such refreshingly cool composure.”

“Hmm...”

The mountain ascetic who had spoken stroked his bright red nose as if pinching it, smoothly.

“Have you finally realized?”

“Word of this incident in the capital...”
“From Kantō’s breadth to Ōshū’s farthest reaches—this humble monk’s presence resounded in every mountain and standing place.”
“All of this brings great joy for our noble Kyoto allies.”
“This too is the Ascetic Master’s feat. My, how agile!”

“Well now—what say you?”
“’Tis swiftness itself, Venerable Monk.”

“Now, that was my error.
...This humble monk, through hasty assumptions and overeagerness, created an unforeseen opening.
Just as you did, we received orders from divine command—to strike Edo Castle on the same day and hour as Kyoto. Thus I flew forth, leveling Senju Great Bridge and Ueno Forest, reaching even the moatside pines.
Though its prestige wanes, 'tis still the Great Barbarian-Subduing General’s castle—every gate swarmed with guards and sentries, not a chink to exploit.... Circling about to scout, I chanced to spy a great serpent peering from Sakurada Gate’s guardhouse wall.
At Kasumigaseki, unseasonal cherry blossoms blanketed the grounds—lured by unseasonable warmth, elders who’d been wintering indoors seemed to have crawled from their kotatsu heated tables.
By then, the thoroughfare teemed with people.”

At that moment, a giant kite descended arrow-like from distant skies to snatch up the serpent and fly off—but this creature, being master of its territory and no ordinary beast, refused to yield to such tactics. Raising its scales in defiance, coiling into a spiral, it tried instead to retreat into the crevice of the stone wall—the kite attempted to seize and carry it off. They grappled and grappled—but wait, a massive crowd had gathered.—Gradually, the kite’s feathers began slipping into the stone wall’s crevices—it would pull back slightly to free itself, but little by little, step by step, just as one wing seemed to disappear, it was smoothly swallowed up, leaving only a single wing flapping wildly… flapping and flapping, enduring desperate thrashing.—The spectators held their breath.

“Hmm...”

At this, the mountain ascetic too held his breath.

“Foolish kite! Damn kite! Kite, kite—in other words, this kite is none other than this humble monk! Ha ha ha!”

he laughed uproariously,

“What, Ascetic Master—though inexperienced, I, Haguro Kobōshi, do not fear six-shaku or ten-shaku serpents."
“This is the art.”
To steal the humans' focus, they deliberately let themselves be drawn deeper until at last even their final wingtip vanished against the castle's stone wall—whereupon the crowd, who had been holding their breath until then, erupted in a collective roar without distinction.
Startled by the human voices, the guards rushed out in unison, the retainers swarmed in uproar, and the wave of commotion reverberated all the way to the main gate.

Amidst the commotion, they snatched a suitable target from the crowd of spectators and dropped them from the sky with a thud, ensuring no injury.
"But it was right in the open space beneath Nishi-no-Maru’s Taiko Yagura—in broad daylight."

“Odd.”

The mountain ascetic snapped his hands together,

“What precisely was it that the Venerable Monk dropped in your experiment?”

“A junk dealer.”

“A junk dealer, you say?”

“A paper scrap buyer—this one here.”

He pulled the aforementioned large bamboo basket close with his round sleeves, tilted its mouth toward the starlit lake water, and scratched its bottom with his claws—scritch-scritch—as if tickling a pine cricket. Out tumbled a grime-covered filthy junk dealer, limbs curled up defensively.
Yet upon emerging, he grew large, stretched limply like soaked cloth, shuddered his shoulders, and crouched intensely within the withered reeds—knees splayed through his Chigusa-patched workman’s trousers.

It appeared this human's agitated spirit had fully subsided.
The mad warrior—who had lain flat with limbs splayed like a crushed frog—twitched and abruptly sat upright.
Yet his face remained indigo-hued, eyes bloodshot and wide open as he stayed rigidly frozen.

IV

In this era, there existed a record generally accepted as fact.

