Pathway to Japanese Literature

Parental grime

Amidst the scrupulously ordered domain residence, there lately loitered a single man who stood out as a glaring eyesore in the duty chamber.

He possessed what people might call a squat, thickset build at twenty-six or twenty-seven years of age. Though young, his collar perpetually bore a faint grime. The cords of his hakama appeared never properly fastened, more often than not dragging loose behind him.

“Hey, Masatane!”

When hailed,

“Hmm,”

he’d pivot his entire body like some lumbering beast to respond. Perhaps owing to his bull-like neck—yet despite this, those eyes of his held a peculiar glower when regarding others—he proved not so easily dismissed as some mere simpleton.

Therefore, he still could not make friends.
They could not bring themselves to respect him, yet found him too troublesome to order around.
In this duty chamber where mounted guards and messenger officials mingled amid considerable work, Masatane alone always seemed detached from duties and at a loss.

Occasionally, when assigned some trivial mission that anyone could handle, he would nonchalantly act sloppily and prove forgetful.
He simply could not be entrusted with important missions—whether as envoy to other households or with critical matters for the lord’s side.

So when the duty chamber was quiet, he too seemed to breathe easier.
The fact that he floundered during busy times was driven by his sense of responsibility.
When things were quiet, he would stand behind his superiors and colleagues as they played Go, peering over their shoulders with his hands tucked into his sleeves.

“Who is that?”

Apparently, he stood out so conspicuously that even senior retainers from the inner quarters who did not yet know him would often question his colleagues.

“Ah, that one was recently transferred from the home province to an Edo assignment—Fuwa Masatane, my lord.”

When the colleague answered thus, next—without exception—everyone would nod and mutter in the same manner.

“No wonder—I thought there was something about him that reeked of a ronin. So that’s Okano Jidayu’s son.”
“So he still hasn’t washed off that parental grime.”

Ronin spirit

Among samurai, there existed a term: “ronin spirit.”
Those who carried within them the raw blood of the Genna and Keichō eras unchanged—even as they entered the cultured age of Genroku, remaining utterly unrefined—and people who could not be fitted into the mold of dutiful servants in peaceful society—this was what they called

(a fellow with unyielding ronin spirit)

This was often said of such men.

Masatane was that, and his father Okano Jidayu had also been that.
He must have been of a wild and unrestrained nature—over a decade ago, he had left the Asano family to become a ronin and resolutely died in poverty in the slums.

Since his father’s becoming a ronin had not been due to any criminal offense, the child, Masatane, was once again taken in as an adopted son by the original Asano clan. However, that his ronin spirit would prove as thick as his father’s—this the adoptive family could never have anticipated.

Yet Fuwa Masatane’s ronin spirit grew thicker still than that of his father, Jidayu.

Even now, among those from the home province,

“Aye—it’s all on account of that bastard alone that our lord had to apologize.”

there remains a story that lingers in conversation.

It happened one summer.

It was during a river hunt held at Chikusa River near Akō Castle.
During the diversions of a banquet aboard a boat, Lord Takumi no Kami Naganori suddenly spoke up.

“Someone, cut down those darting swallows!”
—and his eyes came to rest on Masatane, who stood among the close attendants.

“I command you.”

Masatane wordlessly bowed.
Just as everyone thought he would refuse, he released the small boat, went to the middle of the river, drew his sword, and bent into stance.

With a sharp cry, his body and blade flashed into the air—and in that instant, a swallow with one wing severed floated to the water’s surface and drifted away.

“Well done.”

Lord Takumi no Kami called him over and tried to offer a cup of sake, but Masatane—his face fully puffed up and stiffened with apparent discontent—did not reach out his hand.

“What’s wrong?”

When Lord Takumi no Kami said this,

“As of today, I humbly request my leave,” he declared.

There was a natural justification to his reason.
My martial skills exist to be of service should any crisis befall my lord’s house—they are not honed for such trivial diversions. Yet if I were to refuse, I would be mocked as a coward and defy my lord’s command.
And if I failed, as a man I would have to cut open my belly—if this was what samurai service entailed, then it was something better abandoned.
Having thoroughly come to understand my father Jidayu’s feelings when he became a ronin, he shamelessly declared this and dismissed the matter.

“I was at fault.
“Masatane, I was at fault.”

From that time onward, Lord Takumi no Kami never again compelled his retainers to engage in such frivolous diversions.

But Fuwa’s thick ronin spirit had not diminished in the least.

This summer—it being Genroku 7—the reason he had been ordered reassigned from the home province and assigned to Edo duty also lay rooted in that unyielding ronin spirit of his.

From Chief Domain Elder Ōno Kurobē to the hands of the lord residing in Edo, the personnel documents that had arrived contained—

(Regarding Fuwa Masatane's Unruly Conduct)

and three articles had been written up.
The three articles were as follows:

First: Numerous acts of killing and wounding in daily life, with particular fondness for street slayings and test cutting on objects.

Second: Rough conduct during duties and absence of loyalty.

Third: While persistently claiming household financial difficulties, [he] gathers many people to host drinking parties and other such events, with inappropriate festive music occasionally leaking from what should be a samurai residence.

But Lord Takumi no Kami had crushed that document.
He was not one to easily abandon his men—a lord of uncommon loyalty.
Since it was apparently difficult to employ him in the home province, it had been merely a matter of transferring him to Edo—reassigning him to permanent Edo duty without uttering a word.

Fuwa Masatane had not welcomed this reassignment.
In his home province he could act freely and imagine living expansively across open fields—but at Edo’s domain residence he shared his lord’s very roof morning and night; had to mind even his footsteps’ sound while walking; and even off-duty found himself quartered within its row houses where boisterous commotion proved impossible.

Moreover, every last one of the Edo-assigned personnel seemed superficial.
They were adept at socializing, kept themselves immaculately groomed, and excelled at lowering their voices whenever in the lord’s presence.
For this reason, even after three months passed—then four—Fuwa Masatane showed no sign of making close friends.

Uncomposed Poet

Even now.

He stood stiffly with his hands in his pockets, peering over the heads of the men engrossed in their Go game.

“……”

Because Fuwa Masatane occasionally snickered, Tanaka Sadazō—who was being beaten by Tomimori Sukeemon and showing signs of defeat—found it unbearably distracting.

