Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

From the scorching streets of Kobe—where asphalt softened underfoot, leaving shoe prints—I emerged onto the wharf, scrambled up the gangway, and boarded the Kurenai Maru. Instantly, the wind turned cool.

Looking back at the city of Kobe from here, the land that had been gasping in the heat now appeared as a cool scene from a painting. When Kobe Wharf had finally receded from view, Awaji Island drew near to port, while to starboard, the beaches of Maiko and Akashi appeared so close one could almost touch them. I settled onto a deck bench and let the sea breeze billow through my sleeves.

The white sails that earlier seemed to form a screen nearly blocking the Akashi Strait revealed themselves, upon drawing nearer, as nothing more than scattered vessels—one sail there, another here—floating across the boundless ocean expanse, their full canvas billowing in the wind.

In contrast to those sails, how countless were the steamships coming and going! Iron-decked cargo ships—loaded to capacity, hulls sunk deep into the waves, belching black smoke as they plodded laboriously—we overtook no fewer than three or four of them. The nimble passenger ships, unable to match our vessel’s thirteen knots, kept pace alongside for a time before eventually falling astern. The oncoming steamships would pass by, and in the time it took to register their presence, they were already gone. All these steamships navigated this expanse of sea as though traversing level roads.

Indeed, while the white-hot sun reigned supreme in the heavens, the islands to either side and the boundless waves were scorched by its heat, and the wind blowing in carried an unsettling warmth.
The wind flipped hems and sleeves, flapped the deck awning, scattered voices—not letting one feel any heat—yet still carried a vague warmth against the skin.

When the sun began to sink below Shōdoshima Island’s summit, this ship’s paradisiacal realm would soon manifest itself.
The islands that had appeared bluish-black until now began shifting to pale lavender.
The sea that had been glittering in the sunlight began to take on a streak of ink.
No sooner had the sun dipped below Shōdoshima Island than I saw lion-shaped clouds in another quarter of the sky blazed crimson by its light.
The heavens and earth settled into an inexplicable calm.
Then, the wind blowing across that sea drew forth a stream of cold air from the depths below.
That cold air felt pleasantly cool against the skin.

When dusk had nearly cloaked the sea in darkness, the lighthouse of Shōdoshima Island began twinkling grandly, while to port, the massive form of Yashima started coming into view. This made me keenly aware that Takamatsu’s arrival was imminent.

I went to the rear deck to watch the moving pictures being shown, but as the wind buffeted the projection screen, the images kept fluttering incessantly throughout.

By the time we reached Takamatsu Pier, night had completely fallen. When the Kurenai Maru docked alongside the pier, numerous vendors immediately began loudly calling out the names of their wares.

“This pier was made of reinforced concrete and is likely the finest among Japan’s piers,” said the purser.
On both sides of the pier lay moored about three ships.
The Kihou Maru, which we had overtaken earlier en route, now entered belatedly.
One vessel stood out—its entire form brightly illuminated like a crystal orb.
This was the Tamamo Maru, the railway ferry connecting Uno and Takamatsu.

While our ship remained docked at the pier, the wind died down, leaving a stifling heat.
When we soon left the pier and floated onto the open sea, cool wind seeped into my skin—so sharp it nearly chilled me.
I retired to bed.

I woke at 7:30 in the morning.

Sata Misaki had already come into view there, and we reached the point where the smokestacks of Kuhara’s smelter in Saganoseki, Kyushu, were visible.

The deck with morning shadows was cool.

Beppu was now directly ahead.

As the steward was pointing out—“Kankaiji Temple is there; the shipping company’s branch office is there”—we arrived at the pier.

I immediately arrived at Kamenoi Inn by automobile.
I entered the hot spring.

Beppu is a hot spring across its entire underground expanse.
This is its foremost natural blessing.
The great thoroughfare called the Seto Inland Sea lies immediately at its gateway.
This too is one of its natural blessings.

As soon as I entered the hot spring, it felt like awakening from an afternoon nap by the Seto Inland Sea.

The last time I came was in the ninth year of Taisho [1920], making it eight years ago now, but the local people who came to greet me said with pride, "Beppu has changed tremendously compared to eight years ago." When I surveyed Beppu's outskirts from the Kurenai Maru's deck, I didn't perceive any particular changes. The scenery along the way from the pier to Kamenoi Inn also didn't strike me as particularly changed. However, the only thing that had changed was that where I was taken was a Western-style hall.