In Satsuma Kagoshima, there was a fourteen-year-old son of a minor retainer who set out bearing documents for his father’s errand.
At the hour of five in the morning, as he ascended a deserted slope in the samurai district, a single giant eagle swooped down from the void like a plummeting boulder, seized the boy, and flew instantly into the clouds.
The boy could not distinguish dream from reality.
Yet as they soared through the vast heavens, he steeled himself—knowing a fall would reduce him to dust without respite—and curled his body beneath those black sail-like wings that sliced through the wind.
At first spread out like a checkerboard pattern were the castle visible; then came towns into view; and through a haze of mist even villages could be glimpsed.
When next he heard winds howling through primordial chaos, they found themselves soaring over a boundless sea whose limits none could discern.
Now entrusting himself to fate, he closed his eyes—and by chance both wind and body ceased their movement.
When he came to his senses, the eagle was resting its wings on the treetop of a massive tree.
Yet it was a giant tree that pierced through clouds upon the mountain's peak as though raising a spire.
He cautiously moved one hand—it responded freely.

At that moment, though he had placed his hand on the hilt of his short sword, his body remained supported by the eagle on the treetop.—Even were he to slay it completely, should he wound it and be cast down to earth, his very limbs would shatter where he fell.
Yet even remaining thus, there would be no life.
While he hesitated over what action to take, with a single flap, it flew off again.
As it flew on, drawing somewhat closer to the ground until it seemed to skim just a couple of meters away, this composed and valiant boy drew his short sword and plunged it backward with a sickening thud.
He pressed his advantage without allowing it a breath, driving three or four thrusts through its body until, weakened to exhaustion, the eagle collapsed onto the earth faceup. Riding its belly as it flipped mid-fall, he landed as though wrapped in a soft feather quilt, gently floating down.

As though born from the eagle’s belly, the boy emerged drenched in blood—only to find mountains upon mountains surrounding him, range layered upon range, leaving him unable to discern east from west.

As he trudged along, he encountered a woodcutter.
The woodcutter held an axe as if posed in a painting.
He stepped forward and bowed politely, requesting directions to the castle town and asking for guidance—whereupon the woodcutter said, “What’s a castle town?”
When asked if he didn’t know about the castle, he replied flatly, “Don’t know nothin’.”
Though his father’s salary was meager, being the son of an official from that era, he recklessly lost his temper and declared loudly, “Kagoshima!”—whereupon the woodcutter asked, “Where’s this Kagoshima?”
When the boy shouted, “You fool—do you not know Kagoshima in Satsuma Province of Japan?!” the woodcutter drew in his straggling mustache—which had hung loose until then—and gaped wide-mouthed in astonishment.
“How many thousand ri is Satsuma from here?” he retorted.
The boy, having somewhat composed himself, asked, “Where is this place?”—and only then did he realize.
It was in the mountains of Kiso.

It was here that the two of them first saw the eagle’s corpse.

The woodcutter, after leading [the boy] down to the foothills, informed the village headman, notified the magistrate’s office, and summoned the district physician—a whole commotion.
In both mind and body, there were no remarkable abnormalities.
Since reaching Kagoshima proved impossible, they delivered him to the Satsuma estate in Edo.

At dawn—while still suspended midair—it was on that very evening when the boy was released from the eagle’s talons in the Kiso mountains.
At the seventh hour; the interval spanned five and ten hours.
The distance is said to be approximately four hundred ri.

Even an eagle could do such things—let alone the deeds of Tengu.
As for why the samurai had drawn the sword—this too can likely be surmised from the present context.—

Let us note in passing that all things have their counterparts.—Around this same time in Ōmi’s Zeze Castle town, an eagle abducted a samurai’s child—snatching him from the saddle as he sat mounted at the riding grounds—though on this occasion it swiftly extended its flight over lake waters.
The long sword had been drawn and sank into the lake, leaving only a dagger remaining at his belt—but when land appeared below, the eagle dropped the boy onto a sandy shore and alighted upon a massive boulder crowning the cliff above.
After a moment, it thudded down and flew at the boy, about to tear the skin from his face when he desperately drove his short sword into it with a blind thrust and was saved.
After being nursed by people, when he later asked his whereabouts, this place proved nearby.
At Ōmi’s lakeshore—the distance being twenty ri.
—Edo and Hakone lie somewhat farther from here…

Then came accounts that shed light on how humans might be drawn into the sky.
……This particular incident involved identifiable witnesses.
In Sanuki Takamatsu, Sadagorō—heir to Lord Matsudaira—had been flying kites with his retainers in the garden of the Hamachō Yagura estate.