Occasionally, he would shoot a sharp glare at Masatane’s face, but it made no impression on Masatane’s nerves.

At his side were Nakamura Seiemon and four or five others watching, but none of them were standing.
Those people too were irritated by Masatane’s rudeness and manner of laughing.

And when a game concluded,

“Mr. Fuwa.”

Seiemon turned around.

“You seem rather skilled.”
“Let’s have a match.”
“Sit down.”

“No—well, I don’t know a thing about Go.”

“But you were watching, weren’t you?”

“Because I was bored.”

“However—it’s not as though someone who understands nothing could watch so intently for so long.”

“What I was watching was a louse that had just fallen from my collar onto the board, seeing whose spot it would crawl to—that’s what amused me.”

Eyes filled with disbelief and faces flushed blue with anger watched his retreating back.
Fuwa Masatane sauntered out of the duty chamber and yawned.

In the small corridor of the side entrance, the bright autumn sun shone through. Under the bush clover hedge bathed in its flowers, a recently born puppy played with its white mother dog.

“Boy, boy…”

Fuwa Masatane let the puppy gnaw at his hand as he played with it. Just then, one of the domain samurai who had been heading toward the gate halted mid-step. He turned toward Fuwa—who stood there looking thoroughly bored—and spoke up when their eyes met.

“Lady Okan? Lord Fuwa.”

“Well, you see…” he said, becoming aware of his own restless body as he offered a bitter smile.

“How about it—would you care to accompany me that far?”

“I shall accompany you.”

Fuwa Masatane immediately put on his straw sandals.
Since he was still unfamiliar with Edo, he felt grateful for the kindness of the person who had readily made the offer.

That person was Ōtaka Tadataka, the sword attendant.
Ōtaka Tadataka had always gazed at Masatane, who remained in the duty chamber yet never quite blended in there,

(He has no friends.)

he had discerned.

After stepping outside，Fuwa Masatane inquired.

"Might I ask where you are going?"

"It’s Fukagawa."

“Fukagawa.”

“The gathering tonight is at Eitai’s Chidorian Teahouse—Ōkawajiri’s view makes it quite a pleasant spot. Why don’t you come along once and see for yourself?”

His gentle manner of speech carried a quality reminiscent of Kyoto’s wealthy merchants. Fuwa Masatane thought to himself that such samurai didn’t exist back in the home province.

He hadn’t had a drink in ages. It was because he lacked friends to share drinks with from the heart. At any rate, Fuwa Masatane followed along to see. Assuming Chidorian Teahouse must be some stylish restaurant...

However, it turned out to be a quiet riverside rental hall where only elderly men wearing masters' headgear, doctors, priests, and townsmen had gathered silently amid the scent of ink, each holding brushes and paper strips, composing haiku without so much as a cough.

He shouldn't have come.

Masatane regretted coming but couldn't withdraw.

In the evening, when a bottle of sake was served with each meal box, he at least took that as a diversion and watched the poetry gathering.
Motionless and silent, yet not appearing bored—these people struck him as strange.

——Persimmon Foliage

——New Sake

——The Harvest Moon

Such assigned topics were posted there.
He had no idea what any of it was about.
When Ōtaka Tadataka’s poem was read aloud, he responded under the name Shiyō, so...

(Ah, so he goes by the haikai pseudonym Shiyō.)

It was as if Fuwa Masatane had only just realized this. Before him too, paper and brush had been distributed, but he couldn’t compose a verse to begin with and had no intention of trying. Before long, he couldn’t suppress his yawns, so he leaned against the elbow-rest window and gazed at the Ōkawa River’s night sky while absentmindedly picking his nose.

The First Woman

They were on their way back from the haikai session.

“You may not be aware yet.”
“This is Lord Ikkan, the esteemed father of Lord Shōzaemon of our same domain.”

and was introduced by Ōtaka Shiyō,

“I am Fuwa Masatane.”

As they went along, exchanging greetings, the three of them became companions.

Ikkan walked wearing an azuki-colored juttoku and a nagezukin hood, with an Odawara lantern hanging from his sleeve.
He struck Masatane as a refined yet stubborn old man.

“Is your son still unmarried?”

From some turn in the conversation, when Shiyō spoke, the old man shrugged his pointed shoulders,

“Well now, when’s that rascal ever gonna get himself a wife?”
“Ha ha ha ha.”

As if to sweep away the darkness, he laughed heartily once more, then—

“Compared to the older brother, the younger sister’s already of marriageable age.”
“This must not pass its prime.”
“Before she’s spoken for, Lord Shiyō, you should also make some effort.”

he said seriously.

“Is Lady Ochika already of that age?”

“She’s just past twenty now…”

Ikkan clicked his tongue and lamented.

When they reached Eitai Bridge, Shiyō said that his haikai companion Setsuchūan was bedridden with a cold and he would stop by to visit him—and at the moment of parting,

“Lord Fuwa, since this lies along your path to Teppōzu, might I trouble you to escort the elderly gentleman to near his residence?”

Having left those words behind, he turned toward the riverside.

Fuwa Masatane was slightly irritated.
This was because the plan he’d made to drink alone somewhere after parting ways had been dashed.

But Ikkan was a frank old man.
Had the old man quickly noticed the young man’s displeased expression?

“It’s still early—why not stop by my humble home while you’re at it?
My son’s also fond of it—let’s share a drink on this long night.”

he said.

He had considered that it would be acceptable to stop by. However, when they reached Kakihama Bridge, a samurai in a black haori who had briskly passed by stopped in his tracks,

“The Oyamada Retiree?”

called out.

Ikkan, casually,

“Hey, who’s there?”

When he turned around, the man suddenly threw off his haori and lunged.
——A white blade flashed, grazing past his eye,

“—What do you think you’re doing?!”

Ikkan dodged the slash, but he was already in his seventies.
Perhaps due to his body lacking resilience, he fell over backward with the momentum.

“Old man.”
“You’ve humiliated me.”
“Humili—”

Holding his sword high over the face that had just shouted, the samurai planted his heel a second time and lunged head-on toward Ikkan as the old man tried to rise—

“Remember this?!”

and swung down in a wild slash.

At its swiftness, even Fuwa Masatane started. He—who had once done street slayings in his home domain—hadn’t registered the man’s words, so he instantly assumed it was that.

