Pathway to Japanese Literature

A Land Ravaged by Famine

I

“You’ve agreed, Hikota!”

"Hmm, I'll go."

"You must show up at the twentieth-day meeting."
"For us villagers—you're our strength."
"You've got strength and eloquence—and when it comes to learning, in all of Aonashi Village, who else but Hikota?"

The village headman's son, two or three peasants, and the rural samurai's son who had incited them slipped away from the rice storehouse and departed.

Hikota kept watch at the house's back door while seeing off the figures disappearing into mulberry fields turned to black withered leaves by unseasonable cold dew.

This child's but four years old,

Lighter than chaff

Of course they're light

Millet gruel and a couple's brood—that's all it takes

Milk that won't flow for babes,

For commercial taxes—they wring

Tying hair with straw, fastening a rope sash—

A tenant farmer's child passed through the barren fields, bellowing a half-remembered miso-simmering ballad.
Hikota stood with arms crossed, as if cursing the barren land and the peasants' inescapable fate.
Even after sunset, it remained a village that couldn't light rapeseed oil lamps.

"Even if they abandon hoes to become stable hands or woodcutters—their labor taxes get taken. Oil sellers and sake brewers need permits too. Earn through riverboats? Pay river levies. Fish for minnows? Tax per net. Flee to another domain saying 'We can't survive'? Get caught—off with your head."

"If a child's born—afterbirth fees. If someone dies—temple dues."

"What does it even mean to be a proper peasant?"

he thought.

"Better to protest than starve! Revolt!"

The whispered words of those who'd just left and their desperate eyes now clung tight, gnawing at his heart.

"Do I really have to show my face on the twentieth no matter what?"
"If I go, I can’t show weakness."
"My own fire could set dozens of villages ablaze—"

Hikota feared his own fiery temperament.

If one man's sacrifice could save dozens of villages from starvation, it might be worth considering—but in Sanada Iganokami's domain, from the Cocoon Silk Uprising to the Chikuma River Tax Revolt and even the Suzaka Pottery Rebellion that erupted when their lord became obsessed with garden-fired ceramics and funded his extravagance through crushing peasant levies, countless rebel banners had been raised since Hikota first understood the world. Not a single one had ever succeeded.

As chronicled in provincial records, the people of Shinano were long flawed by their sharp intellects and combative spirits that prevented village unity—compounded by domain officials who managed a meager 100,000-koku fief through impoverished finances, excelled in cunning countermeasures against uprisings, and drew from their heritage as hereditary military strategists.
Therefore, after each uprising, they would line up and behead so many ringleaders that the Chikuma River ran red, yet in the end, the peasants gained nothing once more,

Milk that won't flow for babes,

*For commercial taxes—they wring*

They'd just end up singing miso-simmering ballads to vent their pent-up frustrations.

II

In recent years, among Sanada Iganokami's retainers, the name Sakuma Shuri had become the target of the peasants' bitter resentment.
Shuri, who went by the pseudonym Shozan, was known as a scholar, an artillery expert, and a political economist.
At one time, as both inspector and tax assessor, he had overseen the renovation of the Chikuma River, planted cypress trees in the mountains, and promoted apple saplings in the lowlands.
He also attempted various projects—hot spring utilization, methods for producing gunpowder, techniques for making wine—applying his scholarly talents to each endeavor.
That was all well and good, but beyond regular corvée labor, peasants found themselves conscripted daily for unpaid work like tree planting under the guise of "assistance"—those who already couldn't make ends meet now found themselves utterly unable to eat.

When Sakuma Shozan was finally dispatched to the Kyoto-Osaka region on domain orders, the peasants reacted as if they’d driven out a plague god—

“Drive out Sakuma!”

They had celebrated as if exorcising a pestilent deity, but soon—through what was said to be Sakuma Shozan's policy proposals—the Matsushiro domain began purchasing cannons, rifles, ammunition, and scientific instruments despite empty coffers, while daily along the Chikuma River, drill troops boomed away with artillery practice that echoed like thunder.

Naturally, that money came to be imposed as taxes onto the peasants.
The peasants, after learning the cost of a single shot from a four-pound cannon, would flinch as if their lifeblood were being torn out whenever they heard its thunderous blast.

The purchase of weapons required enormous sums year after year.
The authorities had issued an edict declaring it "a time of pressing state affairs," but what exactly made it so pressing? While phrases like "expel foreigners and revere the Emperor" and the commotion in places like Kyoto and Edo reached their ears, the peasants couldn't grasp the necessity behind it all.

And so—an ominous unrest swirled through dozens of similarly barren villages, as they seemed poised to repeat those bitter, oft-experienced uprisings once more—choosing rebellion over starving to death.

