Pathway to Japanese Literature

Exquisite yet fearsome

Maiden with a voice, Princess of the Rhine

The sound of a bell sunk in the lake

Princess Laudendeline of the Forest
O Keln who has ascended to the world of stars
And Hanako-san too,
Chiyoko-san too,
You mustn’t shed tears
All together in one place—from now on
Let us play, forever and ever

In this beautiful park

Chapter 1: Prologue

...O beloved ones, the pure white flowers blooming in the valley open for our sake; we adorn our hearts with their fragrance beneath serene heavens—tears being jewels that moisten our dreams, we conceal them deep within, as that ancient princess once hid her rarest emerald in the palace storehouse's depths...deep within...

Let us go forth—on nights when the moon hangs hazy, the fragrance of white lilies held to our breasts shall gleam; it shall become a platinum sword to blind countless demons, vying with moonlight itself…

――For what reason was I composing these incomprehensible passages? I intended—yes, I intended to write a novel for serialization in Shojo, and indeed had been sitting at my desk since early that night rigorously polishing my thoughts—but the snow-like visions arising in my mind were too beautiful, leaving me utterly unable to discern where or how to set my hands to work.

Everyone, do behold beyond the quiet window—how gloriously shone the autumn moon poised at heaven's heart!
I put down my pen and did exactly that.
The moon's crystal-clear hue—to what was I to liken it? It resembled platinum, it resembled gold... No no, distinguishing through color alone seemed too rigid a perspective. Should I compare it to music? To the sob of a violin? Or ultimately to the merry dance of rejoicing water sprites?
I set aside my pen and gazed vacantly at the moon—just as people of old had drunk in its radiance as we did... This moon, this very moon suspended before our eyes... Ah, though it should have come as no surprise, I could not help marveling at how they must have praised it with hearts identical to ours.
The moon sung of in the Hyakunin Isshu and Kokinshu—was it not that very orb appearing before us?
In Muromachi autumn mornings, when noble folk played koto or leaned on lattice doors to channel distant yearnings through flutes—when they reveled at fifteenth-night banquets reciting poems heedless of the deepening hour—had it all been for that selfsame moon still gracing our sight?
――Not just me—most anyone in such a state would ponder such things... no, even more boundless matters.

――Truly, though the world was vast and its history long—when I imagined back to prehistoric times when mysterious creatures roamed—I could vaguely grasp the world’s broad scope through knowledge imparted by others, but beyond that lay something far more immense, utterly beyond our imagination: a place called “sky” where only countless light sources existed, shining eternally without life or death… The moment I thought this far, it became unbearably terrifying—so terrifying I could not stay still—and then came an even greater terror: though everything I’d learned through history existed only in imagination before my eyes, the moon—which must have existed far longer than that unseen world’s history—now hung right before me as I pondered these things… Amidst such thoughts, I began to feel my body gradually shrinking smaller than a bean…….

I—truly I—while scolding myself, "You must stop these foolish delusions, stop them!", found myself utterly unable to cease, growing so restless I could no longer even sit still, clutching my head as Westerners do and pacing naturally about the room—yet still my delusions refused to abate—until nearly frantic, I took out a book from the shelf.
That book was a poetry collection by a French poet I was perpetually unable to cease reciting with devotion.
In such times, this poetry collection became for me a book of salvation more precious than the scriptures of Buddha or the Gospel of Christ.
As for most matters, my dear father and mother who would consent to what I said—this alone must have been beyond their power.
But this poetry collection saved me—this French poet I revered had sung in poetry the very things I thought.
"Ah, this poet composed this poem solely for my sake—to comfort me alone."
I could not help but think this way—how should I express my gratitude to that poet? Discovering someone who thought exactly as I did—I even thought, “There is none happier than I.”

The blue leather-bound poetry collection was stained pitch-black from the touch of my gratitude; others who saw it would surely just say "What a grubby book" and never look at it again.
I opened the poetry collection at random and began reciting aloud.

………………

………………

Before long, my heart grew as cheerful as a sunflower in full bloom; I was unbearably delighted—.

With a calm heart—one so thoroughly steeped in joy and gratitude—I took up my pen.
The pen tip touched the white manuscript paper, and the slender shadow vanished beneath my hand.
When I imagined my thoughts and emotions flowing from this pen’s tip like water spilling from a bottle, I was overcome with delight.
I had grown so convinced that this water must contain the color and sweetness of perfume gushing forth in droplets that I could no longer resist the thought.

"Good evening," said my cousin Mieko as she softly opened the sliding door.
I had noticed Mieko's arrival some time before, but finding far greater happiness in being alone like this, had deliberately refrained from going over to her.

