Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

In the center stood a single structure with a small roof, appearing both broken and tilted like a shipwreck in a calm morning sea—the remnants of an old station from when trains had once crossed this vast wilderness long ago.

The path barely remained passable. Peering through smoke-like drizzle that fell over withered yet still tangled vines, he gazed at its desolate state in the distance,

"Excuse me, Madam Old Woman—how far is it to that place?"

The one who asked was clad in striking hunting attire.
A youth of strikingly pure countenance sat with his straw-sandaled legs sprawled across the dirt floor, having leaned against the old tatami a Ponel Hill double-barreled rifle—its barrel moon-like, muzzle star-like—stamped with the British government's crown insignia. As he listened thus, he snatched off his hunting cap and repeatedly brushed back his black forelocks, now pliantly damp enough to drip droplets, his demeanor weighed by the wild path's relentless rain.

In a ramshackle hut with no veranda—its horizontally elongated structure divided into two rooms—at the base of aged, warped pillars sat an old woman over seventy, spinning thread as her wheel hummed quietly, hummed softly.

"Well now, straight across it might be seventeen or eighteen chō—though that's likely an overstatement—but the path people walk winds all serpentine-like, so I'd say over half a ri." Withdrawing her head and then thrusting it forward again, the old woman spoke while gazing toward the abandoned station. Her rheumy eyes seemed to require pressing themselves against distant objects in this manner to see anything at all.

Then every time she raised and lowered her face—her chest so deeply hollowed it seemed stowed away somewhere—she would stretch and tense its sunken form.

More abundant than the white hair she smoothed down as it grew straight were the wrinkles in her skin, with those carved deepest seeming to fold her into place like an ornament—back bent low before the spinning wheel, tucked away within a clay hut at the withered field's edge. Observing her current posture—chest stretched and leaning backward—her emaciated stature seemed excessively tall for her age; were she to stand straight, she would appear like a rare withered tree among the five or six slender hazels growing behind the hut. Her flesh had dried, her skin shriveled beyond recognition, yet the rock-like solidity of her hands and chest—cracked like persimmon-tanned base lacquer—still showed remnants of dignity. Most striking remained the sharply defined bridge of her nose.

Blackened yet lined with turmeric-dyed fabric, this patched garment—faded yet still beautiful in its varied hues of light-blue hemp-leaf patterns and deer-spot scarlet—followed the rural tradition of gathering scraps piece by piece from a hundred households to stitch together. She wore this patchwork robe with her front sash properly tied.

A discerning soul who had traversed ancient battlefields hearing arrow-cries in the wind, or recalled lost capitals beneath moonlit fields of pampas grass, might well have imagined this old woman sixty years prior as a noble lady of such exceptional beauty it scarcely seemed earthly—for she bore an indefinable dignity that defied violation.
The cold rain—its faint white streaks like cotton gliding smoothly around her sharp jawline—seemed on the verge of crystallizing into frost.

The youth held both hands straight over the hearth, peering obliquely at the old woman's chest area,

"So then—does something else pass through there?"

The old woman confronted the boundless wilderness straight ahead without glancing back,

"What could you mean by 'something else passing through'?"

"No, didn't you just say it yourself? That human paths wind serpentine-like."
"That's precisely why I'm asking—does something else tread there?"

"Oh now, in this wilderness, Young Master, neither fox nor dog comes passing."
"When fog settles low, it walks; when clouds sink down, they run. Centipedes dig while locusts take wing," she replied with a smile, turning to him as one might address a grandchild.

II

Had someone claimed that demons—nay, evil spirits—traversed this pass, there would have been no grounds for doubt; yet even believing such, he found no cause for alarm.
The youth bore the family name Katsuragi—a top student at a Tokyo academy who had contracted a peculiar melancholic illness since early summer that year. As days passed, both his complexion and spirit turned ashen, until he seemed destined to soon receive formless offerings beneath a stone monument. As for the cause of this affliction, friends who knew him well whispered privately: it stemmed from a love affair with one who had left this world too soon—whose elder sister, a noblewoman of standing, had bestowed upon him a state-of-the-art hunting rifle.
But here lay that very thing.

"I humbly present this weapon—hunt in the outskirts and take heart," she had written, for physicians declared his condition—as she'd heard—responded neither to medicine nor care.
"May no harm befall you—my hand shall ever guard this rifle's muzzle," she appended in a letter steeped with feeling, whose messenger had arrived two or three days prior.

With his chest still pressed where he'd been leaning against the desk, Katsuragi received the parcel, pressed a hand to his brow for a moment, then sprang to his feet.

Now then—since alighting alone at the new station this morning where neither smoke nor sound rose from these parts, trudging through wilderness dense with morning fog until past noon when rain began, then finally dashing into the Old Woman's hut—he had never once let smoke wreathe his rifle's barrel.

Katsuragi, having regained his pre-illness disposition, sought to repay the Noblewoman's thoughtful gift—when asked by a classmate met aboard the train crossing Hakone Pass where he was headed, he had answered "Toward Shuzenji for a honeymoon journey"—by reserving the first shot of his beloved new bride Ponel Hill Princess not for base targets like snipe or mountain doves, but intending instead to bring home some remarkable quarry as tribute.

For they had relocated their station after untimely floods and uncanny storms relentlessly damaged tracks along this non-governmental railway—moreover, given that the Katsuragi clan had possessed an unshakable strange history since their ancestors governed this land, he now intended to traverse this three-ri wilderness and shoot down through remembered marksmanship anything visible, anything within reach, provided the target bore no human form.

Disregarding the old woman's meaningful words about fog and clouds walking, he began briskly untying his sodden straw sandal cords with warmed hands.

