Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

The land where this tale began—a Hokuriku capital cradled by two great rivers flowing at either end of the city, pure and beautiful; by a castle keep still towering at its heart, forests dark and moats azure; by layered border mountains enclosing lakes and skirting the sea; a town of bridges, slopes, crossroads willows, and tiled roofs rippling like waves.

It was a midsummer during a year of severe drought.

If one were to say that suddenly, terrifying cumulonimbus clouds billowed in the heavens and a scene of asura-like strife over water disputes flowed across the earth, it might sound thus—but it was by no means such tumultuous affairs.

At such a time, a touring new theater troupe—a major capital-based company centered on actresses—conducted seven days of performances in this land and enjoyed popularity that seemed to make the entire city boil.

In this scorching heat, amidst drought—no matter how popular they were—even uttering words like "boiling" or "simmering" felt sweltering.
But—there’s a proverb: To prevent a storehouse from burning during a fire, they say to fill a large basin brimful with water, stand a lit candle within it, and seal the gaps—then even if smoke seeps through the walls and fills the interior, it won’t ignite the flames, keeping it safe.
……They say one controls fire with fire.

Here, the actresses’ theater—as if fueled by modern passion—could aptly be called this very method.
When clouds burned, grass withered, water dried, and people gasped, the troupe’s performances—like ice against scorching heat—brought a dose of cool relief to a hundred thousand citizens, with potency to spare.
With skin as white as snow and eyes cool as dew, Murasaki Gyokuyū—hailed by all as the troupe’s luminary—
“Well… that small child from earlier…?”

At a park teahouse, resting alone in stillness while untying the cord of her scarlet twill kiseru pipe, she happened to think: ……

Her topknot was not in the actress-style chignon but in her usual bunched hair, with light makeup applied sparingly for an air of refinement.
To complement her appearance, even the tobacco pouch was an elegant affectation carried by preference.

Given that her appearance suggested the discreet walk of a geisha, her demeanor could indeed be called an actress’s secret excursion.

Moreover, in truth, Murasaki Gyokuyū was indeed in disguise that day.
The theatrical performances had concluded yesterday, and many in the troupe had already hurried ahead to the neighboring province for their next engagement.
However, for a provincial area—having heard there were far more sightseeing-worthy attractions here than in the various other places she had toured—Murasaki Gyokuyū chose to remain in this land for a brief vacation of about two days.
And so, without even bringing along her two female disciples—Tamano and Tamae—who had accompanied her at the inn, she came stealthily wandering through the town viewing its sights; the midday sun posed no hardship to one in her state.

To think—how much more gratifying it must be for a provincial governor in peaceful times to secretly walk incognito among the people than when hearing reports on governance. Though no fugitive—even the wind chime’s soft tinkling seemed to reach people’s midday naps as delicate reverberations calling *my* name in praise and admiration—each time this occurred, she would startle into concealment yet pass by smiling.

Even in the shade of the deep-curved parasol, her features remained discernible, her charm faintly perceptible... When this awareness arose, she instinctively lowered her gaze—not from modesty but as if compelled by nature itself. The disarrayed hem of humility outshone the collar of arrogance in refinement; her ordinary countenance stayed composed while even her shadow scorching upon parched earth seemed cool and refreshing as if drawn with water.

She picked her way along the scant shade clinging to tatami edges—people must have stared wide-eyed as if witnessing a mermaid passing by atop a whale... When her white bare feet glided smoothly over black silk crepe, even the gutter’s flow carried tidings of clear water.

And so, her foremost destination became the scenic park bordering the castle turret—a place counted among the top few nationally renowned beauty spots.

II

At the park entrance stood a renowned teahouse—its back to a grove, its garden a lotus pond surrounded by willows wisterias cherry trees and kerrias whose names were cried far and wide.

The place where Murasaki Gyokuyū now seated herself was known as the Willow Teahouse.
But when she—having tucked into her sleeve green tea and tobacco tray brought by fair-skinned maiden in red sash—took up that tobacco pouch carried merely for show without real inclination...

"...Was that a girl I wonder—or perhaps a boy?"

That was what she recalled—

And, with a delicately crafted golden pipe in her unpracticed, somewhat uncertain hand, she felt around the celadon-colored Seto brazier while—

"...If they were wearing a hat... that would mean a boy, but there was that blue headband."
...Was it a piece wrapped in wheat straw, or perhaps a ribbon?
"I clearly remember the color, but... Wait—it was like this..."

Her smoking manner—as if she'd just picked up the habit—appeared exaggeratedly dramatic when observed; tilting it steeply, she took a single puff,

"...Hmm, age-wise—six or seven years old, fair-skinned and refined... Too pretty for a boy, so a girl—hence the ribbon."
——A blue ribbon.
……Even for a child's accessory, it needn't be scarlet.
Then, perhaps it was a girl after all—I wonder.
"But then the straw hat… Though if they had braids… But I didn't notice that far..."

Though there was but a single main thoroughfare, losing her way became part of the diversion; slipping into back alleys without clear direction, she passed alone through a desolate residential quarter where melon and eggplant fields peered over low earthen walls—encountering no one along the way.
In the white-hot midday sun—how its wings remained unburned, she marveled—a white butterfly abruptly appeared, fluttering past in erratic arcs. She watched it with a startled expression, then smiled faintly… At such moments, she would beckon it with her ivory-boned fan.
...tilting her head back to gaze at the crumbling earthen wall’s roof, she found herself irresistibly brushing the parasol’s tip against a branch heavy with blood-red crape myrtle blossoms.
Trembling and swaying as she moved along, she tried murmuring, "Excuse me."
In the damp grass by the stone wall, a discarded melon rind seemed to transform—sprouting legs and beginning to squirm—whereupon she exclaimed "Ah!" and leapt back.
Such aimless whimsy—given this woman’s renown—would surely become a treasured anecdote if recounted.

When she emerged beneath what she had mistaken for a low hill—a tall park dense with trees—there stood a shrine at the base of the slope.

The shrine was large, and its precincts were vast.
Yet it stood like a torii erected on a sandy beach; while the main hall bore the weight of the park’s dense forest upon its rear cliff, the front grounds lay entirely under a void-like sun—not a single pebble’s shadow in sight, as if blanketed by white paper. Under the sun’s glare, the scene took on a faint yellow tinge, stretching boundlessly, with two or three crape myrtle blossoms scattered from who knows where.

Peering inside, beside the deathly still front stairway stood a single artificial white divine horse with crimson reins and a vermilion saddle, desolate in its solitude.
The slope ascending to the park lay fully exposed; as Murasaki passed straight through the torii gate beneath her parasol, her figure glided past—a vivid reflection against the vermilion pillars. ……There stood a large stone water basin sheltered by a roof, where water pooled from a blue dragon’s head now churned into chaotic beads before suddenly cascading over the bamboo screen.
Around that water basin, there was a single figure… the shrine child.

