Pathway to Japanese Literature

Kagawa Tettaro sat facing his desk and gazed vacantly at the garden.
In one side of the room, his younger brother Sakuma was organizing books in front of a bookcase.

“Again?” came his wife’s voice. “You’re thinking about the same thing as always, aren’t you?”

Tettaro remained silent.

He leaned his elbows on the desk, supporting his chin with both hands as he gazed at the winter-withered garden bathed in faintly slanting sunlight.
The rust-colored pale sunlight—utterly devoid of warmth—dyed the trunks of sawtooth oaks forming the grove with patchy illumination while making the frayed plumes of withered silver grass clumps stand out in stark whiteness.

This was the garden Grandfather created, Tettaro thought.

The sawtooth oak grove consisted of nearly a hundred trees.
A slender stream wound its way sinuously through the grove and flowed out beyond the wooden fence.
Beyond the wooden fence lay a wetland called "Numa," where reeds and cattails grew thickly, and in winter, ducks, wild geese, snipes, coots, and other waterfowl would gather.
In Grandfather’s time, that section had been a four-eyed fence allowing clear views of the marsh, but Father had enclosed it with wooden planking, making it impossible to see from inside the house now.

From where Kagawa Tettaro sat, the sawtooth oak grove lay to his right, while directly before him spread a hundred-tsubo field of silver grass. To the left stood a slightly elevated hillock planted with lawn grass. From its base to the bamboo fence spread a sparse grove of aged plum trees, and beyond the bamboo fence lay the stone-paved path leading from the gate to the entrance.

“Brother,” said Sakuma, looking at the book in his hand, “how do you read this? This ‘O-something Flower Record’ by someone called Kōkai Munetsune.”

“It’s the Osabana Record,” answered Tettaro.

“Huh, so this crown radical with the character ‘sai’ here?” Sakuma asked. “Should this go in the miscellaneous writings section?”

“It belongs to Japanese studies,” said Kagawa Tettaro.

A flock of shrikes descended into the sawtooth oak grove, noisily crying out as they flew around among the withered branches.

“I cannot explain the details. Please refrain from asking anything,” said his wife Yukio. “If you do not grant this request, I will have no choice but to take my own life, and it will bring shame upon the Kagawa family name.”

The final words echoed deep in Tettaro’s ears—lingering like a mountain echo, their trailing resonance repeating over and over.
A blemish upon the honorable family name—upon the honorable family name—a blemish forming, forming, forming, forming.
Tettaro turned calmly around.
His wife Yukio was applying makeup while watching him from within the mirror.

This was something for later, Kagawa Tettaro thought.

The crucial matter lay further back. It had begun from the very start of their marriage—without ever understanding how it had begun—and continued worsening.

"What don't you like?" Tettaro asked while looking into his wife's eyes reflected in the mirror. "Just tell me—what exactly are you dissatisfied with?"

"Why would you say such a thing?"

“You should know that yourself.”

“I have no dissatisfaction whatsoever,” Yukio answered in a tone that proved the exact opposite—that profound discontent lay buried in her heart— “You speak this way because you find me displeasing, do you not?”

“You’re quite skilled at changing the subject.”

“The one who’s dissatisfied is you.”
Yukio let out a troubled sigh—a sigh so alluringly anguished it could be called coquettish, a sigh that seemed to plead. “But I can’t do anything about it… I simply can’t.”
Then she turned to Tettaro and said, “Please tell me—you must tell me—what should I do?”

Tettaro raised his eyes.
The flock of shrikes that had been clamoring in the sawtooth oak grove suddenly took flight in unison as if they had discovered something. No sooner had they risen than the flock split into two—one group flew off toward the "marsh," while the other descended back into the oak grove.

"What’s this wrapped thing?" his younger brother Sakuma called out. "The wrapper says Nakagawa Shobun."

"Nakagawa Shobun… I don’t know."

"May I try unwrapping it?"

Tettaro silently nodded.

"Hmm," said Sakuma as he unwrapped the package and took out the books. He flipped open the first volume's pages and laughed. "Well now... This is quite something."
He flipped through the five volumes one after another. "They're all erotic books, you know? Didn't you realize?"

From beyond the wooden fence toward the "marsh," the quacking of ducks sounded, and the noise of wings striking water could be heard.

“I cannot endure this,” Yukio said. “I can bear other things, but this man’s smell—I simply cannot.”

“You didn’t know,” Tettaro said to his brother. “Nakagawa would occasionally send such items. I usually meant to return them but must have forgotten about this one.”

“I beg of you,” Yukio said, “please keep my sleeping quarters separate.”