A biting west wind carried the kites toward Shinagawa’s distant sea when a crimson shape fluttered into view—a speck that steadily grew larger against the sky.
There hung an inverted woman—hair cascading earthward, stark white legs bared to the heavens, face veiled by trailing silks.
Her mournful wail pierced the air as they gaped upward, watching the apparition dissolve into Tsukuba’s distant haze.
Every attendant witnessed this.
At high noon beneath cloudless skies—only this woman could be seen, her skin and robes radiant as she dangled from the clouds like a spindle-worm cocoon.
Yet all agreed this could only be a victim snatched by tengu.

However, it appears these two demons did not actually succeed in luring either the samurai or the junkman in reverse.

V

“Hmm… Now, regarding the crucial matter—how fared affairs at Edo Castle?”

“Why—an utterly unprecedented commotion! Even if dragons had surged from the outer moat or thunder rolled into the keep, I doubt it would compare to the junkman flooding beneath the drum turret. Moreover, this junkman—quite the amusing fellow—kept shouldering his gun-basket while staring down at where he’d fallen, poking about the spot with bamboo chopsticks like some spoonbill heron, all the while acting most suspiciously. ...The astonished officials who—peering straight down from the high tower like ants shouldering wicker baskets—appeared so small! Their eyes dazzled as if the sun’s face were eclipsed—just then, eight drums went boom, boom.”

And the powerful voice of Kobōshi resonated over Lake Ashi’s waters.
Boom—it echoed fearsomely,

“Boom, boom—they struck thirteen times.”

“Curious,” said the mountain ascetic who had leaned forward again,

“Unprecedented,” he let the words trail off with a half-sigh.

“A commotion as if rebels had poured from the skies to besiege the Ninomaru.”
“The surge reached even the Shogun’s innermost chambers in the Ōoku.”
“Long hakama slipped, attendants tripped over their formal attire, tea servers tumbled, maids wept.”
“They confiscated swords, spears, naginata.”
“Then came the cavalry charge.”
“Would you believe it? They captured a lone junkman bristling with matchlocks and spears arranged like folding screens—a sight to behold!”
“Like provincial lords declaring war on head lice.”

“Is that true?”

“Needless to say.”

“Ah—the shogunate’s fate stands largely revealed by this—”

“Hmm—at Lord Dainagon’s mansion, a samurai who drew his long sword was expelled along the maple-lined corridor like a caterpillar—by a single delicate woman’s hand, without disturbing one strand of her raven hair.”

“At Edo Castle of the Barbarian-Quelling Generalissimo, they’ve descended into battle-like chaos—senior councillors leading the fray—over one mere junkman.”

“For Kyoto’s sake.”

Facing west and brushing aside the grass, Akiya Gyōja and Haguro Kobōshi together pressed their hands to the ground and prostrated in reverence.

“Insects and mollusks—these subjects of ours…”

“Delight! Auspiciousness!”

“Humbly, we celebrate ten thousand years.”

VI

“Now then…the town magistrate was startled when convening his white sand court.”
“To escort the captured junkman, they formed a procession with spears and matchlocks—but when released at the magistrate’s office, he proved a man with no more vigor than a toad.”
“Whether viewed sideways or straight on, he remains unmistakably a filthy junkman.”
The magistrate—successive ranks of officials, official boxes, sword bearers at the rear, administrators, assistants, constables—all lined up with utmost solemnity and grandeur, maintaining perfect decorum while lighting row upon row of candles.

Having lit the lamps and renewed their efforts, the magistrate ordered them to recreate the exact scene from when We had acted suspiciously beneath the turret—this too being part of the investigative procedure—whereupon they made the junkman stand, shoulder his basket, and even don a towel that looked thoroughly drenched.
But it was all in vain.
Now belatedly, the foolish monk straddled the eaves, leaning over to peer down at the astonished assembly below.
He whipped up a whirlwind with a roar, sent the white sand court’s gravel clattering in all directions, and snuffed out every lamp in unison.
In the twilight’s veil of demonic hour, he swiftly seized his quarry and soared into the sky.
“How convenient this place proves for us both.”

“Ah, but you’ve had quite the ordeal.”
“So then—you immediately returned to Haguro while keeping hold of the junkman and approached near Gobō Checkpoint—out of prudent consideration to spare that man future troubles, no doubt.”

