Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Nakamura Chihei

I

Originating in the Kyushu Mountains, the O River meandered and wound through the plains of Hyūga Province with its turbid waters, ultimately flowing into the Pacific Ocean. Spanning thirty-six *ri*, this long river met its final confrontation with the Kuroshio Current where sandbanks along the coastline extended like arms from both sides, embracing a deep abyss of an inlet within.

Though called a harbor, its area was narrow, and beyond the single layer of dunes where Hamaōmoto plants took firm root in scattered patches, savage waves raged fiercely enough to swallow even small steamships in an instant—so few vessels came and went through this inlet. Only two or three Kamigata-bound sailing ships—gathering meager charcoal from the Kyushu Mountains and Hyūga rice—stood like bare masts, barely breathing. Around those masts within that desolate view, a flock of seagulls flapped their large wings against their bodies as they wheeled low and high in formation.

Greeted by a flock of seagulls, Master Maki’s family ships—the First and Second Kairyu Maru—returned once or twice a year to this simple port that lacked any proper harbor facilities, their sails billowing with tailwinds from Kamigata.

After transferring from the Kairyu Maru’s side into a small boat and ascending the river for 1 ri and 13 chō*, one emerged beneath an old-fashioned wooden bridge spanning 216 ken** in length.
At both ends of this wooden bridge lay two small, quiet villages.
One was a notable town housing the county office, while the other was a lonely village blanketed by chinquapin and camphor leaves.
Master Maki’s house stood on the riverbank of that desolate village.
The tallest chinquapin tree in the village and the long, crumbling white-walled fence beneath it served as landmarks for Master Maki’s house.

From the shade of that thick chinquapin tree’s trunk, every afternoon without fail appeared the figure of Master Maki astride his white-legged chestnut horse.
On days without wind—clear, warm days—Master Maki made it his daily routine to ride his horse around the village for a stroll.

The horse was called Toyo, with splendid hindquarters, absurdly large ears, and a well-proportioned form.
However, regrettably, it had aged somewhat too much, giving an overall bony impression and appearing to find walking laborious.

Toyo’s reins were held by Old Genkichi, but his appearance seemed no less listless than the horse’s own. Generally in this region, it was common not only for humans but even animals to appear languid and stretched out—a phenomenon likely owed to the area’s warm climate and heavy humidity.

With Old Genkichi walking ahead—humming in a low voice that might or might not reach Master’s ears—Toyo followed its daily route, passing from the wide village road lined with sagging-eaved merchant houses into the dusty field path.

When Toyo’s rhythmic hoofbeats echoed through the quiet hamlet, the housewives who had been idly standing along the road and the farmers busily coming and going along the field paths would yield the way in surprise and gaze up at the rider.

And they would politely greet him.

“Good day, Master.”
“What a pleasant stroll you’re having.”

Until then, Master would usually be half-asleep, lost in a dreamlike daze.
However, he would suddenly snap his eyes wide open.
And with a genial reply that suggested he had been mindful of the other party’s presence from a block ahead, he would invariably respond in kind.

“Good day.”
“Diligent as ever. Splendid.”

Master Maki firmly believed himself to be a highly shrewd businessman.
Therefore, after outdoing others, he would grow satisfied with his own sharp-witted nature that never missed such exchanges, inadvertently letting slip a self-satisfied smile.
However, before that smile could fade—or sometimes even before it fully vanished—he would slip back into a drowsy, dreamlike state.

Even Master Maki—after passing through the dark cedar grove and reaching the roughly two-ken-long earthen bridge—would snap his eyes open as if startled.
For the fragrant scent of black soil and the suffocatingly dense aroma of rapeseed flowers came pressing in so thickly it stole one’s breath.

When he noticed yellow flowers blooming like mist across the endless rice fields, Toyo too abruptly halted as if seized by sudden resolve. And then, stepping its long shanks past each other while raising its head and baring its teeth to let out a high neigh—this was usual for Toyo.

When the reins suddenly grew heavy and his body was pulled back, Old Genkichi would always recall the days when Toyo had taken first place in the grass races long ago. In those days, Toyo was still young and radiant—its coat beautiful and glossy, its body brimming with vitality. And that yellow-and-red striped knit shirt worn by Old Genkichi the rider would cause him trouble.

“Back then, I was still a passionate, handsome young man who set the village girls all aflutter…”
“When your desires grow thin as they have these days, a man’s already no different from a lifeless thing.”

Old Genkichi let out a deep sigh without thinking.

The farmers cutting grass in the rapeseed flower fields, upon noticing the sound of hooves, slowly rose from among the blossoms and craned their necks to gaze up at the rider.
And they exchanged the usual fixed greetings with Master Maki.
But before the sound of hooves had even faded, carefree, unrestrained laughter from the farmers surged up like clouds, boisterous and abundant.

“Hey, you know Master’s nose…”

For without fail, someone would spark the conversation.

When it came to Master’s nose, it was truly grotesque.
Limp and flaccid like a boneless mollusk, with a jet-black tip that drooped so low and long it completely obscured the center of his otherwise impressive mustache.

“But here’s the thing—whenever he goes near a pretty woman, that nose suddenly perks right up!”

Whenever someone began spreading rumors about the nose in that slow-witted voice, the farmers nearby found themselves helplessly unable to stop laughing.
Young housewives with headscarves tied in the elder sister style and girls of marriageable age—their red underskirts dangling from the hems of Kurume kasuri kimonos—struggled so desperately to suppress their laughter that they nearly felt like rolling about the fields.

Generally optimistic and carefree, the farmers of this region delighted in spreading utterly baseless lewd rumors—recounting them with such conviction they might as well have been gospel truth.
As for the nose rumor too, once Master’s horseback figure vanished from sight, someone would invariably start recounting it—so that over the course of a year, the same tale would be repeated a hundred or even a hundred and fifty times.
However, no one ever grew tired of it.
As if hearing it for the very first time, they would grow excited with interest and laughter.
Of course, if any of the farmers in this region had been of an impatient disposition, they would have had no choice but to abandon farming and emigrate elsewhere—or perhaps even resort to suicide.
To speak of the farmers’ lives in this region was to speak of a river flowing in and receding—utterly monotonous and devoid of change.

