Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

The flute could be enjoyed in solitude. Having come to know the strange intoxication of playing the flute during his travels—a state of mind that defied reason—Yasunari Sangohee now carried at his waist, alongside his swords and medicine case, a single flute tucked into its pouch. It had become inseparable from his journey.

It was a flute he had found in the soot-stained display of an antique shop in the castle town of Kuwana. The price had been laughably low, but when he took it in hand, it proved to be a masterpiece—undoubtedly crafted by some virtuoso.

He had now carried that flute for three or four years.

The only thing that slightly displeased him was the inscription carved into the flute’s bamboo tube—a sunken dagger inlaid with blue lacquer, small and,

“Eight Cold Cries”

—carved into it.

To him, that carried a terrifying coldness.
He even found the ghostly resonance in its tone preferable, yet when he contemplated the meaning of its inscription—Eight Cold Cries—he could not help but envision a world frozen solid in white ice.
Yet when one looked at Yasunari Sangohee himself—this man so emaciated his clothes hung loose, gaze thick with obsessive tenacity, eyebrows drawn nervously thin, complexion sun-seared from long travels—his lips appeared frozen in sullenness, as though he’d forgotten both roaring laughter and faint smiles.

As one long without a household, he retained certain strikingly youthful traits; yet at thirty-four or thirty-five years of age, he was in every respect a man of cold demeanor.

That Sangohee would concern himself with the literal meaning of *Eight Cold Cries* seemed slightly incongruous—but as they say, like repels like. A man of his ruthlessly composed nature might paradoxically crave intense warmth.
Something like a woman—but not an ordinary one. A woman whose very skin-oil burned with fiery passion…

× × ×

“Hm.”
“Ninna-ji school…”

Sangohee came to a halt before the nameplate and peered at the quietly composed entrance.

Bush clover hedges framed a lacquered shoji entrance with raised flooring—a residence befitting a flute master.

"Though this traveler's piece may be unworthy," he said, brushing hakama dust from his knees, "I humbly request your instruction in one melody, as we share appreciation for rare styles."

The attendant led him inside where Yasunari Sangohee stood before Kasuga Heiroku—an elderly flute master whose refined bearing matched his reputation.

"Play it then," the old man commanded.

With ceremonial care, Sangohee withdrew Eight Cold Cries from its brocade pouch and breathed Tsukisoukon's lament through the bamboo.

Heiroku listened motionless until the final vibration faded, then nodded once.

“Well, such as it is.”
“But this isn’t the Issō school or the Chino school… Under whom did you study?”

“It is self-taught, merely out of fondness.”

“Hmph. Let it be natural.
“That is good—play from the heart as the moment takes you.”
“Let your soul roam free.”
“That is good indeed.”
“Though the flute may be partly to blame—that dreadfully cold tone—I perceive you are steeped in solitude.”

“Your perception is most accurate.”

“For your age, a desolate figure—that sound manifests in the flute.”
“Nothing tells the truth like a flute.”

“There are times when impure thoughts cloud my heart, and I cannot play.”

“Indeed. If it contains killing intent, it reeks of slaughter; if there is passion, it resonates with emotion. Truly, this flute is a dreadful instrument. Especially when listening closely to your tone—you harbor extraordinary obsession and resentment. Hmm… Earlier you mentioned being a traveler. And you are a man steeped in solitude, wandering in search of your enemy.”

“Ah…”

Having his true intent struck dead-center, Sangohee stiffened.

“Well then—play something brighter. A Japanese melody.”
“Too desolate. Too ruthlessly composed.”

As a practitioner of the art, he grew to revere Heiroku as an extraordinary flautist.
He initially wondered how such a master could dwell in provincial Kofu—until learning Lord Yanagisawa Yoshiyasu had brought him from Edo, connected to the Kasuga school’s main lineage. At this revelation, he nodded.

He wanted to receive at least one melody from Heiroku.
Thinking this, he stayed in Kōfu—where he should have passed through—and for about twenty days had been visiting Heiroku’s house.

――Then one day,

“There’s good news. Rejoice!”

When Sangohee appeared, Heiroku set aside the flute lesson as if he’d been waiting and declared:

“Among Gunai’s long-dagger men, there’s one called Ayukawa Ninsuke.”
“A famed gambler in this Kōshū region—his associates claim they spotted someone during their recent pilgrimage to Mitake...”

Heiroku abruptly noticed something. He closed the gaps in the round window and sliding doors, then knelt formally before Sangohee.

"—The name of the enemy you seek, Lord Sangohee—if I recall correctly, it was Murakami Sanjousuke."
"And they say he's somewhat younger than you in years, with features—if I may be so bold—that make him far more striking in his manly bearing than yourself..."

"He is indeed a handsome man."

"That man—Sanjousuke—appears to be under the care of Ayukawa's clan, so the rumors say."
"Why not go there at once?"

Heiroku said with great enthusiasm.

