Pathway to Japanese Literature

1

By the time I transferred to the Mita-bound train at Fukuchiyama, dusk had already begun to creep into the train car.

When I received the telegram announcing the sudden death of the Chief Priest of Shinsei Temple in Sonobe—who was my late husband’s uncle—I immediately rushed from Tokyo and spent these past three days with scarcely a moment’s rest between the wake and the funeral.

Amidst being surrounded only by relatives and acquaintances from my late husband’s side, I lived feeling constrained, so though the days were few, I became completely exhausted. Upon boarding the return train, when I finally found myself alone, perhaps because my nerves had relaxed, I suddenly began to feel drowsy.

When passing a small station, I suddenly woke to the train's swaying. Then before I knew it, there sat a long-haired gentleman in morning coat across from me. The thought that he might have seen me dozing made me flush slightly—for this was no complete stranger. During my stay at Shinsei Temple, we had seen each other daily without formal introduction, settling instead for silent nods of recognition. He was none other than the Tenkōkyō Director, a figure renowned both as cult administrator and public intellectual. What connection could have existed between this shrine-like man and my priestly uncle during his lifetime? Yet simply because uncle chose Tenkōkyō's inner sanctum for his unnatural suicide, even I—who understood nothing—found myself sharing the family's instinctive antipathy toward him.

“It was Tenkōkyō that killed the Chief Priest.”

“If he hadn’t set foot in Tenkōkyō or such places, this disgraceful matter would never have occurred…”

“Nah—he didn’t step in. They dragged him in.”

“Since there’s talk they use magic, whether it was really suicide or something else—well, it’s all rather mysterious.”

Yet there he was—hearing such backbiting, at times uttered with deliberate audacity—composedly attending the farewell ceremony, then clapping his hands at the interment service to offer a Shinto prayer. My uncle’s death might be shrouded in mystery, but the man before me now seemed equally enigmatic.

I adjusted my posture and was about to greet him when he bowed first and spoke with a smile.

“You must be exhausted.”

Though just a single phrase, I felt pleased by the kindness in his tone—one that seemed to thoroughly grasp my position and hold deep sympathy. When I looked closely, I could discern something likable in both his expression and demeanor, so my feelings toward him softened completely.

He placed the newspaper he had been reading, still spread open, on his lap. When I glanced at it casually, it was a local newspaper from four or five days prior, with my uncle’s article written in exaggeratedly large print.

“Nonchalantly vanished Shinsei Temple Chief Priest commits ritual suicide in Tenkōkyō’s inner sanctum”

I read it out of the corner of my eye.

The fact that a man of his standing as Chief Priest of Shinsei Temple went to die at Tenkōkyō—what amounted to a business rival—seemed to be what was causing the problem. If he had committed suicide in the main hall, they might have overlooked it, but unfortunately, the place of death had been ill-chosen.

“The hands that once turned prayer beads became stained with stock trading and failed, burdened by a million-yen debt he couldn’t handle—driving him to commit suicide.”

So the newspaper reported.

“Is Mr. Shinsei Temple your uncle?”

Suddenly he spoke.
Since everyone referred to this person as Sensei, I too decided to call him Sensei.

“No,” I replied. “He was my late husband’s uncle.”

“Given how sudden it was—you must have been terribly shocked.”

“Since we hadn’t corresponded much ordinarily...”

“But Mr. Shinsei Temple often mentioned how the relatives in Tokyo—relatives, mind you—would speak of your husband and you.”

I felt slightly embarrassed.

“If he had died of illness, there would have been nothing to be done—but given how he died, the relatives are troubled. They say they cannot face society either. After all, he was someone responsible for an entire temple—”

“When the one who ought to preach against suicide takes his own life, it becomes rather problematic.”

“Our family shouldn’t have such a bloodline—though temporary insanity... well, that must be the case, or so everyone says—”

“Indeed—it would be better to leave it at that.”
“After all, claiming he was killed would only stir up trouble.”

“What? He was killed?”
“He was killed?”

“If you say he was killed… then killed he was—”

“Good heavens!
“By whom?” I held my breath.

He said calmly.

“It wasn’t a human.”

“Not human? If you say so, then what exactly was it?”

He glanced sidelong at my dumbfounded face staring blankly and answered composedly.

