Pathway to Japanese Literature

1

At the village headman’s house with a large pine tree atop the slope, the drum summoning the messenger had been resonating—Boom, boom, rat-a-tat—just moments before, but Inosuke the messenger now slipped into the shop and stood like a wooden post in the center of the earthen floor, peering into the dim kitchen.

The shop stood empty, its large brass brazier glinting along the rim as if polished by countless hands, pressing into the tatami mats with such solidity that one might imagine a person sitting cross-legged there.

“Mr. Inosuke, what brings you here?” called Ohikaru, the young mistress, from the preparation area beyond the soy sauce-colored bamboo lattice that seemed permeated with the aromas of simmered dishes and sake.

“Ah, Miss Ohikaru, there you are.… With your mother away, you must be swamped.”

Sniffling his nose, Inosuke stared through the bamboo lattice at what appeared to be Ohikaru’s pale face floating there, his eyes crusted with sleep.

“When Mother isn’t even here, for the village office to come saying such things—it’s truly troublesome.”

Ohikaru handed over the half-cleared remains from two meal trays served to lunch guests to the maid who had returned from washing vegetables for stem pickles at the riverside washing area downstream, then turned sharply from the preparation area into the kitchen and settled herself before the long brazier with its broad, sturdy rim.

Though foremost among her features was the conspicuously petite round chignon tied with a dark green headscarf, from between the bumpy black satin collar of her modest striped lined kimono emerged a pale, slender neck—as delicate as a courtesan doll’s that might slip free if pulled—exuding gentle allure.

She gave a slight shake to her slender, sloping shoulders, removed the blue sash, then absently reached toward the brazier and took up the thick iron fire tongs—their heft appearing almost painful to grip in those delicate fingers where glinted a thin lover’s ring with reddish tint.

In such moments, her refusal to smoke tobacco seemed a glaring flaw in her carefully maintained composure. After removing her sash, she found herself wishing someone would casually offer her the long tobacco pipe as she sat before the long brazier.

"What if you smoked tobacco?"
"I'll get you a Kisero pipe and tobacco case in Osaka."

Ever since divorcing her adopted son-in-law two or three years prior and taking charge of Ohikaru's personal affairs and household, the Master often said such things.

The Master, who in his youth had smoked imported cigarettes like Cameo and Old Gold to impress the villagers, even now refrained from Shikishima or Asahi brands, ostentatiously puffing on gold-tipped ones instead while habitually urging Ohikaru to take up tobacco.

“Since I’m going to the County Council the day after tomorrow, I’ll swing by Osaka and get you a tobacco case.”
There had even been times when he’d said such things with pressed urgency.
At such times, Ohikaru couldn’t stand the Master’s shallowly bold demeanor—flaunting his County Council connections and playing the local power broker—far more than she disliked the tobacco talk.

She couldn't help finding it refined—the way Koike, a painter now living in Tokyo who didn't even return to the village once every three or four years, paid no attention whatsoever to prefectural or county matters. Even when talk of ministers or parliament came up, what made Ohikaru think so remarkably highly of Koike—to the point she could hardly bear it—was how he seemed to consider such matters no more significant than rumors about a pigsty or beehive.

Whenever exhibitions were held in Tokyo and reviews of Koike's paintings appeared in newspapers and magazines, Ohikaru would read each one with eyes wide as saucers. She couldn't contain her joy at Koike's reputation rising steadily higher.

“Mr. Koike here’s something special—his name keeps showin’ up in them Tokyo and Osaka papers and all,” Ohikaru would say whenever someone mentioned such things at the shop, her delight growing so fierce she’d practically strong-arm them into staying while she served up pickled dishes. Yet whenever his name chanced to appear in the local rag, the Master would come parading in like he’d bagged some demon general himself, waving the paper about—a spectacle that filled her with mounting contempt.

“Biggest successes from these parts’d be Mr. Koike and Shinden’s Goro-saku, I tell you,” some would remark. “Why, if he’d gone into sumo proper, Goro-saku’s name wouldn’t grace them papers day in, day out!” Others echoed similar sentiments.

The foolish son Goro-saku of Shinden, who had done nothing but fail in school, had followed Koike to Tokyo hoping to rely on him only to be rebuffed; he became a sumo wrestler under the ring name ×× River and now even appeared in newspaper match listings—Ohikaru found this somewhat amusing too, though she regretted hearing him mentioned alongside Koike.

"I tell you, I can't stand tobacco—the smell alone turns my stomach."
"...Once I pass thirty, I'll try taking it up again. Just two or three years now—you'll have to wait till then."

With a smile playing on her charming lips where a small beauty mark accentuated her features, Ohikaru would deftly manage the Master in this manner.

"The other day, I said I'd give you ten yen to have a ring made—is that the one you're wearing now?... Let me see it."

The Master opened his tobacco-stained, snaggletoothed mouth wide and made this demand in a tone suggesting conferred favor.

The twin-linked rings of this lover's band bore Koike engraved in fine script on one loop and Mitsu on the other, but to the Master—who couldn't read a single character—it might as well have proclaimed gold's intrinsic properties, leaving him no recourse but to peer at the ring's underside.

“Ten yen for this? That’s steep.”
“Probably weighs no more than two momme.”

Having said this, the Master tried fitting the lover’s ring—which he’d made Ohikaru remove—onto his own gnarled, thick fingers, then placed it on his palm, hefting it as if gauging its weight.

“That’s why I told you ten yen wasn’t enough…… I used what was left to buy you those geta, didn’t I?”
“...I hate it.” Ohikaru glared at the Master with eyes that held a seductive charm.

“Gold’s got a wicked nature—see how it’s got that coppery tint?”

The Master, who believed nothing in this world surpassed the value of gold and poured his very soul into yellow-glinting objects, cast eyes gleaming with a cold, whitish light upon the lover’s ring’s feeble golden hue, comparing it to the color of the thick gold chain that garishly coiled about his wide white silk heko obi.

“You really don’t understand, do you?… That brassy gold isn’t in fashion these days. Nowadays it’s reddish gold like this or whitish ones that are in fashion, you see… Just look at the watch chains of people visiting from Tokyo—they’re all slender, elegant things made of pale gold.… If not that, then platinum. But a thick yellowish chain like yours might as well have ‘gold chain’ stamped right on it—has no class at all.”

When Ohikaru spoke these words with half-mocking intent, the Master grew frantic,

“You’re all about Tokyo—if you love it so much, why don’t you go live there?… I’m a man of this village. Staying put here won’t make me any good at imitating folks from some far-off town.”
“...Rather than that adulterated gold with its poor color, I’ll take twenty-karat or eighteen-karat any day—if it’s twenty-two karat or pure gold, all the better. The value’s entirely different, I tell you.”