“When did you build this addition?” I asked.

“It was January of the year before last,” they replied.

From five o'clock that evening, I set out on a tour of the hells, guided by Mr. Hinako Taro and Mr. Nakajima Tatsuo of the city’s hot spring department.

First, we drove north along the coastal avenue by automobile.
The road seemed wider than when I had last passed through.

“Was this road newly constructed? It seems remarkably wide,” I inquired.

“It’s an eight-ken-wide road constructed in the tenth year of Taisho,” they replied.
Then they added,

“They’ve also newly completed a three-ken-wide road leading from Kannawa Onsen up here toward Tsurumi.”
“New roads connecting the hells and hot springs have been completed, and all can now be traversed by automobile,” they explained.

The previous time I was guided by Mr. Hinako on a tour of hells, one could not pass through except by rickshaw. According to some accounts, one could not pass through except on foot. When I considered that even then—departing in the morning and finally staying overnight at Kannawa Hot Spring had been a two-day affair—going out by automobile around five in the evening for an evening outing struck me as representing quite a transformation.

First we passed Kamegawa Hot Spring and saw Blood Pond Hell. It is said to begin major eruptions once every ten years, and this year happened to mark that tenth anniversary, when it supposedly raged with exceptional violence. There had been another major eruption that very morning. The reason numerous trees along the banks had died was that this was where the hot mud erupted. The spectacle of red mud boiling and seething remained as terrifying as ever.

Next we saw Kamado Hell. Subterranean demons emitted groan-like voices as they spewed scorching air from within the rock cavern. The manju steamed by that scorching air—lacking bean paste—was delicious.

Passing Shibaishi Hot Spring—with its steaming cascade overlooking a ravine—we came upon Konya Hell. From the depths of an indigo mud pool, it spewed scalding vapors as though both raging and muttering. What astonished me were several similar pools lurking among the young rice fields nearby—where a single misstep would send you tumbling to your death. They say many have perished this way indeed. Place a chicken egg in that mud’s rising steam, and within minutes it turns half-cooked, its shell blackened jet. I tasted one such coal-black egg.

Next, we saw Monk Hell. This too was a somewhat large pool of murky boiling water that bubbled and surged up from below. They say it earned its name because its appearance resembled rows of monks' shaven heads, though there is also a legend that long ago, a monk called Ennaibō used double-bottomed measures to hoard rice from farmers until his mansion sank overnight and this hell emerged. On the mountain behind stood fifteen half-ruined stone statues known as the Ennaibō Fifteen Statues. The spot commanded a fine view overlooking Bungo Bay, with the houses of Hiji where I once stayed visible at a glance. The manju stuffed with bean paste proved delicious once again.

Next we saw Sea Hell, the queen of hells.
I shall write separately about this hell.
It was both the largest and most beautiful of all the hells.
By the time we reached Sea Hell, seven o'clock had already passed.

When we arrived at Kannawa Hot Spring, shopfront lights were glowing.
There we viewed what they call Kannawa Hell.
This Kannawa Hell hadn't existed during my previous visit—they say that after digging underground, a sudden explosion caused this new hell to emerge.

This hell had facilities such as an inhalation room and a fomentation room.

There, I visited the proprietress of Fujiya, where I had stayed some time before.
It was clear she remained as plump as ever, but the dimness had grown too profound to make out her features clearly.

We ran headlong through the night road and emerged at Tsurumi Hell.
This Tsurumi Hell, too, was said to have begun erupting since last spring.
It spewed clear, pure hot water free of mud.

It became clear that Beppu had changed since my last visit.
The mere addition of two major hells alone stood as an undeniable testament to its transformation.

The digging of land to draw out hot springs was occurring everywhere throughout Beppu.
Even a single small building in villa areas had a hot spring attached.

Beppu Station had a hot spring washbasin.
Elementary schools also had hot spring baths.
Police stations also had hot spring baths.
There were numerous places where hot springs gushed forth in vain, flowing over summer grasses.

When I wondered why small huts had been erected in the rice fields, it turned out that hot springs were emerging at all those spots. They advertised the presence of hot springs and waited for customers to select those sites as villa locations. And the well-drilling devices set up everywhere were all for newly excavating hot springs.

