Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

“Hey! Look! Look!”

“Huh?”

“Do you know that ronin who comes around here?”

“That’d be Kamada Sonjirou—the one who moved into our shop’s residence.”

“That might be his registered name, but…”

Kinpachi the fish seller smirked. “That fella’s one helluva Amajirou, I tell ya.”

On the outskirts of Hamamatsu Castle Town in Enshū Province, a ronin passed before Inoshimatsu wholesaler’s storefront.

He appeared twenty-eight or twenty-nine years old—tall-statured with a robust build, sun-tanned skin, and piercing eyes—an exceptionally handsome man for these parts. Having relocated to Inoshimatsu’s rear tenement over ten days prior, this ronin from western provinces went by Kamada Sonjirou.

“What’s this ‘Amajirou’ business?”

“Well, I ain’t heard that one before.”

Kinpachi tapped his pipe. “About seven days back, I was headin’ out shoppin’ when I passed by—there was that master doin’ laundry out back, ain’t he? After I says ‘Mornin’’—damn fool move—shoulda kept walkin’ like I saw nothin’—but he just cool as you please—‘My, you’re up bright ’n early’—grinnin’ all sly-like.”

“So I asks him—‘Your wife feelin’ poorly or somethin’?’”

“Then he hits me with this gem—‘Nothin’ particular wrong with her—just a mite spoiled, see? Wants her beauty sleep mornings. Womenfolk—always a trial to keep happy, ain’t they? Ahahahaha!’—that’s how he played it off.”

“Hmm, quite the character, ain’t he?”

Yoshikou, a loose-lipped clerk at Inoshimatsu who could no longer contain himself, leaned forward—

“Come to think of it, that ronin does everything himself—from buying a sho of rice to greengrocery shoppin’, I tell ya!”

“Really? That’s—”

“Ain’t just once or twice—I’ve seen it myself. With that Jōkuro-like build of the fifth rank he’s got? The sight of him hauling potatoes… now that’s somethin’ you don’t see every day.”

“That’s what I’m sayin’!”

Kinpachi wore a look of triumph,
“His real name might be Kamada Sonjirou or whatever, but he himself swears Amajirou’s the true one.”
“A husband sweet on his wife, huh?”

Just as everyone burst out laughing, Yoshikou's temple resounded with a sharp smack.

“Ow!”

Startled, he turned around—
“You damn fool!”

And another one.
Unbeknownst to him, the retired Rokubei of this house had come up behind him.

“So now ya say he’s Amajirou?”
“These fools spoutin’ nonsense! Unlike you lot—mule drivers and palanquin bearers—samurai got special understandin’.”
“Cherishin’ the wife like that must have deep reasons behind it! I won’t stand for this worthless backbitin’!”

“Even so, old retiree—mule drivers and samurai ain’t different in human feelin’s, right? An Amajirou’s still an Amajirou, ain’t he?”

“That’s why I’m callin’ you blind! Take a proper look at Mr. Kamada’s face—you think that’s some common mug grovelin’ before his wife? A man of his quality comes once in a thousand!”

“So he’s your one-in-a-thousand Amajirou then…”

A sharp slap struck Yoshikou again.

“You bastard! If you spew that nonsense one more time, I’ll toss you out—got it?”

Rokubei roared, eyes bulging.

However, such talk was bound to spread—after all, he was an exceptionally handsome man rarely seen throughout Hamamatsu Castle Town. Though a ronin, he maintained impeccable grooming; neither the shaved crown of his head nor his beard ever showed signs of growing out. Though his garments were poor, he wore them with such meticulous care—spotless and never showing a speck of grime—and this air of unassailable propriety only made the rumors all the more tantalizing.

“Amajirou to His Wife”

“Master Amajirou—”

And so the reputation of “Amajirou” swiftly spread throughout the vicinity.

On a certain day when over twenty days had passed since Sonjirou had moved in, Inoshimatsu’s retired Rokubei visited Sonjirou’s ronin residence, bringing Yoshikou along.

Kamada Sonjirou, who had been swinging a wooden sword in the garden, amiably invited them inside.

“You have done well to come.”

He turned toward the back room and said, “Sugie, we have guests. Prepare some tea.”

“Oh, please don’t trouble yourself.”

“There is no need for such consideration in a humble dwelling like this.”
“Sugie—we have guests.”