Though remaining vigilant, he kept his face bowed down,

"I shuddered again thinking some uncanny thing might pass through. Madam Old Woman—aren't you afraid staying alone in such a place even in broad daylight?"

Katsuragi, eager as if willing flames from her mouth, casually prompted her response.

The old woman drew cotton across her forehead,

"What's there to fear? You speak unlike today's youth—fearing rain leaks more than wolves, I say."

Then she bent her back, puffed out her chest, rubbed her hands together as if doing so, and peered outside,

“When fog billows yonder and all lies hushed, that’s fair weather you see. But when clouds creep from this side, both advancing to meet—that’s when this rain comes.”
“When it sheets down like this, cold settles in—most fearsome for old bones like mine, I tell you.”

“Ah, this rain wears me down too—seeping everywhere with such wretched clamminess, Old Woman.”

“Aye, you’ve endured quite the trial, Young Master.”

“Excuse the intrusion, but I’ll borrow this spot.”

Katsuragi removed his tabi socks and checked his toenails, but finding them unsoiled by mud and clean, settled directly onto the matting.

Even had he requested to wash his feet, whether the Old Woman would have drawn water for him remained uncertain—rooted in her seated posture, she showed no distraction from her habitual task. Like wind through dwarf bamboo grass... with each sound, the white thread piled up.

III

Katsuragi discarded his soaked upper garment and removed his overcoat as well; yet even at the hearth's edge he remained vigilant,

"Ah, I'm starving," he said, his voice hollow. "The rain kept pooling until I was soaked through—when droplets started falling from my hat, all color and will drained away. Finding even a single mat would've been paradise; I thought I'd just collapse there and sleep. But now that you've sheltered me from the storm, my gut won't quiet down—don't you have anything to eat?"

"Ah yes," she croaked, not turning from her wheel. "When that iron beast roared through the grass yonder, we'd get travelers sometimes. I'd slice melons for them—but you see how it is now." Her spindle whirred like a dying insect. "What little I eat—millet boiled to paste—would never suit your city tongue."

"No, I have rice. Knowing there’d be no villages around, I brought provisions wrapped in bamboo—but I’ve nothing to go with them. I was wondering if you could spare a bit of something."

The Old Woman bent forward at the chest and nodded slowly,

“In that case, do wait a moment—I’ve got some salty miso pickles here, I say.”

“Wait, please. I don't believe miso pickles would trouble you so.”

Quickly untied the bamboo leaves—the stiff bundle resisting—pressed the edge of the package, propped himself up with weary hands, and examined it carefully.

“It’s not that I was complaining—this pickle really is miso-pickled after all.
Old Woman—they said at the inn that those entering deep into these vast wilds shouldn’t lack pickled plums. Is that truly so?” he asked, lifting his face to look again. Katsuragi recalled this made the third such crone he’d seen—one in a rundown vaudeville theater’s desolate corner when audiences numbered mere twos and threes, clutching a cat dejectedly; another in the mountains trudging with firewood on her back.

The Old Woman did not move even a wrinkle on her deeply lined face,

“Well now, eating it can’t do harm—mountain folk say ’tis precisely what dispels the fog’s poison.”

He stared wordlessly with a “Right…”,

He turned around for the first time with a listless air,

“Ah now, that poisonous fog’s a fearsome thing indeed, Young Master. ’Twas only because it turned to rain today that you’ve been spared—had you been wrapped in that netherworldly smoke for half a day, your life would’ve been taken, leaving you to suffer three or four months after. This fog here’s exceptional, I tell you.”

“That fog...”

“Young Master, good sir—is this your first time walking these parts?”

Katsuragi boldly began to take a bite, then gulped it down,

“It’s my first time. I’d heard about it though.”

“That’s right, that’s right,” the Old Woman nodded again—not merely agreeing, but speaking in a tone that insisted it must be so.

“And might you be roaming about firing that gun of yours, Young Master?” she asked, spread her hands away from the spinning thread and stared intently—for the old woman’s eyes seemed to glow strangely—so Katsuragi set down his chopsticks and mentally braced himself,

“This one?” he uttered as preamble—shifting it aside, took hold, and pulled it closer—the sky’s patterns, the drizzle’s hue, even the hearth’s flames within the solitary hut growing faint alongside the Old Woman’s form, all sketched upon withered fields in some phantom interlude when only the barrel of his Ponel Hill repeating rifle gleamed blue against the wall like a polished mirror as he loaded it with a solid click.

I must say, I seemed quite impressive to myself,

“Oh, well… I’ve been secretly praying you wouldn’t fire this thing.”

“And what reason might that be?” she asked clearly, continuing to spin her thread—her entire body moving like clockwork-driven puppetry—the Old Woman never pausing her hands for even an instant.

Were one to fire a startling shot and sever the cotton strand at that critical moment—were it to miss both chest and throat—the thread of life would snap, leaving the Old Woman naught but a solitary statue of rotted wood.

Thus Katsuragi thought within himself.

IV

Unconcernedly using his provisions while,

“Now Old Woman, I heard this Wilderness isn’t a place folks often pass through.”

“Scenic view ye call it? Not a pond to be seen—just trifling differences, mind ye. Mishima’s the proper spot for Fuji-gazing, while here’s a plain stretching miles clear—naught blocks the eye. That’s why no curious souls come wandering, I tell ye.”

“Nay—’tisn’t just poor views keeping visitors off or bad roads stopping travelers. What we’ve heard tells it different—entering this Wilderness they call ‘casting yourself in,’ and none return whole from it, so they say.”

“Now Young Master,” she said, “this place alone isn’t the only one fraught with peril—stumble and you might not fall, fall badly and you might get injured, land wrong and you might even die. The same holds true whether in fields, mountains, sea, or rivers, I tell you. Yet even so—why have you come to this place people speak of?”

