Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

It was spring in name only, still a time of cold.
A chill-edged desolate wind blew from the northern sea, while low-hanging clouds heavy with winter's remnants pressed upon the sky.
The snow guards encircling the garden plantings had finally been removed, allowing the deep-green sago palms and palm bamboos - as though tasting freedom for the first time - to tentatively spread their branches and stretch their trunks, righting themselves with quiet satisfaction.
Then when intermittent drizzles came bearing damp warmth through the showers, one might suddenly discover tiny grass sprouts emerging from every garden corner.
Yet spring in that northern land remained stubbornly cold.
Days sealed beneath leaden clouds continued their gloomy procession without end.

One day—that day too, from morning onward, the sky hung dim and desolate, overcast as if mixed with lye. It was that afternoon. A man named Gen’emon, who lived in a village about two ri from town, came to visit Omachi’s house and was secretly discussing something with her father Tamezō in the inner parlor. The conversation between the two men somehow gave the family members a certain unease. Around that time, Tamezō had frequently been entangled in such clandestine matters. The family members had gradually come to fear encountering such situations.

Tamezō had ventured into a speculative endeavor a year or two prior and suffered a major failure.
And then, he who had collapsed as if nearly losing consciousness suddenly hit upon the idea of starting a moneylending business.
He resolved to recoup his enormous losses through the fruits of greed and mercilessness.
He transformed into a miser utterly devoid of compassion or humanity toward all people in the world.

Gen’emon was one of the recent debtors.
He was an old farmer with sparsely missing teeth, an unrefined demeanor, and skin deeply tanned by the sun, yet he appeared to be a man in his fifties who was somewhat single-minded yet scrupulous.
That day, the two men conversed quietly, but their voices were strangely hushed and whisper-like, making it impossible not to suspect they were plotting some secret scheme.
And yet, their conversation showed no sign of concluding.
Tamezō’s wife Oiku sat silently doing needlework in the tearoom, but periodically let out deep sighs as she strained to listen toward the parlor.

Before long, after some time had passed, their voices suddenly became more animated.
In the end, their voices steadily rose until they were shouting abuse at each other.
Oiku and her mother-in-law Oya'e abruptly stood up and, while exchanging worried looks, edged closer to the sliding door.
It was then that the two men in the parlor suddenly began grappling with each other.
Thud, bang—their bodies collided alternately against the sliding doors, sending rippling waves across the paper panels.
From Gen'emon's mouth ceaselessly spewed forth curses against Tamezō, unrestrained and foul-mouthed.
Tamezō pressed down as if to suppress it,

“What the—?!” Tamezō roared as he lunged at Gen’emon.

Omachi had been happily carrying the newborn baby on her back when startled by the commotion. She unsteadily braced her heavy body against what felt like an invisible pull from behind while keeping watch on the parlor. Inside, a terrifying struggle was now unfolding.

She wheeled around and stole a glance through the entrance toward the front gate. A crowd already pressed against the doorway, people straining on tiptoes with frantic eyes to glimpse inside. The two maids emerged from the kitchen, craning their necks toward the parlor.

Trembling violently, Omachi paced through the kitchen rocking the baby. Dread choked her - what would become of this parlor brawl? At last she fled into the storehouse, still clutching the infant against her back.

Omachi always had the habit of retreating into the storehouse whenever something frightening occurred.
And yet, whenever her younger brother and others played pranks, her mother would fix them with a fierce glare,

"I'll put you in the storehouse!"

When she heard these threats, Omachi thought that the storehouse must indeed be a terrifying place.
Yet whenever Omachi herself felt sadness, she strangely found herself wanting to enter that very storehouse she considered terrifying.
While fantasizing about such scenarios—what would happen if, after entering the storehouse in that manner, someone were to lower the latch from outside and even seal shut the earthen door—she found herself wanting to witness what she would become should she ever face such a predicament.
However, once inside, she would steadily be overcome by a certain terror and soon flee the storehouse in a panic—this became her pattern.

That day too, when she entered the storehouse, Omachi felt a sharp chill as if a Yukinari blade had swiftly grazed her neck. The moment she opened the storehouse's heavy door, she conjured up a vision of what she always imagined as the "storehouse deity." Omachi, who had been taught to maintain constant restraint—as if even raising her voice were forbidden upon entering—would wonder each time her grandmother and others spoke of the "storehouse deity": what manner of god could dwell there? She thought it must surely be an old man resembling a sage with a long pure-white beard, like those described in ancient tales. Omachi imagined this deity watching everyone who entered the storehouse with solemn scrutiny.

