Pathway to Japanese Literature

Genkichi the Tightrope Walker's Mysterious Errand

“Big Sis.”

“Hush, you mustn’t speak so roughly.”

“Ah right, now you’re the honored concubine of a three-thousand-koku hatamoto. If we carried on like the old days, we’d be cursed.”

The young man who looked like a performer swiftly pushed open the garden gate and crouched low as he slipped into the darkness of the shrubbery.

The one who greeted him was a twenty-one- or twenty-two-year-old woman of mysterious beauty.

Her summer kimono of Akashi-chijimi crepe was slightly gaudy for samurai household attire; with washed hair carelessly tied up, she flapped the fan in her right hand—not so much to chase mosquitoes as to obscure their voices.
To call her mysteriously beautiful—this was no irresponsible adjective.
Moonlight, lanterns hung from the eaves, and illumination from both sides lit this woman's face—a beauty so mysterious it defied imagination.
The hair bound at her nape blazed crimson like flames, its heavy waves undulating; both eyes gleamed sapphire-blue as if cut from southern seas; her stature measured five shaku two or three sun; while her complexion—like a blood-infused peach pearl—exuded an indescribable beauty.

While some might find this unconventional beauty eerie, it was only natural that Anjō Kyōtarō—master of this estate—should dote upon her as his sole treasure. After his principal wife’s death, first it was O-Tori, second it was O-Tori; without her, he could neither see night nor day break.

“Don’t say such unpleasant things—but more importantly, why did you sneak in here when I had told you repeatedly not to come near this estate, Genkichi?”

O-Tori spoke reproachfully, yet even as she did so, she gazed with profound nostalgia at Genkichi—her younger troupe brother whom she hadn’t seen in years, that skilled tightrope walker.

“Big Sis, my bad. Even I ain’t keen on sneakin’ into folks’ homes lookin’ like some thievin’ cat, but when I got back to Edo after two years, I just couldn’t bear not seein’ you no more.”

Genkichi looked up mournfully at this beautiful woman about two years his senior. Having been raised in the troupe since childhood, the two of them—too intimately familiar for what could be called romance—found themselves unable to resolve their tormenting urge: whether to hold hands and converse to their hearts’ content, or to quarrel to their fill like two stray mutt pups.

“Is everyone well?”

O-Tori involuntarily took a step forward. Even now, Genkichi—who used to ride papier-mâché balls and swings with hands clasped—still felt like a dear younger brother she couldn’t help but cherish.

“Ah, both Master and O-Kami-san—everyone in the troupe’s doin’ fine.”
“Since you left the troupe, Big Sis, our shows ain’t been pullin’ crowds like before. Well, we’re gettin’ by day to day.—So tell me, Big Sis—you happy now bein’ some three-thousand-koku hatamoto’s concubine?”
“The master worries about that every time he has his evening drink.”

“Thank you. Well, I’m living like this, so I suppose that counts as happiness—since complaining would only lead to endless grievances—”

“Hmm… From how you’re talkin’, seems there ain’t nothin’ savory goin’ on. Well, guess I’ll just have to endure it.”

“Have I reached the point where I’m to be lectured by you now?”

“Heh, that’s the Big Sis I remember—though under this moonlight, can’t see clearly enough. But your beauty’s same as ever, huh?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“By the way, Big Sis, two or three days ago, a strange man came visitin’ our troupe’s hut in Ryōgoku.”

“...”

“A young ronin who’s been searching for our troupe across all of Japan for over five years.”
“Though he says that, it’s not like he’s here to avenge a parent’s death or wants to see my tightrope walking.”
“To put it bluntly, he says he wants to meet you, Big Sis—has something he needs to talk about.”

“...”

“Whoa, these damn mosquitoes! My bad—how ‘bout you take a seat on that garden stone there? I’ll dish out this ronin’s tale while we swat ‘em away.”

Genkichi lowered the hem he’d hitched up seven-to-three and sat upon the garden stone, enveloping his legs from shins to heels.
Before this motion, O-Tori—also assuming a half-crouch—moved her fan as if shielding Genkichi’s figure from the veranda’s light while unconsciously swatting at mosquitoes all along.

“Genkichi—more than this ronin’s story, I want to see everyone again even once. Couldn’t you arrange something?”

“Whoa there, can’t go makin’ such fancy demands.”
"You were s’posed to have clean broke with the troupe."
“Even if we were starvin’, the master ain’t one to come beggin’ shamefaced—nah, it’s this ronin. Says he can’t stand not seein’ you no more, wants you to visit Kishimojin Temple in Zōshigaya there sometime these ten days when you get a chance.”
“Kōhīnata to Zōshigaya ain’t far,” he says, “and even bein’ his precious caged bird, you could make some excuse—like goin’ to pray for a child or such.”

