Pathway to Japanese Literature

I had thought to see the lights of Miyajima reflected on the waves from the night train, but due to the fatigue of travel, I had fallen fast asleep, and by the time I awoke, night had already given way to dawn.
Amidst the pine trees on the low sand hills characteristic of Chūgoku, red lilies were blooming.
The wide salt fields along the shore, wrapped in miscanthus plumes, were heavy with morning dew, and not a single human figure was yet visible.

The quiet morning inlet continued around low sand hills to another quiet inlet that had just awakened from sleep. Along the tide, oleanders bloomed heavily with dew.

When the island’s shadow began to glow and the sea’s color started to shine as though polished, the mountains of Shimonoseki could be seen from the train window.

We decided to hire a rickshaw in front of the station and set out to visit Dan-no-ura.
At the station front, the pier, and the market, Koreans in white clothes stood gathered in groups.
The blazing midsummer sun was shining.
Especially captivating to the travelers was the sight of a Korean woman wearing what appeared to be straw sandals, hurrying along with short, quick strides behind her husband-like sturdy man as they made their way through the crowd of foreigners.

The high cliff along Dan-no-ura had collapsed due to rain from two or three days earlier, half-blocking the road. There as well, twenty or thirty Koreans were carrying earth, mingling with Japanese laborers.

Since it was precisely the time of the ebb tide, the Hayatomo Strait flowed with swirling white whirlpools.

The stretch of sea where Emperor Antoku, held by Ni no Ama, was said to have thrown himself into the water lay a mere thirty or forty *ken* from the road.
There, red buoys had been moored.
In the area where the Mimosuso River once flowed, seven or eight weathered two-story houses stood lined along the sea.
On the beach beneath the cliff, two boys were busily gathering shellfish.

Whether they were the mountains of Shikoku or those of Kyushu, they lay across the waves, veiled by hazy mists.
Once, in that place, countless people must have howled and clamored, greedily devouring human blood.
Battle flags must have fluttered there.
All of humanity’s glory and effort, courage and splendor, and cruelty must have been depicted upon those waves.

Only the black waves flowed.
The wind blowing through the miscanthus on the shore was white like autumn.

The forest of Akama Shrine grew so thick it darkened the surroundings. Enveloped in a meshwork of tree roots lay small graves—those of Ni no Ama, Tomomori, and some twenty others—lined in silent procession. They brought to mind the burial sites of nameless travelers who had perished from illness along forgotten roads. Likely it had been villagers who gathered the corpses washed ashore and interred them together at the mountain’s base. Standing before these moss-cloaked graves steeped in pathos, one felt a burning sensation behind the eyelids as if scorched by unseen flames. Emperor Antoku’s mausoleum lay one tier below; on the day we visited, it stood open to mark the anniversary of his imperial passing.

＊

As it was not a journey requiring haste, we decided to alight in Hakata.

Since we didn't know which inn would be suitable, we took out a travel guide and found three ryokan listed.

Being unable to inquire with anyone, we closed our eyes and randomly pointed to settle on an inn—only to learn that establishment had burned down last winter—so we instead went to a ryokan called Mizuno.

Directly below our room flowed a broad river, from which we could see both the blue sky and a large edifice facing its banks.

We hurried about Hakozaki, Chiyo-no-Matsubara and other parts of town, but what etched itself most deeply into our minds was the old castle's pale waters.

Hakata was a town of the night.

The hues of the sunset sky and clouds were incomparably beautiful.
All buildings, people’s words, and people’s figures pulsed in unison within a single soft rhythm.

Yanagimachi, which had been celebrated since Chikamatsu’s time, was likely not in its current location; nevertheless, we decided to see that Yanagimachi. Not long after the train’s terminus, there was a district surrounded by green rice fields. Passing through the Daimon gate, from the houses at the entrance, young women already in heavy makeup were sitting before latticed screens hung with bamboo blinds, waiting for rakish men. A seemingly kind old woman stood in front of the shop with the young women, gazing at the sunset sky and laughing. There were also houses where the figures of women undressing and applying makeup could be seen through the blinds. The vestiges of an old-fashioned pleasure quarter, like those seen in Sukeroku’s world, still remained preserved within this green rice field-enclosed district.

After passing through the red-light district, we found ourselves captivated by the overwhelming beauty of the crimson-burning sunset and stood motionless for a while amidst the rice fields.
Women with thickly applied white powder were coming out onto the bridge beside the red-light district and gazing at the river’s surface.