“What, what—this humble monk blew thrice upon him and purified every inch of that fellow’s body. Even if the junkman tries plucking the magistrate’s nose hairs tomorrow, he’ll merely sneeze—they won’t notice a thing. There’s not the slightest concern there. But he’s an honest, good-natured junkman. Inconvenient, eh? He must’ve been startled… Thought I’d let him rest from his labors by sightseeing in Kyoto—maybe treat him to mochi before the Great Buddha—so I flew here on a whim. But no—it’s that earlier matter… The stench from when I grappled with that giant serpent at the castle’s stone walls—it coiled from my spine to my sides, becoming unbearable whether I flew or ran. Therefore, with this large basin, I gave myself a brisk rinse.”

“This humble monk’s meddling—no, it’s you, Ascetic Master, who’s endured the true hardship. They appear to be sending that cargo all the way to Edo. What has become of this samurai? His spirit withers, limbs stiffen—do not mistake this for mere exhaustion.”

“Oh, that samurai—apart from his official duties—had cause to undergo moxibustion treatment.”

“Naturally… This must burn fiercely. Wait—Ascetic Master. Speaking of moxa—I crave a tobacco puff. Look there—something firefly-sized moves on that rocky path. A hunter emerges. That seems a matchlock cord. I’ll borrow it. Come.”

With a sharp clap of his hands, from a distant pitch-dark shore came something whirring through the air—darting through forests, skimming water surfaces—which Kobōshi caught midair on his fingertip.
What had been formed by rolling a tsuwabuki leaf into a trumpet shape was none other than a smoking pipe.
He plucked reed plumes and grasses indiscriminately, held fire to his celadon-colored long claws, and inhaled with deep drags.
Taking the match cord, he tossed it over his shoulder with a *pon*—it caught between cedar branches, seemed to vanish in a wisp, then flared up crimson.
When crackling sounded, Futago Mountain's gale roared through, and what blazed like a torch soon thundered as it grew—a fireball roughly the size of a cart wheel caught in the treetops, spinning round and round.

Behold the forms of the two demon gods illuminated by this fire.
Amid faint clamorous human voices, two hunters with matchlocks on their shoulders—staggering and bending—drifted through waves of pampas grass as they fled into the forest.

Two or three mountain hares leaped and ran as if giving chase.

“Kobōshi, still up to your mischief, I see.”

Beneath helmet-like forehead wrinkles, his terrifying eyes gleaming, the mountain ascetic snickered through his red nose—

“This unworthy path is unskilled with tobacco.”
“Then let us share our portable rations in fellowship.”

He thrust out the shin he'd been sitting cross-legged on with a thud, grabbed it with both hands in reverse, bent it upward, and began snapping it at the knee with crack after crack and a sickening tear.

“Ugh... ugh...”

“Ah!”

And so, the samurai and the junkman inadvertently let out a cry.

Without so much as a glance, the mountain ascetic grabbed his own fractured shin like an eagle's talons, tore off the wooden-soled straw sandal—its heel pierced through—with one hand, then began crunchingly gnawing at it sideways…

Upon seeing fresh blood trickling down his lips, the samurai and the junkman collapsed in unison.

Strangely enough, where the mountain ascetic's broken shin had been, another identical shin sprouted anew.

The fiery chariot amidst the cedars extinguished its shadow.
Desolate and all the more terrifying.

"There are no bones or tendons—his very spirit has vanished."
"Inconvenient, isn't it? Shall we have the samurai... make his apologies?"

Kobōshi spoke with a measure of calm,

"O Ascetic Master.
"What is moxibustion?"

Seven

In the meantime――
“Salty.”
The mountain ascetic’s voice came, followed by *gulp gulp*.
“Salty.”

he said, and gulped down the lake water—*gulp gulp*—

“O Ascetic Master.”

“That samurai is called Kobori Denjūrō—a vassal’s vassal, yet one who draws a stipend of a thousand koku.”
“The lord he serves is Matsudaira Ōshima-no-kami…”

“A daimyō from the western provinces.”

“Therefore—an esteemed hereditary vassal.”
“A senior councilor steeped in both Minamoto and Genji lineages within the shogunate.”
“……Now then, Venerable Monk.”
“……This time, consider that for that councilor’s convenience, there came a request from Lord Hino Dainagon of Kyoto: ‘I wish to see a Capital Bird from Edo’s Sumida River—secure one successfully.’”
“As for Venerable Haguro and this unworthy path of Akiya—it was precisely because the masters devised this scheme that we were employed as messengers.”
“Though unspoken, I trust you grasp this, Venerable Monk.”