"Studying?"

"It's nothing worth mentioning."
Reluctantly setting down my pen and welcoming Mieko—though feeling rather regretful—I said, "Actually, there's something I absolutely must write right now, and I was just about to begin."

I blurted out curtly.

“But it’s fine—I’ve already finished studying.”
Faced with such a high-handed approach, I couldn’t exactly get angry either.

“Well, that’s a shock.”

“Please tell me the story you’re trying to write.”
Mieko said coldly, as though she had such a right herself.

“No, no! I’ve had enough of stories—I absolutely refuse, no matter what you say.”

“Then I won’t ask.”

"Given this attitude, wasn't Mieko practically picking a fight with me here—don't you agree, everyone?"

“Being asked would trouble me.”

“If I’m subjected to such a boring story, it’ll be my undoing.”

――This must be—though she herself hadn’t realized it yet—some sort of grudge Mieko held against me, I secretly speculated, turning over in my mind whether such a thing could exist, but I couldn’t pinpoint anything……and so I began to feel genuine irritation rising.

“You’re being noisy—go over there!”

“Every individual possesses their own free will and inviolable personality.”

……This astonished me—when had she learned such impertinent things? To think she’d grasped such weighty matters—I mustn’t speak carelessly now—I was utterly dumbfounded.

Eventually, I finally understood the cause of Mieko’s resentment.
The reason lay in a story I’d previously published in Shojo magazine, which featured characters based on my sister Michiko and her friend Enshi—depicting them as capricious and fickle beings who exchanged various conversations. In truth, every detail was factual, their dialogues transcribed verbatim, with Michiko and Enshi being their actual names rather than pseudonyms.
Since its publication, Michiko and the others had refused to speak with me entirely. Moreover, I’d received harsh reprimands from my mother and others—that writing such trivial truths damaged our family’s reputation, and that if I insisted on writing novels, I ought to craft proper ones befitting the form.
Being forgetful by nature, I’d already put this matter out of mind.
Yet seeing her still harboring such anger, I couldn’t help but cry out, “This is disastrous.”
In what I now planned to write, Michiko absolutely had to appear again.

Yet if I abandoned this plan, I would have nothing else to write. Even attempting to change names would shatter the mood required for truthfulness. With no alternative, this pitiful self resolved to feature my cousin Mieko—a figure distinct from Michiko—but with this heart treading on thin ice (if discovered this time... ah, the mere thought terrifies me)... Could I write calmly? And this resentment over tarnishing my beautiful vision—where indeed should I carry it to find resolution...?
Who was truly at fault here?
Ah, though I unwittingly failed to communicate with those of my own household—"A heart that laments, yet finds no cause for lamentation..." it remained.

Mieko had left, but with my courage to take up the pen crushed, I nonetheless found myself looking up at the moon.

Anyway, I would now write the novel I intended to write exactly as I pleased.
However, my novel might not be able to please many people.
I declare this in advance.
Therefore, even if I ramble on as I please—should you grow weary and stop reading at any point—I shall hold no grudge; nor will there be any issue if you begin reading from any part midway through. I assure you the plot will never become incomprehensible as a result.
I myself had no idea when I might stop this or when I might start again.
Please maintain a heart as though listening to school songs.
If you think of it as a school song—even if it ends abruptly before the old man who makes flowers bloom can work his magic—you won’t feel ill at ease so long as it’s being sung; there’ll be no cause for anger.
Dear readers—I must apologize—please consider this too as a verse from a school song.
If by chance even two or three people take an interest in this story—I will be fully satisfied.

“Pale Blue Park” began with a terrifying dream, became lost in a beautiful park, and started from an event where a certain brother and sister lost themselves in joyous dance on a particular day.

Chapter 2: The Sphinx of Night

Brilliantly flow the tears
Jet-black—
Was it all but a dream?
Upon dawn's eyelids, blue
The myriad inlaid jewels

Were I to reach out,

Even unto me,

I did not foresee—that,

Were these tears I shed but jewels?

Glittering tears flow

To the edge of the sky... To beyond the sea...