The storehouse was filled from corner to corner with a mysterious, damp air that somehow seemed to suck human bodies inward. And then, peering through the meager dull light streaming in from the small western window, she saw every corner crammed full with household goods, while a musty rancid odor drifted here and there. On the double- and triple-layered front shelves stood dust-covered boxed items untouched for years. Inside several boxes boldly labeled "Buddhist Altar Implements" were stored special ring-shaped lanterns and candle stands—objects only brought out to decorate the parlor during memorial services. Omachi, while feeling the same sense of eeriness she always felt toward such objects, cast a brief glance toward the dark second floor. Lately, two large wicker trunks seized from a debtor’s household that had failed its obligations lay dumped at the top of the stairs to the second floor—unpleasant and loathsome to Omachi. That clothes taken from those trunks were being put on her younger sister just as they were struck Omachi’s prematurely aged young heart as wretched and pitiful beyond bearing. Seeing the various other items held as collateral already made Omachi feel unbearably guilty.

"My father engages in such a detestable business."

Omachi always thought this way，and even in her childhood years，she found it unbearably bitter.

Though she had now entered the storehouse，her anxiety over her father grew unbearable，driving her to press tightly against the metal mesh door.
Holding the baby securely on her back with hands clasped behind，she peered through the mesh openings to observe the house across the garden.
She could see Grandmother and Mother scurrying restlessly along the engawa，and hear a man’s shouting voice.
Omachi could no longer contain her agitation.
The eeriness of being inside the storehouse now throbbed through her with far greater intensity than ever before.

She eventually tiptoed out of the storehouse that served as her hideout.
As Omachi passed through the long wooden-floored inner corridor from the kitchen toward the tearoom—just as she timidly tried to peek out—Tamezō and Gen’emon came clattering forth, grappling with each other like maddened stallions.
Both men’s faces burned crimson, their clothes ripped open down to their solar plexuses, exposing beast-like chest hair.
The fronts of their kimonos hung as disheveled as a drunkard’s.
Tamezō kept shoving Gen’emon backward again and again, driving him toward the entrance while remaining locked face-to-face.

Gen’emon was shoved down into the dirt floor, barefoot and powerless, as if thrown into a river.
Enraged by Tamezō’s violent conduct, he writhed to get back into the house.
Still Tamezō desperately pressed down on Gen’emon’s sturdy frame with all his strength.
Gen’emon exhaled a fiery breath and suddenly snatched up one of the geta lying there.
In that instant, he slammed it hard against Tamezō’s forehead.

"You!"

Tamezō let out a beast-like groan and swiftly snatched the geta from Gen'emon’s hand.
In that instant, he hurled it with all his might at Gen'emon’s forehead.
From Gen'emon’s sunburned black forehead, blood oozed in rivulets.
He became utterly frenzied and raged madly.
And,

“Thief!”

With a tremendous guttural roar, he shouted this once before pushing through the crowd and dashing off somewhere.
The spectators buzzed and clamored as they chased after him.
The remaining few leaned forward intently, trying to observe the house’s condition.

At that moment, Omachi grew too afraid to even look at her father’s face and withdrew back into the kitchen.
Then, keeping rhythm, she walked while shaking the baby on her back who hadn’t cried.

In the parlor, the grandparents and Oiku surrounded Tamezō—who now seemed to be suffering and gasping for breath—desperately trying to calm him down.
Oiku, her face deathly pale, offered a bowl of water and Hōtan to her husband’s mouth while he exhaled thick breaths and kept muttering things like, "Damn it, look at this!"
Omachi trembled violently while fearfully peering through a gap in the paper door at her father’s menacing expression as he was surrounded by Grandmother and Mother.
In the face of this sudden incident’s immediate aftermath, an anxiety and terror filled the hearts of the family members.

Before long, a police officer arrived.
And when Tamezō began a brusque exchange with him, the family’s terror spread ever wider.
Tamezō, his bloodshot eyes brimming with a sinister, bone-chilling glint, confronted the police officer with rolled-up sleeves and denounced Gen’emon’s unjust violence.
At that moment, Omachi felt ashamed that her father’s disheveled, ugly appearance was being witnessed by the police officer and spectators.
That her own father would brawl with such a lowly old farmer and ultimately require police intervention—she was shocked to realize he could be such a despicable man, and the thought that outsiders too must view him this way filled her with bitter resentment.