“Ah, is that so? No—I know not. This foolish monk has a habit of rushing ahead and jumping to conclusions; I merely heard the task and dashed out to fulfill it without knowing any of the particulars.”
“But then—it did have roots after all.”

“Of course.”
“When Matsudaira Ōshima-no-kami presented this matter in the shogun’s court, the senior councillors and others nodded in agreement.”

“There is no need to dwell on modern elaborations here.”
“He claimed to desire witnessing with his own eyes both the essence of Lord Narihira’s poem—‘If your name invites questioning, I shall answer plainly’—and the physical form of the bird itself; there could be no difference between this longing and his customary contemplations—whether with flowers or with the moon, or through chrysanthemums and autumn leaves in their season.”
“In Lord Dainagon’s heart, he likely imagined that the shogunate—moved by their refined poetic sensibilities—would discreetly capture the finest Capital Bird, place it in a gold-and-silver maki-e cage adorned with crimson and purple tassels, and send it up to the capital with an envoy dressed in hunting robes and eboshi cap.”
“However, even a single sheet of nori or a bag of senbei demands careful consideration when given as gifts.”
“Immediately does it confront the recipient—thus manifesting our sentiments.”
“……Whether requesting a single Capital Bird or an entire castle from the shogunate, the same logic applies.”
“Seizing this opportune moment to display Kantō’s martial prowess before the Kyoto nobility, he shot the Capital Bird—piercing its breast with goose-feathered and hawk-feathered arrows—then deemed it fitting to enshrine the carcass as if it were a crate of mandarins within that ancient armor chest bearing scars from arrows and bullets wielded by the Avatar Deity on battlefields of yore, before dispatching an envoy bearing upright spears.”
“That was the council’s decision.”

“What a pretentious fool.”

“Hmm—first listen well. The council remains the council, but the one who proposed this was none other than that modern scholar, Elder Hata Shishogashira.”

“O Elder.”
“……I heard he had long since ingratiated himself with Ōshima-no-kami.”
“Ah, right—that sort of scheme.”
“They’re transparent even in bulk.”
“If that senile Confucian had just stayed holed up at home, planting paulownia saplings by the ditch and calculating his granddaughter’s dowry, it would’ve sufficed—no—in every age, it’s the scholars of the day who grovel before their era.”

“Salty…”

And the mountain ascetic once again drank water heartily,

“Therefore… Though Matsudaira Ōshima-no-kami’s main residence lies in the mountains, since his villa stands along Honjo’s Ōkawa River, it was thus decided that Ōshima-no-kami would shoot and capture the Capital Bird.”
“…This lord, though he has some discernment of reason, in all matters his misguided actions stem from an excessive reverence for Kantō’s prestige.”
――One year prior, when Lord Hino Dainagon—still young at the time—descended to Nikko as Kyoto’s imperial deputy for shrine visitation, Lord Dainagon hosted a banquet and escorted his return to the capital as far as Shinagawa. Not to be outdone by Lord Dainagon’s attire—a lavender hunting robe trailing its hem, adorned with an embossed pattern of white plovers, paired with a wind-tilted eboshi hat fastened by a purple cord—this Matsudaira Ōshima-no-kami wore indigo-dyed armor robes beneath, stitched with white chrysanthemums, and over them, a purple surcoat.
"The chest fastened with hook closures, and the collar folded back behind."
“As for the kosode—truly a spectacle—it was once bestowed by the shogunate: yellow twill ground with cloud patterns woven in young leek green, bearing hollyhock crests in white thread.”

“Hmph.”

Kobōshi snorted derisively.

“Well now, Venerable Monk—there was an occasion when Ōshima-no-kami, clad in that very attire, rode forth on horseback to theatrically confront Lord Sukemoto’s palanquin—Lord Sukemoto, who hadn’t even worn sleeves three shaku long on his armor robes—and smirked as if to say, ‘How does this compare?’”

“What a pretentious fool.”

“Matsudaira Ōshima-no-kami—priding himself on his prestige as a senior councilor and the shogunate’s authority, all flaunted ostentatiously—has long resented Lord Sukemoto’s handsomeness. Consequently, this lord harbors an ambition to pleasure a thousand women in his lifetime, while ladies vie knowingly to offer their charms and allure.”
“There is chiefly a rumor likening him to the modern-day Zai no Chūjō—or rather, Ōshima-no-kami himself—owing both to his considerable reputation as a ladies’ man and, in part, to that jealousy… A refusal to be outdone.”