He said with a click of his tongue as he stood.
“Hopeless creature—you must be complaining of a headache again.”
“Lately your whims have grown even more trying—”
He went out to the water source, muttering complaints.

II

Before long, Sonjirou returned with tea,

“I must apologize for the delay.”

and sat facing them,

“Might I inquire as to your business?”

“The truth is, I have come to discuss a matter.”

“Ah,”

“This may be presumptuous of me,”

Rokubei leaned forward. “Master, though I assume your current circumstances as a ronin bring many hardships—given that you have time to spare like this, would you consider beginning something akin to a temple school? I would be honored to make the arrangements, humble though my efforts may be.”

“That is most considerate of you.”

Sonjirou bowed but, suddenly lowering his voice, spoke awkwardly:

“I would very much like to accept your kind offer, but—the truth is, my wife suffers from a chronic melancholic condition. If gathering children in this house were to displease her, it would be troublesome. Therefore, though it is most presumptuous of me, if you could prepare another venue, this one would gladly go there to conduct the instruction.”

“Ah, is that so?”

Even Rokubei was taken aback.
For him to claim that hosting children might disturb his wife’s mood when someone was going out of their way to help—what an audacious statement. But Rokubei, having come this far,

“Very well. Fortunately, there are two vacant units at the end of the tenement—we shall make some modifications to create a training hall. As for gathering the children and procuring supplies, though it may be presumptuous, I shall handle those matters myself.”

“Your generous kindness is most humbly appreciated.”

When the discussion was concluded, Rokubei stood up,

“Sugie, we’re returning now,” he called toward the back room. “Surely you can at least see us off? What? Your chest must be aching—you impossible creature.”

“No, please remain as you are.”

“I am a selfish one; I must beg your forgiveness.”

The love for his wife that seeped through every word—Rokubei bid farewell and stepped out, feeling a pang of envy in his heart—and there was Yoshikou, who had been waiting outside.

“Psst—Honorable Rokubei—”

He lowered his voice and beckoned.

“What is it?”

“C’mere and take a look-see.”

Yoshikou led Rokubei to the side. When he gestured for him to listen to what was happening inside and Rokubei leaned in curiously, Sonjirou’s voice came from behind the small window’s paper screen.

“Forgive me, Sugie—when guests come, men tend to grow arrogant, and I end up speaking harshly without meaning to. Ah, very well—stay as you are. This one will go tidy the washing now.”

“How about it, Honorable Rokubei?”

Yoshikou whispered.

“Every day it’s like this—ain’t he still Amajirou?”

“You damn fool!”

With a sharp slap, Yoshikou’s temple rang out.

“Ow!”

“What d’ya think you’re doin’ eavesdroppin’ here? A lowlife like you wouldn’t understand a damn thing! Pull another stunt like this and I’ll throw you out for good!”

Clutching his head, Yoshikou scrambled sideways and fled.

Thus before long—Rokubei tidied the tenement building, prepared makeshift desks, gathered brushes, ink, inkstones, and paper down to the last item, spread word to nearby parents, and fully established a temple school.

“While reading and writing are certainly commendable, given that the area along the highway has grown rather lawless, might we also trouble you to teach them a bit of swordsmanship during their free moments?”

Among them were such parents.

“Very well. Those who are not samurai have no need for striking techniques, but knowing how to evade would be beneficial. I shall instruct them.”

“Then we humbly ask that you include our son as well.”

Through such developments, before long, around twenty-five or twenty-six children had gathered.

When they actually began, Sonjirou seemed to possess an innate virtue, for even without harsh reprimands, the children’s manners and conduct visibly improved.

Consequently, even those who had until now underestimated what Amajirou was capable of gradually began entrusting their children to him, insisting it was absolutely necessary,

“Look at that!”

Puffing up his nose, Rokubei declared, “Ain’t no mistake in these eyes of mine that saw it coming! Mark my words—thanks to Master here, every last one of those highway folks’ll turn into saints before long!”

He was making nonsensical boasts all by himself.

III

It was a late afternoon in early autumn.
When he went out to the vacant lot behind [the building] and was teaching the children the principles of swordsmanship,
“Master! Master!”

A child came running up and said, “Over in that field, samurai are having a sword fight!”

“What? A sword fight?”