“It is not something with form.”
“In other words, an invisible shadow—no, perhaps I should call it an illusion.”

“Huh, an illusion—”

What a strange story—killed by an illusion.
How could such an absurd thing even happen?
As I struggled to suppress the rising absurdity and looked at him, his utterly serious expression made me bite back a smile,

“What a mysterious story… Yet someone like myself simply cannot believe such things—” I said.

The Director merely let a meaningful smile linger around his lips and kept silent.

As for passengers in the train car, there were only the Director, myself, and four or five other men and women scattered here and there sitting—somehow lonely.

2

It seemed rain had begun falling, leaving the windowpanes completely fogged over.
I wiped away the condensation with my fingertips and peered outside.
Where could this train be traveling? It simply plunged onward through utter darkness.
Whether from faulty tracks or a defective carriage, the car clattered and shook violently.
With each jolt, the Director’s long hair swayed like seaweed in a current. As I stared transfixed, each strand appeared to writhe with sinister volition—while his narrow eyes glittered coldly, piercing through to one’s very soul.
He must have seen through my thoughts entirely.
The realization that he’d long known of my silent mockery—that he might be feigning ignorance—left me profoundly unsettled.

After a while, the Director—his eyes holding a subdued glow as he smiled—gave a light cough and began to speak slowly.

“You know nothing about Mr. Shinsei Temple’s circumstances, I see—beyond what has surfaced.”

“Yes, I don’t know very well, but—I only know that when my uncle was young, he failed in stock trading, completely squandered the fortune inherited from his parents, caused great trouble for all his relatives, and disappeared for a long time—but decades later, when he reappeared before everyone, it was as the Chief Priest of Shinsei Temple in Sonobe. I don’t know about the past, but when I first met him, he didn’t seem like someone with a wild or rustic air—he was an exceedingly gentle, kind-looking priest. But for reasons unknown to me, my husband did not like my uncle, so we exchanged no letters and rarely spoke of him.”

“What has surfaced is only what you know.”
“No one else likely knows anything beyond that.”
“However, I had heard frank confidences directly from Mr. Shinsei Temple and received various consultations from him. In particular, regarding a certain deep anguish—one that could be imagined as the cause of his demise—he had constantly been appealing to me about it, so I had been worrying—‘I must find some way to save him.’”
“Before I could help him, matters ended up like this—I find it truly unbearable.”

“Why would he get involved in something like stocks again?”
“Once you get involved in that sort of thing, I suppose it becomes an addiction—you just can’t stop.”
“In the end, even Uncle had to throw away his life—”

“However, his circumstances weren’t limited to that alone.”

With that, he pursed his lips into a tight line and stroked his beard.
There must be something about Uncle’s death that only he knew.

“Won’t you tell me?
If you know something—we’ve all simply assumed his suicide was due to debt.
If there happens to be another cause, I would very much like to hear of it.”

“However—Mr. Shinsei Temple greatly feared this secret reaching others’ ears, so I must ask that you ensure it does not leak elsewhere.”

After securing a firm promise of secrecy, he finally began to speak.

3

“It was about half a year after I had left Tokyo and moved to Sonobe to become the Tenkōkyō Director.”
“It was when Mr. Shinsei Temple unexpectedly came to visit me—”
“We had met many times before at public gatherings—but never had we opened our hearts to each other in conversation as we did that evening.”

At that time, I had harbored the grand ambition of making Tenkōkyō into an ideal and splendid religion, while Mr. Shinsei Temple too—dissatisfied with the current hollow teachings—had been secretly contemplating a great reformation of religion. Thus we ended up resonating completely with each other.
“We firmly clasped hands and swore we would support one another henceforth—and from that moment onward, the two of us became as close as old friends.”

“We had whipped ourselves into a fervor and parted in high spirits, but soon after that, I began hearing scattered rumors that Mr. Shinsei Temple had dabbled in stocks and become plagued by significant debt.”

One evening, Mr. Shinsei Temple came to my residence dressed in light attire—a white robe with a black half-coat.