Yet in this scorching heat, devoid of human figures, Murasaki Gyokuyū saw that this must be the shrine priest’s child—having slipped out of their parents’ midday nap’s dream. Flitting about, circling round and round, darting this way and that…

However, as the water basin stood high and the child small, their circling along its base appeared like stone carvings lured by the cascading water’s play of light into flowing motion. As she watched, the shrine child kept stretching upward—stretching up again and again—their delicate hands moving gracefully toward the sky; stretching up once more, then reaching again toward the sky.
——

Murasaki Gyokuyū briskly approached.
The shrine child had already stepped into the shade of the parasol.

“Wait… What are you doing?”

“I want water.”

the child said innocently.

Ah—for that purpose they kept securing footholds, switching positions, stretching their hands; even standing on tiptoes, their stature—with parted hair wrapped in blue cloth—would not reach... not even half the height of a well curb.

III

The shrine child said once more that they wanted to take the ladle resting on the high rim of that purification font.

Murasaki Gyokuyū involuntarily smiled,

“Oh, if you do it like this, there’s no problem at all.”

Tilting her body sideways, she scattered a single stream of overflowing water into crystalline droplets with a swift motion and brought it to her lips that burned crimson.
Not only was she indeed parched, but the water’s crystalline purity went without saying.

“Hey, you.”

The shrine child looked up and gazed at Murasaki Gyokuyū,

“It’s water for purifying hands, you know.”

It sounded like a rebuke—that directly pressing one’s lips to it was improper conduct.

The queen of the theater world flushed with indignation.

“Precocious little thing—you’re awfully ceremonious for someone so impertinent.” With that, she struck their head lightly with her palm, then swept through the shrine grounds. Emerging onto the slope without a backward glance, she soon took respite at this teahouse——

Now that I think of it—whether that shrine child’s head I touched belonged to a girl or boy—the sensation lingers not at all. My mind stayed cool, yet perhaps under that heat’s glare, some impressions had blurred into haze.

“Miss—from the town, up this slope—there’s a shrine, isn’t there?”

“Yes.”

“What is the name of that shrine?”

“It is Urayasu Shrine,” replied the daughter politely and properly, placing one hand on the tatami.

“What deity is enshrined there?”

“Father—Father,” called the daughter to her half-gray-haired father seated nearby—facing the lotus pond in a knee-length hemp summer kimono (“jinbe”), mending what appeared to be a net beneath his glasses—whereupon he hurriedly removed the spectacles, folded their water buffalo horn frames with a soft clack, placed them on a stand, then turned and bowed formally.

“Ah, Lord Urayasu-kareto—they say he’s the guardian deity of this place.”
“He presides over the waters—what we call the Dragon God.”
“Why don’t you refresh Madam Performer’s tea?”

Murasaki Gyokuyū unconsciously stiffened her collar.
Even if the form of address felt incongruous, this old man—who resembled a hermit from some crude landscape painting—undoubtedly recognized her.

When she turned her gaze there, beneath the central household altar hung her own likeness—the queenly protagonist from last night’s performance she had portrayed—resplendent as a jade phoenix.

“And then…”

In a voice both clear and modest,

“If it’s a Dragon God—is it a goddess or a male deity?”

“Now, now,” the old man tapped his knee, as though he had been anticipating this very question.

“As for that matter—though I can speak of it thus—I cannot discern which it may be.
In the deepest reaches of this park, within a pitch-dark cavern, there exists a single well where pure water springs forth.
A bronze dragon heavy with antiquity coils about the well frame, its cover secured with wire mesh to prevent casual approach. This we call the Sacred Golden Water, and it is said our city derived its very name from this spring.
This is what we refer to as the inner sanctuary, and indeed, the Urayasu Shrine you inquired about is what we call the front hall.
Have you deigned to make a pilgrimage there?”

“Ah, no,” she said, but immediately the image of the shrine child rose in her mind.
For a moment, their words ceased.

The dense midday forest—enveloped in thick black woods—had the castle's keep towering before it.
Beside the teahouse wound a steep path like a blue-green stream with ultramarine shallows, where enkianthus and hackberry shadows mingled faintly with fir and maple.
Mistaking cicadas' roar for falling water.
Shining rain-glare through leaves made noon shade beneath that scorching sky resemble lightning-caged hollows—terrifyingly desolate.

In the tree-shaded gloom, midway along that side path, there stood a shop—what might be an abandoned house with rotted eaves, devoid of any occupants…

IV

Although it wasn’t locked, one could doubt whether anyone still dwelled within.
Perhaps when night fell, pale apparitions might emerge to draw stray customers.
The shop brimmed with tiered platforms like festival stands, their three sides draped in black cloth despite the dimness. At their bases lay scattered objects resembling meteoritic skulls and desiccated moths—the targets.
Such contraptions were common in provincial amusement quarters—Murasaki Gyokuyū instantly recognized this as a blowgun game.

In truth—dubbed a "monster display"—the blowgun mechanism hung inverted from ghostly eaves' curtains while Mikoshi Nyūdō protruded abruptly from its custom-made hole.
Yuki-onna stood faintly against Kozue's black fence; Ubume-dori wandered listlessly beside stone Jizo statues.
Hitotsume Kozo's Tofu Seller—tilting a wide sedge hat over his face, padding barefoot with nimble steps along Nagare Kanjō's untamed riverbank—had become part of the mechanical spectacle.
...However magnificent it once was—when a dart struck the small target marked with a living spirit's tag, floorboards would groan and flip, launching a red-loinclothed Okame clutching a giant mushroom into a grinning backflip. Instantly, taut ropes would quiver, bells and drums erupting in cacophonous uproar—this very shop had once brought prosperity to the market district. Now Hitotsume Kozo's staggering walk across uneven flagstones lay broken; straw mats collapsed in disarray, ornamental Jizo statues toppled backward—all appearing pitifully desolate.

——There, in the earthen-floored space beneath the eaves, crouched a figure in monastic garb with its back turned.
It must be a monk.
In tattered hemp robes dyed ink-black—their fabric once turmeric-yellow now thoroughly stained by vermin—it became clear he carried a shamisen on his back like blind lute players do, likely some wandering street performer.

What could he be doing here?
Avoiding prying eyes while crouched—perhaps picking lice, scratching sores, eating meager rations, or merely licking at dried fish bones scavenged from a trash heap.
He looked filthy as any beggar.

Murasaki Gyokuyū let out a deep sigh at the ruined performers and desolate sideshow attractions—a sight she found both pitiful and abhorrent.

She spat thinly into the ash tray.

The actress—radiant in worldly glory and prideful in her beauty—sat beneath shadows where tree greens and cicada cries seemed to drip like water, her figure elevated as if floating naturally above the floor's frame. Beside her rested hydrangeas whose colors stood vivid and dewy as if honed by water itself. With a white hand adorned by three or four rings of jade, ruby, and pearl, she raised her fingers to brush back a stray lock at her temple, then withdrew a parrot-shaped hairpin of gleaming platinum—its wings inlaid with diamonds, eyes with coral beads, beak and claws with emeralds—a gift from a certain Count who had poured his heart into it. Known simply as "the Count’s hairpin," she flipped it around to scoop residue from the pipe’s bowl.
...For ornate pipes, fidgeting outweighed actual smoking as their customary use.

