Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

A strange and wondrous sight.

As Shirakawa receded, the clamor of croaking frogs—their voices too swelling in a rushing roar—merged with the sound of a stream until they seemed indistinguishable; the train, having left behind the rain-swollen river, sank once more into the dark depths of Mutsu.

In the depths of midnight, a sallow-complexioned poet with sunken cheeks—a solitary figure whose eyes alone blazed—fixedly stared.

In the hazy train compartment—where even the lamp seemed to illuminate dreams—he stared fixedly at crimson flames that rose and azure ones swept down, hissing steam and flickering wildly, unable to believe this could merely be warming udon bought with coins at the station.

Through the pounding rain, it echoed through the mountains as it went.
It was a deserted, dilapidated train compartment in moldering yellow-green.
Facing the ritual altar—beard and hair disheveled like tangled mugwort, standing on end like needles; ribs stark white; breath mingling with black smoke—he bore no resemblance to a cursed monk summoning yakshas and rākṣasas through dark rites. Yet he himself felt akin to a hermit’s disciple simmering something in a silver pot.
Here, even the poet resembled a blacksmith’s artisan.
But what could it be that he was boiling, casting, ceaselessly refining?
Not myrrh, cinnabar, vermilion, incense, jade, or gold dust—nothing of that sort.
Nor was it toad grease.

Thinking this, watching this, being bewildered by this—what he refined through such acts was a beauty.

"It's Ms. Ee!"

When he thought this, the rising bubbles resembled rotting white skin that trembled like snow.
Sono startled violently and, lunging forward as if to taste it, blew out the flame's tip.
Wearily, he breathed through his lips,
"Ah, that's absurd... Even in metaphor or falsehood, I tried to send Ms. Ee to hell."
Even if—by some chance—this boiling, casting, and refining were a magic whose ultimate crystallization should take Ms. Ee's form, what purpose could there be in stewing it to ruinous mush over flames!
……

Through the statue caster’s art, the Buddha would boil copper.
With the sculptor’s chisel, God would carve wood.
But as for people—women—that exquisite Ms. Ee—it was the poet’s passions that were boiling them.

“I’ve done a terrible thing!”

Sono—even now, if only for an instant—as though the shadow in his heart could not endure that heat, like one startled by an accidental injury caused through sudden misstep, snatched off the silver lid with a start.

When he took it—...unevenly coiling into a swirling vortex—steam rose mistily from the pot.
As it rose, the white robe stood fluttering upright—swelling midway as if grooves were indenting—attempting to divide into two streams before softly merging again and deepening swiftly in hue—visible at the shoulders, manifest at the neck.
Back, waist, calves.……

Deutzia-white in hue and lovely, moderately fleshed and straight-backed, gracefully supple—as she suddenly rose, her black hair swished sharply.

"Oh, someone so modest... She'd never show her naked form like this to anyone."

Sono closed his eyes.

Still visible.

"This won't do."

Sono shook his head alone.

It still hadn’t vanished.

"First of all, wasn’t it I who was refused visits during her illness because she detested showing her disheveled appearance? This is wrong. In a place like this. Ah, this is inexcusable."

Sono, nearly mad with frenzy, hurriedly took off his coat.
With the coarse coat, he tried to wrap and conceal Ms. Ee’s white phantom.
But this throbbingly stiffened, large gray bat that had greedily absorbed rain, dust, and sunlight through Korashou.

The moment he so much as touched it, it abruptly enveloped her white shoulder and seemed about to suck the blood from Ms. Ee’s cheek—ah, drop by drop dripped the blood.
…like the dappled silk of a bridal hair ornament, like a throat hemorrhaging blood.

II

Sono grabbed it and flung the coat to a distant corner of the seat.

As he threw it, he coincidentally recalled how his drummer cousin—that elegant, refined gentleman—when drunk would indiscriminately remove whatever coat he wore and energetically fling it about, firmly believing the rickshaw drivers at stands were there to serve him... He did this even on streetcars. ...Since his formal black silk crepe undergarment bore family crests, it drew all the more attention, making passengers burst into jeering laughter all at once.