The Master tossed aside Ohikaru’s lover’s ring there, first removing to show the thick signet ring engraved with his personal seal that he wore on his left finger, then producing from his obi the large gold watch that nearly slipped free—its twin lids crosshatched like Toraya’s rectangular manjū.

“It looks just like a doctor’s watch...” she laughed, taking the lover’s ring and slipping it back onto her right index finger as before.

The lover’s ring glowed on Ohikaru’s slender fingers as she sat by the long brazier holding thick iron fire tongs, its gleam clearly visible even to Inosuke with his failing eyes.

Two

“Today’s feast was quite something,” said Inosuke, licking his lips as though he had just eaten while twitching his pointed nose, edging closer to Ohikaru.

The closer one drew to the kitchen area, the thicker grew the smells of simmering dishes and sake that permeated the dim, oppressive air.
The large plates and bowls arrayed on the kitchen shelves with their offerings seemed to pierce Inosuke's eyes sharply.
The thin copper quick-boiling pot sent up white steam through its lid's gap.
The four-to cask placed sideways still emitted fresh cedar fragrance from its spout where fragrant drops appeared ready to drip.

“Coming to this house feels like stepping onto the Isle of Women,” said Inosuke, standing in a position that overlooked Ohikaru’s round chignon as he grinned slyly.

“Oh? So you’ve actually been to this ‘Isle of Women’ place, have you? Quite the fortunate man.” Ohikaru continued fiddling with the thick fire tongs using her slender fingers, her voice dripping with mockery.

“Mr. Inosuke, do tell us about your visit to the Isle of Women—even a man like you must’ve had a great many ladies fighting over you there.”
“...They must’ve all been starving, right?”
“Ho ho ho.” The ruddy-faced, large-eyed maid Oume—drawing water with a windlass at the indoor well beneath the soot-laden attic—turned around and laughed.
Inosuke simply kept grinning awkwardly, clearly at a loss for words.

“Miss Ohikaru, they say destroying things is easier than making them, but when it comes to wells, filling them up takes more work than digging them.”
“The wells in the village are still manageable, but when it comes to town wells—first off there’s no soil around, see—they say filling ’em up costs a heap more money than digging ’em ever did.”

While looking at Oume’s greasy, plump red hands gripping the thick palm-fiber rope, Inosuke said such things.

“What are you going on about, Mr. Inosuke? Out of nowhere! No one can fill wells anyway... More importantly, do you actually have business here? Didn’t Mr. Village Chief’s drum sound just now? Whenever you come around, you never bring any proper news.” Ohikaru clanged the brazier’s trivet with thick fire tongs as she spoke.

“That’s true—it’s no proper business at all.
...Tonight they’re making you take in three more soldiers at your place.”

“Stop your blathering, Mr. Inosuke.
Forced to lodge ten rough men at the Isle of Women—haven’t the two of us been dancing attendance since morning?
Mother isn’t here either...”

“I’m well aware of that.”
“But even the village chief’s at his wit’s end—what with this mix-up cropping up just today, he hasn’t a moment to go coordinate with the office.”
“There’s no help for it—they’re saying to dump them on Daikokuya and leave it to you, Miss Ohikaru.”

“How am I supposed to endure being saddled with this? No matter how much lodging people is our business—preparing full meals for just twenty sen a head... Daikokuya may be a business through and through, what with being assigned guests left and right every time like clockwork—but being a business makes it all the harder. We’ve got to turn away other customers, and even one night’s stay drags our trade down.”

Gripping the thick fire tongs in a reverse hand grip as if drawing a short sword, Ohikaru stared fixedly at Inosuke’s face.

“I’m well aware of that.”
“But with this sudden mix-up, even the village chief’s at his wit’s end.”
“They tried havin’ just three stay at the village chief’s place, see—but his place is... well, the general’s headquarters or whatnot, packed full of high-ranking officers. So even three regular soldiers ain’t allowed to bunk there, they say.” Inosuke wiped his forehead repeatedly in the chilly early autumn air.

“What on earth caused this sudden mix-up?” Ohikaru’s expression softened slightly.

“Just listen to this, see.…”

Inosuke finally sat down on the edge of the entrance step and rummaged through the frayed straw tobacco pouch at his waist.

“That white-haired painter borrowin’ Mr. Koike’s house—they were supposed to have three stay at his place. …Though when they first told him that, he kicked up a real fuss. But since this ain’t like other matters, they made him swallow it whether he liked it or not.”
“So what happens then? Today they’ve gone and changed the lodgin’ assignments.”
“To Higashimura, see.”
“The annex of Mr. Senzo in the east is available, see—they’ve moved the lodging assignment to that house. Happened around noon today, y’know.”
“The foundation’s all wrong, see—if you refuse to lodge soldiers by force, the village office would report it to the police and penalties would be imposed, they say. But the right to stop lodging reassignments ain’t with Mr. Village Chief nor Mr. County Chief nor even Mr. Police Chief, y’know? Makes for a right troublesome situation, don’t it.” Inosuke made a frustrated face.

“So their reassignment ended up dumped here instead, did it?”
"...How mean of you," Ohikaru laughed.

“But still…” Inosuke stared intently from the shop area bright as a watercolor painting toward the back entrance resembling a tunnel exit, then—

“……Mr. Koike’s also mixed up in this matter.”
..." she said in a hushed voice.

“Uh-huh, really...”

Upon hearing Koike's name, Ohikaru's heart seemed to surge.

“That painter’s head’s all white-haired, but they say he’s still the same age as Mr. Koike.”
“Even bein’ the same age, his paintin’s are wretched. Can’t stomach havin’ him as Mr. Koike’s disciple in name alone.”
“Whenever there’s trouble brewin’, they send letters to Mr. Koike—so this time too, when they complained ’bout lodgin’ soldiers and asked what’s to be done, Mr. Koike’s reply came last night tellin’ ’em to switch quarters, so they say.”
……”

“So you’ve been reading others’ letters at the post office again? That place has so little work they read everything—makes it impossible to trust them.” Ohikaru furrowed her brows.

“Is it truly wrong if they read folks’ letters at the post office?… When my place got that repossession notice from the town pawnshop, the post office found it so amusing—showed it off to everyone buying postcards or stamps and had a grand laugh about it.” Inosuke diverted the conversation.

“Isn’t that what they call the secrecy of correspondence? Even the post office shouldn’t go peeking into people’s letters... When it comes to Mr. Koike’s letters, they seem to look all the harder, don’t they?” Ohikaru’s eyes glistened with moisture as she let out a small yawn.

“But Mr. Koike is Mr. Koike through and through. Teaching such underhanded tricks... The Village Chief ain’t pleased either. Since they’ve already laid out the tatami mats there, they’ve been stored away proper. If there were mats here, it’d just be meals to worry about—we could even borrow a maid from the Village Chief’s place and manage somehow for one night. But without tatami, you’ve got no way to make do at all... So I’m real sorry about this, but I’ve come to ask your household. The Village Chief’ll be coming round later too, I reckon.”