The beggar monk carrying a shamisen twitched his shoulders as if scratching at something, then turned his bluish-swollen face—one eye tightly shut, the other sightless—toward her. Tilting his head this way, he fixed his gaze intently on Murasaki’s figure. The tip of the staff propped against his shoulder drew back to his chest once; then, hunching forward, he staggered upright.

Thrusting his staff repeatedly into the path, he lumbered unsteadily through the dim light—just as one thought he was leaving toward the castle, he slowly retreated backward towards the teahouse, then straightened up with a snort and let out a breath.

When Murasaki’s brows furrowed, at a spot about five ken from the eaves, he immediately prostrated himself toward her.

Pretending not to notice and averting her gaze, Murasaki Gyokuyū looked down at the hairpin.
But by the time her thick eyelashes had grown heavy, the monk’s shadow had drawn near.

“Madam Performer.”

When she raised her face with a start, the monk had already crossed the threshold and was kneeling on the dirt floor before her.

“……”

“I beseech you… Mercy—mercy, mercy.”

The parasol she had temporarily set down threatened to brush against the tattered monk’s robe, so she discreetly pulled it closer to herself.

“What is it?” said the monk without looking at her, his eyes shifting toward the teahouse’s father and daughter.

Without standing to call out or give chase, both the father and daughter watched quietly.

V

After a short while, though the water in this drought had dried up, Murasaki Gyokuyū walked along the edge of the lotus pond—a contrast to the so-called Scarlet-Leaf Waterfall amidst the deep verdant foliage.
Here stood another structure called the waterfall arbor, where they erected Yatsuhashi bridges and placed stepping stones, leaving the lattice door unlocked.

Therefore, the location of the waterfall from the Willow Teahouse required a slight backtrack to the original path.
Gyokuyū had not entered the park via that blowgun path but had turned back—casually tilting her parasol, her sleeves flowing softly while her wrists held a slight stiffness—there she dangled the platinum parrot hairpin she had drawn out earlier, its wings pinched delicately between her fingers and glimmering faintly.

The circumstances were extraordinary—……

The monk prostrated himself pleading “Mercy! Mercy!”—but his request sought neither coin nor grain.
“Though akin to almsgiving,” he continued hoarsely through swollen lips, “this strange petition begs you perform a curse removal.”
“The tooth’s decay torments me beyond endurance.” His left cheek bulged unnaturally as he cradled it—the milky eye on that same side rolled back grotesquely beneath its lid.
Foul moisture glistened at his distended eyelids and cracked lips.
“Mercy!” He pressed his forehead deeper into dust. “Were they hammering five-inch nails through my limbs—still this agony would surpass! By your grace—lift this affliction!”
“The ritual differs not from others.” His breath rattled wetly between words. “Insert that platinum hairpin clutched in Gyokuyū’s hand into my festering molar.”

“Madam Performer—with your own hand.”
“Though we differ as dragon from slug, while breath remains in me, I too am but a humble performer.”
“Should your divine radiance but graze me, this torment would surely fade.” His words came between labored breaths...

Now that her station had been recognized—he prostrate on earth addressing her as “Madam Performer”—refusing this so-called curse removal proved as delicate as denying alms... When she moved to drop the hairpin for his taking: “Ah—no—Madam Performer, with your own hand... Through this pin I must receive the fragrance lingering on your skin—the pulse echoing through your veins.”
“Your Ladyship’s noble lineage makes this essential to the rite. Pray hold fast to the bird-shaped pin—yes, yes, yes.”

As he opened his mouth with an “Ahn—”, Murasaki Gyokuyū had no choice but to grip the hairpin in her hand and insert its tip inside.

Gasping! Licking!
He snorted heavily.
Unable to bear it, she rolled up her sleeve to cover her lips while her somewhat pale hand extended along with the hairpin—a vision like a snow-white goose adorned with cloisonné necklaces—which the monk, with his wild beard, sucked noisily as if guzzling it down, crouching dog-like, catching it with his jaw, and slurping thickly.

In Murasaki’s hand, it resonated with a squelch—the sensation of stabbing a rotten melon.

The rings formed a rainbow like crystallized orbs of green and red.
They must have been dazzling.
The monk closed even his open eye, his expression dazed as he ceaselessly drooled thick saliva.
“Ah, my hand is tired. Still?”
“Just a moment longer.”—

The strange spectacle resembled a mysterious stage scene—a beautiful woman manipulating an uncanny demon with a needle’s tip.
The teahouse’s daughter and her father stood like spellbound spectators, breath held and throats parched.

……“Oh, how grateful… How deeply grateful.
“All at once, I forgot my suffering.”
“How grateful.” With that, he slumped against his shamisen case and loosened his collar.
Turning his palms upward, he mimicked reverently receiving Murasaki Gyokuyū’s snow-white fingernails at waist level. “Being such a filthy one, should I repeatedly offer thanks, your noble presence would find it unsightly—yet I shall never forget your grace.” He stood hunched over his staff as though twisting his chest inward,

“Oh, how deeply grateful. How deeply grateful.”
“Ah, I forgot the pain—my very spirit has left me.”
“Ah—Madam Performer.” Having crossed the threshold, he turned unsteadily. “That hairpin of yours—” —“Huh?” As Murasaki Gyokuyū looked at the parrot ornament— “Might it bear traces of tooth rot? How presumptuous of me… Heh-heh.” He smirked,

“Please give it a quick wipe.” Because of this remark, Gyokuyū had no choice but to hesitate for a moment with the kaishi paper she had handled.

At the same time, she turned her ashen face away toward an unintended direction.

VI

Murasaki Gyokuyū, as if unable to wait, stacked tissues and, while purifying the Count’s hairpin, asked, “Did the monk go to the forest path?”
Both father and daughter answered “Yes,” supposing that must be the case—he had already vanished without a trace.
The father and daughter had likely been wholly absorbed in observing Murasaki’s behavior.
……When she inquired again about someone resembling a wandering performer passing through this area, the father said he had never seen such a person.
The daughter said she had been barefoot—whether she was someone who had strayed from a journey remained unclear.

Even as they spoke, Murasaki Gyokuyū’s brows furrowed slightly.
When she tried to return the hairpin she had pulled out—the one meant for her temple-brushing hair—each time her hand bent with the motion, an indescribably strange, foul, unbearable stench assailed her.

The castle lay in the direction leading out of the park, and since no trace of him remained there either, he must have ascended the blowgun path.
And she could not endure continuing further.

There, she asked about the waterfall path—and came here.—

Modeled after Izumiden—in one of those Hibi pavilions she had been told housed the Handan stone basin, a celebrated work—the cicadas’ cries drowned out the water’s murmur. The teahouse permitting free passage appeared half-immersed in midday slumber. Every room lay desolate, devoid of human presence.