“What’re you gawkin’ at? Take it!” he barked, spreading his elbows wide against his ceremonial hakama as he slowly swept the crowd with a glare—his usual performance...

Recalling that... he laughed alone.

There was such a strange interval.
And yet, the coquettish shape of the steam remained as it was, quivering faintly like deutzia flowers.

Wrapping the single silver pot—not large, but hand-sewn by Ms. Ee—he tightly draped that tomozome over it.
Around the neck and what he took to be the shoulder area—a jolt of resistance—then, suddenly soft and light, as he bundled it against his chest, a delicate yet palpable weight bore down, making him think "Hot!" and drop to his seat.
Onto the seat—like thin silk floss gliding over habutae—the tomozome’s edge rustled with the whisper of an unlined robe, tracing the cushion as it pooled into a single folded hem and fell.—It was as though a fainted woman had collapsed against me.

Startled, he grabbed it and pulled straight upward—the tomozome, now pulled, fell back just as it was, supine, the white of its collar spilling over as it collapsed onto the seat.

Fluttering softly into place—the steam’s slender edges rippling sideways at their vanishing point—leaving a gently rounded nose behind as it floated faintly into view: Ms. Ee’s eyebrows, mouth, lips, white teeth…… Ah, that deathly visage from back then now blurring against my lap……

A white robe dimly visible—the kosode with wisteria-purple ground and hem patterns of dianthus and small chrysanthemums draped over the corpse, remaining just as it was… Ah, this tomozome!
At that time, not even the tip of a fingernail escaped notice—her visage alone remained crystal clear, as though sleeping beneath the water’s surface—yet here in this place, scattered deutzia blossoms—three petals, five petals—trembled and swayed at the shuddering train’s floor, appearing even like quivering fingers.
Some call pure white teeth jade; some say pearl; some name them shell... Now, the teeth glimpsed at her faintly smiling lips were white deutzia petals.

“Rest your head here—Ms. Ee.”

Sono adjusted his seating position.
But on his darkened face, tears flowed.

Ah, I remember...

“No matter how much I tried to endure it, tears would flow on their own, like cold sweat streaming down. In front of the patient, when I thought it improper, it became even more unbearable. That’s just how it was. By the pillow, on a small black shelf, there was a single-flower vase with a dianthus arranged in it. Pressing her face into the flowers like so, she hid her brimming eyes and said, ‘Would these be Western ones? What a lovely fragrance.’ No reason—she said that—but with such delicate flowers, their leaves and branches couldn’t hide her face, and she was at her wit’s end—Brother-in-law.”

And this was before Ms. Ee had died—indeed, I believe it was the third time… a message from when the cousin’s wife had gone to visit her.

I had long heard about the illness.
——That due to the illness, Ms. Ee had gone to Kamakura for convalescence together with her husband—a young, up-and-coming Western-style painter…… When later reflecting on it, even that felt lonely…… I had known since the waning days of spring.
But while the waters of Kamakura’s town—more than its purple wisteria, irises, or kakitsubata—seemed to yearn for hues tied to her comings and goings, I had not imagined her condition to be so grave at all.
The autumn tempest raged through the fields; in those sleepless long nights where mornings dawned cold—amid newspapers whose ink scent seeped deep into one’s skin—Ms. Ee (by then already returned to the capital), as both a daughter of an aristocratic family and wife of a Western-style painter, saw news of her critical condition resound through society like a storm tearing through jade screens and toppling golden folding screens.

That same night came a personal letter beforehand from Mr. Kagawa—to say that since taking to her sickbed, Ee had grown ashamed to be seen by anyone; with due consideration for her feminine sensibilities and in humble entreaty, he requested visitors refrain from calling—though he added she remained acutely aware of your imminent arrival—particularly yours—and so forth.