While listening to Tamezō's account, the police officer was once again restraining the crowd outside.
But this had no effect.
The spectators pressed closer and closer toward the entrance’s dirt floor, determined to learn everything about how this incident would unfold.
Omachi could only tremble in terror, her teeth chattering uncontrollably.
A chill ran through her entire body as she shivered violently.
In her ears, Gen’emon’s final shouted word—“Thief!”—echoed powerfully through her young chest like a gouging wound.

"Why would he call my father a thief?"

Omachi found herself thinking this with growing bewilderment. At the same time, she felt pity welling up within her—pity for what a worthless man her own father must be to earn such an epithet from some rustic old farmer. Even through her child's heart, she sensed her respect for him withering away. And atop it all, a shadow of grim suspicion toward her family began seeping vaguely into her small chest. In that moment, she found herself harboring an indescribable, alienating hatred toward her father as he shouted hoarsely at the police officer. The veins bulging on his forehead—those stark manifestations of his rage—gradually struck her as utterly repulsive and unsightly.

Tamezō and the police officer clashed for a long time, heated words battling against calm ones.
The officer finally announced his intent to take Tamezō into custody.

Tamezō refused again and again.
He maintained there were no grounds for his arrest.
But the officer wouldn’t yield.
Tamezō finally stormed into the parlor, his face bloated as though seared by rage.

“Hey! Bring out the clothes! Bring out the clothes!”

Shouting this, he frantically began undoing his obi as if tearing it off.
Oiku, in a voice both tearful and pleading, whispered to her husband, trying to draw out some strong word from him—even just one.
But Tamezō was in no state for that.
The pained expression of his—flustered and mismatched with his outward boldness—was something Oiku understood all too well.
Oiku reluctantly pulled open the dresser drawer and took out her husband’s garments one by one.
Oya’e came and pressed down on Oiku’s hands, bleary eyes brimming with tears,

“What will become of us? What will become of us?”
she kept repeating through her tears.

Tamezō panted heavily through labored breaths, his face twisted in a murderous expression as he hurriedly changed his clothes. Without speaking to anyone—as though tormented by some hastily contrived defense—he simply walked out with the police officer and left.

Omachi looked at her father, loading him with all sorts of imaginable abhorrent suspicions she could conjure.
The sight of her father walking boldly down the street alongside the police officer, his figure from behind, became bitterly imprinted in her tender eyes.
She evoked dark associations of extraordinary terrors.
Omachi, understanding nothing, was immersed in a childlike sentiment born of sadness and anguish that had mingled together, and together with her family members, she wept quietly behind the sliding door.

II

After the fierce struggle and shock subsided into stillness, the house stood eerily silent.
The sound of women’s stifled sobs leaked from here and there.
The air in the dim rooms—oppressively damp and sealed with melancholy—trembled chillingly as though some calamity might befall this house at any moment.
Yet Omachi thought her father would return once evening came.
The perceptive girl drew close to her mother and grandmother, straining to catch their conversation.
But Mother and Grandmother only kept silent, quietly sobbing.
Mother and Grandmother were soon called by Grandfather from upstairs and went up quietly.

Omachi was left alone there and found it dreary.
And then, she went to the bedside of the baby—who had been taken off her back earlier—and sat there motionless.

“Yuki-chan doesn’t know anything.”

Thinking this, she gazed intently at the baby’s sleeping face—then the small lips of the peacefully slumbering infant twisted slightly into a strained smirk.
She found this uncanny too.

Before long, Omachi couldn't suppress her urge to know what her mother and the others gathered upstairs were doing.
Yet she thought it improper to go up there now.
The three must surely be discussing today's incident involving Father—this conviction took shape in her mind.
Still, she remained unsettled.
She soon began stealthily ascending halfway up the ladder-like stairs.
"It'd be wrong to stomp up," she thought, when suddenly her body started trembling.
No voices or sounds reached her from the second floor.
She climbed another step, then another.
When only three steps remained, she curled her body tight and stifled her breath.

At that moment, in the old man’s room on the second floor, a folding screen had been set up around them, and the three were whispering secretly.
The voices of the three people were quietly entangled within the folding screen.
Oiku, who usually received cold treatment from her mother- and father-in-law, seemed displeased at being persistently questioned about Tamezō and spoke quietly.

