Pathway to Japanese Literature

Yoshitoshi Sketchbook

The Artist's Pride

Amidst the lingering rain and gunpowder smoke, Ueno’s forest took on the aspect of hastening dusk.
On that day alone—when even the timekeeping bell fell silent—from noon until Kan'ei-ji Temple's seven main halls had been nearly consumed by raging flames yet still smoldered, the battle cries of government soldiers hunting defeated samurai echoed through every tree spirit of the mountain, resounding from far and near.

“Where did that bastard run off to?”

“He’s cut down four or five of our allies in ambushes!”
“We can’t let that bastard escape!”

“He hasn’t gone far yet.”

“When we find him, each of us will strike our comrades’ killer once!”

Five or six government soldiers with back-mounted swords, ammunition pouches, and fluttering red tassels combed through the grove, pushed through thickets, and descended toward Uguisudani.

From behind them emerged like a shadow the Shōgitai samurai Kusakabe Kinnojo—a man of twenty-four or twenty-five whose beauty belonged in paintings—who bore no ferocity despite his minor wounds and the bloodspray from his victims glinting across disheveled locks, pallid cheeks, and the white tasuki sash cinching his black habutae silk robes.

“――――”

After clicking his tongue in a single defiant gesture and surveying his surroundings, Kinnojo—startled once more by an approaching figure—concealed himself within the grove’s shadows.

“Damn it! — I’m not some suspicious character!”

Drunk on the stench of blood while scolding a wildly barking dog, his form completely draped in a tung oil coat as he emerged through the driving drizzle was none other than ukiyo-e artist Taiso Yoshitoshi—also known as Ōso Yoshitoshi—in his singularly peculiar guise.

On the evening of May 15, Meiji 1 (1868).

At that time Yoshitoshi was thirty years old—born into a retainer family who should have inherited samurai blood—but having been adopted by Tsukioka Sessai and having studied under Kikuchi Yōsai and Katsushika Hokusai’s styles, both his spirit and appearance had wholly transformed into those of a town painter.

Clad in light blue hakama pants and straw sandals, his upper body wrapped in a tung oil coat with only his eyes exposed—were it not for the ink case at his waist and the sketchbook in his breast pocket, this peculiar figure might have been mistaken for a flood surveyor from Katsushika.

Despite the oily, lukewarm rain falling, Yoshitoshi’s body trembled violently in small shudders and occasionally hiccuped. Moreover, his footing remained unsteady—shambling along weakly only to have his legs caught in mud puddles and end up plopping down into the mire. Yet whenever he saw corpses lying slain in thickets or on roads—whether they were Shōgitai or government soldiers—he would peer at each one, compelled to scrutinize their facial expressions and contorted postures.

"A terrible wound, yet—the face remains as serene as Buddha’s."

Such peaceful death faces must not have interested Yoshitoshi.

"This is something else."

Occasionally he would crouch before corpses—pulling out a brush from his ink case and a horizontally bound hanshi paper sketchbook from his breast pocket—and while shielding against the drizzle, set his sketching brush into motion.

Suddenly——

“There he is! There he is!”

Government soldiers swarmed in from all sides—their blades glinting—the multiple edges seared into Yoshitoshi’s vision.

“Ah! Forgive me, sirs!”

Yoshitoshi panicked and struggled—his tung oil coat torn away, his collar seized—as they shoved him back and forth several times.

“Who the hell are you?!”

“Forgive me, forgive me, I beg you.
“I am not a suspicious person!”

Yoshitoshi, hoisted up like a misbehaving kitten, trembled pitifully while clasping his hands together.

“How could you not be suspicious? What were you doing there?”

His appearance bore no resemblance to a defeated samurai. They likely took him for a thief who had infiltrated the mountainside where battle smoke still lingered, plotting plunder.

“I was drawing pictures. I—I am Yoshitoshi, an ukiyo-e artist—”

“What? An ukiyo-e artist? Don’t feed me that horseshit! Since when do picture-makers draw anything but pretty courtesans and actors and scenic routes—amusing trifles for women and kids? Let’s see these ‘pictures’ of yours— What the hell? Nothing but creepy sword fights and corpses and heads on spikes! You call this ukiyo-e? You’re one shady bastard!”

