Pathway to Japanese Literature

Rice container

It had already been two years since Otsugu, now eighteen, began commuting to Sugamo Village for Chikage-ryū lessons—one of her qualifications as a bride.

Throughout that entire period, there was not a single day she forgot to tuck a single perforated Kanei Tsuho coin into the obi each time she left the house.

"There’s no beggar as fervent as that one—"

To the point of making excuses to her own heart, she never neglected it.

From the riverbed, Iwagō of the reed mats—who daily raised pitiful eyes and desperately bowed his head to travelers on the highway—would spot her figure on the temporary bridge and bow a hundred times, as if he had been waiting for this moment.

"Such wholehearted bowing—no one else does that."

And receiving this became her secret pleasure.

Again that day, spanning the Shakujii River—
(Is Iwagō here?)

With that, Otsugu peered below.

Though they had never exchanged a single word, today Otsugu could clearly discern whether Iwagō was rejoicing over something, lost in thought, or feeling well or unwell.

(Ah—
Young Mistress)

Perhaps Iwagō also thought it improper to call out to the landlord’s daughter—he had already called out to her figure with his eyes, his gaze, his bows alone.

Plop—under the temporary bridge, a small water sound occurred.

“Oh!”

In a panic, Otsugu’s hand flew to her hair.
Her face became one that wanted to cry.

The silver hairpin sank deeper.

Having been told by her mother that she must not wear it until her wedding—

Though the Shakujii River looked deceptively shallow and clear, its muddy bottom was soft, and many children who had fallen from the temporary bridge had died there.

She stared resentfully at the water.

As Otsugu, resigned to the futility of it all, began to walk away dejectedly, Iwagō of the reed mats—who was at the riverside—started slowly wading into the muddy riverbed.

“Deep, ain’t it?”

The riverbed was slippery.

His legs sank endlessly into the mud.

But Iwagō did not stop. From waist-deep to chest-deep, like a mud-caked lotus root digger, he searched for the hairpin.

“Not here... Just not here.”
“Not here... Just not here.”

While muttering to himself, he remained unaware that the sun had set.

With a purple cotton bundle pressed to her chest, Otsugu was returning home from her lesson when she noticed an otter-like figure splashing about in the starlit water—

“Oh? Who’s there?”

her eyes widening,

“It’s you, Iwagō.”
“What are you doing?”

“Strange.”
“It should be here.”
“What?”
“Young Mistress’s.”

“Oh!”
“You’ve been searching for my hairpin?”
“Then please stop already.”
“You’ll catch a cold—it’s freezing out here!”

Because Otsugu kept insisting he stop, Iwagō sullenly climbed up to the riverbank.

“—Thank you.”

It was the first time she had spoken.

Having crossed the temporary bridge, when she looked back, Iwagō was sneezing loudly on the dimly lit riverbank.

The next day, Otsugu came there again,

“Oh Iwagō, are you still searching?”

she exclaimed in surprise.

“It should be here, I tell ya.”

Iwagō gave the same answer.

On both the third and fourth days, she saw him—now completely blackened—probing through the mud with his hands and legs.
Otsugu grew self-conscious before both travelers on the highway and local residents,

“Please stop already.”

she said.

Iwagō did not stop.
“It should be here,”
he said.

“I beg you—stop this! If you don’t stop now... I won’t come through here anymore from tomorrow onward.”

When she said this and threatened him, the next day Iwagō was finally sitting by the riverbank with his rice container placed before him.

Was it greed that drove him?

Or was he a bit simple-minded?

For some reason, Otsugu began to feel a slight distaste toward Iwagō.

She had already put such matters out of her mind and seen winter through.

Spring came, and daikon flowers bloomed.

Since Nerima was known as a daikon production area, they didn’t specifically call it a pickled radish wholesaler. It was an old established family called Taruya. She was the daughter of that household.

The temporary bridge over the Shakujii River would wash away whenever there was heavy rain.

Moreover, the new temporary bridge had shifted its position by about half a chō (approximately 50 meters). Otsugu had recently made a habit of not looking beneath the bridge, but that day—

“Young Mistress.”
“I found it!”