His outstretched arm seized the samurai’s collar before the blade could reach Ikkan’s head, yanking him back with force.

“Amateur!”
“You think you can commit street slayings with skills like that?”
“Go wash your face and try again!”

—With a loud splash, pure white spray erupted from beneath the bridge pier.
The spray crossed over the railing, droplets landing on both Ikkan’s body and Masatane’s figure.

“...Ah, cold!”

But it was that which sent a far greater shudder through him than the ambush’s white blade had.
And at that moment,
“Father…!”

A woman came running up and clung to Ikkan.
Masatane saw there—for the first time since his birth—a beautiful person: the first woman he had ever consciously recognized in this world.

In his case,

It was Ochika, the youngest daughter.

The daughter, second son, and third son had all been married off into other households, leaving the Oyamada family with only the heir Shōzaemon and the youngest daughter Ochika remaining now.

Ikkan, rubbing his lower back, used the railing for leverage as he stood up,

“Why, if it isn’t Ochika.”
“What are you doing here?” He furrowed his brows.

“But… Lord Oda Yūnosuke had such a dreadful look about him earlier—he went to where Father was stationed to defend his honor and uttered some truly terrifying parting words before leaving. So I feared… something like this might happen.”

“So he came by again while I was away?”

“Yes… Whenever Brother hears Lord Oda’s voice, he decides it’s best not to be here and slips out through the back door.”

“That must have been troublesome.
In the end, did he lose his temper?”

“‘You father and son have deceived me,’ he declared. ‘I will cut down Ikkan.’”

“Hahaha!
Do you think that soft-boned second son could ever take Oyamada Ikkan’s head?”

“But…” Ochika peered into the dark river surface—

“What could come of this later?
People often say hatamoto retainers are terrifying because they form factions.”

“Leave it be, leave it be.”

Ikkan said this as if he himself had thrown the opponent into the water, but then suddenly noticed—

“That’s right, Ochika. Thank Lord Masatane.”
“’Tis he who has escorted us this far.”

Fuwa Masatane watched Ochika’s face with rapt attention. Naturally indulging in the father and daughter’s goodwill, he stopped by the Oyamada residence. With Ikkan being retired, Shōzaemon absent, and it being a modest hundred-koku dwelling, there was nothing to hinder his ease.

“No more—truly, I cannot accept another drop,” she said. “I shall return tomorrow to finish what remains… For tonight… Let this suffice for tonight…”

Masatane went home blind drunk and seeming thoroughly satisfied for once after so long.

Later,

"He seems such an innocently amusing man,"

she told her father.

From that evening onward, Fuwa Masatane began visiting frequently.
Whenever he came, he never met the son Shōzaemon.

Because it didn’t seem much like a household, one time he bluntly asked,

“He’s made friends among hatamoto retainers—lately taken to carousing and socializing like there’s no tomorrow. Proper nuisance that.”

Ikkan replied with bitter resentment.

When he learned of these circumstances, the motives behind that man who had attacked Ikkan at Kakihama Bridge one night finally became clear. That was the hatamoto Oda Yūnosuke. His family lineage was exceptionally prestigious. He was said to be descended from Oda, the Minister of the Right—and he had become close with Shōzaemon.

Shōzaemon was keeping it hidden from his father, but it seemed he had incurred considerable debts from him in the pleasure quarters, and when—

(whether he would give him his sister as a wife)

When Yūnosuke broached the matter, Shōzaemon found himself in a position where refusal was difficult.
Without leaving even the slightest room for consideration—given the man’s distinguished lineage, considerable wealth, and more than sufficient demeanor—

(Understood.
If Your Lordship would have her, then father and sister would rejoice without hesitation.)

He himself had become utterly convinced of this, and thus agreed to it exactly as proposed.
However, when Ikkan—ever contrary—heard this from his son,

(I don’t need to have my daughter married off to some hatamoto.
What does lineage matter? Especially these days—the conduct of second sons from renowned houses is most disagreeable.
I should flatly reject it.)

Perhaps because Shōzaemon’s proposal had been overly eager to please his father and sister—even exaggerated—it only invited greater resentment and was thus harshly rejected in this manner.

However, even considering there might be times when Ikkan was in good spirits, Shōzaemon had underestimated the situation and skillfully made excuses to the Oda household as well, but Ikkan’s feelings showed no change whatsoever even after that.

Half a year passed, then a full year went by.

Oda Yūnosuke had even told his friends

he would take Lady Ochika as his wife—announcing it well in advance—and Shōzaemon too found himself in an inescapable bind as his initial lies multiplied.

In the end, Shōzaemon blamed all those falsehoods on his father’s obstinacy and refusal to approve the marriage—and having recently started avoiding Yūnosuke, for Yūnosuke, now suffering material losses himself,

(This must be a conspiracy between father and son.)

He became enraged and began to bitterly resent Ikkan.

Even so, clinging to some lingering hope in Ochika’s will, he visited two or three times when the house was unattended, but Ochika too was trembling violently, so all three times she sent him away from the entrance.

(Very well.) If that’s how it is, I’ll go to Ikkan’s whereabouts and make my stand tonight.
Don’t lament it later.)

Having spat out that final retort, he lay in wait for their return from Chidori-an’s poetry gathering—or perhaps launched another violent assault on passersby heading there, just as he had done the previous night.

“—Well, that’s settled then. He won’t be coming back after this.”

Ikkan said this, convinced he had lifted a great weight from his shoulders. Naturally, he meant to owe nothing—neither debts nor favors—to the Oda house. And each time they hosted Masatane and saw him off, without fail at parting he would call out:

“Come again, Masatane!”

Not one to voice gratitude openly, the old man likely held Fuwa’s defense at Kakihama Bridge in high regard within his heart.

By chance—amidst such circumstances—they had grown close, and Fuwa Masatane found himself both cherished by the old man and always welcomed with a smile by Ochika.

And so, Fuwa Masatane—

(Even if she refused Yūnosuke, she would give herself to me.)

he thought.

Whenever topics like hatamoto rumors or Yūnosuke came up, Ochika and Ikkan together would say little—yet conversely, they showed absolute favor toward him. Such was Fuwa’s habit—

“My lady…”
“Another cup…”

Even when the drinking dragged on and their visits stretched late into the night,

“Then this shall be our last meeting.”