The leading samurai flipped through Yoshitoshi’s sketchbook with rough motions, his suspicious brows furrowing.

“Th-that’s not true. The ukiyo-e artists of peaceful times draw those courtesans and actors and travel scenes you mention—even if they don’t mean their work as mere diversions for women and children, when the world knows no conflict, even landscapes become tranquil. But in times like these—a world of slashing and clashing, with gunfire roaring in our ears—there must be ukiyo-e suited to such an age. To capture this world’s countless forms exactly as they are and pass them to future generations—that’s the duty of those who wield the brush. Could I possibly sit content painting courtesans and actors now?”

Yoshitoshi was earnest.
Rather than clearing the suspicions cast upon himself, he wanted to declare—with all the pride he could muster as an ukiyo-e artist baptized in gunpowder smoke and blood tides—in such a resounding manner.

“What a peculiar fellow—your words follow logical reasoning—yet here you tremble uncontrollably.”
“Do you truly believe a coward like you can depict such bloody scenes?”

“I will capture them! Heh! This trembling stems from my nerves—not cowardice!”
“If I don’t record humanity pushed to its limits in these times—then my birth as an ukiyo-e artist holds no meaning!”
“What of it?”

“Very well—we’ll show you something more gruesome—come with us.”

“Huh—”
“Come on.”

Urged on, Yoshitoshi stood up—but his knee joints gave way spinelessly, and he flopped down into the mud like cotton.

“I-I c-can’t stand…”

“Hah hah, you fool.”
“Lost your nerve? You think you can depict real battles like that?”

“Please let me collect myself—it’ll pass right away.”

“There there—we can’t keep humoring a spineless coward forever.”
“Let two of you keep watch around here—we’ll go flush out more defeated samurai.”

Yoshitoshi remained immobilized, bound to the pine tree roots, while the two government soldiers were left behind without truly keeping watch over him.

The remaining squad scattered back toward Ueno Forest along the path still faintly lit in the lingering dusk.

Kusakabe Kinnojo, the Defeated Samurai

“Hey, painter.”

“Huh—”

“Draw me.”

“Huh—”

“Sketch this warrior stance for me. If you do it well, I’ll take it as a memento back home.”

One government soldier straightened into formal bearing.

“I can’t draw while bound like this.”

Yoshitoshi was on the verge of tears.

“Alright alright—we’ll untie you for a bit then.”
“But if the drawing comes out bad, we won’t go easy on ya!”

“In that case, I must respectfully decline.”

“What?”

“The quality depends on the model—once I take up the brush, it ceases to be within my control.”

“You saying my warrior stance ain’t good enough?”

“That’s not what I mean—but since you’d find it disagreeable, I must beg your pardon and refuse—placing you alongside corpses and severed heads would be most unseemly to begin with.”

Though bound, Yoshitoshi stubbornly thrashed against his restraints.
Even as surging pride trembled violently within him, it would not let him refrain from speaking thus.

“You insolent wretch—keep talking like that and you’ll regret it! Even if you call yourself an artist, unless we see you draw, who’s to say these sketchbook pictures are yours? You there—aren’t you one of those Shōgitai stragglers?”

“That’s—preposterous!”

After Yoshitoshi spoke those words, one of them circled behind him and clashed his sword guard.

“Why don’t we just cut this bastard down?”

“Hmm… That might be acceptable.”

The two men were exchanging some sort of signal.

“Ah! Forgive me.”
“I am not one of the Shōgitai!”

A swift first strike came—though bound, he barely managed to duck his head—but there was no way to parry the second blade.

But at that moment, a miracle occurred.
The sword stroke that had swung down toward Yoshitoshi’s head soared into empty space,

“Ah!”

One of the retreating government soldiers had his leg cut off and collapsed like a folding screen.

“You bastard—!”

Before the other government soldier who rushed forward stood Kusakabe Kinnojo—having climbed over the stone wall—now drenched in enemy blood that had sprayed back onto him, emerging like a hellish specter from the abyss in a ghastly apparition.

The two government soldiers fought fiercely, but one had his leg severed and the other was taken unawares—no match for Kinnojo’s death-maddened ferocity.
In mere moments, they were hewn down to both sides.

Having disposed of the two government soldiers, Kinnojo approached Yoshitoshi’s side and peered at his face from within the gathering dusk.