Men have their own body odor and women theirs.
To me my wife’s scent was pleasantly stimulating—this I knew—yet her touch still lived vivid upon my skin.
Though her frame stood large-boned her breasts and waist stayed small.
Small yet firm those breasts clung smooth while her waist flowed boyish-slender less coquetry than crisp freshness.

――So I had taken Okano Yosaburo’s words at face value.

"That was from shortly after I had married," thought Kagawa Tettaro.
"It was definitely during that banquet at Murao—yes, when they held the celebration for the matriarch’s recovery at the Murao residence."
As was his custom, Okano quickly became drunk, started picking on someone, and then came over to me.

"—Chamberlain," said Okano.
“I hear you’ve obtained a splendid flower.”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

“It’s your wife,” Okano said. “When it came to Yukio of the Yasushima family, she was the object of admiration for all the young women in the household.”

In his obsequious laughter, there was a distinct undercurrent of mockery.
For about half a year after that, I took the words ‘splendid flower’ at face value and accompanied our feudal lord to Edo for his alternate attendance.

“I beg of you,” Yukio said, “please grant my wish without asking anything.”

No—that came later, Tettaro gently shook his head.
When he returned after completing his one-year duty in Edo, the matter of separating their sleeping quarters arose.
I of course agreed, but the reason—that she couldn’t endure the man’s smell—was unpleasant.
I don’t know about others—but once a couple becomes husband and wife, they’re no longer merely a man and a woman. Shouldn’t a husband and wife be of one heart and body?
If my man’s odor were particularly strong, that would be one thing—but I have no memory of ever being told such a thing.
Moreover, to me, my wife’s body scent was extremely pleasant—when I touched her skin and became enveloped in her fragrance, I was immersed in an indescribable peace and satisfaction.
What could possibly make this unbearable for my wife?

“That is men’s selfishness and self-centered way of thinking,” Yukio said. “Men always think and act with themselves at the center of everything—this holds especially true when loving a woman.”

Tettaro turned around again.
Yukio was facing the mirror doing her makeup and, from within the mirror, she was looking toward her husband.

“For instance, Lord and Lady Nukata are renowned for their marital harmony,” Yukio said, “but that is merely superficial. Lady Matsuyo has confided that touching her husband’s hairy limbs and skin chills her to the bone with revulsion.”

“Then what about you?” Tettaro retorted. “What part of me do you find disagreeable?”

“I have already told you that answer dozens of times.” Yukio averted her eyes in the mirror. “Because you harbor dissatisfaction with me, you instead turn to blaming me.”

Tettaro returned his gaze to the garden.

The dried silver grass swayed suddenly in the wind, and the voices of the shrikes that had been clamoring in the sawtooth oak grove fell silent.

It was a lukewarm night.

Tettaro awoke to the sound of his own groaning.
From the depths of deep sleep he gradually surfaced, until finally in the dim light of the darkened lamp, the painted screen standing nearby came hazily into view.
Realizing he must have been groaning, he suddenly noticed the sound still persisted—Tettaro raised his head.
A hoarse moan—as if desperately suppressing something—grew faint and intermittent until seeming ready to vanish entirely, then abruptly intensified, twisting upward in shrill urgency before erupting into violent frenzy.

He sat up.
The sound was coming from his wife's bedroom—the one who had been groaning was his wife.
He stood up and went to open the sliding door.
Across the central corridor was his wife’s bedroom; he called out, “Yukio.”
The groans ceased at once.

“What’s wrong?” he said again. “Are you unwell?”

“No,” came Yukio’s sleep-dazed reply. “There’s nothing amiss with me.”

“You were having a nightmare,” he said. “Then it’s fine. Sleep well.”

Yukio’s voice as she replied, “Sleep well. I deeply apologize,” still thick with slumber, sounded feeble and languid.
Such a thing had occurred three times.

The third time was on a rainy night, and Kagawa Tettaro was exhausted.
That day, he had been requested by Lord Echigo-no-kami Nobutoshi to deliver a lecture on the Shinritsu.
He began after the castle’s drum signal and continued until eight o’clock following the dinner he was granted.
It was a record Tettaro had borrowed from a certain feudal lord among the senior councilors during his Edo assignment and copied with permission—containing the shogunate’s official affairs, lawsuits, and verdicts from the Kanei era through the Kyōhō era.
The lecture was supposed to take seven days, and he returned home after nine o'clock.

―She’ll wake up soon.