One afternoon—

Master Maki turned his horse’s head from the rapeseed flower field and emerged beside Fufu Pond.

The pond was surrounded by chinquapin trees, but the path beneath them was dimly lit and perpetually damp, and Toyo's hoofbeats were absorbed into the earth.
Not a single sound could be heard around them.
Peering through the tree trunks, Old Genkichi suddenly noticed three ducks—out of season—alighting on the pond's surface.

One of them quietly folded its wings and swam along leisurely, but the other two must have found some food.
Stretching their necks to the limit and beating the water's surface fiercely with their disproportionately large wings, they glided along.

Old Genkichi suddenly thought of something, but as he walked, Master muttered without turning around.

“Master,”
“Why don’t you keep domestic ducks here?”
“If you let them loose in the back river, there’ll be no trouble at all, you know.”

However, Master wore a vacant expression, as though Old Genkichi’s words were not entering his ears at all.
The fact that he wasn’t carrying a hunting rifle left Master Maki frustrated beyond endurance.

II

Old Genkichi couldn’t let go of the idea of raising domestic ducks.
Once an idea struck him, Old Genkichi had a habit of becoming engrossed in it for a time.

One day, Old Genkichi was cleaning the chicken coop in the backyard.
When he collected the chicken droppings, they became fertilizer for the fields.
Then there arrived Santa, wearing a navy-striped kimono with straight sleeves and wooden-soled straw sandals.
Santa was Master Maki’s only son.
After placing the straw mat with collected droppings on the ground, Old Genkichi smiled at Santa with his toothless mouth.

“Akon,” Old Genkichi said, “why don’t you ask Master to let us keep some ducks? Duck eggs are so much bigger than chicken eggs—there’s no comparing them.”

Master Maki, raised as a sheltered young master with a kindly disposition, would become timid and amiable the moment he stepped outside; yet inside his home, he transformed into a different person entirely—a selfish tyrant.

He had absolutely no patience, and once angered, became impossible to control. If something lay within reach—be it a rice tub or goldfish bowl—he would hurl whatever came to hand. Thus, unless strictly necessary, family members rarely dared speak to Master Maki. It was for this reason that Old Genkichi sought to use Santa—the master’s favorite—as his messenger boy regarding the duck matter.

Indeed, the family members were utterly exasperated by Master Maki’s short temper.

There was even a time when the Leghorn hen that Master Maki took such pride in strayed into his study and defecated on the tatami mats.
Then Master Maki—who had been in a foul mood since morning—summoned Old Genkichi on the spot.

“Even if they’re beasts, this audacity goes too far.
“It’s to make an example for the other chickens.”
“Pluck all their feathers out while they’re alive!”

Old Genkichi listened to the cruel command with a face about to burst into tears, but when he muttered something incomprehensible under his breath, the master yelled at him again.

“Quit your damn grumbling—you got a problem with how I talk?!”
“If you can’t accept my words, then get the hell out of this house!”

While slapping his buttocks with both hands, the old man hurriedly ran off to the backyard. Whenever something displeased him, slapping his buttocks with both hands was the old man’s habit. Chasing it all around the garden and finally managing to catch the hen, the old man bound both its legs with a rough straw rope. And took it to the base of the fig tree. The old man knelt on one knee in the garden soil, pinned down the criminal’s neck with one hand, and with his other hand began plucking its feathers one by one.

Each time its pure white feathers were plucked, the hen writhed，stretched out its neck，and let out a shrill screech.

The old man was muttering，tears welling up in his eyes.

“Having your feathers plucked must hurt enough—but plucking them pains me worse.”
“Next time I’m reborn，I’ll come back as a chicken...”
“What bird’d be better?”
“A fancy pheasant，all colored up proper.”
“But then，if some hunter spots me，that’d finish me right off.”

As though deaf to the old man’s muttering, the hen beat its wings fiercely, trying to flutter free.

“Perhaps a warbler would be better.
If I were a warbler, I’d spend my days singing from dawn till dusk in the sunlit hill’s bamboo grove.
But then, if you get caught by children and stuffed into a cage, you’ll end up sharing the same fate as that chicken there—that’s how it goes.”

The old man was lost in thought for a while, but muttered in a sorrowful voice.

“This wretched world… I’d rather not be reborn.”

Just then, the hen seized Old Genkichi’s moment of inattention and slipped free from the rough straw rope, dashing across the dirt.
Only a few white feathers resembling a paste brush’s bristles remained at its wingtips—it had been stripped completely bare.
From the base of the fig tree, it flew low and straight to the fertilizer shed, then began shrieking shrilly as if deranged while trying to soar skyward.
But as though unable to bear its own weight any longer, it slammed against the eaves and plummeted to the ground.
Stunned, Old Genkichi watched as the hen fluttered up only to crash down again and again.

To see how the criminal had fared, Master Maki slipped into his garden clogs and came there.
When he caught a single glimpse of the pitiful, painful movements of the hen, Master Maki froze where he stood.
And brushing aside his own initial command, he ended up yelling at Old Genkichi.

“What kinda heartless fool are you?!”
“If someone says face right, you face right; if they say face left, you face left—yet at your age, you still can’t tell the difference between what’s right and wrong when told to do something?!”

Master Maki’s attitude toward his family members was consistently like this in all matters.

Therefore, the only one with the courage to say whatever he thought without hesitation was Santa alone.
Santa had a broad head and a cheerful disposition, but his large, bulging eyes always wore a slyly vacant look.
Master Maki got angry,

“I’ll shut you in the closet!”

When he yelled things like that, Santa would open the closet door himself and nonchalantly slip inside first.
Even Master Maki was at a loss how to handle this.

The wife had been chosen for her beauty from a rice merchant in the neighboring town, but the constant strain of avoiding Master Maki’s displeasure now left her looking thoroughly aged.
For instance, if even a single button on his shirt came undone or his collar wasn’t pure white, the wife would inevitably receive one or two slaps across the cheek from Master Maki each time.
So even the wife would sometimes resort to relying on this adorable messenger boy.

“Santa,”
“Next time, ask Father like you don’t know a thing.”
“Why does Father act violently toward Mother?”

On evenings when some daytime obligation prevented him from riding, Master Maki made it his habit after finishing dinner to take Santa by the hand and go for a walk.