“Look, over there—”

When he turned at these words, there in the grassland—down a slight slope to the left of the road leading to Myojin Shrine—five or six samurai were locked in combat.
In the midday sun, glints of light traced rainbows from their flashing blades—

“None of you move from there!”

With that, Sonjirou took up his large sword.

“I’ll return right away—do not step out!”

He repeated his command and dashed off.

When Sonjirou reached the edge of the grassland, he halted his steps to assess the situation—a single opponent clashed with five attackers, all appearing to be Hamamatsu retainers, yet the lone adversary displayed such exceptional skill that he barely let the five get near him.

“Have at you!”

A sharp scream arose; the second young samurai from the right among the five fiercely slashed downward with an overhead strike.

“Hah!”

A responding cry rang out.
The opponent’s body sprang like a coiled spring; the white blade flashed as it arced through the air.

“Urk!”

The young samurai who charged collapsed sideways with a thud; simultaneously, the one at the far left stepped in—in that instant,

“Hah!”

Nimbly dodging while, the opponent swung upward from below in retaliation. The one who had charged barely twisted his torso back to evade, but his sword slipped from his grip and flew into distant thickets.—At this sight, the four men instinctively recoiled, their faces paling, their breaths becoming ragged and stances disordered.

“He’s skilled—far beyond your match.”

Sonjirou muttered this and stepped forward resolutely a few paces,

“Pardon my presumption, but I must speak.”

he called out.
“Might I inquire as to the grievance behind this duel?”

One of the four men, an older one,

“The Lord’s execution—it is the Lord’s execution—”

As he answered, Sonjirou undid the collar of his large sword. If this was a Lord’s execution, they had no choice but to cut him down—but with only four remaining, it would be impossible.

“Pardon my presumption, but I perceive this must not take your time further. Allow me to lend my aid.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

It was just as he spoke.

“Hyaah!”

With a shout, the opponent launched a counterattack. Without giving the four a chance to reset their stance with a gasp, he stepped forward,

“Hyaah!”

He cut down one man. As soon as Sonjirou saw this,

“With your leave, I shall assist.”

With that shout, he leaped into the fray.

The remaining three, lacking the will to resist, retreated two or three paces. Sonjirou, keeping his hand on the sword’s hilt, spoke while intently seeking his opponent’s gaze.

“Having heard of the Lord’s decree and presented myself—Kamada Sonjirou, a ronin dwelling within this domain.”

“Inukai Kensaku! Approach!”

The opponent also gave his name and stepped back two or three paces.

At this moment, a single old samurai spurred his horse and galloped into the grassland.
Seeing this, the aforementioned older samurai ran over and attempted to explain the details of the situation, but just then—

“Hyaah!”

Inukai Kensaku shouted and delivered a feint.
Sonjirou nimbly leaped back and drew his large sword from its sheath for the first time—a smile graced his handsome lips.

“An intriguing contest.”

The old samurai on horseback muttered lowly.

Sonjirou lowered his sword tip, shifted his kote slightly to the left, lifted his right foot, measured his breath, and stepped forward slowly and deliberately.
Inukai Kensaku seemed to have finally gauged his opponent's skill.
He swiftly shifted his gaze and retreated, quietly raising his blue-edged sword into an upper stance—ragged breath, posture unmistakably poised for a mutual strike—in that instant!

“Hyaah!”

With that shout, Sonjirou deflected the sword tip—a feint. With not an instant’s gap in their timing, Kensaku lunged savagely,

“Haa!”

bellowing as he brought his blade down with the full weight of his body behind it.
A glint arced through the air; Sonjirou nimbly retreated two or three ken. Kensaku staggered sideways—stumbling chaotically—before collapsing face-first into the grass.

“A masterful display—”

The old samurai on horseback let out an involuntary cry.
Sonjirou briskly wiped his sword and,
“I humbly beg your gracious pardon for my forward conduct.”

With a polite nod, he cast a pained glance toward Kensaku lying fallen, then strode across the grassland and departed.

The children had been huddled in a corner of the vacant lot watching, but when Sonjirou returned, they surrounded him with cheers.

“Master is so strong!”

“Even though five men couldn’t do it, Master defeated him with a single strike!”

Sonjirou quieted the clamoring children with a steady tone that didn’t alter his breathing,

“Now then, swordsmanship practice is finished. Since we’ll be doing calligraphy, everyone wash your hands and come inside.”

Having said that, he entered the house.