While listening to his wife’s groans, Tettaro tried to go back to sleep as he was.
However, the hushed sound of rain striking the eaves only served to accentuate her moans further until he became fully awake; heaving a sigh, he sat up.
Until now he had called out from outside the room, but thinking she might not hear over the rain, he crossed the corridor and opened the far sliding door.

“Yukio, Yukio,” he called. “Wake up. You’re having a nightmare again.”

The groans stopped.
He went around the screen.
Then, in the dim light of the lamp, he saw someone slipping out from his wife’s bedding.
That was Tsuru—the young maid servant—still in her nightclothes; as she slipped out from the bedding, the disheveled hem revealed a white thigh.

“What’s wrong?” Tettaro said.

“My stomach was hurting,” Yukio answered from within the bedding, “so I had Tsuru press on it until now.”

Tettaro looked at the maid servant.
Tsuru remained seated, deeply bowed, with one hand continually adjusting her hem.
Though sixteen years old, Tsuru's figure still retained a girlish roundness, her speech slightly lisping enough to suggest delayed mental development.
From her deeply bowed neck to shoulders, the gentle slope of soft flesh felt more womanly than he had ever perceived before.
Tettaro looked at his wife and Tsuru.
The room—with its dimmed lamp and screen-enclosed bedding—was filled with a heavy, stifling odor emanating from both women's bodies that nearly overwhelmed him.

“Did you take the medicine?” he asked the wife. “When did the pain start?”

“It has eased now,” Yukio answered listlessly, “my stomach has been a chronic ailment for a long time. When the pain strikes suddenly, medicine doesn’t work—there’s nothing to do but have someone press on it.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of it—has it often hurt before?”

“No, it hasn’t occurred so frequently.”
Yukio looked at Tsuru and said, “Thank you. That’s enough now—you may go to bed.”

Tsuru quietly gave a slight bow and left.
From the moment Tettaro entered, she had neither raised her face nor spoken a word.
“Have you had a doctor examine you?”

“Yes,” Yukio answered in a drained voice, “mine is not an illness—it’s a matter of constitution.”

“Does that mean it can’t be cured?”

“It’s nothing so severe—it only occurs occasionally,” Yukio said. “Please rest now. I apologize for the disturbance.”

Tettaro remained standing and looked down.
His wife’s face was pale; whether due to the dim lamplight or not, dark shadows seemed to have formed around her eyes.

In the autumn of their fourth year of marriage, while accompanying his lord to Edo for the alternate attendance obligation, Tettaro became violently ill from drink for the first time and came into contact with an unexpected woman.
At Maisaka they encountered a storm; when proceeding to Hamamatsu, they found the Tenryu River closed due to flooding, forcing them to stay in Hamamatsu for five days.
Their regular lodging was Nabeya Sanzaemon's honjin; Tettaro had known the inn's staff since his youth. On the third night of their stay, when the lord provided food and drink for their comfort and those of inspector rank or higher gathered for a banquet, he ended up quarreling with Okano Yosaburo and being tended to by Outa, a daughter of the inn.

The quarrel originated from matters concerning Yukio.
Okano had persistently needled Tettaro from the start, remaining seated without moving as he pressed sake on him.
He believed he had been deftly deflecting things, but whether from the burdensome duties of a chamberlain combining with travel fatigue, he had unknowingly consumed too much and become thoroughly drunk.
At that moment, Okano brought up his wife and said in an oddly sarcastic tone, “Maybe I should find myself a good concubine.”

“Find a concubine,” he said, looking at Okano. “What do you mean by that?”

“It’s about securing an heir,” Okano said. “Even a flower splendid as that may bloom without bearing fruit.”

Tettaro turned his face away.

“It seems Mrs. Kagawa has long had the nickname ‘Thistle Flower,’” Okano continued. “This too comes from my sister and her friends—apparently she has loved thistle flowers since her maiden days, having them dyed on her kimonos and obis. They suited her well, they say, and her very impression resembles a thistle flower quite remarkably.”

“Wait,” Tettaro interrupted with a counter-question. “The thistle flower I understand—but you mentioned something about an heir. What exactly are you implying about that?”

“It means thistle flowers do not bear fruit.”

“Are you saying my wife is barren?”

“How many years has it been since your wedding?”
“That is not Okano’s concern.”
“How would you know?”

Tettaro flared up.
Okano's expression and tone carried undisguised mockery and malice.
Back during the Murao family incident, he had dismissed it as idle chatter and accepted the words about acquiring a splendid flower at face value.
But now everything differed completely—even the simple word "flower" now linked directly to "thistle."
Okano knew something and mocked Tettaro with that knowledge.
When this realization struck him, drunkenness amplified his rage until he forgot all customary restraint, shouting as he rose onto one knee.