“——”

“If you still have doubts, I want you to say this: ‘The utterly mysterious background of that Lady O-Tori has been uncovered.’ That’s what he says—hasn’t that changed things quite a bit?”

“It’s not that I couldn’t manage to get out, but what sort of samurai is he?”

“He’s not the sort to lie, deceive, or scheme. His name’s Hagie Kuruma—a picture-perfect handsome man.”

“Hagie... Kuruma... I don’t know him.”

The two of them drew close together, and before they knew it, they assumed a posture of whispering to each other.

“Adulteress!”

Suddenly, with a terrifying roar, something leapt down from the veranda like a monstrous bird.

"Ah! Lord—"

"Hey! Let go!"

Kicking away the clinging O-Tori, he chased Genkichi out through the garden gate.

Under the moonlit night steeped in mutual hatred, there stood nothing to conceal Genkichi's figure as he fled headlong five or six ken ahead.

A mountain girl raised naked until adolescence.

O-Tori was a woman who, as if transformed by her red hair and blue eyes, had been toyed with by a most peculiar fate.

She first became aware of the world in a charcoal burner’s hut deep within Usui Pass—a place rarely traveled by others—under the care of a simian-like man named Iwa Kichi.

The care she received—this much was true—though O-Tori herself did not know where she had been born, the fact remained she was not Iwa Kichi’s child. Not only did their facial features bear no resemblance whatsoever, but Iwa Kichi was known even among the mountain folk as an ugly loner—a man who had never taken a wife.

O-Tori grew up naked for half of each year, like a monkey child.
She moved from rock to rock and tree to tree, hunted mountain prey, and developed without hardship alongside the beasts of the wilds. But when her hair began growing in thick locks, her twin breasts swelled into plump curves, and beautiful subcutaneous fat started forming on her limbs, she began being tormented by a shame so intense it felt like her flesh was being flayed.

Iwa Kichi never properly clothed her in kimono.
There were indeed two or three dreadful rags resembling woven seaweed, but come May they would be stripped away, forcing O-Tori to live completely naked during daylight hours—whether on rocks or amidst thickets.

O-Tori would occasionally gaze at her reflection in the mountain stream’s watery mirror and began to realize with dread the growing disparity between her own increasingly beautiful form and those of the mountain folk—or even the rare visitors from the lowland villages. Red hair, blue eyes, a round smooth chin, long limbs, beautiful skin—from Iwa Kichi to all the people one might encounter hereabouts, she was utterly different.

Another of O-Tori’s torments was that Iwa Kichi—the man who had raised her—had recently undergone a complete change in demeanor.
The fact that he never let her wear clothes from May through October while the sun was up had been true since olden times and was nothing particularly strange, but for O-Tori, the most unbearable oppression was how Iwa Kichi’s eyes—persistently clinging to her every movement—now carried a mysterious light she had never experienced before.

“Please let me wear a kimono.”
O-Tori would sometimes beg for such things, but
“Nah—ain’t happenin’. If a youngster starts wearin’ clothes now, what’ll they do when winter comes?”
In Iwa Kichi’s demeanor, there wasn’t a shred of compromise.
Even so, the daytime was manageable, but the nights spent sleeping in the same hut filled O-Tori with unbearable disgust.
Amidst instinctual unease yet lured by fatigue and youth into dozing off, it was far from rare for Iwa Kichi’s hairy hands to clamp down on O-Tori’s arms, or for his bearded face to press so close to her cheeks that their breaths intertwined.

O-Tori started up in surprise, but he would not let her step outside the hut even an inch until dawn.
She had tried several times to flee to the village, but in her naked state she could do nothing, and Iwa Kichi would repeat his customary threat—

“If you go down to the village, they’ll beat you to death on the spot. Don’t you dare even think about it.”

Threatened by those words, each time she resolved to act, she found herself unable to carry it through.

However, the final moment came.

One summer night, Iwa Kichi’s persistent mischief finally shook awake the terror of the mountain virgin from the depths of her belly.

O-Tori was probably fifteen—sixteen at most—at that time.
After wrenching free from Iwa Kichi’s unbearable grip, she fled into the pitch-black mountain path, running completely aimlessly.

With a fifty-ryō severance payment, O-Tori went to the hatamoto.

That night, an acrobatic troupe that had been touring the Shinano Road—plagued by disastrously poor earnings—found themselves without funds for lodging. At the exit of Usui Pass, they made camp using old banners as makeshift tents, accustomed to rough outdoor living.

It was an era when wolves would sometimes appear in the mountain passes and trouble travelers.
The acrobatic troupe camping outdoors kept fires burning through the night, posting guards by turns, but from midnight until dawn, the task of keeping watch over the flames fell to Genkichi—the troupe's star tightrope walker.