Once, when pressed relentlessly for details, he had reluctantly revealed only the outline of his enemy. From Heiroku’s manner of speaking, it seemed he had developed an unexpected curiosity about the matter and—out of a kindness meant to please Sangohee—had quietly asked his acquaintances to inform him should anyone matching that description appear among them.

“Gaining entry to Ninsuke’s house poses no difficulty."
“Ronin passing through Torizawa often lodge in his quarters—or so they say—and Ninsuke prides himself on this. Feign seeking assistance and stay there to assess the situation. Should requesting aid feel improper, I’ll arrange an introduction letter through an acquaintance who knows the man.”
“In any case, act swiftly.”
“Set out without delay.”

Just as he thought it unthinkable that it would take merely two or three days, when he went the very next day, not only had a letter of introduction addressed to Ayukawa Ninsuke already been obtained, but a separate sum of money had been wrapped and presented as a farewell gift.

That day too—having gone intending to practice the flute while carrying the *Eight Cold Cries*—Sangohee grew somewhat flustered and was seen off early by Heiroku before returning home.

Two

The wind along the Kōshū Road near Ōtsuki felt particularly harsh. From the horse’s hooves crunching along the frozen road, gritty powdery snow was swiftly kicked up into his face.

Though he had heard on the road that yesterday marked the end of the cold season, the deep snow still glittered in the folds of Iwatono Mountain to his left with no sign of melting, and icicles clung to the treetops along the way until the sun rose high.

From Ōtsuki heading toward Saruhashi, Yasunari Sangohee appeared at the Katsura River ferry but did not board it, instead inquiring about the way to the village called Kozakura. Then, heading down the riverside path he had been directed to, he walked slowly. Eventually, when he turned right at the embankment, distant houses came into view.

"That must be Kozakura..."

Before visiting Ayukawa's house, he thought he should at least grasp an understanding of Ninsuke's associates.
Though they claimed it was indeed his enemy Sanjousuke—if he turned out to be a completely different person altogether—that would render everything pointless. In any case, even were he to stay at Ayukawa's quarters tonight under such circumstances, he could simply visit at his leisure and make himself comfortable.

A red fire was visible in the shadow of the thicket.
There was a wayside tea house selling household goods and such beside the path, its earthen-floor hearth burning with a generous fire.

“Old man.”
“Kozakura—where they say Ayukawa Ninsuke’s room lies—must be just ahead now.”

Hunched over the firepit, Sangohee waited until steam rose from his straw-sandaled tabi and warmth flushed his cheeks before broaching the matter.

“Yes—no more than twenty chō now.”
“You’ll be visiting Boss Ayukawa Ninsuke’s room next then, Sir Samurai.”

“Hmm, that was my intention, but after being buffeted by the winter wind along the Katsura River, seeing this fire makes me loath to walk any further.”

“After all, this place lies two or three ri off the main highway.”

“But I hear ronin traveling the Kōshū Road generally skip staying at Torizawa’s inn and head straight to Ayukawa’s quarters.”

“Well, that’s in spring or summer. In this cold, folks rarely come around these parts.”

“Hmm, I see.”
“To tell the truth, I came to visit an acquaintance in Ayukawa, but it seems that person may no longer be there.”

“What manner of person do you refer to?”

“A young ronin named Murakami Sanjousuke.”

“Ah.
“If you mean that strikingly impressive young lord—the esteemed ronin called Murakami-sama…”

Just as the tea house owner, emboldened, began to speak—a sudden noise came from behind where sundries were displayed at the shopfront, and he stood up.

Sangohee too removed his sedge hat and stepped outside.

Just as his body had finally warmed, an icy evening wind struck him. Clenching the sedge hat’s cord between his teeth, he instinctively turned his face sideways—and there, in the shadow of the tea house’s hanging shutter, flickered the figure of a middle-aged woman.

"He’s here... Murakami Sanjousuke."

Sangohee thought this and muttered.

"If he’s right under my nose, I suppose I have no choice but to go see him."
"And there’s also my obligation to Kasuga Heiroku."
“…Not to mention him sending letters and farewell gifts like this."

A faint wry smile rose to his face.

A sudden cold-laden wind swept across the emaciated body—too frail even for clothing to endure.
When he looked up at the sky, stars clung to icicle-laden branches.

"What an utterly inept fugitive he is.
Sanjousuke likely believes he's desperately concealing his whereabouts with all that effort," Sangohee mused, "but if I were truly intent on killing him, even three or four lives wouldn't have sufficed to last him till today."

When he considered his opponent's state of mind, he found himself morbidly amused.
In certain situations, even Sanjousuke's surprise and palpitations would immediately resonate within his own chest.
Sangohee understood it all too well—even the suffering that came after his opponent fell asleep—as though standing vigil by the bedside.

He imagined it with relish.

And that was Sangohee's vengeance.

III

It went without saying that Murakami Sanjousuke was the one who had made Sangohee taste this four or five years of solitude.

