Pathway to Japanese Literature

I Another scream-like cry rang out, followed by the woman starting to yell. That woman again. Mizawa Ihei kept lying prone and opened his narrowed eyes with apparent concern to look at his wife. Otayo continued sewing. She was altering an old padded garment she had taken apart into a summer kimono. In the light from the soot-stained brown shoji screen, her sunken cheeks, sharp shoulders, and needle-gripping fingers appeared as pitifully worn as an old woman's. Yet her neatly bound thick hair and vividly red lips alone still retained a girlish youthfulness. Perhaps because she had borne no children, her affluent upbringing before marriage seemed to have endured through seven years of hardship, barely persisting only in those features.

Outside, rain was falling. Even though the rainy season should have ended, it had already been raining for fifteen days straight, and today showed no sign of clearing up. Though the misty rain fell silently, the ceaseless dripping day and night only deepened their gloom.

“There’s a thief here! A thief in this place!” The woman’s blatant shouting grew louder. “Someone stole my half-cooked rice! I had properly marked the pot before going to wash up!”

Mizawa Ihei tightly closed his eyes. Nothing out of the ordinary. In these cheap inns on the outskirts of post towns along the highway, such disturbances often occurred. Most guests were extremely poor people—typically candy sellers, fairground vendors, or itinerant performers traveling between towns—so when trapped by prolonged rain even slightly longer, they would lack even basic food provisions, and there were not a few who eventually resorted to taking others' belongings. But to call someone a thief was too harsh—a thief!

Ihei's chest began pounding with embarrassment and guilt, as though the accusations were directed at him. The woman's screams only grew louder, but no other voices could be heard. Though invisible from this three-mat room of theirs, there should have been about ten guests in that hearth room. Among them were two couples with children - the younger child who would typically fuss and cry all day long now seemed to be holding its breath too.

The woman was a thirty-year-old engaged in shady work who had always been on bad terms with her fellow lodgers. No one would engage with her, and everyone avoided her. Of course, it wasn’t out of contempt. People who were already overwhelmed with the struggle to survive had neither the custom nor the leisure to demean others based on their occupation. The reason they avoided the woman was due to her excessively rough behavior, thorny disposition, and her relentless venomous tongue that showed no mercy. In other words, they held her in contempt, but she showed no awareness of this, constantly displaying open hostility toward them.

Though they had been trapped by half a month of rain and everyone was now nearing starvation, perhaps owing to the nature of her trade, she alone (though meagerly) never neglected preparing meals. That seemed to greatly satisfy her daily hostility and self-esteem.

“That’s going too far…”

Ihei muttered this and, unable to bear the woman’s increasingly shrill and relentlessly caustic shouts any longer, rose to his feet. “That’s too harsh. Even if it were true, I don’t think it’s right to say things that hurt people’s feelings like that.” He muttered as if to himself while stealthily peering at his wife’s expression. He was tall in stature, with broad, thick shoulders and chest, and a well-toned physique. His plump, round face was remarkably gentle, and in his downturned eyes and small lips could be sensed the clean refinement of a well-bred boy.

"Yes, that may be so..." Otayo scraped the sewn section with her nail and spoke without looking at her husband.

“I do wish everyone would show her a little more kindness,” she said. “She believes herself excluded, you see. The loneliness makes her grow so agitated.” “That may be so, but she could stand to make some effort herself.” Ihei flinched. The woman had finally named someone. “Aren’t you going to say something, huh? You there—you old storytelling geezer!”

The woman’s voice pierced like a stabbing blade. “Playing dumb ain’t gonna work! I ain’t blind—I knew you stole it from the start! Knew it all along!” Mizawa Ihei leapt to his feet. “You mustn’t!” Otayo tried to stop him, but he slid open the fusuma and went out. It was a room resembling a farmhouse hearth room, with one side being an earthen floor that led from the shopfront to the rear. The tatami mats were laid out in a key shape connecting six- and eight-mat areas, with a large hearth set between them and the wooden flooring at the raised edge. What distinguished it from farmhouses were the low ceiling, the fact that most guests didn’t take separate rooms but slept crowded together there, and because they borrowed pots and pans to cook at that hearth—the necessary utensils for such purposes being lined up.

The woman was at the hearthside. With one hand thrust into her kimono sleeve and kneeling upright, her pallid, sickly thin face contorted, eyes blazing as they darted around the room, her shrill voice splitting the air as she shrieked—the other guests had all withdrawn, some hugging their knees with heads bowed, others lying prostrate, still others clutching children tightly, all holding their breath in silence. They gave the impression of stray dogs patiently waiting out a passing storm.