The moment I saw him, I knew there was intense anguish in his heart.
“Since I inferred he might have some important consultation, I deliberately ushered him to the inner study where people rarely came and went.”
He thanked me for my kindness and personally stood to open the silver-papered sliding door wide, taking precautions against eavesdroppers—but when we sat facing each other in the spacious tatami room with our backs to the tokonoma alcove, he suddenly gave a bitter smile,

“It’s just like being brought before an Edo tribunal.”
“This formality makes it stifling—difficult to speak freely,” he said.
Having no choice, I carried a cushion to the veranda edge and changed our seating arrangement.
As he leaned against the railing and settled into a casual posture, even his demeanor softened into ease.
Below the railing lay a pond.
The stillness held only by occasional splashes of leaping carp startling the silence.

There I first heard his peculiar account.

“The truth is—I’m haunted by dreams.”
“Strange visions—recurring nightly until I can no longer endure this torment.”
“Might there be some method to suppress them?”
“It’s through your power alone that I’ve come seeking deliverance from this affliction.”

When I stared closely at him, his face was utterly devoid of vitality—the flesh of his eyelids had sunken, deep wrinkles carved from the sides of his nose to the corners of his eyes, his complexion pallid and utterly haggard.

"You may find it somewhat strange that Mr. Shinsei Temple came to me seeking salvation," he said, "but I recall stating during our previous conversation that healing spiritual anguish lies at the very heart of Tenkōkyō." At that time, he had listened attentively and asked various questions. "I explained methods to eliminate the source of his anguish," he continued. "Since I retained that memory, I did not find it particularly strange when he came appealing now." He adjusted his posture slightly before adding, "Moreover, as we belong to different sects, we maintain no such narrow-minded notions about denominational boundaries." His voice lowered as he concluded, "Yet it remains problematic if one simply demands salvation by saying 'I'm tormented by dreams.' It’s too vague, you understand."

“When you say ‘seal the dreams,’ does that mean you’re asking me to stop having them entirely?”

“That’s correct.”

“What kind of dreams do you see?”

“That is—”

“It’s truly a nasty, unpleasant dream—and what’s more, I see the same one every night.”

“Even after waking up, my head stays fuzzy like this for a while—this indescribable nasty eerie feeling lingers on and on.”

“Thinking it might stem from poor sleep, I tried tiring myself out with strenuous exercise before collapsing into bed—but to no avail. I stayed awake for nights until exhausted enough to sleep soundly—yet still saw the same thing.”

“There was even a time I drank myself into oblivion—but nothing worked.”

“When I deliberately plan ways to avoid it, I end up seeing it all more vividly.”

“If I say such things you’ll surely laugh—but there’s this mass of flesh formed inside my head without my knowing—living independently.”

“This mass acts like motion picture film—waiting till I sleep to stealthily unfurl its scroll for me—utterly uncanny.”

“If such a thing exists I’d want it surgically removed—cleanly excised.”

“No—merely cutting it out wouldn’t satisfy me.”

“I want to mince that mass into pieces—make it suffer terribly.”

“My hated enemy.”

“Because this torment—nowadays when dusk falls I can’t stay composed.”

“The night terrifies me.”

“Oh please—try imagining it!”

“Just enduring identical nightly dreams would drive anyone mad!”

“And these dreams of mine!”

“And that—”

“Would you indulge me by sharing this dream tale? While seeing the same vision two or three times isn’t entirely unusual—”

“I will tell you.”
“Please save me so I may be freed from this torment of dreams.”
“But above all else—I must beg you to keep this strictly confidential—”

“It’s all right.”
“My body is everyone’s secret dumping ground—no, rather, a secret vault. Without your permission, the key cannot be easily opened.”

“Now, please listen.”
“It seems to be deep in the mountains—the dream begins with exhausted male and female pilgrims resting on a precipitous cliff edge.”
“Overhead, old trees with intertwining branches cast a dusky gloom, and the surroundings were eerily silent.”
“I could even clearly hear the rustling footsteps of a centipede.”
Far below, the sound of water lay quiet.
“That scenery seems to be Mount Myōken in Nose.”
“The two were carrying the Thousand-Armed Kannon on their backs.”
The crescent moon hidden among the trees illuminated the Kannon statue, its divine light shining down.
“The woman was considerably older than the man—unattractive in features with severe strabismus—yet her eyes held an undeniable allure, her movements carrying a bewitching sophistication.”
“The man had a fair-skinned, beautifully rounded face.”