When they exited the house gate, Master Maki first stopped under the chinquapin tree and took a deep breath in a methodical manner. When drawing in a breath, Master Maki would close his eyes with evident pleasure, but upon opening them, he found that while the distant sky still held remnants of twilight’s brightness, an early darkness had already descended around the chinquapin treetops. Against this darkness—a backdrop slightly darker than the surrounding gloom in a blackish-purple hue—a swarm of bats flitted restlessly.

Then the two crossed a long wooden bridge and headed to the neighboring town.
They were heading to visit the village shrine located in a dark hinoki cypress grove on the outskirts of town.

Buffeted by the damp, cold river wind that fluttered the hem of his indigo-dyed kimono, Santa walked along, his small body dragged by Master Maki.
With his large eyes rolling restlessly, Santa bombarded his father with questions.

“Father, why do you act violently toward Mother, I wonder.”

Caught off guard by the sudden question, Master Maki floundered.
But he quickly realized it had been prompted by his mother and frowned.

“Because she does things Father doesn’t like.”

“Why doesn’t Father like them, I wonder?”

“Such things are beyond a child’s understanding.”

“Why can’t children understand such things, I wonder?”

“You’ll understand when you’re grown up.”

“Why can’t children understand things that adults can once they’ve grown up, I wonder?”

Master Maki was at a loss for a reply.

Then, with a face as if noticing something for the first time, he gazed downriver. Pointing his cane at the distant harbor sky—crimson-stained by sunset’s glow—Master Maki declared in a voice so vigorous it seized Santa’s attention.

“Hey Santa, in two or three days, the Kairyu Maru will come into the inlet—I’ll take you along.”

When he went aboard the ship, the boatmen would cook rice in seawater and let him eat it.
It was briny and just as delicious as rice balls.
Santa pulled Master Maki’s fleshy, round middle fingers with all his might.

“When we get to the inlet, let’s gather pine truffles in the grove on our way back, Father.”

“I’ll get you pine truffles, siler root—anything you want!”

When Santa begged for ducks, Master Maki didn’t respond, acting annoyed.
However, while inspecting the backyard that evening, he ended up yelling fiercely at Old Genkichi.

“You shouldn’t be putting worthless ideas into the child’s head.”
“Ducks are for that O-Hama down the hill.”
“I can’t stand such a lecherous, noisy bird.”

When Santa, having finished his evening meal, went out to the backyard, he found Old Genkichi sitting dejectedly on the stone steps of the storehouse, the bamboo broom tossed aside beside him.

Whenever he was scolded by Master Maki, Old Genkichi would grow unbearably pitiful of his own rootless, solitary existence, even resolving at times to throw himself into the river behind the house.
Generally speaking, rivers for unfortunate souls seem to flow solely for drowning oneself—it’s common enough. At Kanegafuchi, barely a hundred meters from the master’s back gate, there would always be one or two who cast themselves into its depths each year.

The setting sun that dyed the storehouse’s white walls crimson glared harshly on Old Genkichi’s withered face, yet he wore a listless expression as though untroubled even by this. Even when Santa called out to him, he gave no reply.

Santa silently sat beside Old Genkichi on the stone steps and peered into his shriveled face. Then the old man turned away with an irritated air and muttered sulkily, as if speaking to himself:

“Ducks’re O-Hama’s business.”

“What’s O-Hama?”

“She’s a nymphomaniac, I tell you.”

“What’s a nymphomaniac?”

As if he had completely forgotten his previous loneliness, Old Genkichi was now smiling broadly, his toothless gums fully exposed.

“A nymphomaniac is a woman who clings to any man she lays eyes on, I tell you.”

O-Hama was around thirty years old and lived alone at the foot of Senryo-zaka Slope.
About five years prior, O-Hama had appeared in the village as a trio—accompanied by her older sister, a former actress, and the sister’s son, a boy with epilepsy.
At first, O-Hama and her family rented a room above a tofu shop to live in, but none of the villagers would associate with them.
This was because they were “outsiders” whose dispositions were unknown, but on top of that, the unsettling sight of the boy with epilepsy—who would occasionally collapse onto the dirt, foaming at the mouth whether on roads or fields—added to their unease.

However, within less than a year, her older sister had eloped with a young medicine peddler, taking the child with her.
These medicine peddlers—men who wore black stand-collar coats and played accordions while appearing in the village each spring and autumn—were altogether too popular with the village girls,

“They need to be taught a proper lesson,”

was the man being gravely discussed by the Youth Group Executives.

It was not long after that people began noticing O-Hama’s solitary figure crouching on Senryo-zaka Slope’s embankment—ablaze with spring grasses—gathering fiddlehead ferns and mochikusa plants.

Around that time, a young substitute teacher named Mr. Nagatomo—fresh out of middle school—lived on the second floor of the tofu shop, while O-Hama had built and was living in a small corrugated-iron-roofed house within the cedar grove at the foot of the slope.

The slope was located at an important point on the national highway leading from the village into the interior.
Therefore, along the gentle slope path of red clay, carts loaded with charcoal and fertilizer, and bicycles carrying peddlers passed by with relative frequency.
Whenever she noticed the rumble of a horse-drawn carriage or caught sight of a bicycle, O-Hama—her white chest exposed—would come rushing out of her ramshackle house in disarray.
And it was said that she would throw herself at any man without distinction.

However, the one O-Hama truly loved was Mr. Nagatomo, the substitute teacher.
O-Hama usually went to the elementary schoolyard once a day.
And she would sit at the base of the chinaberry tree, gazing at the teacher through the window during his lessons, smirking to herself.
Moreover, she would sometimes slip into the empty classroom after school, write “Mr. Nagatomo” over and over on the blackboard, and take delight in it.

O-Hama always wore a long indigo-dyed kimono stained with grime—its hem dragging along the ground—and fastened her red merino obi as sloppily as a young girl might. She would occasionally lumber into view at the back door of the tofu shop where she had once lived.

“If there’s work to be done, I’ll do it.”

This always occurred precisely when Mr. Nagatomo was upstairs.

Though Old Genkichi was by nature forgetful of grudges, he seemed to have entirely erased from memory Master Maki’s scolding about the ducks when he later coaxed Santa yet again.