“Lost your nerve, you fool?”

A cold smile lingered on his cheeks for just a brief moment. The next instant, Kinnojo’s hands were untying Yoshitoshi’s bonds and stripping off his kimono.

“Ah! Mercy—spare my life at least—”

Yoshitoshi finally came to his senses.

“I won’t take your life—but I need your clothes. I’ll be borrowing them for a while.”

Having discarded his armor, Kusakabe Kinnojo donned Yoshitoshi’s lined kimono, tucked a single dagger deep into his robe, and—fortunately finding a roadside puddle—swiftly wiped the bloodstains from his limbs and face.

Adjusting his topknot slightly and taking Yoshitoshi’s hand towel to wrap around his head, he now somehow resembled a townsman.

“Here—this is for your trouble.”

With a plop, he tossed out two or three small coins.

“Ah… excuse me, Sir.”

Yoshitoshi paid no attention to the coins and stood up in the mud wearing nothing but his undergarment.

“What’s this—not enough coin?”

Kinnojo, who had turned around—having even prepared a straw raincoat—exuded a masculine bearing from beneath his head covering, reminiscent of kabuki actors on the hanamichi.

“Please return that sketchbook—that thing is second only to my life.”

“This?”

After unconsciously retrieving the sketchbook he had stuffed into his robe, Kinnojo tossed it with a plop.

“Ah! It will get mud on it!”

The artist’s indignation at last coalesced into a faint protest, but Kinnojo paid it no mind as he gazed at the groves spanning Ueno, Yanaka, and Dōkanyama under the deepening dusk.

“Hold it! Hold it! You suspicious wretch!”

Suddenly, a figure parted the thicket and stood blocking Kusakabe Kinnojo’s path. Woolen surcoat, soldier’s rain-hat warding off the drizzle, unsheathed sword held at his side—his bearing showed not a trace of carelessness.

“Heh heh, we’re locals here, sirs.”
“It might not be proper to call it battle sightseeing, but thinking it a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I ended up recklessly venturing too far.”
“I beg your indulgence.”

Kusakabe Kinnojo's tone carried the smooth, natural cadence of a townsman speaking from the gut.
It must have been the dexterity of an Edo samurai.

“The other man’s naked, isn’t he?”

“My companion was stripped by a defeated samurai.”

Kusakabe Kinnojo said this with utter nonchalance.

“Remove your hood.”

“Heeh—”

“You think any fool greets a samurai with his hood still on?”

“Heeh—”

Kusakabe Kinnojo’s left hand rose.
Pretending to remove his hood, his right hand was already reaching for the hilt of the dagger inside his robe—

“Huh—?!”

A violet flash—

“Gah!”

From the shoulder of his woolen surcoat, fresh blood spurted forth, and the opponent collapsed.

“Help!”

Yoshitoshi too, utterly terrified by the situation, crawled to Kinnojo’s feet.

“You fool! What’s that racket? The one who got sliced wasn’t you!”

“Wh-what?—”

“Where’s your place?”

While wiping his bloodied sword, Kusakabe Kinnojo asked.

“Ah, it is in Umamichi, Asakusa.”

“Not too far then—you’ll put me up tonight.”

“————”

“Don’t want to?”

The blade, freshly wiped of living blood, moved suggestively before Yoshitoshi’s eyes.

“Th-that’s preposterous!”

“Then guide me—lingering here serves no purpose.”

“————”

“Come on.”

Urged on, Yoshitoshi became rooted to the spot.
In the dusk, the visage of the freshly slain samurai—now fading into darkness—must have seized Yoshitoshi’s interest with visceral intensity.
Before he knew it, he took out his sketchbook. Spreading it across his rattling knees, Yoshitoshi clenched the fountain brush between his teeth.

A Dangerous Pact

For four or five days thereafter, a blood-reeking wind continued to blow through Edo.

As if possessed by that wind, Taiso Yoshitoshi spent his days from dawn till dusk wandering from town to town in pursuit of ominous rumors.

From Kozukappara’s execution grounds to distant bridge approaches and nearby tenement alleys, he would not rest until he had recorded in his sketchbook—with nausea-inducing revulsion and morbid fervor—every instance of Shōgitai’s defeated samurai being discovered by Satchō patrols, bound, and beheaded.