When night fell, lights began to twinkle along the water.
The moon began to shine from between the sunset clouds.
People set boats afloat on the river right below our inn.
We also decided to rent a boat.
I rowed a boat under the moonlight for the first time in over a decade.
Passing under bridge after bridge and striking the boat against bridge piers several times while doing so, I made my way down the river.

We got off the boat and walked through the night streets.

Thinking to get souvenirs for Tokyo, we searched around for Hakata dolls, but as recent ones had become merely splendid and lacked refinement, we ended up not buying any.

Since we had to depart for Kagoshima on the train a few minutes past twelve at night, we decided to go to bed early but could hardly sleep at all.
As it neared twelve o'clock, I got up.
The moon was also shining on the water.
The streets too were devoid of people.
On the water too, the electric lamp of the advertising tower was red; it cast blue beams of light.
Across the water, the sound of an owl could be heard.
Everyone was still asleep.

“From here on, we must continue yet another distant journey.”
As I peered at the faces of the sleeping people, I thought this.
A cold, faint breeze flowed in from the river’s surface.
The sensation of travel was now pressing in with profound intensity.

“You need to get up now.”
I shook the boy.
The boy did not wake up easily.
The boy would wake up, look at me, and smile.
He would fall asleep again.
I shook the boy awake.
The boy would wake up, look at me, and smile.
He fell fast asleep three times.

“Come on, you need to get up now.
We have to catch the train.”
I even thought of postponing our departure until the next day.
When I considered that this boy, whose travels had never taken him west of Hakone from Tokyo, was now leaving parental care for the first time and tagging along on such a distant journey with only me to rely on, I found myself feeling deeply touched.
Each time the boy, still half-asleep, looked at my face and smiled, I found myself even feeling moved to tears.
The boy sat up.
And he was still asleep.

We went to the station, buffeted by the cold midnight breeze.
We heard the owl’s cry once more.

The tired travelers were sleeping messily on the cushions.

The Kagoshima-bound train was nearly full.
It was swelteringly hot.
Even so, we had only slept about thirty minutes at the Hakata inn, and being terribly exhausted, fell asleep immediately.
We remained unaware of having crossed the Chikugo River or passed through Kumamoto.
What particularly required passing through dozens of tunnels along the Kuma River and over the 1,700-shaku Yadake Pass before entering Kagoshima went entirely unnoticed, as we slept through it all.

S Shōnen's voice was heard.

“Aren’t we getting off at Hitoyoshi?”

The boy had remembered that I had said the previous night, “Depending on circumstances, let’s get off at Hitoyoshi and see the old castle ruins.”

“Let’s give up on that.”
“You should rest a bit more.”
I said this and had the boy return to bed.

The night was still dim.

It was probably from a little past five o'clock.
I suddenly felt a cramping pain in my side.
No matter what, I could not sleep.
The night gradually gave way to dawn.

At a few minutes past seven, our train stopped at Yoshimatsu.
This was the junction point of the Hyuga Line.

The mountains, just after daybreak, were still shrouded in morning mist.
It was a lonely plateau station.
It was a basin encircled by blue mountains.
We had to wait there for nearly an hour for the next train.
I felt intensifying abdominal pain with every passing moment.
Within that hour’s span, I had to visit the toilet twice.

"I thought such futile thoughts as 'Last night in Hakata I ate jellyfish—maybe that was what did it.'"

In the mountain before the station, an old bush warbler was singing incessantly.
The trumpet creeper flowers were blooming so brilliantly against the blue grove that they seemed to glow.

Even during the train ride until arriving at Makino, I suffered quite severely.

By chance, Mr. K, whom I had met on the train, pointed at the mountains along the railway line and said, “The most ancient and elegant dances have been preserved among these mountains. I wish someone would come and study them seriously… In fact, since ancient times, the feudal lord himself actively promoted these dances here, and local magistrates would round up farmers and force them to perform.”

The bashō plants were shining with the beauty of their southern-style leaves.
In every valley there were beautiful bamboo groves.
There stood a small farmhouse that was clearly visible.
In the mountains bush warblers sang unceasingly.