Suddenly called out to from the riverbank, she was startled.

Holding the silver hairpin, Iwagō came running up.

“Oh...”

“Found it! Found it!”

Otsugu’s eyes grew hot.

When he handed it to her, Iwagō went down to the riverbank looking satisfied.
He sat before the rice container and was already bowing his head to the shadows of travelers approaching from behind.

Pickle Warehouse

Even though he wasn't a beggar through and through,

the locals had long struggled to understand Iwagō, but nowadays, whenever his figure went unseen, they would all—

“What’s happened to him? Is he ill?”

they were so concerned.

For ever since Iwagō had drifted into this land, there had been no thieves or fires.
Moreover, he had rescued children and their caretakers who had fallen into the Shakujii River four separate times.
Moreover, during people’s sleep, he would carry away filthy things to burn at the riverbank, and afterward, neat broom marks would remain.

“He’s a strange man.
But he’s a dear fellow.”

And so, whenever they had leftover food, the people of Nerima Itabashi would take it to the kamaboko hut by the riverbank.

It had been twelve or thirteen years since he had drifted to this land.
He showed no signs of drinking alcohol, nor did his face betray any desire for women.
He was still only about thirty-four or thirty-five.
His physique was robust, and his features were ordinary.
He was short, round-faced, and when he smiled, he even had a certain charm.

The village urchins,

“Rocky!
Rocky!”

they threw stones at him or urinated on him from above.
Iwagō was just smiling.

This was Kōshū’s back road, so travelers often passed through.
When they saw Iwagō bowing earnestly,

“A mon’s cheap enough.”

And often, from their raincoat sleeves, bad coins would be tossed.

After counting his morning earnings, Iwagō was threading straw through a hole.
Then he ate the rice from the rice container, stretched his neck out, and sipped river water.

Heat haze rose, and it was a drowsy midday.

On the temporary bridge, a samurai in travel attire was staring fixedly downward.

“Hmm.”

he muttered.

Iwagō looked up,

“Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle…”

He was making gurgling sounds with the water in his mouth.

Suddenly, the samurai stripped off his haori,

“You bastard! You’re Satarō!”

he bellowed from above.

“Gah!”

From Iwagō's mouth, water spurted out.

“You! To think you’ve hidden yourself all these years.”
“Fight me!”

He leapt down to the riverbank.

In contrast, Iwagō scrambled upward.
He moved with such speed it was almost like tumbling.

"You coward!"

The samurai also leapt up in pursuit.
However, no figures could be seen on the highway anymore.

Kicking up white dust with his straw sandals,

“Master! Did a beggar flee past here just now?”

He stood panting before the tavern.

“No, he didn’t pass—Then, damn it all!”

He turned back and ran down a side road. He headed for the reed-screen teahouse,

“Pardon me, I have a question.”

“Huh?”

The townspeople who had been resting,

"What is it, sir samurai?"

"That young beggar who just fled up from the riverside—don't you know which way he went?"

"We don't know."

“Hmm.”

he circled around to the back of the teahouse,

“Ah! There he is!”

With that, he stomped noisily across the temporary bridge’s planks and charged forward.
Scattering white daikon blossoms in his wake, Iwagō’s fleeing figure could be seen in the distance.

“Hey!
Satarō!”

The samurai fell twice.

“You’re a man who once served as a samurai.
Cowardly wretch.
Stop!”

But Iwagō did not even turn around.
He fled into Nerima’s hamlet.

The waterwheel stopped.
Here and there, flocks of chickens let out clamorous cries and flapped their wings.

“You coward! You inhuman monster!”
“Give him back! Stop! You killed my brother! My sister’s—”

Bellowing all the while, the traveling samurai wept, his eyes and nose contorted in anguish.
To top it off, the sweat and dust smeared across his face painted a terrifying visage.

It was an old estate with an attached storehouse; without looking back, he charged into the main house’s front garden. It appeared he had attempted a slash somewhere along the way, his drawn sword now hanging at his right side.

