Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface

According to Jinkokuki, it is said that the people of Shinshu have long been rich in contentious spirit.
On the surface, this could be taken as praise for their unparalleled vigor and passion compared to people of other provinces, but in reality, it also carries the implication of narrow-mindedness.
Furthermore, one could reasonably interpret this as a satirical remark on how this province, despite having produced outstanding talents since ancient times, has yet to produce a single unifier of the realm.

However, I don’t think this was entirely unique to Shinano. Could it not be a common trait among mountain folk? For over a dozen years, the Kawanakajima Battles that erupted each spring with the thaw were clashes between Echigo and Kōshū people—yet both sides were fundamentally warrior clans rooted in mountainous territories. Even when conflict brewed—even when Shinano found itself perfectly positioned between Wu and Yue to reap the fisherman’s gain—the province still seemed to covet warfare itself. Its people unanimously rallied under both generals’ banners and fought so fiercely they trampled their own wheat fields into mud.

No—I have no intention of writing something as stiff as Jinkokuki.

What I now intend to recount is a lovers' feud that arose among fireworks artisans in Togari Village of Northern Shinano—a hamlet colloquially called Fireworks Village—where, true to their craft, they launched their rival's head from a firework nozzle and, in that very act, turned both the woman's life and their own existences into fleeting sparks—a boisterous early autumn night's tale I once heard along the banks of the Chikuma River...

I

“No one’ll come. —It should be safe, Oyoshi.”

“Oh, it’s fine.”

“That cough just now—”

“The old cocoon buyer from Entoku Village.”

“Has he already left?”

“Yes.”

It was a mountain ridge where last year’s fallen leaves were rotting like compost.
The place was so quiet that the resonance of their own voices carried an eerie quality.

Somewhere echoed the dull thud of earth being dug. The straight-grained cypresses stood tall and vigorous, layering dark green umbrellas toward the spring sky. The sound came from deep within the cemetery beyond. It had to be a hoe at work. When the hoeing ceased, a strange bird with a feeble cry like a wooden pigeon whistle let out a threatening call above the heads of the man and woman.

“Oyoshi.”

“Hm?”

“You certain about this?”

“I keep telling you—no one’s coming!”

Oyoshi wore a red obi cord over her kimono. As the daughter of a country samurai, she had a compact build and delicate features. Standing beyond the grove, she kept watch over the white path leading into Togari from the Entoku Highway and Honami direction.

Even though it was a cemetery, the local custom followed a one-grave-per-person principle—when someone died, a single tombstone would be erected. Therefore, their numbers were large relative to the number of households. At the mountain’s foothills, at the edges of fields, along the riverbank cliffs—the tombstones reclined sociably wherever they pleased.

Behind where Oyoshi now stood lay the cemetery holding the fresh memory of Ochiyo Goke—the village widow buried around New Year when the snow still lay deep. As she stood there for about half an hour, she found herself vaguely thinking about Ochiyo Goke—the village widow who had turned several young men of Togari into lovers, lived a life of carnal desire, and returned to the earth. And then she opened her cute mouth and yawned.

Before long, in the cemetery, the young man straightened his back.
Hearing the footsteps approach, she turned around—

"Oh, how dreadful!"
"Done here."

The man, digging dirt out of his ear canal, carefully placed the jar-like object he had carried at Oyoshi’s feet.

"My back’s killin’ me."

"What an awful smell."

"It's just in your head."
"Dead folks're clean things."
"The livin' ones're way dirtier."

"You're used to this, ain'tcha Shichinosuke?"

"Family trade through 'n' through."
"Gonna wash up at yonder stream."

"The hand towel?"

"Lemme borrow it."
"Hehehe... Got lipstick smudged here."

Shichinosuke was Togari Village's fireworks maker.
Even mountain-born pyrotechnicians through generations—all had that roguish charm: quick-witted flash about 'em, coin-clean hands women fancied.

Grabbing the hand towel, Shichinosuke dashed down to the stream and noisily splashed his face, hands, and feet like a crow taking a hasty bath.

“The stench of corpses—wash it with water, and it damn well comes back to life.”
“Even when you’re used to it, still ain’t pleasant.”

He lowered the sandals tucked into his three-foot waistband and shoved them onto his clammy feet.—Then, just as he was about to leave the streamside, a voice—like choked laughter bursting free—startled him from above.

“Shichinosuke! You forgot something! You forgot something!”

“Huh?”

He whipped his head around like a dragonfly.

On the cliff's midsection, the leaves of a bush stirred.
The pale-complexioned samurai's upper body—sarcastic-looking somewhere between his features—contorted into a smirk that reeked of malice,

“The hoe, Shichinosuke.
“The hoe you used to dig up graves just now.
“Leave it forgotten in that stream, and how long will Ochiyo Goke’s deathly grease keep seeping into our village—”

With that, he pointed at the streamwater from within the foliage.

2

In this Togari Village—home to thirty households of indigenous fireworks artisans alone—since wintertime, about five samurai retainers from Matsushiro Domain’s firework division had been dispatched to supervise the major project to be completed by early autumn.

The samurai who had just mocked Shichinosuke was also one of those dispatched officials.

This man was Hachiya Shingo—the son of the domain’s second senior councilor, who had grown into an eccentric after dabbling in fashionable Western studies. Compounding matters was his frail constitution, which so troubled his father that he had expressly petitioned the domain’s firework division retainers to assign his son a post in this mountainous hinterland as a disciplinary measure—rendering Shingo nothing short of a nuisance.

But for Shingo, this mountain village life held no significance either. He continued to boss around his colleagues and put on airs as always, which naturally earned him resentment from the village fireworks artisans as well. However, being the councilor’s son, everyone superficially treated him like a young master while swallowing their discontent.

And so, Shingo grew ever more self-satisfied.

He thought this carefree assignment might last three years—no, even five. Before long, he had fallen for Oyoshi—the daughter of the local samurai family where he and four others had been quartered since winter.

Tonight was the ninth day.

On the 9th, 19th, and 29th of each month—these three evenings—it had become established practice for all members of Togari Village to gather at the home of Kyōraishi Hyōsuke, the local samurai, and hold work-related discussions.

“Evening.”
“Good work.”

“You must be tired.”

“Good evening.”

“Yes, good evening.”

Old men, middle-aged men, young men—as evening fell, they all came gathering to Hyōsuke’s residence.
Inside the large black house, only on this evening, about twenty hyakume candles were lit.
Oyoshi also wore a different kimono and applied her makeup beautifully.

3

Kyōraishi Hyōsuke’s current residence, being that of the twentieth-odd generation head of the family, was an astonishingly old structure.

This local history traces back to Hyōsuke’s ancestors—those who served Murakami Yoshikiyo and taught gunpowder-making to Togari’s peasants. Over three hundred years, much like sparrows transforming into clams, they largely abandoned farming and became full-time fireworks artisans.

The bizarrely beautiful pyrotechnic magic known as fireworks—beginning in Buddhist festivals in India, spreading through Southern Europe and China before reaching Japan around the time firearms were introduced—sparked a flourishing rivalry where provinces vied to showcase their firework techniques. This trend grew particularly pronounced from the post-Bunka-Bunsei eras of the Tokugawa period onward, when townspeople's arts flourished amid society's slide into collapse-era decadence—a fleeting hedonistic mood taking hold.

However, after repeated fires and casualties led Edo authorities to impose a temporary ban, regional fervor for pyrotechnics burned brighter in reaction. Nagasaki's international fireworks gained renown while provincial specialties emerged—Akama in Kyushu, Okazaki in Mikawa, Tokusa in Owari, Sanjo in Echigo, and Togari in Shinshu—with Togari's creations being a particular pride of Lord Sanada of Matsushiro Domain.

Nowadays in Nagano Prefecture, two-shaku shells are not uncommon, but at that time, with eight-sun shells being the maximum size, no larger fireworks could be seen in Japan's skies.—When those eight-sun shells were first created, Lord Sanada took Togari's fireworks artisans to Nakasu no Mitsumata and launched them during a boat excursion by the shogun's family.

A certain daimyo saw this and laughed.
The lord of Mikawa’s Okazaki Castle, Honda,

“In my domain, we refer to such fireworks as ‘children’s sparklers’ that women and children set off.”

he said.

Togari’s fireworks artisans seethed with indignation.