A person who would not neglect even a single strand of hair in their grooming—this was the height of propriety.

Even as Mr. Kagawa trod onward, unrolling the scroll that conveyed Ms. Ee’s heart—its rustling against the pillow where jet-black hair lay scattered chilling his blood until grasping fingers turned cold—Sono solemnly absorbed its intent.

At that time, her cousin was away on tour in Kyushu with his school’s troupe.
Her cousin’s wife had visited on behalf of both herself and Sono.
This was the third time.
Of course, upon returning from Tabata, she immediately stopped by Sono’s house.

“Brother-in-law… It’s truly unbearable—to think someone so beautiful has already passed beyond pity into antiquity. Though the six-tatami room got sunlight—like crystal it was—she lay there beneath a habutae summer quilt, fading away… The complexion, like snow or jade, seemed almost translucent.”
Against the white fabric of the east-facing pillow, the loosened jet-black hair spilled as if damp, and across on the west-facing wall stood a clothes rack.
“And there was a dazzling tomozome crepe, its edges left untied, draped in a peculiar manner.”
“Reading Brother-in-law’s book of poems and changing out the beautiful tomozome like a hanging scroll to view from bed as she lay there—she said that brought more comfort than anything.”
“Even where the soul journeys could be discerned from that.”
“……It wasn’t a sky where purple clouds lingered—rather, a haze of tomozome came to envelop the white form… Ah, and also… The medicine you so thoughtfully prepared… When I first went to visit, she entrusted me with a message… That the medicine would be drunk from her husband’s hand in a small glass cup of wine—yes, just now…”

“By the pillow—on that same shelf—Ms. Ee opened the hexagonal makie handbox.”
“When she did so… there was that medicine packet and an adorable set of nail clippers, and…”

The cousin’s wife swallowed hard and spoke while stifling her rising emotions.

“……There was nothing else but a small round mirror in a tomozome bag patterned with dianthus and small chrysanthemums—only that was inside.”
“…How your heart must ache.”

“While Mr. Kagawa was measuring wine into a glass cup—Yes, exactly… In the bedroom, there were only three of us… She found everyone disagreeable—they say she wouldn’t even call for a nurse.”

“First of all, the doctor who had attended to her since she was seven or eight—though I hear he’s now a most renowned professor...”

“So then, Brother-in-law.”

“While Mr. Kagawa was preparing the wine, she rested her slender hand against her cheek like this—tilting those beautiful eyes to examine her nails, wondering if they’d grown too long—and gazed so intently that her pupils seemed to reflect in her white fingertips, while from their very tips, the moon’s shadow appeared to stream straight down.”

“It looked as though she was beckoning like this, you see.”

“I just shuddered...”

Sono, who was listening, trembled.

“But truly, if that hand had beckoned me, I would have followed—into my very bosom if need be, or even to the netherworld—anywhere at all… I earnestly thought so.”

When she stretched out that hand intently—holding the medicine packet, gazing fixedly at half the round mirror with one hand—and her complexion suddenly paled, I was made to weep again.
“...I said in a frantic voice, surprising even myself...”

“Oh my, do look—the dianthus are glistening with such dewdrops.”

III

“As for me, I did everything I could—though it’s shameful to say so—truly, for about this past month, I nursed her night after night without sleep.”

In a single room, five people were present.
A renowned newspaper reporter, an examiner—a painter, a literary scholar, and one viscountess.
——Sono was there.

Those who had come to pay their respects at the Kagawa household—relatives and acquaintances guided through the space where four or so reception desks stood stacked high—while guests from other circles would likely be in separate rooms.

When Sono was led through the parted crowd down the corridor to what appeared to be a tea room, he immediately saw the Viscountess—her chignon glinting with diamonds, her white peony-like handkerchief covering her eyes as she sat bowed.

Everyone sat somberly, their eyes half-closed.

“In your household as well—truly…”

“Indeed it is.”