To be sure, from the time he was in his home domain of Kii Province, Sangohee’s character had not changed much from what it was now.
Even in Wakayama’s household, he had not a single friend.
Even the fact that there had been no one to suggest he take a wife indicated he must have already possessed that blade-like demeanor which repelled people.

However, in his household there existed his beloved younger sister and a father who had retired from service to live out his remaining years.
That Sanjousuke—who exploited his own beauty—had invaded such a household became, for him, a lifelong calamity.

Using his usual methods, Sanjousuke drove that sister—filial and obedient even to her brother—from the household. On the day the scandal erupted, his elderly father had cut his belly in shame before the entire household; two weeks later, the corpse of his pregnant sister—slashed diagonally—surfaced along the banks of the Yoshino River.

"What a shortsighted fool," they said. "Depending on who you cross—but having incurred the grudge of that obsessive, tenacious, neurotic Sangohee—that lecher Sanjousuke wouldn’t last six months in this world."

When Sangohee set out on his journey, the people of Wakayama said to one another as if heralding his departure.

However, it has now been four or five years—yet Murakami still lives.
Though during those years—wherever Sangohee’s shadow fell—he had been forced to move from place to place.

"Not yet. Not yet.
This way, my vengeance won’t be satisfied.
I won't kill him. I won't kill him.
You bastard, Sanjousuke! Even if you come weeping and begging me to strike you down, I still won’t do it!"

Sangohee’s thinking differed from that of others.

Even old flute master Heiroku’s support was in fact entirely misplaced—a miscalculation born of not understanding Sangohee’s heart.
But staying in Kofu had become inconvenient, and having even received farewell gifts, he had turned his steps toward this Kosasa—where his enemy resided—as if out of obligation to him.

And—as the white stars began to appear—Sangohee quickened his pace slightly, but after walking for a while,

“—Samurai-sama.”
“If… Samurai-sama.”

Behind him, there was a woman calling out to stop him.

IV

“Just now at that tea shop, when I heard you were the one looking for my house in Kosasa, I ran after you until my breath gave out.”

The woman said this and approached Sangohee.

Perhaps due to eyes accustomed to the Kamigata Road, he had thought the women of Kofu rough-skinned, but this woman did not appear so at first glance.
As was Sangohee’s habit, whenever he saw a woman, he would instinctively assess their skin’s coarseness or fineness.
He would then shift to evaluating their facial features.

“Oh—this woman has white teeth?”

Sangohee began paying even closer attention after noticing this.

She ought to be of an age to be someone’s wife by now, but having neither blackened her teeth nor shed her childlike airs, she appeared deceptively youthful at a glance—twenty-six or twenty-seven, he estimated.

“Um, allow me to guide you.”
“If you take this narrow path from the forest’s edge, it cuts about two chō off the distance.”

“Then, you are the woman who was present at that shop earlier?”

“Yes, I went as far as Toriizawa Inn with my father, and since I returned ahead alone, I stopped by there to entrust an errand.”

“You call him ‘father’?”

“That would be Ayukawa Ninsuke.”

“Ah—so he’s away then.”

“No—he should return promptly by tomorrow at the latest. Please do not hesitate to stay three days, even four.”

The face she turned toward Sangohee—dark eyes lingering, dimpled half-smile playing—was so bewitching it seared the eyes.

Deliberately not wearing a hood over her hair, she had tied a chicly patterned cloth in an elegant knot.
Her figure was full yet slender; even on this bitterly cold evening, her lips retained their crimson tinge as though painted with vermilion, and around her eyes—which seemed deep with emotion—and the corners of her mouth, subtle expressions never ceased to shift.

Sangohee had been walking along, having momentarily forgotten the thread of their conversation, when on some impulse he abruptly asked.

“Excuse my rudeness, but are you Lord Ninsuke’s daughter?”

“Yes, I’m the willful one called Ine.”

“Though the master be absent, at this late hour there’s no returning hence. I shall therefore accept your gracious offer and trouble you for lodging.”

“Yes, please don’t hesitate at all.”
“Our household is full of uncouth individuals, so in place of proper hospitality, please make yourself at ease however you wish.”

“Travel finds its delight in such unexpected turns.”

“They say among the Five Highways under this winter sky, none tests travelers like the Kōshū Road—how harsh it must have been for you.”

“It is neither harsh nor enjoyable.”

“Have you been traveling long?”

“Indeed… Going on four or five years now.”

“From the manner of your speech… I would surmise you hail from the upper regions—around Kishū, perhaps.”

“Hmm, you’re quite perceptive.”

“At our house, people from various provinces often come to visit, so…”

“Who from Kishū has come?”

“Eh…” Oine’s eyes darted about in panic,

“Um… It’s not Samurai-sama.”

“A drifter?”