Though that slight lay twenty years buried, Mikawa and Shinshu—provinces long steeped in mutual contempt—now found fresh cause to tear open old wounds. From some spark of provocation they drew flint and steel, each hurling formal challenges across their smoldering border.

Fireworks Duel!

Such pyrotechnic warfare was no novelty under heaven’s vault. When rival provinces clashed through bursts of colored flame—turning midnight skies into arenas of burning sorcery—the spectacle drew crowds like moths to candlelight.

—This was the result.

The entire village of Togari had been desperately producing since winter what they had been making—working tirelessly, forgetting sleep and meals—all to astonish the enemy in their competition against Mikawa.

Naturally, this matter maintained the facade of being merely a dispute between fireworks artisans, with the domain feigning ignorance on the surface. But behind the scenes, Lord Honda was backing their opponents, while Matsushiro Domain too was straining every nerve to provide full support for Togari’s people.

The fireworks competition between Mikawa and Shinshu, both provinces, was finally set for this autumn.
The location was Nagashino Plain in Mikawa, where the Shinshu faction would deploy—the so-called fireworks encampment.

In reality, when deploying, it resembled an actual battle—they would establish their encampment with baggage trains, war drums, and other Warring States-period customs, then compete in technique with full dignity.
At that time, the judges would request the participation of elders from other provinces.
The young fireworks artisans all wore leather sashes and long side swords, while the elderly commanders, judges, and local magistrates appeared attired in sleeveless campaign jackets and light armor components.

For any fireworks artisan who disobeyed the commander’s orders, it had been established that they could be cut down then and there without objection.
It was that solemn, and they were that fervent.

This has been quite a digression, but for that reason, the Togari villagers—
“To hell with Mikawa! When Togari’s shaku-dama blast your way, don’t you dare wet yourselves!”
Such was their determination.
The Western chemicals, saltpeter, and other materials purchased from Nagasaki were supplied by the Matsushiro Domain, and the five samurai supervisors had been assisting nonstop since winter.
And so—they gathered at Hyōsuke’s residence three times a month, a scene of strategy sessions, research, and preparations attended to without the slightest negligence—yet it also became a respite from work and a form of solace.

When they came trooping in a line to Hyōsuke’s residence from evening onward, they acted as if visiting a foster parent’s home—freely entering the bath, helping in the kitchen, arranging the reception rooms—then, transforming into guests, they would line up by age in the inner hall with solemn deference.

At the head of the room sat five samurai from the domain, present in their roles as support personnel and overseers.

Beside them, at the study window, Master Hyōsuke perched primly.

The rest—village fireworks artisans alone, over seventy of them young and old—lined up along the paper sliding doors and fusuma screens to either side, a flowing mass of black-clad figures. Though not a starry gathering like Kamakura Mountain’s splendor, their deliberations carried an undeniably grave air.

4

Hyōsuke was a gentle mountain samurai nearing sixty, always rounding the back of his samurai jacket and sitting with his hands folded as if in zazen meditation.

“It seems we are all assembled now—”

Eventually, when Hyōsuke said this, Hachiya Shingo—who had been tallying attendees since earlier—

“No—one person remains absent.”

He put on a pained expression as if flaunting his own sharpness.

From the middle of the gathering came an excuse on behalf of the latecomer.

“Ah, about that Shichinosuke—truth be told, his aunt in Kusatsu fell ill, so he crossed the mountains to visit her the day before yesterday. But he swore he’d return by tonight no matter what and show his face here.”

“As if I’d believe that—that man’s nothing but ill intentions. He’s probably holed up in Gondō again.”

“That is not the case.”
“Since he has neither parents nor a wife, everyone knows how devoted he is to his aunt.”

“Very well. For a slacker, the domain can only acknowledge that much effort.”

Shingo had no intention of drawing out praise for Shichinosuke there. Having declared this in a domineering tone,

“If that man shows himself tonight, there is something I must say to him.”
“To each of you—proceed vigorously with your discussions.”

With that willful manner of his, he shifted responsibility for the subsequent proceedings onto his colleagues’ work.

“Understood.”

With that, the four colleagues spread out several thick ledgers.
—Saltpeter Purchase Ledger, Fireworks Technique Schematics, Western Chemicals Record, Finished Products Inventory Log, Artisan Daily Log, Wage Advance Records.

Each took one ledger in hand.

Brushes and words, abacuses and scale markings—exchanges of materials incomprehensible to laymen, research on mixtures, reports from spies returned from Mikawa, and specialized consultations between fireworks artisans and samurai supervisors continued in clamor for over an hour, all else forgotten. Once this concluded, sake was served for the first time. Though conversations still revolved around work, the atmosphere grew markedly relaxed, with occasional jokes mixing in and witticisms emerging.
Laughter erupted.

Timing the moment，Oyoshi made her appearance.

She，who always wore cotton kimonos without exception，tonight had applied powder as faintly as a moonflower to her collar and donned a formal kimono of wild silk fabric dyed deep purple．Directing maidservants，she moved about the gathering，pouring sake for everyone．

“Lord Shingo, how may I serve you?”

After making her rounds, she returned to stand before him.

“To me?”

he deliberately asked back.

“Yes.”

“The other day, you were standing in an unusual place, were you not?”
“What were you doing in a place like that?”

“…………”
she said as if fearing her father Hyōsuke might overhear. “Oh my, I’m not aware of any such matter.”

“You cannot claim ignorance—not about Shichinosuke.”

She hurriedly fled to the neighboring seat’s occupant.
“Lord Kuroda, one for you?”
Then, following the seating order, she glided onward.

“Lords Nagamura and Hayashi, how may I serve you?”

From behind, Shingo was still saying something, but she pretended not to hear him and hurriedly came before her father Hyōsuke, as if to plead—

“Father, may I pour you some sake?”
she pleaded with coquettish eyes.

“Hmm.”

Hyōsuke unclasped his fingers from where they had been folded on his knees and heavily accepted his daughter’s sake-pouring while—

“Oyoshi, come to my room later.”

“Yes.”

She felt her father’s eyes focused on her.
The pounding heart she tried to suppress instead transferred to her fingertips holding the sake bottle, clattering against her father’s cup.

“Oh, looks like he’s here.”

“Shichi?”
“Oh! It’s Shichinosuke.”

At that moment, those in the back seats began making a commotion, so when she instinctively turned her eyes, the figure of Shichinosuke—who seemed to have only just shown his face—appeared blurred through the tobacco smoke.

V

When the sake began flowing, those fireworks artisans by trade proved to be an assembly of extraordinary hedonists.
They drank indeed, but their conversation proved more entertaining.
The five samurai, unable to unbend their knees from formal posture, gradually faded into obscurity.

Seizing the moment, Father Hyōsuke summoned her with his eyes, so Oyoshi timidly followed him into the inner room.
It was a dimly lit study.

――Sit there.

There, her father’s eyes suddenly appeared gentle.
But they held lonely tears and a gentleness imbued with severity.

Hyōsuke's voice was hoarse.

"You…"

"Yes."

"You're not... getting involved in some improper relationship with Shichinosuke?"

"Yes."

"That tells me nothing."

"That is mere gossip."

“Perhaps it is mere gossip.”

“Hiding from Father’s eyes, I would never do such a thing.”
“But…”

“But?”

“...Because people come to me with all sorts of requests.”

“What requests?”

“With this current project—Mr. Shichinosuke has thrown himself into it more desperately than any domain samurai or villager in Togari. He seems tormented.”

“Well, he must be suffering. Normally he’s naught but a good-for-nothing who cares only for gambling and drink. But since his peers keep flattering him as some young prodigy or master craftsman, in times like these he’s got no choice but to show skills surpassing others—else he’ll find no place left in this village. So—what’s he plotting?”

“He says he’s loading an unprecedented one-shaku-two-sun shell with red and purple flames no one’s ever achieved—to shock those Mikawa artisans. He’s working himself ragged, pitifully so.”

“Produce a red flame color, you say?”

“...So I too ended up wanting to encourage him.”

“As for what comes after that, I need not say.”
“I know—you took several forbidden manuals from my library at Shichinosuke’s request.”
“And you lent them to him, didn’t you?”

“...”

Oyoshi looked as though she might sink straight into the tatami mats.

"What good could showing my books to such an uneducated man possibly do?"

"…"

“What’s been lent cannot be undone.”
“But those are crucial books.”
“They contain the Kyōraishi-style secret fireworks techniques.”
“Takai Kozan of Obuse and Sakuma Shōzan of Matsushiro—they begged me countless times to see them, but I never relented.—Retrieve them discreetly and promptly, understood?”