Inosuke stared intently at Ohikaru’s profile and, having said all this, let out a sigh.

Ohikaru, who believed herself to be the only one in this village who truly understood Koike’s temperament, considered how this deliberate lodging reassignment—done out of aversion to housing soldiers—truly exemplified what kind of person Koike was.
And if the waters Koike had diverted were now flowing into her own home, she found she couldn’t even feel it as a nuisance—instead, a certain gladness began to well up within her.

“Very well—even if three become five, I’ll take them in now that it’s come to this. …Though it’s a mean trick you’re pulling.”

Having declared this briskly, Ohikaru sprang up and entered the kitchen, soon returning with a small dish of simmered herring topped with grilled tofu and a heated sake decanter.

“Mr. Inosuke, the decanter should still be warm—help yourself,” she said, setting them by Inosuke’s pointed nose.

“How terribly kind of you.”

Inosuke stared blankly at the sake and accompaniments for a moment, but

“I’ll help myself without ceremony.
...Cold’s better suited to me.” He dumped the leftover tea dregs from the teacup resting on the wide rim of the long brazier—its brass fittings glinting—onto the earthen floor. After giving an exaggerated shiver two or three times, he sloshed sake from the decanter, his scrawny neck’s Adam’s apple bobbing as he smacked his lips with relish.

Kicking up dust from the main road, a village office messenger clad in new kogura hakama trousers burst in like the wind.

“Daikokuya, two Shingen Bento… top-grade ones, I tell ya!”
“...Have Miss Oume deliver them right away.”
“Two military affairs officers at the county office are waiting there starving.”
“...Report concluded!” he shouted in a bell-like voice, then executed a military-style about-face, swiftly pivoting from the earthen floor to the main road before kicking up another dust cloud as he dashed away.

“Coming here saying such things at this hour—there’s no proper meal prepared. …Oume, bring that rice container here.” Ohikaru removed the jade-topped hairpin from her silver-legged clasp and, scratching the base of her round chignon as if bothered by an itch, peered into the large rice container Oume had brought.

“Ah, what a hassle,” he said, revealing slender calves up to the bent knees beneath Tomozome’s bathhouse sign as he took a shortcut from the earthen floor straight to the storehouse, stepping over the high threshold in one motion.

“It’s like tumbling backward through Okaru’s seventh act, I tell ya.”
“...Funadama-san would...” As a sea of sly smiles rippled across Inosuke’s slightly flushed face.

Glancing back over her shoulder, Ohikaru smirked before retrieving the morning offerings of rice piled in teacups and golden bowls from the storehouse's altar shelf and household altar. When she handed them to Oume, Oume emptied them into the rice container, loosened the grains with a wooden paddle, and packed them into a round Seto-ware bento.

"The honorable meals serve their duty twice over."
"It's business, so there's no helping it. ...Mr. Inosuke, don't go telling people about this sort of thing."

Coming from the storehouse to the side of the long brazier, Ohikaru sat facing Inosuke.

"Who'd go blabbin' such things? Even if they did, this ain't no cat or dog's slop—they're holy offerings from the gods and Buddha. Folks'd be beggin' to take 'em if we asked."

"What a waste, what a waste!" Inosuke turned the sake decanter upside down over his teacup, shaking it for the last drops.

"Don't you dare say another word about it," Ohikaru insisted, her face turning stern.

After Oume wrapped two Shingen Bento in a furoshiki cloth and hurried off toward the village office still wearing her red sash,

“You’ve really gone all out again... The favor I asked for won’t go wrong, Miss Ohikaru.” Inosuke, now seeming like a different man from when he had entered, staggered his way back home.

III

Soon after the shop’s clock struck three in the afternoon, two large soldiers on horseback came galloping up, their horseshoes clattering against the gravel road. Then, accompanied by village office staff and the village chief, they went around posting notices at the houses designated for lodging.

On the left pillar of Ohikaru’s shopfront was posted a long paper placard boldly inscribed with "○th Company Officers’ Room," while on the right pillar was affixed another placard reading "Military Police Station."

The village children, excited by the rare sight of soldiers, clamored noisily as they followed behind the two large soldiers. Those returning from school had all joined in the commotion too. The horses dismounted by the soldiers were tied to a pine tree in the square before Daikokuya. Among the children clamoring from a distance as they fearfully surrounded the chestnut and bay horses—their stout rumps and short, neatly trimmed tails hanging smartly—there were also many adults. From within that crowd, Ohikaru spotted her daughter Okatsu, who had just started attending school that year, and had Oume bring her back.

“You shouldn’t play on your way back from school. Go home proper-like, say ‘I’m home,’ and then you can go out to play.” Ohikaru admonished her young daughter while staring at her face.

Okatsu sat properly with her hands on her lap, listening to her mother’s words.
The tradition of this household had become such that though raising daughters within the village, they would never let them acquire any provincial air—for three generations straight, whenever adopted sons-in-law were taken in, they would all sever ties and depart, leaving behind only a single daughter.
I too was raised that way by my mother.
Mother was also raised that way by her mother.
I too must raise this daughter that way.

Ohikaru shifted her gaze from Okatsu’s round, childlike face down to her small knees resting on the floor, and without quite knowing why, felt tears welling up.

“Miss Ohikaru’s child—is she adopted then? Or a firecracker’s spark?”

"That child alone is undoubtedly adopted... If we speak of her eyes or mouth—not merely resembling him—down to the last detail, she's his mirror image... isn't she?"

The shameless villagers would twist even jōruri ballad verses to make such comments, which often reached Ohikaru's ears—yet truth be told, this child bore a striking resemblance to her father, from whom all ties had been severed three years prior.
Once more, Ohikaru found herself dwelling on this thought.

Though merely cotton, its bold stripes of madder red, indigo, and fresh-leaf green formed a pattern as dramatic as a kabuki theater's grand curtain—in this backwater village, none but her own daughter wore such garments.
Be it formal wear or everyday clothes, in kimono or children's attire, none could rival her daughter—indeed, none could even approach her standing.

The young substitute teacher at the school had plucked a line from The Tale of Genji—"not even resembling each other in eyes or nose"—to compare Okatsu with the other girls, declaring Okatsu "the moon" and the rest "mud turtles" in such blatant favoritism that he was reprimanded by the principal.
In my own childhood, such things happened often.
Koike, six years my senior, was living in the village at that time and doted on me with almost reverent tenderness.
He who had been skilled at painting since those days—the grand depiction of Nozaki’s Journey he drew for me across Mino paper—still rests in the bottom drawer of my mirror stand.

If only this daughter were Koike’s child, if she were Koike’s seed—

Ohikaru suddenly found herself thinking such thoughts.