Ochika would pretend to glare with her charming eyes, but she never made an unpleasant face.

Moreover, if he fell into a ditch on his drunken way home, she would tell him to bring his laundry, and when it grew cold, she would secretly sew winter garments for him,

“These have come from your home province, so please wear them as they are tailored to fit you.”

And Ochika would remove even the basting threads, checking the fit while helping him into it.

Her good nature, Ochika’s beauty.
There was no significant disparity in their social standing.
Moreover, they belonged to the same domain—Masatane had come to fully believe in his own happiness.

Having been reassigned to Edo duty, he had thought from autumn through winter that it had turned out for the better.

Phantom

Fuwa Masatane was by nature someone who openly showed his delight when delighted.

Naturally, even at the domain residence, he seemed different these days.

His colleagues grew suspicious.

“Mr. Fuwa, has something joyful occurred?”

Then he—

“There is!”

—extended his hairy boar-like neck from his usual ill-fitting collar as he replied.

“I’ve found a fair lady who returns my affections.”

“Truly? Though for winter, this weather feels unseasonably warm...”

“This is no jest.”
“My stipend remains meager, and having shown no merit in service yet, I restrain myself—but I mean to wed her when occasion permits.”

“Only in your heart?”

“Not at all—the other party seems to share the same sentiment.”
“As Kenkō Hōshi or someone said—‘The beauty of love lies in not letting it show on one’s face.’”

“I never thought I’d hear you lecture on love.”
“Who in creation is this fair lady?”

“The daughter of Lord Oyamada Ikkan.”

“What? …Lady Ochika?”

“Indeed.”

“She’s a beauty, but…”

However, none of his colleagues wore looks of comprehension.
Only he himself kept believing.

——Then, one day,

“Mr. Fuwa, could you spare me a moment?”

A tall samurai with austere handsomeness—flawless in both attire and bearing—whispered abruptly upon encountering him at the corridor’s corner.

“Oh.”
“And you are—”

Fuwa Masatane lifted his round eyes and bowed with the greatest courtesy he could manage.

“You are Lady Ochika’s elder brother, I presume.”

“Indeed, I am Ochika’s elder brother, Shōzaemon.”
“I hear the retired one and my sister have been under your various kindnesses.”

“What could I possibly have done to deserve such words?”

“I had long wished to express my gratitude, but with our duty chambers being so far apart and my recent assignment to the lower residence, I regrettably found no proper occasion until now.”

“No—such courtesies should come from my side first.”

“By the way—how do your official duties stand today?”

“There is no impediment on my part at present, but—”

“To that extent—how about it? Would you do me the honor of keeping me company? It’s a bit cold and looks like snow,”

“I’ve heard haikai poetry gatherings are popular these days—perhaps we could attend one?”

“Ha ha ha ha!”
“Refinement like Master Shiyō’s is beyond the likes of me.”
“Somewhere more worldly—”

With that, they parted ways there once. At the appointed hour, when Fuwa Masatane exited through the common gate, Shōzaemon was already outside, standing and gazing at the gray evening sky.

After leaving Teppōzu,

“—A palanquin!”

With that, Shōzaemon promptly called out to a passing lantern-bearer and whispered their destination.

“Now, do please get in.”

With that, he urged Masatane inside, then climbed in himself and lowered the curtain with a flick.

Indeed, this Edo-seasoned manner made Fuwa Masatane wonder if such a person could truly hail from the same domain.
Admittedly, between the fixed-residence samurai of Edo and the castle officials from the home province, anyone would have exhibited some differences in temperament and way of life—

The palanquin arrived.

It was Nihon-zutsumi.

From Hori no Namidabashi, after walking a short distance toward the Sumida River direction, there stood an elegant shell-tiled gate that someone like Fuwa Masatane had never passed beneath.
Needless to say, it was a tea house serving as boat transfers to Yoshiwara.

Sake arrived; courtesans gathered.

“It’s freezing! How about something to warm us up?”

At this suggestion, a hotpot was served in place of proper dishes; to Masatane, everything took on a dreamlike air.

Yet he found himself uncharacteristically sober.
He was certain Shōzaemon had weighty matters to discuss.
Naturally, this talk would involve conveying Ochika and Ikkan’s feelings while sounding out his own intentions.
If pressed that way—how should he answer?
——Next year still felt too soon.
The year after? Or three years hence?

While envisioning such things, he did enjoy his sake and soon found himself growing pleasantly entranced.
Masatane's face burned unbearably.

“Hey, could you open that part a bit?”

“Oh, but it’s dreadfully cold out—”

The courtesan initially slid open the riverside shoji just a crack,

“Oh my, something rare.”
“...My, how beautiful it is.”

They shouted and threw it open wide.

The first snow that had begun to fall drew white stripes diagonally across the wide darkness of the Sumida River as if beholding a vision, and for an instant stole the gaze of the intoxicated revelers.

Snow-viewing boat

“Cold, cold! Don’t open it so wide!”

At Shōzaemon’s words, the courtesans hurriedly closed the shoji from both sides.

For a while, the candlestick spewed soot.
Shōzaemon took that opportunity to send the courtesans away,

“Now then, Lord Masatane.”

With that, he stiffened.

“Ah…” Masatane thought he had heard the words he had been waiting for.
There, he too tried earnestly to adjust the front of his kimono and straighten his knees, but unfortunately, his hands no longer seemed to obey him.
Instead, it only served to strangely confirm his drunkenness.

“Ah, no need to be so formal—”
“It’s really quite straightforward.”

“Wh-what matter do you speak of?”
“And… you speak of some urgent official business with me?”

“To come straight to the point—it seems there have been persistent rumors circulating within the domain residence of late. People say the source of these rumors is none other than your own mouth.”

“That…?”
“Ah… I can think of a few things that might fit.”

“It concerns my sister. Do you recall this matter?”

“I do.”

“It seems you have been saying things suggesting an existing engagement with Ochika. The Oyamada family finds this somewhat troublesome. I must ask that you kindly refrain from making such statements henceforth.”

“Ah—I may have let such words slip out, but I shall refrain from speaking them henceforth. Still, in any case, you likely won’t make a formal decision for two or three years.”