Sangohee found it odd.
But toward the feelings of the woman hiding Murakami Sanjousuke’s affairs, he felt a slight jealousy.
And within his curse, he envisioned the beauty that had even turned his own sister and family against him.
Oine and Sanjousuke—their relationship too, he kept imagining.

Like the flat road to Koshino, the conversation between Sangohee and Oine did not progress any further at all. Even there, his coldness interfered, preventing the woman’s heart from drawing near. He was aware of this, yet it remained beyond Sangohee’s power to change. However, even in their formal exchange of moments before, when those words left Oine’s lips mingled with her white breath, they transformed into something tinged with color, brushing against Sangohee’s cheek with a lingering warmth.

At any rate, Sangohee began to feel a certain interest in this woman.
Oine’s eyes too were scrutinizing the man in that manner, but one couldn’t tell whether this was a gesture she made toward any man.

Compared to that, Sangohee was by no means so.

Throughout his journey up to today, Sangohee had come to know many women, but all those he chose fit a certain type.
They had to possess passionate flames that burned ceaselessly like fire and voluptuous bodies resilient enough to endure such flames—otherwise, they failed to stir his interest.

In other words, she had to be a woman of character entirely opposite to his own, with an opposing color sense.

Five

Ayukawa’s quarters were, as expected, those of a large household.

It was not a detached room, but Sangohee was shown to a tatami room set deep within the main house, connected by the veranda.

“That Sanjousuke must be utterly astonished—right about now, he’s probably floundering about, making preparations to flee somewhere again.”

After finishing his bath, having moderately consumed the offered sake, and having had the meal trays cleared away, Yasunari Sangohee inserted his hands into the kotatsu and—

"You must be shocked, Murakami Sanjousuke."
"After all, a man like me has come under the very eaves of your house..." he mused, savoring that familiar sick pleasure.

When he suddenly looked beside the kotatsu, there lay six or seven volumes of illustrated storybooks that someone had left earlier to entertain him.

Resting his cheek against the kotatsu quilt, he idly flipped open the top volume and found an illustration of a masked man assassinating an elderly samurai by a castle moat; the next image showed a dignified beggar being pulled in a handcart, and the final page depicted a handsome youth and a sinister-looking samurai locked in fierce combat, black blood spurting from the samurai’s flank.

"A revenge tale?"

Yasunari Sangohee muttered as if it were someone else’s affair,

“The enemy’s always ugly, and the avenger’s always handsome,” he remarked, closing the illustrated storybook.

“Handsome men are all well and good, but first of all—my enemy’s too weak! To have such a man—clumsy at fleeing, with skills already known—as my sworn enemy! What misfortune heaped upon misfortune this is for me!”

Though it was something he always thought, even now he could not help but lament it.

If Murakami Sanjousuke were a more formidable opponent, naturally I would be driven to desperation.
I would devote myself to honing my skills.
I would literally sleep on brushwood and taste gall.
The stronger the enemy, the greater the hardships endured—the grander the ambition becomes, and thus vengeance is achieved.

But when it comes to Murakami Sanjousuke, it’s not even worth discussing.
For all his posturing, in this backwater he might be passing himself off as a mere bodyguard, but to Yasunari Sangohee’s eyes, he was utterly beneath consideration.

If I wanted to kill him, I could do it at any time—but were I to immediately slay such a man, return to Wakayama, and be congratulated, would I truly find satisfaction?
Moreover, if I were to become busy with stipend increases and marriage proposals, only to be praised as some paragon of bushido—wouldn’t I want to crawl into a hole?

This was no festive mood—the resentment I bore ran deep.
Even considering Sanjousuke’s wretched state, I could not show the slightest mercy.

Deceased father, deceased sister, myself living in solitude.
No matter which one I considered—the depth of that grudge made him an enemy whom killing would not suffice.
A mere taste remained insufficient.
I had to keep him alive.

By keeping him alive, I needed only occasionally show my shadow—for Sanjousuke had been well aware since our days in Kishu what manner of man I was: relentless, ruthless, and terrifying.

Thus my vengeance was being fulfilled day by day, moment by moment.

Yet even as I continued this path—should he perish from illness—it would suffice; that manner of death would likely surpass vengeance itself.

—How long had Sangohee sat with eyes closed at the kotatsu?

While repeating such thoughts in his mind, he had in fact been straining all his nerves to thoroughly probe the air of the vast interior when something disquieting occurred to him.

"Hmm—he’s not fleeing, that Sanjousuke."

Indeed, his nerves could not help but perceive it this way.

"The lamplight cast in the room across, the soft laughter, the footsteps and gazes of the underlings—not the slightest hint of agitation. …Hmm—he’s not fleeing, he’s not fleeing. Sanjousuke doesn’t know."
"So then, that woman Oine—despite all the hints I’ve let slip—still seems to think I’m just another wandering ronin lodging here for the night. It appears she hasn’t told Sanjousuke a thing…"

Sangohee thought this had become problematic.