Hikota's family had served as village headmen in a sparsely populated hamlet, but through generations of producing hot-blooded individuals by hereditary disposition, they found themselves relied upon by cowering peasants whenever trouble arose, while conversely being watched warily by the domain.

“Since my father died and it hasn’t even been a hundred days yet—”

Using this as his excuse, Hikota had avoided attending the meetings even when circulars arrived, but now something inescapable was closing in on him.
And though his very blood knew that showing his face would make him fight with mad intensity like his great-grandfather three generations back—burning like wildfire—yet when he considered how little that ancestor’s sacrifice had actually sustained the peasants who came after, he couldn’t help but hesitate.
The peasants were still starving, still suffering.

"Well now, I can’t throw away this life on such a waste."

Hikota was wavering.

At that moment, at the front earthen entrance,

“Hiko! You there?”

“Who’s there?”

“Me.”
“Shigesaku of Nakanojuku!”

“Oh! Come on in,” Hikota called out.
“Please come in.”

“Nah—won’t be comin’ in,” came the reply. “I’m here to fetch ya.”
“It’s Yosuke—the liquor merchant’s son from Entoku Oki.”
“Back in his hometown after seven years away—says he wants to see ya.”
“Can ya come?”

“Hah! Yosuke—that so? Haven’t seen that scamp in ages—‘course I’ll go! Right this minute!”

The stars already glittered overhead, yet those working the fields still hadn’t returned.
Hikota left his vast, lightless house standing empty as he departed.

III

His childhood friend Yosuke was waiting for him at the river fish teahouse in Nakanojuku, having prepared sake.

Hikota met him and was surprised.

“Whoa! You… did’ja become a samurai?”

“Hmm, I’ve been in Kyoto all this time, but now I’ve returned home while accompanying Master Sakuma on business to Matsushiro Domain. Keeping well, Hikota?”

“Hmm...”

Hikota groaned and suddenly found himself unable to speak as an equal. In this region, the son of what people crudely called a “dive bar” catering to horse handlers had transformed beyond recognition—from the long and short swords at his waist and his hakama trousers to his topknot and even his manner of speech. Hikota felt a mix of envy, defiance, and self-disgrace.

“We sure used to come to this Nakanojuku dojo every night together, didn’t we? That stick-swinging swordsmanship instructor—is he still at it?”

“He’s still around, but these days he’s got palsy—can’t exactly practice swordsmanship anymore. With one hand gripping a hoe and the other a sickle, peasants don’t have a hand left to hold chopsticks. After all—what with these brutal commercial taxes and corvée labor and all...”

“Still complaining about the land tax? The village hasn’t changed a bit, huh?”

“It’s Sakuma Shuri who’s to blame.”

“Master Sakuma is a man of profound insight. The peasants don’t understand that great man’s worth. That’s because they don’t understand the times.”

“Is that so? You’ve become a Sakuma supporter now?”

“Hmm... Umm.”
“Well… This humble one too was among those ignorant folks when I lived in the village—even threw stones at Master Sakuma’s horse-face out of spite—but after going up to Kyoto, I came to understand. This time, he has returned to the domain to implement Master Takashima Shūhan’s artillery system.”

“What’s the point of wasting all that money on those damn cannons?”
“They’re completely useless.”

“Ha ha ha.”
“In time, you’ll understand.”

“If you keep saying ‘in time’—‘in time’—an uprising will break out.”
“The peasants don’t have any blood left to squeeze.”

“Uprising.”

Yosuke gave a pitying smile,

“You serious?”

“I ain’t gonna do it though.”

“Why don’t you quit this kitchen squabble already?—This ain’t the time for such things. Foreign barbarians and internal strife—Japan stands at a critical juncture.”

“Japan—foreign barbarians—”

Hikota’s mind had been wholly occupied with the life-and-death struggles of just a few villages in Shinano, but hearing this made him feel his perspective and knowledge existed on vastly different planes compared to Yosuke’s,

“Is that so...”

With that, he yielded.

From England, Russia, France, and other nations' Black Ships eyeing Japan's coastal waters as easy prey; through the clash between the Imperial Court's expulsionist faction rallying under "Expel the Barbarians" and the shogunate's port-opening policy; from loyalists' activities across domains—the mobilization of Mito scholars—to comparisons between China's Opium War and Japan's own predicament—for nearly two hours, Hikota was bombarded with this relentless stream of information from Yosuke until, his mind congested beyond capacity, he staggered outside.

"Is that so..."

He was vaguely moved, vaguely contemplating a world and existence beyond peasantry, and before returning to his home in Aozuki Village,

“Whether I’m to live myself or let others live—being a peasant won’t do.”

With that, he delivered the conclusion to himself.

And looking out over the barren land unfit to sustain even horses or chickens,

"Yosuke called it a kitchen squabble.
Maybe he's right.
When lords can't feed themselves, they devour peasants.
If foreign barbarians come devouring Japan from the sea, we'll need cannons.
Better to die fighting barbarians than starve—better than getting your head lopped off in some uprising.
First, it's manly.
Second, it brings honor to the family name," he muttered.