We got off at a small station called Makino and from there had to endure being jostled along a four-ri mountain road by automobile.
This area was the main region for Kokubu tobacco, and the uncut tobacco leaves were thriving lushly in the mountain fields.
Under the eaves, red leaves hung.
The automobile threaded its way through grassy mountains, wound around valleys, and step by step drew closer to Kirishima.
The mountains were enveloped in clouds.
When I looked back, Sakurajima came into view and Satsuma Bay was visible.
The sight of the foals at the stud farm, grazing on tender grass as they frolicked around the mother horse, was endearing.
The sound of the mountain stream came echoing from the depths of the deep forest.

A few hundred meters before Einoo Hot Springs, we abandoned the automobile and had to walk along the mountain stream from there, but I was again troubled by abdominal pain.
First, I sent my wife to the hot spring to seek help, but my words did not get through; stopping every ten steps and pausing every five, I made my way along the rain-dampened mountain path.

As soon as I arrived at the hot spring inn, I had the bedding laid out and went to sleep.
My entire body was trembling violently from chills.
I recalled the time when Bashō and the ailing Sora had parted ways on their journey.

“Onward I go, even should I collapse and lie—this field of bush clover.”
I murmured Sora’s poem as if it were my own.

“The sky is beautiful, the mountains’ colors are beautiful,” people said as they gazed out the window.
I lay there face down, without even the courage to open my eyes.
The voices of cicadas and the sound of the mountain stream mingled with the song of an old bush warbler, resounding all the way into the room.

A doctor named N, who lived near the stud farm on Kirishima’s mountainside, appeared on horseback.
It so happened that because the innkeeper had broken his ribs and collapsed that day, Dr. N had rushed over from Makino, three ri away.
While he was at it, the doctor examined me.
Since I had a slight fever and he said it would be best to administer a thorough laxative, I decided to take castor oil.
Saying that up to fifty grams would be safe, Dr. N poured castor oil into a Gorohachi bowl, filling it to the brim for me.

Whenever I fell asleep, I would wake again from chest tightness.

When I opened my eyes, dusk was approaching.
The twilight enveloping Sakurajima shifted moment by moment.
The valleys from Kokubu to around Kajiki were completely hidden beneath white mist.
I intently watched the shadows of hot spring guests' white yukata disappear along the stream's edge and beneath thickets.

It was around eleven at night when the old man from the inn came to inform me, “Mr. Ichiki from Ōsumi has just arrived at the mountains from Makino.”
Mr. Ichiki was my only mentor from middle school days.

“I would come pay my respects immediately, but as I’ve fallen ill and am bedridden, I must ask you to come here instead,” I had relayed through the old man’s messenger.
As it was so late, Mr. Ichiki could not come that night.

The next day, we visited sulfur springs and alum springs while making the rounds together with Mr. Ichiki. There was a rustic quality to them that one could never find at hot spring resorts near Tokyo. People generally stayed there while cooking their own meals. The old tilting inn with its wood-shingled roof radiated a tranquility perfectly suited to a mountain hot spring. The guests gathered firewood along the valley and washed rice in the mountain stream.

“Because he loved God most sincerely, he abandoned the church.”
Mr. Ichiki, having tasted every kind of pain life had to offer, walked before me for the first time in twenty years.
He had now abandoned his home and was living in a small town in Ōsumi with a woman—a life Mr. Ichiki himself could never have foreseen.

When I thought of how Mr. Ichiki had crossed mountains from Ōsumi’s farthest reaches and traversed the sea to visit me at Kirishima, I was struck by such overwhelming emotion that I could find no words.
Yet we hardly spoke a word.

The moon illuminated Kirishima’s valley as well.
Both the moon and the stars were shining with a light more beautiful than any I had ever seen before.
A rainbow-like lunar halo hung in the vast firmament, resembling an abyssal demon’s maw.

Both the fields at the mountain’s foot and the valleys were enveloped in a sea of mist.
The moonlight was illuminating the mist so thick it seemed to carry a fragrance.

Until late into the night, we conversed with Mr. Ichiki. The topics that arose included how M—who had stayed at Mr. Ichiki’s house during our middle school years—had perished on a Europe-bound voyage, and how T’s younger brother had taken his own life.

The next morning, Mr. Ichiki descended the mountain and returned to Ōsumi. The valley at its base remained veiled in mist. Only the mountain peaks floated upon this sea of fog, precisely like an archipelago. Mr. Ichiki’s rickshaw sank through the mist’s depths as it departed.

That afternoon, we resolved to climb Korean Peak—the foremost summit of Kirishima.