Even someone like Sanjousuke wouldn’t panic or attempt to flee if he remained unaware of my presence here.
In all these comings and goings, I had to take absolute care to avoid accidentally coming face to face with him.

Even so—this being a single house—there was no telling when or where they might suddenly come face to face. If only he would realize it somehow…

"Hmm."

Sangohee nodded and—pfft—blew out the room’s lamp.

Drawn from the probed flute bag and settled upon his fingers, the Eight Cold Cries soon began to sound—like echoes reverberating through a forest of icicles. Chilling tones and what Kasuga Heiroku had called ghostly scales were conjured from his fingertips moving in the dim darkness.

**Six**

The tones of Eight Cold Cries alone could instill terror in Sanjousuke’s ears even when blown a ri away. He had been menaced by this sound countless times.

Sangohee played on.

Run, run, Sanjousuke!

The Yasunari Sangohee who has marked you as his enemy is here! Flee before this night ends, and find yourself another restless resting place and unsettled life somewhere in perpetual dread. Until this shadow of Sangohee once more falls upon that place. Until Eight Cold Cries resound there.

Escape while you can!
Escape while you can!
Murakami Sanjousuke.
Tremble, panic, prepare your flight.

—Thus did Eight Cold Cries sound.
—Thus did Sangohee play.

Go ahead and flee.
Go ahead and flee.
Murakami Sanjousuke.
Be shocked, panic, prepare to flee.

Thus did the Eight Cold Cries resound.

Thus Sangohee played.

And then—whether he sensed some disturbance in the air through that flute—he stealthily concealed the bamboo tube behind his back, but—

“Don’t move.”
“Hmm…?”

He jerked upright and made his way to the next room.

There, he remained motionless in the darkness like a cat, but upon noticing a closet with makeshift staggered shelves near the floor—just as his hand reached for it—a swish of sliding doors echoed, followed instantly by a heavy thud.

With terrifying swiftness, what his hand dragged out was a man who appeared to be one of Ayukawa’s underlings.—The reason he made no sound wasn’t death, but because his nape was being tightly constricted,

“G-guh…” With eyes rolling white, he soon went limp and slipped from Sangohee’s grasp.

“Who sent you?”

“Y-yes, sir…”

“Enough of your lies.”

“I deeply apologize. The truth is, I had a bit to drink outside and got drunk, but since I couldn’t just sleep out in the open from evening onward, I slipped into this closet and ended up falling fast asleep.”

“……”

“Th-there’s no mistake about it! As you can see—I’m dead drunk—proof right here! Please, sir—I beg your forgiveness!”

The man suddenly jumped back.

“Wait. Who told you to go?”

“F-f-forgive me!”

Suppressing the man’s attempt to voice weakness while gripping the end of his topknot, Sangohee pressed him down onto the tatami mats, then forcefully rolled up the tattoo on his skilled arm—

“I recognize that face and voice—you’re Goma Sen, the Sesame Fly who rummaged by my pillow in Matsusaka of Ise.”

“Huh?... M-Master…?”

“Keep quiet.
“But tonight, you’re not here as a pillow thief.”
“Why were you hiding there?”

“…Oh.
“Finally, I remember.”
“So you’re that samurai from the Matsusaka inn where I made a fool of myself and got what I deserved?”
“…J-just… ease up a little, will you?”
“I still haven’t forgotten the thrashing you gave me back then.”
“I’ve learned my lesson well from your strength, Master.”

“Enough of that.”
“Out with it—explain this situation.”

“Had I known it was you, I’d never have taken this job even if they begged me. Truth is—I’ve reformed now. Under Ayukawa’s protection these days.”

“I see. You’ve received Ninsuke’s cup, then?”

“It’s not quite to that extent—among this group, I’m treated as something of a guest member. So tonight, Oine-san and Sanjousuke-san called me in. I confirmed that the ronin staying in the back had fallen asleep, took his swords, and they asked me to give the signal.”

“What? So that Sanjousuke fellow did know I was Sangohee after all?”

“Because I never dreamed you were the master who’d soundly punished me back in Matsusaka of Ise, I took the job thinking it’d be easy.”

“Hmm. So that Oine woman is undoubtedly in league with Sanjousuke as well.”

“That’s been settled from the start. That Oine was a traveling performer who drifted here from Edo and got hitched to the Kai silkmaker in the district, but her promiscuous nature got her sent back quick. After that, she’s been under Boss Ayukawa’s wing. Soon as Sanjousuke came to Koshino, she latched onto him, and now they’re carrying on sweet as you please right in front of the boss himself.”

Sangohee sank into deep thought.

The relationship between Oine and him had unfolded exactly as imagined, yet now an uncontrollable jealousy clamored in his chest. What surprised him more was Sanjousuke—whom he'd presumed ignorant of his arrival—discarding all previous patterns to take a firm stance and attempt a counterattack. That the feeble wretch he'd been lamenting had grown capable enough for such measures struck him as faintly amusing.