End Times Kaleidoscope

I

"Dogs must be eating their fill here—every corner of Edo’s crawling with stray dogs.
If there’s this much food for strays around, my village wouldn’t need to start any uprisings."

“Even though dogs must be eating their fill, every corner of Edo seems overrun with stray mutts. If there’s this much food for stray mutts, my village wouldn’t need to start any uprisings,” Hikota thought.

Harassed multiple times by those stray dogs and the town patrols, he wandered through the pitch-black wholesale district, searching.
Though it wasn’t yet midnight, not a single house showed any light.
The darkness was thick with the stench of rotten tidewater—likely welling up from beneath the narrow bridge he had just crossed.

“Ah.”
“Here... here.”

From his childhood, he had a memory of seeing it once.

Under the eaves of a six-ken-wide mugwort shop with its shutters removed sat an enormous pot that served as its signboard. He had remembered it by that pot.

The place where Hikota came to a halt was across from Kamaya Yomogi—the entrance to Matsuemon’s boxed-meal shop.

“Good evening—”

He knocked on the door repeatedly and shouted.

“It’s Hikota from Aozuki Village.
“Uncle! It’s Hikota from Shinano!”
“Open up.”
“Good evening!”

Even if they were asleep—knocking this much should—he was thinking—when after some time,

“Who might you be—”

Errantly, on the storehouse’s wire-mesh window, the lamplight flickered, and two head shadows—

“Doesn’t look like they’re fixin’ to rob us,” they whispered to each other before replying, “We’ll open up right away—kindly wait a moment.”

The master of the house, Bensei, was drinking late-night sake in the back with his former-mistress-turned-second-wife and wore an exasperated look,

“What? That nephew brat from Shinano’s here?”
“So that Hikota rascal’s finally crawled out here, has he?”

Hikota, following the shop’s young attendant, already stood on the inner side of the sliding door.
His round face brimming with shame, he made a small, humble bow.
Though he looked nearly thirty, he was actually twenty-four—plump and short-statured.
Beneath his peasant-striped jacket lay practice clothes, with indigo work trousers covering his legs.
At first he’d worn a smirk, but upon sitting down, he solemnly pressed his large lips together and fixed his uncle with eyes like acorns.

What a troublesome fellow—

As if declaring this through silence, Bensei kept gazing wordlessly at his simple and taciturn nephew—who seemed to have blown in from the mountain provinces to settle there—for what felt like an eternity. The hair tied back like a worn-out duster, the practice shirt carelessly open at the collar in imitation of swordsmen-in-training, this absurd getup that hovered between peasant and rōnin while radiating childish naivety—Bensei nearly burst out laughing,

"Hmm.
"So you've finally shown up, huh?"

He suppressed his amusement and deliberately put on a stern face.

Hikota burned his desperate ambitions and shame crimson onto his face—pockmarked with fat—

“Yes, I’ve come here. In your letter, Uncle, you wrote that comin’ to Edo was outta the question, but...”

“You came—fine, that’s fine—but just why the hell did you leave your country home and come here?”

“I sold off the fields, the horse, and all the household goods for cash and brought about seventy ryo here.”
“I know what your letter said, Uncle. But I just couldn’t stop myself.”
“I swear I’ve steeled my resolve to become a samurai and restore the family name.”
“Please, Uncle—make me a samurai.”

“Idiot!”

“Yessir.”

“You’re the living proof of a damn fool!”

“...”

“No matter how well you were raised under the mountain sun, there’s limits to this buffoonery of yours.”
“Think that’s how the world works? Edo’s got rōnin and layabouts shoulder-barging each other for crumbs.”
“Even the authorities can’t handle it—herding vagrants to Etchūjima slums, inventing make-work at battery sites, recruiting masterless samurai just to stuff their bellies before packing ’em off to Kyoto—”

“Now, you—”

Omura, the second wife, pitifully tried to interject, but Bensei shook his head as if swatting a fly at his ear,

“Listen here—that’s what Edo’s like. And yet come nightfall—no—by eight o’clock, they shutter their doors, trembling in fear of break-ins by government loyalists, expulsionists, or masterless samurai—that’s how bleak things are. What a waste! You should’ve stayed put in the sticks as the village headman’s pampered brat—drinking local sake by the hearth or counting rice ears during tea-time gossip like a proper country squire. You threw that all away and came to Edo. Tch! You’re a bottomless fool of a burdock brat!”

“Uncle. Th-that’s not true!”

“What’s not true? Ever since last year with those damn fool letters—now you want to be a samurai? …… Quit clowning around. What’s wrong with your head—your practice shirt?”