Just as he opened his drowsy eyes and stood up to add another log to the fire—determined to keep it burning until dawn—

“Ah!”

Before his eyes stood a naked girl with red hair, gazing up with an air of familiarity.

“Boss—h-help me!”

When they heard the boy’s cry a second time, Gendayu the troupe leader led two or three burly men rushing out with weapons ready.

But there by the bonfire stood neither monster nor mountain wolf—only a completely naked maiden of divine beauty, her sapphire eyes fixed calmly as though unperturbed by anything, staring intently in their direction.

To tell the whole story would take time, but—this was how O-Tori came to be taken in by Gendayu’s troupe. Trained in language, performance arts, and various skills, she stood on stage a year later as their star performer under the name Tori Tayu.

Three years had passed since then.

By chance, having witnessed O-Tori's foreign beauty, there was likely also the loneliness of recent bereavement for Anjō Kyōtarō—a middle-aged 3,000-koku hatamoto samurai who had just lost his wife.
With terrifying intensity—he ardently pursued O-Tori.

Gendayu stubbornly refused.
Using the pretext that “She was raised in the mountains of Usui without knowing proper etiquette—serving a samurai household is unthinkable,” he rebuffed the request conveyed through intermediaries. Yet with declarations like “We’ll instill manners ourselves—we’ll teach her samurai ways in under a year,” Anjō absolutely would not relent.

In the end, coerced by drawn blades and handing fifty ryō without formal severance to Gendayu—then beset by misfortunes—all ties were severed. Thus O-Tori was taken as Anjō Kyōtarō’s concubine.
O-Tori was nineteen then,

“Henceforth—no matter what occurs—you shall have no contact. Make sure to inform the troupe members well—even should you meet them upon the road, you shall not exchange greetings.”

Contrary to Kyōtarō’s command, Genkichi—the younger-brother figure who had returned to Edo after a long absence—used an errand entrusted by the ronin Hagie Kuruma as his pretext. During daylight hours, he tossed a knotted letter along with a pebble for the strolling O-Tori to retrieve, then waited impatiently for nightfall before slipping into the Kojimachi residence.

Punishment pours down in a rain of lips.

“O-Tori, come here.”

Anjō Kyōtarō, who had apparently raced up Ōhi Hill, blew his fiery breath onto O-Tori and roughly seized her hand, dragging her into the garden entrance.

“Ah!”

“Don’t be alarmed, O-Tori. I cut down the man as a thief and handed him over to the town officials. If you wish to see him, you may go look.”

“…………”

“Now then, it’s your turn. What punishment shall be dealt? State your wish!”

Kyōtarō shoved O-Tori’s body away and kicked her forcefully onto the shoe-removal area.

“Your Lordship, you must be mistaken—that man is Genkichi.”

O-Tori straightened up and desperately clung to Kyōtarō’s hem.

“What? Genkichi?”

“Yes—that Genkichi from the acrobatic troupe returned to Edo after a long absence and came to meet me on behalf of everyone.”

“If it’s Genkichi, that makes it worse. The longer you were together, the deeper my suspicions grow.”
“And didn’t I make it abundantly clear that you’re not to associate with Gendayu or any of the troupe members?”

Kyōtarō himself seemed taken aback by this unexpected turn, but upon hearing Genkichi’s name, his anger showed no signs of abating.

“How pitiful, my lord—Genkichi knows nothing.”

“Shut up!”

“…………”

“Can you call innocent someone who sneaks in from the garden entrance to expose himself with a woman? First and foremost, your disposition is wicked.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Even after drilling manners into you for over two years, you still can’t grasp samurai house customs—what manner of idiot are you? This differs from when you lived naked in Usui’s mountains.”

“…………”

Kyōtarō’s tongue lashed scathingly, but O-Tori lay collapsed on the shoe-removal area, uttering not a word.

“Who was it that took you in—you who planted silver horns in that red hair with an acrobatic troupe, stripping naked to play the demon?”

“…………”

“Did I not endure two years of grueling effort to drill every proper thing into you—to beat at least a semblance of civilized bearing into your skull? And this is how you repay me?”

“…………”

“What madness possesses you—you who should conduct yourself as a samurai’s wife—to bring some young man whispering into the garden’s shadows?”

“…………”

The forty-year-old man’s jealousy clung like scalding oil.
His somewhat haggardly pale face had stiffened horribly under the fury and moonlight.

“There, I’ll have you punished—submit to it!”

“Your Lordship, that is… that is going too far.”

O-Tori finally raised her face.
A beauty that seemed not of this world—half her face bathed in the pallid moonlight, her blue eyes streaming with tears.

“What do you mean ‘going too far’? My mistake was thinking I could educate the likes of you! A mountain ape’s child remains a mountain ape—return to what you are!”