Therefore, regarding both the “If your name invites questioning” poem and his request for the Capital Bird, one might consider there to be a certain distortion in his motives.

And when word spread of this incident at Shinagawa—of him posturing in his chrysanthemum-stitched camp surcoat and wind-tilted eboshi hat fastened with a purple cord—those so-called scholars of the realm declared, “How splendidly entertained we were! This old man too would once behold such costumed grandeur.”

Now then, this time along both banks of the Sumida River—having first cleared the crowds, or rather gathered them—he processed solemnly forth in that very camp surcoat with chrysanthemum stitching and hollyhock-crested robes, accompanied by scholars worthy of admiration, bow and arrows of the Hioki school gripped in hand.
Whether it took flight or alighted, it would be shot down.
“The strange thing was—just as the rising tide swelled full…”
Lake Ashi’s waters formed a single rippling line, surging with the momentum of a celestial river.

“On that Sumida River existed a solitary Capital Bird—its wings like snow casting ibis-hued shadows upon the water’s surface—gliding smoothly until it nearly entered the shadow of Ōshima-no-kami’s radiantly outstretched sleeve, drawing ever closer to the shore.”

“Hmm, what could that be?”

“No one would know.”
“In Lord Ōshima-no-kami’s residence, there is a lady-in-waiting—Shirotae, they call her—now twenty years of age, skilled in the court dancer’s art... One year... when hosting Lord Sukemoto at a banquet, this woman performed a dance as entertainment.”
“However, being a new piece, that ballad was composed by Matsudaira Ōshima-no-kami.”

“What a nuisance, what a nuisance!”

“Within lies a line about ‘cuckoo’ and such.”
“—Shirotae sang ‘Cuckoo’ while raising her fan and kneeling.”
At that very moment on the mansion’s ridge, a flock of cuckoos had gathered.
“Matsudaira Ōshima-no-kami’s triumph was palpable… Yet the cuckoo flew off unbidden… Hear this, Venerable Monk.”

Shirotae became enraptured at the sight of Lord Sukemoto.

Matsudaira Ōshima-no-kami would periodically spread rumors about Lord Sukemoto—whenever he vehemently denounced the lord’s licentiousness in claiming to have “pledged himself to a thousand women,” … two or three concubines… even a corpulent nursemaid of uncertain origins would click their tongues and shudder upon hearing this. Yet Shirotae alone would murmur things like “But…” and privately hint at her feelings. Though Ōshima-no-kami found the situation unfavorable—and despite priding himself on his own charms—he still refrained from pressing his suit.

That Shirotae—summoned to ascend to the capital—poured her entire soul into the white-powdered breast of the Capital Bird, her shoulders and very being taking wing with longing… That Capital Bird.
“How could there remain any place for it to flee?”
“Yet humans cannot comprehend this.”

“Hmm—I heard.”

“The Capital Bird has been captured.”
“Though no heron of courtiers, seeing this captured bird—no need to credit the shogun’s august authority or the lord’s benevolence—they took it at the villa, bound its wings, and hung it upon a cherry branch.”
“What a vision—like making a snow-white naked beauty into a treetop target.”
Matsudaira Ōshima-no-kami Minamoto no Nanigashi marked his arrowhead, cinched tight his chrysanthemum-stitched hollyhock-crested robes, and shot alongside his soldiers—shot—
“Shot—but struck nothing.”

To be sure, Shirotae tearfully tried to stop this atrocious act—but there was no chance he would heed her.

Before the observing scholars—even his second arrow having gone astray—as His Lordship bristled with rage, ("Ah! How splendidly Your Lordship entertains us with birds and beasts!
Such mastery! No disgrace to Your Lordship's archery!") they called out—and with a burst of scattering cherry blossoms in unnatural bloom, pierced through the Capital Bird's breast was...

"Salty..."

And once more came the sound of the mountain ascetic drinking from the lake.
Clicking his tongue,

“There—the one stationed yonder is Kobori Denjūrō. That very man.”
“Though this unworthy path claims to have seized him, he is no disloyal or faithless samurai.”
“To state it plainly—he remains a loyal vassal to Matsudaira Ōshima-no-kami.”

Now then, bearing the Capital Bird pierced through by an arrow, Matsudaira Ōshima-no-kami advanced to the military encampment where, under the shogun’s very gaze, he duly enshrined it within an armor chest.

