Pathway to Japanese Literature

One

“Don’t make a sound—come quietly.”

“I’m all right.”

“There! That’s not good!”

When the ladder rungs creaked under Shōkichi’s weight, O-Mitsu glared up at him with mischievously narrowed eyes.
The sixteen-year-old maiden’s eyes glimmered with an eerie light at that moment.

The second floor of the storehouse was dark; long chests with inventory tags, Chinese-style trunks, and utility cabinets for storing small items stood lined up in the dim southern light.
O-Mitsu accompanied Shōkichi to the northern corner and peered into the shadow of a large lacquered wicker trunk.

“Ah, they’re still here.”

“What exactly is it?”

“Take a look.”
“There.”

When he peered at the indicated spot, there was a clump of tattered cloth neatly arranged in the shadow of the wicker trunk, and in the hollow at its center, four or five small pale pink creatures were quivering and squirming.

“They’re baby mice, aren’t they?”

“That’s right—they’re cute, aren’t they?”

“That’s unsettling.”

“That’s a lie—they’re cute!”
“Look—this one at the edge here has its eyes open, see?”

“I can’t see.”

“Come closer and look.”

O-Mitsu grabbed Shōkichi’s arm and pulled him closer; their bodies pressed tightly together.
The storehouse was so quiet you could hear dust settling, the humid air at the end of the rainy season steeped in the bittersweet scent of decaying things.
Shōkichi, sensing O-Mitsu’s warmth spreading through his arm while feeling a thrilling palpitation that left him numb, swallowed hard.

“How many are there?”

“Five.”

“They’re still all naked.”

“...They’re newborns. If we wait a bit longer, fur will grow—I’m certain.”

O-Mitsu’s voice trembled pitifully.
Their pressed-together skin grew clammy with sweat, her small chest heaving with panting breaths—the true feelings of O-Mitsu, who had brought Shōkichi there under the pretense of showing him something interesting, screamed desperately through those ragged gasps.

Shōkichi could no longer bear staying still and suddenly thrust out his hand.

“I have to get rid of this one.”

“You can’t!”

O-Mitsu frantically grabbed his wrist.

“Isn’t that pitiful?”

“But… having something like this in the storehouse…”

“No, no!”

The two exchanged glances—both faces deathly pale.
O-Mitsu’s hand gripping Shōkichi’s wrist trembled violently.
Yet her eyes suddenly shone boldly, and her crimson-dampened lips twitched as if longing to speak.
Shōkichi tried to shake free; O-Mitsu resisted letting go. A fumbling struggle ensued until she staggered—when he caught her, they found themselves embracing each other, neither knowing who had initiated it.

“No—!”
“You mustn’t!”

O-Mitsu’s fiery breath and
“Miss O-Mitsu”

—Shōkichi’s violent gasps became entangled.
A cloud shimmering like violet eyes surrounded them, swirling in a dizzying vortex.

“Shō-san… Shō-san…”

O-Mitsu’s faint, breathless cry drew close to Shōkichi’s ear.
Shōkichi frantically embraced O-Mitsu’s supple, warm body.—And just as that tactile sensation began to grow clearer,

“Shō-san! What’s wrong? Shō-san!”

Shaken awake by violent shoulder shaking, Shōkichi suddenly awoke from sleep—it had been a dream.

“What’s gotten into you, napping in a place like this—ain’t that bad for you? Mr. Tatsu’s here, get up.”

Beside the woman—brazenly sitting with one knee raised despite her light yellow underkimono’s hem peeking out, her bold appearance clad in a striped silk crepe lined kimono with black satin obi and a workman’s coat with collar thrown over it—Tatsujirō laughed with a grim expression.

“Mr. Tatsu…”

“Got some business to discuss,” said O-Mon. “He ran into me comin’ back from the bathhouse on his way here.”

“Get closer to the fire.”

Shōkichi sat up listlessly—O-Mon had arranged her toiletries before the mirror, filled the washbowl with hot water, and was spreading out her white powder jar and peony-shaped brush when—

“You were havin’ awful nightmares.”

“……”

“Lately you get nightmares soon as you sleep—proof your sickness is worsenin’. I keep sayin’ you mustn’t nap like this.”

二

Shōkichi silently reached into his pocket.
It was an unsettling cold sweat.

——My time’s running out.