“I have not yet considered anything.”
“In any case, people’s tongues do tend to wag.”
“Might I also ask that you kindly refrain from visiting our residence so frequently for the time being—for both our sakes?”

Masatane heard only what was explicitly stated in the words.
And so, he instead spent that evening’s drink celebrating to the fullest.
As for Shōzaemon—deeming this satisfactory and his own intentions conveyed—he departed one step ahead.

“Ah… Have I gotten drunk again?”
“Th-this isn’t good—what time is it already?”

Fuwa Masatane was dead drunk.
When he suddenly awoke, the courtesans were gone, and Shōzaemon was nowhere to be seen.

He clapped his hands, bellowed.

The maid came,

“Are you awake, sir?”

“When did Lord Oyamada return?”
“I don’t know the way back, do I?”
“This is bad.”

“Please do not worry.”
“We will take you near Teppōzu by chokibune.”

“What’s this chokibune?”

“It is a boat.”

“A boat? That’s fine.”

“Oh! That’s dangerous.”
“I’ll make the preparations now, so please wait just a moment.”

The snow had let up slightly, but atop the chokibune, the cold was sharp enough to slice off one’s ears.

“Boatman.”
“The teahouse fellow definitely put some sake in here, didn’t he?”

“It’s the one that’s been kept warm next to the box brazier.”

“Oh, this is it!”—Fuwa Masatane drank directly from the flask while...

“Ah, how pleasant.”
“Take it slow now, nice and easy.”

“Since we’re heading downstream, you’re not even rowing properly.”

“My, how swift—is this river’s current truly so strong?”

It happened as he was peering down with the sake flask in hand.
There had been a houseboat moored alongside and following the chokibune.
No sooner had it suddenly rammed its bow against them than the chokibune’s boatman deliberately stumbled violently near Masatane,

“Whoa! That was close!”

He gave a light poke to his waist.

Fuwa Masatane, still clutching the sake flask, tumbled headlong into the river. Due to being heavily dressed and in a drunken state, he was considerably taken aback. However, being adept in water, he immediately gathered his long and short swords into a bundle with one hand and began swimming while undoing his hakama cords and obi with the other. But by then, the chokibune had already drifted far away.

Nearby, feigning ignorance, the houseboat occupants enjoyed their snow viewing.
They slid open the shōji slightly.

“Look! That country bumpkin’s still thrashing about after guzzling more than he could handle!”

“Neatly executed,” remarked Shōzaemon.

“Ahahaha! Must be freezing out there tonight!”

Inside the cramped houseboat, lanterns blazed brightly.
Sake flowed and courtesans laughed.
Among the five hatamoto guests, Oyamada Shōzaemon stood alone—the sole indirect vassal present.

“Lord Yūnosuke, with this, that evening’s resentment must surely have been vented by now.”
“At the same time, I trust you have now seen proof that I have never betrayed you.”

When Shōzaemon washed a sake cup and poured for one of the hatamoto, Oda Yūnosuke—his pale complexion wrapped in fine garments—declared,
“Nay, nay—I wouldn’t say my heart’s been fully cleared yet. There remains one more matter needing settlement.”
With a remark befitting a second son, he shook his head theatrically from side to side.

House Waiting for Spring

Masatane had ceased speaking of that matter; he no longer visited the Oyamada household either, exercising great restraint.
For that very reason, in his mind alone, there was also a growing inclination to keep warm this solitary joy even more strongly than before.

“For some reason, you’ve stopped talking about that much lately.”

There were colleagues who deliberately broached the subject too.
But Masatane avoided any mention of Ochika.
He simply grinned vacantly.

“When they speak of blissful ignorance, they must mean someone like Masatane.”

The shadowy rumors left no impression on him.
Even when seeing things firsthand, he remained incapable of doubt—or even attempting doubt.

He believed even the Sumida River incident had been mere happenstance.
If anything, he felt only shame over his own failure—so intensely that he wallowed in self-reproach. As for the notion that Shōzaemon and Yūnosuke had watched his suffering from that houseboat, using it as drinking amusement—given his nature, even were someone to tell him so, he would surely dismiss it as falsehood.

But in the end，someone was observing the truth．
Even for him—a man who had never known friendship—
“No—he’s got his merits．”
Gradually，those who treated him with growing warmth came to number several within the domain residence．
Pressed for time came the twenty-fifth day of year-end when official duties closed．

In the domain residence’s longhouse, fourteen or fifteen colleagues of Masatane’s rank gathered contributions and shared a drink.

At that moment, one of them grabbed Masatane and spoke with an earnestness that went beyond mere drunkenness: “I’m only telling you this because I’m your friend.”

“Lady Ochika of the Oyamada family will enter the bridal palanquin to the Oda household on the thirtieth day of this year-end.
The betrothal had already been completed—one could tell from the Yuzen fabric scraps and cotton waste swept into their courtyard, evidence of both New Year preparations and bridal arrangements.”

“Such a thing cannot be.”

Fuwa Masatane refused to accept it.

But even so, he showed a slight uneasy expression,

“Just the other night, I visited Lord Ikkan and drank with him until late.”
“Lady Ochika also said nothing of the sort.”

he said.

“Then what?”
“Have you made any formal promises with Lord Ikkan or Lady Ochika?”

When his friends pressed him,

“Nuh-uh.”

At this, Masatane shook his head and stubbornly insisted that while no verbal agreement existed, his own resolve was firm, and that Lady Ochika too would surely not refuse him if he were to ask.

“At this point, it’s rather pitiable.”

The friends, placing him before them, exchanged undisguised looks.

“Well then, we’d better lay it all out for you.”
“When it comes to Masatane, he knows nothing of the world or women, after all.”

“Shall we tell him…?” his friends said, encircling him once more as though delivering a final verdict.

“It’s no use—give it up.”

they declared.

According to this frank explanation.

On the Oda household’s side, even after that, they had continued advancing the marriage arrangements without slackening their efforts in the slightest.
Not only had the Oda family, through intermediaries, apologized for the violence at Kaki-hama Bridge, but they had also settled the long-standing debts owed by Oyamada’s relatives—so much so that even the notoriously stubborn Ikkan had completely relented. Recently, reconciliation and betrothal had been finalized together, and the marriage notice had already been submitted to the domain office, or so it was said.

“Masatane—even now, do you still intend to take Lady Ochika as your wife?”
“Do you still think you can have her?”