A black-toothed dragonfly—resembling the faint shadow of a court lady who once blackened her teeth—fluttered lightly along irises bearing only leaves, painting a lonesome vision of palace attendants who had strolled here in ages past, evoking the day she departed the capital and the long journey that had brought her so far.

Even when remarking they were all former feudal lord gardens—what was one to make of the Count’s parrot that even conjured the noble donor’s visage?

Though it had cured the monk’s toothache on the spot—as though shedding a mausoleum’s soil-borne miasma or exorcising demons through a secret talisman’s power—not only did the roads’ foul stench persist, but the oral reek seemed to creep from her hand toward her sleeve.

Murasaki Gyokuyū folded her parasol beneath a tree, gazed obliquely at the waterfall, and settled low by the pond’s edge.

Though the waterfall had been reduced to a skeletal trickle by the drought, moss clung thick to its rocks, and the basin lay cloaked in forest shadows—a deep, unyielding blue.
Yet behind the sheltering rocks, the water’s roar—thundering and cascading with dreadful resonance—was said to be a remnant of the Warring States: a defensive stronghold where they had laid a massive conduit to draw dual castle water supplies, channeling them underground into the inner moat.

Murasaki Gyokuyū washed the hairpin.
Though the pond’s surface that had captivated the actress’s heart appeared utterly pure—its waves unfurling like pale green silk as if cleansing itself—when she took up the hairpin to insert it into her black hair, holding it even slightly away made bringing it near her ear impossible.
Assaulting her nose—a piercing stench.

“Ah—” she let out a cry.

When she severed the droplets, even they reeked cloyingly.
As if a drop of precious perfume’s fragrance were scattering—the more she washed and rinsed—the more its scent spread…… After repeating this two or three times—four or five times—an unspeakable stench seemed to rise and cling to her fingers, her hands, even to the emerald-green and ruby-red jewels adorning her rings.
……

“There.”

Murasaki Gyokuyū stood up smoothly and swung once with the motion of her hand.

“Begone, you vile thing!”

Glimmering like scattered platinum feathers, the hairpin sank into the waterfall basin's deep blue water. ...Ah, cursed celestial bird.
You were not released into tropical jungles but exiled to a mountain's azure pool.

…Whether welcoming this peculiar visitor or vying for some unfathomable prize, the shadows of tree branches lay sprawled across the tranquil pond’s surface like slumbering fish—all at once, they swayed as if flicking their tail fins, countless in number.

At this shuddering sight, Murasaki Gyokuyū—having gathered her sleeves—flapped them like wings in a fluttering motion, shaking off the detestable transferred stench while steeling herself against thoughts of the noble parrot-shaped hairpin, her chest roiling with turmoil. Still trembling violently, she recoiled as if thrown backward, withdrawing to the bridge along the waterfall’s descending plank path.

It was a stone arched bridge.
Standing at the very center of the arched bridge known as Stone Bridge—its sides built up with rocks and stones piled like peonies on both sides—Murasaki Gyokuyū drew a breath through pursed lips. At that moment, both her spine and spirit stood tall and unyielding.

VII

To either side of her clear-eyed gaze, trees split apart to reveal a single broad avenue spreading beneath the scorching sky; the sun-baked town's main thoroughfare came into view. Amid brick lightning rods, aged white walls, and temple towers brushing against her eyelashes, people moved about like scattered bats, while the train—glinting as it went—resembled a salamander crawling through heat.

I will never forget—there, at the far edge of her vision, stood the theater that until last night had shone like a Crystal Palace beneath its electric lamps, all because I was there.

Ah, though there wasn’t a single wisp of cloud, the shadows of green, purple, and red flags blossomed vividly before her eyes until they suddenly veiled the sky—yet when she looked, they swiftly drew near and cast reflections of various colored birds upon branches close enough to graze her brows.

Indeed, it was a phantom of the jewel's pride from the ring on her hand held aloft toward the theater.

Murasaki Gyokuyū returned her gaze, looking down at her slender fingers as she smiled faintly.

Then she smoothly crossed the stone bridge ahead.
Afterward, passing through the forest—her figure appearing calmly composed, tinged with emerald hues—yet there was no denying her heart had grown unsettled by two or three unexpected occurrences that had piled up.
……She had left her parasol behind.……

When she emerged beyond the forest’s height, it became the sweeping expanse of Sankoku Misegi Square.
Under the blazing sun’s glare, shading her eyes to look about, she saw each pine, cherry, and plum tree—the contours of their trunks and sway of branches—reflecting forms of renowned immortals.
Fortunately, the detestable monk’s shadow disturbed not a single tree or blade of grass in the park.
Moreover… even people coming and going were nearly absent.

In one area, there was a large pond where, upon the ripples of a vermilion-lacquered boat and along the floating bank, a gorgeously dressed young woman caught the eye like nesting mandarin ducks.

The pure white faces all turned this way in unison—

"Oh, Madam!"

“Masteeerr!”

One of them came darting over in airy sandals with a coquettish fluttering of hems—her features unmistakably Tamae’s.
……The other was Tamano.

Murasaki felt as though she had returned to her hometown.

“I’d call this a strange place to meet, wouldn’t you? What a spectacle.”

“Why, a sightseeing troupe.”

“What mischief are you all up to?”

As they approached together, Tamano—who had been at the water’s edge—held a pole hooked onto the boat’s prow. The gunwale bore indigo and pale-green wings, its head and tail painted crimson—an ibis-headed boat with a roofed cabin. It looked like a toy but could likely seat four or five people.

“Madam.”
“Would you care to come aboard?”

Upon inquiry, it turned out they had already made arrangements with the boat-owning restaurant on the opposite shore—visible through clustered bush clover with a hut—and were about to set out for amusement. ……“Can you even row properly?” she pressed dubiously, but since it was shallow enough for the pole to reach, there seemed no issue.
However, there was a single unfathomably deep water hole.
Known as the Dragon’s Mouth—a place said to connect via an underground conduit from here to the waterfall below—it wasn’t dangerous, but they thought it best to avoid that spot alone. ……Despite Tamae, ever the impulsive one, rushing off to inform them of this matter, the restaurant maid had come out specially to issue a warning.

“Ah, over there,” Tamano pointed to a spot near the northeast shore of the large pond where a plank floated with a small sacred streamer standing upon it.
“You can see Tsurugashima Island on the central embankment—they say a shrine there enshrines the Dragon God. …Since the ibis-headed boat is heading for that island, we needn’t go near the Dragon’s Mouth.”

“Shall I board?”

As Murasaki Gyokuyū adjusted her kimono hem as if rolling it up, aligning her fingernail tips—

“But somehow...”

“Oh, why ever not?”

“They’ve even erected sacred streamers as warnings there—but even if we row at a distance, the boatman’s very presence gives me an eerie feeling.”

“No, those sacred streamers aren’t some scare tactic. I hear there’s normally nothing there, but two or three days ago, someone put them up for a rain prayer—because of this drought, you see.”