“So, Goma Sen—how long have you been hiding there?”

“Exactly when you, Master, had spread out the illustrated storybooks over the kotatsu.”

“Hmm… At that hour?”

“No matter how sharp your ears are, Master, it’s only natural you didn’t notice. I didn’t come in from outside—the back of this closet’s rigged like this… This here’s a common trick in long-dagger houses, you see,” Senkichi revealed the secret of his hiding place.

When he peered inside, there was a two-tiered floor structure. Opening the narrow small sliding door within—resembling a firelight window—revealed a secret passage that led somewhere into the main building.

“It was freezing cold, so I brought in some sake here and waited for you to fall asleep, Master. But now that I’ve taken off my helmet and spilled all the secrets, I can’t linger another moment in this Ayukawa den.”
“Master, please show mercy and let me slip away quietly.”

“Hmm.”
“I’ll let you go.”

“I am deeply grateful. Then you’d better be thoroughly careful yourself, Master.”

“But… wait.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How will you escape?”

“I think I’ll go from Saruhashi through Ikushinba and down to Shimotorizawa.”
“Then maybe head toward Edo first.”

“Be my guide.—I depart from here tonight.”

“Huh? Master too?”

“Wait for me at the Ikushinba crossroads shrine.”
“Regarding that matter, I’ll entrust my belongings to you. Don’t drop them—I’m counting on it.”

“Master…” Senkichi said in a voice thick with swallowed saliva— “This… this is the gold and the flute, yes?”

“Hmm. The gold—I’ve had two hundred ryo broken into smaller denominations.”
“The flute is important—be absolutely sure not to drop it.”
“Since both would be somewhat in the way, keep them pressed against your skin.”

“Understood.”
“Well then, I’ll see you at Ikushinba.”

“If need be, there’s no issue keeping hold of them while altering your route.”

“It sends shivers down my spine—your money, Master.”

“Don’t fall asleep at the crossroads shrine.”

“No problem—I’ll be keeping my eyes peeled for your figure coming into view from Kagamizaka.”

“Do that.… But there’s a chance I might be coming with someone else when I go there…”

Seven

The outer wooden floor lay ice-cold, but beyond the shoji screen, the kotatsu's warmth and sake fumes mingled with the faint glow of a vermilion-lacquered round paper lantern. There in that space, even Oine's slightest movements stirred through the room a warm air reminiscent of a spring evening.

“My, you’ve gone completely pale—what’s wrong, Sanjousuke-san? …Huh?”
“Huh?”
“Huh?”
“Are you feeling sick?”
“Are you feeling chilled, hmm?”
“You haven’t drunk that much tonight though.”

With that, Oine shook the man’s body she had thrown onto her lap and pressed her cheek to his.

“It’s not the sake. Eh… The flute?”
“Ah! That ronin’s flute that was being played in the back just now—”

“Hmm, the chills have subsided now.
“Oine, fill that cup with hot sake.”

“What a timid man!” Oine found this both amusing and endearing.

The flute’s notes had already ceased.
While listening to that earlier flute’s notes—like wind seeping through cracks, whimpering as they clung weeping to the shoji paper—Sanjousuke had not lifted his face from Oine’s lap.

As rumored, Sanjousuke had a habit of letting his elegantly shaped shoulders—the kind that suggested a womanizer—slump beneath features too delicate for his reputation.
But deep within those eyes, a terror that never rested for an instant seemed to lurk, pounding.

“And here you are—a samurai…”

Oine laughed and struck him on the back.

“Well,”
“Gulp down some hot sake and build up your courage—your courage, I say.”
“If you keep cowering like this, you’ll spend your whole life trembling before some scrawny mantis-like ronin, won’t you?”

“I’m alright now.”
“Pour me sake—I’ll drink—drink to steel my courage.”

“Exactly! It’s not some task you’d have to handle alone—if the gang members here just surround him in his sleep, you wouldn’t even need to lift a finger.”

“Well, even I built up proper calluses from bamboo sword drills at the domain’s fencing dojo back in Wakayama... But that guy—I just can’t handle him.”

“The problem is you keep thinking of him as your weakness.”
“Even someone like me has seen many long dagger strikes—they aren’t about skill. It all comes down to nerve.”

Empowered by the woman, Sanjousuke seemed to have grown considerably bolder; the color returned to his face that had once turned deathly pale.

“Hmm… Maybe it really does come down to one’s state of mind after all.”
Forcing a smile for Oine’s benefit,
“Later, when I calmly think it over, I find it utterly baffling myself—but whenever I hear that man’s gloomy flute playing, no matter how I try to resist, this violent trembling takes hold and won’t stop.
“…Oine, aren’t you growing weary of me?”

“Do tell me, you!”

Suddenly pulling the man’s body into her ample bosom as if to engulf him, Oine fiercely pressed her decadently crimson lips against Sanjousuke’s upturned face cradled in her arm,

“Do you truly think that’s the kind of woman I am?”