“After all, since I’m never told anything ordinarily, I don’t understand at all… but regarding that Gen’emon affair, I can’t say I have no inkling either…”

In front of her parents-in-law—who constantly viewed her with hostility as the hated daughter-in-law who had stolen all their children’s affection for herself—Oiku found giving such a response to be almost gratifying.

“Hmm, what in the world could that be about?”

The old man’s voice caught in his throat, parched and withered.
Dark worry formed shadows around his sunken eyes.

“What has he done… Oh, this has become such a worry.”

Oya'e sniffled through her sobs.
The bristling white hairs along her hairline seemed to display the ferocity of this old woman notorious for tormenting her daughter-in-law.

“While I don’t fully understand either, hearing how Gen’emon was shouting… I can’t help but wonder… But surely, I don’t believe he’d do such a terrible thing.”

Oiku found herself unbearably anxious not about reflecting on her husband’s past suspicious behavior—those secrets he had always kept from her—but rather about how things would unfold from here on out.
She could no longer dispel the dark suspicions about her husband’s conduct—behavior she had warned him about countless times in subtle ways.
When Oiku thought of this, she now resented her husband anew, and a deep sigh escaped from the depths of her lungs.
The thought of her own and her children’s future—this too weighed on her constantly.

“Starting this kind of business was the mistake.”

Moreover, the old man did not attempt to question Oiku.
He was afraid to press further.

He had just said that, twitching his white eyebrows, and was lost in thought.

Oya'e's consciousness was in chaos, driven solely by her desire to protect Tamezō.
Apart from crying, she had no other means.
Oiku was jolted by each of the various recollections that surfaced, her vision growing dizzy.
Hot tears streamed from Oiku's eyes as she tightly clenched her lips.

That night, Tamezō did not return home.
The old man returned from outside after nightfall and again summoned Oya'e and Oiku to confer within the folding screen.
From the old man came the explanation that they had entrusted this case to a certain lawyer.

Omachi and her siblings were put to bed early that evening in their usual room.
Omachi tried to ask Mother when Father would return just as she was about to go to sleep, but the moment she did, her chest began pounding, so she stopped.
And she lay awake.
After Grandfather returned home and Mother came downstairs from the second floor, whenever stealthy footsteps—as though someone was bringing something up from below—reached Omachi's ears, she imagined some grave scheme being plotted and found herself drenched in cold sweat from terror.

After everyone had fallen asleep and the night had grown quite late, the three people upstairs began to move stealthily.
Creak, creak—the rustling of three people descending the ladder stairs echoed in a corner of the house where all had fallen asleep.
The three were tiptoeing past the sliding doors of the room where the children slept, their footsteps brushing lightly against the floor.

Omachi, huddling in her bedding, sensed the tension.
Her chest thudded and roared.
At that moment, she saw a dim red glow flickering in the middle of the shoji screen and a black figure moving away.
Omachi slipped out from the futon and slid open the veranda’s shoji screen a crack.
It was Mother who was holding the paper lantern and leading the way.
After that, Omachi saw the two elderly people shuffling along behind.
The three pushed against the sliding door at the dead end, slipped through quietly, descended into the dark corridor connected to the storehouse, and then closed that sliding door again.

"They went to the storehouse."

Whether Omachi truly thought this or not, her chest tightened again.
Why would Mother and the others go to the storehouse in the middle of the night like this? She couldn't understand it.
Omachi pulled the futon over herself and drifted into a fitful sleep.

The three people inside the storehouse stood restlessly under the low ceiling, their pallid faces faintly lit by the paper lantern's reddish glow.
The dreadful possibility that searching those areas might uncover something related to Tamezō's suspected crimes—this shadow of fear darkened their hearts and made them timid.
Holding their breath, they lifted wicker trunk lids and slid open clothing-chest drawers.
Loan certificates were found everywhere, crammed into the old man's pockets.

No one else knew that the three had finally crept into their bedding toward dawn.

When Omachi woke in the morning, Mother was properly sleeping next to the baby in the adjacent room.
Grandfather and Grandmother were lying quietly in their usual space by the inner Buddhist altar.
Nothing out of the ordinary met Omachi’s gaze.