They did nothing but repeat such things.
At times, a wagtail’s cry would sound; the brazier’s coals glowed red, yet the sasanqua’s shadow lay desolate.

At that moment, her husband appeared to receive condolences—in his crested formal attire and hakama, his haggard, sleep-deprived eyes bloodshot, his disheveled hair making him look emaciated.

“Oh… Thank you.”

With that, he heavily raised his bowed face and turned it toward Sono,

"I offer my thanks—I believe it was due to that medicine of yours. For over five days… she absolutely refused nourishing enemas, so much so that she couldn’t keep down even water or broth—yet her consciousness remained clear. Even moments before drawing her last breath at three this morning, she spoke to me in detail, resting her head on my knee… She even left a final message for Mr. Sono. She was clearly lucid and alert. Even the doctor was surprised. It was as if she’d been fasting—and yet for the past two or three days, they kept saying how remarkable it was that she could still… But it was truly tragic."

“Edo natives… are so rough with their food.
Even at death’s door, they’ll still demand sushi or tempura.
She wants shrimp… You’d think she’d ask for something like simmered shrimp, but no… She says she wants grilled devil clams.—How exhilarating!
‘Go on, finish the devil clams,’ I urged encouragingly—selecting the plump ones grilled to a golden crisp and arranging them on a Nanjing medium plate. With utmost care, I handled them tenderly and fed her using chopsticks. Yet seeing this, I couldn’t help but think how dreadful it all was.
An inexperienced cook, while plucking them—how much of the armored skin must have remained attached?
The moment she took a bite, her tongue was cut.
To declare she’d conquer grilled devil clams—the very vigor of her spirit made it all the more tragic.
Immediately, bright red blood overflowed from her lips as if her lipstick had melted.”

At that moment, the Viscountess—who had let her eyelids droop as her handkerchief fluttered down to cover her mouth—nodded faintly while listening. With each adjustment of the pristine handkerchief, even the snow-white silk seemed to cast a bloodstained shadow.

The Viscountess, unable to bear it, jerked her shoulders back sharply, turned sideways, and pressed her eyes shut once more.

“……Ah yes—though they say by then the tuberculosis had already spread from her larynx to her very tongue.”
“Grilled devil clams… How cruel that her very vigor made it all the more wretched.”
“Ha… ha…”

With that, he managed a shadow of a laugh, uttered his words, then looked up despondently and swept back the disheveled hair standing upright across his forehead.

“Due to their arrangements—the incense.”

“A moment for formalities.”

Sono and the examiner spoke nearly in unison.

“Then please...”

After turning twice down the corridor and proceeding halfway further, in the connected hall amidst incense smoke, a white altar stood tall.
Sleeves overlapping sleeves—overflowing on both sides were voiceless gentlemen and ladies.

They yielded precedence to the Viscountess first, then proceeded one after another—Sono, positioned last among them, offered incense. As he did so, he thought the room might be made of snow—yet amidst the heady fragrance and floral wreaths, between the large translucent petals of white roses and lilies, pale pink dianthus and wisteria-hued small chrysanthemums added faint color to the tomozome fabric. Tracing its intricate patterns closely, through strands of swept-up black hair there briefly appeared—glimpsed—an earlobe, then a stark white neck reclining smoothly, its lightly powdered skin so fine-grained that even this registered softly to his eyes.

It was still before the encoffining.

“Mr. Kagawa.”

While adjusting his hakama to shift his seated position, Sono called out to the son-in-law who stood rigidly with his back against the shoji.

“...I’d like to see her face... just for a moment.”

Until his voice grew hoarse, Sono’s chest roared.
But the son-in-law resolutely,

“Yes, please—this way.”

He stood up abruptly, pulled the edge of the reverse screen—bearing a painting of kuzu leaves tossed by the wind—then guided him through the narrow space behind the altar’s memorial tablet, between it and the next room’s sliding door, toward where the pillow lay.

“This is troublesome.”

…………

“Her being gone causes such inconvenience.”