That autumn before last—when we had chanced upon each other through a luggage tag’s clue in Umeda Station’s dim waiting room after years apart—we wandered dreamily through Kawachi Province without purpose until dawn found us at some ill-at-ease country inn like foxes bewitched; yet among more men than fingers could count on one hand—why did that single reckless night with Koike—so fleeting and unresolved—seep into my bones unforgettably? Was I bound by childhood intimacy’s strong thread? Did his title as Tokyo artist overwhelm me? Even now—to myself—these words taste hollow.

From that time when my involvement with the current Master had gradually become publicly known—even after the divorce—the name of Okatsu's father, which still remained unremoved from the family registry, was erased through Master's efforts without even going to court; and after Okatsu became household head with myself as guardian, with Master practically taking up permanent residence before the long brazier, I wrote a lengthy letter while seizing a moment of his absence, fearing how the village's clamorous gossip might somehow reach Tokyo through some chance occurrence.

The letter had to be sent to a trusted acquaintance in Osaka, from where her brother would address it under a man’s name before mailing it to Koike—but within that lengthy letter:

"...You have likely already heard the general circumstances through others, and must surely be thinking that Ohikaru appears as a wretched human being with all affection thoroughly extinguished.
Wretched Ohikaru shall never again meet Your Excellency in this world.
Wretched Ohikaru wishes she could end it all in one decisive act to atone, but for the sake of the elderly’s grief and the child’s pitiful state, she has resigned herself to death and endures in silence.
Ohikaru has become a fallen human being who does not even recognize shame as shame.……"
She had written such things, but then—for some reason—tears welled up from deep within like water from a bottomless well, soaking the lengthy letter. Where she’d written "Ohikaru does not even recognize shame as shame," the ink bled and blurred, splattering across the page.

Ohikaru had resolved alone that Koike, upon reading this lengthy letter, would regret having grown close to someone like a prostitute and would send no reply.
"After all, Mr. Koike has a wife too, doesn't he? If we're talking about wrongdoing, we're both at fault."
"There's no reason only I should hold back," she thought, and "Ohikaru is a wretched woman."
I came to regret having written such things in the letter - though men are equally wretched, this societal expectation that only women must become wretched seemed utterly absurd.

However, a reply came from Koike.
...routed through a trusted acquaintance in Osaka and sent discreetly under their name to the village post office—a sealed letter bearing two three-sen stamps—she waited until the Master was absent, entered the third guest room on the second floor, locked it from inside, and upon opening found that from within the wrapping paper where her Osaka acquaintance had written "Much Obliged" in bold Tokyo-style characters emerged the customary Western-style envelope, its sincere penmanship reading "Dear Ohikaru" bringing both comfort and anguish.

The envelope was so beautiful she hesitated to tear it open. Using the tip of her hairpin to pierce through its vivid seal, what she extracted was a lovely sheet of paper embossed with a heart-shaped watermark.
The five pages were densely covered on both sides with those usual difficult phrases like “Man must be free” and such—things Ohikaru couldn’t fully comprehend—but

“...What do you mean by saying you’ve become a wretched person?”
she read a passage declaring, “Someone like me has been a wretched human being from the start—wretched through and through…” and let out a sigh of relief.

"...And what exactly have you done to merit being called a fallen human being who doesn't even recognize shame as shame? Are you claiming to have become a one-eyed goblin? Or perhaps given birth to some creature with a human head and dog's body? Now that would be remarkable indeed." Reading the line stating "...Koike would never say such things," Ohikaru briefly wondered if she was being mocked, yet from the surrounding text she could perceive his earnestness.

Koike knew every detail of her recent circumstances from start to finish, yet his feelings remained unchanged as he continued to cherish her from afar. There could be no doubt about that.

Thinking this, Ohikaru felt a shudder run through the base of her spine. She immediately set about writing a reply, pressing down with particular force as she inscribed the words "I will never conceive" in characters brimming with conviction at the letter's conclusion.

Ohikaru kept her late husband's only daughter close by her side while thoughts of this and that swirled endlessly through her mind.
Little Okatsu, seeing her mother's expression, assumed she alone was being scolded, and with a voice that seemed ready to split the air, burst into tears.

Ohikaru, who had forgotten the child at her knees and had been making a frightening face, startled—

“What’s the matter now, Okatsu? What are you crying for?” she asked, suddenly putting on a gentle face.

IV

Yesterday differed from today—the sky hung heavily overcast, and a warm south wind blew, so the whistle of the train passing one ri to the south could be heard clearly.
For the first time in a while, even the Osaka noon cannon resounded more distinctly here than when heard in Senba.
At that time she had immediately synchronized both the shop clock and her own pocket watch with the noon cannon, so today’s time in her household stood certain.

While thinking this, Ohikaru entered the storage room and took out a bean-sized gold watch with a short chain from the small drawer of the clothes chest's box to examine it. The dial itself was golden, its tiny hand already nearing four o'clock with eight minutes remaining. When she opened the travel guide specially ordered from town three or four days earlier, it showed the special express train Koike had boarded that morning in Tokyo was now approaching Nagoya, its arrival time listed as 4:08. That train I once rode three or four years ago must now be running through Ōbu or Ōdaka.

With the dense forest of Atsuta Shrine to her left and the golden shachihoko gleaming in the sunset to her right, Koike’s figure leaning against the window of the train approaching Nagoya Station appeared vividly before her eyes.

"I will depart on the morning express of the sixth; arrival in Osaka at 8:25 PM. If you can come, please meet me at Umeda Station at that hour and wait in last year’s dim waiting room."

The letter from Koike containing just these scribbled instructions in pen on his usual heart-watermarked stationery had reached her hands through the Osaka acquaintance's customary procedures a week prior.

"No matter what arrangements I make, I will resolutely be waiting at Umeda on the sixth.
I won't tolerate being deceived," she wrote in reply using Tokyo dialect phrases acquired from novels, wielding the pen she herself had recently begun using. After promptly dispatching it to her Osaka contact, three mornings later through the same intermediary's relay came—

"If I say I'll go, I will go without fail. Even if fire rains down or spears pour from the sky, I will go. Do not mistake the time of 8:25 PM." Then came his reply scrawled in pen: "If you mess this up, I'll resent you forever."

"I must meet you once by all means to speak my mind, but as it would be inconvenient should you return to the village, I humbly request you come to Osaka instead. Only after meeting your beloved face in person can I convey these matters in full—matters I have resolved for a lifetime yet find utterly impossible to commit to paper." Letters stating "I earnestly beg your presence in Osaka by all means—" were something she had written and sent countless times since that incident last autumn. Moved by these entreaties, Koike must have finally resolved to come to Osaka for the first time in a year.

Thinking this, Ohikaru tucked away the letter that read "If you tell me to go, I will go without fail—even if fire rains down or spears pour from the sky..." against her skin inside her innermost garment and bustled about her household duties that day when just before noon, Inosuke arrived like a bolt from the blue to inform her that soldiers would be lodging at the inn on that very crucial evening of the sixth.