The mansion’s interior remained like a deserted realm—no one came out to intervene. Knowing full well their master’s usual temperament, an irrepressible resentment toward O-Tori—who was doted on—pervaded everyone from the chief steward down to the lowest maid.

“Lord.”

“You’re properly resolved, I trust.”

Kyōtarō raised his longsword overhead twice, but each time he met O-Tori’s face—its crimson lips, alabaster throat, and sapphire eyes forming an indescribably bewitching visage—he lowered the blade and caught his breath.

“Lord.”

“Very well—there’s another way to deal with you. Move!”

He sheathed his sword with a sharp click, then leaned forward, slid both hands beneath O-Tori’s sides, and effortlessly lifted the five-shaku-three-sun beauty.

Her flexible body, wrapped in mysterious suppleness, squirmed restlessly within Kyōtarō’s arms.

“You impudent woman!”

Showering kisses upon O-Tori’s face, Kyōtarō withdrew deeper into the interior, still carrying the woman.

O-Tori's very figure painted with oil paints

O-Tori waited ten days.

During that time, she had not a moment to step outside, and there was no escaping Anjō’s caresses—caresses that had grown as ferocious as oil poured on flames since he slew Genkichi.

Moreover, O-Tori's appearance—her red hair and blue eyes—stood out far too conspicuously in Edo's streets during the Tenmei era, making it impossible for her to venture outside carelessly unless it was a season requiring hoods.

Had Genkichi escaped unharmed, the story of a young ronin who claimed to be waiting at Kishimojin Temple's tea shop might not have troubled O-Tori so deeply.

But when she thought of Genkichi—who had risked his life to tell her such things—being cut down like a stray dog and slandered with a bad name, she found herself feeling that no matter what it took, she must meet this ronin said to be waiting at Kishimojin Temple, must hear about how he had searched for her these five years and learn of her true origins.

From the sweltering afternoon onward, O-Tori—her red hair concealed beneath a navy parasol—entered the grounds of Kishimojin Temple in Zōshigaya accompanied by a single trusted maid named O-Ishi.

“Ah, Madam, what could that be?”

Startled by O-Ishi’s sudden shrill voice, O-Tori came to a halt on the stone pavement.

“Ah!” As O-Ishi pointed, at first sight O-Tori too froze in place.

Near the tea shop on the right—a place serving famous sweet potato dumplings and grilled chicken skewers—where several votive hand towels hung dangling, there was a painting measuring two shaku by one shaku five or six sun (approximately 60cm x 45-48cm), unlike anything ever seen before, a mysterious painting suspended in that space.

A painting executed in oil paints and mounted in a wide-framed border carved with Karakami patterns—already unusual enough for that alone—depicted a woman bearing O-Tori’s exact features: red hair, blue eyes, a high nose, and a rounded chin. Dressed in a feather-like white garment, even her crimson lips appeared captured mid-transition, on the verge of blooming into a faint smile—a perfect replica of O-Tori’s beauty preserved unchanged.

“Is this not Madam’s portrait? Why would it be here—”

O-Ishi’s eyes grew perfectly round, becoming utterly transfixed.
In an age when oil paintings were seen nowhere except in Christian fumie, there hung at the tea shop’s entrance a portrait of O-Tori as vivid as a mirror’s reflection—how could this not startle anyone?

“Ishi, go inquire at that shop—‘What sort of painting might this be?’”

“How dreadfully uncanny, Madam.”

“Then I shall go make inquiries myself.”

“Oh, that was not my intention.”

There was no need for O-Ishi to enter and ask.
When she saw O-Tori’s unusual facial features, the tea shop’s old woman assumed a knowing expression,

“Madam, you are Lady O-Tori, I presume.”
“Lord Hagie has been waiting most eagerly for ten whole days now,” she said, pointing toward the back.

“O-Ishi, please wait here just a little while longer. If you spot anyone I know, quietly let me know.”

“As you wish, Madam.”

Leaving O-Ishi—who wore a knowing expression—at the shop, O-Tori followed the tea shop’s old woman’s guidance and passed into a dimly lit side room.

“You’ve finally come, Lord.”

“Oh, that is most gracious.”

At the old woman’s voice, rising from the window was a splendid samurai of twenty-eight or nine—clad in Echigo linen with a white Hakata obi, bearing a single sword. When he stood, his imposing frame seemed nearly tall enough for his topknot’s bristled tip to graze the lintel. His sun-tanned face, likely weathered by days outdoors, held a charm that mingled loneliness with an almost trembling warmth when he smiled.