Masatane, arms folded, had been bowing his head as if driving it into the tatami, but eventually lifted his face, now slightly sobered,

“What? I don’t think I can’t have her.”

he answered.

“What?”

Leaving his friends’ stunned faces beneath him, he stood up.

“It’s not yet settled.”
“There remains Lady Ochika’s heart.”
“Who could fathom that heart, I ask?”

He walked out ahead.
The remaining group left afterward, and upon peeking through a gap in Masatane’s longhouse door on their way back, they found him burrowed into his futon, snoring loudly.

“That guy’s a fortunate one—he still doesn’t suspect a thing.”
“In the end, that’s the easier way for a man to live.”

Rather, they went to sleep envious of Masatane.

Bamboo fence

Without torment, there was no love for Masatane. Yet he too had his own anguish. That anguish of his might have been fiercer than that of those who wore tragic masks or knitted melancholy brows. Masatane’s was the kind that would erupt abruptly into action. For three or four days he had been sullen, yet showed no outward signs—but upon hearing the thirtieth was the wedding day, on the night before, the twenty-ninth, at midnight—he suddenly threw off his futon,

“That’s right—no one can know Lady Ochika’s true heart.”

He burst outside.

It was already past curfew, and the domain residence’s gates—including the back gate—were closed.
However, he was on good terms with the gatekeepers, and since he had earnestly explained his circumstances and pleaded, they quietly made an opening for him.

“I’ll return before dawn.”

Once outside, Masatane’s footsteps quickened.
The Oyamada house was not particularly large, and he knew its layout thoroughly.
The front had gates and walls, but there was a section of bamboo fence beside the temple-adjoining garden.
He easily crossed over and entered.

He did not deeply reproach himself for how utterly unconscionable and transgressive it was—to force open a door late at night from outside and intrude upon the room of a woman who would enter another household as a bride the following day.
Even as he rattled the door, the only thing in Masatane’s eyes was her face—the face that always smiled when she met him.
He had resorted to this method because he believed he should hear it directly from her own mouth rather than through Ikkan or Shōzaemon.
Because he thought that even feelings he found difficult to voice as a samurai to Ikkan and Shōzaemon were ones he could express if directed toward Ochika.

Naturally, at his noise, the person inside the room awoke immediately.

“Ah… Who goes there?” A woman’s voice trembled from within.

“Lady Ochika. It is I—Masatane.”

“Gh—”

A shuddering silk-rustling sound—as if something had brushed against the shōji—leaked through to the outside of the door.

“Ah, be quiet.”
“Lady Ochika, be quiet.”

Yet, Masatane’s manner of doing so was not quiet in the slightest.
As he rattled a single door, removed it outward, and tried to lumber inside,

“You fool!”

――Swish! A spear’s gleam shot through the darkness straight toward his chest.

“Damn it!”

He jumped backward into the garden,

“You fool!”

And the spear pursued his shadow, refusing to let go.

“Hey, wait!”
“Isn’t that Lord Shōzaemon?”
“It is I—Masatane.”

“Shut up, you insolent—”

“Insolent? What insolence?”

“This shamelessness—I will not tolerate it!”

“I came to ask Lady Ochika about the depths of her heart.”
“Call Lady Ochika here.”

“Y-you fool!”

Shōzaemon shouted in rage so violently his voice nearly gave out.

“After I warned you so thoroughly before, you still shamelessly pursue my sister?”
“You dog-like wretch! And you call yourself a samurai?”

It seemed that the foul spittle had stung the very thing Masatane would never allow others to defile.

“What?! Say one more word, I dare you!”

From his pale face, his hair stood on end.

“I said you’re like a dog!”
“The Oyamada family has no daughter to throw to dogs.”

“You said it!”

Masatane wrenched the spear from his opponent.
And swung as if to fling Shōzaemon’s body away,

“What’s this? Letting a dog steal your prey—and you still dare call yourself a samurai?”

With all his strength, he struck straight at the opponent’s spine with the spear shaft, then hurled the weapon into Lady Ochika’s room.

“Fine.” Was she a woman who’d be bought by money and powerful houses—like some common prostitute? Tch, tch… Enough already. My chest’s laid bare.

At full speed, just as he was, Masatane returned to the domain residence’s longhouse. He had washed his feet and crawled into bed.

And then, soon—

“You coward! Scared?”

“Masatane! Get out here!”

And then, at the entrance, there was someone shouting and cursing.
They were Oyamada Shōzaemon, who had chased after him, and his father Ikkan.
While shouting loudly into the house, they were striking the hilts of their long swords.

The stable’s wild steed.

The cry of “Fight!” immediately echoed through every corner of the longhouse.
As it was the domain residence, administrative officials and gate guards came rushing over.

“What grudge compels you to not only hurl vile insults at a daughter betrothed to another household but even sneak into her chamber?”
“I shall hear that response.”

“Even at the cost of our family’s name, I shall take Masatane’s bare head.”
“If you have any grievances, come out here and state them like a samurai!”

Around the Oyamada father and son swarmed people who had woken in alarm at the commotion—some trying to calm them, others demanding explanations, only to be shouted down in turn—creating utter chaos.

Some were beginning to question the gatekeepers’ responsibility for Masatane having left the domain residence again, others were hastening to summon senior retainers, and colleagues had gone inside the building to interrogate him about something.

The night was faintly beginning to pale.

Lord Takumi no Kami was an early riser.
Whenever the sound of hooves from his spirited beloved horse in the stable began, it was his custom to have already emerged from the bathhouse and be paying respects in the ancestral Buddhist altar room.

In the meantime, his wife was quietly setting the morning tea kettle on the hearth in the detached room of the inner palace they called Chikusō.
Around the time the water in that kettle began to boil—the sound of Lord Takumi no Kami’s garden clogs approached there.

“My lady, what could that be?”

“There has been clamorous noise since earlier.”

“’Tis the longhouse—have the young samurai started some quarrel? …Who’s on night duty?”

“It was Master Gengo.”

“We’ll take tea later.”

The page carrying a sword trotted after his quick steps.

Lord Takumi no Kami stood on the veranda of the study hall.

“Gengo! Gengo!”

“Hah!”