“This here—if domain border officials caught me, it’d be trouble, so I changed it. Yosuke—the son of that slapdash sake seller near our village—went to the capital and became a proper samurai. There’s no reason I can’t do same.”

“Copying others, huh? That’s your grand awakening?”

“That’s unfair. The countryside isn’t what you think it is, Uncle. We’re at the brink of either uprising or starving to death.”
“As long as we remain in the village, hearing such calls from our households—even knowing it’s a dog’s death—we’re the sort who might do anything. And if that could save the peasants, fine. But no matter how many times we try, betrayers always emerge in the end. Only the honest ones end up with their heads on display at the execution grounds. Lords remain lords, peasants remain peasants—this was always just a kitchen quarrel over barren land.”
“Rather than being made to carry the vanguard banner of some doomed uprising and getting my head chopped off at the riverbank, I’d rather become a samurai—find ways to keep myself alive and help others survive too—that’s what I think.”
“If I don’t become a samurai, I don’t think I can have that power.”

His emotions surging ahead，Hikota found himself unable to voice what he truly wanted to say．His nose grew hot，and he rubbed his streaming tears with a fist．Omura，bound by obligation，and Bensei too—true to his Edoite nature—spoke dismissively，yet she perceived his inner thoughts were anything but．

“Now，now．Let’s save the discussion for tomorrow，Mr．Hiko—I’ll help you out of your padded jacket，so take off those gaiters and such．Besides，you must be starving．Why don’t you go to the bathhouse while we prepare things here？I’ll have someone from the shop accompany you．—Someone，show Mr．Hiko to the town bathhouse．”

She forced him to his feet and sent him off to the bathhouse.

Two

Hikota sat down at the counting house in Bensei’s shop.

The seventy-odd ryo he had brought from consolidating all his family’s assets back home were entrusted directly to his uncle, and he had been assisting with bookkeeping and helping the young workers.

Hikota was astonished to discover that rural starvation and Edo starvation differed fundamentally in nature.

In empty bento boxes, white rice remained barely touched by chopsticks; food scraps were recklessly discarded—no wonder stray dogs were multiplying, he thought.

"Why would Edo be struggling when things were like this?"

Hikota couldn't comprehend it.

Through his eyes, the townspeople's lives in the wholesale district appeared far more extravagant and wasteful than those of Matsushiro domain samurai or castle residents.
The real problem lies here... he thought, yet no one ever broached such matters. When riverside workers and local townsfolk gathered, they only grew excited about Black Ships and Loyalist Party affairs.
At times, satirical poems lampooning current events would appear nearby, while broadsheet peddlers spread word of Kyoto activists' covert maneuvers and commoners' district disturbances.

“At Kozukappara, Umeda Unpin of Kyoto, Yui Mitsusaburō, Hashimoto Sanai, and other Kyoto loyalists are to be lined up and beheaded, they say.”

Amidst such rumors, Hikota’s heart raced.
He had gradually come to understand that these young people were plotting to overthrow the shogunate to create a new society.
He had also realized that the peasants’ starvation—ultimately, before being the feudal lord’s fault—stemmed from the shogunate’s system itself.

“What Yosuke said was true.”
“And my decision to become a samurai—to survive myself and let others survive—holds no error.”

Hikota attended swordsmanship training whenever he found time away from the counting house.

In Kaede-gashi lived Ino Yae, son of Ino Ichiu.
He was a man of character of the Ittō-ryū school.

"If you apply yourself diligently, you have potential,"
"Keep at it without wearying."

The assistant instructor said.

Hikota had some foundational training from his rural upbringing, and his burning determination to become a samurai—evident even in how he wielded his bamboo sword—also endeared him to Ino Yae.

Bensei asked his wife Omura,
“So? Any sign he’s reconsidering?”
He would occasionally inquire.
“Far from reconsidering—he’s been attending Master Ino’s dojo, and lately he’s been acting every bit the samurai. People are even telling you, Bensei, that a ronin’s working your accounts now.”
“Can’t be helped,” he said with a wry smile.
Yet Bensei also found his nephew’s earnestness somewhat endearing.

"I must find a way to handle this."

“You should at least buy a samurai status certificate. Samurai status certificates have been dropping in price lately—there’s no shortage of sellers these days. Anyway, if he can just wear two swords at his waist, he’ll be satisfied.”

“I’ve already made inquiries with potential contacts, but...”

“As for the retired gentleman in Warigesui...”

“If it’s Lord Sasamoto, he has wide connections.”

“The notices for the next allocation arrived today,” she said. “Shall we take Mr. Hiko along to see?”

“Bring that crude oaf? The assembly would frown upon us.”

“He won’t stay a country simpleton forever. Let me handle this.”

Summoned by his uncle, Hikota straightened into formal posture.

“Do you have some business with me?”