On the sixth, I must go to Osaka for shopping.
She had arranged for her hard-of-hearing elderly mother—who was house-sitting while helping relatives four ri to the south in a coastal town—to briefly return home, after which she herself would complete her shopping, visit those coastal relatives to assist them overnight, and return. Though she had skillfully fabricated this story for the Master’s benefit, everything had now fallen apart.

Why, of all days, did Mr. Koike have to choose the sixth—this ill-fated day?
If it had been the seventh, that would have worked; even the fifth I could have managed somehow—but the sixth at 8:25 PM made it utterly impossible.
With only two days remaining now, there simply remained no time to inform Koike through our Osaka contact about postponing to the seventh or eighth.
Should I bungle things and let someone from Koike’s household glimpse those secret letters, that would spell the end of everything.
A certain Mr. ○no○○○—when sending covert messages—would apparently spread out a newspaper, mark only necessary characters with pencil from top column to bottom, then send that paper so recipients might trace the marks to decipher meaning.

Thinking this, Ohikaru took up a nearby newspaper and began marking circles in pencil over only the necessary characters starting from the opening lines of a story featuring an illustration of a young man and woman standing in conversation. By the time she reached the story's end, she had effortlessly obtained the characters needed to spell out: "The sixth is inconvenient; please make it the seventh." However, even were she to suddenly send this newspaper to Koike, he likely wouldn't understand a thing. She considered that using red ink for the circles might prove too conspicuous yet possibly achieve her purpose—but ultimately, Ohikaru found herself unable to resolve to send the newspaper in such fashion.

Even Koike wasn't a child—just because he didn't see me anywhere in Umeda at 8:25 PM on the sixth, he wouldn't simply return home like some messenger pigeon. Even if he took lodgings somewhere and sent a letter through their usual intermediary—one perhaps laced with reproachful words about this breach of promise—a resolutely joyful letter would undoubtedly arrive. If only we knew where he'd be staying, arrangements could surely be made somehow—breaking the 8:25 appointment and keeping the man in suspense might even provide good material for future persuasion.

Ohikaru had momentarily resigned herself to thinking this way, but no—that short-tempered Koike would never entertain such a leisurely approach. Were he to scan the entire station without catching sight of me, he likely wouldn’t even bother searching every corner before wandering off to some hot spring town, where he might find some younger beauty surpassing me. This bond of childhood friends pulled me toward Koike like a five-colored thread; undoubtedly some force drew him to me across a hundred and sixty ri, yet the thread stretched so taut it seemed ready to snap at any moment.

From Tokyo—where beautiful women seemed as plentiful as swept-up trash—why would Koike travel all this way to be drawn to someone like me? Was it merely longing for our childhood bond? Was it genuine intent? Or just a jest?
It didn't matter which.
I didn't want to think about such things any longer.
I needed only to meet someone like Koike—my Cowherd Star—once each year, just as the Weaver Star did.
Could it be that this year's Tanabata would see the Milky Way suddenly flood, thwarting our long-awaited rendezvous?
While Her Ladyship the Weaver Star kept her one man and delighted in that single joyous night each year, I had Master—a man who reeked of body odor—clinging to me all year long.
Before Master, there had been a son-in-law adopted into the family, and they'd even borne a child.
And then there were others...him.
...When I thought about it, it was so shameful.

Ohikaru continued absently pondering such things as she gazed through the lower glass panes of the storeroom’s shoji screens at the southern village’s fields tinged with yellow beyond the mountain stream lined with numerous riverbeds.
Memories came flooding back—of that Tanabata festival sixteen or seventeen years ago, when I was nine or ten and Koike fifteen or sixteen, running together down the narrow path connecting my village to the southern one, each clutching a bamboo branch adorned with five-colored paper strips.

The shop clock struck five o'clock.
When she picked up the travel guide left lying open, it was already nearly time for Koike's train to arrive at Ōgaki.
From Ōgaki to Maibara, Ōtsu, Kyoto, then Osaka.
Until 8:25 PM remained barely three hours.
Though Koike kept gradually drawing nearer even as I stood motionless, I couldn't advance half a block's distance toward him.

Ohikaru found herself unable to stay still whether standing or sitting. When she checked the small pocket watch, it already showed 5:05—the train must have been arriving at Ōgaki right about now. The image of Koike leaning out a window to buy persimmon yōkan or some such treat floated vividly before her eyes.

Even if she tried having someone deliver a letter to Umeda Station, she couldn't relax her vigilance for an instant—not with Oume and all the villagers acting as the Master's hidden spies. That Osaka contact had never been entrusted with such blatantly fabricated errands before, especially considering this was someone close to her whom Koike had never even met.

"What should I do?" Ohikaru grew increasingly frantic, clutching the slender gold chain of her small pocket watch as she stood up and paced hurriedly around the storeroom, only to collapse heavily back into her original spot and fling the gold timepiece before her.

“What are you doing?”

Before she could even process that the voice belonged to the Master, his face—with its protruding buckteeth and small wrinkles—loomed over her from above, descending upon Ohikaru as if to engulf her. His long hair—neither properly parted nor left unparted—hung over his forehead like a horse’s mane, adding to the eerie impression. Ohikaru frantically hid the gold watch and travel guide.—The stench of body odor wafted over.

五

“What’s a ‘morals sentry’?” the Master suddenly boomed.

“What on earth... Where could they be?...”

“Playing dumb, are you? They’re stayin’ at your place. …Didn’t I write it on the corner and post it?”

The Master, holding a double-layered Inverness coat that seemed too warm for the season with its splendid lining, ostentatiously spread it out and flung it down. He turned sharply from behind Ohikaru to the front of the chest of drawers and sat cross-legged with his black bowler hat still firmly planted on his head. Ohikaru took out from the cupboard and offered a thick merino zabuton cushion—prepared for the Master—with a tea-colored base scattered at intervals with large navy Kan'ei Tsuho coins and waves on the reverse side.

“Ohikaru, you got something to say? ...Your place was s’posed to have ten soldiers, but now it’s three more.” “The village representative came to my place all flustered-like, apologizin' up a storm.” “...S’pose the prep’s mostly done by now? Need me to rouse someone if required? Ain’t short on hands, are we?”

Saying this, the Master—appearing concerned about wrinkles forming on the hem of his kimono and its paired slender tortoiseshell-patterned Oshima haori—carefully flicked them back behind him. Around the coarsely woven white crepe silk hakama sash—which might as well have been an emblem declaring him a wealthy farmer—clung Ohikaru’s detested thick golden-yellow gold chain, dangling limply just below his haori cords alongside magnet and crystal seals.

“Where might you be going?” said Ohikaru, not answering the Master’s question but instead posing one of her own.