Ōtaka Tadataka, who had been on night duty the previous evening, gripped the edge of the veranda while looking up at Lord Takumi no Kami’s brow,

“Did it reach your ears…?”

he said apprehensively.

“Who is raising that clamor?”

“It is Oyamada Ikkan and his son.”

“’Tis a quarrel—but why is that retired samurai so enraged again, together with his son?”

“Hah…”

“Who is the other party?”

“It is Fuwa Masatane.”

“Hmm. That one—”

With that, Lord Takumi no Kami pressed his lips together as if sealing away a bitter smile,

“For Masatane, this is hardly unusual. …Gengo.”
“Did I not instruct you as well?”
“See to it that you temper his brutishness somewhat.”

“As per your esteemed command, I did invite him once or twice to haikai poetry gatherings, but he showed not the slightest inclination toward such refined pursuits…”
“Moreover, what makes Masatane truly Masatane lies in his rustic, unpolished nature—that indomitable ronin spirit within him—so in truth, we subsequently left him as he was.”

“That could be said… What’s this—it seems they still haven’t ceased? Disregard right and wrong—within the domain residence, both parties conduct themselves with gross impropriety. Go and see to it.”

Evening’s rising tide

Gengo took on the listener role and heard their accounts.
Both parties' statements reached Lord Takumi no Kami's ears exactly as Gengo had relayed them.

(...What a troublesome problem.)

Such an expression clung solely to Gengo's face as he awaited judgment; Lord Takumi no Kami displayed no comparable demeanor.

Leaning against the armrest, he pondered for a while—

“Both are domain samurai—precious retainers. I don’t want to harm either.”
Such reluctance showed in his demeanor.

“See that this is settled thus.”

The judgment was reached.

Upon receiving Lord Takumi no Kami’s decree, Gengo briskly delivered the judgment in accordance with his lord’s will.

“Today being your daughter’s bridal procession,”
“you shall refrain from interference and proceed with the grand ceremony.”
“As for Shōzaemon too—despite this being his sister’s celebratory day—no particular reprimand shall be imposed.”

Ikkan showed a somewhat dissatisfied expression on his brow. The verdict of “No particular reprimand for Shōzaemon either” struck him as implying Shōzaemon bore some guilt.

But—even through a parent’s partiality, broaching that matter filled him with unease. He sensed there might be misconduct he was unaware of.—Yet despite being an old man, he did not withdraw without speaking.

“And what of the other party—Masatane? What will become of him?”
“Depending on how this is settled, even if I must stake my shriveled belly upon it, I cannot let my daughter don a white bridal robe for another household until her sullied name is cleansed.”

“He’s an insolent one—and what’s more, our lord is exceedingly displeased.”

“Will you be satisfied with that alone?”

“For disciplinary correction, he’s been ordered to immediate reassignment.”

“Again—to the home province?”

“No no—a public mandate concerning Matsuyama Castle’s transfer has recently come down to our domain.”
“Thus—as Lord Ōishi Kuranosuke has crossed to Shikoku with forces from our homeland—he’s being redirected there.”

“Without any of the lord’s displeasure?”

Gengo assumed a formal tone.

“Honored Retiree, you too have an esteemed son who once knew youthful impetuosity.”
“Even now—who can say what may yet occur hereafter?”
“—It would be wiser not to dwell too deeply on such matters of judgment.”

“No—it was the lord’s decree.”
“Take those words as coming from Master Shiyō.”
“Well… I’ve pressing matters today.”

The old man, having grasped the subtext of Gengo’s words, withdrew in a fluster.

Of course, that evening’s wedding ceremony was proceeding without a hitch.

In stark contrast, Masatane sat rigidly in a tenement room, head bowed, with none of his usual demeanor.
Though the lord’s decree would soon be issued and no severe punishment seemed imminent—so there was no need for such abject remorse, they said; he need not worry—even as his colleagues came one after another to console him, he—

“Hmm… Hmm…”

He would only nod in response, still keeping his head bowed low as he remained prostrate.

Around noon, he was summoned to the lord’s presence.

“These are the lord’s own words—” came the stern pronouncement, delivered in a manner completely unlike the Gengo of recent days.

“You are urgently commanded to serve as courier, bearing one confidential letter from His Lordship to Lord Ōishi outside Matsuyama Castle.”
“Even after completing your official duties, you are to remain on duty under Lord Ōishi’s command at your assigned post until further orders are issued.”
“Is that clear, Masatane? Do you comprehend?”

“Yes.”

“Do not treat the lord’s letter carelessly.”

Having been handed one lord’s sealed letter, Masatane withdrew in a daze.

Immediate travel preparations.

Upon hearing this, his colleagues noisily descended upon his residence, presenting farewell gifts while raising triumphant cheers.
And they all spoke at once:

“Masatane, there are plenty of women out there. Don’t cling to one like that.”

“No matter how much Shōzaemon and Ikkan may decry your misconduct, the lord isn’t the sort to take such accusations at face value.”
“This recent marriage arrangement too—the Oyamada family pushed it through with their eyes clouded by coin, kowtowing to the other family’s status. His Lordship must surely despise their very motives.”

“As for Shōzaemon’s conduct—everything we’ve been able to ascertain has already reached His Lordship’s ears through Lord Gengo.”

“Ha ha ha ha.”
“Serves them right.—As for tonight’s wedding, none of us intend to attend, exactly as you see here.”

And so, the verbal send-offs were just as lively.

Fuwa Masatane left the domain residence in silence. Only those off-duty—twelve or thirteen men—declared they would see him off to Reiganjima, and they trooped along shoulder to shoulder beside him. The ship bound by sea from Settsu to Shikoku was set to cast off with the evening’s eighth-hour high tide, so the docks at dusk were abuzz with cargo loading and farewells to passengers.

“That was quick.”

“Yeah, that was a bit early.”

“Isn’t this just perfect? To celebrate Masatane’s departure, what better than sharing a farewell cup somewhere?”

At a nearby beachside teahouse, a farewell banquet was set up then and there. With late-arriving domain samurai who had hurried to see him off joining in, their numbers grew to nearly twenty.

“Don’t let that wedding outdo yours!”