“What the hell are you trying to say?”

At that voice, the gathering fell silent, all eyes fixed on the two men.
Okano twisted his lips into a smile. “No need to shout like that,” he said.
That servile grin only stoked Tettaro’s fury further.

“Say it!” he roared. “If you’re a man, act like one—spit out what you mean! Can’t you?”

“I was simply showing concern for you, Mr. Kagawa.”

“What about me are you worried about?”

“Thistles have thorns,” Okano said. “My sister was wounded by them, and it seems quite a few other girls have been hurt as well.”

“I’m not asking about any damn thistle!”

“Then that’s just fine.”

Tettaro stood up.
He tried to strike Okano, but two or three people restrained him and escorted him to another room.
He had no clear memory of who had restrained him.
When he went to the other room, he felt sick and was tended to by Outa.
She was probably around twenty-six—she had once married, but her husband died and she had returned to her parental home.
Tettaro had been close to her for some time and knew she had married and returned home.
Though petite in frame and small in face, her charming, bright countenance made her popular with all the guests.

Before dawn, Tettaro awoke.
It seemed he had awoken due to an intense thirst in his throat, but upon sitting up, he immediately recalled the argument with Okano and unintentionally let out a groan of anguish.
Then, immediately to his left, a voice asked, "What's wrong?"

“Are you in pain?”

He turned toward the voice in surprise.
Outa was there.
With no bedclothes beyond a thin cover draped over her nightgown, she must have been sleeping curled up.
The collar of her nightgown had loosened as she half-rose, revealing a glimpse of soft breast swell.
In the dim lamplight, the nightgown’s vibrant hue and the white, rounded softness of her breasts caught Tettaro’s eye.
Silent, he reached a hand toward Outa.

“Would you like some cold water?” Outa said.

Tettaro shook his head. "Come here."

Outa sidled closer.
For just an instant, a pout-like expression flitted across her face, but her movement toward him remained perfectly natural—then she turned startlingly forward.
Tettaro was bewildered and overwhelmed.
To a man who knew no woman but his wife, everything about Outa—her breathing, her pleas, her demands—seemed unnatural, yet paradoxically quenched the fire that had burned within him.

“This scent of your skin.”
Outa buried her face in his chest and panted, “Just smelling this makes my head spin.”

“Is my odor really that foul?”

“I love it, love it,” Outa clung to him, “When you depart, I always hide your nightclothes and sleep clutching them until your scent fades—I’ve done this for years.”

“Forgive my shame,” she said, crushing him in an embrace that hurt.

As shrikes cried out in the sawtooth oak grove, Kagawa Tettaro turned around.

“This book,” his brother Sakuma said. “May I take it?”

“Which book?”

“This erotic book. You don’t read it, do you?”

“An erotic book?”

“It’s from Nakagawa Shorin.”

“Ah,” Tettaro said. “I don’t read it, but I suppose I must return it.”

“Is that necessary? These books are typically complimentary gifts from publishers to their best customers,” Sakuma said. “But your utter disinterest in such matters may reveal a certain... vulnerability, brother.”

Tettaro looked toward his wife.

“That’s right—you fail to notice that very point,” Yukio said. “Since you’re the sort who cannot even read such books, you naturally fail to understand a woman’s feelings.”

“Do you read it?”

“It’s not about me—I’m referring to you.”

Tettaro averted his eyes.
No—she hadn’t said that.
At least, they hadn’t been those words.

After what happened with Outa, two problems lodged themselves in my mind and refused to leave.
The difference between wife and Outa—the overwhelming disparity in their sensuality; Okano’s insinuating words; the meaning behind his claim that many young women had been hurt because of Yukio.
These two things had been stuck in my chest.

And the following year, while returning home after being granted leave to attend upon the lord, he ended up in that situation again with Outa.
I had no desire to repeat my mistake, so I intended to stay on night duty in Hamamatsu—but Outa’s nearly maddening enticements proved impossible to resist, and we met at the retirement cottage late that night.

I experienced true rapture for the first time in my life.
What had overwhelmed and daunted me before became a blazing flame of fierce joy when it happened the second time.
Outa’s entire body enveloped me, undulating and spasming with indescribable subtlety.
Her form—from head to fingertips—writhed with vital intensity, every inch alive, clinging then convulsing then arching back without respite.
Even now, that tactile memory lingers on my skin, Tettaro thought.
Then there was her breath and voice.
Breath fragmented like fire’s embers, cries declaring nothing yet everything.
That too had been my first experience—this plunge into violent ecstasy I could never forget—Tettaro reflected as he turned his gaze toward his wife.