Shōkichi thought.

――Maybe this constant dreaming of O-Mitsu lately comes from that too.
They say when folks are dying, they dream their whole lives through.

“Got work,” Tatsujirō said to O-Mon.

“Another of your usual rackets?”

“Nah—even Hashiba’s boss can’t catch a break these days. Three more days like this and we’ll all shrivel up like jerky.”

“Same here.”

“So here’s the plan—listen up, the script goes like this: The boss of Hashiba’s bringing a mark along. Location’s the Yanaka residence in Yokomido.”

“So it’s a gambling scheme, then.”

“It’s gambling alright, but there’s a twist—when the boss brings the mark along, it’s what they call a rigged game. Listen—there’s a fresh country mark ripe for plucking, so we came to propose setting up a rigged game together.”

“Is there really some fresh country bumpkin of a mark?”

“That’s where the trick comes in—we’ll have Shō-san here play the mark. He starts up a game as the mark. We all know it’s rigged—let him win enough, then Shō-san here busts the rigged game wide open.”

“I see.”

“Loaded dice break gambling laws—take the house cut and they’ll roll you up in a mat for the river. Can’t complain—that’s our code. But with Shō-san’s face lookin’ so fierce, the intimidation’ll stick for sure.”

“Interesting—that might just do the trick.”

O-Mon turned around,

"So—you got marks lined up for this?"

"You think I'd come jawin' 'bout it empty-handed? Two gents carryin' fifty ryō apiece."

"Let's do it."

"Appreciate the quick yes. Job's sudden-like—ain't got nobody else. Figured Shō-san here's our man. Now 'scuse me—gotta report back to Hashiba. Be at Yanaka's place inside an hour, a'ight?"

“Oh, so it’s tonight?”

“The mark’s already arrived at Hashiba.”

With that said, Tatsujirō stood up.

After seeing Tatsujirō out and returning, O-Mon found Shōkichi still leaning against the wall, vacant eyes searching the sky—cloudy, dull eyes; skin dry as pale paper; hollowed cheeks; lusterless hair… Trembling, O-Mon averted her gaze as she undressed before the mirror.

“Shō-san… You’ll do that job we discussed… won’t you?”

“……I won’t.”

It was a curt reply.

“You say ‘I won’t’—but why?”

“I already refused the other day. I’ve had enough of these despicable jobs—made it clear I want no part in them.”

“Despicable jobs, you say?—Hmph.”

While confidently applying white powder to her freshly bathed skin, O-Mon sneered:

“Aren’t we speaking so nobly now, Shō-san? From the medicine for your consumption to the food you eat each day—do you even know who’s responsible for putting it all in your mouth?”

“What if I did know? What then?”

“That’s why you can’t talk so high and mighty—even a cat remembers three days of kindness.”

“O-Mon! You…!”

Shōkichi instinctively grabbed the teacup from atop the long brazier’s cat board.

“You—are you serious about saying that?”

“Tit for tat—we’re both guilty here.”

“Damn you!”

Shōkichi’s body shook violently as he screamed.

“How dare you spout such lies! You—who turned me into this wreck! You—who deceived an upright shopkeeper who knew nothing of the world’s filth! Made me steal the master’s money—the master who showed me great kindness! Dragged me into this bottomless swamp where I’ll never find redemption! Who did this?!”
“Who’s the one who turned me into this consumptive wreck?!”

“It’s too late for regrets now—whose fault do you think this is? You fell into that hole because you wanted to! I didn’t drag you here kicking and screaming with a noose around your neck!”

“Damn you!! You whore!!”

Shōkichi’s hand clutching the teacup trembled violently.
He tried to hurl it at the back of the woman who had smeared ointment.
Then a terrible cough suddenly welled up—Shōkichi flung the teacup away and, clutching his throat with both hands, collapsed in a fit of violent hacking.
Behind his tightly shut eyelids—clenched against the pain—the cherished face of O-Mitsu, whom he had just seen in a dream, now appeared vividly.

III

He remembered when he first came to Edo—he had been twelve years old. When brought from his hometown Nagasaki by his father, he entered service at the shop of Mohei Tsukushiya, a fellow townsman. Tsukushiya stood among Edo’s foremost merchants of Chinese goods—what would now be called a trading company—its grand premises in Nihonbashi Honchō boasting a twelve-ken frontage and five storehouses lining its rear.