“...I’m sorry.”

“Since Shichinosuke’s short-tempered, best not let on I said anything.”
“Make it seem you noticed yourself…”

“Yes.”

“Understood?”

“Understood.”

“That settles matters between you and Shichinosuke then.”

“Eh?”

“Well then, I’ll say this now: you must no longer approach that man.”
“He isn’t a bad man, but he’s no good for you.”

“Father, there’s nothing to it!”

Oyoshi said in a voice that was slightly high-pitched at the ends, like when she was being coquettish,

“Who would say such a thing?”

“Therefore you must restrain yourself.
“You’ve reached the age when you must marry.
“To speak plainly, arrangements have already advanced considerably.
“The other day, Mr. Shōzan—that Lord Sakuma Shuri of Matsushiro—who stopped here returning from Kutsuno Village, has undertaken to serve as matchmaker.
“The suitor is the second senior councilor’s heir—by no means an unfavorable prospect for you.”

“But… Father,”
“D-do you understand how I-I worry about nothing in this world but you?”
“......”
“Do you understand?”
“......”

“Do you understand?”

“......”

The silence was solemn yet bittersweet.

Hyōsuke wept profusely.
Oyoshi’s chest felt so full she could tear her breasts out, yet when she saw her elderly father’s pitiful lamentations, no tears came.

And she simply recalled the Western-leaning Confucian scholar from Matsushiro Domain—a Resource Utilization Officer named Mimura—who had stopped by this house four or five days prior, engaged her father in lengthy conversation, and then left.

The Confucian scholar had a long face like a horse.

She found herself wondering whether that scholar named Shōzan—the one who had made peasants in Kutsuno produce wine, conducted experiments to extract some Western medicine from hot spring waste, and caused the so-called Sakuma Disturbance uprising by forcibly conscripting peasants for corvée labor under the pretext of planting cypress seedlings in nearby mountains—had been that man.

Then, at that moment,

“Stop this fighting!”
“This ain’t no fight!”
“How dare you!”
“You’re the rude one!”

Then, from the direction of the meeting room where the gathering was being held, shouts, noises, and some sort of ferocious atmosphere began shaking the interior.

Six

Hyōsuke left immediately.

Oyoshi, too, wondering what was happening, followed after and froze in a corner of the hallway.
Most people had already finished their conversations, had their fill of drinking, and gone home.

When she looked, Hachiya Shingo and Shichinosuke had both turned pale and were arguing about something.

Because their heated exchange threatened to turn violent at any moment, the few remaining villagers and four domain retainers stood by both men’s sides,

“Now, now, stop this.”

“Shichi! Stop it!”

they pushed their way through.

“What an unruly wretch, daring to address a samurai like this!”

And yet, Shingo showed no signs of calming down.

Shichinosuke, too, with his single-minded disposition, showed no sign of backing down,

“In our work, what does it matter if you’re a samurai or a peasant? As long as you do good work, that’s all that matters!”

he snapped.

“Don’t get cocky with me! Cocky, I said! Learning advances—look at artillery’s recent progress! Look at steamship development! Just because they’re fireworks doesn’t mean old methods suffice! Whether cannons or fireworks—both are fire arts!”

“Cut the lecture—even Togari three-year-olds know that!”

“Then why aren’t you using the saltpeter and chemicals provided by the domain? Instead of materials specially procured from Nagasaki at great cost—digging up stinking gravesites—”

“Wh-what the hell’re you talkin’ about?”

“Digging up graves—what do you intend to take from the rotting flesh of corpses?”
“You unbelievable fool!”
“You’re stuck in the past!”

“Damn right it is!
“I ain’t no Western scholar—I’m a fireworks artisan.”

“Ask the one who went to Mikawa.”
“Even among fireworks artisans, those in Mikawa—without needing domain guidance—enthusiastically employ Western methods for chemical mixing and purchase British saltpeter and such, or so I’ve heard!”

“Theirs is theirs.”
“Ours is ours.”
“Ain’t gotta copy nothin’.”
“First off, I hate foreigner trash.”
“My work’s gonna stay Japanese style.”

“What an utterly ignorant fool!”
“So you refuse the domain’s guidance and reject Western methods for your work too, is that it?”

“Others will do it.
“I ain’t havin’ none of that.”

“The Matsushiro Domain has Master Sakuma—an authority on Western fire arts!”

“Togari Village’s got Shichi!”

“Wh-what insolent boasting! The methods passed down in this backwater village are already obsolete!”

“Then let’s hear it!”
“What?”

“With your Western methods—d’you think you can even make red?”

“You mean the color of fire?”

“That’s right!”

“Y-you fool! You’ve lost your mind! What country’s fireworks have red?! A pale birch color can be produced. But crimson can’t be produced! That’s only natural!”

“But I can make red with these hands. And not just any red—blood-red! I can make purple too! Ain’t it strange? Western learning’s just for weaklings!”

Shichi snickered as if convinced of his superiority.

An explanation is necessary here: as Shichinosuke boasted, in the fireworks of old, there was no red.
A pale birch-like light could be produced, but a vivid crimson radiance like that of today was not even conceivable in one’s wildest dreams.
In Japanese fireworks, the vivid red light became commonly seen only after the research brought back by Kagiya Yahei of Ryōgoku, who traveled abroad in the eighth year of Meiji, suffered severe burns, and returned to Japan.
――There was none until then.
Even if Shichinosuke’s boasts were dismissed as a madman’s ravings, at that time, it wasn’t unreasonable.

Shingo glared—
“So you’re certain you can produce red, then?”

he pressed insistently.

“Ah, I’ll show ya.”
“So sorry ‘bout it, but keep your damn hands off my work!”

Old Man Hyōsuke had hesitated to intervene, finding the exchange too heated, but finally spoke up from the side.

“Hey, Shichi! What a thing to say! What kind of language is that to use toward the son of the second-ranking elder!”

“It’s about work! Hey, when it comes to work, I ain’t holdin’ back from nobody about nothin’!”

“Being fired up about your craft’s all well and good, but lettin’ manners and right-and-wrong go to pieces won’t do. Lord Shingo, grant him some leeway. The lad means no harm—it’s just his way.”

At the old man’s words, both men softened. Immediately, Shichi’s eyes darted a glance and found Oyoshi. ——Shingo must have sensed those eyes too, for when he turned around, he was being helped up by four colleagues supporting his hands and waist as he rose,

“The uneducated fool is beyond saving. However, if this continues, it will tarnish the domain’s august prestige. I shall come to your workshop and light tonight’s flare—prepare yourself accordingly!”

“Oh?
“If it’s about work pride—hell yeah I’ll duel ya over it!”

After throwing back a parting retort, Shichi briskly returned to his house.

Shichi

“Oyoshi-dono, where are you headed?”

It was a slightly warm day that made one sweat.
The scent of apricot blossoms hung ripe in the air.

Oyoshi stopped.
She spotted Shingo’s smiling face approaching from the forest.
And she was enchanted by the dappled sunlight flickering through the trees onto his face and shoulders.

“You’re going to Shichi’s house, aren’t you?”

“Oh…”

“Were you surprised?”
“Because I know you too well.”

――I wonder if I should go back.

She made a troubled face.

“I have heard everything from Lord Hyōsuke.”
“You’re going to retrieve the book, aren’t you?”

“Yes…”

“Since he’s that sort of brute, there’s no telling what indecencies might come from his mouth.”
“I shall accompany you.”
“There’s no need for such concern.”
“Understand? Don’t be absurd.”
“First of all, your taking out that book was ill-advised.”
“Those recent boasts and grave robberies—I suppose they all sprouted from that book of yours.”

With an increasingly troubled face, Oyoshi walked on, her eyes fixed on her own feet.

“Do you really think you can extract something like phosphorus from graveyard corpses—let alone some solution that emits red light? Absurd.”

“Is it truly impossible?”

“You too became serious and were keeping watch over digging up that rotten material, weren’t you?”