“Everyone has their own peculiarities,” Yukio said without pausing in her makeup application, “and you must have yours as well.”

“Is yours a peculiarity too?”

“I’ve heard such things may occur among those raised in merchant households or women from the pleasure quarters—indecent, vulgar affairs,” Yukio said coldly. “But such behavior is impermissible among samurai families. From the age of understanding, we are sternly admonished time and again: one must never forget propriety in any circumstance. Surely you are aware of this teaching as well?”

No—this too was not his wife’s true feelings, Tettaro thought.

His wife never spoke plainly about anything.
She would always either evade the conversation or skillfully deflect the key points in her responses.
She was always like that, and nothing irritated me more than that.
In the end, I came to think she deliberately showed such an attitude to irritate me and make me harbor suspicions.

"This is—elder brother," Sakuma said while looking at the book he held, "which category should 'Morning Offerings' go into?"

“Morning Offerings,” Tettaro echoed back. “Let’s have you put that in customs precedents.”

“Ah—I’d forgotten—the forty-ninth-day memorial falls the day after tomorrow.”

“Mm,” Tettaro muttered under his breath. “The time is from four o’clock.”
“At Shinko-ji Temple from four o’clock—I’ve understood.”

Tettaro looked toward the garden.

“I beg of you,” Yukio said, “I cannot state the reason myself. Even without an explanation, if you would convey this request through your own words, that alone should make it clear to that person.”

“You invoked the Kagawa family honor.”
He kept his gaze fixed on the garden as he countered, “You declared that unless I comply, you’ll have no choice but to die and tarnish our family name. Yet you demand I duel someone without disclosing why—isn’t this utter madness?”

“Very well,” Yukio said. “Then I shall end my life.”

Tettaro turned around and looked at his wife.
Yukio had stopped applying makeup and sat deeply bowed before the mirror.
It was neither pretense nor intimidation—this posture of his wife revealed true resolve.
It was always like this—Yukio had always shown her will through actions rather than words.
The figure of Yukio sitting before the mirror, deeply bowed, clearly showed her resolve to die.

“I’ll ask just one thing,” he said. “Is this because Okano likened you to a thistle, saying its thorns have wounded many young women?”

“I told you I cannot state the reason.”

“Just one word—is that the cause?”

Yukio remained bowed and silent.
Tettaro turned back toward the garden.

The wind arose, the withered silver grass rustled and swayed, and the shrikes' cries grew distant.

Jinbagahara was covered in young grass.
The waters of the Agarigawa River had swollen, submerging the wide gravel beds along both banks, flowing soundlessly as they overflowed up to the edges of the embankment.

The time was six o'clock in the morning; the surrounding area was made indistinct by fog, obscuring even Kamegata-yama where the castle stood, but overhead, a patch of clouds reflecting the morning sun were dyed a vivid peony hue.

Okano came running through the fog.
Running as if pursued by something, his stiff face showed unconcealable surprise and panic.—Tettaro removed his straw sandals.
He had already tied a sweatband around his head, fastened a tasuki sash across his torso, and tightened the crotch cord of his hakama trousers.

“Prepare yourself,” he said.

“What’s happened? What’s the meaning of this?”
Okano Yosaburo breathed roughly as he stammered, “I don’t understand why there’s suddenly a duel—what have I done?”

“You should remember. Make ready.”

“I have no recollection of anything.”

“Then why did you come here?”

“I wanted to know what misunderstanding had occurred,” Okano answered rapidly. “I wished to hear why you would speak of dueling.”

“There are matters where reasons cannot be voiced,” Tettaro said. “Between samurai, even a slight to one’s honor becomes cause enough for a duel.”

“Wait—that applies only if I had done something to slight your honor! What exactly do you accuse me of?”

“You must remember,” he said as he loosened his sword in its scabbard, “Prepare yourself, or I’ll proceed as things stand.”

“This is outrageous!” Okano stepped back while waving one hand. “How can I duel when I remember nothing? Wait—please wait! Listen to what I have to say!”

Tettaro drew his sword.
Whether compelled by that motion or moving his hand unconsciously from terror, Okano Yosaburo also drew his blade and, while unsheathing it, shouted "Wait!" as he leaped backward.
Tettaro advanced forcefully with his sword held in seigan stance as though intending a mutual strike, while Okano circled around to the left.

“Wait!” Okano shouted.

Tettaro ignored him and closed the distance.