She fixed him with a piercing sidelong glance.

Katsuragi flinched, but

"I'm not here for logical explanations. Truth is, I came all this way hoping to meet someone like you—to hear strange tales and see whatever can be seen."
"They said there were things walking besides humans, so I came charging out! But it all turned to drifting fog and shifting clouds! Then I heard about creatures here that won't let you leave alive—but when I went looking, they say injuries just happen anywhere without rhyme or reason! Where's the thrill in that? Won't you tell me something truly strange? I mean it."

He leaned forward, fixing his gaze,

"I'll be frank, Old Woman—knowing full well the rumors, I came alone like this because... Well, judging by appearances, aren't you practically what they'd call the sovereign of this wilderness? You must think me ridiculous, but I'm in earnest. Please—spare no detail—tell me everything."

Though speaking this way made me seem like some supernatural petitioner—absurd as that was—an impatience I could scarcely contain burned within.

I had come fully resolved to this course, yet even I—a modern youth—had arrived assuming any mortal threats here would be venomous field insects or wolves exiled from Hakone Pass. Could trivial specters truly exist in this age? Or perhaps just common mountain bandits lying in ambush.
That the fog held poison, that injuries occurred unbidden, that minds wandered lost—these were matters I myself had meant to broach.
Never had I imagined hearing these scattered truths from your own lips.
And yet since beholding you, Old Woman, my convictions had shifted somewhat—to where I now pondered whether this place might indeed harbor genuine strangeness after all.

“Now listen well—this relative of mine, he’s a merchant living quite comfortably these days, but when young faced hard times. Carrying Seto pickles on his back, he traveled through provinces selling his wares until nightfall found him lost in this wilderness. Amidst the overgrown grasses then, he spotted five or six standing trees and reached a solitary house. Explaining his plight at the kitchen entrance while they inquired his purpose, he begged lodging for the night. They kindly took him in—though such treatment hardly suits some dusk-stranded peddler! Sake cups appeared, two young maids attended him, crimson-lined silk quilts for bedding, fine incense burning by his pillow.”

“For there was grave reason, you see—he thought if only for one night in his life he might experience such circumstances. Since that’s exactly what happened, he resolved not to let this dream end should it be one, staying awake through the night—which apparently sufficed.”

When the next day came, they wouldn't let him leave—that evening, a maid announced, “The mistress of the inner chambers summons you.”

“That man still speaks of it to this day—what they called ‘the master’ was in truth a most noble and beautiful lady,” continued the Old Woman. “But whether they meant to drain his life-force or brew him into some medicine, fear gripped him first—he couldn’t shut his eyes for even an instant.”

“You see, this kinsman of mine was counted quite handsome among our relatives.”

V

Katsuragi stretched as if to cover his wrist, rolling up his undershirt sleeve—his hand pale and gentle, not one challenging battle. Yet true power in this world resides precisely when such a youth makes up his mind.

"'Now then,' they declared, 'until you obey the master's will, we shan't send you back to village or hamlet.' Yet they confined him not to any prison room—pushing aside the vines till the wooden gate creaked open, throwing wide both paper screens and storm shutters. 'If you think you can cross this wilderness in broad daylight and return home,' they scornfully laughed—'Ah-ha!—then try your luck.' The two maidservants withdrew along opposite verandas until he stood alone in a vast fifteen-tatami chamber, its emptiness echoing across what could have been fifteen tatami mats spread out."

At that moment in the hearth's depths—where smoldering embers glowed amidst hand-gathered fallen leaves—two thick, damp bramble leaves began emitting smoke. A feeble wisp crept upward near his chest, licking at cold ashes that never burned vigorously, until he disrupted its serpentine path with a brush of his shoulder.

"Smoky.
Up to that point, it had been exactly so—entwining around his body, enveloping his shoulders—the hands of maidservants and sleeves and hems and folding screens and sliding doors and bedding and meal trays and pillows crowding the space until it seemed there was no room left. Yet all withdrew completely without exception, clinging to the corners of the room until both left and right lay clear to see through, making the opened wilderness beyond suddenly appear vast—or so he recounted.

And then, an autumn wind pierced him to the core—so they say—leaving the man shuddering violently, yet not a single soul could be seen in that desolate stillness.

"To the point where he wondered if it was dream or reality."

Katsuragi spoke as though he himself stood within those very circumstances,

“When he closed his eyes and listened intently, through walls came sounds layered twofold, threefold, fourfold—thin, whistling tones like wind passing over koto strings. Old Woman—that spinning wheel you spoke of just now.”

Even as one listens to this single hearth right here, the sound seems to come from afar—so faint was it, you see.

What he hazily recalled then was last night's incident at the mansion—whether she had been the lady of the inner chambers, a princess, a young mistress, a demon, or an ogre who had summoned him to her private quarters—though in that initial moment he had simply been startled into crimson-faced agitation, everything around him appearing as if viewed through frosted glass.

She wasn't wearing scarlet hakama trousers nor had she donned an outer robe; only glittering makie lacquerware filled the space, rendering it divine.
In a narrow room, a plump, beautiful woman with her hair bound up in a traditional style sat spinning thread at her wheel. In the candlelight from the candelabra, she turned her profile toward the traveling merchant—my handsome relative—and,

(‘That Which Has an Owner asked—would you not die here with me?’)—this alone she apparently said.

No—even now that he's sixty he hasn’t forgotten, this man still says—from that day to this, in capital or countryside, he’s never seen a beauty of that caliber.

Now then—hearing that spinning wheel's whir, seeing the white, soft hands move before his eyes until consciousness grew faint—he thought he wouldn't mind even a demon if this feeling differed little from approaching death. Yet still clinging to this world, he crawled out stealthily, fastened gaiters and tied sandals unhindered—though this proved more disconcerting than scattering enemy ranks to flee.