Mohei had no sons but two daughters named O-Tsuna and O-Mitsu.
Because their fathers had been close friends in their hometown, Shōkichi received special treatment compared to the other servants and grew up alongside the two daughters as companions.

Shōkichi possessed a good disposition, excellent character, and talent surpassing ordinary men—traits that led Mohei to eventually designate him as husband for his elder daughter O-Tsuna and heir to Tsukushiya.
Yet around this time, Shōkichi had secretly begun exchanging vows of love with O-Mitsu, the younger daughter.
Then one day... within the depths of the inner storehouse, as they engaged in innocent meetings, one of the clerks discovered them.

Mohei—who had made all the arrangements to take Shōkichi as O-Tsuna’s husband—was furious.
O-Mitsu was immediately sent to the Negishi dormitory, and Shōkichi was demoted to running errands like an apprentice for a year as punishment.—This small discord became the cause that twisted Shōkichi’s fate, and just as he had sunk into utter despair, O-Mon appeared.
O-Mon had hung a sign as an Enbubushi music instructor behind Tsukushiya’s premises—a front for her true occupation as a woman engaged in dubious dealings—but she had long since set her sights on Shōkichi’s striking beauty. Skillfully ensnaring him in his despair, she claimed him as her own. Shōkichi ultimately embezzled fifty ryō from the shop and fled with O-Mon. ……For five years since then, they had dwelled in a bottomless abyss of darkness—tasting every flavor of lawlessness through extortion, blackmail, honey traps—and now, owing to the woman’s insatiable carnal appetites, he had become a man afflicted with incurable tuberculosis——.

"It's punishment—punishment. All Master and O-Mitsu-chan's punishment falling upon me."

Shōkichi twisted in agony and groaned.

"What a sight—what a sight. Damned fool. This is exactly what I deserve."

"Shō-san... Shō-san."

O-Mon had been watching his state coldly but soon approached in a soothing tone.

"Now now Shō-san—no need to get so heated over nothing.—Sure I went too far, but you're being cruel too."
"No matter how much of a hardened shrew O-Mon may be, you think I do this for fun? It's all to build a proper life with you."
"Maybe... maybe ruining you like this is my sin—but I never lied about devoting my whole life to you."

“――――”

“It’s precisely because you cared for me—even a little—that we’ve fallen this far together, isn’t it?—When someone like me who only knows life in the shadows joins with a greenhorn like you, Shō-san, there’s no path left but this hole we’re in. Listen—I’m ready to go even to hell’s depths with you.”

O-Mon, intoxicated by her own words, gently placed her hand on Shōkichi’s shoulder.—Shōkichi remained as motionless as a dead man.

“Come on, you understand, don’t you?”

“――――”

“If you’d just understand—let’s fix your mood now. And if tonight’s job goes well, we’ll spend New Year’s relaxing at a hot spring treatment together. That’ll surely cure your illness too.”

O-Mon—convinced she had persuaded him—gently caressed Shōkichi’s shoulder before rising.

“Come now—cheer up. Let’s get going soon, Shō-san.”

“――――”

“I’ll go change clothes now.”

O-Mon stood up and went into the next room.
Listening intently to those footsteps, Shōkichi suddenly stood up and—driven by some unknown impulse—headed straight for the latticed entrance.

“Oh? What’s wrong, Shō-san?”

A woman’s voice called out, “Shō-san—what’s wrong? …Shō-san!!”

Shōkichi had rushed outside.

I’ll escape—tonight I’ll finally escape this quagmire!

Outside was a moonlit night swept by piercing winter winds.
He ran frantically for about a block; but having dashed headlong through the biting cold, when he reached Ōkawabata another violent cough surged up, and he all but collapsed onto the lumber piled along the riverbank, gasping breathlessly between racking coughs.
When the fit finally subsided, his entire body dripped with clammy sweat, leaving him immobilized for some time.

The river waves lapped noisily. Hearing bird cries high above, he looked up to see a distant flock of wild geese passing ever westward.

“In the direction those wild geese are flying lies Nagasaki.”

Shōkichi murmured sorrowfully.

“Nagasaki… Nagasaki—Mother!!”