“My place’s s’posed to take ten too, but they’re all officers—only three regular soldiers.”

Bent three fingers of his right hand and lightly thrusting them before Ohikaru, he immediately moved that hand to his obi and began fiddling with the gold chain,

“Since this mornin’ I had Seisuke slaughter ten chickens, so that should s’pose suffice.
“As for the sake—s’pose we’ve got plenty of Hakushika’s 72-liter casks still untouched—no matter how much they drink, they’ll never drain ’em all.
“...Normally I’d have you handle the fish, but given today’s situation, I sent Eikichi to town first thing—came back with five sea bream fillets, five whole pike congers, ten slices each of kamaboko and thick grilled fishcake.” The Master spat flecks of saliva through his buckteeth as he rattled off the list.

‘Nothing but grand proclamations as usual,’ Ohikaru thought to herself,
“And where might you be going?” she asked again.

“Well now, when I’m around, the guests feel all reserved-like—s’pose it’s better if I head off to some nice place. Norm’lly I’d take you along, but tonight’s a special case.”
“...When you’re a soldier, stayin’ at some councilor’s place—one o’ them bigwig households—ain’t comfortable at all.”
“That’s why I’ll be considerate and go stay out alone. …Hmm... maybe I should head out now.” The Master began hoisting himself up from his seated position.

“I can’t tell whether it’s one or two.”

Ohikaru retorted sarcastically, her eyes glistening with their usual dampness as she turned haughtily toward the opposite bank.

“Well now—whether I go alone or try takin’ someone along, there ain’t no proper companion to be had.... Guess I’ll just have to go solo like I prefer.”

As he made this strange grunt, the Master abruptly stood up, but at the moment of rising extended his gnarled hand—adorned with a garishly wide gold ring that gleamed poisonously—and seized Ohikaru’s frail knee.

With her chin buried in the black satin collar and refusing to look at the Master as he moved away, Ohikaru—sensing through some instinct that he had likely sat back down before the long brazier without bothering with his sandals—suddenly grew restless and quietly rose to her feet after him. Slipping smoothly from beside the long brazier,

A voice calling "Ohikaru... Ohikaru" in an ingratiating tone was heard.
That she had once resented this man addressing her as simply "Ohikaru" without honorifics was now a matter from one or two years past—she had come to accept it as natural, no longer giving it any thought.
When she considered how making this man her Master allowed her aged mother, young daughter, herself, and the ancestral Daikokuya Inn to be sustained without starvation or decay—and as names of women from old tales who had saved their children's lives and preserved family honor by submitting to loathsome men floated up one after another—Ohikaru suddenly felt it wasteful to treat the Master carelessly, and with hurried movements she plopped down beside him at the edge of the long brazier in a show of closeness.
The Master, as if suddenly remembering something, rummaged through his sleeve and produced with great ceremony a single gold-tipped cigarette—the kind no one else in these parts smoked—which he proceeded to light.

“You said you were goin’ shoppin’ today—with this, you won’t be able to.”
“...Changed it to tomorrow, did you?”

Having said this, the Master blew a thin stream of tobacco smoke straight toward Ohikaru’s high, pointed nose.
Ohikaru, who detested tobacco, used the elongated red sleeve cuffs of her underrobe to fan away the smoke as she—

“Oh, stop that!” she said, overflowing with allure from head to toe in an utterly coquettish voice, then—
“As for tomorrow... I’ve already canceled that too.... Maybe next time…,” she murmured, gazing intently at the Master’s face.

“My apologies for earlier… Miss Ohikaru, them soldiers—the advance party says they’ll be rollin’ in past eight tonight.”
“No rush at all.”

Inosuke the messenger entered once more and shouted loudly from the store's dirt-floored entrance.
He then briskly came to stand by the long brazier—whether still reveling in his earlier drinking or having been treated elsewhere again, his face was faintly flushed, his breath carrying the lingering scent of ripe persimmons.
"Miss Ohikaru, my apologies for earlier."
Repeating the same words, Inosuke bowed with exaggerated politeness toward Miss Ohikaru before turning his back to the Master and perching at the entranceway.

“Hey Ino! Can’t you see I’m here?!” the Master barked angrily from behind Inosuke.

“Ah, Mr. Asakawa! Welcome, welcome.”

Inosuke turned around with a startled expression as he said this.
The Master pursed his already sharp mouth tighter,

“Now you’re pullin’ out this ‘Mr. Asakawa’ business all sudden-like.
“…Ain’t a soul in this village—hell, the whole damn county—who don’t know I’m keepin’ Ohikaru here under my thumb.”
“She’s near enough my wife! And here you are cluckin’ and bowin’ to her like some flappin’ chick, but not a peep of ‘Chilly evenin’, ain’t it?’ for me—the one runnin’ this Daikokuya same as any proper master!... One word from me, and I could have the village head or county council dancin’ to my tune.”
“Whether I let a piss-ant messenger like you live or die...”

As the Master grew increasingly aggressive and began acting out, Ohikaru made a face that said she couldn’t bear to watch any longer,

“You’ve made your point already. …Mr. Inosuke here didn’t mean any harm by it.”
“Everyone already knows how important you are.”
“Though I must apologize to Mr. Inosuke here, there’s no call for you—a mere messenger—to carry on so high and mighty.” She delivered this with a contemptuous edge too subtle for the Master to detect.

“That’s right—knew Mr. Asakawa had come by proper-like—but I went an’ clean forgot to greet ya.”
“Miss Ohikaru... Mistress o’the house... Madam... You oughta go make yer apologies to th’Master.”
“……” Inosuke stammered out, trembling like a leaf caught in winter wind.
The Master sat stone-faced, eyes drilling into Inosuke’s twitching features.

“Oh now stop that, Mr. Inosuke—ain’t the Master’s proper wife back at home? I ain’t got no standing to be called ‘Mrs.’.”

Feeling increasingly resentful even as she spoke these words, Ohikaru found herself picturing the Master's legal wife—a woman nearing forty who went about with her mouth perpetually half-open, wearing a seemingly kind expression as she raised four children while working alongside numerous male and female servants in agricultural labor.

With the weakly burning long brazier at their center, the three people sat in deflated silence for some time.

“...There ain’t a soul who don’t know I’m the one keepin’ Ohikaru under my wing.”
“Call her my wife for all it matters.”
...a line from some play that closely resembled what the Master had just said—Ohikaru found herself pondering—

“Ah, yes yes,” she slapped her knee, causing both the Master and Inosuke to look as if something had begun.