"They said with chilling curses—'If you think you can return, then try!'—warning that should he take one step beyond the roof's edge, cliffs and wilderness might collapse into earth's abyss. On tiptoe he trembled, then desperately fled along wild paths toward Izu's Ito through a mountain trail—yet encountered no hindrance whatsoever after leaving this place, so they say.

Yet it seemed the season had come too early—from Mishima's mountains through a sweeping expanse of pampas grass taller than a man's height, wild horses rustled here and there, emerging to gaze curiously at this human novelty before hiding away somewhere. Though the sky remained blue, clouds raced by in tattered fragments with such speed that one felt some calamity must surely occur—leaving him scarcely feeling alive, isn't this how the tale goes?"

“That’s precisely why I came here, Old Woman.”

VI

“If such things truly exist here, don’t you think you couldn’t help but come see for yourself—even at the risk of your life? You ask why I came in that accusatory tone—I’ll tell you straight. It’s not like I’m scheming this or that with any malicious intent. Call it idle curiosity—sheer idle curiosity. If there were strange tales to hear, I’d hear them; if mysterious sights to see, I’d see them. But mark this—in pursuing such wonders, who knows what recklessness I might encounter? Danger can’t be ruled out. That’s why I came prepared—this rifle slung as a precaution, provisions at the ready.”

When he had come midway from Daiba Station to this plain at dawn—his gaiters tightly fastened, his new straw sandals crisp underfoot—he charged forward through the all-enveloping fog like a beacon fire rallying allies. Then, step by step, he attended to every clump of miscanthus and silver grass: fixing his eyes on leaf tips, scrutinizing roots, as if searching for some exquisite mushroom.

The rustling of leaves swished densely—each time the wind blew, somewhere in the distance,

(That Which Has an Owner asks—) it seemed to whisper—yet despite this foreboding atmosphere, he walked the narrow path through pampas grass with trepidation, half-expecting skull-shaped rock formations or horses' faces to materialize at any moment, tugging at imaginary treasure vines all the while. But no strange phenomena manifested—not even among tree roots—until reaching that crumbling station's remains, where he found a rain-weathered cross-shaped milestone lying amidst withered grasses. Somehow it resembled nothing so much as a crucifixion stake planted in the wilderness's heart.

Ah, now that I think of it—not so very long ago—the nobles of this province went hawking here, and upon their return encountered an alluring woman standing amidst autumn grasses. Overcome by her extraordinary beauty, those known for their amorous inclinations carelessly gazed at her and tumbled from their saddles. The impact became the source of illness, and they died demanding union with that woman.

Later, they branded her a sorceress and lord-killer—pitifully crucifying her on this plain, it’s said.

The most lawless scoundrels in all Japan—under the pretense that it was all some lord's fairy tale—forced her into brocaded silks, even made her wear white tabi socks, then offered her up as a sacrifice.

"By the Three Treasures—was this blood dripping down the pillar the harbinger?" Even as he observed the cross-shaped milestone bleached like bone, the weather-worn pillar of the Old Station he'd been leaning against shifted under his weight despite there being no wind, forcing him to regrip his hunting gun and retreat backward from that place.

The rain began falling then, bringing relentless hardship.
"The mist-like drizzle seeped through my clothes, chilling me to the marrow—the canopy of clouds grew leaden above, my straw sandals snapped, exhaustion weighed heavy, droplets clung everywhere—ah, had there been fresh matting, I'd have wished to lie in a coffin itself! That's how I found this house—charging in without thought—but after catching my breath... well?"

The hearth fire snapped up sharp flames, illuminating the Old Woman's forehead crimson. What met his gaze was white hair; were wrinkles; were facial contours; were hands in motion; was the spinning wheel turning.

Even hunched over as if manipulated by the threads, Katsuragi rose to his knees with resolve when observing the Old Woman's condition.

"Forgive my bluntness, Old Woman—this place being what it is, with the withered grasses and ceaseless rain—you cannot possibly consider this normal."
"This back-and-forth about fog and clouds, these riddles you keep casting about—I can no longer endure this torment!"
"Just knock over that tedious, spirit-dampening spinning wheel and tell me something worth hearing!"

“Or if my coming here irritates you—if it vexes you—then come! Handle this quickly! Sink fangs or spew flames! Even if you can’t manage that much, I’ll resist! This endless swaying between good and evil—this gnawing at my chest—weakening me with this insidious drizzle is the height of cowardice! Come! If you retain any shred of humanity, let this be our signal to decide things!” he declared with a derisive smile, convulsing forward as though in torment—yet Katsuragi’s eyes stayed unwaveringly fixed.

As if cherishing the innocent purity of this impetuous youth—their faces apart yet facing each other—the Old Woman licked her lips and blearily widened her eyes,

"Young Master, has the rain not already ceased?"

Katsuragi started in surprise,

"When did it—?"

VII

"When the thorn leaves in the hearth crackle and burn, the rain ceases, does it not?"

The entire field lay as if wiped clean.
The Old Woman's hair had grown whiter still, while pale sunlight now fell across Katsuragi's knees. When one turned a compass toward that Old Station, due north lay the foothills of Mishima's mountain range—crowned by Mount Hikane, Mount Tsurumaki, and Jikkoku Pass—where withered grasses directly met stone slopes. There, across the entire expanse, mist drifted like slender streams, leaving both sky and wilderness lingering with particular vividness within this phantom realm.

Alas—should the Ponel Hill at his side sound but once, let someone there gaze upon it from afar; here, as if that very mist, a strange smoke would rise.