Suddenly—utterly suddenly—a feverish longing for his hometown surged up in Shōkichi’s chest.—The sound of waves lapping against Kōyagishima reached his ears; the flags of Dejima’s Foreigners’ Quarters came into view.
The mountain of Suwa Shrine, the Chinese-style spectacles bridge… they all appeared before him as clearly as scenes in a peep-show picture.

“Yes—I’ll return to Nagasaki. This body won’t last another six months anyway. Let me die after setting foot in my homeland—see Mother one last time, apologize for my filial failures, and die.”

Once the thought struck him, he could no longer contain himself.
Shōkichi stood up panting.

IV

“What rotten luck—not even two shu, let alone two ryō.”

“I see.”

“It’s been a uniform drought since the crackdowns—shameful as it is, I’m reduced to stripping my wife bare just to slurp gruel.—You’re in a hurry, aren’t you?”

“Nah, don’t worry ’bout it—my bad for makin’ a scene—ain’t got nothin’ to forgive.”

“This ain’t no joke—I’m the one who should apologize for draggin’ you out here.”

“Alright, I’ll come back.”

Shōkichi emerged from the alleyway with a bone-deep chill.

—Still no good?

I’ll return to Nagasaki—no matter what it takes!
He resolved.
However, given his current physical state, a walking journey would be impossible; when he went to inquire at the shipping agent’s office, he learned that fortunately, a ship bound for Nagasaki would depart from Edobashi tomorrow morning at seven.
Moreover, it was the last ship of the year—if he missed this one, there would be none until after the fifteenth day of the New Year. Hearing this, his longing to return blazed like fire doused with oil.
Including the fare—two ryō—to scrape together barely sufficient travel expenses, he ran frantically through the winter wind.

However, the town magistrate’s relentless crackdown on arsonists and thieves since autumn had wreaked havoc even among their associates—not a single one could scrape together even two ryō.

"What should I do—if I miss tomorrow’s ship, there won’t be another until after the fifteenth day of the New Year. This body might not last until then—no matter what it takes, I want to return—ah, what should I do?"

Due to the fatigue and cold from fruitless wandering, Shōkichi—his body utterly frozen—suddenly felt compelled to duck under the noren of an izakaya he happened upon.
The shop stood desolate and devoid of patrons. A portly man who appeared to be the proprietor fixed Shōkichi with a sharp, glinting stare.

“Sake. Get me some.”

“Which grade shall I prepare?”

“The... uh...”

Shōkichi mentally counted the coins in his pocket.

“The plum grade will do.”

“What about a side dish?”

“Don’t need it—just fighting off the chill.”

The proprietor sullenly brought heated sake.—Shōkichi didn’t touch the snacks laid out there, gulping it down like a man parched.
When he started on the second bottle, the proprietor—who had been studying Shōkichi since earlier—leaned forward and spoke.

“Begging your pardon if I’m wrong—but you’re from Kyushu way, ain’t ya?”

“Well—you can tell? I’m from Nagasaki.”

“That’s nostalgic—I’m from Nagasaki too.”

“You’re from there too, Boss?”

Shōkichi’s eyes gleamed,

“Now that’s a strange twist of fate—I’m from down Ichinose way. Where’re you from, Boss?”

“There’s no need to ask such things.”

The proprietor’s expression suddenly changed, a beastly cruel look surfacing.—Shōkichi averted his eyes and remained silent.

“Drink this—it’s on me.”

The proprietor heated another bottle of premium sake and brought it over—and softened his tone.

"I figured there was an accent in your speech—no matter how many decades pass, you can't shake that hometown twang, eh young man? But—"

"—"

"You don't look like no honest sort yourself. Quit this damn interrogation—let me drink in peace then get going."

"My bad for askin' dumb questions."

Shōkichi replied plainly, "—Hearin' we're from the same place made my tongue slip—don't take offense."

“I get it already.”

“I’ll take that treat.”

Shōkichi drank the proprietor’s sake without ceremony.—Then, having quickly settled the bill,

“If fate ties us, we’ll meet again.”

With that, he stepped outside. Hearing the izakaya proprietor mention Nagasaki had fueled Shōkichi’s longing to return home all the more, and he now recalled the “rigged gambling scheme” that Tatsujirō the Weasel had come to tell him about earlier.

"Just once more—tonight’s the end of it all. I’ll pull this off just once."