At the Umamichi residence left unattended, the self-proclaimed wife Oyotsu nursed this equally self-proclaimed fugitive Kusakabe Kinnojo, living in cramped obscurity.
Oyotsu was a woman called Sonoka who had worked in Senju; when the New Year came, she tumbled into Yoshitoshi’s residence without much welcome and stayed on through March and April acting as his wife—a woman of that sort.

“I’ve never been as shocked as I was that night. Right after that man in just his underrobe, Mr. Kin—the one who joined the Shōgitai—came lumbering in—”

During Yoshitoshi’s absence, Oyotsu remained rooted like a plant at Kusakabe Kinnojo’s bedside in the cramped six-tatami-mat room, talking on and on like this.

“I was surprised too! This spring after New Year’s, when you vanished from Senju—who’d have guessed you’d end up sitting by the long brazier in the very house of this mediocre painter I fled to? Not even Buddha could’ve seen that coming!”

Kusakabe Kinnojo spoke with brazen candor. His swordsmanship was peerless, but as a low-ranking hatamoto living on others’ leftovers, he had shared an illicit bond with Oyotsu Sonoka since two years prior.

“But doesn’t meeting like this prove some deep fate too, Kin-san? No matter how brazen I might be, I couldn’t go storming into some hatamoto mansion waving sworn oaths about. With no choice left, I tumbled into the home of the painter who seemed the most gullible client.”
“Then you come crashing in as a defeated samurai—why, even kusazōshi storybooks rarely spin tales this wild! With the world being so dangerous and our master here too dense to notice us, you might as well set up your mikoshi and stay five years or ten—how ’bout it, Kin-san?”

When she drew on the long pipe and placed it inside the futon, Oyotsu’s body settled into a sideways sitting position, her elbow already becoming a soft weight upon the man’s bedding.

“The wound’s healed already. If we keep lying around like this forever, a man’s build’ll go slack. I’m begging you—let me up.”

Tossing his pipe aside, Kusakabe Kinnojo propped his cheek against the pillow and gazed up at Oyotsu’s glistening allure from below.

“Look—when you get up, won’t that be when they’ll drive you out? And if you go prowling around the engawa or kitchen, we’ve got the neighbors to consider too.”

“In that neighborhood, there’s a remarkably pretty girl, isn’t there?”

“Oh my, you’re impossible! Have you already seen that? —But you must stop at that. They call her Ohama-bō—for an amateur, she’s got a shockingly streetwise edge. I don’t know what she sees in him, but they say she’s taken a fancy to our blockhead—hoho.”

“Well now—Master Yoshitoshi! Here I thought you were all about the artistic path, but you’ve got such skills too?”

Kusakabe Kinnojo seemed endlessly amused.

“You say that, but I sometimes find him truly frightening.”

“He doesn’t seem the type to startle easily—what exactly frightens you?”

“As you see, he’s a man with no desires beyond painting, meek to the point of timidity—I thought he’d make an ideal stepping stone when I took up with him, but—”

“————”

Oyotsu gulped and held her breath.

“Despite having such skilled hands, he absolutely detests painting profitable commissions of courtesans and actors—and whenever he does pick up a brush, it’s only those eerie brutal prints—since such things can’t possibly earn money, our household remains in dire financial straits no matter how much time passes.”

“————”

“Ever since the Battle of Ueno began, his madness only grew worse—every day he’d bolt out wild-eyed, roaming three or five leagues wherever sword clashes or public executions occurred, only to come slinking back after dark looking like a drenched fox.”

As Oyotsu kept speaking, an involuntary shudder seemed to ripple through her body.

“I’ve reached my absolute limit.”
“You crashing in here was a godsend for me—it might trouble you, but take me anywhere away from this place. Let’s flee together, won’t you, Kin-san?”

“I’ve thought about that too, but let’s face it—the search is still too intense. Once we take one step out of this alley, there’s no telling what might happen.”
“And wherever we go, money comes first.”

“In that case, fortunately—”

Oyotsu was thinking of her own treasured secret—the small hoard she had carefully hidden away.

“There are relatives in Mikawashima. I had Yoshitoshi write a letter and take it with him when he left today, so once he returns soon—and he should any moment now—we’ll likely have some sort of response.”