“You’ll go with Omura to Lord Sasamoto Kinjuro-sama’s residence.”
“Don’t wear your practice clothes underneath—present yourself properly.”
“Depending on how things go, he might arrange a samurai status certificate.”

“Thank you very much.”
“If that comes to pass, I too—”

Hikota—as though he’d already seized hold of hope—felt his heart race as he pressed his forehead to the floor in gratitude toward his uncle and aunt.

“It’s too early for thanks.”
“They’re important flower arrangement clients of the shop, and the man we’re meeting is a retired hatamoto lord—don’t bungle this.”

“Yes, sir!”

Hikota answered stiffly.

III

Meyanagi had rows of trees lining Minami Warigesui’s gentle flow and a sparsely trafficked thoroughfare.

"So this is Honjo..."

Hikota had come to this side of the Great River for the first time.
Omura

“Around here, when evening comes, streetwalkers come out—it’s not a place someone like you can pass through, Mr. Hiko.”

Omura informed him.

“What are streetwalkers?”

“Ohoho.
“You still don’t know?”

Before he could ask further, Omura stopped and jerked her chin.

Before the vast estate grounds—the surrounding walls, groves of trees, and the imposing crown gate with its severe rust—Hikota...

“Here?”

He swallowed hard.

When Omura casually slipped through the imposing sleeve gate—its height nearing six shaku—Hikota’s nerves tightened like drawn bowstrings.
Reaching the entranceway, he started anew at hearing shamisen notes ripple from deep within—a watery melody unexpected in this stern samurai residence.

Beneath the reception dais clustered stylish women’s geta, fair-weather clogs, stubby koma-geta and straw zōri—enough footwear to outfit a theater troupe.
Trailing their guide through a corridor stretching one ken’s width, they arrived at the study hall where—

“Well now—the Madam of Koomote-cho graces us! How singular.”

The old hatamoto—a high-pitched man around fifty with an oblong face and refined bearing—spoke thus from his formal armrest,

“Today our society has gathered to discuss matters like maintenance and new compositions,” he said. “Please relax and enjoy yourselves.”

“Though we’ve always received your honored orders for boxed meals, I’ve left everything to the shop staff and neglected proper visits.”

“Enough,” he cut in. “No business talk.”

“Truly, with everyone assembled here like this...”

“They say Bensei and his wife are coin-hoarders.” His voice took a playful edge. “You’d best join our circle and scatter some gold on the arts—or I’ll turn magistrate and come breaking down your door!”

“Oh, my lord, you’re all jest today.”

Then, the men and women seated in neat rows throughout the study hall surrounding retired hatamoto Sasamoto Kinjuro all clapped their hands in unison.

“Well now, Omura-san! Why don’t we put on masks and go try this fashionable robbery business everyone’s into these days?”
“Hey, everyone”

“Shall we not commence our little performance this very evening?”

“With this whole company—”

one man said in a theatrical voice,

“In these times, when we order some unscrupulous wealthy man to procure military funds—if you refuse, well… that’s when I’d plant my sword in the tatami, eh?”

“Hahaha! That’s exactly right!”

The laughter of coquettish women blended into the mix.

There were elderly courtesans likely from Nakanocho, dashing women in what appeared to be Tatsumi-style haori, dignified matrons, town girls—all mingling in motley array.

As for the men, their stations were even more varied—samurai stood alongside townsmen sporting Honda topknots. There were also shabby merchants in Chinese-stripe robes with nicotine-stained tobacco pouches hanging from silver chains, town doctors, and craftsmen with thick-knuckled fingers—all guffawing boisterously without restraint.

In the next room lay a crimson felt rug upon which were placed a lectern, two ornate cushions, and a thin-necked shamisen.

"A hatamoto? Is this what a hatamoto's supposed to be?"

Hikota stood dumbfounded.

Then Sasamoto Kinjuro spoke:

"Omura. Who's this you've brought along?"

"My apologies for the belated introduction. This is my husband's nephew, Hikota. We come before you with an earnest request, my lord—if you would kindly..." As Omura's words trailed off, Hikota finally collected himself and bowed.

Kinjuro swallowed,

“An introduction to Haka?”

“No, I’m afraid he is an utterly inept person—”

“Hmm, I see.
I’ll hear about it later, I’ll hear about it later.”

Casually nodding, Kinjuro picked out Tatamiya Torauemon’s face from among the men and women,

“Nihon-zutsumi.”
“Why don’t we sing one?”

Torauemon used his pipe to beckon the third man from his seat.

“Mr. Makiba, please go ahead.”

Then, the man once again sent a bow toward the samurai sitting imposingly in haori and hakama on the opposite side,

“Lord Izubuchi.”
“The other day, I heard from Mr. Okamura of your esteemed retainers that you composed a new piece incorporating Saikaku’s verses, which Fujishichi then set to melody?”
“I would humbly request to have the honor of hearing one such piece.”