Shōkichi steeled his resolve.—The location was said to be the Hanae residence in Yokoami—a small eatery their associates had frequently used before, and one Shōkichi of course knew well.

Five

About five or six ken in from Yokoami’s riverbank stood a modest two-story structure with "Hanae Residence" displayed on an eaves lantern out front.
It had just barely turned ten o'clock—If I make it in time, that’s all that matters—he thought as he entered through the familiar garden entrance.

At that moment, a man suddenly emerged from the darkness to the right—

“Who goes there?”

—he peered in his direction.

“I’m just…”

Shōkichi had begun to say—then stopped dead in his tracks: the man’s defensive stance as he sized him up, right hand thrust into his coat and weight shifted to his heels—one glance told him this was a constable.

Damn it—they’ve set a trap.

As he thought this—

“You’re under arrest!”

As he thought this—it happened simultaneously with the man lunging at him.

Shōkichi twisted his body, dodging the jutte’s strike, slammed into his opponent, then flipped around and vaulted over the wall.

“You there—stand your ground!”

The constable blew his whistle while giving chase—a sharp trill sliced through the biting cold air.

I won't be caught—no matter what it takes, I'll make it back to Nagasaki. I'll see Mother one last time—no matter what it takes.

Shōkichi fled frantically. Yet the whistle blasts closed in from left and right, front and rear, converging like a tightening noose—the authorities had laid an exceptionally thorough trap.—Shōkichi cut through Honjo Okura’s moat, doubling back toward Koizumi-chō to reach Ryōgoku, but before emerging onto the main road, police lanterns blocked his path.

—No good?

When he instinctively turned back, from that direction too there were seven or eight figures—utterly hopeless.

—Damn it!

With a groan, he instinctively leapt at the black-painted fence to his right and swiftly vaulted over into the compound.—He landed hard on his hip and froze in place—outside the wall, the scattered footsteps of fleeing men grew distant. Shōkichi lay on the frozen ground, unable to move a muscle as he gasped for breath for some time.

—He made it.

When the police whistles faded into silence, Shōkichi muttered as though life returned to him.

“Tonight’s setup feels off—they’re too heavily prepared for just my crew.—Must’ve been some bigger police raid going down.”
“I got caught in the crossfire… Judging by how things went down, O-Mon, Hashiba, and Tatsu’ve likely been hauled in too—they’ve all reached their reckoning.”

Shōkichi quietly rose.

"But I'll escape—even if I have to bite into a rock to do it—and make it to Nagasaki…"

As he muttered this, a certain idea abruptly floated into his head.—That was a terrifying thought.Shōkichi shuddered violently... No good! Can’t do it! he scolded himself.But what else could I do?

"The ship departs tomorrow morning at seven o'clock."

Shōkichi fixedly surveyed his surroundings.
A small garden of lavish construction where no expense had been spared, its two-story lodging still redolent with the scent of fresh wood.
Moreover—whether by fortune or misfortune—as if urging entry from here, one panel of the veranda door had been left open.

Shōkichi, half in a daze, unsteadily slipped inside from there.

—He’d finally done it.
No matter how destitute he’d become, he’d avoided outright thievery—but this night of all nights was the absolute end.
Yes!
What would come of it?

Having steeled his resolve, Shōkichi drew the dagger from his breast and proceeded from the veranda toward the sitting room.
The house stood deathly silent; his chest pounded as though it might split open while his knees trembled violently beneath him.
Since the building remained newly constructed, however much he tried to muffle his footsteps, creaks arose at every step.

Damn it—if I’m discovered, I’ll just have to threaten them with the dagger.

Urging himself onward, he crouched in the corridor when reaching what seemed the master’s sitting room and quietly slid open the shoji screen.
And the instant he stepped inside—!
Shōkichi suddenly had his shin violently swept out from under him by an unseen force in the darkness,

“Agh—!”

He screamed and fell; immediately tried to leap up; given no chance, was pinned down from behind in a forceful straddling hold.

—It’s over!

The instant he realized this, a violent coughing fit seized him; pinned down, his body convulsed as he hacked uncontrollably.

"Someone bring a light! It's a thief!"

The man straddling him shouted.

Hearing the shouts repeated two or three times, two young maidservants came running with hand candles.
The man who appeared to be the master wrested the dagger from Shōkichi's hand—perhaps judging his violent coughing left no possibility of escape—and shifted his weight off him.