“But Father’s secret manual mentions a mixture that emits red light, and it said that one of the substances is extracted from a certain thing found in graveyards, but…”

“Such notions would only occur to the Ainu or Kumaso tribes.”
“In our modern era, pyrotechnics have advanced.”
“Takashima Shūhan, Egawa Tarōzaemon, and even Mr. Sakuma from our domain—all follow Western learning.”
“Take the signal flares we use in wartime—during the ignorant Sengoku period, they dried and stockpiled wolf dung to burn.”
“Because wolf dung smoke rises uncannily high and straight.”
“Hence why they wrote ‘wolf’s fire’ but read it as ‘signal fire’—though nowadays it doesn’t even qualify as ateji.”
“By mixing two or three Dutch medicines from Nagasaki, one can effortlessly produce silent flares or sounding ones as desired.”
“Moreover—when crafting fireworks meant to strike aesthetic sensibilities—what possible hunger drives one to scavenge graveyards for such foulness?”

“If you say so, you’re absolutely right.”

Oyoshi had until now believed in Shichi’s skill, but ever since hearing their argument the other night, when measured against Shingo’s knowledge, it abruptly began to seem fragile to her.

“As times change—though one cannot say this loudly—even the shogunate has begun to falter, has it not? Thought, scholarship, craftsmanship—in any field, old minds cannot keep up. Someone like Shichinosuke—no matter how skilled his hands may be—as Western learning progresses, he’ll be deemed nothing but an ignorant peasant. That sort of work will become useless within five years.”

“Is that so?”

“Indeed it is.”
“But when it comes to that, Lord Hyōsuke is admirable.”
“He is indeed not obstinate.”
“He knows where the world is headed.”

“No, he’s not quite like that.”

“Oh, he does think about such things.”
“As proof, he not only readily accepts my theories but had also given considerable thought to the man who will become your husband—” he deliberately stared at her profile.

“Ah... That... that’s already Mr. Shichinosuke’s house, but—”

“Don’t mind me—go on inside.”
“But—”

“I shall remain hidden outside.”
“If he dares complain about not returning it or spout such nonsense, I shall not permit it.”
“There is no cause for such worry, but… um… there is another small matter I must discuss.”
“Then it appears my presence would prove troublesome.”
“It isn’t that I mean to dismiss you, but…”

“You’re telling me to leave, I suppose.”
“Very well. In deference, I shall retrace my steps along the original path.”
“In exchange, would you not grant me a promise?”

“What would that be?”

“In truth, this Shingo also has something he wishes to discuss with you once.”
“But since it’s always inconvenient at the estate with colleagues around, would you meet me once at the house in the old government office ruins?”

“That place was once the magistrate’s villa, and now no one lives there.”

“It’d be a problem if people were living there.”
“Since it’s a vacant villa, you can relax there.”

“If you were to do such a thing, who knows what the villagers would say.”

“It shouldn’t matter if they find out.”
“After all, it’s a matter between you and me that will inevitably come to light.”

Shingo, who had placed his hand on her shoulder and whispered close to her ear, gazed down domineeringly at Oyoshi as she remained unresisting and bowed her head,

“You swore it!”
“Then today, I shall refrain from pressing further and take my leave.”

Leaving Oyoshi there, he briskly started back along the original path, but after circling around a small grove ahead and walking along the shadow of the field’s boundary embankment, he returned once more to the side of Shichinosuke’s house.

Oyoshi’s figure was no longer visible outside.

The low-roofed house there, built with reddish-brown clay walls and bark-clad logs, was more of a workshop than a dwelling.
When he stepped over the fence where yellow weaselgrass flowers bloomed in profusion, the mother hen and her chicks scattered in both directions from his feet.

“?”
…”

It was there that Shingo squatted down.

VIII

“Once I start working, these days I don’t let anyone into the shed, no matter who comes.”

Shichinosuke, still turned away, was grinding the magnolia charcoal for the gunpowder with a whetstone.

“It stinks when you come in here.”

“Of course it does! If you don’t like it, then get out.”

“Tch!”

He glared, but with no place to sit, Oyoshi remained standing.

Once he began working, Shichinosuke became so absorbed that he didn’t even glance back at her.
Beside him lay firework shells resembling Shōkakubō’s eggs—three-inch to five-inch spheres still damp with ganpi paper, several drying in the shade; mortars with dissolved glue, jars holding mysterious liquids, buckets filled with straw ash; scales, blades, chunks of sulfur—the place was cluttered beyond endurance.

Usually she hadn’t felt it so strongly, but since hearing Shingo’s words, all those objects now appeared before her eyes as a wretched assemblage of ignorance.

In the corner of the shed lay a mat piled with filthy soil.
Within that soil squirmed tea-colored winged insects and pale larvae, wriggling in masses.
Ignorant vermin!
She furrowed her brows.

“What are you doing, hauling this much filthy ditch dirt into the house?”

“It’s for drawing out saltpeter.”

“Gunpowder from soil...”

“Ain’t nothin’ strange ’bout that. Back in the day, everyone made ammo from that stuff an’ fought wars.”

“But if it’s saltpeter you need, why bother with all this hassle? You could buy it or get some from your comrades, couldn’t you?”

“Nope.”

And Shichinosuke stubbornly shook his head,

“For this job, I don’t intend to use a single Nagasaki-made component. It’s pride!”

“You’re such a stubborn mule.”

“That’s right—fireworks artisans live such uncertain lives that even if a single tobacco ember rolls wrong, their bones and flesh could end up who knows where! And isn’t this work where you slave half a year or a full year without sleep, driving yourself mad over something that goes ‘boom’ and vanishes in an instant? You couldn’t do it without pride!”

Oyoshi was born in Togari.
She understood that sentiment all too well.

Their relationship grew so deep that speaking bluntly became the norm.
A man whose love and very way of life burned as transiently as fireworks came to grip Oyoshi powerfully.
At least until today, the shed’s stench and filth had never nauseated her to such an extent—

Perhaps it was only natural their love had reached an impasse—after all, it had been ephemeral from the start.
But she had no intention of grasping such reasons; she merely found herself vaguely envisioning Shingo’s new figure, his knowledge, his status.

“By the way, Oyoshi.”

“Huh?”

She started— “What is it?”

“What’d you come here for today?”

“Oh, I’d forgotten.
“Um... If you don’t return Father’s book that I brought and lent you some time ago, I’ll be in quite a predicament.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Sakuma of Matsushiro insists it must be lent, so Father told me to have it ready, you see.”

“You’re lying.”
“Hah! Got it.”
“You’ve been goaded by that second senior retainer’s whelp into snatching back the book so I’ll finally buckle down to work—that’s why you came here colluding with him!”

“Must you always assume the worst?”

“No doubt about it.”
“I know every cursed thing.”
“Strange as it seems, this Shichinosuke’s got ears sharp as hell’s own hounds!”

“You’re not right in the head today.”
“We’ll talk when you’ve cooled off—just give me back the book now.”

In the corner of a shelf cluttered with assorted bottles of chemical solutions, where her father’s familiar old books were stacked, she tried to take them and leave when—
“Stop!”

And Shichinosuke suddenly stood up,

“You’ve gone and changed your mind, huh?”

No sooner had he raised his foot than—aiming at Oyoshi’s slender waist—he kicked her down into the dirt-floored area below.

A chicken let out a dying screech, and as the clamorous flapping of wings grazed the back door, from there came Shingo—lips pressed tight, face contorted—bursting into the room with terrifying force.

“Ah!”

Shichinosuke collapsed on top of Oyoshi.
When she tried to get up，she was immediately kicked down again.
Kicked around like a ball some four times，and as direct sunlight struck him，he—amid swirling grass dust—fiercely planted both feet into the earth.

“It’s you, Shingo—you bastard.”
“It’s Shingo.”
“Why the hell did you kick me?”
“Why did you kick Lady Oyoshi?”
Their pallid, drawn faces and trembling fists brimming with intensity glared at each other like fighting cocks, counting each ghastly breath.

“Whether you kick or strike, it’s unnecessary meddling.”
“There ain’t nothing strange about me kicking my own woman.”

“My woman?”

“Hmph—I’ll say it plain: Oyoshi’s my woman.”

Shichinosuke did not hesitate.

Shingo, his eyebrows twitching violently, was on the verge of losing all color in his face at the opponent’s resolute shout,

“This is absurd—I’ve never heard that Lord Hyōsuke gave his daughter to Shichinosuke of Togari.”

“No matter what anyone says—Oyoshi’s my woman, ain’t no doubt about it.”

“Don’t spout nonsense. Lady Oyoshi has her father’s consent, and she herself has firmly pledged herself to this humble one.”