“Akon, why don’t you ask the Master to get us some turkeys? Turkeys’ faces change layer upon layer—it’s fascinating, I tell you.”

However, this time too, Old Genkichi was severely scolded by Master Maki.

“Turkeys are the County Magistrate’s Wife—I can’t stand such an arrogant bird.”

The County Magistrate’s Wife had once visited Master Maki’s house before. It was to urge his wife to join the Patriotic Women’s Association. She had come by rickshaw from the neighboring town. Having had the rickshaw’s hood removed, she thrust her parasol toward the hydrangea-hued early summer sky that stretched clear above.

When the County Magistrate’s Wife—her portly frame wrapped in a visiting kimono adorned with hem patterns—stepped through the gate with affected grace, Master Maki’s wife was directing her maidservants to dry daikon radishes within the earthen-walled compound. At that moment, wearing a plain navy work coat, she threw the radishes onto the straw matting and fled into the back rooms upon glimpsing the magistrate’s imposing figure. Thus it fell to Master Maki to receive the visitor in the parlor instead.

After the County Magistrate’s Wife prattled on at length about the association’s objectives and accomplishments,

“Your wife as well, by all means…”

she launched into.
Master Maki had been letting his sleepy gaze fall on the portly County Magistrate’s Wife’s lap as he listened absentmindedly to her chatter when abruptly his complexion changed.
This use of the word “wife” utterly wounded his self-esteem.

Women, as a rule, habitually denounced their husbands for their low social status in private, yet once in public, they instinctively took immense pride in those very same husbands' positions.
The County Magistrate’s Wife maintained a strict policy of never using the term “wife” except for those married to officials whose status surpassed her own husband’s.
Of course, in the small town where she lived and the nearby villages, there were absolutely no officials holding positions higher than county magistrate, so for her, the term “wife” was practically obsolete.

However, Master Maki—who had no way of knowing such circumstances—the moment he heard the word “wife,” immediately calculated in his gut that the County Magistrate’s annual salary was even less than his own monthly income.
And, visualizing his seemingly dull-witted face, he seethed alone.

However, true to form as someone mindful of his public image, Master Maki temporarily bottled up his anger and amiably escorted the disagreeable female guest to the entrance.
And, before her rickshaw had even vanished beyond the gate, he rushed into the inner room and unleashed his fury upon his wife.

“It’s all because of your pickled-vegetable stench getup that I’m always made a fool of in front of others.”

On another occasion, Old Genkichi incited Santa.

“Akon, why don’t you ask the Master to have us raise some goats?”
“Goat’s milk is said to be powerfully nourishing, they say.”

However, this time, even Master Maki did not scold Old Genkichi.

The livestock called goats had a certain Western aroma and modern flair about them, and what’s more, not a single one had been raised in that region yet.
Old Genkichi had only once seen them in his youth, at the F City livestock exhibition where Toyo was exhibited.
It was this that stirred Master Maki’s novelty-loving curiosity.

In truth, Master Maki was novelty-loving.

Back when Master Maki was young, motorcycles were nowhere to be seen in that region, but he had promptly procured one from the capital.
And he would ride around the village wearing an eight-tan kimono and dust-proof goggles fastened to his face.
His appearance was utterly bizarre, but he paid it no mind.
He would proudly ride around dusty country paths winding through pear orchards hazy with clusters of white flowers, and across long wooden bridges where cold river winds struck his cheeks—all while billowing the back of his kimono like a sail.

The capricious Master Maki completely ignored the motorcycle after just six months had passed.
However, only the dust-proof goggles still remained, which Old Genkichi used as diving goggles.
When summer came, he would strip naked, put on these goggles, and dive into the back river.
In no time at all, he would catch ten or twenty Daguma shrimp among the pilings and beneath the rafts.

Master Maki had also bought an automatic moving picture machine—housed in a box—five or six years prior and set it up in the shade of the chinquapin tree out front.

When a one-sen copper coin was inserted into the hole, the mechanism was designed so that Charlie Chaplin’s comedy would automatically play for viewing.
The machine still stood there in its rusted, antiquated form, but peasants heading from the hinterlands to shop in the neighboring town and vegetable sellers would almost always stop in their tracks when they reached it.
And after pondering for a while, as if finally resolving themselves, they would take out a drawstring purse from their breast pockets.
Then they would pinch out copper coins and insert them into the hole.

Just when their excitement reached its peak, the movie would abruptly end.
Then, with lingering reluctance, the peasants would rattle the box with both hands or wander aimlessly around to its back side.
However, once they realized that unless they inserted another one-sen coin there was no hope of the movie playing again, they would have to reluctantly give up.
The peasants suddenly took on excited expressions and looked around their surroundings.
They would hit upon the idea of telling someone about the plot of the movie they had just seen and fragments of their impressions.
However, when they noticed there was no one around them, they would let out a deep, disappointed sigh once more.
And then, while walking away from the box, they would mutter to themselves.

“Now that’s what I call living!”

The trunk and leaves of the chinquapin tree cast large shadows over the road in summer, forming a natural beach parasol.
And in the shade of the parasol, pear sellers and grannies from the daifuku shop would sometimes set up small stalls.
At such times, the grannies took it upon themselves to act as unsolicited promoters of the movies.

“You youngsters passing by!”
“Why not stop by for a spell?”
“Watch the pictures and eat our pears—that’ll secure your peace in the next life!”
“Summer’s not winter, you know.”
“The days stretch long these months.”

There would be no end to listing Master Maki’s contributions to the village’s culture, but on one occasion, he even donated a music band to the elementary school.

This was a relatively recent event.
The school authorities were extremely pleased with Master Maki’s generosity and, as the first condition for organizing the music band, selected six students exclusively from the higher grades who possessed hakama.
And they gave each of them large drums, small drums, trumpets, and the like, and had them practice every day after school.
However, only the clarinet was entrusted to Mr. Nagatomo, respecting the school doctor’s opinion that it was difficult to play and that young lungs risked damaging their respiratory organs.
Mr. Nagatomo harbored an ambition to go to Tokyo in the future and become a musician.

When the music band marched through the hamlet, the village’s excitement was tremendous.