IV

A few days later, on a certain day.

Shortly after Sonjirou finished teaching at the temple school and returned home, the old samurai he had seen on horseback the other day arrived without any prior notice.

“Ah—this is—”

Sonjirou was startled,

“You honor this humble thatched hut with your presence; pray first—”

and solemnly invited him to sit,

“Sugie, we have a guest.”

He turned toward the rear to call out, but immediately faced forward again. “As you see, this ronin’s dwelling affords no proper hospitality. I humbly beg your gracious pardon.”

“Your courteous words only deepen my obligation.”

The old samurai straightened his posture and said, “This humble one is Okita Genzaemon, a retainer of Inoue Harima-no-kami and chief guard commander.”

“My apologies for the belated introduction—I am Kamada Sonjirou.”

“The other day, during that critical moment, you splendidly provided your assistance. Thanks to your aid, the one who absolutely had to be slain was successfully dispatched, allowing the execution squad to preserve their honor.”
“However, due to the official decree’s nature, it is regrettable that we cannot publicly acknowledge your contribution—though meager, please kindly accept this as a token of this humble one’s personal gratitude.”

“Oh, that would be troubling. Though a ronin residing within your honorable domain, if this one can be of even slight service, it would fulfill my deepest aspiration.”
“Gifts and such are simply…”
“Now, do accept this—it is not an item worthy of your refusal.”

Presenting the gift, Okita Genzaemon,

“Now, I have another request to make.”

“I had the privilege of humbly observing your skill the other day, and your style is that of the Kaji school.”

“Haa, I am still but a mere novice.”

“In truth, this humble one also studied the Kaji school of Ittō-ryū somewhat in my prime, so observing your sword handling felt nostalgic—and regarding this matter, I have a son named Chinosuke. For some time now, I have been wishing to have him taught the Kaji school.”
“How does this sound? I shall leave the date and other arrangements entirely to your convenience—but might you be so kind as to visit my humble residence to provide instruction?”

A man who had even served as chief guard commander was humbly making the request himself.
For one whose life was devoted to martial arts, there had been no reason to refuse.

"Though this unskilled one is wholly unworthy to teach others, to decline your gracious invitation would be discourteous indeed. If it please you, I shall demonstrate only the forms."

“Might I have your consent? This is most humbling—then we shall settle the date and other details at a later time.”

Genzaemon spoke with evident pleasure but abruptly turned to look toward the rear,

“Is your honorable wife bedridden?”

he inquired.

“Ah—”

Sonjirou inexplicably lowered his gaze but presently stood from his seat,

“Please observe.”

With that, he opened the connecting sliding door.

Expecting to see what beauty could earn a wife the nickname “Amajirou”—what awaited in the next room was, unexpectedly, a single small sutra desk placed before a Buddhist altar, incense smoke swaying upward.

“This—what has occurred…?”
“In truth, she passed away three years thereafter.”
“Her honorable passing…”

Okita Genzaemon could only stare wide-eyed.
Before coming here, he had thoroughly investigated the local people’s reputation; of course, he had also heard the rumor about the wife and Amajirou.

“Then, earlier you called out to the back?”

“That it reached your ears makes me blush with shame.”

Sonjirou hung his head low and said, “She was an unfortunate woman—I let her die in poverty during my wandering days over three years prior, but..."
“Please do not mock it as lingering attachment… For my part, I simply cannot bring myself to believe she is dead.”

“——”

“As long as her semblance remained, I convinced myself she was alive—the habit of speaking such soliloquies began, persisting unchanged to this day…”

The ends of his words trembled, his voice growing thick.

To treat his deceased wife as if living—calling out to her presence during household comings and goings—this disposition might draw mockery as lingering attachment from others, but the undying love for his cherished wife that clung to his heart was a pitiful thing,

“Amajirou and Wife”

he had endured even the nickname “Amajirou and Wife” and remained resolute.
Genzaemon was deeply moved,

“Ah—I have heard an admirable tale.”
“Your devotion to the deceased thus far is not mere lingering attachment—rather, I can only feel envy.”
“Though presumptuous—this humble one shall also perform memorial rites.”

“I am deeply honored—she must be overjoyed.”