With a half-turn, he stood rigidly, scrubbing his forehead with a clenched fist—his disheveled hair seeming tousled—and stared up at the smoke-drifted ceiling.

“I can only offer my sympathies.”

“Hah.”

He knelt down,

“Ee-chan... Mr. Sono is here.”

With that, he snatched up something white.

Her eyebrows arched long, lashes thickly dark, neck turned away from the assembled guests—her back shielded by floral wreaths, invisible to all.
In a profile tilted toward them, her nose bridge stood sharp and straight, white teeth visible as if smiling.
——There were two younger sisters.
Through their gentle care, they had wound their hair like comb-bound coils and touched rouge to lightly powdered cheeks.

“Ms. Ee.”

He muttered this in his heart when his knee—jerking forward unbidden—accidentally brushed against what he thought was a sleeve: the tomozome of the kaikimaki. A small wave of white habutae silk cascaded like blue water across its collar.

The son-in-law stood stooping to peer down from above, tears in his eyes; Ms. Ee’s face tilted slightly upward; and in all the world, only the three of them existed in that moment.

“...Be at peace... Be at peace... Farewell...”

He gasped, stood up, and as he turned back... this time Sono spoke.

“I’m at a loss as well.”

“……”

“I feel so lonely—the world seems dark. Ms. Ee has passed away.”

“……”

“Mr. Kagawa.”
“But now... Ms. Ee... Ms. Ee...”

“……”

“Even if I th-think...!”
...!”

Love, romance, longing—all were uttered plainly, merely as thoughts, wrenched from his very blood.

“...Even if I think—will you forgive me?”

Looking up as he spoke, Kagawa stared intently for a moment, then knelt down and pressed close,

“Ee-chan would be pleased…… I too…… am happy.”

The vengeance of love had both parties join hands.

“Ah, your face.”

He turned around and looked once more.

That visage—here and now in the night train seat—

“There—use my lap as a pillow. No one’s here.”

Sono, in a frenzy, laid upon his formally seated knees the tomozome-clad vision—her visage pale, hair black, robe flowing, chest swelling with breasts—and spoke of love abruptly, explicitly, as if unconstrained by dreams.

IV

“Iwanuma—Iwanuma—”

When the voices of lunchbox vendors echoed and human sounds drew near—making him think dawn had broken—yet to his eyes, nothing was visible.

He startled.

Sono frantically opened the window, but utter darkness remained.

“Hello? Hello? Hello… Station staff! Someone from the station—station worker…”

he called shrilly.

“What is it?”

“Excuse me, but have my eyes become impaired?”

“You—you’re acting strangely... You really must steady yourself.”

Muttering to himself,

“What am I saying?”

Startled, he saw within the station grounds—against the dawn-lit sky—the snow-capped Karitatake Peak (as he later learned) towering there, and his eyes grew clear.

For the first time, a single passenger boarded.

When they tried to hide it with their sleeve, however, the udon in the pot was like ashes from incense sticks that had fallen and accumulated.

V

It was around when they crossed the bridge over Urakawa River—said to originate from the Great Marsh of Iwai—that...

On the return journey from Matsushima to the station, the rickshaw driver hired from the inn turned out to be the same man who had taken him from that very station to the inn at dusk the previous day, so Sono conversed with ease during the ride.

“Well, what should I say… If asked how the scenery was, I can’t exactly call it bad… Just saying ‘it was nice’ probably won’t satisfy you all, but really, I have no right to discuss Matsushima even after seeing it.”
“Since you also took care of me yesterday, you probably know—having arrived at the inn at dusk around that time, after that it was just taking a bath and going to bed.”

Until just yesterday, Sono had been in Sendai on some business.

“Dawn broke—I washed my face—from the inn’s veranda, I saw several artificial hills planted with pines floating in the mist, and a large pond—but even if I said ‘How lovely,’ that was all there was to it."
“Even if you go down to the shore—not a single wave comes rolling in, not a single cherry shell lies there.”