“Now then, Madam, please come through. Today marks ten days that Lord Hagie has patiently waited here from the sixth hour of dawn to the sixth hour of dusk in this heat.
“From observing him elsewhere, he seemed quite distressed—I urged him to abandon his vigil, but he declared, ‘She will surely come on the tenth day,’ refusing to budge from this spot for even a moment.”
“As you can see, he’s become so thin.”

“Ah, splendid—please come through, Lady O-Tori.
“This humble one is Hagie, a ronin. Though fully aware that guiding you to such a place strays from propriety and causes great inconvenience, there was a matter I simply had to convey—thus I found myself unable to abandon this course.”

“...”

O-Tori crouched at the room’s entrance, lost in contemplation.
Whether to enter or flee—she found herself utterly unable to decide.

Yet when she beheld the rigidly meticulous ronin’s words and his handsome countenance, all wariness dissolved like loosened threads. An inexplicable impulse seized her—this simple urge to approach and hear his words through.

“Lady O-Tori,” he began, “before all else, I must relay your father’s message—”

“Mine?”

“Indeed—how profoundly your father had regretted abandoning you since infancy. He earnestly instructed that should this humble one miraculously find you through the portrait displayed at the shopfront, I must notify him without delay.”

“Who was my father? From what place did he come, and by what name was he known?”

“Regarding that matter, Lady O-Tori—rumors borne on the wind suggest he departed this world approximately one year past.”

“What?!”
O-Tori felt a peculiar disquiet, but hardening her resolve, she looked up at the ronin’s face—a face gripped by unnervingly intense solemnity.

“Now, in all the wide world, none but this humble one knows the secret of your lineage, Lady O-Tori.
Though it transgresses both courtesy and reason, this is why I entreated Genkichi to deliver that message.”

“What exactly is this secret you speak of? And who does that portrait at the shopfront depict? I know full well it isn’t me, but could it possibly be—”

O-Tori gasped.
Perhaps—that was her mother, or maybe even an elder sister.

“To tell you that—and solely to meet you, Lady O-Tori—for five years I sought out a lumberjack named Iwa Kichi and an acrobat named Gendayu, journeying from the Nakasendō to Hokuriku and Tōkaidō—not to mention Kyoto, Osaka, and even Ōshū.”

“...”

“Ah, I have no intention of boasting about my own struggles—yet in the course of explanation, I’ve ended up voicing unexpected grievances.”
“I heard you had entered the household of the hatamoto Anjō family, but even if I were to present this matter directly, no one would likely believe such a tale. Moreover, Lord Anjō is said to be exceptionally fastidious—as evidenced by what became of Genkichi when I enlisted his aid.”

O-Tori too grew despondent.
The death of Genkichi, her junior troupe brother, once again pricked at her eyes, drawing forth tears.

“Lord Hagie, I hardly know how to express my gratitude for all your efforts.”
“What manner of person are you, Your Lordship, to go to such lengths? At least reveal your status to me.”

“A ronin from the western provinces—Hagie Kuruma. I have nothing more to add.”
“In Karuizawa, I met your father and obtained the portrait that hung before this shop—this humble one could devise no other course.”
“You must think me absurd.”
“Could even this wandering—five years spent traversing Japan seeking one woman—count as martial training? To sully the slightest shred of samurai honor fills me with shame... Yet all must follow vows made in lives past, Lady O-Tori.”

Kuruma said this and lowered his handsome face.

Though his words lacked coherence or meaning, this futile yet fervent love—born from being spellbound by a beautiful portrait and seeking someone bearing those same features—swarmed and gnawed at O-Tori’s chest.

“I don’t know how to express this—I simply can’t grasp it.”
“Yet I implore you—please tell me my deceased father’s name and my true lineage.”

"This is a matter not for the ears of others; please wait for a moment."

Kuruma stood up and looked at the stone pavement outside the bamboo blind, glittering in the setting sun, then with a startled expression glanced back at O-Tori.

Following this came O-Ishi's voice from the shop,
“Madam, Lord is entering.”

“Ah!” O-Tori too started in surprise and hastily rushed out to the shopfront.

At that moment, stepping onto the stone pavement and entering Kishimojin Temple’s grounds came the furious figure of Anjō Kyōtarō.

Following behind was Shikazō, the manservant who usually didn’t get along with O-Ishi, smirking smugly with a knowing look as he accompanied him.

The mountain woman revolted.

“Woman, where have you been walking?”

Having returned to his residence and remained seated on the veranda, Anjō Kyōtarō turned around and showed O-Tori the bitterest face in all of Japan.

“Yes.”

“Not ‘yes’—what was that about you being at Kishimojin Temple’s tea shop?”

“...”

“No matter how much I drill manners and human decency into you, you remain a mountain ape’s child—I won’t forgive this time.”

“...”