Though the room was dilapidated, its meticulous cleaning—not a single speck of dust permitted to settle—allowed Okita Genzaemon to perceive Kamada Sonjirou's character, and feeling increasingly reassured, he sat before the sutra desk, offering incense while reciting memorial names. But when he suddenly looked up at the Buddhist altar—

“Ah—”

he uttered in a low voice.
A small portrait of a woman displayed on the Buddhist altar.
He had been searching for some time,

“Is this a likeness of your honorable wife?”

“Yes—a fellow from the same domain with artistic talent once drew this portrait in jest. It has now become a sorrowful memento.”

Genzaemon nodded.

“—How strangely it resembles her,”

he murmured once more.

V

The morning dew gently moistened the garden lawn.
The cedar grove was beautiful, and the refreshing autumn sun shone vividly upon the unripe persimmons.
“That’s enough for now.”

Sonjirou called out and drew his wooden sword.

Nearly half a month had passed since he began commuting to the Okita residence; this morning too, Sonjirou had engaged in fierce practice with Chinosuke from early on and become drenched in sweat before bringing it to a fitting close.

“Are you tired?”

He asked young Chinosuke with consideration.

“Though Kaji-ryū’s paired sword techniques are especially intense, thorough practice of them will make mastering bamboo sword training easier. I earnestly hope you will apply yourself diligently.”

“Yes, I am deeply grateful.”

“Well then, we’ll meet again the day after tomorrow—”

When he was about to leave, Okita Genzaemon came hurrying from the courtyard with a young woman.

"Master, please wait a moment."

“Ah—”

Called out to, Sonjirou turned around—and upon seeing the face of the young woman standing beside Okita Genzaemon, his complexion abruptly changed as he froze in place.

She appeared nineteen or twenty—a firm-bodied figure with wheat-colored skin, deep moist eyes, and glossy vermilion lips that formed undulating waves—her beautiful expression gazing upward with modesty. Resembling... uncannily resembling... In the instant he saw her, he nearly doubted whether his deceased wife had returned to life—so perfectly did she replicate Sugie’s visage as a living copy.

“This is my unworthy daughter Kofusa, elder sister to Chinosuke. I ask that you kindly acknowledge her.”

“I—this humble one—”

“Though unskilled, I wish to offer tea—if it would not trouble you, might I ask you to come inside? There is also another small matter I would like to discuss.”

“I beg your pardon for the intrusion.”

Sonjirou answered with his face still down.

After wiping off sweat and changing clothes, he followed Chinosuke’s guidance to the guest room, where seating had already been prepared and splendid steamed sweets were laid out.

“Please make yourself comfortable—”

Okita Genzaemon invited him to sit in a familiar tone—soon his daughter Kofusa came to prepare tea—Sonjirou drank with proper etiquette but did not look at the young woman,

“A splendid display of skill.”

he nodded politely.
Okita Genzaemon, as if he had been waiting impatiently,

“The matter I wish to discuss is none other than this—might Mr. Kamada have any desire to enter official service?”

“Are you saying…?”

“In truth, considering your skills too precious to leave buried, I took the liberty of informing the officials and had them observe your training several times from the shadows. Having done so, I have managed to arrange that, should you desire it, I would be honored to recommend you to our domain.”

“Your consideration is truly—”

“Though it will not be a grand amount from the start—if you could bear with around two hundred koku—I could make arrangements immediately. How does that sound?”

They were words overflowing with kindness.

“I am deeply grateful for your esteemed consideration. If I might beg your indulgence for two or three days, I would humbly wish to present my response.”

“That would be most agreeable—I shall await your response.”

With that, he turned around and said, “Kofusa—pray have the tea refreshed.”

“No—that is quite sufficient.”

“Now, do not say such things—though these humble sweets may not suit your taste, please try one—go ahead.”

When urged to take a sweet—Sonjirou suddenly reached out his hand and tried to pick one up, but for some reason he simply lowered his face and returned his hand to his knee.

“What’s wrong—?”

“Ah—no need.”

“Though simple, they have been carefully selected. Please do not hold back.”

Kamada Sonjirou gave no answer but bowed quietly—his eyes were hot and moist.
When he finally lifted his head,

“I beg your forgiveness.”

In a hoarse voice, he said, “I had forgotten urgent business. Though it is most rude, I shall take my leave for today.”

“Well, would that not be acceptable?”

“No—urgent business compels me.”

Sonjirou slid from his seat,

"I will take the sweets."