"Bring the light over here."

he said to the trembling maidservants.

VI

“Ah… you…”

In the light of the hand candle, as soon as he saw Shōkichi’s face lying prone, the master’s complexion abruptly changed.
And turning back to the maidservants trembling in fear,

“That’s enough. I need to think things through—you all go to the other room.”

“Um... uh—we should report this to the police station.”

“When it comes to reporting, I’ll be the one to say so. Go to the other room and stay quiet.”

The maidservants left the corridor in hurried steps that scarcely seemed to touch the ground.
—The master listened intently to the sound of their retreating footsteps, then for a time kept his gaze fixed on Shōkichi’s form—until at last, in a voice brimming with suppressed strength,

“Shōkichi—why don’t you look up?”

he said.
Shōkichi's body jerked spasmodically.
The heaving back stopped—Shōkichi timidly raised his face, and after staring for a while at the master’s face illuminated by the hand-candle’s light with eyes like those of an imbecile, suddenly—
“Agh—D-Da... Master!”

He screamed and tried to leap up—the instant he did, the master grabbed his shoulder, slammed him down, and pressed a foot against his back while—

“Do you recognize me? Do you recognize this face of mine?”
“You shameless dog! After putting Tsukushiya Mohei through such agony, you still weren’t satisfied—to even stoop to burglary makes you a subhuman wretch lower than beasts!”

“It’s—it’s a mistake, M-Master!”

Shōkichi screamed as if his innards were being twisted—what a cruel irony of fate.
Driven to an absolute dead end with no retreat, the house he had broken into for his first crime—it was Tsukushiya Mohei’s dormitory.

“Get out! Get lost!”

Mohei kicked Shōkichi’s back away.

“Having you arrested with these hands would defile them.
Get out of here! Vanish!”
“This Mohei—I’ve waited in greater anguish than if I’d lost my own son, wondering if today might finally see you return as a proper human being.”

“——”

“Mohei could endure that.
But... The pitiful one is O-Mitsu. You likely don’t even recall her, yet she couldn’t forget you—now she lives in this dormitory like some half-crippled invalid.”
“...O-Mitsu still believes you’ll surely return to her—and yet you... you...”

Shōkichi, lying face down on the tatami mat, arched his body like a bow; a gurgling, eerie sound rang out, and a torrent of blood burst from his mouth.
Even Mohei recoiled in shock.
And in the light of the hand candle, he looked at Shōkichi’s form anew.
A countenance far too ravaged, a form far too transformed.

“—Shōkichi!”

“Master...”

“You’re this gravely ill?”

“It is punishment—the divine punishment of Heaven has struck. Master… Shōkichi has come to this.”

“With such a body, why would you...?”

“—I wanted… to return to Nagasaki.”

Shōkichi said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

“I wanted to see my mother one last time before dying—it was for two ryō in travel money that I first broke into this house… Tonight, for the first time, Shōkichi has come to understand the terror of divine punishment.”

“I cannot bring myself to beg for forgiveness… But please, Master—spare Shōkichi as he is.”

“——”

“Please spare me without saying anything.”

Mohei silently gazed at Shōkichi’s profile—then after a while, he went over to the clothes chest, prepared a money bundle, and returned.

“Take this and go.”

He threw it down with a thud.

“Huh?—”

“This isn’t for you—it’s for your mother waiting in Nagasaki. …O-Mitsu went out tonight to Koume’s Echigoya dormitory for the year-end nagauta recital, but she’ll be returning soon. I won’t let her see you in this state—take that and leave quickly.”

Shōkichi wordlessly received the money bundle with both hands raised in humble acceptance.

"Nagasaki is warm country—take this chance to convalesce as though reborn."
"And show me—just once—your face made human again."

He never said to whom—Shōkichi gritted his teeth and stifled a sob.

Mohei accompanied him to the back gate and gave him a paper lantern engraved with a family crest.
For one pursued by authorities, this was the ultimate gift.
Shōkichi received it wordlessly, offering a bow steeped in unspoken sentiments… just once.
Planting his faltering feet firmly, he pressed onward through the winter wind toward Ryōgoku—

7

“Oh, you’re back again?”

It was the same tavern from earlier.

“This time, make it a good one.”