It was at these excavated sites—where sudden explosions began spewing massive amounts of geothermal heat from the ground—that the newly formed Tsurumi Hell and Kannawa Hell came into being.

The number of hot springs was limitless. These included Beppu, Hamawaki, Kankaiji, Kamegawa, Kannawa, Shibaishi, Horita, Myoban, and Shin-Beppu—all bearing the designation of hot spring areas. Within Beppu City alone existed more than ten bathhouses. Beyond these inns and private homes gushed countless hot springs.

Some argued that present-day Beppu lay too far south; they insisted a grand Hot Spring Capital must rise with Mount Jissōji east of Kamegawa at its heart. Others advocated linking scattered hot spring villages around Mount Tsurumi—the 1,375-meter peak looming behind Beppu—as their unifying axis.

There was a geothermal research institute that sought to apply geothermal energy as the fundamental source of all power. This was under the supervision of Mr. Renkichi Takahashi. Due to the favorable results, Tokyo Electric Light had also established a geothermal research institute in Yutsubo, Iida Village, Yusu District.

There existed an entity called Onsen Saibai Kabushiki Kaisha. This aimed to cultivate fruits by utilizing the heat from hot springs.

There also existed what was called a Geophysical Research Institute. This was where Kyoto University had established this research institute and began fundamental investigations into hot springs.

Furthermore, a Hot Spring Therapy Research Institute was about to be newly established by Kyushu University. This sought to study hot springs from a medical standpoint.

There was a Navy Sanatorium, a Railway Sanatorium, a Mantetsu Sanatorium, and a Taiwan Women’s Sanatorium.

On the coast there were Sand Baths. This involved burying one’s whole body in the sandy beach when the tide was out and bathing in the hot springs that welled up from below. Japanese, Westerners, Chinese, and others were all similarly buried in the sand. Young women were present as well. There were elderly people with withered limbs.

Not only that, but it seemed countless hot springs were gushing forth endlessly from the seabed of Beppu’s waters. The evidence lay in the warm seabed waters where beautiful varieties of fish and shellfish—like those found in tropical seas—made their home; they were harvested and supplied to this fish market, or so it was said. If one considered that hot springs welled up everywhere across the land, even that could not be dismissed as a groundless theory.

Nor was this all—even for seawater bathing, the water was said to be not overly cold but of a comfortably warm temperature.

The scenery of Bungo Bay was beautiful.
The charm of viewing sunrises from there was said to resemble that of Naples.

In any case, Beppu's greatest strength lay in hot springs permeating every inch beneath its ground.
The locals proclaimed it the Hot Spring Capital, boasting this was not merely Beppu of Japan but Beppu of the realm.
Though unappealing as a phrase, its status as a City of Hot Springs could not be denied.

Yet Kankaiji had passed into the management of Kankaiji Land Corporation, its residential areas overgrown with summer grasses while awaiting tenants.
Bunka Village—a new residential quarter—stood with five or six freshly built houses showing no signs of habitation.
Even on reclaimed land that marred the coastal views, numerous villas remained unsold.
A Shin-Beppu Land Corporation had been formed to channel Sea Hell's boiling waters.
This venture too appeared far from thriving.
Buffeted by recessionary winds, even this City of Hot Springs found its development momentarily checked.

The connections between Beppu City, the hot springs, and the nearby villages where the hells were scattered appeared unsatisfactory.
This sought to incorporate the entire hot spring area into Beppu City as a single administrative district.
They proposed abolishing practices like charging separate fees for visiting each hell.
This arrangement too caused inconvenience through private ownership.
To construct Greater Beppu, these should first be made municipal property.

II

At six in the morning, having just woken and washed my face without eating breakfast, I boarded an automobile and set out through five ri of mountain paths toward Yufuin Village. Under the guidance of Mr. Aburaya Kumahachi, proprietor of Kamenoi Inn, I was accompanied by Mr. Hinako Taro, Mr. Inoue Toshiya of Mantetsu, and Mr. Honjo from the Osaka Mainichi Beppu Bureau.