The Taruya family, with Otsugu’s wedding approaching, had spread their sewing out on the southern veranda when—

“Eek!”

She fled in panic,

“Huh?! Someone help—”

she screamed.

From the pickling shed, a large group of young men wearing headbands came rushing out.

“Hey there, samurai! You gone mad?”

and restrained the samurai.

“I am not mad! I am Okamoto Hansuke, retainer to Ōkubo Kaganokami of Odawara.”
"The man who just fled into that pickling shed is Satarō, a former young retainer who served the neighboring Akiyama household."
"Oh... give me a cup of water."

“Water, he says? Talk about demanding!”
“What luxury he asks for!”

“I am indebted—”
“The tale jumps time, but thirteen years past—my sister Ya’e was deceived by that young retainer Satarō and fled our home.”
“When my brother pursued to retrieve her, he was slain by that wretch Satarō. My sister, shamed by her errors, took her own life.”

“Huh?”

“For ten years since, I’ve hunted Satarō—the enemy who took both younger siblings.”
“I’ve found him—that beggar cowering below is Satarō himself!”
“Good people, I beg you—crawl under and drive him out.”

No one responded.

Otsugu stood behind her elderly mother, her face pale, trembling as she listened.

"I beg you.
A samurai like this—" Okamoto Hansuke, in an unsightly state of agitation, lowered his hands below his knees,

"Out of mercy, drive him out."

But everyone remained silent.

"If you remain unwilling, I have no choice—though it pains me to act so rudely, I myself shall enter."

“Ah…”

Otsugu involuntarily jerked upright.

Then the young man,

"Hey, wait!"

"What is this? Why do you stop me?"

"The villagers know that beggar well—he's no villain."
"What's the point in slaying enemies?"
"I won't stand for this!"

"Silence! I am no commoner."
"If Satarō isn't wicked, where's your proof?"

“But no matter how ya think about it… Hey, you!”

“Fine! If you lot refuse, I’ll stand my ground right here until that wretch crawls out!”

“Well then, suit yourself.”

The samurai noticed the bamboo pole there, thrust it into the storehouse, and began stirring.

“Satarō! Come out! Thy divine mandate has now expired! Be slain honorably by Hansuke!”

The young men clicked their tongues.

“Shut up!”

They wrenched away the bamboo pole.

“If slayin’ enemies is the samurai’s trade, then we got ourselves a trade we can’t do without neither! You’re in the way. Move!”

They deliberately rolled several pickling barrels and drove Hansuke back.

Hansuke gnashed his teeth but found himself unable to proceed.
If he were to go to the nearby Kawagoe Domain, present a vendetta permit, and follow proper procedures, apprehending him might not be impossible; but should Satarō escape during that time, it would all come to nothing.

“Hmm... A battle of wills,” he declared. “That wretch cannot endure forever without food.”

Hansuke began walking around the storehouse.
He bit his lip as if declaring he would persist like this for five days—ten days if necessary.

Moonlit Radish Fields

Tap, tap—Hansuke’s footsteps could be heard outside even at midnight.

“Otsugu, aren’t you pleased with such good fortune?”

As her father, Taruya San’emon found himself both concerned by and dissatisfied with her subdued demeanor as the wedding approached.

Ceremonial stands, red and white crepe, willow tubs—the room was filled with her wedding gifts.
The family members stayed up late night after night, busily engaged.

“No.”

Otsugu forced a smile.

But there was somehow a shadow in her dimples.

“Is there still something missing?”

“It’s wasteful.”

“If there is, say so. …What… You’re crying?”

“But I can’t help feeling so terribly sorry, you see.”
“Compared to someone as fortunate as me…”

“Who.”
“Ah—is it about Grandmother being left behind?”

“No, um… Iwagō.”

“What are you going on about? The straw-mat Iwagō?”
“Ha ha ha! What a silly girl. Iwagō’s plight moves me, true—but the sins he committed? Evil deeds beget evil ends.”
“I couldn’t help but admire that samurai’s burning determination.”
“By tonight, it’ll be three days and three nights he’s been at it.”

“What a detestable man.”