Kusakabe Kinnojo had sat upright on the floor without anyone noticing.
The two or three scratches he had received were now completely healed, and he felt he could fly straight to Hakodate as he was.

“Then I can’t go with you after all—if we tell that man our destination, it’s like handing him the key to our lives. Plus, people seem to be catching whiffs of our affair—we need to cut ties cleanly and devise a way to fly far away without leaving any messy aftermath.”

Oyotsu’s sheer audacity—coaxing the reluctant Kusakabe Kinnojo—meant to lure him into an unfathomable demonic abyss.

The neighbor girl Ohama

“Psst.”

Called to a halt by a hushed voice, Yoshitoshi involuntarily hesitated mid-step.
At the entrance to the alley where he had returned unusually early today, before the communal well, a pale face was staring at him.

“Oh, Ms. Ohama? Do you have some business?”

Yoshitoshi came to a stop in this manner, his tone casual.
Although worn by household duties, Ohama—having just turned nineteen—exuded girlish charm in excess through her face, figure, and the crispness of her voice.

“You mustn’t go in now—it seems there are two people who’d be troubled.”

The venom in the girl’s words strangely agitated Yoshitoshi.

“What?”

“Look, Mr. Yoshitoshi—this isn’t about me, but I’m so furious, so absolutely furious, I might just report that pale Shōgitai swordsman with his two swords straight to the garrison and—”

“Shh—”

They wordlessly exchanged glances.

“You’re simply too kind-hearted.”
“That ungrateful beast deserves to be torn to pieces—”

“Torn to pieces?”

“The head would be displayed atop a three-foot-high tree, and the corpse might as well become fodder for dogs—”

Ohama’s rage erupted without limit.
The heart that cherished Yoshitoshi had grown so feverishly agitated that it twisted into wrath veering toward an entirely different bearing.

“Tortured to death—head displayed—corpse fed to dogs—”

Yoshitoshi’s imagination caught fire.
Magnificent material for brutal prints took vivid shape through Ohama’s words.

“Not enough. Still not enough.”

The blood-and-flame impressions—from lynchings plunging Edo citizens into terror’s depths, through assassinations, kidnappings, and sword fights, culminating in the Shōgitai’s last stand at Kan’ei-ji’s thirty-six burning halls and the manhunt for defeated samurai across eight hundred eight neighborhoods—still defied full expression through such crude means.

“What exactly are you saying isn’t enough, huh?”
“The intensity isn’t enough.”
“What? — Get a hold of yourself! If you’d just hand that two-sworded samurai over to the country bumpkin soldiers, that’d be the end of it.”

Ohama could not possibly comprehend Yoshitoshi’s state of mind.
Having had the relationship between Kusakabe Kinnojo and Oyotsu exposed, perhaps he had become dizzyingly unhinged—Ohama could barely manage to entertain such thoughts.

“Leave me alone, Ms. Ohama—I’ve got my own thoughts to consider—”

Uttering something that seemed both understood and not, Yoshitoshi entered his house.

“————”

That cowardly figure, that profile even feigning a smile—how utterly spineless Ohama must have found it all.

Ohama—born into a samurai family and having long admired Yoshitoshi as a man of backbone akin to the bold figures in his art—now felt inexpressible indignation toward his recent spineless behavior.

“It’s all that woman’s fault.”

In Ohama’s eyes, Oyotsu’s powder-caked face—as if she had left shame somewhere behind—appeared vividly.

A terrifying premonition.

“Mr. Kusakabe, please rest assured. Your relatives in Mikawashima heard that Mr. Kusakabe was safe and were overjoyed.”

In both his words and attitude, Yoshitoshi showed no hesitation whatsoever.

“That’s a relief.”

Kusakabe Kinnojo appeared to have cleanly forgotten that until just moments ago, he had been plotting something improper with Oyotsu.

“And so—since even a neighborhood farther than Umamichi would be more convenient for hiding—these were the words spoken: that I should take you there immediately. Since the world is in turmoil, I’ve brought no written reply—only an oral message—”

“That settles it—quite the unexpected trouble you’ve gone through. Let’s prepare immediately and set out tonight.”

Kinnojo had already forgotten about the unhealed wound on his neck and leapt up from his futon.