“But for someone like me—burdened with enemies and so weak-willed…”

“I like that about you. If you wanted strong-willed men, aren’t there plenty in this room?”

“If I get killed by Sangohee, what’ll you do then?”

“Not this again.”
“As long as I’m by your side—”

“But I mean—if it actually comes to that—”

“I’ll follow you in death.”
“Listen, Sanjousuke-san—even in death… even in death…”

With that, Oine shook the man’s body with violent force—then, swept up in a dizzying passion, she seemed on the verge of forgetting everything.

But the man’s feelings could not align with that.
Sanjousuke’s breath grew stifled beneath the bulky chest, and without thinking, he squirmed out from under it,

“I can’t keep going on like this tonight.—I’ll show them for sure.”
“I’ll finish him off!”
“What? There’s nothing I can’t do!”

With that, he pulled the tray closer and poured himself four or five cups in quick succession.

“But what’s taking so long? That Senkichi…”

“He’ll pull it off without a hitch.”
“That man doesn’t leave openings.”

“I do think so, but he’s taking too long.”
“The other gang members have been waiting in silence since earlier, yet…”

Oine suddenly stood up, seeming worried, and opened the shoji.
Since they had been instructed to remain quiet until Senkichi’s signal, both the side rooms and this main building lay in deeper silence than on ordinary nights.

Watching Oine slip smoothly outside, Sanjousuke called out in a fluster.

“Oine, Oine! Wh-where are you going?”

“Shh…” Her eyes restrained him with a look,

“Since it’s taking too long, I thought I’d go check on Senkichi.”

As if saying “I’m counting on you,” the man’s eyes nodded in reassurance.

× × ×

After that, some of Ayukawa’s underlings—having lost patience—stealthily made their way to the room where Sanjousuke was.

“Boss… Boss…”

“Hey—you from the rooms?”

“What’s going on here?”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s still no signal!”
“The men outside’ll freeze solid!”

“Quiet.”
“Just endure a while longer.”

When he sat up straight, Sanjousuke was no longer the man who’d been there moments before.
Not a trace remained of the pitiful weakness he’d shown Oine.

“The critical moment approaches. I too shall head out shortly—hold your posts without wavering.”
“Tonight we test what we’ve honed daily!”

“It’ll hold once we move.”
“But has that rat Senkichi not sent word?”

“That Sangohee hasn’t fully settled in yet.”
“As for that matter, Oine has gone to check now, so all of you must keep your swords drawn and remain utterly silent.”
“Make sure to tell them—anyone who pulls cowardly tricks won’t get away with it later!”

“Well, I’ll be headin’ back then.”
“And you, Boss?”

“Hmm… Me? I’ll go too.”

Having been distracted, Sanjousuke suddenly shook his stiffened shoulders and carelessly stood up.

“The rear gate’s undermanned, so Boss, please go check there.”
“Iyu, Kanpachi, Hanji, and Genzou should be stationed there.”

“I see—understood.”

With that, Sanjousuke declared resolutely to those present, then slowly fastened the long lacquered sheath at his waist in a deliberate manner.

8

Oine slipped into a hidden corridor from somewhere and groped her way through darkness so thick she wouldn’t know if her nose were being pinched.

Then her shoulder bumped against a protrusion.
Today he was absent, but the upper floor remained designated as Ayukawa Ninsuke’s room.
The space Oine now explored was a hidden passageway designed for escape through that alcove cupboard in emergencies.
Caressing the slightly constricted pillar framing the entrance, Oine continued peering into the darkness hovering before her nose.

“...Are you there, Senkichi?
“…Senkichi.”
Oh—the pungent smell of sake wafted over.
“You brought sake in again, huh?”

From beneath the pillar she had stroked downward, she now gently felt her way around the thin mat spread there,

“What’s wrong with the situation over there?”
“Hey, Senkichi!”
“Oh—you’re passed out here, aren’t you?”

Relying on the kimono her fingertips had touched, she gradually stroked upward toward what seemed to be a shoulder—when suddenly Senkichi’s hand (or so Oine thought) clamped tightly around her body.

“Huh… you, what are you doing?”

Beyond that wall and single layer of sliding doors—she was certain—the mantis-like ronin was surely sleeping. Yet Oine could neither raise her voice nor move her ample limbs as she wished—

“Ah… what… what are you doing, Senkichi!... Doing that to… my chest. Huh?”

From beyond the sliding door came faint sounds of thrashing, but when even those—and the stifled cries—ceased, Oine’s body lost all resistance as if left speechless in the cramped, low darkness.

………………………………………

………………………………………

The frost was pure white, every shadow frozen solid, the cold so earsplitting it threatened to deafen.
They had covered themselves with black cloth more because their ears hurt than to conceal their forms.
The men from Ayukawa’s quarters, who had been crouching by the rear garden gate since earlier, breathed on their numb hands as they waited impatiently.