The two stood up, walking amiably along the mountain path without quite holding hands—then abruptly began to quarrel.
Just when it seemed they were fighting, they would tangle together and frolic playfully as they walked.
Before long—though the exact trigger remained unclear—the woman suddenly turned mad-like, adopting a warrior’s stance as she raged and shouted; piecing together her fragmented words revealed she had apparently been seduced by the man’s beauty into abandoning her husband and beloved child to elope.
“Though she poured every shred of sincere love into him, that beautiful youth would fashion woman after woman, trampling their hearts underfoot—or so it appeared.”

Inside the door of the Thousand-Armed Kannon, a photograph was enshrined.
"The photograph shows a baby wearing festive shrine-visit attire."
"It was something given at a house along with alms—likely entrusted to the Thousand-Armed Kannon out of parental devotion to strengthen a frail child who was difficult to raise—but since the baby’s face was the spitting image of the child she had abandoned, the woman had apparently been melancholy from the moment she left her village."

At that moment, the man seemed to have made some joking remark about another woman—though being a dream, parts remained disjointed—when the woman flew into a rage like a wrathful deity, suddenly grappling him and strangling his neck with all her strength.

Between the startled man and woman who had been caught off guard, a terrifying struggle continued for an instant.

When he suddenly felt the woman's body grow heavy and limp in his arms, the man seemed to regain his senses. Her ugly face—with those snapped-open strabismus eyes glaring fiercely at him—he clutched tightly to his chest. Shuddering violently, the man desperately hurled the corpse into the valley beneath his feet.

The red hoods, pouches, bibs and other items that had been offered to the Thousand-Armed Kannon scattered as they fell away. The baby's photograph caught on a tree branch was last to descend, fluttering down like scattered petals.

The man buried his face in his hands and remained motionless for a long time, rigid as stone—perhaps he had resolved to follow the woman in death. Grasping a small branch, he peered downward and saw those resentment-filled, terrifying strabismus eyes staring fixedly up at him from directly beneath his eyes.

With a cry of “Ah!”, the man leaped into the air.
He dashed out along the narrow, steep path and disappeared somewhere.
“The dream I have every night ends there.”

4

I closed my eyes and listened intently to Mr. Shinseiji’s story; once its conclusion arrived, I spoke.

“First, you ought to console that woman’s spirit.”
“Even if she were a complete stranger, since she appears every night like this, she must harbor the hope of receiving solace from you—”

“That is—”
“Perhaps I too have thought it might be so, and have been reciting sutras for her every day—”
“I had heard that Tenkōkyō often handles such matters, and from our previous conversation—there being many cases of unrelated spirits causing mischief or calamity—and having come to understand the terror of unseen spiritual forces… all this made me suddenly want to cling to you for help.”
“Could you possibly find a way to make it so I don’t see these dreams anymore?”

“It’s an easy matter—but—”

I hesitated mid-sentence and looked at his face.
Then Mr. Shinseiji wore an intensely earnest expression, as though awaiting a lifeline.

“As for my approach, first I would transfer the spirit into someone’s body—that is, let several people’s bodies be used by the spirit, or rather, let it speak through them. We would have her wishes communicated. Adopt this method, and you’ll achieve the swiftest resolution. Simply comply with the spirit’s demands, and your nightmares will cease. However... From what I faintly discern, I suspect you would reject this approach— What do you say?”

“If I were to desire it—could such a thing actually be done so easily? If it would stop the dreams, I would try anything—”

“Of course it can be done.”
“And while we’re at it, why not investigate the whereabouts of that cowardly young man who committed murder and fled?”
“It is said that many people go missing after leaving the inner sanctuary of Mount Myōken in Nose—if it became known that some vanished under such circumstances, wouldn’t that be beneficial for Mount Myōken itself?” When I said this, Mr. Shinseiji placed both hands on his knees and sat deep in thought for a while, but soon raised his face, stole a glance in my direction, then immediately lowered his eyes and answered in a somber voice.

“Thank you very much.”
“I will give it careful thought.”
“If I may say so—though this seems a truly underhanded approach—just as we perform sutras to guide those lost souls to salvation, might you not have some similar method on your end?”
“For instance, by performing august ritual prayers or such methods—could you not somehow handle this request?”