“I’ll tell—I’ll tell! Please wait!”
Okano’s complexion changed, his sword-hand trembling visibly. “I was reckless—I apologize—I’ll apologize however you wish—please sheathe your sword.”

“Very well,” Tettaro halted his advance. “If you’re apologizing, I’ll hear it. Speak.”

“I—”
Okano gasped, his words stumbling out. “I—I spoke carelessly about your wife behind her back. My tongue slipped in the moment.”

Tettaro silently stared into his opponent’s eyes.

“However, I have told no one but you—I swear it.”
Okano bowed with grave sincerity. “And henceforth, I shall absolutely not speak of your wife—absolutely. Regarding that matter, I will become deaf, blind, and mute. This I swear upon my sword.”

“What do you mean by ‘that matter’?”

“I have sworn.”

“As proof of your oath, speak!”
Tettaro took a step forward. “What is ‘that matter’?”

“It’s the Bōsuirō tea gatherings—of course you must be aware of it—but I know nothing else.”

Tettaro lowered the sword.

Yukio held tea gatherings twice a month at a teahouse called Bōsuirō with her friends.
Bōsuirō stood at the eastern edge of Kamegata-yama, facing away from the castle town, and from the main room’s seated position, one could enjoy an expansive view stretching to the domain’s borders.
Though slightly lower than the castle’s western edge where the main keep stood, it was said to have once contained a fortified outpost in ancient times. Within its broad garden spread across the plateau stood a tea room relocated from Kyoto.
The tea room was said to have been created by Kobori Enshū and was named "Kogetsu-tei," known for the frequent tea gatherings hosted by connoisseurs from both the household and castle town.

On the seventh day after challenging Okano to a duel, Yukio left home saying, "I have a tea gathering," and after about an hour had passed, Tettaro also departed, following his wife.

Of course, challenging Okano to a duel had not been done in earnest.
It was because he thought that from his wife’s words, Okano knew “something,” and that if pushed to the brink, he would confess it.
The result turned out as he had surmised, but he had only learned of the “tea gatherings”—what they signified remained unclear.

Of course you must be aware.

Okano had said that, and in that situation, pressing him further would have exposed his own weakness—he could not bring himself to do it.
If that “something” was at the tea gatherings, it would be better to go and confirm it.
Tettaro had thought this and had been waiting for the opportunity.
He knew Bōsuirō well and was aware of a back alley that most people didn’t notice.
It was a steep slope cutting through pines, cherry trees, and mixed woods—merely having steps carved into the rock—so during rain it became too slippery to ascend or descend at all. Even ordinarily, the branches overhanging from both sides proved obstructive and the incline too severe, rendering it nearly unused.

Tettaro climbed up via that back path.
The place where he reached the top was a pine grove. Circling left along the edge of the plateau brought him to a sparse grove of pines and sawtooth oaks where the roof of *Kogetsu-tei* became visible.
He entered the alley and, rather than using the crawl-through entrance, circled around toward the main entrance.
At the entrance were two pairs of women’s footwear, while inside the tea room was silent, with no human voices to be heard.
After confirming that one pair of footwear belonged to his wife, Tettaro called out toward the interior.

“Yukio, are you there?”

The tea room remained silent, and from the pine grove outside came the sound of small birds.

“Yukio, it’s me,” he called again. “There’s urgent business—I’ve come. Are you there?”

Then from deep within came a faint reply of “Yes,” accompanied by signs of someone moving. Tettaro removed his sword, held it in his right hand, went up, and opened the sliding door. The Kogetsu-tei was built in sukiya-zukuri style, with a six-mat reception area, a four-and-a-half-mat waiting room, and a monkey door leading to a three-mat tea ceremony space. In the six-mat room lay only a small bundle. Tettaro then opened the four-and-a-half-mat sliding door. (At that moment, he saw the monkey door leading to the tea room close.) Yukio lay there wrapped in a thin quilt with a box-shaped pillow beneath her head, but the room’s thick odor of women’s body odor and incense felt suffocating.

“Just now from there—” He glanced at the monkey door and asked, “Did someone leave?”

“It’s Ms. Shizu Yamagishi.”

“Which Yamagishi are you referring to?”

“Lord Yamagishi Heizaemon is the Treasury Magistrate. Ms. Shizu is his wife and my dear friend from long ago.”

“Why did she run away?”

“She did not run away,” Yukio said tersely. “Since you entered without any notice, she merely withdrew from her seat.”

He stared fixedly at his wife’s condition. “This doesn’t seem to be a tea gathering.”