That day was still cloudy.
It was an oppressive sky, as if being pressed down on one’s head.
Just as everyone was finishing their breakfast with desolate faces pressed together, suddenly a large number of policemen came thundering into the house.
Then, one by one, they boldly opened the closets in each room and dragged out things like trunks and boxes.
And then, they opened the folds of each sheet of paper with writing and tried reading them.
Or some of them twisted those into their pockets.
During this time, all family members were confined to a single room.
A tall policeman was standing by the sliding door, keeping watch.
Until the house search was completely over, the family members were not permitted to move freely.
Omachi squeezed in between her grandparents and the maids, glancing about restlessly.
In each person’s heart, intense fear surged.
The policeman who had gone upstairs with Oiku did not come down for quite some time.
Omachi could only comprehend that her own home was now being investigated by these people.

After some time had passed, having Oiku guide them once more, the policemen filed into the storehouse in a line.
The people confined to a single room remained restless and unsettled.
Hungry as they were, they could do nothing but wait for this dreadful matter to end.

Even when afternoon arrived, even when dusk fell, no one came out from the storehouse.
Several paper lanterns were carried into the storehouse.
A cold wind blew chillingly from the fields behind the storehouse.

When the people confined to the room were finally permitted to move, Omachi slinked stealthily around from the kitchen and peered toward the storehouse.
Beside the stone steps at the storehouse entrance stood a policeman before the white wall like a solitary demonic shadow.
A slender moon cast its faint diagonal reflection across the white plaster.

At that moment, the policemen pried up the storehouse floorboards and thrust paper lanterns into the gaps, all bending low to peer beneath.
One thick-bearded officer clutched documents he seemed to have found suspiciously important.
Oiku wore an emboldened look in her eyes now—as if having steeled her resolve—and obediently opened every compartment they demanded.
This effort carried some reassurance from their thorough inspection the previous night.
The lantern lights flickered like wandering spirits through wire mesh—now held aloft, now plunged beneath floorboards—visible to Omachi.
She could think of nothing but terror.
"The storehouse deity sees everything."
Thinking this, she shuddered violently.

In the house, hushed as though in utter desolation, the baby’s sharp cries occasionally pierced the silence with startling clarity.
That night too, Tamezō did not return home.

III

Even after several days passed, Tamezō did not return home.
Omachi felt she had already understood the reason without needing to ask Mother.
Recalling the sorrow she had felt when asking Mother and receiving that confirmation, Omachi steeled herself not to inquire about it again.

One morning, Omachi ran clattering into the kitchen without any particular thought.
At that moment, she saw Mother packing a lunchbox into a Shunkei lacquerware tiered box.
Beef simmered with sansho peppers and arrowhead tubers in savory broth had been packed inside.
Omachi found this strange and, feigning unawareness, fixed her gaze intently from nearby.
That lunchbox continued every day.
Omachi became certain that somewhere her father was eating that lunchbox.
Oiku would go out every morning carrying that lunchbox.
Even when rain fell or wind blew, she would take it herself and go out.
And on returning, she would invariably bring back the empty lunchbox.

Omachi wondered many things—since Father had left with that policeman days ago without returning, was he still at the police station? And was he eating that lunchbox alone there?
The police still doubted Father's explanations, so they wouldn't let him come home—and when she realized this, Gen'emon's final shouted word of "Thief!" tormented her small soul.

Omachi would go to elementary school every day with her older brother and younger brother, the three of them together, but lately no one would be friends with her, so she would often sit silently crying in corners of the playground all by herself. Even the friends who had played with her so kindly until just recently now turned away nonchalantly without a glance since Father had disappeared from the house. Now that things had come to this, the reserved Omachi never took the initiative to seek friends herself. And she would watch the others playing seemingly happily with envious, resentful eyes.

After that, lawyers began frequenting Omachi’s house, and consultations were constantly being held on the second floor.
“No matter how much money it may cost, I beg you to accept it.”
“Please help him return home safely.”

The old man kept dabbing at his teary eyes as he spoke these words and bowed before the lawyer.
Oya'e bowed reverently behind the lawyer, muttering something to herself.
Oiku sank deep into silent meditation, and whenever she looked at the lawyer’s face, she only offered a pleading expression and kept her mouth shut.

The people who had been coming and going until now all stopped setting foot in the Toda household as if by prior agreement.
The maid also took her leave.
The married couple who had been staying with them also left at some point.
The house gradually became devoid of human presence, grew distant from society, and was soaked in a lonely desolation like that which follows a flood.

And so spring departed.