Recalling that scene from Umekawa Chūbee’s seal-breaking act—where Tsuchiya Jiemon says to Oen of Izutsuya, “...Call her my wife for all it matters...”—Ohikaru reconstructed the vibrant stage tableau: Oen and Jiemon by the downstage long brazier, Hannin Yūbee showing his back at center alongside the beautiful Umekawa and Chūbee, the detestable Tambaya Hachiemon upstage. Just like this house, she thought, with its staircase ascending from beside the long brazier to the second floor... Drifting into this hazy state of mind, Ohikaru felt Oen and Umekawa’s money-driven struggles were no longer mere fiction, and before she knew why, her eyes had filled with tears.
And so she found herself envying Umekawa more than Oen, feeling as though she wanted to take the hand of a gentle, beautiful man like Chūbee and weep to her heart’s content.

Before anyone noticed, her daughter Okatsu returned from the corner and properly seated herself between her mother and the Master, holding her small hands—chilled by the autumn evening breeze—over the long brazier.

“Okatsu-chan, what a clever girl... Your father, he...” Inosuke began, trying to dispel the awkward silence before abruptly closing his mouth as if suddenly noticing the tense atmosphere.
Okatsu assumed a precocious air, cast a fleeting glance at the Master’s face, then bowed her head.
Ohikaru merely compared the dazzling spectacle of Izutsuya in Shinmachi’s theater district with her own home’s dreary present state, forcing down tears that threatened to rise again and again.

“I’m leaving,” declared the Master, pursing his lips as he stood up.
Inosuke hurriedly brought the Master’s Kobe geta that had been at the storage-adjacent entrance and aligned them at this entrance.
The Master thrust his feet into the geta and, hunching his back, attempted to head outside.

“Overcoat... overcoat...” Muttering this, Ohikaru—who had only now noticed the forgotten double-layered haori—dashed to the storeroom and dragged back a camel-colored coat stuffed with padding.
The Master, who had turned back his nearly-outside-stepped foot as if some great matter had occurred, returned to the dirt-floored area beside the long brazier and stood rigidly, turning his rounded back toward Ohikaru.
Ohikaru deftly and swiftly dressed the Master in the double-layered haori,

“Can’t you steady yourself? …With tonight’s entertainment, your mind’s elsewhere, isn’t it,” she said with a smile, giving his shoulder a light tap with her white hand. On the fingers of that hand, the lover’s ring glinted.

“Have you received any letters from Mr. Koike?”

While buttoning the double-layered haori, the Master said this while facing away.
Ohikaru flinched but,
"No," she answered simply, then nearly stuck out her tongue in reflex before hurriedly pulling it back, lightly adjusting the slightly drooping collar of his double-layered haori.
"That man's a right nuisance! Builds a house so shoddy you can't even tell if it's finished or collapsing, and I have to cover the damn house tax every single time... Then you go bringing in that painter of yours, and now look—this soldiers' lodging mess is what we get for it!"
"...I can't stand that slob."

“Whether I care for him or not—it’s meaningless now he’s gone so far away.”
“…A complete stranger,” said Ohikaru, standing stiffly as she gazed down at the Master’s nape.

“That’s true enough.”

The Master said this and left with a tilt of his head.
The hydroelectric company’s lights—whose grid had reached this village a month prior under the Master’s directorship—flashed on simultaneously in the shop, kitchen, and scullery.

Ohikaru watched the Master’s retreating back, then hastened into the storeroom.

The sun had sunk behind the western mountains, and the evening gloom already seemed to be welling up from the southern woods.
A flock of crows crossed over the mountains and rivers, crying out as they returned to their roost.

Taking out the pocket watch she had hidden earlier, she saw that it was already ten past six.
Koike's train would be running along the lake near Hikone, where that adorable castle could be seen.

From the direction of the kitchen, Inosuke could be heard saying something and mocking the maid.

Six

From the direction of Higashimura, the sound of a bugle came carried by the wind.

"There they are! The soldiers!" Inosuke scrambled out to the front entrance.
The neighbors came pouring out into the street, lining both sides.
The village office’s military affairs officer and village representatives emerged, swinging their lanterns aloft to illuminate the way.

The bugle's sound rang out clearly, yet there was no visible sign of approach.
The skillful march persisted near Higashimura.
The people exchanged glances with one another.

“This is absurd—there are no soldiers here at all!”

Inosuke, who had run all the way to Higashimura and back, sat down heavily on a roadside strength-testing stone, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“What’s that bugle about?” they chorused, crowding around Inosuke.

“That painter who was relocated to Higashimura today—he’s just tooting some toy bugle for fun.”

Inosuke made a face that seemed to say “How ridiculous,” then clutched his head and doubled over.

“What a troublemaker, that bastard…”

“That’s mighty strange.”
“The notice said after eight, but it hasn’t even reached seven yet.”
“That painter—he’s so good with the bugle, no wonder we got tricked, ain’t it.”

Muttering such things among themselves, the people dispersed.

Ohikaru entered the storeroom again and, while comparing her pocket watch with the travel guide, wiped tears brought on by an indescribable sadness. But as eight o'clock approached, she took out clothes from the chest and placed them into the clothing box.

Then she undid the round chignon she had only just styled that morning, changing into a tied-back hairstyle with extended side locks. She inserted a gold-footed branch coral hairpin, hurried off to the bathroom where the water Oume had heated proved lukewarm, thoroughly washed her face, returned to the storeroom, sat briefly before the mirror stand, and finally changed into the clothes from the clothing box.
While she was tightening her decorative under-obi, Okatsu came to her side and looked up at her mother with a curious expression,

“Mama, where are you going?” she said, and

“No, I can’t go anywhere at all,” she replied while tightening her obi, draping the black crepe haori coat over herself, adding one formal ring with an ornamental stone over the lover’s ring, putting another flat one on her left finger, taking out a coat and velvet shawl from another drawer of the chest, placing them in the four-season bag with a basket attached to its base, taking down the Western umbrella that hung on the wall peg, and starting to stride purposefully forward.

“Look! You’re going somewhere after all!” Okatsu’s eyes grew round as she stared at her mother’s now splendid appearance. Ohikaru paced three or four times around the not-particularly-spacious storeroom, then sat down on the step stool that was there.

“Mama’s putting on a show,” Okatsu laughed sadly.

“That’s right—Mama’s putting on a show.”
“……Shall I show you some more?”

Ohikaru stood up and walked once or twice more around the storeroom.
And then she put away the Western umbrella, four-season bag, coat, shawl—everything back to their original places,

“How’s this? When Mama puts on a show, I look just like Kawai… Or maybe Kitamura?” she said, gazing intently at Okatsu’s face.
Okatsu stood dumbfounded.

She had thought to meet Koike at Umeda Station that night at 8:25, wearing this underrobe, this kimono, this haori coat, and wrapped in that coat and that shawl.
For that purpose she had rushed the tailoring of her haori coat and gone to urge them three times.
She had intended to style her hair in a bun for the journey, but being unable to leave home due to the soldiers, she had tried tying it in a round chignon that morning; yet now she found herself unable to rest unless she changed it back to a bun.