“Oh, that piece isn’t yet fit to present to your ears.”

“Your modesty does you credit, but...”
“Come now, everyone.”

“I would like to hear that.”

Kinjuro also joined in harmoniously,

“Lord Izubuchi, we request your performance.”

“I’m not good at singing—this humble one’s voice is quite poor.”

“You’re too modest—”

the elderly courtesan at his side interjected,

“They say the lord of Himeji’s caretaker possesses a wonderfully husky voice among stewards, earning quite the reputation in places like Hirakiyo and Ryōgoku.”
“Hey there, Kohide dear,”

“How underhanded of you.”

Pushed forward by the young courtesan who seemed to be his possession, Lord Izubuchi flushed in a manner unbecoming his years.
Yet inwardly, he seemed pleased with himself,

“Very well.”

With that, he sat down before the lectern in the adjoining room.

"A poor accompaniment for your lordship."

The elderly courtesan settled beside him, positioning the slender-necked shamisen across her lap as she tuned its strings.

Izubuchi Sōji, caretaker of the Himeji domain's Edo residence, moistened his lips and shut his eyes. True to the courtesan's earlier praise—no mere flattery—her voice emerged with a smoky richness honed through decades of banquet performances.

What’s mine feels light

Umbrella snow

Love’s heavy burden

Rests upon these shoulders

Hikota gazed vacantly at the caretaker’s face. However refined those fashionable Haka verses or delicate shamisen melodies might be, they registered in his ears as mere clamor. His mind instead flickered with visions of his village’s parched fields and gaunt peasant figures. There must be a caretaker too, he realized, at the Matsushiro domain’s Edo estate.

“—Finished!”

Clap clap went the applause as people struck their hands together.

Then Tatamiya Torauemon the tatami maker, others, and he mingled freely while showing off their singing skills, oblivious to the day’s end.

This was knowledge Hikota had acquired later—this gathering centered around Kinjuro the retired hatamoto consisted of people stubbornly devoted to revolutionizing Edo’s Haka verses and establishing Utazawa, a contemplative style of short songs.
Regardless of occupation or social standing, they took pride in competing through melodic innovations and husky vocal tones, their style already spreading through Nakano-cho, Yanagibashi, and even Tatsumi.

When the lamps were lit, the gathering turned into a banquet.
There were days when Bensei would make do with simple arrangements, but today chefs dispatched from Hirakiyo prepared lavish appetizers and steaming bowls of soup served on lacquered trays.
Hikota handled his own seating position.

“I must go to Master Inou’s dojo, so I’ll take my leave first…” he whispered to Omura.

Omura, having missed her chance to depart, had lined up several undrunk cups before her.

“Then I’ll speak to my lord about that matter after everyone leaves.”

she said.

Hikota no longer cared.
Exiting through the gate, he looked up at the evening star above the budding willows and breathed deeply, feeling as though he had returned to life.
Then from the tree shadows emerged a woman with a face like white plaster, grinning obscenely as she sidled closer,

“Hey there.”

She wrapped her hand around Hikota's sleeve.

Hikota, startled,

“What the—”

“Hey… you don’t mind, do you?”

“What do you— What do you—”

“How ‘bout some fun… eh?”

Stubborn Hikota’s arm suddenly thrust against the nightwalker’s chest.
His sleeve torn open and mouth hanging agape without his notice, his fleeing legs didn’t look back.

Edo’s Bride

I

Snow-covered Edo was defiled in a single morning instant and erupted into chaos.

“Ii Kamon-no-kami—the Great Elder—was done in by Mito rōnin at Sakurada!”

The young store employee who had collected the lunchbox remains excitedly shouted at Hikota at the counter, the clerks, and even the backroom staff.

Hikota raised his melancholy eyes and vacantly gazed at the March thoroughfare buried in snow.

Bensei fastened his gaiters and was putting on straw sandals at the shop entrance,
“Hikota, why don’t you go take a look?”
Hikota shook his head.
“Please do go...”

Society was changing rapidly.
If those in power gathered, what would become of society in this state?
That was all anyone discussed.
Before the memory of the Great Elder’s assassination could fade, another violent incident occurred at Sakuradamon in broad daylight—the attack on Andō Tsushima-no-kami.
By the following year, persistent rumors of war in Yamato and Kamigata had cast a dark shadow over Edo.

Lord Kuze’s caretaker residence: seventy senior retainers

Lord Hamacho: catering, soup servings for seventeen

Seifu-tei: Monthly Purge bento for one hundred twenty

Hikota spent his days scrawling such characters into the ledger.
Silence was settling into his character, and the shop people remarked that he himself had changed.

“I need to do something about this quickly. Do you think I’ve gone and misused the seventy ryo we’re holding?”

“There’s no such thing, you know.”