Immediately behind Einoo Hot Spring’s inn, the path became extremely steep.
With a single guide leading the way, we had to walk about one ri through a virgin forest thick with Japanese nutmeg-yews three or four arm spans around, Enkō maples, and red pines.
The mountain was thickly grown but bright.
What manner of bird was this, flying from treetop to treetop while singing?
Entranced by the overwhelming beauty of the leaves’ light, we frequently stopped.
There, even a single fern frond by the roadside possessed an irresistible brilliance and fragrance.
The calls of jays and bush warblers resounded continuously along with the sound of the mountain stream.
Each time we crossed a fallen tree with its massive trunk lying across our path, we touched our hands and cheeks to the cold moss on its surface.

The mist swept soundlessly through the birch forest.
We picked wild strawberries and ate them.

When we passed through the virgin forest, the mountains suddenly opened up, and there, soft grass leaves filled the wilderness with August sunlight.

From between the azaleas and deutzia, as if gliding over the grass’s light, the bush warbler’s song came flowing.

“Onami Pond is in sight!” shouted the guide.
With Korean Peak as its backdrop, the great crater enveloped by thousand-year-old virgin forests gathered clouds and mist at five thousand shaku above sea level, cradling the emerald-green Onami Pond.
The mountaintop lake—encircled by two ri of forests clinging in despair and cradling an eternal holy spring a thousand shaku below its cliffs—harbored a navy-blue sky by day, floated white clouds emerging from mountain hollows, submerged the galaxy’s reflection by night, and concealed moonlight within its depths.

What holy beauty! What stillness!
White clouds emerging from Korean Peak’s azure hollows cast silver reflections upon Onami Pond, then licked the grass of the soft plateau as they drifted down into the valley.
Where Korean Peak’s shadow and the sky’s shadow intersected, a single silver line divided the pond in two, and waves raised a faint whisper across half its surface.

I had never before seen such a quiet, beautiful mountain lake.
This pond was too sacred for humans to approach.
It even seemed as if this pond had been crafted by God solely to hold the sky, the stars, and the shadows of white clouds.

We descended the cliff and stood on the shore of the pond.
Gorō—the dog that had been following the guide—was first to plunge into the water.
For nearly an hour while we lingered at the pond's edge, he remained squatting motionless on a rock protruding from its depths.
I watched with fascination as Gorō sat transfixed by the pond's numinous aura.

A cuckoo skimmed across the water's surface, crying out as it flew away.
From the opposite shore—some seven or eight hundred meters distant—came a mournful tone like a flute's song, echoing through ancient forests clinging to cliffs.
It was the call of a kajika frog.
Solemn? Majestic? This symphony of nature surpassed all human artistry. Overwhelmed, I sprang upright from the grass.

We lay prone on the rock and drank the pond’s water.
This must be what they mean by a holy spring.

Both the mountain and the pond’s surface were enveloped in clouds.
We descended the mountain path at dusk.

Long ago, the beautiful daughter of a prominent sake brewery in Hyūga sank into Onami Pond and became its guardian deity—legends like these were recounted by the guide.

The night was clear with the fifteenth-night moon hanging like liquid crystal in the sky.
Reluctant to sleep, I stayed awake until midnight walking along the mountain stream's edge.
Imagining how moonlight must have been shimmering across Onami Pond's surface, I gazed upward.
Here both moon and stars floated fully formed in the vault of heaven -
not flat disks but perfect spheres burning through space itself.

Sakurajima and Kajiki lay painted beneath moonlight in delicate watercolor washes.

I halted abruptly at hearing my name called.
It was Village Head M.
His weathered features radiated a simple warmth as boundless as Kirishima's own nature.

Village Head M and the others were engaged in a shochu-drinking ritual under the moonlight, a custom unique to this region.

The simple life of drinking shochu, singing, and dancing under the moonlit night made me think of the Scots depicted in Burns’s poetry.

The noble customs toward the wealthy, the indomitable spirit of the Satsuma Hayato—these were likely cultivated amidst the simple shochu-drinking practices nurtured by this land’s mountains and seas.

The moon was illuminating the sea of mist and shining upon the mountains.
If we listened carefully, we would hear the plaintive songs of the shochu drinkers rising from the depths of the dark forest and the depths of the misty sea.

The following afternoon, we had to depart for Kagoshima, but I went to visit Onami Pond once again.