As we came over the ridge of Mount Tsurumi, the peaks of Yufu began to emerge distinctly. As befitted its title of Bungo Fuji, its sharp peak drew the eye. Being Fuji-like, it presented a scene akin to a fan someone had painted—half-folded and stood upright. When we looked out with that Fuji behind us, we immediately saw the sea in a corner of the sky, where Sada Misaki and Saga-no-Seki came hazily into view. Moreover, gazing at the Sobosan Mountain Range far off at the cloud line and the two or three parallel mountain ranges beyond made for splendid scenery. For some time after that, we traveled along an unchanging mountain path. Eventually, we saw Oda Pond and Yamashita Pond, encountered grazing cattle blocking our way, and at last the path began to descend.

“If we’re delayed, the mist will clear away,” Mr. Kumahachi had worried, but when the mountain path opened up and we looked out over the entire valley,
“Ah, the mist has already cleared,” someone said in dismay.
Yet a lingering bank of thick mist still drifted whitely through the area.
This was Yufuin Village.

For now, I rested at Kamegakuen in Kamenoi Villa.
This villa was a small yet elegant one, but sitting on its bamboo veranda and gazing up at Yufu’s pointed peak revealed a beauty without equal.
Before me lay a densely forested mountain untouched by axes; from its rounded shoulder rose two abrupt peaks—from here appearing split into two—their forms towering against the blue sky as beautiful as if painted.

In this Yufuin Village as well, numerous hot springs were gushing forth. In fact, there stood a pond called Kinrinko Lake right beside this villa, where hot springs bubbled up along its shores as well—it was said the water at the edge remained warm.

I went to see Kinrinko Lake and found the pond's form remained untouched by human hands—natural through and through. The profusion of duckweed growing there was intriguing, while the sight of thatch-roofed houses clustered along the shore proved equally fascinating.

We ate the sandwiches Mr. Kumahachi had prepared for us at this villa, then boarded the automobile once more to cross another six ri of mountain roads toward Iida Plateau.

The road proved even worse than the previous mountain path, the automobile's jolting growing more violent.
When we had traveled about two or three ri, we came upon a place where autumn flowers bloomed like a cultivated garden.
Golden lace, wild carnations, white flowers resembling maidenflower—distinct from the male variety—and thistles bloomed in profusion, creating a beautiful sight.

As we rounded Kuzurebira Mountain, Yushutsuzan Mountain came into view.
Following this appeared mountains such as Mount Kujō, Mount Kujū, Mount Ōfuna, and Mount Kurodake.
They stood imposingly like feudal lords assembled in council.
Mount Kujō showed white gashes across its slopes.
This resulted from sulfur extraction—hence its alternate name Sulfur Mountain.
Mount Kurodake stood distinct among them all with its dense natural forests and strikingly dark hue.
These peaks collectively form what people call the Kyushu Alps.
Before them now lay Iida Plateau.

Iida Plateau extended about two ri in depth and three ri in width; aside from one thousand chōbu of rice paddies, the entire plateau was thickly overgrown with small dwarf bamboo. The automobile freely broke through and ran across those areas overgrown with dwarf bamboo where no roads existed. There being almost no stones, roads could be made anywhere. When villagers passed by on horseback, the automobile could detour from the road. Such terrain stretched on for two, even three ri.

Along a certain valley, platforms had been constructed upon the branches of large trees such as white oaks and mountain pears.
This was the fruit of Mr. Kumahachi's ingenuity.
There we unpacked our lunch.

Here too, numerous hot springs were gushing forth.
In the village called Yutsubo stood Sujiyu, Ōdake Hell, Kaisen Baths, and Kawahara Baths; in Tano village lay Hoshiō Baths, Nakano Baths, Kan no Jigoku (Cold Hell), and Sen no Kuchi Hot Spring.
This bento had been prepared by the proprietor of an inn called Onoya at Sen no Kuchi Hot Spring.
The proprietor had crossed this plateau on horseback.

On our way back, we went to see a place called Kan no Jigoku (Cold Hell). This was a cold spring, colder than ordinary water; entering it made one’s teeth chatter uncontrollably from the intense chill. We saw men and women entering with pallid complexions. I realized that cooling could also be a method to cure illness.

I heard Mr. Kumahachi’s ambitious vision that golf courses and airplane landing fields would soon be built there. There was a villa site of approximately 50,000 tsubo belonging to Mr. Kumahachi.

Kinrinko Lake

Vegetation grows thickly along the shore where duckweed-covered hot springs gush.

We alighted from the automobile.

Summer grass—no cicadas drone along the mountain path.

Dryness—

A great evening shower seems imminent—Yufu’s scraped-cloud sky.