“But it’s impossible… I’ve heard it long before, and it’s written in old books too—to truly see Matsushima, one must go by boat."
“They say you can row freely between the so-called Eight Hundred and Eight Islands as if gliding over blue tatami mats—so just imagine how splendid it must be, each island shifting its character one by one."
“Fish would likely glide through effortlessly; wisteria is said to bloom upon the pines, with azaleas, kerria, and all manner of flowers—and amidst this, startled by the boat’s shadow, waterfowl would burst into flight in flocks, while gulls swim about…”

“That’s right, that’s right, exactly as you say… sir.”

The rickshaw driver shrugged his shoulders, tensed against the crossbar.

“If not by boat, then you’d have to go up to Tomiyama, I reckon.”
“Yes, if you go there, you can see all of Matsushima at a glance, I reckon.”

“That’s how it is, I suppose.
“After all, it’s strictly admonished that unless one tours by boat or ascends Tomiyama, the scenery of Matsushima cannot be properly discussed.”

“How ’bout this—if we make the ascent to Tomiyama from here, well, it’s under one ri. Just a short stretch, I reckon.”

“No—rather than that, I’ve come to want to return quickly and visit the grave.”
“Right.”

he said, but both the passenger who had boarded and the man pulling [the rickshaw] fell strangely silent.
Sono himself was startled to realize he had carelessly uttered such an ill-timed remark.

The rickshaw driver must have suddenly thought himself blindfolded.

The sun was white, the clouds were white, the sky too was white.
In the vast silent fields, frog voices swelled as if the earth itself were exhaling upward.
Croak-croak rumble, gwa-gwa grunt.
Among them, one particularly large specimen—where earth's vapors rose—puffed its belly high as if to catch someone's eye, bellowing deeply: gwaa-gwaa......

The rickshaw crossed the railroad tracks over the frogs' chorus.
The rain from two nights prior had dried on the road like a thin membrane stretched taut.

When one side rose into a low embankment, the wind that had been blowing until now ceased. Though there was neither mist nor haze, the fields lay hazy in all directions, midday as dim as a spring night’s obscurity. The pale sun hung weakly beneath the clouds; along the banks bloomed yellow dandelions and mingling bean flowers in scarlet and purple, yet not a speck of black shadow could be seen upon them. Clusters of crimson chaenomeles flickered here and there like lit lamps, while azaleas enveloping the tree roots took on the faint hues of sunset—yet the sun stood precisely at noon. Pine branches extending over the road bore purple wisteria, while late-blooming cherry blossoms—parting the murky green of distant mountains—flowered thickly in pale ink tones, their scattered petals forming a pale pink mound that enveloped the roots.

Beside them, two or three unmarked graves could be seen. Gazing all the while, the rickshaw traveled far along the embankment path, across terraced fields. The clouds, the sky—all were white. There, shadow-like, were the frogs' croaks—innumerable beyond counting.

Croak, croak.…

The pine and cedar trees, the field parsley, the tall spikes of sorrel—none so much as quivered—yet where dandelion flowers and bean vines covered the ditch stream, they suddenly rustled briskly in one spot, a motion too vigorous for crucian carp or loaches—it must have been a midday water rail passing through.

He seemed to be dreaming.

Though the atmosphere differed, Sono had already once passed through a place where he thought such scenery could not be found even among famous sites or historic ruins—earlier that very day.

—Near where the flow of Urakawa River—said to originate from Iwai Marsh—had widened as it approached the point of emptying into the sea.
Not far from where they had left the inn—by the roadside—they saw massive boulders, hewn and carved, standing toweringly.
Some resembled Buddhist shrines, others human skulls; some echoed meditation caves while others mirrored mountain fortress gates—at the base of these rocks, each one pooled water, with certain hollows appearing so deeply blue they might have been abysses.
Rocky edges and pines—wisteria blooming on the pines—azaleas and kerria inlaid upon stone surfaces like the purple-gold of sacred Buddhas, a demon’s tongue, a monk’s kasaya, or a general’s crimson-laced armor, their scattered reflections trembling in the water.