Omura and Bensei noticed Hikota’s eyes fixed on the street from behind the counter and seemed to worry about him from time to time.

At the counter lattice, leaning on his elbows, Hikota did nothing but stare fixedly at the street.
The nights were lonely indeed, but during the day, countless legs passed through there—worn-through straw sandals of rōnin, women’s white heels, impeccably creased white tabi socks beneath hakama, hem patterns… then—a flashy left hem, peddlers’ weary feet.

And then—stray dogs, stray dogs, stray dogs.

The ground flows away—the world shifts on—.
And I—

Abruptly, Hikota would sometimes bolt upright from inside the counter.
But where in this chaotic world he should cast himself—Hikota couldn't begin to fathom.

When looking at the ledger, high-priced catering dishes and extravagant boxed meals were steadily flowing out to ship inns, mistresses' residences, gambling dens, and all manner of pleasure-seeking gathering places.
What recession? What war? The numbers told the opposite story.

"What in the world will become of society?"

The phrase he habitually uttered—much like those inured to earthquakes—seemed to mirror how half of Edo appeared to indulge in pleasure.

And Hikota too would sometimes mutter to himself with a sigh of lament.

"What in the world will become of this society...!"

II

Both Uncle Bensei and Omura were furious.

“Now that you’re saying you don’t want it, how in the world are we supposed to face Lord of Waridashi? Then doesn’t that make it seem like we requested Lord Sasamoto’s help half in jest?”

“Hikota.
“You’ve been sulking ’cause this dragged on too damn long, haven’t ya?”
“Once we take something on, even if we keep quiet, working our bones to dust is just how we’re wired as a couple.”
“Samurai status certificates—sellers are crawling outta every crack, and prices keep droppin’ the longer this drags. Plus His Lordship’s been breakin’ his back to find you a proper lineage match—makin’ sure any daughter’s from decent stock too. That’s why it took this blasted long! And here you are—not a speck of gratitude, mopin’ around—then when it finally comes together, you start waverin’? That’s pure selfishness, I tell ya!”
“You tryin’ to wedge us—your own flesh and blood—between millstones just to ease your own damn bile?!”

Such were their arguments.

Hikota apologized profusely.
He had thought the matter had dissolved through time and silence—that his uncle and aunt had long forgotten about it.

Yet unknown to him, negotiations between his uncle’s household and Sasamoto of Waridashi had advanced fully. Today they would finalize the transaction at Funayado no Takibai—the ship inn haunt of that notorious dilettante circle.
The seller of samurai status was one Komaki Jinzaburo, a kobushin mikenkaku-ranked retainer eligible for audience. With an only daughter needing succession through marriage adoption, they claimed all arrangements would proceed smoothly.
—As for their own standing in this affair: fully settled. Regarding the certificate’s price—though initially demanded at 120 ryō—Bensei and his wife had haggled until securing agreement for 75 ryō.

“Whether you’re willin’ comes after seein’ the household daughter with your own eyes—”

Here Bensei leaned in hard.

“Not to brag, but we struck gold.”
“Proper beauty.”
“And in the Utazawa music circles—she can pluck them strings too.”
“Just take one look ’fore decidin’, eh Hikota?”

The situation brooked no hesitation from Hikota.
He hardened his gut.

“Uncle, truly—no need for seein’ her face to—”

“That’s no good. If you’ve agreed, then meet the Komaki father and daughter cheerfully—what’s the damn problem?”

And so—Hikota was taken away.

The daughter was named Onui and said to be twenty-two.
Hikota simply felt she was beautiful.
However, when seventy-odd ryō was being transacted with the grubby samurai father before the beautiful daughter, he averted his face.

On the way back, after parting with his uncle, Hikota stopped by the dojo of his swordsmanship teacher, Inou Yae.
Today, more than training, he was filled with feelings and doubts he wanted to directly convey to his teacher Yae.

However, when Hikota sat before his teacher with his usual halting speech, he stiffened up. When Yae heard that he was soon to inherit a samurai status and attain samurai rank,

“That’s excellent.
“In skill, you already possess what belongs solely to a samurai.
“You who wear the daisho are not one to bring shame upon those swords.
“Indeed, you need not humble yourself.
“Let’s celebrate properly.”

Yae said.

Hikota returned with an empty feeling.
The scheduling and preparations for entering the household were advanced by his uncle and aunt.
Hikota bit his nails while watching the comings and goings from the accounts office.

"I don't belong in some gokenin residence with an attached daughter, nor in Edo—my place lies elsewhere."

He stared fixedly at the shifting ground beneath him—scarlet chirimen silk robes brushing past Fukuzōri sandals; beggars' grime-caked feet trailing Yawata-black geta straps; stray dogs sniffing through it all—stray dogs everywhere.

Ceaselessly, this miscellany of human legs wove time itself.