Shōkichi said with a sad smile.

“I can’t stomach having you keep treating me to your business sake when I don’t even know if we’ll meet again like this—…and there’s something I want your congratulations for.”

“Did something good happen?”

“I’m headin’ back to Nagasaki tomorrow mornin’.”

The owner glared sharply while heating the sake.—It was an unpleasant gaze.

“Didn’t look so cheery earlier, did ya.”

“That’s why I came for your congratulations.”

“That’s mighty bold—goin’ by land?”

“By ship. Oh—here it comes.”

As the owner brought a heated sake decanter and two cups, Shōkichi—as if unable to wait—offered them up.

“This one’s on me for earlier.”

“If ya put it that way, I’m plumb embarrassed—reckon I’ll take it.”

“Won’t ya celebrate my safe voyage—tomorrow mornin’ I’ll be bidin’ Edo farewell for good.”
“Nagasaki after twelve years—must’ve changed somethin’ fierce. Close my eyes and I can near see it now.”

“Here’s your return cup—”

“I can’t keep this up—just turned down another offer back there. I’m gonna be reborn now—goin’ home to start over from scratch. Everythin’—absolutely everythin’—starts fresh from here.”

“That’s a fine scheme ya got there—but easy it ain’t.”

“Yeah—rebirthing a single human being ain’t no easy work, but I’ll damn well do it. Even if it’s all lies—there’s someone I gotta show my real human self to, just once.”

“I know—your lover, right?”

“That’s not it—she ain’t someone you can dismiss with that word anymore, not now. —Ah, tonight’s had more twists than all my twenty-four years bundled together. Nothin’ but changes piling up.”

But Shōkichi should have waited a little longer before saying such things—the threads fate pulls remain invisible to the eye, yet the law of cause and effect weaves its patterns with uncanny precision.

The final incident of that night occurred scarcely half an hour later.

As he had the owner prepare some rice gruel, the oil-paper door at the side of the earthen floor was thrown open roughly, and there came the sense of people stomping inside.

“We’ll be using the back room.”

Seeing this, the owner—
“Oh no! From the back—…”

At the sight of someone frantically waving their hands, Shōkichi turned around with a start to see three ruffian-like men—just as they were manhandling a young woman and trying to drag her into the back room.
In that instant, Shōkichi remembered this tavern’s true nature—he must have sensed something off about the owner’s behavior. Strip away the veneer, and this was a den of violent deeds.

“Help me! Help me!”

As they disappeared through the sliding door into the back, the girl—having apparently spotted Shōkichi in the tavern—let out a scream like tearing silk.
Shōkichi turned back toward the owner; the owner kept fanning beneath the small pot with an innocent air—Shōkichi rose smoothly and moved forward.

“Where do you think you’re going!”

At the shouted voice, he turned to look—the owner stood gripping a sashimi knife in his right hand.
—Shōkichi grinned slyly while casually picking up the silver flower hairpin that had fallen on the earthen floor,

“What a shame—such a pretty hairpin covered in mud—Master.”

He said quietly, twirling the trembling silver hairpin as if examining some rare object while returning.

“Hmph.
Two or three hairpins getting caked in mud in one night ain’t unusual in Edo.”

“Well, nothing unusual at all—Master.”

“That’s why I ain’t plannin’ to look, young one.”

The owner said in a pressing tone—in that instant, Shōkichi’s foot suddenly kicked upward into the owner’s groin.

“Ungh!
You bastard!”

Shōkichi snatched the sashimi knife from the groaning man’s hand—leaping up in a flash, he kicked open the sliding door and charged into the back room.
Hearing a noise from the front room,

“Who’s there? Brother Gon?”

As someone slid open the shoji screen to look—Shōkichi suddenly thrust the sashimi knife into their throat.

“Gyaa!”

With a scream, he shoved the staggering man aside and burst into the room—the two men who had been restraining the young woman inside cried out and stood up—Shōkichi charged straight at them, knife still in hand, throwing his full weight into the attack.

Pierced through the chest by a desperate knife thrust, one man collapsed with a crash, bringing the sliding door down with him.
From beside them, the remaining one drew his dagger and stabbed Shōkichi in the lower abdomen—

“Bastard!”

“Ah!”

Shōkichi, turning around in that instant, thrust the knife deep into the man’s side with such force it pierced bone.