For instance, whenever all the school’s children went out to the neighboring town—whether for the grand festival of the village shrine or county federation meetings—it was customary for this music band to lead the procession.
Following behind, keeping in step with the lively band’s music, six hundred thirteen children marched.

The procession would first depart from the school gate atop the hill on the outskirts of the village and cross the earthen bridge.
Then it would pass through the dusty village road, go through the dark cedar forest, and approach the merchant town.
As the lively band’s music reverberated from afar, rippling through the quiet town’s air, people would come rushing out from the shops.
And they welcomed the procession, raising cheers.

At such times, Mr. Nagatomo would stand at the head of the band, puffing out his ruddy cheeks to their fullest as he walked along playing the clarinet.
At such times, Mr. Nagatomo would usually be wearing a dark navy, subdued high-collared Western suit, but the village women’s admiration for the teacher was something to behold.
The butcher’s wife once inadvertently let out a piercing shriek, which became quite the scandal.
But raising a piercing shriek was still preferable—O-Hama would follow barefoot behind the procession for miles on end, looking utterly delighted.

Master Maki had recently noticed this and,

“Donating the music band was all well and good, but this way it’s actually not good for the children, is it?” he said worriedly.

While Santa was playing with block crafts in the children’s room, Old Genkichi’s shrill voice could be heard from the courtyard.

“Akon, Akon! The goats have arrived!”

Two or three days prior, the Second Kairyu Maru that had entered port had transported goats from Osaka.

The First and Second Kairyu Maru carried charcoal and rice harvested from Master Maki’s forests and mountain fields to Osaka once or twice a year, returning with goods unavailable in the region like fertilizer and textiles. Through this arrangement, Master Maki could sell charcoal and rice to the Kansai region at low cost while pocketing full freight charges for return shipments—a supremely rational enterprise.

Captain Kiyama of the Second Kairyu Maru doted on children despite having none of his own.
Therefore, he always made sure to be attentive to Santa’s needs, never failing to bring back one or two items—be it an air gun, a toy car, a beautiful picture book, or other rare treasures for the countryside.
Just hearing that the Second Kairyu Maru had entered port was enough to make Santa so excited he couldn’t sleep at night—a common occurrence for him.

When he dashed out into the backyard, the goat couple had been unloaded from the small boat onto the riverbank and were just entering through the back gate.
Captain Kiyama was pulling the male goat with a rope around its neck, while the laborer "Ya-no-Ji" pulled the female goat.

Captain Kiyama, clad in a jet-black woolen high-collared uniform, took off his regulation cap adorned with a gold-braided emblem upon seeing Santa and smiled.
Even the captain’s sun-darkened face had a forehead that was white where it had been hidden by his cap.
The captain glanced back at the sturdy-looking male goat.

“What do you think, Akon? Impressive fellow, isn’t he? He rampaged around on the ship and gave us quite a time.”

When Master Maki, his wife, two maids, and several young men noisily emerged from the courtyard, the male goat suddenly reared back as if possessed, planting its front legs with ferocious force and thrashing about to vex the captain.

The goat couple were tethered to the fig tree in the backyard.

While Captain Kiyama wiped sweat from his brow with a large towel and greeted Master Maki, Santa clung to his mother’s waist and stared intently at the livestock he was seeing for the first time.
Their hooves were coal-black, their horns bore beautiful stripes, and their bodies were covered in shaggy white fur like coats.

“Goats are stronger than dogs, Mom.”

Amid the clamorous voices, the male goat would kick its hind legs with a jerk and rear up, strain the rope tied around its neck to the limit, and dash around the trunk in circles.
Santa crouched on the ground, thrust out both fists, and strained his entire body to bark a command.

“Run faster! Jump higher—all the way to the sky!”

Whenever the male goat thrashed, broad decaying fig leaves scattered onto its back.
The female goat turned her head toward the blue sky, flared her nostrils, and let out a plaintive “Mee, mee” cry.

Master Maki looked around with an extremely satisfied air.

“Come on, someone arm-wrestle this lively fellow!”

Old Genkichi promptly took the dirty hand towel that had been hanging at his waist, wrapped it around his head like a headband, and bounded forward with buoyant energy.
And then, without delay, he gripped both arms around the male goat’s twin horns.
However, he could not withstand the goat’s fierce assault and was forced back, staggering as he let go.
Old Genkichi plopped down onto the ground and, working his toothless mouth open and shut, looked around at everyone’s faces.
The mistress and the maids laughed until they nearly choked.

Ya-no-Ji peered into Santa’s face with a look of triumph.

“This guy’s a real powerhouse—no way a doddering old fool like me can be a match for him.”

After the young men had retreated one after another, scratching their heads as they withdrew, Master Maki next tried to push Santa forward.

“You try it too.”

However, Santa, feeling shy, clung to his mother’s waist and hid his body.
Before long, Santa eventually came out in front of everyone and tentatively touched the goat’s body.
Even if he touched its back fur or stroked its head, the goat maintained an air of feigned ignorance and refused to engage.
The moment he boldly grabbed its horns, the female goat let out a plaintive “Mee” cry.
Startled, Santa unintentionally let go.

Against the plank wall of the fertilizer shed, a cage of about three tsubo was soon built.

The goat couple spent their days inside it performing somersaults, rubbing their bodies against the wire mesh, and gnawing gratingly on boards and wire with their sharp teeth.
However, from time to time, the male goat would slip out of the cage and, while crushing frost columns in the vegetable garden with his hopping steps, escape to the main street.
At such times, a cloud-like commotion would instantly erupt in the usually silent hamlet.
For the village elders, young people, and especially the children—thoroughly bored as they were—would take up sticks and bamboo poles to chase him around half in jest.

The male goat would typically be discovered by someone in the depths of a narrow alley or at a dimly lit dead-end, flailing in panic as it butted its head against a wall and kicked its hind legs.
There, Old Genkichi came running up, breathless.
And then, as if he had discovered a runaway grandson, he heaved a sigh of relief.
But almost immediately, his anger flared up again, and he struck its rump with a stick.

“What more do you want, abandoning your wife and running off like this?”

However, the goat turned an unperturbed face toward the noisy onlookers.
And then, with clear, narrow eyes, it murmured.