Humming thus, upon the terrace bathed in unshadowed moonlight, with both arms lightly crossed before her chest, she who emerged like a breeze whispering “As spring dawns, gradually whitening” was none other than Princess Salami-ya—the first protagonist of Pale Blue Park—and so, attuning yourself to Her Highness’s heart, please gaze upon yonder star.
(I imagine all of you must be familiar with the song titled "Nagare no Kishi no Hitomoto wa.") And so—

By the stream's bank—a solitary leaf at its source
The sky's hue—water's pale-azure
Each kissed like waves—
Utterly forgotten—all things pass away

…………………

Now, whoever was playing the piano in the distance—that must undoubtedly have been Ms. Mitsuko—for Ms. Mitsuko was truly skilled at the piano. Why? Because there I was, listening to its sound from a far-off room—so uplifted in heart, so intoxicated by visions of wings carrying me to Assyrian antiquity, to a noble princess’s tears and the saintly figure blooming in pyramids’ shadows under pale blue nights—that I found myself compelled to create Princess Salami-ya’s tale before you all.
——And with that understanding, please read this Pale Blue Park.)

………………

Glittering tears flow

To the edge of the sky, to beyond the sea,

………………

Having repeated her song, Princess Salami-ya leaned against the railing as quietly as a peacock folding its wings—the people slept, the palace banquet that had been underway until just moments ago had concluded, every light along the windows had gone out—the night must have grown quite late indeed.

Were one to recount this through Western historiography, reaching back to those first two or three pages—three thousand years before the common era—when Assyria's eminent astronomers had already dispelled superstitions about celestial bodies, publishing exhaustive solar calendar studies in great tomes bound with sheepskin; when Babylonian sages discerned sea routes from stars' flickerings... Such was the epoch when civilizations blossomed along the Nile's banks—a worldscape whose vestiges in modern chronicles defy imagination—now returning us to the reign of Pharaoh Khufu (KHUFU), that age when Egyptian civilization's glorious radiance spread like song, smoke from its splendor billowing ever upward...——.

Please listen to this story.

As for why Princess Salami-ya stole out alone to the terrace around the time the banquet ended—we shall save that inquiry for later—for now, it would be far wiser for us to lend our ears awhile to the princess’s song here.

………………

A heart of sorrow overflows
In the lingering night garden
The rose petals that have bloomed and scattered
White, blue, or faintly pale—
Crimson—

One petal... two petals... three petals......

………………

“O beautiful rose petals—why have you scattered so sorrowfully?—please, answer me this reason, O rose petals—.”

“Why are you silent? Don’t you understand how earnestly I’ve been concerned for your well-being?”—
“Please permit me to shed these further tears. O lovely rose petals—look well upon my cheeks, upon these tears flowing thus...”

White, blue, or faintly pale—
Crimson—
One petal... two petals... three petals......

“Truly, I cannot fathom it—why have you scattered so completely? The moon and stars shine so serenely... Even the breeze from the Nile has ceased tonight—has it not? Since today my science teacher taught me that ‘All things will never move unless a force is applied,’ I simply cannot believe that you scattered all by yourselves, drifting down so softly.”

With that murmur, the Princess lowered eyes that had been fixed on the moon until now and softly gazed at the three petals scattered upon the ground.

The three petals glistened moistly under the moonlight like shells freshly plucked from the water’s depths.
The pearl necklace hanging at the Princess’s chest glittered softly as each pearl caught the gentle moonlight.
The incomparable radiance of those pearls glittered exactly like the tears the Princess had spilled streaming down for the roses at that very moment.
In the Princess’s tears too, the moon was reflected in each one.
The Princess’s tears, the rose petals, and the pearl necklace—were we to gaze upon this scene, we would surely find ourselves unable to discern one from another.

As the Princess continued gazing in this manner for some time, she suddenly seemed to notice—

“Ah, I understand now, O rose petals.
“You are surely angry with me, aren’t you?”
“Yes, yes… Forgive me, O roses,” she murmured—when the Princess realized that it must have been her faint breath from singing earlier that had caused their petals to scatter—she had done something terrible.
It was because she had realized that other than the resonance of her own song, there had been nothing to make that quiet night tremble.
What a quiet and beautiful night it was!

………………

As I mentioned earlier—why Princess Salami-ya had stolen out alone into this night’s garden—there lay a sorrowful tale behind it. But let us refrain from inquiring further into this matter for now—.

“O roses, O roses, thou roses”—shall we not listen to the Princess’s voice still singing as if to console the scattered petals?

——
O wounded flowers—I too bear
A wounded heart—faintly pale
A single petal floating in the night garden
………………
As she sang, the Princess gradually felt her own heart growing brighter.
She felt her manifold sorrows vanish like a fountain scattering its waters with a rustling sound in the distant reaches of the garden.

"It wasn't just the echo of my song—there, yes, the fountain had been moving. Perhaps the roses were drawn by that water's sound into scattering... If only that were so." With this thought, the Princess's heart brightened.

"But even then, how come I hadn't noticed that water's sound!"