I came to fully understand Mr. Shinseiji’s state of mind. He was by no means wishing for ritual prayers from his true heart. Had he been satisfiable through such tepid measures, he would never have troubled himself to visit me in the first place. Yet the method I had described frightened him profoundly. Even were I in his position, I too would have lacked any inclination to transfer spirits into others’ bodies and interrogate them thus. Mr. Shinseiji’s true desire was to resolve matters through his own means without others’ intervention. What he wanted—if at all possible—was direct negotiation with the spirit itself. Hence his stated wish to rely upon my power: what he truly sought was instruction in that very method.

However, setting aside those endowed with special spiritual abilities, spirits do not readily attach themselves to just anyone’s body.
But given his present condition had become utterly irremediable—unable to remain still yet incapable of action—putting aside questions of feasibility, I resolved to instruct him in the method of soul pacification.
It was essentially mental concentration—though achieving this proved remarkably difficult in practice.
Yet if he could attain profound unification, he might summon the woman’s spirit through his own power, secretly negotiate with her unknown to others, and even comfort her while dispelling her delusions—none of these being impossible feats. The true challenge lay in reaching that state.
As this endeavor demanded extraordinary effort over an extended period, I had in truth harbored doubts about whether he could endure such perseverance—

From that moment on, he clung to me and earnestly began soul pacification. However, he—being so full of distracting thoughts—was far from calming his soul; rather, his distress only grew worse with each passing day, leaving him utterly beyond help.

“How are the dreams?”

“They’re still the same.”

With a wasted face, Mr. Shinseiji answered, a desolate smile floating on his lips.

There were times when, as I quietly played the stone flute we called the spirit flute in an attempt to calm his soul, he would suddenly choke on tears and return home weeping.
By that time, he had become so sensitive that he would burst into tears at the slightest thing—he had completely changed as a person.

While his failed venture into stock trading and subsequent inability to resolve a one-million-yen debt indeed constituted a major factor in driving him to suicide, I believe being tormented by the dreams was an even greater cause.

The main hall's renovation required funds.
Even religious reforms could not be properly implemented without money.
He sought to procure these funds through his own efforts rather than depending on parishioners.
This was his guiding principle—one that ultimately led him to speculate in stocks.

After days upon days of carrying out his schemes only to fail, being hounded by loan sharks, and being tormented by dreams.

One day, an article appeared in the newspaper stating that the Chief Priest of Shinsei Temple had disappeared.

I felt as though struck by what I had long anticipated, ached with painful clarity, and prayed from the bottom of my heart that he might yet remain unharmed.

Then the Tenkōkyō steward came to my residence claiming he had seen the newspaper and spoke with a dubious expression.

“The newspaper states he’s been missing since the day before yesterday, but Mr. Shinseiji is in the inner sanctum—”

“So he stayed there for two whole days?”

Even I was surprised by this.

Though Tenkōkyō had no need to keep Mr. Shinseiji’s visits secret, since he insisted it would cause trouble if the parishioners learned of them, I deemed it better for us to prevent potential complications and avoid needless gossip—thus out of consideration, I had even cautioned the steward and others against speaking of it elsewhere.
Moreover, Mr. Shinseiji typically did not stay long and would depart immediately after completing soul pacification.
I always left the inner sanctum regardless of whether he remained seated there or not, so when I found him sitting in that room the next day, I simply assumed he must have arrived earlier.
The inner sanctum lay at the farthest end of the building, where none ventured without specific business—hence no one had realized Mr. Shinseiji had remained there for two full days.
It was an astonishing oversight, yet that was precisely what had occurred.

Clutching the newspaper, I hurried to the inner sanctum, and the moment I slid open the fusuma and saw him, I was struck—involuntarily catching my breath—as if something had pierced my chest.

Mr. Shinseiji sat with his eyes closed, perfectly composed.
As if he hadn’t noticed my entrance at all—

“Why don’t you return home sooner? Since it seems even the parishioners are concerned.”

He briefly glanced at the newspaper out of the corner of his eye and, without so much as twitching an eyebrow, said quietly:

“Until nightfall—please—let me remain like this.”
“With it even making the papers, it’d be too embarrassing—I can’t go back in broad daylight.”
“Once night falls, I shall return to the mountain.”

I had no choice but to leave him as he was—

Then, after about an hour had passed, the steward turned pale and rushed into my room.

“Director, it’s terrible! Chief Priest Shinsei has committed seppuku.”

“What?!”
“Seppuku?”