Beneath Beppu lay a crisscrossing network of spring veins; those that spewed scalding steam, boiling mud, and hot water were called hells, while those maintaining moderate temperatures as they emerged were referred to as hot springs.
Among these hells existed those named Blood Pond Hell, Tsurumi Hell, Konya Hell, and others.
This was a hell that spewed hot steam and boiling mud.
Sea Hell differed from those hells in being a large pool filled with boiling water; its cobalt-blue hue, resembling the open sea's color, was where this name derived.

Sea Hell possessed a queenly presence among the hells—not a consort to some king, but a sovereign commanding legions of demonic rakshasas from other infernal realms.

The cobalt-blue pool bewitched all who beheld it. None could deny that its beauty might entice desperate souls to plunge within. Majestic in every aspect, its waters at 120 degrees Celsius stood forbiddingly solemn, truly embodying regal essence.

When I visited with Mr. Hinako and company, the clock had likely passed half past six. Thick white vapors rose from the boiling pool, their plumes bending shoreward with each shifting breeze. Peering through smoke-gaps revealed emerald mountains beyond—their dignified contours evoking a monarch robed in full ceremonial splendor.

I decided to ask Ms. Amako Toshiko—the caretaker there, daughter of a Mito domain samurai and skilled in naginata—about it.

“It seems small birds are singing—what kind of birds are those?”

“They are Japanese grosbeaks.”
“There are other small birds as well, but Japanese grosbeaks are the most numerous.”

Those who spoke and those who listened strained their ears against the tranquil landscape.

“Do the cuckoos sing here as well?”

“They do.”

After the conversation had lapsed for a while, Ms. Toshiko added further.

“This spring, two pheasants were nesting here, but they’ve since disappeared without a trace.”

“What kinds of flowers bloom here? The ones blooming now are silk tree flowers, aren’t they?” I said, looking up at the mountains in the evening glow.

“That’s correct. And there are a great many mountain cherry trees as well. From now on, the wax tree foliage will be most beautiful.”

At their suggestion to try an egg boiled in this hell, I ate one. The shop girl saw us, placed eggs into a basket, and dipped them into the hot water in front. That took just one or two minutes to become half-boiled.

In Kaibara Ekiken’s Toyokuni Kikō,

To the west of that, at the mountain’s edge, there lay a pond called Sea Hell.
It contained boiling water.
The area spanned approximately two *tan*.
It gushed forth from the upper pond.
The upper pond measured approximately six ken square (about 10.9 meters per side).
The color of the rocks in that area was red.
It gushed forth from between the rocks.
Those who beheld it trembled.
In years past, a villager’s wife had quarreled with her husband and had become enraged; when she cast herself into this boiling water, her body soon scalded away, leaving only her hair drifting afloat.
The Bungo Fudoki states: In Hayami District lies the Red Hot Spring.
This hot spring was also located northwest of Ana District at Kamado Mountain.
Its circumference measured approximately fifteen jō (about 45.45 meters).
Steam tinged red with mud present—this must indeed have been what was called Sea Hell.

It mentions red mud being present, but whether this has now cleared or whether this "red hot spring" refers to what we now call Blood Pond Hell—in any case, given that the Fudoki predates the Engi era and thus dates back over a thousand years now, there’s no way to know how things may have changed. Ekiken’s travelogue also notes how the rocks turn red. He makes no particular mention of the water’s clarity. Was it that he perceived only the fearsome nature of the boiling water and failed to register its clarity, or that in those days the water was somewhat murky?

The story of how a woman who threw herself in after a marital quarrel left nothing behind but her hair—no corpse to retrieve—was a terrifying tale. Even now, it was said there were those who fell to their deaths. Nor could it be claimed that none chose this beautiful pool for their own demise.

III

Such an impression from my previous visit remained in my mind.

When we went to see a communal bathhouse somewhere in town under Mr. Hinako’s guidance, a young woman appeared before our eyes.
She was completely naked, with a towel wrapped around her waist—having likely just emerged from the bath—appearing utterly exhausted as she sat on the edge there, leaning back against the wooden panels.
And there she was, holding a honey peach in hand and staring fixedly at it.
It seemed as though a nude woman from a Western painting had materialized before us.
But she was not such a modern, Western-style woman; she was one possessing rustic charm befitting Beppu’s hot springs.
Whenever I later thought of Beppu Town’s hot springs, I could not help but think of this woman.