The Princess took her eyes off the roses and intently listened to the sound of water.
Like fine, small pearl grains lightly rolling across a silver plate, there came a rustling sound upon the pond’s surface.

To the extent that she thought “Could that be the tears of God?”—as she listened intently—the water’s sound conveyed a tearful joy that quietly seeped into the deepest recesses of her heart.

She began to walk in measured steps, treading upon the lingering resonance of the water.
The moon grew purer in its radiance with each passing moment, until the surroundings had become as bright as a magic lantern.

………………

The moment my imagination came flowing to this point with water’s momentum!
I jolted!
I realized.
Mitsuko had stopped playing the piano.
Of course—since I was willfully intoxicated by such aimless fantasies—I myself wouldn’t feel particularly regretful if Princess Salami-ya were to vanish here and now; no, rather, I might even have thought it preferable to begin an ordinary conversation with Mitsuko, Mieko, Mitsuko’s mother and the others…… However, at this juncture, that was not permitted.

After some time had passed, I then had to tell Mitsuko and the others the continuation as well.
Now then—how should I continue—this became quite the predicament.

I—after racking my brain for a short while—felt my heart leap unbidden as I nodded and muttered to myself: "Ah—that’s right."

Chapter Three: The Strange Path

Part One

Song is the herb of hidden thoughts—who knows the forget-me-not?—the crimson upon a small bird’s breast—who knows the scattered flowers?…

Suddenly, what spilled from my lips was that song.
(And yet it was I who, in the idle length of a cold night’s deepening, with a heart that had blown out the candle’s flame amidst a sudden tear, absentmindedly composed… Yes—is this not but a worthless scrap of song?.........)

I suddenly realized I had set a half-hearted melody to that song and repeated it twice in my mind… (How mortifying—to compose such a clumsy, trifling song myself and then grow so pleased as to hum it… Such an occurrence had never happened to me before… Thus it was only natural I wondered if this wasn’t a dream.)

But... "How about it?"
(Though I say this, the listener likely wouldn't think anything of it.)—but for me, I couldn't help being astonished as if thinking "But how about this?"—unbelievable as it may seem, for me…….

This is not a dream.

……Rustle rustle……“My—has spring arrived without my noticing?” I thought, peering at willow leaves along Ginza Street illuminated by bright lights with a heart overflowing with tenderness……this being just the evening of the day before—I walked briskly.

……As I walked while thinking such trivial things, my heart was endlessly bright—though I must have been somewhat dazed.

“Mr. ××!”—suddenly hearing my name called, I jolted to awareness with a sobered heart.
My close friend Mr. K tapped my shoulder.

“Yo!” I smiled cheerfully.
And then we imitated Westerners and shook hands.
(To call it imitation makes it sound rather artificial, but since our student days we had made it a habit to do so.)
So ordinarily, such an awkward handshake would feel strange—something I could never manage—yet with Mr.K alone, I could shake hands unselfconsciously; rather, through this act, I felt an ease that perfectly conveyed an inexpressible, light affection.)

“Do you have some business? You’re walking around looking ridiculously busy, aren’t you?”

“No... Not really...” I said what was in my heart, yet somehow the words caught in my throat.

“Anyway, let’s walk a bit,” Mr. K urged me, so I promptly expressed my agreement, and the two of us—after I turned about-face—began walking side by side.

“Yesterday after parting with me,... did you manage to write anything when you got home?”
Mr. K asked me thus.

“No, I couldn’t write anything—ended up stuck,” I answered pitifully just as I was, for though normally quite spirited, when actually asked this by Mr.K, I found myself truly at a loss.

"There's no helping you!" Mr.K declared in a tone that bordered on scolding.
But immediately seeming to perceive my state, he added, "Tonight for sure."
So I,
"A poem... something like that..." I began to say.
This was because I had recalled "Song is the herb of hidden thoughts..."
"What? ... A poem, you say?"
"Well, this is a surprise!" said Mr.K, laughing with an admirably cold sneer that feigned genuine astonishment.
And so, I—somewhat indignant at Mr.K's attitude—thought to say "Song is the herb of hidden thoughts..." but stopped myself,

"I'm still better at that than you are," I said.
"I've written some before, you know," I added, putting on a boyishly earnest face.
Then Mr.K laughed uproariously—"Ha... hah!"
I had rarely seen anyone laugh so loudly in public.

The instant Mr.K laughed, I too—though not quite understanding why—cheerfully joined in unison: "Ha... hah!"

Part Two

We left the café and were walking amiably together again.…….