Summer came.
The sun’s rays soon cast strong light upon the low-roofed town, and a gentle breeze rustling through fresh greenery stirred.
The sky grew brighter, and on the faces of people accustomed to the northern country’s gloom, a certain raw vitality began to appear.
Oiku, her face deeply sunken beneath a black Western umbrella, continued her days of threading through the shade of green leaves while still carrying the lunchbox.

“Father will be coming home soon.”

Oiku would occasionally say such things to the children herself, as if to console her own heart.
But as for why Father had gone somewhere and for what purpose, he never told the children.
Amidst an atmosphere of silence, stillness, gloom, and secrecy, the summer’s hot days passed, and the children grew increasingly listless.

Autumn had arrived.
The cold wind from the northern sea assailed the surroundings of Omachi and her family’s house, and a gloomy air spread through every room.

That day was the day of Tamezō’s trial.
The old man and Oiku left for the courthouse from morning.
"If Tamezō’s certain suspicions could be cleared through 'monetary power,' they would stake all remaining assets—so they had resolved while exerting every possible effort—but what if unshakable evidence emerged?" With hearts pounding, the father-in-law and daughter-in-law set out.

A fine autumn rain fell quietly like silken threads.
Omachi returned from school knowing nothing, spread her books out on the desk, and sat quietly.
She was so terribly lonely she could do nothing.
I felt as though having Father was no different from not having him at all, and the recent sense of social shame pressed down on me terribly.

When evening came, the old man and Oiku returned dejectedly.
And calling Oya'e, they ran up to the second floor.
Omachi, suddenly struck by an ominous premonition of calamity, clattered up the stairs after her mother.
There Omachi saw Mother and Grandmother crying like madwomen, writhing in anguish.
Omachi joined them and burst into loud sobs.

Tamezō had ultimately not been found "innocent".
Everyone had turned as pale as corpses and had sunk into the depths of irreparable despair.

From the very next day onward, Oiku stopped going out carrying the lunchbox.
The hand of tragic fate had spread steadily and ever wider, and the family’s happiness was eternally lost.

When the leaves were just beginning to turn, winter had already come to the northern country.
At times, sleet-mixed cold rain dripped steadily onto the low eaves.
The inside of Omachi’s house grew increasingly darker day by day.

“In all sincerity, ah, I have no excuse to offer Lord Buddha.”
“I have no excuse to offer Lord Buddha.”
“What a grievous waste it is.”

As if pleading, each time she uttered these words and pressed her forehead to the Buddhist altar, the figure of the old mother appeared both pitiful and lovely. On the golden double doors of the altar, the faint flickering shadows of candlelight trembled ceaselessly from dawn till dusk. The ultimate fate of this household would soon be entirely swallowed within that vortex of crimson and black lamplight.

The snow guards that had been removed in spring once again surrounded the garden plantings.
Chestnut leaves scattered down behind the storehouse and piled up in thick layers.

A few mild late-autumn days continued.
One day, Omachi went out casually, accompanied by Grandmother and Mother along with her brothers.
The children did not know where they were being taken.

“I’ll take you to a nice place.”

Without saying anything definite or otherwise, Mother silently led the children outside.
Since Father had disappeared, Omachi, who had grown even more silent in all things, did nothing but intently read Mother’s expressions, making no attempt to ask about it.
Lately, whenever they went out, Omachi and the others couldn’t help but feel self-conscious, as though the townspeople were staring at their faces.
Mother and Grandmother, hunching their shoulders, did their utmost to avoid passing in front of their acquaintances’ houses, stealthily leading the children out through back alley after back alley.
The children, as if fearing to be seen by the townspeople, were led by the hand separately by Mother and Grandmother, walking as inconspicuously as possible while keeping apart from each other on either side of the road.

Four

A long pontoon bridge spanned the great river at the edge of town.
In the old days, they would tie boats together and lay planks across them to barely let people pass—so it was said—which was why it was still called "Funabashi".
Omachi and the others stood on the bridge for a time, gazing at the vast quiet autumn scenery stretching around them.
In the distance, the low mountain ranges of Kaga, Echigo, and Noto lay hazy and solitary like clouds, while nearby foothills showed autumn leaves tinted as beautifully as an oil painting.
From across the bridge came sporadic groups returning from mountains about a ri ahead—women in red-trimmed kimonos strolling back from mushroom gathering, drunken men with mats slung over shoulders near where an amusement park stood.
The townspeople cherished visiting those mountains during spring and autumn outings as one of their yearly pleasures.
To Omachi and the children, being unable to enjoy such excursions this year remained counted among their sorrows.