Thus required no dispatch of messengers.
Yet there existed an august gift from the shogunate to Lord Dainagon.
Whereupon the daimyo returning to Kyushu—their samurai serving dual roles as journeying envoys—departed up the Tōkaidō Road as guardians of the Capital Bird.…

“Master Akiya had a twisted crown,” he narrated through mouthfuls of lakewater. “Like some typhoon born from collusion with Venerable Haguro here—” he gestured at his companion with a dripping chin “—this scheme unfurled faster than blinking eyes could follow.” Another gulp echoed across frost-stilled pines before he continued: “This unworthy path obeyed our plan—when those Capital Bird envoys reached Hamamatsu’s official lodgings? Snatched ’em straight from their veranda before they could even bathe.” His clawed fingers mimed yanking an invisible obi knot upward. “Grabbed that samurai’s sash-tie and hauled—armor chest rattling against my vajra staff—hoisted everything up an old locust where tanuki ghosts dangle coffins! Then—” his laughter scattered ice crystals “—Ōi River! Tenryū! Even Lake Biwa’s shores! All flapped wings toward Kyoto like geese!”

He took another gulp of water.

“Now... Ascetic Master.
“What became of the Capital Bird pierced by an arrow?”

“Well then.
As it hung from the cherry branch and was pierced through, Shirotae clutched her chest and collapsed with a thud... her breath fading as she reached her deathbed.”

“Homage to the Three Treasures.”

“Pitiful though it may seem—the princesses and noble ladies of peaks, mountains, and crags—though their pleas go unanswered—are presently being tended to with utmost care.”

“Cherished indeed!”

Kobōshi said.

“No—peace of mind shall not come to pass.”
“Yet I find no negligence in your lordship’s considerations.”
“Ere long, a pale form shall mirror itself upon this lake.—Water thickens, night waxes deep—Samurai.”

called out, and sat up straight,

“If the Capital Bird does not revive and Shirotae ceases to exist, tell him firmly that we will not leave Matsudaira Ōshima-no-kami as he is.”

“No—wait! Swear you’ll never reveal this to anyone.—Since this unworthy path has set matters in motion, you are now permitted to proceed.”

“Kobori Denjūrō—make it certain—Denjūrō.”

“Understood.”

And the samurai propped up his hand together with his soul.
Here, "soul" does not refer to the two swords.

Eight

“Well now, Venerable Monk.”

After a short while, the mountain ascetic said.

“To chance upon each other in such a place—this aligns with our mutual advantage.”
“Let us make an exchange: while the Venerable Monk returns to Haguro and takes that samurai in tow, this unworthy path shall play a part in Kyoto—bringing along that scavenger to have him partake of mochi before the Great Buddha’s precincts—I’ll not let your generosity go unrepaid.”

“Splendid, splendid—a masterstroke!”

“Come.”
“……Scavenger.”

Like mist enveloping the mountain’s pleated folds, the great demonic deity stood abruptly among dried reeds; shrinking beneath its hem, the Scavenger prostrated fully from head to toe and pressed his hands together in prayer.

“Mercy! Mercy, I implore you! Please save me!”

“There now—I shan’t harm your body.”
“I’ll send you off to rest those bones with some sightseeing in Kyoto.”

“A wife—I have a wife.
“I have a child.—How in the world can I fly through the air from Hakone to Kyoto?
“I wish to return to Edo.
“...Honorable Samurai, please save me...”

He shuffled closer on his knees.
The half-dreaming Scavenger, being unaware of the events before and after, thought that clinging to his swordsmanship might save him upon seeing the samurai.

Haguro Kobōshi laughed as he brushed off the dust and stood up.

"I shan’t bring along such a nuisance."
“No—as you can see, Ascetic Master.”
"You needn’t trouble yourself."
“Scavenger—grab the sleeve of my priestly robe. Grab it tight. I’ll send you back to Edo.”

“No—this is unthinkable! Mercy, I beg for mercy!”
"I will cross over the mountains."
“I will walk back.”

“Can you even walk?”

“I will crawl, I will crawl, I will crawl my way back.
I will crawl on the ground and return.
I cannot fathom the depth of your mercy.”

“Ha ha—do as you please.—Then join in… Samurai, Samurai—cling to this humble monk.”

“Though I tremble—though I quake—I too wish to become human again posthaste, and live as humans ought.
I will cross over the pass and return.”