………………,

And then before long—though how much time had elapsed there, I could not imagine.

A terrifyingly mysterious incident suddenly appeared before my eyes…… How could I ever describe the amazement in my heart at that moment to convey it to the reader?
Dumbfounded, I could only stare rigidly at Mr.K's face. !? !?...
Thinking "This must surely be a dream," I panicked and pinched my side with all my strength using fingertips in my pocket—the pain was so sharp I involuntarily grimaced... And thus I realized: "Then this is no dream."

Now, what I mean is this—surely none would remain unastonished.
……(We found ourselves in a park where fog hung thick—indeed, Hibiya Park—the burbling murmur of a fountain quietly resonating… Was that a gas lamp?
Or perhaps moonlight?
The park—its single path lay pale blue and beautiful like a magic lantern’s projection.
……)—Up until that moment, I had been conversing cheerfully with Mr.K—but… when a mist-shrouded square materialized before our eyes… the figure I had until now known as Mr.K—that very person—suddenly!
In a voice both clear and solemn, serene as a silver bell echoing through marble halls—…“Thou!
O Youth of Assyria!” When I looked up at Mr.K upon hearing these words, it was no longer Mr.K… but he who wore flowing golden brocade robes: Pharaoh Khufu, Emperor of Egypt.
(See Chapter Two)

What was even more strange—by that time I had already completely forgotten about Mr. K, Tokyo’s Hibiya, the present era—all such matters—and without any doubt, promptly,

“Ah, O kingly Khufu! By what art have you bestowed such noble words upon me?” I replied, bowing my head and extending my right hand.

(This was absolutely no laughing matter.
It would gradually become clear, if you had listened a bit longer.
Readers who thought, “No matter how you look at it, this is utterly absurd,” may freely set down this volume here as initially promised.)

………………

When I lowered my head and looked at my toes, I saw my feet were shod in Egyptian-style sandals. Gradually turning my attention to my garment, I found it had transformed into the uniform of a brave soldier from playing cards, with a formidable sword at my waist that clattered against the hem of my armor as it bathed in moonlight. Having noticed my appearance, I never once doubted I was now a soldier. Upon my armor—its chestplate proudly expanded—sunlight gushed like water, shining resplendently as though brimming with hope and glowing like a wondrous flower.

“Ah, O kingly Khufu! How utterly loyal a brave soldier of Your Majesty I am!”
“This sword of mine dances joyously and splendidly thus beneath the banner of Your Wise Majesty.”
“Before Your Majesty’s boundless glory, even were I to stain my silver armor crimson—ah, not a shred of regret would linger within me.”
“O King, bestow a mission upon me; I shall go beyond the Nile.”

I chattered on and on about such things.
Though I didn’t understand at all why I was saying such things, I unsheathed my sword and pointed it toward the far side of the fog, exposing my heated cheeks to the faintly cool moonlight.

Then, Pharaoh Khufu—his reassuring smile like dew in the shadow of his solemn crown—quietly placed his noble hand upon my shoulder.
When I felt the king’s hand touch my shoulder, I abruptly stood rigidly upright, even though he had not yet begun to say anything—
“Snap!” I stood rigid as a wooden soldier statue.

…………………

“O youth, I have not even opened my mouth yet…” Leaving the king’s voice behind me,

“No, no, there’s no need for concern,” I answered, already dashing briskly through the fog.

"What a blunder... To dash off without even hearing my command—how utterly careless an act that was..."

When I had run some distance, I suddenly realized: "There’s no turning back now. If I did such a thing, not only would the king reprimand me for carelessness, but the compassionate sovereign would lament having a cowardly soldier in his service—that I cannot bear."

"Well, fine—I’ll just go as far as I can. Some event I must go and fulfill is surely waiting for me beyond this path.
Onward, onward!" I spurred myself on, still racing headlong down the pale blue path.
As I ran, I looked up at the moon and thought, “Ah, O Moon, you too are running alongside me.
There’s nothing to worry about.” I felt an inexplicable sense of reassurance.

Chapter Four: The Story of Princess Salami-ya Once More

Part One

A heart overflowing with sorrow

Lingering in the Night Garden

Bloomed and scattered rose petals

White, blue, or faintly pale

Crimson……

One petal, two petals, three petals……

“O beautiful rose petals—why have you scattered so tragically?—I implore you, answer me, O rose petals—.”

Why do you remain silent?
“Can you not see how earnestly I’ve agonized over your fate?”

“I beg you—spare me further tears.
O lovely rose petals—
Look well upon my cheeks, upon these flowing tears…”

Beneath the pale blue moonlight that spread across the palace’s nocturnal flower garden, Princess Salami-ya—stealthily emerged “like a breeze”—murmured through tears her whispers, which the author now repeated here once more.