“Ah, it’s nothing—just worked up a little sweat to help my digestion, I tell ya.”

Tofu lees and sweet potato vines were the goat couple’s favorite foods.
The tofu lees were delivered regularly every morning from the tofu shop—one at a time—while Santa still lay in bed.
However, the sweet potato vines occasionally required young men to go out to the fields and gather them for purchase.

Delivering tofu lees was O-Hama’s task.
O-Hama shouldered this duty with visible delight.
This was partly because she earned a small wage from the tofu shop, but more so because it let her see Mr. Nagatomo more often.

Cradling a small steaming basket against her chest, O-Hama came to the master’s house every morning along the back riverbank where there were still few people.
Dragging her indigo kasuri-patterned kimono and lumbering in through the back gate, O-Hama wordlessly thrust the basket toward Old Genkichi.
Old Genkichi typically made his rounds to open the warehouse door, but upon laughingly receiving the basket, he jangled the keys at his waist and entered the goat pen.
He dumped the tofu lees into the chipped suribachi.
The goats cried *“Mee, mee”* as husband and wife competed to plunge their heads into the bowl.
As if sucked inward, they devoured it all in an instant.
Then, as if wanting more, they gazed blankly outside the cage.

Outside the cage, O-Hama stood with both hands gripping the wire mesh, smirking.
When the old man stepped outside the cage, returning the basket to O-Hama, he spoke in an oddly somber voice.

"You must be lonely too, being all alone."
"Even creatures like these have their spouses and eat their meals in happiness."

Using the other as a pretext, the old man wanted to lament his own loneliness.
Leaning against the cage, O-Hama did nothing but smirk and offered no reply.

“You ought to find yourself a good husband soon.”
“Truly, if only I were a bit younger.”

Then, for the first time, O-Hama responded.

“Mind your own business.”
“I have someone I love!”

O-Hama’s voice lashed out fiercely, but her eyes alone smiled with kindness.
O-Hama had strangely clear, beautiful eyes.

While heading out for his morning walk, Master Maki would sometimes suddenly appear in the backyard.
O-Hama, who firmly believed Master Maki to be a great man, turned bright red the moment she noticed his presence.
Stepping away from the wire mesh, O-Hama suddenly grew restless.
And she tried to hastily fasten her sloppily disheveled collar.
When the collar fastened, this time the hem immediately came undone, but even so, O-Hama felt somewhat relieved.
And then, wearing her usual smirk, she gazed as if comparing the ground and Master’s face.

At such times, Master Maki would always tease cheerfully as was his custom.

“O-Hama, it’s not that you’re only being kind to the buck,”
“Give the doe some tofu lees too, will you?”

O-Hama would sometimes bring a handful of seasonal wild plants—bracken, sweetflag, and such—and wordlessly thrust them at Old Genkichi.
The old man would then bare his toothless gums in delight, pretending to humbly receive them with both hands before accepting them.
The lonely old man found that facing this slightly peculiar yet kind-hearted young woman brought him an odd sense of peace.

On a late spring afternoon, in the backyard, Master Maki was busily directing Old Genkichi and the young men as he had them load a small shrine onto a horse-drawn cart.

About one ri—four kilometers—from the house, on Mikan Hill at the village outskirts, stood the clan deity enshrined by Master Maki’s household. Though the shrine measured less than six feet tall, standing before it allowed one to faintly hear the Pacific’s distant roar. When yellow summer mandarin blossoms scattered onto the shrine’s roof each year, it signaled the clan deity’s annual festival. On that day, Master Maki’s household followed the custom of making red rice balls to carry to the shrine and distribute to gathered children. With the festival approaching, the old shrine had grown decrepit and required replacement with a new one. The replacement shrine—its wood still pungent with fresh resin—now awaited transport to the mandarin grove.

At the head of the horse-drawn cart, Toyo was tethered.
Though she had once received commendations as a racehorse at competitive exhibitions, now—albeit only occasionally when a cart was needed—she was used as a draft horse in this manner.

It was decided that Santa would also go to the mandarin grove along with Old Genkichi.
In the cramped shrine where a cushion had been laid out, Old Genkichi lifted Santa up and seated him.

As usual, Old Genkichi gripped Toyo’s reins, and amid lively farewells, Santa’s cart passed through the gate.

As the carriage left the townscape behind and approached the rice field path, a warm wind suddenly blew against Santa’s face—so overpoweringly thick with the scent of rapeseed and the aroma of black soil that it nearly suffocated him.

“Hmm, maybe I’ll let her show some speed.”

The old man, who until then had been walking along humming a carefree tune, nimbly leapt up onto the driver’s seat.

Old Genkichi delivered a fierce whip to Toyo’s hindquarters.
Already excited by the scent of rapeseed flowers, Toyo—as if her long-forgotten youthful blood had suddenly surged—shifted into a gallop in an instant.
Along the rocky, uneven path strewn with pebbles, the carriage clattered noisily, trembling tremendously as it raced onward.
Yellow flower spikes fled backward, ever backward, from Santa’s eyes.
Yet the flower spikes stretched on infinitely, vanishing into the distant, hazy white clouds.

In the rapeseed fields, farmers were peacefully tending to their work, but upon hearing the lively clatter of wheels, they stopped and stretched their backs in unison.
And when they noticed Santa sitting small and upright inside the shrine, they squinted their eyes as if dazzled by the bright sunlight and smiled.

“Oh my, that’s truly a tiny living god, isn’t it?”

The housewives and daughters with yellow petals clinging to their backs and sleeves bent their knees slightly in the flower spikes, each clasping their hands together in worship of the living god.

Santa was flushed as if drunk from the glittering light of white clouds, the strong scent of flowers, the violent jolting of the carriage, and the farmers' jokes.

Santa spoke to the driver’s seat.

“What’s this ‘living god’ thing anyway?”

At last, Old Genkichi loosened the reins and made Toyo walk at a normal pace.
Toyo was sweating so profusely that her entire body appeared darkened, letting out labored breaths.

“When humans die, everyone becomes a god, see?”

The old man answered Santa with his back.

“Akon came to live in a god’s house while still alive, so that makes you a living god, see?”

“What happens if I become a god?”