“As you wish.”
“Venerable Monk.”

And the mountain ascetic performed the ritual substitution.

"Ascetic Master."

"A moment—just a moment, I beg you."

Crouching, he raised his hand,

"Just now, I have thought of something.
Here lies the foremost checkpoint in all the land.
I do not possess a permit.
Even if I wait for dawn, it remains the same predicament... I find myself abruptly perplexed."

The samurai had decisively regained his sanity.

"No matter.
Around Kunōzan, people half-believe that voices can sometimes be heard from the forest—things like 'I want to eat Kiyotsu sea bream' or 'The lantern oil is about to spill.' Confront the checkpoint—shout 'The Avatar Deity passes through!' in a thunderous voice, and the gates will swiftly open."

“I fear… Such a presumptuous matter—even to undertake it is too august. To serve as a subordinate retainer’s underling and presume to invoke my Honorable Ancestors’ names—I would vomit blood and die on the spot,” he said, trembling violently.

“You coward. …You may.”

“I shall manage it.”

At the same time,

“The checkpoint!”
As soon as he called out, from the opposite direction—as though walking—the midnight Hakone Checkpoint emerged gliding smoothly through mist-shrouded air.
When the mountain ascetic’s head leaned down from above to inspect the tall chained gate, Kobōshi’s figure darted upward and crouched upon the ridgepole.

“The Avatar Deity passes.”
“Clear the path!”

They roared with laughter.

Haguro Kobōshi's figure moved eastward into the sky—tucking the sleeves of his priestly robe among the stars, head bowed, standing smoothly in a swift stride—then began ascending higher without any visible movement.
The mountain ascetic’s form lay prone, using his vajra staff as an oar to row sideways through the mist westward—fluttering, swirling round, then fluttering away into the distance…

Merely while looking up, they passed nonchalantly through the checkpoint where dozens of guards and foot soldiers prostrated on either side, encountering no hardship whatsoever.

“Honorable Samurai! Oh, Honorable Samurai!”

As if startled, he placed a hand on his sword hilt and looked back solemnly. But, making a disgusted face at the filthy scavenger,

“What?”
“If you don’t cling to my sleeve, you won’t be able to take a single step.”
“Hey. Come here.”

“Honorable Samurai! Honorable Samurai!”

“Be silent and come.”

In the darkness, they heard the sounds of Kowakidani's Great Hell.

On the road before them, the mist was not spreading horizontally.
A plain curtain slid down smoothly, and the loosely gathered pale purple—its color faintly visible through the shadow of a lamp penetrating the ground from within—allowed muffled human voices to leak through audibly.
They were women’s voices.

At that moment, the scavenger was more accustomed to such things than the samurai.

And, making him kneel, the scavenger too pressed his hands respectfully to the ground beside him.

“I humbly request to return to Edo.”
“I have lost my way on the mountain path.”
“I humbly beg passage.”

The surroundings fell utterly still, and after a brief interval,

“You may pass.”

came a gentle, tender voice.

The curtain vanished with a swift sound.
As it faded, the sight grew hazy—amidst four or five noblewomen in white kosode, crimson hakama, figured brocades, and long-sleeved robes—where there seemed to be a beautiful nude woman blending with the snow—when suddenly, one Capital Bird floated white in a hot spring pooled upon an agate-like boulder.
But that too vanished blue with the steam.

Stars alone, peaks alone, nothing but the roaring voice of pine winds.

Dimly, when their faces became visible to each other in the pure void—mountain vines at the ridge—a clear woman’s voice rang out,

“I’ll return your arrow.”

Cutting through the wind, falling toward the eyes—had this pierced, there would have been no life.
Even so, the samurai was paralyzed with fear.

Even when helped to his feet, only his eyes moved; he couldn’t walk.

The scavenger began doing something peculiar.

“Honorable Samurai, please enter this bamboo basket.”

When he placed him inside, it seemed the residual heat from the tengu’s breath had not yet dissipated, for from the waist down he fit snugly into the bamboo firearm basket.

The scavenger adjusted his posture, shook his shoulders, and rose shouldering the bamboo basket.

“Filthy.”

With careless movements...

“Filthy.”

When he saw the fallen arrow, he nimbly picked it up with bamboo chopsticks—a practiced habit—and tossed it into the basket.

Pale-faced and trembling, the samurai kept the goose-feathered arrow pressed to his forehead as he remained in the basket.