And so Katsuragi, his heart emboldened,

"Hmm—the rain has ceased, yet your form remains human still," he gulped down his breath in near-maddened suspense.

At this moment, the Old Woman laughed heartily and vigorously,

"Hahaha—Young Master, you are quite the remarkable one, aren’t you? Do keep your composure—’tis simply that I feel rather unwell."
"Ah yes—to think you’ve set your mind on every stone and blade of grass! Best lie down a spell and steady yourself, ’twould seem. Though if you’re already taking me for some suspicious creature, why—’tis no wonder you can’t find ease. Very well then!"

“Though ’tis true—you yourself came here risking life and limb—what’s strange about a helpless old wretch like me living alone? But mark this—in a world boasting sites like Obasuteyama where they abandon the aged, why deem it odd that I’ve turned my back on society to dwell in solitude? We’ve hermits enough—monks by the score! Don’t they give pious names like Shinnyo or Daishi Koji to the dead? Yet you’d call a woman fancying some peddler peculiar—ha!” She thrust out her chest, those great wrinkled hands settling on threadbare knees.

For the first time she paused one hand—though even that still turned the wheel—while her left hand continued spinning out thread from slender cotton tufts held up near her breast.

"First of all—though someone with a gun barged in here like this earlier—you didn't once lower your hands from spinning thread, didn't offer a single cup of tea, even this fire I've had to tend myself—doesn't that strike you as strange, eh, Old Woman?"

"Well now, Young Master—do you take this diligent yet charmless old thing for some shapeshifting demon?"

“Hmm.”

“It’s not that I lack hospitality—no indeed! You’re such a lovely young master, after all. Even in my humble way, I’ll serve you tea to drink and tend the fire properly.”
“What now—still think me suspicious, do ye?”

“......”
Katsuragi had no retort—yet the more she thus spoke, the more his suspicion grew.

Here at this juncture—as he perceived the natural progression had grown beyond easy resistance—his shoulders stiffened and knees locked tight; violent terror arose until even the starlight reflection in his sole reliance, the Ponel Hill's muzzle, seemed extinguished. Fear took root: this foe proved unconquerable. With that resignation, his taut resolve slackened, his spirit broke, and fatigue crashed over him all at once.
This young warrior on his first campaign—battered by fog, tormented by rain, subdued by the sorceress—the cord of endurance snapped with a crack—

“It’s no use anymore—I can’t bear this dizziness any longer. I don’t care if you kill me—just let me lie here awhile. You don’t mind, do you? Forgive me.”

“Oh ho ho, of course you may! Rest easy for a spell—don’t fret yourself a whit. Even if I were some wildcat in disguise—”

“What?”

“Well now—even if I were some demonic creature, fierce gods don’t take crooked paths, as they say. Come now, lie down properly there, won’t you?”

Katsuragi obediently lay down as told—without further ado collapsing where he was, without drawing anything near, tumbling toward where the Ponel Hill gun lay—and tried to sleep,

"Now, wait a spell there—"

VIII

“Young Master, you should remove one layer—once soaked through, ’twill bring chill.”

“I seem to be trembling—utterly so.”

“I’ll lend you something to wear—in my humble way. Young Master, do stand and take it. Now then—’tis because if I release my hold on this thread... The moment it snaps—even a fraction—your life will be perilous. Nay, nay—need not fret.”
“’Tis strange indeed—but being unseen, who knows what may come? Such is the world’s way.”
“Though weaker than a spider’s thread—’tis well enough while I remain here. Come now—stand and take it! You’ll find naught else to wear here—what exists would freeze your blood besides. For slender frames like yours, just the thing—I’ll lend this hue too fair for withered fields.”

“Ah, no—not that straw raincoat there—move aside the screen and take that other one to try on, won’t you?” Without shifting from her place before the spinning wheel, she turned only her face toward him.

Katsuragi stood abruptly facing the aged, rain-stained wall. At first glance, there hung from the beam a single old straw raincoat—resembling an ink-painted waterfall—but upon closer inspection, he thought it not meant for human wear, but rather hung there to shield the ruined house from rain and dew.

Honeycombed with holes like a wasp’s nest, smoke from the hearth formed multiple streams that seeped through here to stain the outer wall. When he removed the broken screen and brushed his hand against it, the straw raincoat slipped cleanly from the beam.

Below, where rain stains streaked the wall like jagged barren cliffs, hung a garment of awakeningly vivid hues—so utterly incongruous with this dwelling that through the Old Woman's mystic power, the wilderness seemed transformed into deep mountains: here a waterfall of straw raincoats, there crag-like walls, and all about, a brocade of autumn maples—or so he thought.

Katsuragi opened his eyes wide,

“Old Woman.”

“Ah now—suitable enough it may be—take it and wrap yourself proper-like, won’t you?”

The hem nearly brushed the tatami, its narrow sleeve-ends drawn together, both sleeves hanging limp—for from the start it was but a hollow cicada shell, lacking throat or shoulders. The collar hung reversed from its hook, the robe’s folds visible only when craning upward into the dimness beneath rafters untouched by sunlight—a woman’s garment of excessive length that peered down at Katsuragi’s back from the low ceiling. Within the drifting haze, it resembled a lone patrinia flower wandering the withered fields in solitude, yet somehow vibrantly alive—as if having casually wrapped itself in a single obi without arranging its skirts, limbless yet trailing its semblance along the hearth’s edge—and Katsuragi involuntarily stepped back.

“No harm done—’tis but a lined kimono! Better than your soaked coat by far. Its owner understands—a fair maiden she was! Near perfect for you, Young Master. Why—that spirit too must consider it life’s fulfillment to lie with a pretty slip of a man like yourself! Hahaha!”

As she laughed without restraint, Katsuragi regained his composure and stealthily reached for the edge of its sleeve.