“Hmm, now I get it,” said Shichinosuke. “Every damn time you stick your nose in my work—so this whole mess is just some petty grudge over love? What a pitifully cheap bastard you are.”

“Silence!” Shingo retorted. “How dare you taint official duties with personal spite! Ah—didn’t you yourself declare you’d never refuse a duel over professional matters?”

“So I said it—what’s it to you?”

“As domain inspector, I cannot fulfill my duty to the authorities while you defy these reasonable terms. Not that you could possibly regret pushing your pride this far. Since you’ve gotten your duel wish—draw your weapon and let’s settle this.”

The pleasure of insulting others—though Shingo hadn’t truly intended to go that far—had now inadvertently compelled him to make this resolute declaration.

“Alright, you wait!”
Shichinosuke had no choice.

To retrieve his short sword, he sprang into motion and leapt gallantly into the house.

In the meantime, Shingo untied his sword cord and rolled up his sleeves.
To the panicking Oyoshi, he shook his head sideways and repeatedly tightened his sword’s hilt cord, but gradually grew aware of the pounding in his chest.

A considerable interval passed.

He tried two or three practice swings with his arm.
Since there still seemed time, he bent each joint of his five fingers one by one and assumed a waiting stance.
Even so, with no sign yet emerging, he began moving his feet as if treading the sand of a sumo ring.

However, Shichinosuke still hadn’t emerged.
The preparations were taking too long, and the hut was strangely quiet.

Nine

“What’s wrong? Shichinosuke!”

Shingo bellowed, but receiving no reply, he dashed into the dirt-floored area to investigate, thinking he must have fled.

Thud!
Unexpected.

The opponent had settled indoors.
Shingo flinched in surprise instead. When he peered inside to assess the situation, he found him mixing sulfur and blue powder with the charcoal he had prepared earlier, grinding it in a mortar with a gritty crunch.

Shingo placed one foot on the threshold,

“Shichinosuke! You’ve flinched.”

“Cut the crap.”

With that, Shichinosuke measured out the ground powder on the hundred-momme scale, peering closely,

“Don’t make me laugh—who’s flinching?”

“Come out! Why won’t you come outside?”

“I’m calling it off.”

“Have you come to your senses, you fool?!
“Then admit your defeat!”

“Heh, heh… Cut the jokes.”

“You—still with the bold talk?”

“What bold talk? Keep grinding your teeth like that, and I’ll hurl a gunpowder ball at you from here!”

Shingo instinctively pulled back the foot he’d placed on the threshold—

“Then take up your weapon and come outside properly.”
“This duel was something you yourself demanded!”

“I said I’m callin’ it off—quit bein’ so damn persistent.”
“When you think about it—I’m a fireworks artisan.”
“Whether I cut you or get cut myself—sword fights ain’t interesting.”

“Y-you fool! If not with swords—then how?!”

“Let’s settle this with our real trade—our proper craft. You’re the second senior retainer’s son—but in Matsushiro Domain—so proud of its fire techniques—ain’t your official title ‘Ōkami Fire Technician’?”
“I’m in the fire-handlin’ trade too.”
“If we’re gonna duel anyway—let’s do it with fireworks.”

“Such a contest has no place in samurai custom.”
“I am a samurai. I settle matters with the sword.”

“I’m a fireworks artisan. Come at me with your real skills! Hey! What’s that crap you’re always spouting? With that two-bit Western learning of yours, going on about how we’re backward, ignorant, stuck in the past! Swords clanging together ain’t exactly newfangled either. Let’s settle this—fireworks maker versus samurai—which brain’s sharper? Skill against skill, not muscle. Or if that book-smart mouth hides actual incompetence, get on your knees in the dirt and beg forgiveness! I’ll mercy you like the mole cricket you are!”

Before anyone noticed, outside the dirt-floored area, the Togari youths and four domain retainers had split into groups and were noisily scuffling.
The village youths spread their arms and resolutely blocked the samurai who were eager to rush in and assist Shingo.

Shingo was left with no way out.
In front of the Togari people and his colleagues—and before Oyoshi as well.

“Fine!
“I’ll take you on in any kind of contest.”
“Then what are the terms?”

“Let’s have everyone decide!”

“Hmm… An arbitrated duel then?”

“Yeah.”
“Hey, everyone—get in here.”
“Bring Oyoshi too. Don’t let ’er slip away.”

The crowd that had been scuffling outside all rushed into the hut at once. Oyoshi, unable to flee, hid her merciless shame behind the multitude. However, whether through village custom or occupational hazard's influence, these people—steeped in sexual license and free intimacy between men and women—watched the love triangle unfolding before them without particular astonishment. To be sure, they had all vaguely known of this matter beforehand without speaking of it, so they must have anticipated that such commotion would prove unavoidable eventually.

The only pitiable one was old man Hyōsuke, who remained completely unaware of Oyoshi’s sexual conduct. Gazing at her petite figure, he had always considered his daughter a child. However, the truth was that even before Shichinosuke, she had had four or five carnal acquaintances whom even Shichinosuke did not know about.

Yet there was no one so heartless as to forcibly inform Hyōsuke of this.
Oyoshi too had at first looked ready to vanish from shame, but when the two men hardened their expressions and the Togari villagers and four domain retainers pressed in breathlessly around them—when they finally began earnest deliberations about the duel's terms—she lifted her pallid face and found herself unable to remain indifferent to their talk of her own fate.

And so the duel's terms were nearly settled.

To prevent future objections, the mediators later compiled an itemized list and handed it to both parties. Extracting the key points from this document, the recorded terms were as follows.

First, each party was to produce fireworks they were fully confident in within the next hundred days.

The selection of materials and chemicals was to be at each party’s discretion. Additionally, up to two subordinate artisans could be used as assistants.

The size shall be moderate: eight-sun balls.

Verification shall be conducted by all those present here.

In the case of a launching contest, all tasks—from tube preparation to fuse ignition—shall be performed solely by the participants themselves; no assistance from others shall be permitted.

The location was four ri from Zenkōji, on the banks of the Chikuma River upstream from Kawanakajima in a southeastern direction.

The day was set for approximately early July.

It was to be conducted prior to advancing to the fireworks formation at Nagashino in Sanshū.

The terms were roughly as outlined above—but now, what would become of the winner? And what would become of the loser? Since it was not a duel with swords and thus posed no risk to life, it was only natural that terms had to be established for the outcome. However, since both had agreed on the demands in that case, there was no complication. It was simple and clear: The loser would submit to any humiliation. In other words—they had to submit to sanctions! Such were the terms.

And one more thing—the superior one shall claim Oyoshi as his own!
The defeated would lose all claim to love.
After all, though Oyoshi must have had her own will, the mediators' deliberations sealed even her love within the eight-sun firework ball.

Ten

Shingo immediately set about producing his fireworks.
He was not entirely without confidence.

Even among the Togari comrades, he hired two men who seemed to hold a grudge against Shichinosuke as assistants and commandeered their hut and equipment as his workshop.

"What's the situation?"
"And Seven?"

Whenever colleagues came, he would persistently try to probe that matter.

"Looks like an empty house, Seven's place."

“Hmm… Maybe he ran away.”

“Nah, there’s a sound coming from inside.”

Shingo constantly felt overwhelmed by his rival’s overpowering presence. He had sent a letter to the domain and procured lavishly refined saltpeter and potent chemicals through special channels. In this regard, he had gained clear superiority over Shichinosuke’s stubborn adherence to tradition—that peculiar method of sourcing materials solely from what oral traditions dictated.

Summer deepened its hold on the village. When fresh greenery clothed this mountain country, it was already mid-May.

Since his two assistants had taken the day off, Shingo was idling in the workshop when he took out the letter Oyoshi had tossed through his window the day before yesterday and began rereading it.

Shingo thought her letters revealed gradually more affection toward him compared to her previous ones. When he compared the two men’s intellect and status, he concluded any fool could see it was only natural the woman would gravitate toward him.

“Before the duel even takes place—isn’t Oyoshi already mine?”

He smirked to himself even as he felt somehow like he was stealing forbidden fruit.

Moreover, the recent manner in which his other colleagues had been covertly advising against his romance with Oyoshi only made Shingo more obstinate.
Such contrariness was inherent in his nature to meddle in everything, but regarding this matter with Oyoshi, it burned particularly fierce.

"I’ve really started wanting to see her."

He stepped out casually.
Unusually dressed in an informal kimono and straw sandals, he sought out the shade.