“If you become a god, even if you’re all alone, you won’t feel lonesome at all, see?”
“You can stay cheerful, just like when you’ve had a cup of shochu, see?”
“Humans have nothin’ but sad and bitter things, but if you become a god, there’s nothin’ but joyful things, see?”

Old Genkichi pulled a soiled hand towel from his pocket and wiped his face.

“Will you become a god too when you die, Old Genkichi?”

Old Genkichi turned back from the driver’s seat with a delighted look, baring his gums.

“Of course I will.”
“I will.”
“Akon.”
“There are times when I think... I want to become a god soon, see?”

In places across the fields, there were empty spaces where sweet potato vines lay piled in mountains.
From inside the shrine, Santa gazed and gazed at that, shook his body, and strained.

“Toyo! Run! Run!”

At home, the goats must have been snorting impatiently as they waited.

Three

Beside the rear gate of Master Maki’s house stood a thick, towering Japanese elm tree with a trunk so large it would take two people to encircle it.

When early summer arrived and the branches grew thick with blue-green, stiff, small leaves, countless caterpillars came to inhabit this tree.
They were large insects—about the size of a thumb—with soft, blue-green bodies.
When that season arrived, Old Genkichi would find moments between his work to take out a long bamboo pole, connect two to extend its length, tilt his head back to gaze at the sky, strike the treetops, and knock down swarms of caterpillars.
Then, crouching at the base of the Japanese elm, he would crush the insect’s body against a stone and skillfully extract the teggusu thread from within.

Shouldering a fishing rod made from that teggusu thread, early in the morning or in the evening after finishing his work, Old Genkichi headed out to the riverbank behind the house.
For Old Genkichi, who had few pleasures in life, fishing was his greatest joy.

In the evening, when Old Genkichi went out fishing, Santa usually accompanied him.
However, when he went out in the morning, he was always still sleeping in his futon.
And there were times when O-Hama, having come to deliver tofu lees, would accompany him.

Along the riverbank, one or two small boats—still not fully awakened from sleep—were tied beneath the willow trees, and figures of people were still sparse.
When Old Genkichi boarded the small boat and cast his fishing line into the quiet current, O-Hama crouched in the shade of a willow tree.
At such times, it was fine since the old man was usually absorbed in peering at the river’s surface—but had he suddenly turned toward O-Hama, he would surely have averted his face.
For there were times when O-Hama would sit with her legs parted halfway, allowing a glimpse all the way to the depths of her white thighs.
However, O-Hama, completely indifferent to such things, stared fixedly at the fishing line.
When she stared at something, O-Hama’s eyes gleamed like those of a beast.

Old Genkichi made small talk with O-Hama.

“Where were you born?”

Then O-Hama grinned slyly and answered curtly.

“I don’t know.”

“Where’s your father now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where’d your sister go off to?”

“I don’t know.”

O-Hama could hardly ever give satisfactory answers to Old Genkichi’s questions.
However, Old Genkichi found his heart growing light simply by engaging in this idle chatter with O-Hama, as though he were sharing tender moments with a beloved daughter.
At the wooden bridge towering high about a block downstream, the foot traffic finally grew busier, and the clattering sound of packhorses’ hooves carrying vegetables and charcoal to town echoed from the bridge.

What got caught on the line were mostly Daguma shrimp.
Daguma shrimp are large creatures with bodies about the size of a thumb and possess strong, sturdy pincers.

After catching as many as ten Daguma shrimp in the bucket he had brought, Old Genkichi spilled the bucket’s water. Then, getting off the small boat, he held it out before O-Hama’s eyes.

“Take them. Go home and eat ’em now.”

O-Hama grinned happily and—as if unaware of shame—swiftly flipped up her kimono hem, spreading it before Old Genkichi’s eyes. Into this makeshift cloth wrap, he dumped all the shrimp from the bucket. Bundling them round against her lower abdomen, O-Hama headed back to her house—flashing her grime-caked shins, hunched forward like a swimmer mid-stroke, breath quickening with each step.

When midsummer came, the leaves of the chinquapin and camphor trees planted throughout the village grew long, forming cool, natural tents here and there in the settlement.
However, the southern sun blazing through the gaps between the trees was so fiercely hot that it became utterly unbearable.

One such day, on his way back from the registry office in the neighboring town, as Master Maki was walking across the wooden bridge, he encountered Rokuyan the carter approaching from the opposite direction with his horse-drawn cart.
Rokuyan frequented Master Maki’s house and was occasionally entrusted with transporting charcoal to the neighboring village.

Rokuyan approached Master Maki and, grinning broadly through his beard-covered face, removed his old, tattered straw hat to greet him.
And, as if he had some weighty matter to discuss, he tied the horse’s reins to the railing.

“Master…”

Rokuyan, clad only in a shirt reeking of sweat, boldly closed in and began in a hushed tone, as though sharing a secret.

“I hear… someone’s had their hands on O-Hama…”

Master Maki had been gazing vacantly at a raft drifting leisurely downstream in the dazzling reflection off the river’s surface when he suddenly turned back to look at Rokuyan’s face.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

Rokuyan, looking as dull-witted as ever, continued to grin slyly.

“O-Hama’s pregnant…”
“…that the Master did a ‘good deed,’ so they say.”

When he understood the meaning of the words, Master Maki’s complexion changed.
He trembled so violently from anger that his entire body shook.
Master Maki, forgetting his gentlemanly composure, showed a demeanor that might unleash violence upon Rokuyan and clenched both fists tightly.

However, Master Maki’s lips twitched convulsively, and he said nothing.
And leaving Rokuyan standing there dumbfounded, he strode off toward his own house.

The moment he returned home, Master Maki summoned Old Genkichi without even removing the silk summer haori he had worn for going out.

“This business about O-Hama being pregnant is utter nonsense.”

When he heard O-Hama’s name, Old Genkichi’s complexion changed.
Then, despite his age, he began trembling timidly.

“Starting tomorrow, you must not let O-Hama near the house.”

Old Genkichi nodded and—with his usual gesture of dissatisfaction, slapping his rump with both hands—began heading back toward the courtyard, only to be called back again by Master Maki.

“Rokuyan the carter is also banned from entering.”