“S-Someone… come quick… Ugh…”

Groaning eerily, he collapsed in a heap atop his comrade.—Shōkichi too, unable to endure the pain of his lower abdominal wound, found himself staggering unsteadily—

“Help me! Please help me!”

At the girl’s voice, he snapped back to awareness, rushed over, and swiftly cut her bonds.
—And at that very moment, the girl

“Ah—you’re Shō-san!”

she arched back in shock and screamed.

“Eh—⁉”

Shōkichi’s eyes flew open wildly—

“Have you forgotten me, Shō-san?”

“Ah—”

“O-Mitsu...
“I’ve longed to see you.”

As the girl cried out desperately and clung to him with wild abandon, Shōkichi stood frozen in shock, his breath catching in his throat.
What a strange twist of fate—the girl before him was none other than Tsukushiya’s daughter, O-Mitsu.

“I wanted to see you—I wanted to see you so badly.”

“Miss O-Mitsu!”

Shōkichi too lost himself and embraced her tightly.

VIII

A turbulent affection mingling joy and sorrow, remorse and apology surged through Shōkichi's entire being like scorching flames—but this was no moment to dwell in such emotions.

"It's dangerous here—get outside quickly!"

With that, Shōkichi—who had lifted O-Mitsu—exited through the back door while enduring his injury.

They ran five or six blocks through the dark town swept by the winter wind, letting their feet carry them.
It was said that O-Mitsu had been attacked on her way back from Echigoya that night—her manservant knocked down—before being abducted into that hellish place.

“I’d already prepared myself to die.”

“We’ll be safe now that we’ve come this far.”

Shōkichi halted at the dark street corner, panting; the agony of trying to conceal the wound in his lower abdomen—blood continued flowing beneath the kimono.

“From here, the dormitory is close. Miss O-Mitsu, please hurry back.”

“Did you think I’d go back alone?”

O-Mitsu sidled closer,

“I refuse—if I’m not with you, O-Mitsu has no reason to live.”
“Shō-san—you have no idea how long I’ve waited.”

“…………”

“How cruel… How cruel… Shō-san.”

A pain fiercer than his abdominal wound relentlessly gouged at Shōkichi’s chest.—I can’t— Shōkichi shook his head violently. “I won’t let O-Mitsu see me like this.”
Mohei’s words came back to him piercingly, piercingly.

From O-Mitsu—who was choking back sobs as if unable to bear it—Shōkichi quietly detached himself and said,

“Please go back, Miss O-Mitsu.”

“————”

“Shōkichi will return to Nagasaki too—and be reborn as a decent man, as the Shōkichi of old.”
“I had a bad dream.”

“Shō-san!”

“It was a bad dream—one that felt unreal in this world.”
“But that dream has ended. I will return to my hometown and cleanse this tainted body.”
“Surely—surely—I’ll return as Shōkichi the decent man.”

“You can’t— Come with me, Shō-san.”
“Come with me, Shō-san.”

“Farewell—please take pity on Shōkichi as a wretched soul… Farewell.”

“Wait, wait, Shō-saaan!”

Shaking off O-Mitsu’s clinging hands, Shōkichi staggered away unsteadily.
In his right hand tucked into his breast—while firmly gripping O-Mitsu’s floral hairpin he’d picked up from the izakaya’s earthen floor.
……High, high across the winter-wind-swept sky, yet another flock of wild geese was crossing westward, crying plaintively as they went.

The following morning.

At Edo Bridge’s boat landing, where dawn had just barely broken, a man lay dead, bathed in snow-like white frost.
The one who discovered him was the boatman of the Nagasaki ship Hachiman Maru that departed from there that morning.

The dead man had sustained a ghastly wound to his lower abdomen, but in the hand pressed firmly against his chest, he clutched a single beautiful floral hairpin with unyielding tightness.—The gathered people crafted their own theories about the man’s wretched state, his pitiful manner of death, and the enigmatic combination of these with the exquisite hairpin.
But none noticed that his death face bore a serene smile—devoid of any shadow of pain—resembling the peaceful demise of a renowned monk.

On the morning of December 17th in Tenpō 11, around seven o’clock, the Nagasaki ship Hachiman Maru departed from the shore where this strange corpse lay, setting sail into a splendidly calm sea with the resounding blare of conch shells.