“What’s happening, Boss?”

Sanjousuke too felt on the verge of catching cold—from both the painful chill biting his fingers and toes, and the intermittent shivers crawling up his spine.

“How strange… Not a single sound comes through.”

“It’s been quite some time since Oine went to check.”

“Indeed…” Sanjousuke clenched his lips, struggling to hide the tension beneath his rigid posture—yet faint tremors of unease began flickering across his pallid face.

“Go check—Kanpachi and two or three others.”

“Are you all right?”

“So I’m telling you to go through that escape route and make sure Sangohee doesn’t catch on!”

Two or three men made a wide detour through the rear garden to check on Oine, but even after that, as they thought there had been no word for some time, it eventually came.
Those who had been holding their breath in utter silence both inside and outside the house now surged toward one direction, gathering their footsteps and voices into a roaring tempest.

“Th-that! That’s it!”

Sanjousuke, at that very moment, erupted in a frenzy as if his blood had rushed to his head and, together with the seven or eight men who had been at the rear gate, charged shoed through the center of the main house.

At that moment, Kanpachi and two or three others who had gone to inspect the depths of the escape tunnel began shouting in scattered voices that Oine was nowhere to be seen.

When he heard this, the one who lost composure more than anyone was, of course, Sanjousuke.

“Huh? Oine—!” At this, he tried to leap with bewildered, unthinking feet into the room where Sangohee had been sleeping, but froze like one stepping on a nail, struck rigid by his own blindness.

“—There’s a shadow at the front.”
“He’s come out front!”

“Don’t let him escape!”

Swept up by those shouts, Sanjousuke burst outside as though delivered from torment. A small earthen bridge spanned before Ayukawa’s quarters, but across this boundary, swarming figures now clamored and surged within the frost-lit gloom. When they noticed Sanjousuke rushing up belatedly from behind, the swarmed members of Ayukawa’s quarters raised their hands in welcome, urged him onward, and shouted— “Oh, the Boss has arrived!”

“Hurry over here, hurry, Boss!”

“Boss Murakami!”

He caught his breath and was engulfed by the clamorous uproar.
Voices A, B, and C all chaotically flooded into Sanjousuke’s ears at once, and he himself was uttering some sort of cry.

“Wh-what’s happened, I ask?”
“What do you mean, ‘what’s happened’?!”
……”

“Look there.
“That’s Oine!”

“Wh—?”
“Oh… Yasunari Sangohee!”

He stood frozen rigidly in place, utterly dumbfounded, his fist resting on the sword hilt and the scabbard’s end still knocked up against the latch.

A thin layer of ice had formed, like mother-of-pearl suspended in water.
The river’s water was separated by only six or seven *ken*, yet to Sanjousuke’s eyes, it appeared as a vast, fateful current—as though it could carry one all the way to the distant sea.

Leaving smooth footprints on the frost-covered earthen bridge—now, walking along the path beyond the river were the crisply visible figures of a man and a woman.

“?”
……”

Sanjousuke stood as though his feet had frozen to the earth, forgetting even to lower his hands.

The woman was undoubtedly Oine. Oine lowered her face framed by disheveled hair, biting the end of the hand towel placed upon her hair.

Moreover, Sangohee walked on, exposing his emaciated frame and bony, pale face to the blatant frostlight.

One of the woman’s hands was firmly held under Sangohee’s left arm.
Moreover, in his free right hand, a white naked sword resembling an ice blade glittered fiercely with each step he took.

“Damn it… damn it…”

Then one of Ayukawa’s men growled through clenched teeth.

“Just like some lovers’ flight!”

“Can’t make heads nor tails of what Oine-san’s scheming.”

“Some silver-tongued old fox?”

“That ain’t it!”

“A forced march to hell…?”

“Still don’t add up one bit!”

“What’re we doin’? Just gonna stand here gawkin’?”

“Ain’t nothin’ we can do but watch—if we go helpin’, that bastard Sangohee’s blade’ll stab Oine-san for sure. ’Less the boss himself were here, we can’t lay a finger on ’im.”

Whispering thus, the room’s occupants all sheathed their long swords and clasped their numbly frozen hands deep within their kimono fronts.

Then, Sanjousuke suddenly came to his senses and spread his hands before the group.

“Exactly, exactly—you’ve shown good judgment. If you rush in trying to save her and that bastard stabs Oine-san, we’ll have no excuse for the boss when he returns—first and foremost, this Sanjousuke would…”

“What the hell are you sayin’?!”

The instant he spoke, a clamor erupted—and amidst the chaos, a flurry of fists rained down upon Sanjousuke’s cheeks and head.

“Ain’t she your mistress?!” “You idiot!”

When Murakami Sanjousuke came to and looked around some time later, not a single one of Ayukawa’s men remained there.

Oine was gone; Yasunari Sangohee was gone.

There was only frost and ice and tears, like the world of the Eight Cold Paths.