The instant his fingertip was sharply pierced as if by an icy needle—a chill descending from the skylight—the lined kimono damply clung to his hand. Detaching it, he tucked it under his arm; its lining turned upward as he spread it softly around his knees, the hem of the lined kimono draping gracefully across the tatami, collar upturned as though arching its breast, until at last it came to rest against Katsuragi’s arm.

Now looking closely, it appeared to be a double-layered undergarment with mouse-gray chirimen crepe hems—pale Kanefusa-style staggered stripes on fine omeshi crepe, the torso section a crimson whirlwind resembling shibori patterns, frost tinged with sunset hues staining the cold vermilion lining that flipped outward, the gossamer-thin fabric billowing open as if to tear at the slightest pull. This bore no resemblance to some keepsake from the Old Woman's youth, but rather glowed with contemporary vividness—alluring as though freshly shed this very moment.

As he scrutinized it intently, he found himself—without willing it—filled with nostalgia, comfort, tender affection, and a poignancy that seeped into his very bones; before he knew it, he felt inclined to collapse right there, pillow his head against the rifle near the collar’s edge—a man who understood human sentiment yet unwittingly pondered how he might succumb to this demon’s snare.

IX

“Hahaha—the more I gaze upon you, dear boy, the fairer you grow! Well now—have you settled somewhat? Rest easy here.”
“But mark this—’twill not be long now. Once your weariness mends, make haste and depart.”

The young master had earlier demanded with altered mien whether any marvel might transpire here—staking his very life upon the query.
For better or worse, to this land where none venture—a rare guest indeed.

“Whilst I’m thus occupied here, let me share a wondrous tale for you to carry home.”

Without ever setting them down, she continued quietly spinning thread with both hands,

“’Tis naught else but this—the undergarment you’re wearing now.”

Katsuragi had been drifting in and out of consciousness when he opened his eyes with cool clarity.

“Now this was over a month past—a young lady of rare beauty from the capital’s fashions, such as I’d never before laid eyes upon, came wandering through this wilderness all alone to rest at my humble abode. There being in these depths—well now—some nameless ancient shrine, she declared she meant to pay it visit.”

“Now, this wilderness is the domain of that shrine’s master—whatever one does here follows his will alone. Mark this well.”

“‘Tis a covenant where any wish may be granted—but they must sacrifice life itself for it. Now tell me—Young Lady—do you suppose there exists in this world a single wish that needs no life to fulfill?” she said.

"No matter—I came fully aware of that," she declared with resolve.

"Ah now—being one who knew full well how things stood, a personage for whom even an old crone's prattling would seem presumptuous—off she went then to fulfill her purpose."
"When she prepared to depart—whether from walking's heat or otherwise—'I shall remove this ere I go,' she declared, undoing her obi there and slipping it off."
Having adjusted her attire—donning a single lined kimono over her under-robe—she lightened her form and slipped through the grasses. I watched until that lustrous crown vanished into the mist.

“After that—though I waited day after day at every rustle of pampas grass thinking ‘surely she returns now’—’twould seem she ended as all others before her.
“Though one such as I wouldn’t meddle with young folk’s comings and goings—mark my words—this is no place for obsession-drunk youths to come wandering in. You’d best never think to return here again, Young Master.”
“Do you understand? Do you understand?” she repeated at measured intervals, her words drawn out as if loosely binding something. The Old Woman’s speech faded fragmented and faint, and until her voice grew distant, Katsuragi remained entranced by the tonanoki wood’s fragrance.

A gentle warmth soaked through his body, wrapping his exhausted skin in something like a quilt's affection as he half-closed his eyes.

When faced with startling events, he found himself bereft of any will to shoot them down—his original resolve quickly forgotten—ignoring both the ancient shrine said to exist in the wilderness and its strange tales. Even the vivid figure of the old woman spinning her wheel before his very eyes seemed to be carried off with her seat intact, growing small and distant in his perception. Within his heart surrendered to drowsiness—the details of that sacrificed girl, the old woman's origins, the wilderness's true nature, even his own circumstances—all appeared knowable only through dreams should he dream them.

As if someone were present here—a sleeve draped over his reclined shoulder, the alluring collar of an undergarment—torso-less yet clinging to his chest—he pursed his lips and studied it intently. Ah—my beloved has wed another and now lies beyond this mortal coil.

Since I value neither myself nor life, I have come to this wilderness—let whatever will happen, happen!
This too became a sacrifice—ah, pitiful commemorative garment!—as resolve tightened fiercely in my chest; a sudden gust of cold wind struck the collar where unwilled tears welled.

The cold of withered fields slipped thinly through a gap in his shoulder—he firmly pulled the undergarment’s back close—and when its warmth (despite lacking padding) touched his forearm, the skirt enveloping his legs swayed, forming creases like a painted lady raising one knee along the lined kimono’s stripes—supple and beautiful.

Ah! When he looked—the apparition of a woman.

X

With long eyebrows and black pupils in a complexion like snow, her disheveled black hair revealing the roots of her bangs along a straight nose bridge—she lay gazing up at Katsuragi's face. Her tear-streaked countenance, white teeth visible, held an ineffable smile that resonated faintly in his startled chest in tandem with the sound of the Old Woman's spinning thread.

"Though I am That Which Has an Owner, would you not die here with me?" came the voice—neither fully present nor absent—evoking with certainty words once etched in my heart.

His ears roared.

The hut gave a single shudder from its foundations—then a monstrous noise erupted.

“Adulteress!” came a roar—a voice like thunder, suppressed yet wrathful—calling from beyond.
The pillar of voice shifted—the soot-blackened wall beneath its straw raincoat where the lined kimono had hung—collapsed inward from fissures in the rock-like structure, tumbling screen-and-all onto the hearth as yellow and red smoke intermingled, bursting upward in a sand-clouded eruption.