The river water flowed chillily under the bridge without a sound. Until last summer, Omachi and the others had come to this river every Tanabata night, each vying to show off the elegance of their new yukata as they all noisily floated bamboo branches adorned with colorful paper strips. When Obon came, they would vie with the townspeople to be first in coming to light the welcoming and sending fires for the spirits.

“Spirits! Spirits!”

In various spots along the riverbed, the voices of adults and children could be heard. Flickering red flames spat from the burning tips of a bundle of dried hemp stalks, joyfully and merrily waved by the children’s small hands along the shore. There were still innocent children who, helped by their mothers, were managing to wave the dried hemp stalks. On the river, many floating lanterns were set adrift, extinguishing only to reignite, reigniting only to extinguish again, following the current downstream as they drew near and apart from one another, exchanging smiles while flowing across the water’s surface. The children were so entranced by the splendid spectacle that one could scarcely imagine how many cries of delight they raised.

However, this year, within the confines of their secluded gate, Omachi and her siblings were raised in stifling confinement. They had indeed written their Tanabata wishes on paper strips, but late that night, after the crowds had dispersed, those strips were secretly tossed into the river by a servant’s hand.

And so, after lighting the graves and sending off the Obon spirits, they could only gaze from the second floor of their house at the faintly reddened sky over the river with trembling hearts.

Omachi thought of such things, and sad, helpless childish tears welled up in her eyelids. Everything was all Father’s doing—Gen’emon was the bad one—she thought as tears welled up.

Year after year, the river's water had gradually diminished until now the riverbed lay completely dried up; across its expanse emerged a great number of prisoners clad in straight-sleeved tops and Western-style trousers of faded vermilion—as though washed by rain—who were desperately carrying sand from somewhere.
Across the riverbed—washed up white from the stream and dried, thick with pebbles—each vermilion figure that had emerged in scattered dots was enveloped in the serene light of late autumn, appearing like scattered fragments of a painting.
Officials in black uniforms stood idly about here and there, monitoring their labor.

When Omachi went outside, she now and then saw prisoners confined in the prison at the edge of town passing through the thoroughfare accompanied by jailers.
Each time she saw them, Omachi felt sick to her stomach, thinking these prisoners had fallen into such lowly states because they’d committed some evil deed in the past.
Omachi, seeing the many prisoners still toiling at the riverbed, felt her small chest tighten.
Why had they done such wicked deeds that would reduce them to this ugly, wretched state? Omachi’s lovely eyes once again grew moist.
Beneath the soft sunlight, the prisoners—blending into one another—each appeared to follow their ordained fate as they toiled like slaves, scattered here and there in their labors.
The quietly clear, beautiful nature surrounded their band of fate-stricken figures far and wide, bestowing a gentle, soothing solace.
They came and went in pairs, carrying baskets on their shoulders.

Oiku had been desperately trying to spot someone since earlier, watching their work with an urgent gaze.

“Oh look there—that one over there sifting sand behind the prison guard right now. The one on this side must be him.”
“They must be sifting sand at that large sand dune over there.”
“That’s definitely the shorter one.”
“Do you see? He’s grown so old.”

Having suddenly said this, Oiku took her mother-in-law’s hand—Omachi saw this.
Grandmother frantically gripped the bridge railing as if a lion had clamped its jaws on it, her bleary eyes opening wide.
Grandmother, deluded by the momentary awareness that “Tamezō’s figure had been spotted,” was staggering unsteadily on her feet as if beholding something terrifying, utterly devoid of spirit.
Even the stalwart Oiku, seeing her husband’s current figure viewed from afar like this, felt her chest tighten as tears welled up irresistibly.

“What a relief we found him, wasn’t it?”

Oiku pressed a half-width cloth to her eyes, her voice trembling.

Before long, Oiku urged her mother-in-law and three children onward and descended beneath the bridge to the riverbed with feigned nonchalance.
She feigned belonging among carefree families sauntering through late autumn’s suburbs.
The prisoners came and went in shifts—pairs arriving from the distant sand dune shouldering baskets to scatter sand.
Not a moment’s lapse was permitted in their labor.
They moved their limbs like machinery—carrying sand to dump—repeating this sole task until sunset’s approach.
Throughout this time, conversation with others remained impossible.
Mute as stones under officials’ merciless surveillance, they persisted in their diligent toil.