“O-Ishi will be dismissed before nightfall—you... you—”

Kyōtarō sank into thought.
He was agonizing over whether there existed a punishment that could make her fully comprehend her place without breaking this splendid toy—

“Lord, that samurai came bearing a message from my father—never—never—”
“Never—never—”

“Shut up! Your father was a monkey from Usui Pass—do you think I’d fall for such sweet talk?”

When he raised his foot and kicked with a sudden motion—one might have expected O-Tori’s body to go tumbling into the garden like a ball, but that was far from what happened,

“Oh ho ho! Lord, your jest goes too far.”

From the veranda above, O-Tori showered those below with bewitching laughter, while in the garden lawn, none other than Lord Kyōtarō himself landed butt-first on the grass.

“You insolent wench—don’t move an inch!”

Kyōtarō sprang up and lunged for the sword on the veranda, but O-Tori darted over in an instant and hurled him into the room.

“Lord, you speak of instilling manners—but is this truly the upbringing befitting a 3,000-koku hatamoto? Please calm yourself and hear what I have to say.”

“What nonsense are you spouting?!”

Kyōtarō did not pay any heed to the woman’s words.

Fueled by the frustration of having his sword taken away—as Kyōtarō spread his arms wide and lunged to grab her—O-Tori’s twin arms slipped through his grasp once more and thrust against his chest with a thud, causing the lord of three thousand koku to stagger helplessly before tumbling backward onto a garden stone with a heavy thump and landing squarely on his rear.

“Oh ho ho ho ho! My, what a weak lord you are.”

“Huh?! You—”

Kyōtarō seethed with anger, but try as he might, he couldn’t muster the resolve to act.

O-Tori was a woman who had grown up deep in the mountains of Usui Pass until the age of fifteen or sixteen—leaping from tree to tree and rock to rock among monkeys and deer—before joining an acrobatic troupe and honing her body for three years.

Had she not entered the performing arts, she would not be a woman that someone like Anjō Kyōtarō—a man who squandered himself in concubine obsession—could handle.

“Lord, toying with this O-Tori as your plaything may be permissible.
“I won’t deny being raised among mountain apes, nor growing silver horns and darting about naked—but I cannot endure you slaughtering the blameless Genkichi or slandering my parents.”

“What?”

O-Tori’s words pierced poignantly to the core, yet Kyōtarō, remaining unable to rise, could only make his eyes blaze with the resentment of defeat.

“I am, so to speak, a body sold for money—neither a hereditary vassal who has served three generations nor your lawful wife, Lord.”
“The two years of training I’ll acknowledge—but how much more must I endure?”

“…”

“I no longer require your training.”
“I shall take my leave from this place, Lord. You need not make such a face.”

“You insolent wretch!”

“When a woman drains both love and hatred from you, those beneath ought to speak more honorably.”
“Lord, I shall no longer appear before you.”

“Wait—wait, woman!”

Hearing Anjō Kyōtarō’s voice behind her, O-Tori rose to her feet.

“Rather than endure this stifling place, I shall return to Usui Pass and live naked.”
“Some of my monkey and deer companions must still survive there.”

As her voice quivered tearfully and she stood abruptly—when had he crept so near?—the servant Shikazō seized her from behind,

“What are you doing? How repulsive!”

Sinking her body, she sent the large man tumbling,

“Hey! Behave properly!”

From the front, retainers pressed their six-shaku spears precisely against her.

They placed the woman into a palanquin and headed for Shinano Road.

“Maid, where are you going?”

“Ah! Lord, a terrible thing has happened!”

O-Ishi stood in the middle of the road and burst into unrestrained tears.
The one who had called out to her was a samurai concealing his features beneath a deep sedge hat despite the sweltering heat—none other than Hagie Kuruma maintaining his discreet existence.

“Madam has incurred His Lordship’s wrath, been shamefully bound and thrown into the storehouse, and now faces mortal peril.”

“What?!”

“I was dismissed yesterday, but through my colleagues’ mediation, I was granted a one-day extension and am now returning to the inn.”
“I care not what becomes of me, but Madam is so pitiful—”

“Now, now—if you weep in the street, people will gather. But tell me—do you have any scheme to rescue Lady O-Tori?”

“It’s unthinkable—Madam will be taken tonight to Shinano in his domain via express palanquin and confined there for life.”

“What?! Is that true?”

“I would wish it were a lie, Lord.”

O-Ishi burst into unrestrained tears.
The evening sun in Otowa Forest shone upon the collar of this girl who resembled a victor, creating a scene that strangely stirred tears.

Hagie Kuruma had the girl hold some coins and immediately rushed back to the inn.