Because of this, it was the moment when the Old Woman’s figure seemed to vanish from sight.

Katsuragi was hurled backward as if flung away, leaping about one ken across the matting, but since he clutched the beautiful woman tightly in one arm, he had no moment to seize the rifle he'd never released even in sleep.

Before he could gather his wits, thinking it a terrifying earthquake, he turned deathly pale and attempted to flee from beneath the roof beam.

What blocked his vision like a barricade across the entrance was the poisonous fog.

What had been fluttering like a solitary white banner at the edge of his wilderness—stretching wide horizontally, spreading vast vertically—barely seemed to stir before the three-league expanse of barren land became swathed in pure white cotton, all in the blink of an eye as he tried to flee.

And yet within this fog came hoofbeats churning the wild earth—neither nine nor ten—sinking deep then surging with a thud, a force as though welling up from beneath raging torrents.

"Don't let them escape!"

"Woman!"

"Man!"

As voices swarmed near his ears, he turned back to see the collapsed wall—within its breach shaped like a great flame lay the same withered field stretching hundreds of miles into unfathomable distance. Pressing densely against the wooden panels were fifty or sixty beings here as well—gods, demons, or eerie figures.

Russet, ash, mouse-gray, charred brown—hues mirroring twilight fields—each a towering giant shrouded in mist-garments. Among them, one who had raced ahead to block the wall's breach now writhed through—revealing a fearsome visage that spanned half the beam, golden eyes veined with blood glaring fixedly at Katsuragi.

He recoiled backward onto his hips; face pressed against knees, pale hands trembling over the quivering roots of her chignon—even the vibrant collar at her nape was seized by formless hands and wrenched away.

“Ah!”

Only his severed cry lingered like a torn thread—the lined kimono dragged backward across the tatami with a slithering rasp. Around its gaping underarm, lingering snow-patches dissolved, phantom eyes vanished—and as its hem flipped upward in a flurry of silk, it was yanked headlong into the rear garden.

“The man—”

“The man—”

Seven or eight clamorous footsteps clashed and scurried about in chaotic disarray.

"Hssk!" Just as Katsuragi resolved to stand at that very moment, what drew near his side was again the visible form of the Old Woman from the crumbling hut—and indeed, no thread remained in her hands.
It had been foretold that Katsuragi's life would be endangered at such an hour—that the mysterious foes could not find him now was likely due to the meaningful Old Woman shielding him with her own body.
Katsuragi released a shuddering breath.

“Where did he escape to?”

“Right here—”

“There! Saw him!”

What terror! They raged and cursed.

XI

For a brief span thereafter—amid clattering bits and pounding hooves, amid clamorous calls and shouts—the garden of this ruined house was thrown into chaos. Only here stood four or five trees demarcating space within that vast wilderness where nothing rose higher than grass save the Old Station's roof and these treetops. Across this bedlam lay trampled withered grasses—flattened then rising, hollowed then collapsing in ceaseless cycles—a dizzying frenzy where glimpses flashed: boots and straw sandals with birch-reinforced heels, lye-stained soles, claw-like tips lifting upward—as if a swarm of monstrous locusts might burst from leaf-tips—yet no visible forms materialized until—Hssk!
"Hssk!" resounded through their ranks.

After a while,

“Be silent!” came the voice, and all fell hushed.

The withered grass stood rigidly straight, the wind lay dead, not even a breath stirring—yet what drew pity was his undergarment.

“Bind that one!”

No sooner had they exchanged shouts of “Bind! Bind!” two or three times than it was hoisted up—sleeves wrenched behind its back, shoulders drawn angular, the swaying form’s front half bent forward and pinned down—then from knee-level downward they folded and crammed it in, until at last it was swarmed over and bound to a standing hazel tree behind them, atop crimson thorn berries.

“Now speak, speak!”

“By His Lordship’s decree—where have you hidden the man?”

“Spit it out.”

Bound, she could only tremble.

“Step aside there—trample her!” came an impatient tone. As the grass fluttered wildly like something tossed down and yanked up, her striped undergarment lay sideways.

The lustrous hem scattered in disarray; she collapsed and moved her shoulder, but—

“Agh!”

“Wretched beast—we’ll overlook your disobedience for now. Even confined in an iron chamber, you commit unspeakable improprieties through a hair’s breadth gap! Hateful woman! Now—reveal the man’s whereabouts and die together... Hah! Will you not speak?”
As the trampling intensified, tangled sleeves and disheveled collar folds trembled like waves being shaken, scattering like hail mimicking sparks—pitiful thorns crushed beneath fell away, thorn berries spattering bloody spray.

Katsuragi clenched his fist and turned to stone, the old woman's sleeve softly covering and clinging to him.

“My lord! My lord!”

she called out,

“In that case, even were I to speak, it could not be uttered. Pray allow this one but a moment’s respite.”

“Very well. Now then—what’s it going to be? Speak.”
“What? Don’t know, don’t know?! Shut up!”
“The heart of a woman who longs for a man always knows his whereabouts, does it not? Quickly—open your mouth! Won’t you spit it out? Hah, wretched beast.”

"Agh—" Another violent scream tore from the woman; now even the ceaseless swaying of the hazel tree's branches froze mid-motion as they raked at her.

Katsuragi's eyes—which he strained to shut—had turned bell-struck rigid; not a blink could he muster.

After a suspended moment, the great-striding footprints recoiled from their own impact—but then came a figure snapping upright in confrontation before being sheared loose like severed thread.

“Strike!”

“Kill me, please kill me, please kill me.”