*

We were seen off by the mountain people and got into the car.
Each time we raced down the steep ochre path and came to a narrow bend, we felt cold sweat under our arms.

When we had descended four *ri* of mountains and arrived at Maki-en, the colors of the sunset sky drifted languidly upon the backs of grazing horses.
The small farmhouses enveloped in bamboo groves and the horse-drawn carriages beneath the rows of sendan trees profoundly evoked the feeling that we had come on a journey to distant southern climes.

The words of the young station attendant making a phone call were as gentle as a woman’s.

The children were circling around the spring, scooping up water.

Shortly after leaving Kokubu, we saw what is called the Hayatozuka.
On a small hill along the railroad tracks stood two mounds, alongside stone statues resembling armored warriors.
The mounds were shaped like massive clumps and were quite large.
The guide said there was a legend that they had been built during the subjugation of the Kumaso long ago to appease their spirits.

The moon was illuminating Satsuma Bay.
The moon over Satsuma Bay, with Sakurajima as its backdrop, held a greater sense of calm and loneliness than the moon I had seen in Suma.
As I thought of how Bashō had died without ever seeing Satsuma Bay, and of how Saigō and Gesshō had embraced each other and plunged into this sea, I gazed at Sakurajima.
The moment I saw the lights of Kagoshima’s city flickering along the coast, the loneliness of having journeyed so far from home struck my heart with such poignancy it brought tears to my eyes.

On our way from Kagoshima Station to the Yamashita Satsumaya villa, we saw the nighttime streets of Kagoshima.

People in white yukata were walking through the town abundant with stone walls.
Bananas still on their branches were hung at every fruit shop.
The abundance of large watermelons split in two, muskmelons, and the like gave a distinctly southern feel.

The inn was said to have originally been the Shimazu lord’s tea pavilion, but it was a modest one.

Pomelo leaves thrived around the lotus pond.
All night long, frogs croaked at the pond by our pillow.
In this area, what they called tea trays were made as deep bentwood containers, each fitted with a lid that gave them an old-fashioned air.
We chased away mosquitoes and gazed at the moon until late at night.

The next day, under the guidance of Mr. M from the prefectural office, we visited Iso Villa and Shuseikan.
At Shuseikan, we saw an eighteen-foot lathe and spinning machinery that had already been imported by the Shimazu family before the Restoration, along with exquisitely refined cut glass produced there and what is called ancient Satsuma ware.
The current site of Shuseikan was originally where a spinning mill had stood, and it was said that Shuseikan itself had been created by repurposing the spinning mill as it was.

Regarding how advanced the Shimazu family’s culture was compared to other domains, we often let out exclamations of amazement.
When we visited the graves of Nanshū-Ō and others, I saw the graves of boys who must have been about fourteen or fifteen years old.
I could not help but be moved to tears by both the greatness of Nanshū-Ō’s character and the beauty of those steadfast human hearts.

At the reference hall behind Nanshū-Ō’s grave, we saw the amulet bag of one Satsuma Hayato warrior who had died in battle during the Aizu War.
Inside it were contained letters he had exchanged with a certain girl from Izutsuya during his time stationed in Kyoto, along with photographs of that woman.
At that place, we also saw a bamboo flute called *tenbuki*, which resembled a smaller version of a shakuhachi.
In the past, it was said to have been carried into battle.
The sound resembled a shakuhachi but was even more poignant.
I could not help but imagine how deeply sensitive men such as Nanshū-Ō and the Satsuma Hayato must have been.

The view of Sakurajima, rose-tinted against the sunset sky along with the graves at Shiroyama, was etched most vividly into my memory.
Shiroyama had fallen at dawn on September 24th.
According to records, the 21st had been a full moon.
If that were so, I thought, then the night of the 23rd must also have been a beautiful moonlit night.
Having discarded their soiled uniforms and changed into fresh Satsuma kasuri, gazing down upon their birthplace bathed in moonlight as they resolved to die—their history remains a beautiful poem second only to the tragic tale of Dan-no-ura.

*

We left Kagoshima, entered Hitoyoshi, and resolved to stay at Hayashi Hot Springs along the Kuma River after speeding there by car.
From the window, the Kuma River’s current flowed ten shaku below, where an aged bush warbler sang and night herons ceaselessly flew upstream.
The bathing facilities were said to be remarkably fine, and indeed the waters proved as beautiful as rumored.