VIII

When someone pushed off the bank with a thud, the roofed boat glided out lightly. Oh my—Tamano handled the pole with such skill that one might think she had been born in Bōshū—far more adeptly than expected. The large pond lay quiet. Leaned against the red railing of the gunwale with fingers interlaced and cheek resting on her hand, beneath Murasaki Gyokuyū’s white-powdered arm swayed what resembled a bird’s wing blending pale green and indigo—a sight that seemed to conjure beautiful ripples solely there—as the boat glided smoothly onward, floating gracefully toward Tsurugashima.

It wasn’t an insurmountable distance—on a moonlit night, it would have been a space where willows might blur into mist—but reaching the island would likely have required poling several hundred times.

Tamano handled the pole skillfully.

When she had poled about fifty strokes, even the oily, viscous water—stirred by the pole—began forming ripples here and there, likely from that motion.
In the area around the unfathomable Dragon’s Mouth—where sunlight itself seemed blurred and stagnant—amidst windless stillness, the white sacred streamer that had stood straight upon its rootless floating plank began shifting position little by little with a soft rustle, inching forward as if in a dream.

Staring fixedly—as she watched, gradually, softly, gently tracing a calm arc—at the point where its rounded line converged, it began to move again with a soft rustling, inch by inch. Somehow this seemed to press the pond wider and larger, the boat drifting farther away, the sacred streamer now distant. With uncanny slowness, the shore grew more separated—a lonely unease rose in her heart, leaving Murasaki Gyokuyū with a disquieting sense of isolation.

“Is it all right? That spot seems to have swirling currents.”

Leaning against the railing with her cheek propped, Murasaki Gyokuyū said while staring at the sacred streamer.

“It’s not dangerous at all—if there weren’t at least a little current swirling about, it’d be too still… like crawling across a bridge.”

As the tomboyish Tamae spoke without a hint of jest,

“Tamano—why don’t we try taking the boat further out?…”

Murasaki Gyokuyū braced herself,

“Don’t!”

“No, there’s absolutely nothing to worry about. Moreover, if something were to go wrong with the boat—if we called out ‘Hey!’ or clapped our hands—someone would come right away. The maid told us so,” Tamae added again.

Indeed, beyond the island on the opposite shore where bush clover grew at its roots, a small boat—just large enough for one person—came into view.
It was a ferry used to transport dishes from the main house when people held banquets while cooling off on Nakasujima Island.
Even Tamano seemed caught up in the excitement,

“Madam, I’ll turn the boat slightly.”

“But summoning rescue boats in this pond would be absurd—a laughingstock to shame us for generations!”
“Stop that at once!”

Yet even as she protested—the boat lurched into a sudden turn against the current, and with a splash, a wave surged up. That might have been its resonance. The small sacred streamer—spinning as it drifted farther away until it resembled a tiny floating log—rustled upon the water. Then, along with its plank, it lurched and settled flat against the surface. At that moment, a surge akin to a will-o’-the-wisp flickering from a dragon’s maw welled up from the Dragon’s Mouth. Shooting straight across the water with swiftness, as it neared the boat in unison—the waves crashed.

The actress’s boatman dropped the pole.

Ah! Ah! Just as the cresting wave seemed about to bite into the boat’s hull, the three of them stifled their cries in the tilting vessel.
The instant it pulled back two or three feet and stirred up a faint wave—no sooner had it done so than a large fish leaped into the air as though standing upright.

In an instant—a silver shadow flashed across the island’s green willows—the fish flicked its purple-tinged scales, now glittering a vivid gold, then somersaulted through the air and thudded into the boat.
At that moment, the water splashed with a heavy thud.

Toward the bow and stern, the two recoiled sharply.
Murasaki Gyokuyū clung to the railing and twisted her body.

As it fell into the midsection and flipped once—with that jolt, the boat shifted.

――What a magnificent fish it was.

“Madam!”

“Carp! Carp! Oh—it’s a carp!”

Tamae frantically clapped her hands.

This large carp dragged its tail fin; the retreating waves snatched the discarded pole.
The pole drifted away by itself toward the unfathomable depths, trailing behind.

IX

“...Madam Performer... Madam Performer.”

Murasaki Gyokuyū happened to gaze up at the jet-black treetops of colossal trees along a shadowed forest path beneath dusk-dimmed woods. …It had sounded as though someone had called out unexpectedly from the sky.

"The lantern, just…"

Having Tamano secure the restaurant lantern she had hung, Murasaki peered through the interlacing branches—to Tamae, who was asking what was happening,

"I feel like someone called out, you know?"

As she said this… her Master was gazing at the treetops,

"Oh, from such a place."

"That’s right."

Murasaki, seeming to understand for the first time, averted her eyes and reached her hand to her chignon, touching the hairpin.
—The hairpin she touched was a parrot.

“Was it this that called out, I wonder?” With her slightly intoxicated eyes smiling softly like blossoms, “Oh, Madam!” “How detestable.” The two recoiled extravagantly. Their surprise as disciples mattered little, but startling readers would never do. Let me recount how that same platinum hairpin cast into the waterfall’s depths had returned to Murasaki Gyokuyū’s raven-black chignon ere day’s end.

In the pond, when the carp leaped into the boat, the disciples clapped their hands—their clamorous voices echoing—and first came a maid in a small boat.
...hauling the thin rope stretched to the island while standing to steer—a practiced maneuver—she gave two or three deft pushes and reached the houseboat. Upon hearing what happened and seeing the fish, her eyes widened sharply with an “Oh my!”, then she hurriedly turned back.
Yet before long, he had a young man wearing a patterned short coat steer the boat while an elderly man who appeared to be the proprietor—dressed in priestly attire—rowed up. “Why, Madam Performer!” The proprietor, who had evidently recognized her immediately, bowed respectfully.
Though worn over a yukata, his crested thin haori remained formal as he declared, “I must formally offer my congratulations.”
“Beneath its eyes—it must measure two shaku in length and three kan in weight.”
With that... he nodded toward the young men peering in half-crouched astonishment and proclaimed, “For such a great fish—moreover, an auspicious carp said to herald success—to leap into your boat is an exceedingly rare and wondrous omen.”
“My heartfelt congratulations—all thanks to your virtue, Madam Performer.”
“Next, we humbly present both this pond under our care and the houseboat in our possession.”
“Though it may seem presumptuous, consequently we too—having received some small share of your fortune, virtue, and unparalleled popularity—could find no greater joy than this.”
“Moreover, in these dire circumstances of drought—where not only our city but all neighboring provinces writhe amidst flames—the leap of this rare great fish may well be a harbinger that nectar and dharma rain shall soon revive even birds, beasts, and plants through life-giving showers.”
“The blessings of the Three Treasures; the great rejoicing of the four quarters.”
“We humbly offer our congratulations to Madam Performer, and in our own modest celebration, wish to present a toast with this carp as accompaniment and a meager offering of humble sake.”
“Though it may lack elegance, allow us to moor the boat in that island’s shade, serve cool refreshments, and then move your seating to the main house.”
Not permitting refusal or even acknowledgment, the crested Hōnen-headed proprietor settled himself firmly in the houseboat.