Though called routine travel preparations, they hurried frantically until sunset. By the time they reached the Anjō residence in Kohinata, it was already slightly before the hour of the Dog—around eight o'clock—with summer's light completely faded, making it perfect timing for a covert departure. When he saw them emerge from the gate moments later, there were two palanquins: one holding O-Tori captive, the other presumably containing the master Kyōtarō. With retainers, associates, and even sandal bearers bringing their party to eight members, this security detail for a high-ranking samurai left not the slightest gap to exploit.

Particularly the chief retainer Kobata Tōsaburō, though middle-aged, was a master of the spear; wary of long weapons during the journey, he kept his hand spear in its bag ready for a Bishamon thrust while casting his large eyes about in all directions.

Exiting the gate immediately—

“Kobata, as I said before—if by chance we encounter any villains, your first duty with that spear of yours is to stab the woman’s palanquin.”
“Above all, you must not face the villains!”

The one who had called out thus from the front palanquin was none other than Anjō Kyōtarō—he must have dimly perceived that someone was targeting O-Tori.

Hagie Kuruma pursued the procession without prudence.

After repeated overnight stays, it was on the fourth day that they reached Usui Pass. Anjō Kyōtarō's group pressed on toward the mountain path—disregarding the sun's descent, without a glance at bystanders.

“Lately, thousand-wolf packs have been appearing at the pass—it’s dangerous. You should stay the night here.”

Dismissing the villager’s well-meaning warning—despite being typically cowardly—Anjō Kyōtarō’s decision to send the palanquin into the night mountain path suggested there was calculated intent.

To the mountain with a naked woman as bait for the thousand-wolf pack.

“Woman, we’ve reached your homeland. Get out.”

Kyōtarō had O-Tori pulled out from the palanquin.

“Lord.”

O-Tori involuntarily let out a cry.
Though slightly haggard, her beauty remained undiminished.

"When I see your face, it might seem like lingering attachment—but this way I won't get myself killed."
"So while returning to my domain on business, I thought to bring you back to your homeland."

"…………"

As O-Tori gradually came to understand Kyōtarō's cruel scheme, her body shuddered involuntarily.

"You were raised in this Usui Pass—and naked at that—"

"…………"

“The you who left this mountain naked—I’ll return you naked to this mountain. My duty ends there.”
“Moreover, they say the thousand-wolf pack has been appearing at this pass lately.”
“And they must be old acquaintances of yours.”
“Spend the night howling with them—hah hah hah hah!”

A bitter smile convulsed Kyōtarō’s cheek, and a hollow voice rattled dryly through the night forest.

“What?! Damn you!”
O-Tori gritted her teeth, but there was no way to stop Kyōtarō’s cruel scheme now that it had progressed this far.

“It seems there’s some strange noise in the distance.”
“It’d be a nuisance if we run into wolves.”
“Hurry, Shikazō!”

“Heh.”

Shikazō led O-Tori over and bound her tightly to the trunk of a nearby standing tree.

“There we go. Now, withdraw.”

With those words, Kyōtarō entered the palanquin and looked back once more,

“O-Tori, the moon of your homeland must be exceptional. The howls of your friends are growing nearer.”

After delivering his parting remark, he urged the palanquin toward the village and rushed down at full speed.

From then until the great wolf pack drew near, it took scarcely a quarter of an hour.

At the sinister howl that filled the night sky, O-Tori jerked her head up to find hundreds of lights swirling around the large tree she was bound to.

That was the thousand-wolf pack's eyes—gathered by O-Tori's scent, thirsting for blood.

……
O-Tori bit her lips tightly.
Having been raised in the mountains, O-Tori knew all too well the beasts' ravenous appetites and their relentlessly persistent nature.

…………

O-Tori silently surveyed her surroundings.
If only she could break free from these bonds—there might still be escape—but how viciously they had tied her! The more she strained, the deeper the ropes gouged her flesh, until beneath the moonlight her full-bodied form could only quiver and writhe.

Bit by bit, the encircling wolf formation tightened its ring—five sun here, one shaku there—until at its vanguard stood the gray alpha wolf. Three ken from O-Tori’s face it fixed her with blazing eyes that glittered coldly, jaws snapping wide in predatory precision to reveal crimson maw.

Then, dozens—hundreds—of beasts raised an oppressive, repulsive chorus of growls and overwhelmed her from all directions with terrifying force.

“H-Help——”

O-Tori let out a scream for the first time.

“Lord Hagie—Lord Kuruma—”

It wasn’t that O-Tori believed Hagie Kuruma was nearby, but the name of that devoted samurai who had searched for her these five years suddenly flashed back to her lips in despair.

At that very moment.

The foremost wolf leapt swiftly toward O-Tori’s shoulder,

“Agh!”

At that belated moment, a samurai came flying like a pebble, swiftly severed the wolf’s neck, then shielded O-Tori behind him and took a defensive stance.

“Lady O-Tori, you’re safe now.”