“Yes,” she said, attempting to sit up, but Yukio frowned and groaned, lying back down painfully as she continued, “Five people were supposed to gather, but I heard four had encountered difficulties. Since it was just Ms. Shizu and myself, we decided to abandon the tea gathering and intended to dine together before returning.”

And then,” Yukio said, “during our conversation, my chronic stomach pain flared up, so until now I had Ms. Shizu press on it.”
Tettaro noticed for the first time then that his wife was lying down in only her undergarments and that her underrobe and sash had been left in the dim corner.

“What is this urgent matter?”
Yukio asked in a listless voice.

“Let’s discuss it after we return home.”

“The pain hasn’t subsided yet, and I cannot leave Shizu-san behind.”

“That person can leave,” he said. “We can discuss it here.”

Yukio listened intently for a moment, then called, “Ms. Shizu.”
A woman’s voice answered from the six-mat reception area.
She must have exited through the tea room’s crawl-through entrance and circled around to that side.
When Yukio called out, a voice responded—the sliding door opened, and Yamagishi Shizu entered.
She appeared about two years younger than Yukio, with a softly rounded figure and pale moon-face that still retained traces of girlishness.

“I am Kagawa,” Tettaro said with a returning nod. “I understand my wife has caused you trouble, for which I express my gratitude.”

Shizu murmured a response and, turning to Yukio, bid farewell with "I shall take my leave now." Shizu never once looked at Tettaro’s face, and when she spoke, her words stayed muffled in her mouth—shamefacedly quiet, barely audible as a whisper.

She reminded him of someone.

While watching Shizu leave, Tettaro tilted his head.
He immediately realized she bore some resemblance to the maid Tsuru he'd glimpsed in his wife's bedchamber late one night.
Though Tsuru was far younger with completely different features,
their overall impression shared a startling similarity.

Shrikes suddenly shrieked louder in the sawtooth oak grove, making Tettaro jerk his head up.
His brother Sakuma kept sorting books while Tettaro stared toward the grove.

“Why?” Yukio said. “Why did you end it over such a thing?”

“Okano apologized,” Tettaro said without looking at his wife. “‘I’ve been reckless until now. From this point on, I’ll never spread slanderous rumors again—I’ll become deaf, blind, and mute. I swear it absolutely.’ Do you think I can cut down someone who apologizes like that?”

“Then you’ve made yourself perfectly clear now, haven’t you?”

Tettaro did not answer.

“This—how do you read this?” said Sakuma, looking at the book he had picked up. “With the character for ‘shallow’ and the character for ‘float,’ plus ‘shō’ written here—would you call it *Asauki-shō*? What category does this belong to?”

“It’s read as *Senpu-shō*,” answered Tettaro. “Put it in the Historical Precedents section.”

A splashing sound came from the "marsh" beyond, and when fifteen or sixteen ducks took flight, they were seen slicing diagonally through the sky as they flew northward.

Yukio’s voice was heard saying, “Please,” followed by, “Tell me plainly—what about me displeases you? What must I do?”

Tettaro remained silent and looked toward the "marsh."

"As a wife, I believe I've done everything within my power," Yukio said. "I don't know what more I can do—please, tell me what would please you."

Tettaro looked at his wife.
Yukio watched his eyes from the mirror as she tried to finish applying her makeup.

“I don’t know—I don’t know either,” Tettaro groaned. “You clearly fulfill your role as a wife splendidly. To anyone’s eyes, we must appear to lead a peaceful life. But I cannot grasp your true heart. Even when I hold you in these arms, when our skins touch—the real you is somewhere else. The moment I pull you close, I feel the real you slipping out from within your body.”

“What should I do about you feeling that way?” Yukio smiled quietly in the mirror. “And besides—could such a thing really be so important?”

That’s right, Tettaro nodded inwardly.
To most people this would be trivial—among those unaffected by such emotions or couples living harmoniously, such matters might not even merit laughter.
But to me, it was crucial.
What others consider insignificant can become life-defining for one individual.
The tangible sense of his wife being present yet absent.
When speaking with her, sharing meals, embracing in their bedchamber—what he saw with his eyes, conversed with, touched—was merely the shell of a wife, while her true self remained distant.
The agony of perceiving this so vividly proved unbearable.

“It’s an important matter,” he answered his wife, “for me, it’s an important matter.”

“I must be the one to go.”

“Yukio,” he said, “what did Okano know? What secret of yours had he uncovered?”

“You should have heard it.”

“The only thing I heard about was the tea gatherings.”

“That is all,” Yukio said. “He misunderstood something and humiliated me with baseless slander. That is why I asked you to cross swords with him.”

“Are you claiming that trivial slander humiliated you so profoundly?”