He had the young men gather and prepare the furnishings, mooring [the boat] to a willow on the island—though that wasn’t all—and hung a prepared purple curtain to block the onlookers along the shore.
“A carp blessed by divine will—we shall not treat it carelessly.
Though informal, I shall present our rustic country cuisine.” He straightened solemnly and readied the fish-serving chopsticks.

――The hairpin emerged gleaming from the carp’s belly.
―The jeweled parrot of the hairpin that journeyed to and from the Dragon Palace.

“Madam Performer—Madam Performer.”

It might have tried to speak—

As if that were all—she merely thought she had heard two calls—there was no force behind them.

The wind did not whisper; the park’s dark night was desolate.

“Madam Performer.”

“Madam Performer.”

She carelessly pressed down on the hairpin once more,

“How detestable. This time it’s you all?”

Ten

――The water's excellence is perceived――
White Heron Pond of Western Tianzhu,
In ordinary purity spreads clear,
Kunming Pool's water's hue,
The future endures in lasting purity―so it is said.

“Wait.”

Murasaki Gyokuyū strained her ears.
Along the dew-drenched path by the winding stream’s edge, beneath the murmuring current’s flow, a faint singing voice could be heard in time with the deep, somber tones of an unfamiliar shamisen.

"Could that be the monk... I wonder."

Murasaki Gyokuyū’s chest thundered.

To Murasaki Gyokuyū, who had now witnessed the carp’s mystery, that wandering performer-monk was no longer merely a beggar priest reeking of briny spittle and drool.

“That... the shamisen...”

When—in such a place beneath night’s shroud—she wondered “Could it be...?”, the sound vanished as if extinguished, and the water murmuring through pebbles echoed like furtive footsteps.

Murasaki Gyokuyū came to a halt.

Again, as the nameless shamisen’s sound resounded ominously,

—It is proclaimed: foremost in Japan.
Lord of Kamakura—pray tell, where did you dance to proclaim yourself foremost in Japan?
Kajiwara did declare: During a year and hundred-day drought, when Kamo River, Katsura River, and Mizuse all ran dry, when even Tsutsui’s waters ceased—the nation’s anguish was such that—

Those who heard strained their ears and joined their sleeves in reverence.

――It was declared: “Should a hundred eminent and venerable monks of proven efficacy reverently expound the Benevolent Kings Sutra at Shinsen’en Pond, the Eight Great Dragon Kings would graciously manifest and accept [their supplications].” So they summoned a hundred eminent and venerable monks and had them expound the Benevolent Kings Sutra—yet there was no efficacy whatsoever.
Another declared: “Summon one hundred fair-faced shirabyōshi ritual dancers—”

“Venerable Monk.”

Now that all capacity for doubt had left her—calling out “Venerable Monk”—Murasaki Gyokuyū pressed through the darkness toward the voice’s source, clinging to it as she drew near, when—

“Extinguish the lamp.”

The monk declared in a powerful voice.

“The lantern…”

“Ha,” she replied between panting breaths, fumbling once before hastily blowing it out.
Tamano’s hands were trembling.

――When they had a hundred Shirabyōshi dance, and ninety-nine danced, yet there was no efficacy.
Even if Shizuka danced alone, could there be a Dragon God’s manifestation?
When [Shizuka] was summoned to the Naishidokoro and declared herself a person of considerable rank, as they were among the number [of performers], the authorities simply ordered her to dance—and so Shizuka danced the Shirabyōshi piece known as the Shinmushō melody—

When the lamp was extinguished, the surroundings grew hazy instead, faintly tinged with ashen gray. Beyond this dimness, upon the stone arched bridge’s railing sat a monk-like figure in black robes now turned gray—at first seeming to crouch, but looking closer, he sat cross-legged on the railing chanting.

The bridge was a stone structure of rugged rockwork she recognized.
When she became aware of it, the sound of that hidden waterfall boomed distantly like wind’s resonance, yet not a single note from the faintly plucked strings faltered, nor was the barely murmured song interrupted—it resembled insect voices beneath a storm.
Yet his posture held nothing remarkable—hunched over with shaven head jerked downward as he chanted—but the hands working the warped tuning pegs, neck craned forward, moved with severity akin to an oni plucking its horn, or rather suited to a black cat washing its face.

——While ninety-nine danced, black clouds suddenly arose from the direction of Mikoshi Peak and Mount Atago, appearing to descend upon the capital——

he chanted.
……Murasaki Gyokuyū crouched low to the ground, and the disciples squatted behind her.

――The Eight Great Dragon Kings roared across the heavens; as lightning flashed, startling all who beheld it, they unleashed a three-day deluge. When the land found peace thereby, lo―it was declared that through Shizuka’s dance came divine manifestation, and thus an imperial decree proclaimed her foremost in Japan―so I have heard.――

He stopped his chant and fell silent.

“Madam Performer.”

The way he spoke was too ordinary,

Murasaki Gyokuyū’s “Ha,” gasped in reply—so deeply did it resonate within her that even the slightest movement caused her obi to clink sharply against itself.

"The leper monk consented to their pleas and cast away that priceless hairpin."
"Moved by such resolve—however slight—I now impart this confidential token of gratitude."
"You must conduct this rain prayer."
"Heaven’s season—earth’s favor—mortal accord—all converge now."
"Raise an ephemeral altar upon this pond’s central islet and proclaim your supplication."
"...hakama trousers—undyed robes—eboshi cap—hunting garb—adorn yourself as Shirabyōshi."
"Let multitudes witness your form elevated on that willow-crowned island—prostrate yourself toward heaven’s vault."
"This transcends liturgy and song alike."
"The Heavenly Dragon marshals clouds—unleashes thunder—swells rains forth precisely past midday’s Hour of Monkey."
Where border mountains layered crimson-gold peaks ablaze—there loomed Mount Hakusan—a jade-hand lotus crowned with eternal snows across ten thousand years.
"You—seize time’s thread—draw that parrot-pin from your hair—lift it toward yonder peak."
"Clouds shall coil dragon-like at this sign."
"But heed well—never speak your name...."

――The wise one cast his line―

The waters of Genryūse River.

Summer where moonlight filters through—

The water from Yamada’s bamboo conduit—they say… —……

Eleven

The park on the following afternoon turned black faster than the clouds under the scorching sky as people swarmed in.
It was a terrifying crowd, like bricks enveloped by winged ants.