As the sake flowed, someone made this remark, and it turned into a commotion where one couldn’t tell whether it was a farewell celebration or simply a release of pent-up frustrations. At first, Masatane remained subdued, but as the cups piled up, he abruptly reverted to his usual self. In the end, he even mimicked the festival music that had earned him Ōno Kurobē’s reprimand back home and broke into a naked dance, making sure his temporary farewell with the Edo-assigned colleagues left nothing to be desired.

Searching as if in an abyss.

“I hear the ship is about to depart. Please make ready.”

The teahouse maid came to deliver this message a bit earlier than necessary.

“Not yet!”

“Bring more sake!”

Some urged [to continue], while others—

“No—that’s enough.
“We can’t afford to miss the ship—that’d spell disaster.”
“Especially since you’re carrying His Lordship’s letter—and this seems to be some urgent official business.”

“No matter how much you hurry, a ship that’s meant to arrive will only arrive on its appointed day.”

“Well, fine.—Hey there, Lord Masatane, you’d best get yourself ready now.”

Fuwa Masatane had already risen from his seat and begun preparing, but he was now pacing about, shaking his obi and pushing aside the meal tray as if searching for something.

“Masatane.—What are you doing? What is this?”

“Hmm….”
“It’s gone.”

“What?”

“His Lordship’s letter…”

“What?!”

“Stand up.”
“Is that true, man?”
“Certainly—like this in my pocket—I was sure I’d kept it close to my skin.”

“This is no joke, Masatane. If you lose the official writ, this won’t end with just pinning the blame on Ikkan!”

“Hmm… Step aside and let me look.”

“I saw it already.… This means seppuku, Masatane.”

“If it’s missing, seppuku.”

“Don’t say that so calmly.”
“Listen gentlemen—we’ll catch heat for this too.”

“Heat? This is catastrophe.”
“Disaster’s upon us.”
“Up with every last zabuton!”

“You can’t mean… His Lordship’s letter—”

“Just being thorough.”

All faces drained of blood.

It seemed as though the sake-induced intoxication vanished in an instant.

The ship’s departure couldn’t be much longer now.
The sail cart screeched shrilly into the dark sky.

“What are we to do?!”

Even if Masatane were to commit seppuku there, that alone wouldn’t resolve the problem—first and foremost, their mission to Matsuyama would be delayed.

Fuwa Masatane fell into despondency.
His shadow truly seemed to grow gaunt in an instant—he now bitterly regretted realizing, belatedly, that he was never cut out for servitude.

A torrent of tears and laughter.

He had already searched everywhere.
Even so, it was not there.

Enough of this unsightly panic.

(I must apologize!)

He quietly steeled his resolve.

He slipped out of the room—which until now had felt like a tomb—and entered an empty riverside chamber devoid of light.

Quietly, one who had followed from behind saw him plop down there and reach for his short sword,

“Wait! W-Wait!”

he desperately restrained him.

“Right now, everyone must rush back to the domain residence and consult Lord Gen’go exactly as things stand.”
“Even if you must die, let it be after that.”
“After that, we will not stop you.”
“We too must await punishment.”

Fuwa Masatane had calmed somewhat.

“Hmm… Could that be…”

“Do it! Just do it! Huh?!”
The clatter of hooves—a fast horse was already approaching from the domain residence.
“Masatane, you must wait!”

As the colleague clattered down the corridor and left, Ōtaka Tadataka—who had rushed over from the domain residence—was promptly ushered in by that same man, gasping for breath.

When Gen’go saw him unharmed, he relaxed visibly and promptly delivered the lord’s message.

“Masatane, how profoundly fortunate you are.”
“His Lordship states that what was entrusted to you was not an official document, but a map of Matsuyama Castle retrieved from the nearby library.”
“Since Lord Kuranosuke—who bears responsibility for taking possession of Matsuyama Castle—might find it useful, His Lordship took the opportunity to have you deliver it when dispatching you.”
“It carries no official authority.”
“Therefore, though your negligence in losing it remains inexcusable, His Lordship deems it wasteful to sacrifice a life over mere scrap paper—gracious words indeed.”
“With His Lordship having declared it scrap, you may consider yourself pardoned.”
“Make no delay—board this ship at once.”

“……”

Fuwa Masatane could not find the words—indeed, he could not express even a fraction of the emotions swelling in his chest.

“Th-thank… you… m-most… graciously…”

Amid his sobs, he finally managed to say just that before turning his face away and planting it against the tatami mat.
His way of crying, too, was that of a wild man.
He was ceaselessly heaving with sobs, snot streaming down.
And then, in a fluster, he pulled out a handkerchief from his sleeve, blew his nose, and wiped his tears with it.

Someone brought a lantern but, in that manner, hesitantly placed it far in the corner of the room.

—Masatane was still crying.
The immensity of his lord’s mercy and his own unworthiness came upon him with bitter clarity.

Tadataka suddenly noticed the handkerchief he was pressing to his tearful eyes.

“Hm…?”
“Masatane.”

“……”

“What is this paper you just pulled from your sleeve and blew your nose into?”

“Huh? …”

Tadataka pulled the soggy, crumpled handkerchief away from his face and stared at it fixedly when suddenly he leapt up with a start.

“There it is!”
“—The official letter was here.”

＊

In the end, his unyielding ronin spirit—inherited from his parent—was something even he himself could do nothing about.
Because bearing a high stipend with such graceless lack of service had become unbearably distressing—Fuwa Masatane left this single letter for Lord Kuranosuke and, not long after completing the domain’s great duty of taking possession of Matsuyama Castle, vanished from both Akō and Edo.

“What a waste.”

There were many who said this.

But six years later, when Lord Takumi-no-kami’s violent demise occurred and a secret pact among masterless samurai was forged, he lumbered forth from obscurity and, through the mediation of Ōtaka Shiyō and Shioda Matanojō, joined the righteous uprising.

Among the forty-seven ronin, he alone had been a masterless samurai since Lord Takumi-no-kami’s lifetime and joined the righteous alliance. Indeed, it could be said that he alone was the man who possessed the unyielding quality of true ronin spirit.

As the world well knows, Oyamada Shōzaemon deserted just before the raid and, through his characteristic scheming, earned the name of disloyal samurai for a hundred generations.

Ikkan, upon hearing this, died of indignation.
As for Ochika, who had married into the Oda family—embroiled in perpetual discord—how she truly felt about Masatane seems to have gone unspoken, the tale ending without resolution.

(January 1938)