Upon coming to Beppu this time and reading a guidebook, I found it written that the hot springs of Beppu Town were magnificent structures.
The hot spring where the Peach Woman had been was one enclosed with wooden planks—an old one, I thought.
Perhaps that very hot spring enclosed with planks had since been demolished and transformed into a magnificent hot spring.

Mr. Hinako—who had guided us through the hells—had said he would show us around the town’s hot springs again that evening.

I waited until nine o'clock, but Mr. Hinako did not come.
I decided to turn in for bed.
In the hot springs of this new town, there would certainly be no Peach Woman anymore.

Today marked the beginning of Beppu Town's festival.
Until yesterday, they had been practicing festival music without respite at the house directly below the inn.
Even after I had gone to bed, the festival music still reached my ears.
Today, however, no such music could be heard.
Earlier, fireworks had gone up somewhere.
Those too must have been part of the festival.

As I pondered this, Mr. Hinako appeared.
He explained that his duties with the festival procession—being both from an old local family and former mayor of Beppu Town—had delayed him considerably.
When I told Mr. Hinako, who had guided me eight years prior too, about the Peach Woman, he said, “That was Kamegawa’s Fourth Hot Spring.”
My mistaking it for a Beppu hot spring stemmed from eight years having passed since then and my memory growing clouded.

The following day，I viewed the festival from a seaside tower’s upper floor.
One boat carried a mikoshi shrine palanquin，where a man beat a drum with peculiar bodily contortions.
Other men were present too，but all kept silent.
Each remaining vessel had its own drummer while crewmen rocked their boats violently sideways.
They swayed them so fiercely that seawater nearly flooded over gunwales.
Banners decorating every craft swung wildly with each tilt.
Five or six such boats encircled the mikoshi-bearing ship fore and aft.
This marked where Kotohira Shrine’s sacred object from Hamawaki was undergoing its maritime procession.

On the coast, crowds of people hoping to witness the sacred object’s procession had swarmed like ants.
Once all the ships had entered the pier, the crowd too finally began to shift toward that direction.

Once the sun had set, darkness concealed both the sea and the coastal buildings. The world had become uniformly pitch-black. Amidst it, only the lights glittered. Along the coast stretched an unbroken line of illumination. Clusters of lights resembling crystal-beaded curtains encircled the harbor. Within them, a bonfire blazed up—and when I looked to see what shone with particular brilliance while moving, it was the mikoshi. The mikoshi that had been aboard the lead vessel during the sacred crossing was now being carried ashore. The sight of the crowd surrounding it stood revealed in the bonfire's glow.

On the sea too were scattered moving lights.
Most were crimson flames.
Just below eye level glided a lone boat hung with red paper lanterns.
I learned that after midnight, head clerks and maids from countless hot spring inns would all board these vessels to revel upon the waters.
The sight of those scarlet glows drifting hither and thither appeared both refreshingly cool and brimming with mirth.

As I leaned against the railing watching those flames, a person began to tell this story.

When spring turned to April or May, in coastal villages such as Ōshima District and Saba District in Yamaguchi Prefecture, or near Yawatahama in Ehime Prefecture, groups of twenty or thirty people would load a ship with rice, miso, and soy sauce and come together to Beppu.
The ship that had sailed in would be moored at the pier and stay for about three weeks.
During that time, those people freely entered communal hot springs and returned to sleep on the ship at night.
Apparently, if they affixed a large sign reading "Ōshima District Such-and-Such Village" to the mast, postal workers would deliver mail directly to the vessel.
At times they would sing Buddhist hymns while walking through town and receive a coin or two in offerings.
When they saved up one or two yen, they apparently looked forward to spending it at variety theaters or on shaved ice.
With about five yen per person, they could apparently bathe for three weeks.

The Peach Woman must surely still be at Kamegawa’s Fourth Hot Spring.

It was decided that Mr. Hinako would take charge as our guide to visit the cliff-carved stone Buddhas in Motomachi, Ōita City.
At that time, Mr. Igarashi Hakusui, who was staying at the same inn, also joined us.