When he visited Kyōraishi Hyōsuke’s house, Oyoshi was not there. The old man said she had gone all the way to Yudanaka and likely hadn’t returned yet. He had been making peculiar small talk with Old Man Hyōsuke, but since he had made absolutely certain the old man remained unaware of this affair, he couldn’t stay long. Even his solitary relocation of lodgings had been justified to the old man as domain business—nothing more than that.

It was on his way back.

When he deliberately took a detour and arrived at the abandoned garrison site some distance from the village, there was an apple orchard—this too, it was said, had been transplanted under the orders of Sakuma Shōzan of the domain.
Ducking under the low branches, a man passed through to the other side.

A man he thought he’d seen—

Shingo circled around ahead and hid in the shadow of the old garrison’s earthen wall.
The collapsed section of the wall sank into the weeds and continued onward.
The jet-black ridge of a building said to have remained untouched for over a century became visible through the gap.

“Huh?”

Shingo widened his eyes.

The man now crawling into that place like a wary dog while scanning his surroundings could only be Shichinosuke.
_Seven!_
The instant this thought formed, Shingo felt scalding jealousy surge through his skull.

He and Oyoshi had made a promise once.
He hadn’t forgotten—though that earlier commotion had robbed him of any chance to act on it.

That pact about using the abandoned garrison house for undisturbed conversation... Could Oyoshi now be secretly meeting Seven at the very spot he’d shown her?

So that’s it. So that’s why those colleagues of mine had been speaking with something caught in their teeth when admonishing me lately!

Seething, he dashed about ten steps and peered into the collapsed section of the earthen wall. A loud snap resounded through his hand. The branch he had been grasping snapped.

As if noticing the sound, Shichinosuke’s face—now standing before the shutters of the abandoned house—briefly glanced this way. Shingo hurriedly retreated backward. Shichinosuke too made a surprised face, suddenly bent his body, twisted sideways, and crossed over the earthen wall on the far side to return toward Togari.

But—Seven’s departure remained unseen by Shingo.
Suspicion and jealousy sullenly coiled around his legs, leaving him rooted to the spot.

“Oh, if it isn’t Lord Shingo!”

It was unexpected.

When he turned around in surprise, a woman’s figure came walking from the narrow path through the apple orchard.
Oyoshi’s eyes came into view through the small branches of the apple trees.

He looked her over from her hair to the hem of her kimono with a scrutinizing gaze,

“Where have you been?”
“To Yudanaka.”
“—And you?”

“I was looking for you.”
“You weren’t in Yudanaka.”

“Then where was I?”

“You were inside this old house, weren’t you?”
“With that Seven.”

“Wh—…!” She laughed with an exasperated smile, but noticing the man’s jealous look, she edged slightly back—then Shingo’s arm suddenly coiled around her body as if to tackle her down.

“You’ve been meeting Seven since daytime.”
“An uninhabited house.”
“The footprints show it.”
“Come here.”

With madman-like strength, he kept embracing her as he dragged her relentlessly toward the abandoned house.
Oyoshi's forehead was beaded with sweat.
It was suffocating.
But she did not let out a scream or anything.

……………………

After that, the two of them would often remove the shutters of the old house sweltering with grass heat and secretly delight in the mold-bloomed darkness—there were times they met by day, times they met by night.

Eleven

Having seen an unpleasant look, Shichinosuke returned from the old house at the former garrison site without doing anything; but since the items he had gone there to retrieve were still sufficient for a while, he did not go back for about twenty days.

In the meantime, he had completed production of an eight-inch ball equivalent to one into which he had poured his very soul.

An eight-inch ball was quite a large thing.
The shell of the ball was made by pasting thin ganpi paper sheet by sheet and hardening it through meticulous work until it became like metal.
Its interior held secrets within secrets.
If one were to split it open—just as one might dissect a human brain—there lay coiled within the delicate structures of matter: cerebrum, cerebellum, blood plasma, cells.
Who could claim this wasn’t a living creature?
Shichinosuke placed it on his knee and thought deeply.

Inside this thing, even my bone has been ground into it.
It contains blood, pent-up fury and tears—no, even love. From the soil beneath the old house’s floorboards to the fat of the late Ochiyo Goke.

No wonder—on a damp, dark night, when something like this goes up with a wail and blue flames raining down send shivers through you.
This thing really must be some kind of monster.

Shichinosuke felt an eerie discomfort even in the weight of the eight-inch ball he had made.

According to him, fireworks were living monsters.
At the moment when that grotesque pale demonic flame vanished into illusion—when he contemplated what one might call his soul—he felt he could die even with some unknown woman.
Yet when there was love that set his chest aflame, he found himself incited by a frenzied impulse to chase after the willow blooming with a boom and hurl into it whatever he carried—be it coins from his pocket or anything else.
But after bustling fireworks nights in places like Ryogoku, when dark fog descended and the city grew cold in a hush—the bleakness of such moments defied description.
After all, fireworks were living creatures—monsters through and through.

Even now, Shichinosuke was thinking such thoughts as he stowed the enormous monster of a ball away deep in the closet.

“There.”
“Bring it on anytime.”

Reflecting on his own efforts, he had nothing to be ashamed of.

Twelve

If he failed to emit the crimson light he had labored to achieve from this ball, then no matter how brilliantly the other flames emerged, how elegant their bloom, how far their roar resounded across leagues, or even if artificial stars descended from the cosmos trailing celestial companions—the judges would hesitate to raise their fan in our favor.

However, Seven was confident.

From that day on, he set about another task with an air of nonchalance. That one was just light miscellaneous work—a job of taking it to the wholesaler to exchange for money. In the intervals between, he was steadily progressing on his lifelong masterpiece—the shakunijyu ball to be presented to Mikawa’s fireworks camp.

Making these miscellaneous items just devours saltpeter like mad, he thought. Maybe I should go get some more soil to stock up.

It was an evening in early June.

Shichi closed up his workshop and left.
He had come back to that old house at the former garrison site—the one he'd abruptly visited earlier after seeing Shingo's disagreeable face.

After covering his cheeks with cloth, he immediately dropped into a crouch and crawled beneath the veranda.
Perhaps there had been another time when he'd turned back rather than let Shingo see him contorted like this.

The foundation pillars were all rotten, as if termites had devoured them.
It had stood for over a century—a creeping, gloomy darkness enveloped his face.

After counting the foundation pillars and stroking around a certain one, he found a small hoe and a basket.
With the blade of the hoe, he scraped off the surface soil in sections of about three inches each and piled it into the basket.

Shichinosuke’s gunpowder is different.

Even his comrades were always astonished by the powerful flames he produced, but the treasure trove of saltpeter lay beneath the floor of this old house.
Of course, it was true that this soil would be completely transformed into something entirely different after being processed and purified by his hands—but.

When he took one basketful, he was drenched in sweat.
He curled his arm to wipe away sweat, and soil and spiderwebs clung to his face.

“Oh?”

He had come here many times to gather soil, but now he witnessed an unprecedented phenomenon there—on the foundation pillar right behind him, through a crack in the floorboards, though faintly, a light was shining.

Shichinosuke was someone who even believed in the fairy of fireworks.
A shiver of cold crept up his spine as he lay his sweltering body against the chilly earth, and then—a woman giggled, a man laughed, their lewd voices rising and falling to scrape at his ears from all directions.

“?”
“...”

In the darkness, Seven’s eyes became like those of an owl.

“That’s not human—not human laughter. ...A tanuki?”

No—!
He arrived at an even more horrifying realization.
The specter of Ochiyo Goke—whose grave I had desecrated.

The laughter bore a close resemblance to that licentious widow’s.
The specter of Ochiyo Goke—who until half a month before her death had alternately invited in many village men.

Cold sweat streamed down Shichinosuke’s face like a reed screen.
Like fire seeping from the netherworld, the faint light still leaked through, but at some point, the presence above the floor had hushed into deathly silence.

A whisper far smaller than before leaked through.
Shichinosuke thrust his finger into his ear.
Yet he completely forgot to move from there.

As gritty soot spilled into his collar, he instinctively pulled his finger from his ear—and suddenly whoosh—the sound of rain rushed through outside.
When he glanced over, a white mist was rolling thickly into the depths beneath the floor.

Thunder rumbled.

It roared and raced across the sky!

Blue lightning revealed the earth's bare face.

Shichinosuke jolted awake as if struck, tumbling out from beneath the floor.
The raindrops fell like a reed screen.
A pure white evening shower.