The sole purpose for alighting from the train in Hitoyoshi had been the Kuma River boat ride.

We boarded a light boat immediately behind the inn.
The rudder was attached to the bow, with a boatman of about twenty and a boy of around ten who appeared to be his younger brother taking hold of the rudder and poling the boat.
Another boat descended the current alongside ours, now ahead, now behind.

On the cliff-like mountain’s summit was a verdant cedar forest, and there a single snow-white egret basked in the morning sunlight.

Each time the boat descended a rapid, it plunged its bow into a silvery pool.
Each time, the people cried out in exhilaration.
The boat skillfully navigated the narrow rapids between rocks and raced like an arrow.

Houses lined the cliffside, and a path ran alongside it.
If they happened to spot a village girl chasing after horses, the people would look up at the mountain path from amidst the rapids and shout.
The girls would answer back.

“Isshōchi! Shūtootoshi! Kiyomasa Kō!” the boatman called back to us.

Going down the place called Yari Taoshi Rock proved most exhilarating.
The water had gnawed at the rock's base to form an elongated stone structure resembling a tunnel split lengthwise, through which our boat raced with the rapids.
There alone—so it was said—even the Sagara lords of Hitoyoshi had needed to lower their spears to pass through, thus giving rise to this name.

Between towering mountains where August's sky barely stretched open lay nothing but strange rocks and silver rapids across the entire vista.
Each time we shot through rapids, we emerged drenched head to toe in spray, sensing exhilaration without end.
People moored light boats like those seen in Nanga paintings to fish for ayu in the torrents.
This too formed a singular tableau.

From Hayashi to Shiraishi was a voyage of approximately six ri, taking three hours.
After passing Shiraishi, the current soon slowed into eddies and the river widened.
A light boat billowing white sails came ascending the emerald waters.

We boarded the train from Shiraishi and went to Kumamoto along the Kuma River.

Unzendake, where we had enjoyed ourselves the previous year, loomed close beyond the Ariake Sea outside the train window.
The mountain was covered with clouds.

A person who was my wife's aunt had once left Edo and lived in Amakusa.
We gazed at Amakusa while talking about that unfortunate old person.

To wait for the Miyaji Line train bound for Aso, we got off at Kumamoto Station.
We decided to use the intervening time to visit Suizenji.

The water of Suizenji—even its volume seemed to have dried up compared to my memories from twenty years ago.
The impression of the teahouse there was gloomy.

I walked from shop to shop near Kumamoto Station.
And there, my gloomy impression at Suizenji was completely transformed.
Everyone was kind.
At every shop, I was able to feel the hospitable kindness that travelers sense.

In Kagoshima, I particularly felt the warmth of people’s hearts.
In Kumamoto as well, I felt the beautiful hearts of the people.

*

Shortly after leaving Kumamoto, the train began ascending into Aso's highland region.
Rows of ancient cedars and shimmering tobacco fields wound through the plateau.

A colossal pillar of smoke billowed up from the highland's edge.
The sky blazed with radiant light.

"It's Aso!"
We opened the window and glimpsed a titanic form.

At Tateno, we abandoned the train and dispatched a rickshaw along a precipitous cliffside path measuring over one *ri*.

We arrived at Tochinoki Hot Spring, a deep-valley hot spring inn, at dusk.

This was still an extremely primitive hot spring resort. It was said that many guests cooked for themselves, but bundles of small bamboo grass transported on horseback were piled up in front of the inn. The horses were all small but docile. A single woman led two horses and a foal as well. There were also those who brought cows and horses together.

There were also old women who went out to the stream below the inn and gathered firewood.

From the window of the hot spring inn enveloped in the deep valley, only a sliver of the sky could be seen.
When night fell, the kajika frogs would croak.

When the cicadas began to sing, the people from the inn would go out to the riverbank to enjoy themselves.

At dawn, we saw for the first time only the lingering moonlight in the stream below the window.
Because the valley was so deep, we could only see parts of the moon and stars.

I fell ill again yesterday.
Today, a young doctor from a hospital in Aso about one and a half ri away arrived on horseback.
The young doctor had apparently moved from an urban area to the Aso highlands last year.
Because the houses were scattered far apart in the mountainous region, it took three hours to make rounds to a single patient.

He continued talking sociably for what seemed like an eternity.
Here, the evening wind was colder than in autumn.