I imagine that beautiful nocturnal scenery I must have described to you before has already faded from your memories.
Yet the author, before beginning Princess Salami-ya’s tale—solely to convey her sorrowful state as she gazes upon flowers—included extraneous details.
Now then, I shall briskly begin the story proper.

――――――――――

A year ago—for the waters of the Nile River had been tinged pale red and hazy—it was indeed spring.
From the palace windows, both the beautiful flow of that river and the flowers blooming as gloriously as a dream... could all be viewed in a single glance.

Beside the green curtain, Princess Salami-ya and her brother had the following conversation.

Part Two

“When I return from this war—my sister, look yonder at that beautiful mist-hung Nile beyond!”

“I vow here and now that we shall together unify all this great river before us—from where we stand to its farthest reaches—under our father’s august authority.”

“I am at this very moment imagining the time when your steed—triumphant in battle—will return in glory with bells clattering through that purple haze, and then your noble figure upon its saddle.”

“I shall surely not shatter that vision of yours.—Ah, what words will you utter to welcome me when that time comes?”

“……” Princess Salami-ya’s heart was enveloped solely in sorrow.
Her weak heart was filled with regret at being unable to tell her brother what she now thought.
The opponent her brother was going to war against this time was Phoenicia—a fearsomely strong nation that treated war as its profession.
The princess had also heard their ancestors were apparently pirates originally.
Having gradually gained power, Phoenicia had now established a splendid kingdom, but had long persistently urged the House of Khufu to become its vassal state—though of course on Khufu’s part, there had been no possibility of responding to such entreaties as “joining forces with pirates—even should it mean our nation’s destruction…”

“Farewell—we wish to have Princess Salami-ya sent as bride to our prince.”

When Princess Salami-ya heard from her father about this demand made by Phoenicia, how utterly astonished she must have been!
The clouded expressions of Father and Brother... Ah, was all that out of excessive concern for my sake?
……The princess’s tears knew no end.
Thus did hostilities finally open against Phoenicia.
With all the nation’s elite soldiers mustered, her brother was to go to war.
Princess Salami-ya endeavored to steel herself and offer valiant words before her brother’s departure.

………………

Spring had returned to the garden once more, and the fragrance of crimson flowers hung soft and hazy—but from the battlefield, no word had come.
The palace interior was as quiet as winter; she spent night after night in nothing but sorrow.

It was the princess who devoted all her heart solely to comforting her father.
That night as well, in the quiet evening hours—after telling various stories beside her father and striving to alleviate even a little of his sorrow, then escorting him to his bedchamber—the princess, now alone, thought to retire herself as well. But tears—tears streamed down her cheeks, and in the end, she made her way to the night garden.
"Gazing at the roses... gazing at the rose petals scattered like pearls lifted from the water’s depths, shimmering in the moonlight..."
I believe you have now largely come to understand what mysterious tears moved Princess Salami-ya.
The princess, who had suddenly heard the murmuring sound of the fountain bubbling beyond the flowers, thought, "Ah, the petals must have been lured by that water’s voice to scatter," and walked toward that sound—indeed, I believe I had already related this part.

Needless to say, the water’s edge was glowing faintly blue like a magic lantern. The white water lily flowers... Oh! Thinking in surprise that an extraordinarily large flower had bloomed, she looked closer—it was a swan resting peacefully. The moon and stars and white flowers and white bird… and the princess drenched in sorrow, along with the stillness of the pond—all were enveloped in the purple of a spring evening, deepening into such profound quietude that one could scarcely discern its edges.

Before she knew it, the princess's heart—perhaps in that calmness that comes after crying oneself out through the night—had forgotten its sorrows like a pure white flower beyond description, refreshingly unburdened. The princess raised her eyes as if entranced and vacantly gazed across the water.

It was a quietness so profound that one could even think the only beings awake in all the world were the waters of the fountain.

It was exactly at that moment.
In the distance, the princess heard footsteps that sounded as though someone was running toward her.
"Who could it be on such a quiet night?" thought the princess as she hurriedly climbed a small rise by the pond to look.
A single long white road, ribbon-like, extended dreamily through the flower garden into the far distance.
As the princess followed the single path with a suspicious gaze, where her gaze came to rest, she discovered a lone figure.
The figure was running toward her with tremendous speed, like an Olympic athlete.
When she looked carefully, it was indeed an ally soldier, but the appearance of his uniform seemed somehow different.
The soldier was clad in attire resembling that of a club-suited soldier from playing cards.
And the military sword held in his left hand glittered in the moonlight.