“Wasn’t this place also once the sea—the Matsushima of now… These rocks, one by one, like those islands—”

On one side stretched an endless reed field rustling densely, where yoshikiri birds cried kyo-tsu kyo-tsu piercingly through each clump of reeds in succession—now scattered, now flitting—their calls overwhelming the air.

After that, for a time, in every place where reeds grew sparse, yoshikiri birds sang—

Here, like the croaking of frogs…

At that time, there still existed a pale blue sky where the clouds had parted toward the sea.
Even that now seemed like a dream.

Sono felt as though he were being sent off by the cries of yoshikiri birds and welcomed by the voices of frogs.

……Perhaps a water rail darted through—rustling—and then the small ditch stirred.
...motion within that silence.

Only this: in the distance, yoshikiri birds cried incessantly; here, frogs swarmed in chorus—their sounds swelling between—where neither roofs nor gates were visible, near that mountain slope with late-blooming cherry trees, came the voices of school students reciting textbooks in unison.

Sono’s mind and spirit became utterly dazed.

“Pee-ee, chirr-chirr” went the skylark’s cry, and the rickshaw lurched violently.

“Ah, Rickshaw driver.”

The road was terrible.

“Let me get off—let me get off.”

“Ah, Master, it’s safe—I came through here just yesterday. I know the way well.”

“But yesterday too, since the path we’d cleared was still damp, even when the wheels got stuck and made it hard for you to pull, it was still manageable. If the mud’s dried into V-shaped furrows like a mortar’s groove, it’ll be terrible. Even if we don’t get hurt from falling… it would be a shame for these blooming flowers.”

Ahead on the road, where a small thatched house appeared along the meandering path, peonies planted at its back door gazed distantly like that viscountess from before.

“Hahaha, Master, how poetic.”

Then, while walking,

“Folks comin’ from Tokyo sure do love flowers, eh.”

“There are all sorts of lovely ones blooming by the roadside.”
“Who could dislike them?”

“These here—if they ain’t ones that bear fruit or can be eaten—what’s the use of yellow ones, blue ones, little things like that?”

he laughed.
But suddenly, the young man—his ruddy face glistening with sweat, brimming with vigor—pursed his lips… and turned solemn.

“That’s it, that’s it—I’ve got it!
“Master, sir—d’you know ’bout this plant called everlasting summer?”

“Everlasting summer.”

“That’s the one.”

“Isn’t that the pink?”

“That’s right—just like… yeah—I ain’t forgot.… Same kinda thing got said back then too, but we couldn’t make heads or tails of that pink.”
“Well, now—two or three years back... no, wait—must’ve been about four years now.”
“You came from Tokyo, didn’t ya? Well, whether in manner or looks—why, she was such a beautiful young lady.”

“Just one?”

“Yessir, they was a couple.—The master wore Western clothes, had that instrument for paintin’ hangin’ right here.—Never forget it, the young lady carried a fancy embroidered shawl in her hand.”
“Over the black tinged purple—well, all over—she wore a coat scattered with cherry blossom petals.”

Sono shuddered.

“Right about this time o’ year—that’s right, this very road indeed.… Tadazō an’ I were escortin’ ’em, but the young mistress—her voice, like a kalavinka singin’ in the transoms o’ Zuiganji Temple—”

“When summer comes ’round, this area must be plumb full o’ everlasting summer flowers—”

“Nah, I didn’t know nothin’ ’bout that everlasting summer.”

“—Well—it was about pinks—”

“Nah, I don’t know nothin’ ’bout pinks.
I was sweatin’ buckets back then…

Whenever there was a chance, I kept thinkin’ I’d ask someone—anyone—but through cause ’n’ effect ’n’ karma, three years passed.
Master, you like flowers, ain’t ya? If there’s any kinda plant ’round here, why don’tcha pick one ’n’ show me?”