“Ah—Lord Hagie!”

O-Tori looked up at the young samurai who seemed like a divine savior, feeling as though in a dream.

“Lady O-Tori, that was perilous.”

With these words, Hagie Kuruma swung his sword and plunged swiftly into the massive wolf pack.
As two or three more beasts fell slain, Kuruma—having cut through O-Tori’s bonds during the creatures’ momentary hesitation—took her hand toward the great tree nearby.

The Murillo masterpiece coursing with ancestral blood

Dozens of the thousand-wolf pack were slaughtered by Kuruma as they tried to climb the tree using their own bodies as ladders.

After a moment of fierce struggle, even the pack of beasts finally drew back slightly, encircling them from a distance and gazing up at the two in the tree.

Kuruma and O-Tori nevertheless gradually regained their composure and began conversing calmly when, above all else, O-Tori’s voluptuous nude body—exposed to the moonlight, her beautiful form faintly hazy—came to their notice.

“If it isn’t disagreeable—”

Hagie took out an unlined change of garment from his carrying bag and gently draped it over her shoulders.

……

Silently bowing her head，O-Tori found tears now welling in her eyes.

“Lady O-Tori, last time, I did not say what I should have said.”
“The wolves won’t suddenly attack—shall we converse here?”

“Please, Lord Hagie.”
O-Tori looked up at Kuruma with a heart completely surrendered, as if drawing closer to him.

“Five years ago—when I left my stipend and was staying with a hunter named Sanzō in Karuizawa, it began with me chancing upon that portrait by accident. Though it shames me to say, I simply couldn’t forget it—”

Hagie continued his account in this manner.
When he asked hunter Sanzō, it had been passed down in his family for over a century—a masterpiece painted by a Spanish artist named Murillo, and that a Portuguese sailor had brought it when he was shipwrecked at Shimizu Port.

The Portuguese sailor died shortly after.
However, that lineage remained in Japan, and in Sanzō’s family, about once every three generations, a red-haired, blue-eyed child would be born.
What we now call intermittent heredity—but fearing its manifestations in those days, Sanzō's parents' generation withdrew to Karuizawa and eked out a meager living through mountain hunting. Yet by some twist of fate, even Sanzō's wife gave birth to a red-haired, blue-eyed girl who could never mingle with others during that clamorous time of foreign ships landing and stringent bans on Christianity.

After his wife died from poor postpartum recovery and lacking strength to raise this strange-looking child, Sanzō hardened his heart and abandoned her at Usui Pass.

It was over ten years later that Hagie Kuruma went to Sanzō's house. Having been shown an oil painting said to depict the sailor's mother in her youth—captivated by its beauty and its exact resemblance—he resolved to track down the whereabouts of Sanzō's daughter.

It was immediately clear that Iwa Kichi the charcoal burner had raised her until sixteen, but with her path after fleeing into the acrobatic troupe remaining unknown, Kuruma—clutching the oil painting entrusted by Sanzō—continued his five-year-span journey of longing for an unseen love. Then through a chance encounter in Edo with a troupe, he finally traced that O-Tori had become Hatamoto Anjō Kyōtarō’s concubine—this occurring just half a month prior.

"Thus it is, Lady O-Tori—your beauty, born of Portuguese sailor’s blood, has brought misfortune upon misfortune in its wake. But fear no more. Though my power be meager, this Hagie Kuruma shall lend his strength to see you safely conveyed—from mountains to towns, to any refuge of your choosing—Lady O-Tori."

O-Tori, at the overwhelming turn of events, found herself speechless for a time.
But,

“Thank you very much.
“You have gone to the trouble of searching these five years—even saving this imperiled life—leaving me no way to express gratitude; but should someone like me linger on, I would only bring trouble to all quarters—the karmic consequences fill me with dread.”
“Farewell it is, Lord Hagie—”

"Agh!" O-Tori jumped up and attempted to throw herself into the approaching wolf pack once more.
But this too was narrowly averted when Kuruma caught and held her back.

“Lord Hagie, please kill me.”

"No—such a thing shall not be."

In their struggling momentum, their feet slipped and they nearly fell again, but barely managed it as Hagie Kuruma's hand held O-Tori's full weight, leaving them dangling from a small branch.

“Lady O-Tori, if you insist on dying, then this humble one shall join you—shall I release my grip?”

“No, no—that cannot be. Let us survive.”
“I too shall survive.”

Saved from the roaring beast horde’s jaws by a mere foot, the two finally returned to the treetop.

Before one knew it, the east grew light.
In a heartrending state of mind, the two were huddled tightly in each other's arms.

In the old shogunate era, might those occasionally glimpsed red-haired, blue-eyed people not have been descendants of Hagie Kuruma and O-Tori? However, that too is now a matter of the past.