For now, let us designate him as the Lord of Kamakura.
This... prefecture's upstart aristocrat—a pleasure-seeking Baron whose features and bearing bore striking resemblance to a prominent statesman—had favored Murasaki Gyokuyū exclusively from the theater troupe’s inception, refusing aid to others; indeed, they had already made arrangements to meet somewhere the previous night.
During that interval, Murasaki slipped away incognito.
However, due to an unforeseen incident that caused considerable delay, the carp that had leapt into the boat—deemed a first offering—was packed in ice, and Murasaki had a messenger dispatched to the Lord of Kamakura.——

As far as where vehicles could pass, an automobile had already arrived and was waiting. When they finally met, from the mouth of the female disciple permitted to accompany them for a time came first the prophet’s mystery.

There was no debate.

Within that night, they built a scaffold to the pond’s island, and by early morning, the altar stood prepared.
Of course, it was makeshift.

Among the prefectural shrine priests was one versed in ancient rites who arranged the sacred lamps and presented ritual offerings.

The island became encircled by curtains bearing the Lord of Kamakura’s crest, where multitudes of priests stood solemnly arrayed.
Murasaki Gyokuyū had been waiting here since earlier.

The sacred streamers floating on that unfathomable water were deemed unsightly for the leading actress soon to ascend the altar and swiftly removed. Once erected over shaded depths, they set afloat that familiar prow-shaped boat—within its half-drawn purple curtains sat the Lord of Kamakura alongside guests: prefectural dignitaries and decorated officials with cups laid aside. To pass cups during rain prayers—no historical precedent existed for such a rite, yet here it stood as undeniable fact.

As the musicians completed their first round of ceremonial music—and as the shrill flute notes echoed through the void—scarlet hakama hems fluttered intermittently against the willow leaves.

The crowd surged like waves, rippling with unrest.

Was that a pure white foot?—the observers wondered, as the scarlet hakama divided itself in tiers like stair-steps, trailing two crimson veils. The hunting attire—purple above and fresh verdant below, embroidered with butterflies and birds—showed through the green, yielding to leaves as she glided smoothly through the willows: a Shirabyōshi of peerless beauty.
Murasaki Gyokuyū, with the grace of a tinted moon, stood tall and graceful before the altar’s front—facing a thousand flower lanterns casting their hues and a hundred snow-white offerings arrayed in rows.

Even if a celestial maiden had come streaming diagonally from within fireworks, the crowd would not have felt such wonder at this moment.

The eboshi along with this ensemble had once been displayed at an exhibition as exemplary textiles, masterpieces of art, and references for the Genpei period—treasured artifacts of the Lord of Kamakura, indeed sacred objects.

Now, regrettably, upon this splendid stage, there remained nothing further to record for Murasaki.
She was a school-trained actress.

Yet her form resembled that of a maiden descended from heaven—mysteriously alluring—piercing through the crimson and gold-blazing peaks encircling the land, suspended high amidst the willows.

Murasaki respectfully bowed three times to the void.

At that moment, a single low-ranking servant—dressed as a palace attendant—appeared at the altar’s base, carrying a large umbrella on his shoulder folded like those used by street-stall candy sellers, its surface darkened with persimmon tannin. This was not improper per se, yet it somehow tarnished the Celestial Maiden’s dignity and violated the scene’s sanctity, lending the rain prayer an air more akin to a courtesan’s procession than a sacred rite—a touch too much for such an occasion.
However, if rain was deemed certain, preparing rain gear proved prudent… Moreover, as Murasaki’s draped attire constituted a precious treasure, it had been the Lord of Kamakura’s private intention to prevent its soaking—or rather, ruination—by the impending downpour.

That being so, it likely served no purpose as a precaution to this extent.

――

Alas—with nowhere to anchor herself, the moment Murasaki’s hem collapsed against the altar, “Look at her state!”
“Hey, throw yourself!”
“Jump in!”—At the moment the crowd erupted in uproar… it was this servant who, unable to endure, leapt up to pin Murasaki down and save her life—this same servant who, with agility and loyalty befitting the Lord of Kamakura, simultaneously stripped off her hunting attire and untied the cords of her scarlet hakama.

As for rain—there was none to begin with—let alone wind; due to the excessive crowd, not even a dragonfly flew over the great pond.

Twelve

Having gauged the moment and measured the timing, Murasaki Gyokuyū began—now standing upon the altar—gazing down at the tens of thousands in the crowd beneath her feet like low waves, observing even the slope she had traversed yesterday now swarmed by a mass resembling ants crawling in procession. Slowly, she unfastened the purple cord tied at her snow-pale chin, letting its knot rest against her chest, and draped the eboshi cap over her back.

Then she pulled out The Count's Hairpin and swung it with fervor... Her black hair streamed swiftly through, its shadow glowing gold against the eboshi's lining—like pine winds rendered in ink by a master painter upon a golden screen, from which clouds and dragons seemed ready to surge forth. This alone was the actress' meticulously crafted gesture: platinum gleaming dagger-like in her hand, an incomparably fierce and alluring spectacle.

Now, she held the parrot-shaped hairpin aloft toward the sky.

In Murasaki’s widened eyes, Mount Haku—resembling a beautiful woman’s palm—indeed appeared white and pure at the remote edge of the sky.

Not a wisp of cloud could be seen.

The prayed-for rain would come later; had she simply stepped down from the altar then, things might have ended peacefully.
Yet with no distant thunder to heed nor darkening skies to signal closure, the curtain refused to fall—for this was an actress versed in stagecraft's unspoken rhythms.
But Murasaki Gyokuyū, having witnessed the carp's miracle and heeded the monk's cryptic prophecies, stood convinced that clouds would soon unfurl over Mount Haku's brow like sacerdotal sleeves. While awaiting that ephemeral moment, she circled the altar thrice in scarlet hakama, tracing ritual rings.
This gait—reminiscent of shrine maidens yet marred by clumsy stomps—eroded what remained of her dignity.

The cold sweat that surged beneath her arms—unrestrained by what the crowd might have presumed to be her inhibitions—could indeed be called the first sign of a deva’s fivefold decay.

Changing her demeanor and standing resolutely, as though delivering a fierce impetus to her forgetful attendant, Murasaki hurled The Count’s Hairpin into the void. However, it—like that toy bamboo dragonfly—glittered and danced high into the air.

“Grand Kagura!”

That shout became the opening taunt.

Once one person ignited the spark, it became unbearable. They jeered “Nerima daikon” and shouted “Okame!” They dubbed her “Cloud Court Lady” and bellowed “Dance your rain-begging jig!” The expanding rings of commotion surged like a raging storm; unbearable slanders and curses erupted like thunder.

The Lord of Kamakura raged aboard the boat.
One might think he raged at the crowd’s insolence toward his beloved actress—but that was not the case.
Having swiftly discerned the rain prayer’s futility, the lascivious feudal lord now recalled the gauze mosquito net from yesterday—its brief night already half-spent……

For he had been made to undergo purification for the rain prayer.

“Row!”

The purple-curtained boat raced toward the island like a loosed arrow.

Once, Murasaki Gyokuyū’s scarlet hakama—which had sought to rush downward—was forcibly restrained by this boat’s violent assault.