Having said that, he wrapped the sweets in paper and,

“Then please have another cup of tea—”

Cutting off Okita Genzaemon’s words, he stood up.

VI

Having returned home, Sonjirou entered the Buddhist altar room, placed the package of sweets atop the sutra desk, and collapsed into a seated position there,

“Sugie.”

He said in a choked voice, “They’re your favorite steamed sweets… your favorite…”

Ugh... ugh... came choking sobs from his throat.

"The sweets you wanted so desperately in life—now I’ve obtained them. Now that you’re dead, a two-hundred-koku position—what good are these steamed sweets now? What good is two hundred koku? What good is advancement?... You—raised in a respectable family knowing no hardship—wasting away into cruel poverty from the very moment we married, when I became a ronin for five years."

"This... this is my true wish..."

Even the face that had smiled so kindly for him became torment for Sonjirou—a scalding guilt like molten iron poured over his skin.
"I swore I wouldn't keep you in poverty forever—vowed in secret that I would rise in station and show you the splendor of the world—all came to naught. You wasted away and died in destitution, denied even sufficient medicine... And now—now that I stand at the threshold of advancement—what purpose does two hundred koku serve when you're gone... Sugie—"

Sonjirou stifled his sobs.

People said that one eventually grows accustomed to any sorrow.
Is that truly so?
His beloved wife having passed three years prior—for Sonjirou, had those thousand-odd days not been merely the accumulating weight of time that only deepened his adoration?

At dusk that day—Sonjirou visited the front of Inoshimatsu store on the highway.

As luck would have it, the retired Rokubei was at the store.
“Master, might you have some business—?”
“There is a matter I wish to discuss.”

Sonjirou entered the shopfront,

“To tell the truth, though I have long been the recipient of care far beyond what mere acquaintanceship would warrant, due to certain circumstances, I have resolved to depart this locale.”

“Wh... What do you mean?”

“Please do not laugh—to speak plainly, it seems my wife’s constitution does not agree with this locale. Her condition remains unwell in any case, so I intend to relocate southward with her.”

Rokubei was stunned by the suddenness of it all.

“But if you declare that this land does not agree with your wife’s constitution, then that settles it—though it is most regrettable.”
“Now that the children have finally grown accustomed to you, perhaps having her examined by a good doctor somewhere would be advisable? Or again…”

“No, no—melancholy, I must say, depends more on one’s state of mind than medicines. Letting her follow her inclinations is the best remedy.”

“So, is this your wife’s wish?”

“Laughable as it may be, I wish to indulge this selfish one’s every whim…”

Even the unflappable Rokubei couldn’t stomach it.

“Is that so? Regrettably, then I cannot detain you further—very well, as you wish. On what day do you depart?”

“It is my intention to depart at first light tomorrow.”

“I must apologize for this abrupt departure—regrettably, I never had the chance to meet Madam in person. Do take care on your journey. I shall see you off tomorrow morning without fail.”

“Ah—though your kindness is most appreciated, I must firmly decline any farewell for this early departure. You have shown me great care over these long days. Should fate allow, we may meet again—but for now, I pray you remain in good health.”

When the greetings concluded, Sonjirou swiftly left.
Yoshikou, who had been watching this scene from the back of the store, became indignant.
“Hah, that Amajirou bastard!”
“After all the trouble Honorable Rokubei went through supporting him this whole time,” he shouted loud enough for all to hear, “he’s just gonna up and leave ’cause his wife’s whining? What kinda ungrateful samurai is that? That’s why they call him Amajirou! He’s lookin’ down on people like that—the hell?”
“Shut your mouth and be quiet!”
“But that Amajirou bastard’s lookin’ down on us way too damn much!”

This time, he cursed from a distance to avoid being struck—and at that moment, an old samurai strode purposefully into the shopfront.

“Forgive my sudden question,”

It was Okita Genzaemon.

“The one who had just left was Mr. Kamada residing out back.”

“Ah, that is indeed correct.”

“It appeared he had been making farewell remarks—was this not so?”

Rokubei looked up dubiously,

"Ah, well—it seems he intends to depart southward at first light tomorrow due to his wife's circumstances. Is there some business you require?"

"No particular business—I intruded."

Okita Genzaemon left briskly.

VII

Night was beginning to dawn.