He couldn’t take the soil back.
No—I had already forgotten such a thing!
He hiked up his clothes and dashed through the curtain of rain.

When he went around to the back, the shutters on the water inlet were open a gap of about five sun.
When he glanced over, there were two pairs of footwear lined up beneath it.
A snake-eye-patterned umbrella had been laid across them.

“Thank god.”

Without a second thought, he took it, opened it with a snap, and hid himself beneath it.
With a roaring rush, water from the bamboo gutter fell onto the umbrella, transforming into droplets that cascaded like a waterfall.

In the flickering lightning, the shoulder of Mount Takashiro came into clear view twice.
Shichinosuke stared at the clouds for a while, waiting for a lull in the rain.

Finally, as the rain’s streaks had thinned slightly, he hoisted the umbrella fully over himself and leaped out into the water that had become like a pond.
Then, the door behind him clattered open.

“Hey, wait!”

It was a man’s voice.

Right behind him, a woman’s voice spoke.

“You mustn’t go out holding that umbrella.”

The voice was familiar.
Shichinosuke’s legs trembled with fury.
Pressing down on the umbrella’s rib with one hand, he whirled around as if tearing it violently, then thrust his ghastly pale face—visible within the indigo circle—toward the man and woman pressing cheeks together in the shutter gap.

“You’ll remember this! The umbrella? You bastards can walk home soaked!”

Thirteen

Following the Zenkōji Plain along the Chikuma River for about two ri upstream while viewing Ubasute and Mount Kammuri to the right, one emerged into a vast riverbed between the mountains.

A hushed dusk-tinted light hung low over the water's surface.
From the mountain ridge on the western bank to the edge of the riverbed, small, flat houses like bean-sized slabs with stones weighing down their roofs could be seen sparsely scattered.

It was the Togura hot spring.
Soon, a sparse number of flickering lights began to appear in the area.

“If preparations are ready, shall we get going? By now, Shichinosuke must have already gone to the launch site.”

One of the hot spring inns in Togura.
There were members of the Matsushiro Domain who had been stationed there since daytime.
Of these, four were samurai retainers serving Shingo, but the remaining many young samurai seemed to have been gathered by Shingo himself as a precaution for any eventuality.

“Mr. Hachiya, do your best!”

“We’ll settle our grudges and then look forward to celebrating with a drink!”

After seeing off Shingo and his four attendants, they cheered from the second floor until their figures receded into the distance.
Shingo looked back and slapped his arm demonstratively.
He was in high spirits.
He seemed to have some strategy beyond the duel itself.

As they emerged from Togura’s dark crossroads, beneath the eaves of a shabby merchant inn, a lone woman in traveling attire and two elderly fireworks artisans wearing leg wrappings and arm guards had been waiting eagerly—but upon seeing the group,

“Lord Shingo.”

With that, the woman was the first to dash forward.

“Lady Oyoshi, do not worry.”

When he saw her face, he immediately tried to comfort her—

He turned toward the fireworks artisans and asked, “What about the tubes and shells?”
These two men were those permitted under the duel’s terms to assist in producing eight-sun shells.

“We’ve already sent them ahead.”
“The location is as agreed—about two chō upstream from Kōgai Ferry.”

“Well done.”
“Has Shichinosuke arrived?”

“That guy was fishing for minnows by the riverbed—must be worn out from waiting by now.”

“Hmm,” he sneered, his lips twisting into a cold smile.

“Then, Lady Oyoshi, when you get close, take a boat and rest on the island in the river.”
“You won’t be alone—I’ve positioned my comrades around the hill.”

Following the riverbed upstream for five or six chō, the sky turned completely to night.
The relatively bright footing likely came from a faint blue glow hovering about ten shaku above the water’s surface.

In early summer, this area would brighten even at night from moonflowers that had flowed down from the Saku highlands and taken root.
Now autumn grasses stretched everywhere across the river’s sandbars.

The shrill cries of kajika frogs echoed through the darkness，somehow tightening their nerves.
—and a small boat was waiting.
Shingo whispered something and，placing only Oyoshi aboard，sent her off to the broad island at the river’s heart.

About half a chō ahead, a red fire about the size of a firefly became visible.
Shichi was sitting entrenched in the grass, smoking a cigarette with about seven young men from Togari.
They were there.

“Here they come!”

Both parties’ senses sharpened wordlessly.

Shingo approached together with his group while maintaining a stiff demeanor,

“Shichi, you were quite early.”

“Do come.”

Shichinosuke greeted them amiably.
And even to the attendants,

“Thank you for your trouble today,” he said with uncharacteristic courtesy.

“Are your preparations ready?”

“Hee.
Anytime.”

“Hmm, so that’s the launching area.”
“I see you’ve put up plain rope instead of a curtain.”

“You mean this death rope?”

“Ah, well—victory or defeat depends on the luck of the moment. Half of it I’d have left to divine will—if I hadn’t.”

“That may be so.”

“Let’s not leave any resentment between us.”

“If I lose, I’ll hold a grudge. I can’t help but hold a grudge—it’s my nature.”

“Ha ha ha ha.”

They laughed, but both sounds rang hollow.
And yet, what they had been trying to draw out of each other all this time remained unspoken by either.

And finally, Shichinosuke spoke.

“Speaking of which—Oyoshi—”

“Hmm, Oyoshi?”

“You were supposed to be the one to bring her here tonight.”

“I did bring her along, but in truth—since women are considered impure at launching grounds and I couldn’t risk her getting hurt—I left her at Togura Inn.”

“I see.”

Shichinosuke accepted this with unexpected acquiescence,

“It’s fine.”
“I have no objections.”
“Then let us part ways to the launching area.”

With a sharp rustle, Shichinosuke rose to his feet, while Shingo conversely sank heavily onto a rock.

“Now, don’t be hasty. As I am a samurai, there are protocols for duels. Since I’ve prepared earthenware from Togura here, let us exchange cups of Chikuma River water and compose ourselves properly before beginning.”

With that, he cut Shichinosuke off at the outset.

Yet despite his composed demeanor, Shingo’s eyes betrayed no tranquility toward the enveloping darkness.

Fourteen

Had this been a true fireworks battle between rival domains, mourning curtains would have been hung, war drums sounded, and sleeveless campaign jackets donned—an atmosphere akin to battlefield confrontation. But tonight’s duel pitted merely the son of the domain’s second-ranking elder against a lone fireworks artisan. Along the vast river shrouded in darkness, only sparse figures lingered; desolate and still, even the preparatory footsteps fell hushed.

In exchange, if they were defeated, they would lose both love and life.
It was a desperate moment.
The damp riverside night wind, the early autumn sky hemmed between mountains—all shrouded in somber ink-like darkness with an eerie aura—bore an indescribable desolation that felt even stronger tonight.

Through the riverbed where weeds grew sparse and scattered, they moved away from the water’s edge, taking a distance of roughly five ken (9 meters) between them before parting ways.

The tube setup had already been completed.
The eight-inch shell was also positioned beside it.

One of the samurai, who had taken on the role of referee, tore off two stalks of pampas grass, made them into lots, and had the two men draw.
The short lot goes first, the long one last—Shichinosuke drew the short one.

“Now!”

From the darkness five ken ahead (about nine meters), Shingo’s tense voice urged.

Shichinosuke wore a short wakizashi at his waist, with straw sandals and indigo gaiters. He fastened his indigo-dyed sleeves with a leather cord and knelt before the tube.

As if entrusting his own life to it, he gingerly loaded the shell. He stepped back and took the slow match.

The critical importance of igniting the fuse went without saying. Whether one called it skill or mere pretense, with that single breath taken the moment fire dropped into the tube with a plop, even a renowned bloom meant to fill the heavens could crumble into ruin. There were also cases of what’s called a "black shell," where the casing remained completely unbroken and simply fell back down. If a black shell was launched, the fireworks artisan could no longer remain in the land. It was considered such an immense disgrace.

Now!

Shichinosuke measured his breath and dropped the fire into the tube.

And he drew back—with astonishing speed.

With a whoosh, piercing through the yellow smoke at hand, a thin flame shot straight up into the sky.

At the same time, still in his crouched position from stepping back, his eyes chased it into the sky.

“How’s that!”

Staring at the sky as if glaring, he held his breath.
But what was happening?
An instant, then another instant—the eight-inch shell that had soared into the sky remained utterly lightless for what felt like an eternity, as though it had vanished into the clouds.