“Hurry, please, hurry—”

Startled, he rushed to the inner sanctum.

Agonized moans were leaking out beyond the sliding doors.
Peering through the edge of the screen positioned by the steward’s instruction, I involuntarily turned my face away.

His white robe was stained red, his left hand pressed against the tatami mat, his right hand gripping something like a cord.
That hand was bright red.
What I had thought was a cord turned out, upon closer inspection, to be intestines.
A bloodied dagger lay thrown down.

When Mr. Shinseiji saw my face, he wordlessly twisted his mouth as if attempting to smile, yet his expression looked as though he were weeping.
The rims of his eyes turned ashen, his skin the color of a stone statue, his nostrils quivering faintly as he breathed.
The groans escaping through clenched teeth rendered the surroundings ghastly.

His anguished groans persisted through the entire day.

The steward and other men waited anxiously in the adjacent room, utterly flustered.

With matters having reached this irreversible state, we immediately sent a messenger to Shinsei Temple as well, causing the principal parishioners to gradually assemble.

Though I repeatedly stepped behind the screen to check on him, he could only shift his clouded eyes slightly, devoid of strength to utter words.

Only after the lamp had burned for some considerable time did the groans begin fading—growing weaker, lower in pitch, losing vigor until finally becoming intermittent.

“He has passed.”

At the doctor’s voice, everyone—including myself, those who had rushed from Shinsei Temple, and key parishioners—gathered in the inner sanctum.

The screen was removed, and everyone gathered around him to bid their final farewells.

Mr. Shinseiji’s eyes remained closed, and he did not move.
Sobs could be heard here and there.
Wondering if he had already passed away, I was staring at his face—still vividly marked by agony—when a large centipede emerged from somewhere, rustled across the tatami mats with a dry sound, and fled toward the veranda.
A woman sitting near the edge jumped up in alarm,

“Oh—a centipede—”

she screamed in a shrill voice.
Whether it reached his ears or not, Mr. Shinseiji suddenly straightened his body, pressed his palms together in prayer, and began singing a Buddhist hymn in a cheerful, pure, clear, and beautiful voice.

Until now, having relied on parents, I remove the cloak to quell the straw raincoat’s enmity.

Everyone was simply left dumbfounded.
But to that beautiful, silvery voice, they found themselves involuntarily entranced.
However, I found it strange that this was something entirely different from his familiar, deep, powerful voice.

After finishing the song, Mr. Shinseiji stared at the coffered ceiling and began laughing in a shrill, crystalline voice as though utterly delighted—yet what was strange was that from his demeanor to the very tone of his voice, he was no longer a man but entirely a woman.

“Ohoho….”
“I’ve finally defeated my enemy!”
“Ohoho!”

Shaking the tense air of the death chamber, he drew his last breath while laughing.

In the spacious inner sanctum, that laughter resounded so terrifyingly that I felt a chill as if cold water had been poured down my spine.

5

While I was engrossed in the story, all passengers had disembarked without exception, leaving only the Director and me facing each other in the deserted train car.

“About that young pilgrim…?”

“That would be Mr. Shinseiji’s past life.”

“Then—are you saying—that Uncle killed that woman?”

“I don’t know.”

“But—surely—even if Uncle did commit murder, I can’t imagine him calmly becoming a priest afterward… Then why did that centipede appear at his deathbed?”

“Since we’re in the mountains, it’s not unusual for a centipede to come into the tatami room.”
“Especially before rain, they’re practically plastered to the walls—happens all the time.”

“So it was entirely coincidental then, wasn’t it?”

“That’s correct.—However, Mr. Shinseiji had an intense aversion to centipedes for some reason.”

“No one likes such things, Director.—But why did he act so strangely at the moment of death?
“Imitating a woman like that—dying while laughing—.”
“So he had gone mad after all, don’t you think?”

“Well…”
“That’s the point.”
“What we have an interest in researching is—”

“You say you have an interest?”

“That’s correct.
Even if we don’t know who killed that woman, it’s certain that Mr. Shinseiji was killed by her spirit!”

The Director let an enigmatic smile linger on his lips and said nothing more.

I still couldn’t understand—truly couldn’t grasp it—but an uncanny dread crept over me, and fearing that phantom laughter might drift from somewhere unseen, I instinctively glanced around the surroundings.