Ohikaru thought this while taking out the pocket watch neatly sandwiched in her obi with its chain hanging properly—it showed 8:23. It was now just two minutes away.
Koike’s train must have already entered Umeda Station’s grounds.

She could imagine the scene—the massive steam locomotive with lanterns glowing like a serpent’s eyes charging into that broad platform, passengers spilling out in hurried steps when the train stopped.
“Osaka!... Osaka!... Eight-minute stop!”—the image of a station attendant calling out while walking briskly came to mind.
Koike was likely carrying his usual bag.
Would he be in Western clothes or Japanese?
As he lumbered out from the train compartment, she rushed toward him in this outfit without any preamble,

“You made it,” she would likely say—no, she would resolutely say that.

With her heart pounding, Ohikaru could no longer endure these thoughts. When she took out her pocket watch again, it showed eight-thirty.

If you don't return tonight, won't you get scolded? Koike seemed about to ask her again like this. But having found no one to say such things to despite searching everywhere exhaustively, he must now be sitting in that cellar-like waiting room wondering what to do. No—even if I had properly gone to meet him at the platform, he was the sort who wouldn't notice unless I called out, likely having wandered off somewhere else already. He might have boarded a tram by now, or perhaps made arrangements to take an upbound train.

The hands of the pocket watch advanced relentlessly, about to move from thirty-five to forty minutes.

In her mounting restlessness, Ohikaru took out the coat again, put it on, draped the shawl, slung the four-season bag, grasped the Western umbrella, stepped before the long narrow mirror with a beer advertisement hanging on the pillar, and gazed intently at her full reflection without respite.

"A voice could be heard shouting, 'Soldiers! Soldiers!...' and the front of the inn suddenly grew noisy."

Seven

Though no bugle sounded, the heavy rumbling of carts made the ground tremble as they approached.
Several jet-black artillery carriages drawn by horses passed before Ohikaru's house toward the shrine square.
The villagers' uproar grew livelier than any festival night.

Ohikaru removed her shawl and coat, then appeared by the long brazier still wearing her finest kimono with a black crepe haori over it, a Hakata obi at her waist where a gold chain glimmered.
Unnoticed until now, tall paper lanterns shaped like mountain peaks emblazoned with Rising Sun symbols now shone before the shop.
The maid who had been watching soldiers pass by these lanterns returned to the brazier's side and stared wide-eyed at Ohikaru's resplendent attire.

After the officers' resonant commands had echoed from the shrine direction for some time, there came a clattering din of boots and sabres amidst a swarm of children, as ten or so soldiers entered Ohikaru's establishment.
Ohikaru had the maid guide five officers to the adjoining Rooms 1 and 2 on the second floor, while eight lower-ranking soldiers were settled into Rooms 5 and 6 downstairs.
The soldiers' uniforms and caps lay wrinkled and worn from days of relentless drills.

Ohikaru looked at the people ascending to the second floor and those remaining downstairs, and kept thinking that these individuals had obstructed her meeting with Koike.

The maid had lit the brazier, so Ohikaru took tea and sweets and went to greet them on the second floor.

While thinking Those who interfere with others' love affairs... deep within herself, she skillfully showed charm and served the tea and sweets.

The guests all saw Ohikaru’s splendid attire and looked dazzled.
Some of them uncrossed their legs and sat up straight.

“Madam, we’ll be troubling you tonight,” said the round-faced, portly man in the seat of honor, his voice guileless.
Ohikaru had first been addressed as “Madam” by maids and housewives when staying at a country inn with Koike last autumn—the first time in her life. When Inosuke had used the term moments earlier, that made twice. Now being addressed so by the officer marked the third occasion—she started and flushed crimson.

When she went downstairs to check, the soldiers were still polishing their superiors’ boots without even removing their own shoes.
Ohikaru ordered the maid to first carry up the prepared food and drink to the second floor.
From upstairs soon came raucous laughter that seemed genuinely amused.

The errand boy from Master’s house entered and stood rigidly in the earthen-floored entryway,

“Master said that ’n’ I’m right sorry ta bother ya while yer busy-like, but could we trouble ya fer ten helpin’s o’ sashimi? Can’cha spare ’em?” he said timidly.
“Just now Master made such a show o’ buyin’ up all that fish—was that just another case o’ his usual bombast? Not even half true?”
With that, Ohikaru smiled,

“Understood,” she said. “I’ll have Oume bring it over later.”
“...But y’see Tora-yan, we’re runnin’ low on fish ourselves—was thinkin’ of borrowin’ from your place, truth be told.”
The errand boy immediately darted off back home.

Ohikaru removed the haori coat, fastened an apron over her fine kimono, slipped on a work sash, and stepped down into the kitchen workspace.
There, Inosuke the Roamer—his face bright red from who knows where he’d been drinking—staggered unsteadily in and settled himself beside the long brazier.

“Just now, Master Asakawa got hisself chewed to shreds by them soldiers guardin’ the artillery right here in our district, he did,” he announced loudly.
While wondering whether his claim ’bout goin’ somewhere to stay had also been a lie, Ohikaru found herself concerned,

“Mr. Inosuke, why’d he get scolded?” she asked with a furrowed brow.

“He’d gone and smoked a cigarette right by the artillery carriages, see.”
“When he first got scolded, if he’d just obediently tossed away his cigarette then and there, that would’ve been fine,” he continued, “but no, he had to go pull out a business card from his sleeve all high-and-mighty-like sayin’, ‘I’m this kinda man,’ so they tore into him proper.”
“Ain’t no use, I tell ya! Even councilmen or Mr. County Governor—they ain’t no match for soldiers,” said Inosuke with an impressed air.

Ohikaru became thoroughly fed up with the Master’s wretchedness.

That night, Ohikaru did nothing but toss and turn in bed, never sleeping a wink.
Wondering where Koike could be sleeping, she thought of nothing else until dawn was nearly upon her.
The fact that Master hadn't come to stay over was an immense relief, but as she lay there around the time of the second cock's crow, she began to vaguely contemplate what would become of this house were Master to abandon them now.
The fact that she hadn't encountered that ill-fated meeting with Koike might even have been a blessing for the household—such thoughts finally came to her.
Then, considering it—the soldiers who had lodged here since last night might be her lifelong benefactors.—

Early in the morning, the soldiers departed.
Muddying the mountain stream's clear water up to the horses' knees, several artillery carriages advancing along the county road on the opposite bank could be clearly seen from the storeroom veranda of Ohikaru's house.
Abruptly picking up the previous day’s newspaper, she found an article about this troop’s training march that stated, "It appeared exactly like a picture scroll."

Is that what they meant by a picture scroll?
With that thought, Ohikaru looked out at the opposite bank again.
For the next three days or so, she found herself unbearably anxious to catch sight of the postal worker in his round bamboo hat.

(Taishō 4 [1915], January)