“We’ll kill you eventually—won’t keep you alive—but until you tell us the man’s whereabouts, we’ll neither kill you nor let you live.”
“Enough! Too lenient—strike!”
The crack of whips continued until it became a voice confessing its whereabouts.

“Hah!”

Four or five voices seemed to answer in unison. Thorn berries flew thick and fast once more. From both sides of the keepsake garment, collar folds fluttered together only to unravel, unraveled strands tangling anew like disordered threads. Like wings split asunder becoming celestial robes, they tumbled down from the vast sky. When its chest arched backward, crimson lining flipped with a swish; when collar bowed earthward, stripes twisted violently against the back. Up and down it tumbled in wild contortions.

The apparition hovered near Katsuragi's eyes—pupils fixed unblinking, irises shifting to pale violet—lips pressed in silent vow yet gazing transfixed at the man's face. Now yielding completely, it finally slipped free, its long hem sweeping through grass as that lingering smile at its mouth began fading. Katsuragi could endure no longer—he jerked up one knee, snatched his rifle, and pressed down the sleeve.

"Hush. Hush. Hush."

The old woman restrained him as he pressed closer in a low voice.

Even if this bullet could shatter mountains to dust, he was not unaware that facing the surrounding spectacle alone would prove impossible. Katsuragi drew in his breath and weakly burrowed into the old woman's chest.

At that final scream of agony—the tormented woman's undergarment shot upright to reach the tree branches. Forgetting himself, he leapt up, but it snapped rigid again. Now whether skin or torn fabric hung tattered as blood streamed thick over the white withered grasses.

“He’s here!” Half-maddened, Katsuragi sprang forward.

“Hah!”
“Hah!” they cried in unison—and in that instant, his body was hauled skyward only to plummet into the garden soil with a muffled crash.

Thrown down and left sprawled, Katsuragi—before he could revive from death’s threshold through what might have been the woman’s clairvoyant power that witnessed this—found himself stared at by the undergarment now risen with immaculate sleeve creases.

“Be still! Commit no such violence.”

Though the figure remained unseen, a giant's voice declared:

"You say nothing."

"For those of your ilk, leaving you alive defies the law of Kajima."

Katsuragi's tongue froze,

“…………”
He could not utter a word.

“Slay them completely!”
“Retainers!”

Four blades glinted—two crossed diagonally each time—against that jaw and this chest; with a click, they snapped perfectly into place.

With sword tips at his throat, Katsuragi peered pitifully over the blade’s ridge, desperately seeking the Old Woman—but whether she resented his willful march toward death despite her warnings, she had vanished without trace. As surmised, hut and floor swiftly disappeared, leaving only man and woman of dew-like transience in the wilderness fog’s twilight.
When he closed his eyes, a voice addressed him,

“Yet Young Master—though ’tis also our law not to slay those who cherish life—I shall ask ere we proceed: Have you resolved to die that you might consummate your love with That Which Has an Owner?”

With growing intensity.

“What of the lady?”

“Yes,” he answered beneath his breath, then nodded as if to affirm and lowered his head.

“Very well.”

Once more,

“And thou?”

He was about to answer “Yes”—needless to say, for this beautiful woman, even were she now among the departed, bore exact resemblance to his beloved.

Yet even if she were now among the departed—precisely because she had been his lover—he thought this proposition from some eerie wilderness demon to die together might be nothing more than an old scarecrow’s stripped straw coat pointlessly fluttering in the wind. Embarrassed by such thoughts, he shook his head.

"My lord—what faithlessness! Though the lady had resolved herself, to cling to life makes you a pitiful creature still bound by attachment. Go on then—show me how you'd let them tear her apart before your very eyes!"

“Wait.”

“Hah.”

“While the guest remains resolved to end his life, we may act freely—but should he refrain from such recklessness as coming here after mingling his heart with others, know that gods exist, his father and mother exist, this noble scion of Luoyang—to act carelessly now would only invite divine retribution more terrible.”
“Slay the woman!”
“However, escort the guest back with due courtesy."

“Hah,” came the answer once more—and then something took Katsuragi’s hands and gently lifted him up. When it made contact with his body, there was a scent of damp leaves.

Around his waist and knees, there were those kneeling to brush away the dust.

He weakly took the rifle that had been lifted and propped against his body, held it up and clutched it to his chest. When he looked back, the striped knees shifted toward him, and through the crimson lining of the garment, something faintly saw the man off—seeming to lament their parting.

Katsuragi tried to collapse but pivoted on his heel, whirling around to face behind—emerging from the fog with a massive visage came a powerful horse.

He pushed it aside with one hand and quickened his pace—yet the fog enveloped him as hoofbeats rumbled on, whether escorting or pursuing, trailing some seven meters behind all the way to his old station's vicinity.

He stopped as he had upon first arriving—Ah, even if they were demons—and considered surrendering himself to die alongside them.
The moment he did, the horses wheeled about.
As they retreated further, their numbers swelled—a hundred riders became three hundred—until their thunderous advance rivaled both the howling wind and crashing ocean waves. Thud-thud-thud-thud-THOOM they withdrew across the field's edge toward mountains, their clamor echoing through tree spirits before abruptly ceasing.

By now, heaven and earth seemed sundered from this place. Just as it was, he raised the rifle's muzzle high—it glinted beneath a single coldly shining star—then without losing his way through the thinning mist that deepened toward night, he emerged at Daiba just as the lamps were being lit.

He collapsed before a mountain teahouse's entrance—where a fire now blazed fiercely—and there, over an iron grill set across the hearth, the proprietor, the wife, and a child were roasting rice cakes together. When he caught this aroma, Katsuragi felt as though he had been resurrected into the world of the living.

It seemed the steam train had arrived, for even here one could hear carefree voices—"Boxed meals here!" "How about some sushi?"…