"There’s no mistake—we must make these people’s legs start anew from scorched plains."

Hikota bit his conviction-filled lips.

"There were surely better ways to put my body to use than sitting at the Chikuma River execution grounds."
"Consider those seventy ryō given as tear-money to the father and daughter who'll soon be wandering the roads anyway."

The day of household entry arrived.

Hikota was now the groom.

His flamboyant uncle and aunt splurged money as if recreating the Kanda Festival itself for that single night.
Congratulatory gifts from Sasamoto Kinjuro of Waridashi and his entire circle were loaded into the decaying samurai residence—its floor joists softening with rot and foundation crumbling away.
From his teacher Inou Yae and fellow disciples too came willow-patterned sake barrels.

“A joyous occasion!”

Everyone said.

The elderly samurai who had sold his ancestral status along with his daughter,

“Hear, hear! Congratulations.”

he sputtered through his missing teeth.

Only Hikota kept his face lowered as though averting it from something despicable.
And what little remained of his peasant sensibilities made the extravagantly consumed alcohol and celebratory gifts seem a terrible waste.
Yet he felt not the slightest pity—neither for the goodwill behind those gifts, nor for his uncle and aunt’s profligate spending.

"After all, these things would soon be cast into flames."

"That was because he had been thinking such thoughts."

III

Those who drank themselves into a stupor collapsed, and those set on departing took their leave.

Hikota, the groom, and the bride attached to the household naturally entered a single room.

"I don't feel so bad about this," he thought.

Hikota found himself surrounded for the first time in his life by hushed midnight lamplight and golden screens as he faced a woman.

Onui, who came with the household, sat motionless by the lamp like a frozen winter camellia, her face bowed.
Hikota had never seen such a beautiful nape line before.

Hikota, who had no intention of remaining in this household for his lifetime, had resolved from the outset that he would naturally avoid acting as a proper husband toward the daughter who was merely an accessory to the commodified warrior status.
Even during tonight's gathering, that determination had not wavered.

But Hikota could not withstand what her scent and the curve of her nape enticed.

Abruptly, his resolve shifted.

"The price has been paid."
"With her parents' consent—once I leave, she'll just be put up for sale again to another man as part of a property including a storehouse."
"What's there to pity? Even if I consider her some woman pulling sleeves beneath Waridashi's willows, there's no dishonor in it."

But Hikota's body trembled.

Onui, already bowing her head, bent the heavy weight of her bridal coiffure even lower.

“…………”

Hikota reached out and touched her hand.

He could say nothing at all.

Then Onui finally pressed her face all the way to the tatami mat.
And in a voice as thin as a mosquito's whimper,

“P-Please forgive me… I only entered this marriage to save my father from hardship… but there exists… a gentleman… the second son of a direct retainer… to whom I am already promised…”

“What?”

“Even should you take other women in the future, I shall never voice petty complaints—therefore I beg you, my lord, please deign to say you forgive this sin of deceiving you.”
“If you do not grant forgiveness, I shall have no recourse but to end my life here.”

With her face pressed to the tatami, she clutched a dagger beneath it and sobbed quietly.

“Hmm, I see now.”

Even Hikota, who daily watched the streams of legs along the streets, never imagined that Edo had sunk to such depths.

Outside, the pack of stray dogs began barking ferociously.
Amidst this, something human-like—a street vendor—began shouting at the top of their lungs.

“Hear ye! Breaking news! Have you seen? Have you heard? Fresh off the press—news broadsheets! News broadsheets! Just when the Tenchūgumi of Yamato Gojō seemed to be dying down, another uprising has erupted! Hirano Kuniomi, Sawa Mondonosho, and others—Kyoto faction loyalist rōnin have raised their banners at the Ikuno Silver Mine! If you’re not careful, the sparks could leap to Edo too! Read the details for yourself—come now! News broadsheets! News broadsheets!”

Hikota quietly opened the back door.
Zori sandals touched feet.
Behind him, the sound of sobbing could still be heard.

He said in a low voice from outside the door.

“You don’t need to cry anymore.”
“My path ahead has suddenly grown urgent.”
“Within a few years, I’ll come bearing a rifle from the west to meet you. Just relay the same message to Uncle in Koamicho and Waridashi.”
“……Now sleep.”

When he closed it, only the stars shone white in the predawn darkness overhead.
Hikota vaulted over the fence.

"Yelp!"

A stray dog darted sideways from his feet and bolted.
Then from the crossroads came the town official's lantern, charging as if to trip over that very dog—

"Hey! Vendor! Stop!"
"You lawless cur! Selling forbidden broadsheets again! Don't you dare run—stop right there!"

The dog was fast.

The vendor proved faster still.

"Hahaha. Hahaha."

Hikota watched the scene unfold, clutching his sides as if observing a comical shadow play.