“A pale pink, lovely flower—but they’re quite common around here.”
“They must be here.”
“Even just by the leaves, I should be able to tell.”

With a sudden lurch, he tried to cross the ditch,

“Wait.”

Sono abruptly approached the rickshaw.

He opened the basket and thought of the flower—dyed in its natural hue—of Ms. Ee’s tomozome… That was when.
The rickshaw driver—

“Ah!”

opened his mouth, grinning slyly,

“Heh-heh—fall now, and you’ll shame these flowers here.”
“Ugh… heh-heh…”
“You too, Master.”
“Sharp eyes you got there.”

“What?”

“Heh-heh—me…
“Thought ’twas a real flower in the grass,”

“What’re you…”

“What’d I mean? Heh-heh-heh.”
“Over yonder—past th’ sorrel an’ mosquito net grass—there’s a pretty flower… heh… Flower’s bowin’ down pickin’ grass.”

“Huh?”

“Ah—Master—that’s you she wants?”
While staring that way.
“Beckonin’, ain’t she?”

“This.”

“Ah—it’s me—yessir, it’s me.”

With darting glances around,

“Yessir, yessir.”

He pulled the rickshaw sideways, firmly positioning it at the field ridge, then stood abruptly in the white sunlight—casting no shadow—and kowtowed repeatedly.

“Yessir, that’s—yessir—indeed—that’s—the everlasting summer—yessir.”

He performed another kowtow.
But with an indescribable, beatific smile—as though having attained enlightenment—he turned,

“Master… Master… Master…”

“What.”

“You oughta take a look too, sir… says the young mistress.”

Sono, soul and heart both stepping into the void, lunged forward.

A slender white hand holding the everlasting summer flower—blooming in the sky with an accompanying bud—and a sakura-patterned bluish-purple coat.

“Ms. Ee……”

When he saw the refined face with its glossy round chignon, framed by wisteria-purple dappled silk.

“Gyah!”

With that shout—flinging down the shafts—the rickshaw driver fled like a skylark scattering in crosswise flight.

Desolation prevailed.
In the brief lull between frogs’ croaking, there he was—Sono, knowing full well it was a spirit—attempting to receive that phantom’s everlasting summer flower into the silver pot that had clattered free from his fukusa cloth.

Indeed, when Sono offered up the silver tripod, he was pure in both body and mind, like a holy monk. When he adjusted his collar back and slightly pulled the everlasting summer flower with a finger—thinking her elegant sloping shoulder had tilted—there was Ms. Ee’s face: thick-lashed eyes gazing fixedly as she raised a hand to her cheek in beckoning.…… A moonlike shadow streamed from her bending white fingertips.

As he moved closer, the hand became visible, the hem became visible—on the robe lay water of deepest blue.

When he faltered at her renewed beckoning, like faint clouds sweeping across the sun, her face suddenly colored with emotion—with a swift motion, she cast the everlasting summer flower into the silver pot.

The shadow of that flower too was reflected.
But now, he thought of water and fire alike.

“Pardon me.”

From behind came a rancid, cloying voice—disagreeable and stifling. When he turned toward the passing figure, there stood that pilgrim—the one who had eaten udon in the midnight rain, with his single strand of hair and festered lips.

The moment their eyes met, he grinned through a filthy mouth missing a front tooth.

The rickshaw driver shrank smaller and smaller along that path, fleeing in panic.

Now as the illusion faded, Sono found himself before a massive boulder studded with wisteria and azaleas—its roots lapped by indigo-hued water—his foot already crossed over the encircling fence.

Kinegaike (Kine Pond)—the water that claims lives!—was what they later told him.

What stirred in Sono even greater nostalgia and brimming tears than things bearing names reminiscent of Ee’s was this: whenever he gazed upon the silver pot, there bloomed the shadow of everlasting summer as though it had been planted there all along.