“He is a frivolous coward,” Yukio said. “Leave him be, and he’ll keep circulating those vile rumors endlessly. Should they spread far enough, not only will your reputation be stained—I too would find it impossible to go on living.”

“That such petty gossip could hold such consequence—I still cannot fathom it.”

“It’s already been settled now.”
Yukio said while tidying around her vanity, “Since he is a coward, he will surely keep the vow he made at Jinbagahara. Even if—even if he were to break that vow—once I am gone, nothing he says could harm anyone.”

“You’re saying you’ll disappear?”

“Brother,” Sakuma called out, “I hear Mr. Matsukawa’s wife has the same illness as Sister-in-law.”

“Matsukawa—” Tettaro slowly countered, “Matsukawa Yugi?”

“Yes, his wife has been bedridden these past two weeks,” Sakuma said. “When they finally had a doctor examine her, they said it’s the same illness as Sister-in-law’s—that a critical turn could come any moment now. Sister-in-law’s was sudden too.”

From the sawtooth oak grove, shrikes burst upward, their raucous cries fading as they flew toward the distant marsh. When he noticed, the sky had darkened to twilight hues, and in the still air, fine white snowflakes began spiraling down.

“You never showed your true heart,” Tettaro said while keeping his gaze on the garden. “I wanted to see your real self, speak with your real self, touch your real self.”

“I must take my leave.”
Yukio rose. “The tea gathering hour has come. Our guests await.”

“Wait—we’ve more to settle.”

“I have nothing further to declare,” Yukio replied, calmly smoothing her obi sash and lightly touching her hair as she regarded her husband. “I have laid bare all there is to say. I know not what answers remain to give you—and I find myself quite spent.”

“If you’re going, lay bare your true heart as you go.”

“You speak of my true heart?”
Yukio smiled. “Even if I told you, you wouldn’t understand.”

Yukio took something out from her sleeve and quietly placed it on the desk.
It was a single thistle bearing purple flowers.
On its slender stem grew three or four leaves; being winter, the flowers were small, but their vivid purple color appeared fresh and strikingly vivid atop the desk.
Yukio gracefully straightened her back and, with her usual mysteriously resolute posture, began walking toward the veranda.
Tettaro watched with vacant eyes as his wife placed the thistle on the desk and then saw her move toward the veranda.

“Yukio!” he shouted, standing up. “Wait, Yukio!”

“Brother,” Sakuma called out.

Tettaro went out to the veranda in pursuit of his wife.
Sakuma jumped up, ran over, and grabbed his brother.

“What’s wrong, Brother?” Sakuma fiercely shook his brother’s shoulder. “Pull yourself together—what’s wrong?”

Tettaro looked at his brother’s face. When Sakuma stared back into his brother’s eyes with intensity, Tettaro, indecisively, turned his gaze toward the garden.
The garden had grown completely dark, and the fine snow that had begun to fall was already tingeing the garden earth white.

“It’s nothing,” Tettaro said. “I’m fine. Let go of me.”

“Is this alright?”

“That’s enough, I’m fine.”

“You startled me,” Sakuma said, releasing his grip. “Shall I have some tea brought?”

Tettaro shook his head.

“It’s time you returned to your duties.”
“You’ve been secluded ever since Sister-in-law passed away,” Sakuma said while returning to the bookshelves. “Once the 49th-day memorial is done, you’ll return to your duties, won’t you?”

Tettaro sat down at his desk but changed complexion upon seeing the thistle there, letting out an "Ah."

"What's wrong?" Sakuma asked, looking at his brother.

Tettaro quietly pointed at the thistle.

"What about it?"

"Th-this..." Tettaro stammered. "Why is this here?"

"I'm the one who picked it." Sakuma said suspiciously, "I found it blooming under Tenjin Mountain's cliff and picked it because Sister-in-law liked the flower. Have you forgotten?"

Tettaro nodded vaguely and said, “I see. Does it bloom even in this season?”

“That cliff base must be warm as a sun trap—there were pinks blooming there too.”

Tettaro stared fixedly at the thistle with a tormented gaze.

“If left like this, it will wither,” he said after a while. “Shall I have someone bring out a vase from the storehouse and put water in it?”

“I’ll bring it,” Sakuma said.

When his younger brother left, Tettaro once again propped his cheek on his hand at the desk and gazed into the distance.
In the garden where twilight’s hues had deepened, from a windless sky, white powder snow fell soundlessly through the darkening air.
He stared blankly beyond the falling snow until a young samurai entered quietly, carrying a lantern with its light lit.