We left the inn at seven in the morning. Having made a brief stop along the way, we likely arrived before Ōita Station by train around ten or twenty minutes past nine. We then boarded rickshaws and set out for Motomachi. The name Motomachi presumably derived from there having been an old town during the Ōtomo clan era, though in present-day Ōita City it had become practically suburban. Our vehicles proceeded in single file along paths cutting through rice fields. Owing to the persistent drought, farming families had all emerged into their fields, drawing irrigation water bucket by bucket to pour into paddies. Children went completely naked, men wore only loincloths, and women worked diligently under woven hats—a heartening spectacle of industry. Mr. Hinako explained that the bamboo grove visible to our right, called Otakeyabu, marked the ruins of the Ōtomo clan's estate. Before long we reached Motomachi's stone Buddhas.

The stone Buddhas had a large Yakushi Nyorai carved at their center, flanked by sizable statues of Fudō Myōō and Bishamonten. However, being carved from coarse tuff rock, the side statues had lost their original form through decapitation and erosion. Only the central Yakushi Nyorai remained largely intact save for a major wound on one cheek—one might say it preserved its complete shape admirably otherwise. When viewing particularly its undamaged half-face, the graceful countenance seemed akin to the Great Buddha of Kamakura, yet even more serene. Because it was extremely hot, I lingered for a while in the shade of that rock. Even though there was no wind, a certain chill lingered in the air, so I caught my breath for a while.

Then we viewed the cliff-carved Buddhas at Ryūgahana where numerous figures including the Eleven-Faced Kannon and other buddhas were sculpted. They had been nearly destroyed, barely recognizable as such. According to what I heard, beggars once dwelled there, and when their hut burned down, the rock's composition grew even more fragile, causing the already damaged buddhas to deteriorate further until they lost all semblance of their original form.

There were said to be many more cliff-carved Buddhas about two ri—approximately 7.8 kilometers—from here, and also numerous ones along the Usuki riverbank, but visiting each would prove too grueling in this heat. I resolved to turn back, content with having seen these two sites.

From Ryūgahana's vantage point, gazing across the fields revealed a solitary forest rising from the paddies. This woodland bears the name In'yaku no Mori—once the seat of Bungo Province's ancient capital, now hosting an Inari shrine amidst its trees. Kokubunji Temple’s hall stands about one and a half ri distant too, its scattered foundation stones reportedly still marking the site like forgotten punctuation.

We boarded vehicles again and returned through the sweltering midday heat to the station front we had come from earlier; from there, we decided to take the train back toward Beppu.

Mr. Hinako mentioned wanting us to see the horizontal cave tombs in the mountains near Beppu City once evening cooled.
Since we would be seeing them regardless and it seemed bothersome to come out again later, I suggested we stop by on our return while we were still en route.
Thus parted ways midway with Mr. Igarashi, who was returning to Kobe aboard that day's *Kurenai Maru*.
Only Mr. Hinako and I disembarked at Hamawaki, where we filled our stomachs with fly-swarmed sushi and raw eggs at a roadside teahouse before viewing the horizontal caves—those of the Kankan Buddhas on Mount Konpirayama's northern and southern slopes, along with others nearby.
The heat proved unbearable.
When traversing valleys, it felt suffocating enough to steam one alive.
Only after finishing our viewing of the Kankan Buddhas and emerging onto the mountain ridge did salvation come—a sudden cool breeze through pine boughs that made me feel resurrected.
Resting awhile on the grass, what began as faint stirrings of air transformed into substantial winds; now basking in their coolness, I found myself unwilling to depart however long I lingered.
Even the buzz of a fly skimming past my ear rang pleasantly.
Summer butterflies fluttering over pampas grass lent refreshing elegance.
Watching a parasol approach through reeds along the valley stream—wondering what manner of traveler this might be—the figure emerging proved a Western-clad girl mismatched to her outsized parasol.
One moment she seemed walking toward us, then turned away again without warning, tracing that serpentine path through rice fields.

Hyūga Province is Japan's oldest province. This neighboring land of Bungo Province must also be an ancient one. The evidence that this is an ancient land is proven by these cliff-carved Buddhas and horizontal cave tombs.

I quietly watched as the girl began making her way along the rugged mountain path ahead.

When Mayor Kanzawa Matakurō of Beppu City visited, I heard various details.

It is said that in areas below the railway tracks—that is, near the coast—hot springs will gush out endlessly if one digs. In shallow areas one needs only dig twelve or thirteen ken (approx. 21.8-23.6m), while deeper areas require sixty-four or sixty-five; it is said that greater depths yield higher pressure and temperature.