For this village where incidents were scarce, the rumor of O-Hama’s pregnancy became momentous news—but those most panicked were Rokuyan the carter and others long reputed as womanizers.
Such people usually showed leniency toward lewd gossip, but this time proved exceptional.
Given who was involved, even these men—seasoned as they were—deemed it deeply unjust to have their guiltless bellies scrutinized, or so they reasoned.

These people, before suspicion’s gaze could turn upon them, quickly and subtly dropped hints of others’ names, striving to extricate even themselves from the rumor’s orbit.
Therefore, the target of these baseless rumors was not limited to Master Maki’s peculiar nose alone.
In the village, all prominent figures—such as the village shrine priest, the tax collector, and Mr. Nagatomo—had to endure victimization as suspects in this disgraceful scandal.

And amidst all these boisterous rumors, O-Hama alone wandered about without a care—her lower abdomen protruding, her hem ill-fitting, presenting a bizarre figure that gave off a distinctly lewd impression.

When the southern sun had at last begun to wane, Mr. Nagatomo suddenly resigned from his position as a substitute teacher and decided to depart for the capital.
For the young, pure-hearted teacher, the village’s lewd atmosphere had become unbearable, but seizing this opportunity, he resolved to depart and pursue his long-held aspiration of studying music.

When Mr. Nagatomo departed from the village, the elementary school students formed a line and went to see him off as far as the neighboring town.
This time too, the usual music band marched at the head of the procession, but Mr. Nagatomo entrusted his travel basket to one of the children and played his clarinet as he always did.
However, Mr. Nagatomo must have been terribly sad.
The performance was worse than anything that had ever been heard before.

The tofu shop granny and others had taken great care to prevent O-Hama from learning of Mr. Nagatomo’s departure for the capital, but somehow she must have heard, for when the procession reached the vicinity of the wooden bridge, O-Hama ultimately made her appearance.
And then, as if on an excursion, she walked barefoot following the procession, flashing her grime-caked shins.
When Mr. Nagatomo finally boarded the train, the higher elementary grade girls burst into loud sobs—but O-Hama alone showed no trace of sorrow. Leaning against the wooden fence as always, she kept grinning while watching him.
To those watching, it gave a pitiful, peculiar feeling.

It was an autumn evening before sunset.
Rokuyan the carter had stopped to rest at the crest of Senryo Slope on his return from the neighboring village.

At the top of the slope stood a lone pine tree, and beneath its branches was enshrined a stone Jizo statue.
Rokuyan tied his horse to a sturdy pine branch and crouched before the Jizo statue, smoking his tobacco.
In the pine treetops, a flock of crows cawed with unsettling voices, their lively wingbeats occasionally sending rustling sounds down upon Rokuyan’s head.
Dead pine leaves scattered onto his face.

Before long, Rokuyan tucked his pipe into the tobacco pouch at his waist and stood up with a stretch. Then, after untying the horse’s reins, he casually gazed down the slope. Rokuyan was startled.

From O-Hama’s dwelling—a corrugated iron-roofed shack—a man emerged into the dim light outside, as if surveying his surroundings. The man had two shins clearly exposed from his thin, chilly work coat. The man soon began ascending the slope path and approached Rokuyan, but with his hands thrust into his sleeves and walking slightly hunched over, his figure was unmistakably that of Old Genkichi.

Concerning this Jizo statue beneath the lone pine tree, a legend remains.

Long ago, the venerable Jizo statue had flowed down from the upper reaches of the O River to this region.
There were two discoverers of the venerable Jizo statue floating in the stream simultaneously.
One was a merchant residing on the opposite shore, and the other was a farmer’s daughter from this village.
A dispute over rights of possession instantly arose between the two of them.
From both banks, the merchant and the farmer’s daughter hurled vile insults at each other, when all at once the venerable Jizo statue heaved itself up from the river’s surface.
And then, the venerable Jizo waddled across the water’s surface toward the girl.

Because it was said to be deeply moved by human emotions, pilgrims never ceased visiting this Jizo statue. The statue always had two or three brand-new, brightly colored bibs draped across its chest. For it was the village’s snot-nosed girls who would fashion them from apron scraps and haori linings, secretly making their offerings.

A late autumn afternoon.

Santa thrust both hands through the eight openings of his Kurume kasuri work coat, his bowl-cut head tilting forward as he ventured into the back garden.

In the back garden, there were none of the young men, and Old Genkichi was crouched alone at the base of the camphor tree.
It was exactly the posture of someone pulling a silk thread from a caterpillar.
But of course, it was no longer the season for fresh green leaves.
Whenever the wind blew, yellowed dead leaves would swirl high up into the sky only to scatter down onto Old Genkichi’s withered face.

“Gramps.”
“Genkichi Gramps!”

Santa called out.

However, the old man kept his head bowed and did not respond.
Thinking he must have fallen into a deep sleep, Santa placed his hands on the old man’s shoulders and shook him.
Then, the old man’s upper body slumped heavily face-first into the dirt.
He was dead!

Startled, Santa stared wordlessly at the old man for a moment, but soon burst into loud sobs.
In the hydrangea-hued sky looming so high that Santa’s cries could never reach, the camphor tree’s treetops stood towering, shaken by the cold wind.
And, circling around those treetops, a single kite flew slowly, tracing a wide arc without moving its wings.

Within the kite’s lofty, far-reaching field of vision spread a sweeping view: Santa standing solitary in the village abundant with chinquapin trees; the quiet town on the opposite shore; the vast fields enveloping them; the O River cutting through their midst; and the distant mountain ranges.
And that vista lay quiet and eternal, as though unchanged since antiquity.
Through that eternal nature, the soul of Old Genkichi—now become a deity—must surely have been wandering without a care in the world, carried by the wind.

When the early southern rapeseed flowers came into full bloom across the village fields, O-Hama gave birth to a baby girl.
It was a child with a sallow complexion and flat face that bore an uncanny, almost monstrous appearance.
Cradling the infant against her exposed white chest, O-Hama walked barefoot through the village as always—dragging her kimono’s hem and grinning to herself all the while.

The baby’s father was the deceased Old Genkichi.
However, the village peasants whispered among themselves with knowing smirks, suggesting it might have been the Jizo statue beneath the lone pine tree.