Oku, who had been staring intently at their movements, unwrapped the cloth-wrapped bundle she had been carrying under her arm with fumbling hands and carefully took out a round object wrapped in paper from within.
Then Oku tried to locate the two prisoners she had spotted earlier on the bridge while casting cautious glances around.
Her eyes brimmed with fragile tears as her lips soon quivered tremulously.
At that moment, the shorter of two prisoners descending from a small hill across cast a sharp glance toward Omachi and her group while dumping sand.
He then crossed over the distant cliff as if nothing were amiss.
Tears welled up in his eyes.
White hairs now glistened throughout his closely cropped hair.
Biting her lip and avoiding the jailer’s gaze,Oku began wandering near the sand dune piled by the two prisoners.
The jailer slowly moved away from her and kept watch over the others.

The jailer did not know that Oiku had quickly buried the round object wrapped in paper into part of the sand dune.
Before long, Oiku turned back and, sitting down on the cliff on this side, began to smoke.

However, Omachi was intently watching the mother's actions from this side.
She knew that paper-wrapped package contained the daifuku mochi the mother had bought along the way.
Omachi was suddenly seized by an uncontrollable terror at what might happen.

After a while, the two prisoners from earlier came carrying baskets again.
As they dumped sand onto that familiar dune, the shorter one with a pallid, fragile-looking complexion swiftly discovered the secret offering buried within.
He grabbed the daifuku mochi from under the basket and passed it to his partner.
Then they deftly stuffed two or three into their mouths.
Oiku hurriedly brought her mouth close to the ears of the elderly mother and children.

"That is Father."

When Omachi heard her mother's words—uttered with a hot, stifled breath—she recoiled.
That the prisoner her mother had just called Father could be the same parent she had endlessly longed for in her heart was something Omachi could not bring herself to believe.
Omachi immediately wanted to flee home.
When she thought that Father—who had left with a policeman that spring—might have become one of these prisoners, the girl's yearning heart could only conclude it must be mistaken identity.
Omachi looked at him again with meticulous care.
He was unmistakably her father.
He was unmistakably that father—the one who had cherished her most.
Each time he came to sift sand, he would gaze wistfully and sorrowfully at the desolate figures of his aged mother, beloved wife, and dear children who had stolen out to meet him.
Countless tears coursed down his parched cheeks.

“Oh dear... Oh dear... To end up in such disgrace—how he must endure it. How shameful!”
“How shameful!”

Grandmother kept lamenting as she sank deeper into weeping, her sobs growing more stifled.

“He has aged, but I must say he seems sturdier than I expected.”

Mother kept sobbing and sniffling.
The children wandered there forlornly.

Five

From around that time, someone began visiting Omachi's house stealthily late at night about once a month.
Upon arrival, this person would immediately be taken upstairs to hold quiet consultations with the family members.
This was a distant relative of Oiku who worked as a jailer in the prison where Tamezō was confined.
When they saw this person's face, they nearly clasped their hands together as they asked after Tamezō's welfare.
Sometimes they could get small rolled letters delivered to Tamezō.

“I throw them through the toilet window.”

Out of compassion for the family, he would occasionally provide Tamezō with secret communications this way. At times he brought brief messages from Tamezō too. Yet no means or methods could secure Tamezō’s return home within his sentenced years of hard labor. Even that man’s goodwill—seizing chances to petition the warden for a pardon—failed to bear fruit.

On the very next day after that jailer—who visited them once a month or every two months, albeit rarely—came and went, they would invariably manage to meet Tamezō somewhere.
At times at the riverbed by the pontoon bridge, at others in the town’s Jishu district, the family members managed to find Tamezō in his downcast and pitiful state.
Oiku increasingly began concealing sushi and kintsuba under her arm when she went out.
These sorrowful meetings between parent, child, and spouse—where not even a single word could be exchanged—continued to occur many times thereafter.

However, Omachi went to the riverbed with her mother and the others just once initially and never proposed going again.
The raw wound inflicted by this thing called "Father" gradually deepened its scar, gnawing into her youthful frame.
Omachi's small mind was torn between yearning for her father and revulsion toward him.
And so, Omachi felt as though she lost her father forever.
Lonely, helpless tears flowed of their own accord down her milky-white cheeks.

From around that time, a vague consideration began to dawn in Omachi’s innocent breast—the thought that she must leave this house, that she must someday break away from this dark household that had produced that father.