Boo-oom.

A ridiculous noise reverberated from the depths of the pitch-black sky.

“It’s a black shell!”

When someone screamed this, the stunned group, overwhelmed by the situation, found their tongues tangling,

“Wh-what happened, Shichi?!”

“Black… black… it’s a black shell, Shichi!”

He stuttered tearfully and stamped the ground.

Shichinosuke stood by the tube with his arms crossed, his face pale.

“Shut up! The match ain’t over yet!”

“B-but… Brother!”

“Shut up! — Hey! What the hell’s wrong with your group—!” he barked furiously.

At their opponent’s unexpected failure, Shingo’s group—which had been holding its breath in silence—upon hearing Shichi’s desperate shout, erupted in scornful laughter all at once,

“What was that you said? Say it again.”
“I’m done here!”

“Hmm, splendid work,” came the mocking voice.

“Why ain’t you launchin’ yours yet? For all you know, yours could be a black shell too!”

“Don’t spout nonsense! We’ll show you Lord Shingo’s skill now—don’t piss yourself!”

“Whoa!”

Shichinosuke strained his eyes into the darkness.

And then, at the very moment Shingo tucked up the hem of his hakama and dropped the fuse into the tube, Shichinosuke’s lips suddenly—

“Damn it!”

he shouted.

Shingo seemed to jolt with realization.
Contrary to his body that should have recoiled in that instant, he involuntarily thrust his head forward and peered into the mouth of the tube.

An eerie sound rang out.

Fire and blood and a sound like the tube splitting!

In that instant, Shingo’s head lost its form and flew into the sky.

A booming roar that seemed to burst from the chest thundered through the early autumn night sky. Five silver stars hung diagonally like the Big Dipper—then each scattered apart in explosions, swiftly layering vivid canopies of light that cast the Crown Peak, Dressing-Stand Peak, and Obasute mountains in stark blue. Just as this happened, one star’s hue—like a will-o’-the-wisp born from vermilion—flared crimson for an instant, a mere heartbeat, imprinting its blazing red light upon the Chikuma River’s surface.

—A dream!
It was a dreamlike sensation.

No one said anything.
Still looking upward.
Arms still crossed….

What magnificent beauty of fire! What terrifying magic! In the instant’s blazing light, the souls of all who gazed upward were consumed by flames.

Their eyes pierced by a true crimson light they had never before witnessed stood dazedly, lost to themselves, but when they suddenly rested their weary retinas upon the ground below, nearly every one of them simultaneously—

“It’s a disaster—!”

—snapped back to their senses.

Shingo’s torso had no head.

Shichinosuke was no longer there.

Fifteen

Through the dark surface of the Chikuma River，Shichinosuke swam，churning up white ripples in his wake.

Seeing a figure that had been lurking since evening on the hill he was heading toward，he anticipated that Shingo would resort to some underhanded scheme in tonight’s duel.
He let it proceed and observed.
As expected，under cover of darkness，Shingo switched his own creation with Shichinosuke’s.

“Now. Oyoshi’s turn.”
“Oyoshi’s turn.”

Shichinosuke’s eyes, like a snake’s, watched the hill from the water as he cut through with swift strokes.
However, when his shadow approached the hill, a single small boat rode the rapids and drifted downstream from there.

Shichinosuke also immediately surrendered his body to the rapids.
The boat eventually ran aground on the shallows’ gravel, and the pole became useless.
Shichinosuke suddenly raised his upper body and began walking with splashing steps.

Ah.

When Shichinosuke cried out, a woman’s shadow leaped from the boat into the water.
White foam swirled up like tie-dye.
Shichinosuke swam desperately again.

“I’ll die, I’ll die—it’s not up to me anymore!”

Before long, Shichinosuke had entangled his hands in algae-like strands and swum to the far downstream bank.
A white arm lacking even the strength to cry remained wrapped around his leg before limply separating from the water’s edge.

× × ×

In the stylish town near Zenkoji Temple's Gondo district, Shichinosuke had many acquaintances. On the second floor of a teahouse called Tatsumiya, his face rested propped on his hand. It was the evening of the third day since the Chikuma River incident.

"Today's the Star Festival, huh, Oyoshi."

When he turned around, in the corner of the room, the shadow of disheveled hair—unable to even lift her face to the lamplight—sat with a hand pressed to her chest, dejectedly bowing her head.

“Hey, Oyoshi.
“It’s a festival—the Autumn Milky Way Festival!
“Oh right, this time last year I was meeting you all the time—lying under the Milky Way till we both caught colds, remember?”

“…I’m sorry.”
“I-I’m truly sorry.”

“Wh-what’re you—cut it out!”

“P-please forgive me…”

“I ain’t angry, that’s what I’m tellin’ ya.”

“When you say that... it’s agony—worse than being cut down—I-I’d rather... in the Chikuma River...”

Oyoshi collapsed, weeping loudly.

“Can’t go dyin’ on me.”
“A woman like you’s still got plenty of men left in her future.”
“Who knows what kinda Milky Way Festival nights you’ll be havin’ year after year from now?”

“Kill me… Rather than… rather than tormenting me like this—”

“I always say this—we’re fireworks artisans, after all. Ain’t got no decent spirit in us to begin with.”
“We’re just twisted folks—nothin’ to be done about it.”
“But when things get cleared up, it’s like splittin’ bamboo—clean break.”

“I beg you… I’ll pray with clasped hands…”
“…Shichinosuke.”
“F-Forget…”

“So I’m tellin’ ya—don’t wait around for this murkiness inside me to clear up.”
“Hear?”
“I ain’t some holy man who can pass on peaceful just ’cause you’re prayin’ over me—just a cursed wretch, that’s what I am.”

“……”

“Oy, oy—town’s got its festival on, sky’s full o’ stars.”
“Kids runnin’ ’round with colored paper tied to bamboo poles... Must be nice bein’ a kid...”

He adjusted his cheek-propped hand, gazing at the passersby until something made him jerk back toward Oyoshi.

“Hey—get ready.”

Tucking up his hem revealed leg wraps pressed against his shins. Tobacco pouch, paper case—he fastened them hurriedly to his belt, threw open the closet door, and grabbed the heavy bundle.

But he reconsidered,

“No good. I’d thought to turn this into cash first, but I can’t carry it and walk.”

Muttering as if giving up, he grabbed Oyoshi’s startled arm.
When he slid open the fusuma and emerged at the back staircase, Matsushiro Domain samurai thundering up from below had already formed a dark mass midway,

“Ah, Shichi!”

they froze in place.

“Careful now—my body’s rigged so firework shells’ll go off if you touch me anywhere.” He moved smoothly to the front to check, but the downstairs there too seemed packed with people. Stepping out onto the drying platform while firmly gripping Oyoshi’s hand, as he tried to move onto the roof, Oyoshi’s sleeve brushed against the Star Festival bamboo decoration, causing the nearby red candle—still lit—to tumble into the room. The enraged shouts of the pursuing samurai seeking him sounded absurd to Shichi’s ears. It was when they had run through Zenkōji’s precincts and sat down on the mountainside behind it.

He noticed for the first time that the sky behind him was dyed red.
The alarm bell was also ringing.

“Th-that candle…”
“Even though I was indebted to Tatsumiya… I went and did something terrible.”

At that moment, within the fire-engulfed sky, a deafening sound erupted.

What—?

When he looked, countless thin pillars of fire hissed through the sky from the blazing Tatsumiya roof. Deafening explosions ceaselessly rent the air! Then with a burst, the entire sky transformed into fireworks—Meteor, Whirling Lion, Seven Umbrellas, Willow, Five-petaled Peony, Flower Wheel.

Fireworks overlapped fireworks; explosions followed explosions in a chaotic dance of flames. A frenzied barrage of light made colors leap wildly as Zenkōji’s town shifted through every hue and flickered. Sky and earth aligned their fury in an instant of pure madness.

Shichi remembered what he had left behind in Tatsumiya’s closet and clapped his hands.

“Ahahaha.”
“Ahahaha.”
“Ain’t right to laugh… but I just gotta.”
“Those pursuin’ bastards must’ve shit themselves.”
“—But tonight’s one hell of a splendid Galaxy Festival.”

He turned to face Oyoshi,

“Hey—don’t go back to Togari.”
“I’m takin’ off aimless from here on.”
“Give my regards to your old man.”