“It’s an admirable thing for a samurai.”
“Still, those stubborn young lads refuse to hand over Iwagō. With your wedding procession so near, this nuisance grows intolerable. Tomorrow, I shall persuade the lads to surrender him.”

“You’re heartless, Father!”

With that, Otsugu pretended to strike her father with her sleeve,
“I refuse! I won’t have it!” she shook her head violently.
She had started crying.
San’emon had initially watched with amusement, dismissing it as simple maidenly sentimentality, but confronted by her ceaseless tears,
“Why this torrent?”
he reproached with a sharp look.

he admonished her with a slightly sharp look.

“But I just… Father, I beg you—please save him.”

“That won’t do. The samurai lord is watching.”

“But if it’s come to this…” Otsugu whispered, clinging to her father’s knee with what seemed like wisdom born of desperation.

“Call Shōkichi.”

After a while, a clap sounded in his living room.
Shōkichi, the young worker, had been engaged in a hushed conversation with his master San’emon, but come morning, he joined about ten men wearing tightly tied headbands,

“Load it up, load it up!”

With that, they rolled out about twenty barrels of pickled daikon radish from the storehouse.

“The delivery destination is Daimaru in Nihonbashi, I tell ya!”

After loading them onto the cart, they tied them down with rope and pulled it out with vigorous force.

Otsugu watched worriedly from the window.

“Even the esteemed samurai lord didn’t notice. How’s this? This should suffice.”

“Huh?”

She nodded forlornly.

When that face disappeared from the window, Okamoto Hansuke, who had been standing motionless in the shadow of the storehouse, changed course and dashed out. And from behind the cart moving along the parched road shrouded in white dust,

“You! Satarō, wait!” he bellowed. When the white blade glinted in the sunlight, the young men shouted, “Here he comes!”

they shouted, each scrambling to evade.

As the cart’s tailgate fell forward with a thud, Hansuke’s blade shredded the barrel ropes to pieces.
From atop the piled mountain, one empty barrel fell first.

The barrel rolled forward like a living creature.
And when the lid popped off with a thud, Iwagō, covered in bran, leaped out from inside.

“You—!”

A strange clang rang out.

When the young men who had been hiding in the fields involuntarily cried out, the spot had already turned crimson, and Iwagō’s head was nowhere to be seen.

In his right hand a bloodied sword, in his left clutching a fresh-severed head, Okamoto Hansuke ran like a madman down the bare path cutting through the fields.
The sound of raucous laughter lingered in the ears of the young men who were staring blankly.

“Iwagō was killed.”
“Iwagō was—”

And then, the villagers came swarming in a dense mass.
And then, they cursed the samurai with every possible invective.

The headless corpse was carried to the kamaboko hut on the riverbank. Someone proposed holding a wake for him there and stepped forward.

Then, the man who had been rummaging through the hut found something extraordinary. It was a jet-black hemp bag used in sake breweries to press lees. Moreover, the money Iwagō had earned by bowing his head until today—as if not a single coin had been spent—was strung on skewers and packed full. When counted, it came to a staggering seventy-four ryō and some. And indeed, on top of the bag—written in a magnificent hand befitting someone who had served a samurai household—

Bow your head ten million times; erase one sin’s karma.

It read.

There was nothing else besides that.

With the magistrate’s approval, the village soon began constructing a safe bridge for the highway using over seventy ryō of debased coins.

× × ×

The moon was beautiful.
Daikon flowers and rapeseed flowers.

Through the fields, countless lanterns lined the path as Otsugu’s bridal palanquin swayed toward Edo’s downtown where she would be married.

“Uncle, please stop here.”

It was over the Shakujii River.

On the half-built temporary bridge, Otsugu had them stop the palanquin.
Surrounded by uncles in crested formal kimono and aunts in hakama trousers, she stared fixedly at the village of daikon flowers.

“It’s a farewell after all.”

At this, both the aunt and the matchmaker quietly wiped their eyes behind the palanquin.

(Iwagō... farewell...)

From her formal black coiffure, she plucked the silver hairpin and softly let it fall into the river.
The slender moonlight glimmered as it sank away.