"Could such a soldier have been in the palace?" Princess Salami-ya wondered.

Before long, the clattering of armor drew near enough to echo resoundingly, but in the moonlight, his face remained indistinguishable.
No sooner had the metallic clamor abruptly ceased than the soldier froze mid-stride, looking up at her with startled eyes.

The princess found herself oddly amused.

I detest stories about dreams.
Stories that make listeners believe they're completely real, only to have them open their eyes with a start at the very end and declare it was all a dream—such tales irritate me beyond measure.
How absurd—it's treating people like fools. Anyone would surely think so.
That said, if someone were to preface their story by saying, "I had this dream from the very beginning—isn't it somewhat interesting?" while recounting their own dream, that too would hardly be engaging.
Even if one's interest gets somewhat piqued midway, so long as one knows the premise that it's a dream, one's interest simply cannot take root.
There is nothing more tedious than this.

Now then—why on earth did you give it such a strange title as *Pale Blue Park* and tell a story that’s utterly unclear whether it’s a dream or what? To declare your own hatred for dream tales while doing so—isn’t that absurd? You all must surely think this way. And I must surely be bitterly thought of as a slanderous, delusional liar who knows not his place. Even if I am thought of that way, there is nothing to be done about it. Certainly, I have no intention of making excuses. Because I do not think of myself as a liar in the slightest. I believe in myself thoroughly. Even God surely thinks so without fail—that is what I believe.

Chapter 5: Defeat at Cards

I was walking through Ginza-dori at night with a friend when we strolled as far as Hibiya Park—then came the strange turn of events.
I spoke of returning to King Khufu’s reign during an era when Egyptian civilization had reached its zenith like a song, dating back three thousand years before the common era.
When I suddenly became aware, my friend had transformed into King Khufu, and I stood as a valiant soldier.
Before properly receiving the king’s command, I—in my heedlessness—dashed forth like an Olympic champion.
And so I ran to Princess Salami-ya’s side—she who wept drenched in tears by the fountain in the night garden, grieving for her brother who had departed for war without word.

The soldier was clad in attire like a club-suited soldier from playing cards.
And the military sword held in his hands glittered in the moonlight.

Could such a soldier have been in the palace?
He seems to be a soldier I’ve never seen before, thought the princess.
Before long, the clattering of the soldier’s stirrups drew near enough to echo resoundingly, but in the moonlight, his face could not be discerned.
No sooner had the clattering of armor ceased abruptly than the soldier halted sharply, looking up at the princess with apparent surprise.

The princess found it somewhat amusing.

Should I continue the story or stop? I wavered.
For two months I thought.
It was a mentally taxing and unpleasant experience.
Why did I waver so much?
That was how it was.

I am not a liar; therefore, I cannot speak of what comes next.
If I were to speak of what comes next, I would have to spin nothing but yarns; were someone to pester me with "Tell it! Tell it!" then perhaps I could manage some sort of tale—but such coercive things I detest.
If my heart isn’t in it, no matter how much I’m threatened or whatever is done, it simply won’t work.
Is this a self-indulgent bad habit of mine, or am I simply too honest?

So what I have narrated up to now is neither dream nor fabrication—that is how matters stand.
Then what should I do? —Let me conclude this tale by explaining just that—I had truly thought through all those matters.
I did not force my imagination.
I did not deliberately lose myself in fantasy with writing in mind.
It was simply that I thought all those things—not as a dream.
You must have understood—through this fact of my having thought them—my honesty, and you must also comprehend my sentiment of "I detest stories about dreams."
Yet when what I had thought manifested as written words, it produced a result as anticlimactic as any dream, and for this I feel regret.

I have forgotten what day it was.
It was a pleasant evening, but I grew bored, so I left the house for a walk.
And then I visited a friend’s house.
At the house where my friend’s younger sister and her friend had come to visit, we commenced a game of cards.
I imagine many of you dear readers are familiar with the card game called “Two Ten Jack.”
It was four of us: my friend, his sister Keiko, Mitsuko, and me.
I—not to boast again—was truly a master at playing cards.
In most cases, my opponents were these three, but I had never once suffered defeat.
When this began, they always shed tears of frustration and launched a full attack on me.
But against my tactical efficiency, they stood no chance at all.

“How about that? No matter how you siblings band together against me—you’ll never stand a chance! Hmph… You’re no match for me!” I blustered emptily before bursting into booming laughter.

“How vexing!”
“Pride and arrogance fall within... well, you know.”
“To lose is to win—I deliberately let you prevail.”