Currently, it is said that between 1,400 and 1,500 hot springs are gushing forth. It is said that they have prohibited digging new hot springs within forty feet of existing ones to curb excessive excavation.

In the areas above the railway tracks—that is, the upland regions—it is said that even if one digs, hot springs do not easily emerge. Mr. Asō Taikichi, in order to distribute hot springs to each household by developing the upland land he owns as a villa area, reportedly decided to create hot springs by channeling separately gushing cold springs through iron pipes that pass through the geothermal steam of Tsurumi Hell. By passing two iron pipes through the geothermal steam for six to ten shaku, it is reportedly possible to sufficiently provide the required temperature. That geothermal steam was indeed so intensely hot. The current Tsurumi Hell appeared to be spewing abundant hot water, but this too was reportedly achieved by artificially adding water to the intense steam.

The Beppu International Industrial Exposition planned for April next year had arranged to create a special hot spring chamber by borrowing one of Mr. Asō's iron pipes—specifically one channeling sixty degrees Celsius water at four koku per minute.

These steam-spewing Hells existed at Kamado, Blood Pond, Konya, Tetsuwa, and other sites.
If one could create hot springs by channeling water through steam, countless new ones might form.

From morning, airplanes roared ceaselessly over the inn.
These were seaplanes floating on Beppu Bay that took passengers on ten-minute flights for ten yen apiece.
Mr. Aburaya Kumahachi had boarded one to proclaim Beppu's Eight Views selection all the way to Osaka; bypassing Beppu on return, he headed straight to Nagasaki to compose a folk song—"To the west Unzen, to the east Beppu, in the center Mount Aso spits fire"—for national park promotion.
He had recently discovered a grand valley beyond Ōgiyama at Mount Tsurumi's base—a Kamikōchi in miniature—and vowed to explore it within days.
This entrepreneur stood at what he called a "youthful sixty-five."

In Beppu’s sea, two or three warships were now moored.
The oysters clinging to the ships’ hulls would rot and fall off immediately upon being submerged in Beppu Bay’s tide.
The sailors walked cheerfully through the town.

A reinforced concrete municipal hall was under construction.
They boasted that its facilities were the finest in Kyushu.
Hamawaki Hot Spring conducted a ground-breaking ceremony to commence new construction.

Directly before my room at the inn soared Mount Takasaki.
This mountain stood somewhat apart from the Yufu and Tsurumi mountain ranges, rising aloof and solitary at Beppu Bay's head,
as if declaring, “I remain unconcerned.”

Its form held nobility.
Westerners were said to call this mountain Helmet Mountain.

In the morning，a blanket of mist enveloped everything，and Mount Takasaki’s form appeared especially soft.
As the sun rose，it became clearly visible.

When rain falls，clouds always cover Mount Takasaki，it was said.
If clouds cover Mount Takasaki，perhaps rain will fall.
There were times when I felt them spreading across my room’s eaves，
and times when I did not.

Monkeys inhabited Mount Takasaki—so people claimed—
and since declaring this area protected，
their numbers multiplied year after year.

Mount Takasaki had ancient castle ruins—a fortress built by some generation of the Ōtomo clan long ago.

They say where its trees grow thickest along the slopes, fish gather beneath their shade in such numbers that fishermen reap bountiful catches year after year.

Sitting alone in my room as the day’s furnace-like heat finally began dissolving into wavering haze, I watched a black shadow creep across Mount Takasaki’s face—the westward-leaning sun casting Tsurumi’s lofty silhouette over its neighbor like some primordial sundial.

Mount Takasaki is said to be called Shikyoku Mountain.
In the *Man'yōshū*,

Crossing Shihatsu Mountain at dusk, they row back to Kasanui Island—a small boat without planks. Takachi no Muraji Kurohito

Some say the poem refers to this place, while others claim it describes Shihatsuyama in Settsu.

When I would again board the Kurenai Maru to depart this Beppu, I knew I would linger on the deck awhile, gazing at Sea Hell’s plumes rising through distant pine groves. And those eyes of mine were fated to turn back to Mount Takasaki. Mount Takasaki would never leave my sight—not for an eternity.

Together with Mount Takasaki awaiting the evening shower

The sunburn of journeying through Tsukushi in the Land of Fire—

The Kyoto inn of return from a sunburned journey