“No, nights are actually more dangerous. I’ve wandered about everywhere—every garrison in this area knows my face by now. You should come with me. If questioned, let’s say you’re my disciple. I can’t begin to express how much safer it is to move while sunlight still falls.”

“I see—that might indeed be the case.”

Kusakabe Kinnojo began his preparations.
Shaving his forelock wide, lowering the base of a townsman’s topknot, donning Yoshitoshi’s lined kimono, draping a hand towel deliberately over his shoulder, concealing a short sword—its guard removed—inside his robe, he followed behind Yoshitoshi in clogs.

“Hey, Kin-san.”

“————”

Oyotsu, having chased them out to the gate, confirmed that Yoshitoshi had gone a step ahead,

“Deliberately dawdle along the way, and at some deserted place—”

Oyotsu quietly mimed a chopping motion with her hand, pretending to slice something.

“That’s… Oyotsu—”

“I’ll be waiting—when it gets dark, come get me right away. You understand, Kin-san?”

“—”

Kusakabe Kinnojo nodded and followed Yoshitoshi’s retreating figure as he walked several paces ahead.

From the Hour of the Sheep (1–3 PM) to around the Hour of the Monkey (3–5 PM),

Oyotsu found herself unable to sit still or stay put—her mind was in turmoil. She went to the long hearth, stepped out to the entrance, peered into the kitchen, smoked tobacco, drank tea, and sighed—

“Kin-san.”

With a heart that seemed to dwell on wicked thoughts, she found herself plagued by an unsettling sense of foreboding.

When she glanced over, there between the fence slats—a white face,

Ohama’s stubborn eyes and mocking—yet somehow alluring—red lips came into view.

“What do you think you’re doing? You’ve been peeping from strange places like a bitch since yesterday and the day before! Even in a tenement house, inside this fence is someone else’s castle! Do something nasty again and I’ll douse you with water!”

Oyotsu was agitated.

“Mr. Yoshitoshi hasn’t returned yet?”

Ohama’s tone held not a trace of ulterior motive.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Without quite meaning to, Oyotsu glided out to the engawa.

“Well, just now in the rice fields, they caught a defeated Shōgitai samurai—there was a huge commotion about whether he was killed or did the killing—so I thought I’d check if anything strange happened here...”

Ohama’s casually smooth tone was, for Oyotsu, the utmost intimidation.
But—for Kin-san, who had left with such meticulous preparations, there wasn’t even a one-in-ten-thousand chance of any mishap.
If that person had reported him or handed him over to the garrison, that would be one thing—but such a coward could never manage such a thing—forcing down the terror swelling within her, Oyotsu bit her parched lips.

“A Shōgitai fugitive? We have nothing to do with such people. Rather than meddling in others’ affairs, you’d do better to hurry home and whittle toothpicks for your little side jobs—how ridiculous.”

“If that’s the case, then fine—”

Ohama muttered vague words while retreating like a timid fox, glancing back again and again.

“Damn it, what a detestable wretch.”

Oyotsu withdrew from the engawa.

But just then, as Taiso Yoshitoshi slid open the lattice door and entered with uncharacteristic sluggishness, his pallid face met hers—their eyes locking unavoidably in a sudden collision.

“Ah!”

A terrible premonition coursed through Oyotsu’s spine like water.

*Blood-Crazed Beauty*

“Oyotsu, are you there?”

A hollow voice; eyes glittered like glazed pottery.

"What a face you're making—could it be... that person?"

Oyotsu's words died in her throat.

“He was caught by government soldiers in the rice fields.”

“Wha—?”

“Someone knew he’d cut down countless government soldiers at Ueno—they slaughtered him on the spot like vermin being tormented.”

“So… it’s true after all.”

“Look at this.”

Yoshitoshi threw down the sketches with a smack.

There was no need to pick them up and look.
What snapped open before Oyotsu’s knees was a crude rough drawing in solid sumi ink from a portable ink set—nonetheless unmistakably depicting Kusakabe Kinnojo, disguised as a townsman when they sent him out, now swarmed by numerous government soldiers and hacked apart under chaotic blades, his face twisted in resentful visage.

“Wha—? Damn you!”

Oyotsu slammed down the sketchbook and suddenly lunged at Yoshitoshi with samurai-like ferocity.

“Ah! What are you doing?”