“…………”

At the Lord of Kamakura’s booming shout—its meaning indistinct—the palace servant who had initially carried a small eboshi-crowned umbrella as a low-ranking attendant crawled beneath the curtain forming an island-like structure and abruptly thrust his face into view.

Immediately, this fellow leapt onto the altar with startling swiftness.

Just as Murasaki Gyokuyū—having resolved it was too late—moved to leap into the pond, he pressed her down and stripped her bare.

Could a woman’s form withstand such violation?

That white figure—bound like sheaves of snow—prostrated upon the altar presented a pitiful sight: akin to an offering made to the moon, yet rather a sacrifice to the drought demon’s gaping maw.

With a sharp cry, two disciples inside the curtain burst into unrestrained tears.

The red-faced figure—having pulled up the hem of his collarless yukata to the seventh fold—climbed the stairs with a thoroughly disgusted expression, stomping heavily; likely some stagehand or such from the theater troupe.

He grabbed her shoulders with bare hands,

“What’s… your state.”
“You’re no Komachi or Shizuka—this comes from getting above yourself!”

The heartlessness of that palm-flipping gesture—as Murasaki’s limbs went limp, her smooth silk robes like ice about to crack under the blazing sun—seized her ample chest against an alcohol-reddened torso and pressed it to hairy shins,

“Can’t you stand?”

Thirteen

“Mortifying!”

Murasaki clung to the gunwale, her body trembling.

In the midnight moon’s vast pond, amidst trees sinking shadows—undulating like a wilting water lily.

“How mortifying…”

Given that it was a place where horse-drawn carriages had been halted—and with public scrutiny making even walking impossible—through the stagehand’s arrangements, they decided to sequester themselves at a riverside restaurant called Manseitei.
Gyokuyū merely pulled the quilt over herself and lay down.
However, the stagehand remained vigilant.
He also briefed the disciples.
And—thinking that their next venue’s performance would hardly succeed if things continued like this—he guzzled reckless drink until he collapsed drunk and fell asleep.

The proprietor of that restaurant was a kind soul, tending to her needs and offering comfort—it seemed he had taken precautions as well—but in the deep of night, with summer doors lightly secured, there were ample opportunities for her to slip out barefoot in her damask underrobe.

For one who holds no regard for their own life, even the effort to manipulate requires no trouble.
The small boat, tossed by the anguish in its breast, writhed as it swayed—wilting, scattering—while the flower-like visage of the rootless little boat, now estranged from the world of daylight skies, found that even the moon’s radiant droplets held no power to drink the dew.

“Ah, how mortifying!”

Tugging at her disheveled hair, she struck the gunwale with her hand as if commanding it to shatter—and in that instant, her gaunt fingers narrowed. The four rings on her right hand—starting with the diamond evoking the Morning Star—along with rubies and emeralds slid off effortlessly, glittering in pale rose and soft jade hues as they all plunged into the water.

No matter—when she tentatively shook her left hand, sapphires and topazes and pearls alike sank, forming rings with the moon’s beautiful reflection…… The dragon’s mouth is where water rings dance.

What remained here was the single purple jewel—though its name was her pride, she had not adorned it on finger nor hair.
――Murasaki, her face tilted upward, peered intently through the moonlight and saw at the bottom of the thousand-fathom abyss a beautiful dwelling: gates and pillars and balustrades resembling the green of the jewels that had just fallen—nay, even a turret and windows and a tower, harboring the shadow of a white heron in the forest canopy.

“You’ve become one of them—these, these country bumpkins.”

The clinging waves held power; she gripped the water tightly and hurled herself headfirst into the pond. Her sinking fingernail tips—resembling the white-plumed parrot adorning the Count’s hairpin—gleamed faintly beneath the moonlight.

“Reverend—and you?”

“Ah—an itinerant performer from mountain provinces. Were I to boast, I might style myself a sorcerer... though truly, it’s nothing so grand.”
“What you’ve seen since yesterday—mere conjurer’s tricks.”

The monk sat upon a moss-clad well curb shaped like temple railings, tattered priestly robes gathered at his waist. His elbow rested easy on a gnarled branch where coiled a bronze dragon—its eyes blazing as though alive—as he spoke smilingly.

“What grudge could you imagine I bear?...”

As he panted—his clouded, swollen eye and all—he covered one cheek with his palm.

“Ah, we provincials are petty folk.”
“Because your popularity shone too brightly—whether from shame or envy—I resorted to a bit of my former craft.”
“……Now then, Madam Performer—were someone to demand you perform a rain prayer with all your status and artistic power, would you truly take to the stage of refined arts and portray both Komachi and Shizuka?”

Gyokuyū looked down at the rock.

“Will that suffice? No—well, the capital is broad-minded. What of our humble tricks?”

“Ah,”

When she looked up at his face, Murasaki shuddered as a chill seeped into her body—she came to know a strange love for this rotten monk.

“If it’s you… if it’s you—why do you wander so?”

The monk pressed his face with both hands.

“How shameful—we here... Our Beloved dwells in a high and noble place. Though clouds and mist may veil Her, Her Ladyship’s feet remain unmovable.”
“Ah!”

He drew back hastily and stood with hands flung wide, his expression one of abject dismay.

With black hair and a complexion like snow—stern, proper, lustrously noble—the noblewoman’s unadorned figure slipped gracefully into view. What had seemed like a moon hung around her neck was in fact a pure white parasol. Glancing briefly at Murasaki Gyokuyū sitting with knees drawn up and chest upright, she lightly placed pale fingertips upon his shoulder,

“You struck me… when I went out to tend to the rain and water, …”

Her attire was different, but even to illusory eyes, her features showed not the slightest difference from those of the shrine child at Urayasu Shrine’s stone water basin.
“Princess—you?”

“Princess—you?” said the monk.

“I return to Hakusan.”

Ah, in the snow-fed pool of Kengamine Peak dwells the Dragon Princess Goddess.

“Steed.”

When the monk called out, the white parasol she had dropped on the ground swiftly folded itself up, shuddered, and rose upright.
The crimson reins she had reverently handled transformed into red bridle reins, and there stood a white divine horse bearing a scarlet saddle.

As she rode onward, pulling on the bridle—clip-clop—the monk emerged,

“I’ll take my due!”
“There—don your brocade and go.”

When he threw off the roughly discarded priestly robe, the naked monk pressed close against the horse; then you—noblewoman—leapt nimbly onto its back as if ascending jade steps up an indigo-blue crag’s towering cliff, and through heaven or earth, in the boundless wilderness, hooves thundered: tat-tat-tat-tat.

Hooves streamed as clouds surged.……

The place where Murasaki Gyokuyū—who had thrown herself into the water—was saved lay deep within the rocky cavern of the Sacred Golden Water. Behind it stretched a drill ground said to measure five hundred thousand *tsubo*. What Murasaki had believed to be sunken depths was in truth a torrential rain that stilled heaven and earth, pouring down in sheets—

The citizens who had obtained rain now wanted to present a new spectacle—fervent admiration for the artistic virtue of the actress clad in white priestly vestments.