Sonjirou, having vacated his rented quarters while it was still dark, securely placed his deceased wife’s memorial tablet within his meager bundle of clothing and—anticipating that farewells would prove troublesome—hurried westward through Hamamatsu’s castle town.

The highway lay deeply shrouded in morning mist, still devoid of travelers; beyond the rows of pine trees stretching into the distance, the far-off sea glimmered.
Kamada Sonjirou halted his steps and turned back.

—It was then,

“I have been awaiting you.”

At the sound of a voice, from beneath the pine trees lining the avenue, a woman in traveling clothes emerged before him.
Sonjirou started and instinctively retreated a step.

“Who goes there—?”

“…………”

The woman removed her sedge hat.

In the refreshing morning light, the face looking up with shyness was that of Okita Genzaemon’s daughter, Kofusa.
Moreover… unexpectedly, she had shaved her eyebrows and blackened her teeth.

“You are—Lady Kofusa?”

“No, I am now called Sugie.”

Sonjirou doubted his own ears.

“Sugie... Sugie—?”

“Kindly do me the honor of viewing this.”

Kofusa, having said that, handed over a document.
Sonjirou briskly opened it and looked—in Okita Genzaemon’s elegant cursive.

Respectfully submitted with haste.
I deeply sympathize with your honorable circumstances regarding departure from this place; nothing is as sorrowful as being unable to forget one who has passed from this world, yet even love, when taken to extremity, may lead to recklessness. To cling to attachment and end one’s life in futility would surely not align with the departed’s true intentions.
It is precisely decisive action in the face of circumstance that one desires in a man—now, as this old man’s farewell gift, the companion I offer is none other than my daughter; deign to consider her the rebirth of one who has ever seemed to you as though living still. This being her own earnest wish, her name has been changed to Sugie.
Do not be angered by this presumptuous approach; I earnestly entreat you to perceive this old man’s humble sincerity.
Moreover, my earnest hope remains for your swift return; should there come a time when your heart changes, I earnestly entreat you to come back—this old one awaits nothing else.

“Wishing you peace—” Before he could finish reading, Sonjirou clutched at his chest and groaned.

“To think you would go this far for this Sonjirou...”

It was a profound goodwill that penetrated to the very marrow. To think that precisely because he deemed one such as myself—who would discard kindness and attempt to depart—a true samurai, he not only had his daughter’s brows shaved, teeth blackened, and name changed but even added that she should be regarded as the rebirth of the departed. Could such profound trust exist elsewhere in this world? “A warrior dies for those who know his worth,” it is said.

Strength abruptly overflowed across Sonjirou’s face.

“Lady Kofusa—no, there is no need to call you Sugie. Lady Kofusa.”

“Yes.”

“I will say nothing of matters now—do you understand the inconveniences of the journey?”

“Wherever you go, I will accompany you.”

“Well then—let us depart for Kishu.”

Sonjirou rolled up the letter and,

“There is something I must enshrine at Koyasan’s sacred grounds—once we complete the memorial rites, let us return straightaway to Hamamatsu.”

“Um… there…?”

“Even if going and returning takes as many as twenty days, once we return, we shall hold our wedding ceremony with you anew.”

“Oh my...”

Kofusa involuntarily flushed—yet while her eyes burned as they sought the man’s expression, a bashful smile rose to her lips.

“Well then—”

Kamada Sonjirou quietly urged.

“Until we return, we are fellow travelers—but once returned—you must understand—this one bears the nickname Amajirou, ‘Sweet Husband’ to his wife… This time, it shall become the talk of the entire household.”

“Oh my… I wouldn’t know.”

Her eyes—looking up while hiding her lips beneath the sedge hat—within those pupils, Sonjirou vividly beheld the resurrected form of his deceased wife.

Modestly drawing close to each other, the two departed westward through the morning mist.

On a small hill some distance away, Okita Genzaemon stood alongside his old friend Hayashu Toneri, watching their retreating figures.

“You truly resolved yourself to part with your treasured daughter.”

When Lord Toneri said this,

“A son-in-law found once in a thousand men.”

Okita Genzaemon nodded repeatedly with evident pleasure,

“A man of such caliber—devoted enough to remain true to his deceased wife—ought to serve extraordinary purposes. What regret could there be over a single daughter? With this, my twilight years have gained another delight.”

A bright, knowing smile rippled across Okita Genzaemon’s lips.

At the summit of Mount Fuji, the morning sun blazes radiantly.