“You call yourself a man—what a coward you are! You suspected my relationship with him, and when brute force didn’t work, you reported him to those potato-eating soldiers and had him captured—making him suffer such a gruesome fate!”

“How should I know? Let go!”

“You deliberately took him out in broad daylight because you wanted to draw this, didn’t you? Do you think I can’t understand your feelings—even after living together three months, four months?!”

“Nonsense!”

“You said that at Ueno, when government soldiers were about to cut you down, that person saved you.”
“You accuse the very benefactor you sheltered—no duty fulfilled nor human feeling shown—and still dare call yourself a son of Edo?”
“Damn you—spineless coward! Yet you had the gall to draw this gruesome sketch and shamelessly show it to me—what depraved nerve! Heretic! Demon!”

Oyotsu was half-mad.
Tangled from their struggle, she assailed Yoshitoshi with samurai-like ferocity—at his neck, his chest, his topknot.

“It wasn’t me—someone must’ve informed on him, but not this Yoshitoshi.”

“If you’re so innocent, why draw these brutal prints? Whether it’s right or wrong to shamelessly watch people die—I’ll make you understand, damn you!”

Oyotsu—who had spent a full year refining her craft in a small lattice-house brothel—was an enchantress with graceful poise, but in exchange, she was obsessive, morbidly stubborn, and tinged with madness.

“Wait—I don’t find people getting killed amusing either. But to capture these times, there’s no choice but to draw things like this.”
“For future generations—to preserve my artistic path—I must draw these brutal prints, sweating greasy sweat and grinding my teeth.”

“Well, what a twisted disposition you have.”
“Even the demons of hell wouldn’t hound someone with such atrocities—if that art of yours is so damn important, then make a masterpiece of executing me!”
“As you’ve guessed, Kin-san was the sort to stake even my life on his convictions—that’s how deep it ran.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, damn you?”
“Come on, kill me! Do it properly!”

Half-crazed, Oyotsu pressed her body against Yoshitoshi and screamed wildly, heedless of her surroundings.

“You idiot! Had enough?”
“I haven’t a shred of intent to kill anyone over this.”
“Don’t like it? Get out.”
“This is the house you forced yourself into—live or die, do as you damn please—”

Yoshitoshi, too, with growing impatience, pushed away Oyotsu’s clinging body.

“So you’re telling me to die alone—fine! I’ll show you a splendid death right before your eyes, you who informed on him—don’t you dare look away!”

Oyotsu suddenly dashed into the kitchen—Yoshitoshi had no chance to pursue her.
A shriek—then with a honed kitchen knife, she slashed her own throat, chest, even her face, and stagger-crawled out drenched head to toe in fresh blood.

“Ah! What have you done?!”

“Come—look closely at this face of mine.”
“This face…this form—if your brush can capture them, then draw it.”

Her hands flailed in air; the roots of her ginkgo bun tore free, blood-tide webs streaking her fists as black hair cascaded in disarray.

Her face grew more horrific through its beauty—
arched brows; eyes glinting death’s torment; blood-drenched cheeks and lips convulsing; perfect teeth grinding like timber in a vise—clack-clack-clack.

“Look at this face—whether you can sleep at night or not—look closely.”
“Not only did you inform on Kin-san, but even me—you who never laid hands yet still tortured me to death—”

“Wait—I have something to say.”
“Everything’s wrong—listen! Listen to that!”

Yoshitoshi barely restrained the blood-maddened wounded Oyotsu and pointed toward the neighboring house in the duplex—the silhouette of Ms. Ohama’s residence.

Separated by a single hedge, the open front garden bathed in evening sunlight rendered everything as vivid as if held in one's hand. At that moment, seven or eight government soldiers followed their captain into Ohama's house with heavy, stomping footsteps.

The Vengeful Woman’s Malevolent Visage

“The one called Ohama who informed on Kusakabe Kinnojo—is that you?”
“For a woman, enabling the defeat of a key rebel leader is an exceptional feat.”
“There will be an official commendation forthcoming, but for now I shall convey only the authorities’ words.”

The government soldiers’ captain’s voice, uttering those words, resounded resolutely through the neighborhood walls.

“――――”

Upon hearing that, Oyotsu—in Yoshitoshi’s arms—opened her eyes wide with desperation.