“Say whatever you like—I’m not boasting，merely acknowledging my own exceptional skills.”

In the end，I invariably wound up having these quarrels with Mitsuko-san.
Mitsuko-san often welled up with tears out of sheer frustration.

What on earth had happened? On this day of all days, no matter what I did, luck simply would not be granted to me. Yes, it was luck—there was nothing but luck. That I would lose—it was a once-in-a-lifetime event.

“How about it? Won’t you take off your helmet?” My friend Kawada said this and laughed cheerfully.

“Up until now, we had been giving you candy.” “If I just get serious a bit, this is what happens—it’s really satisfying, isn’t it?” Mitsuko said.

“So until now, it was all just dumb luck after all,” Keiko also said.

“Say whatever you like.” “When you keep winning all the time, you develop this extravagant mindset—you start wanting to know what it feels like to lose.” “Since this is an unprecedented and never-to-be-repeated occasion, you weaklings should rejoice to your hearts’ content.”

Having said such things, I put on a bold front—and while once or twice might have been tolerable—after five consecutive games without securing a single win or even a point, being thoroughly defeated (if they had been mere losses without scoring, that would be one thing) but ending up tens of points in the negative each time, even I couldn’t help feeling utterly fed up inside.

“Come at me again!” I growled.

“You ought to stop now.”

“Just piling shame upon shame…”

“When you hate losing, you end up saying such things—though if you were to win once in a blue moon, I suppose that’s how you’d act.”
“Once they start gloating, there’s simply no end to it,” I said.

“If you’re going to talk like that…” Mitsuko fumed, and at her insistence on another round, we launched into our final showdown.

Clubs were trumps. However, not a single Club had come into my hand. Kawada took the King. Keiko was holding the Ten and the Almighty. Mitsuko-san was holding the Queen. Just then, I obtained points.—Ah, what could this mean? I thought. Before long, I obtained the second trump card. Despite my determination to somehow make use of this single card and secure at least ten points, it was snatched away in one go by Mitsuko-san's seven or whatever it was,

“How satisfying! How satisfying!” says Mitsuko-san.

“I don’t need that sort of thing—with this hand, I’ve got a proper scheme brewing, you see.”

Before long, Kawada’s King, Mitsuko-san’s points, and Keiko-san’s Ten and Allmighty followed one after another in a fierce skirmish before being played out.
I simply lacked the strength to join that fray.
With so many cards already laid down, there were scarcely any formidable ones left.
Only the Queen remained in Mitsuko-san’s hand. Resolving to dive into the Minus battle and pummel her with heavy blows, I desperately willed the Minus ten-pointer to surface immediately.
Yet against all expectations, the Club soldier found its way into my grasp.
Now that matters had reached this pass, I found myself confounded instead.
In Mitsuko-san’s detestable grip gleamed that accursed Queen.
Though holding one small trump card meant I could block her once—when I considered it properly—it amounted to naught but a candle trembling before gales.
The thought of my hard-won soldier being pointlessly snatched by Mitsuko-san filled me with unendurable vexation.

So I thought.
This was absolutely about not opposing Mitsuko-san—I would flatter her mood—that emotional woman would surely overlook my soldier if I did so—she might even forget I held this soldier altogether—such was the outlandish plan I desperately concocted.

Mitsuko-san, who held the Queen, existed for me as a being every bit as formidable as the Queen herself.

“By His Majesty the King’s command, I have come to console Her Highness the Princess.”
“And now, having received Her Highness’s command, I intend to hasten beyond the Nile to ascertain His Highness’s condition.”

At this moment, my state of mind was akin to that exchange between Princess Salami-ya and the soldier.
At this moment, while imagining the story of Pale Blue Park as I had written thus far, I was anxiously deciding the outcome of the card game with bated breath.

The story had become quite lengthy before I knew it.
And yet, the conclusion still had not been reached.
I was at a loss.
From the very beginning I had made extravagant claims—as if declaring, “Now everyone, I shall begin a story of unparalleled mystery!”—to think I felt compelled to say such things before even knowing whether it would truly become a mysterious tale—ah, what a wretched storyteller I am.
In any case, with this I would bring the story of Pale Blue Park to a close.
The carefully planned card game ended in crushing defeat; Mitsuko-san and the others clapped their hands in delight—the story would be severed here!
Everyone would undoubtedly sneer at me without fail.

I concluded this manuscript at the window cooled by midsummer's evening breeze.
The moon would soon rise.
O Moon—tonight I await your whisper with all my heart; grant me a beautiful poem.