“Did you hear that, Oyotsu? Now everything makes sense.”
“I shouldn’t have to repeat myself—I’m just a painter.”
“I depict the ways of the world and human forms—that’s my nature. But informing on others or scheming? You went and did this reckless thing without even listening to me.”

“――――”

“You did your duty.”
“Even if we’d been close—intimately involved—would I fret over such a thing?”

Yoshitoshi calmly reasoned while government soldiers withdrew from the neighboring garden—Ohama’s bustling figure seeing them off appeared as vividly as if one could reach out and touch it.

“You...”

“Did you understand, Oyotsu?”

“Forgive me, I—”

In Oyotsu’s eyes—now dying—tears like oil seeped out for the first time.

“If you understand now, that’s enough.”
“The wound is shallow.”
“It would be best to calmly tend to it.”

“No, I won’t survive.”
“I don’t want to survive—I’m sorry to you, but I—I want to follow after Kin-san.”

Oyotsu wept soundlessly on Yoshitoshi’s lap, her body trembling.

“I know that too—after all, our bond was shallow.”
“Forgive me.”

“Poor you—what a woman you are.”

“You—grant me this one wish.”

“What?”

“You’ve drawn murders, sword fights, executions all this time—but you said there’s no model for a woman’s final moments. For a vengeful woman’s.”

“――――”

“While you can—this wretched form of mine—please draw it while I still breathe—as my meager repayment of your kindness.”

Sliding off Yoshitoshi’s lap, Oyotsu—summoning her final strength—clung to the pillar and rose unsteadily to her feet.

“That won’t do—the resentment has vanished from your face. Even if there’s the agony of dying, the vengeful woman’s malevolent visage has disappeared.”

Truly, something akin to religious ecstasy showed on Oyotsu’s blood-drenched face—a visage even a Buddha sculptor would capture.

But the tide of events shifted in an instant.

At this moment, Ohama—having noticed the commotion next door—took advantage of having seen off the government soldiers to push open the garden gate and slip nimbly inside.

“Ah!”

Transfixed by the blood-drenched scene unfolding before her eyes, Ohama forgot even to flee.

“Damn you! So you’re the one who informed on him—remember this grudge!”

When she saw Ohama’s face, Oyotsu’s rekindled resentment—her body entangled around the pillar twisting grotesquely—manifested in eyes and mouth that seemed to harbor pale flames as a mercilessly vindictive visage blazed fiercely.

“Heeelp!”

Due to the extremity of the situation, Ohama crawled across the narrow garden.
Her eyes were fixated on the wounded figure clambering up the pillar at the edge, and the girl’s body, overwhelmed by terror, couldn’t budge an inch.

“Damn it!”

Oyotsu’s teeth ground with a shrill screech; her jet-black hair fluttered abruptly despite the windless air; as her hands gripping the pillar slackened, the wounded body crumbled down in a heap—then peering toward Ohama in the garden—she stretched out both hands with trembling intensity.

By now, death’s hand closing in on her back—she intended to drag Ohama down to the very depths of the Eight Cold Hells.

Yoshitoshi unconsciously picked up his sketchbook.
The malevolent visage of the vengeful woman—frozen in death's final instant—flowed forth stroke by fluid stroke beneath his masterful brush.
Like Buddhist painter Yoshihide, who legend says watched his own daughter burn in raging flames, ukiyo-e artist Yoshitoshi immersed himself in a trance of pure artistic devotion that transcended human morality, his face becoming as serenely clear as that of a revered high priest.

Taiso Yoshitoshi’s masterpiece *Eimei Nijūhachi Shūku* (Twenty-Eight Heroes) was thus completed.
The blood-drenched world that once adorned Edo in the final years of the Tokugawa shogunate became “Danjūrokurōbei,” became “Inada Shinsuke,” became “Naosuke Gonbei,” and finally transformed into the image of Kasamori Osen—a slaughtered beauty meeting her end with bitter resentment.

The realm achieved by Yoshitoshi’s brutal prints—their vivid realism—provided significant impetus to the Meiji-era art world.
This became Mizuno Toshikata, became Ochiai Yoshiiku, became Terukata, became Eihō, became Toshitsune, became Toshihide, and ultimately became Master Kaburagi Kiyokata—this goes without saying.