“Excuse me, but please stop.” Ihei went before the woman and spoke gently in a soothing manner. “I don’t believe there are any such bad people here—everyone is good, and you must know that yourself.” “Leave me be.” The woman turned away. “This ain’t none of your concern, samurai sir,” she snapped. “I may be stuck in this filthy trade, but I ain’t got no weakling’s ass to sit quiet while my own things get stolen.”

“You’re absolutely right—of course you are. But I will make amends for it, so please let that settle the matter.” “There’s no need for a samurai sir like yourself to bother with such things,” she retorted. “It’s not like I’m fussing over some stolen trinket.” “You’re absolutely right—of course you are. But humans do make mistakes, and seeing as we all share this roof over our heads—well, regardless, please just allow me to take care of it right away.”

After saying just that, Ihei stood up hurriedly and left.

“An oath is an oath, but this is different.”

Bearing a large oil-paper umbrella inscribed with the inn’s name, he stepped outside and immediately muttered these words to himself, smiling as if tickled by some private amusement. "Since such a thing has occurred right before my eyes, I can’t just protect my own conscience—no, indeed, that would be an act contrary to conscience itself." His face suddenly turned serious. "No—since I’m not actually doing anything, you can’t call it an action. Nor can you call it non-action."

Muttering incomprehensible things, he walked toward the castle town with hurried, lively steps.

Two

He returned to the inn about four hours later.

He must have drunk sake, for his face was bright red, but what surprised us more was that five or six young men and apprentices followed behind him carrying various supplies. The rice merchant brought a bale of rice; the greengrocer, a basket of vegetables; the fishmonger, two wooden tubs of fish; the sake dealer, a five-shō cask of sake along with miso and soy sauce; and the confectioner brought up the rear with a massive load of firewood and charcoal. “What in heaven’s name is all this?”

The inn mistress emerged and widened her eyes. The young men and apprentices arranged the items they had carried in along the raised entryway and earthen floor. “I thought we could lift everyone’s spirits.” Ihei squinted his eyes in a smile and addressed the dumbfounded lodgers. “Everyone, I’m sorry to trouble you, but please lend a hand. To lift our spirits after this endless rain, let’s all share a simple meal together. Though it’s meager and rather embarrassing, let’s divide the tasks—I’ll cook rice at least—and make this our humble homemade feast.”

Among the lodgers arose a sigh-like sound that couldn’t be discerned as either joy or anguish. At first, no one moved. But when Ihei produced some sweets and Gen-san’s child—the barrel-hoop mender’s boy—leapt up from his mother’s lap, four or five others rose together. The inn was suddenly shaken by a surge of activity. It was as though something burst forth in a great wave. The innkeeper couple and a middle-aged maid joined in, fish and vegetables were laid out, and fires were lit in both the hearth and cooking stove. Lively shouts and laughter erupted without pause; the women shrieked needlessly and slapped people’s backs.

“Sir, please have a seat.” Everyone said to Ihei.

“We’ll handle this part ourselves—it’s bad enough we’ve received your generosity without making you work too.” They entreated him, saying they would call when everything was ready, but Ihei paid no heed. Stealing occasional glances toward the small room where his wife stayed, he busied himself with clumsy yet ceaseless activity. The storytelling old man, though slightly palsied, seemed to feel a particular sense of responsibility and bustled about more zealously than anyone else.

By the time preparations were finally complete, in the room now thick with twilight (through the innkeeper’s kindness), eight lamps were lit and three lanterns placed around. “Alright, all you men please sit down with the master—we’ll handle carrying everything from here.” The women urged them on with these words.

“Don’t let our lot handle warming the sake! They’ll drink it all before it’s properly heated!” Then a woman beside her shot back, “In that case, your sake warmer must never get a chance to heat up properly!” and let out a shrill, mocking laugh.

Mizawa Ihei sat side by side with the innkeeper couple. The men also took their respective seats. In the large pot placed over the hearth stood seven or eight sake-warming bottles, and when the meal trays were brought in, the inn’s maid distributed them to everyone’s trays. And a lively feast began. “How about this? With all these dishes lined up splendidly and firmly gripping our sake cups like this—isn’t this downright luxurious? Feels like we’ve become lords ourselves!”

“Don’t get so carried away—you’ll tip over backwards if you’re not careful.” Mizawa Ihei watched them with droopy eyes while drinking heartily, looking genuinely pleased. After having starved for so long, everyone quickly became drunk; a worn shamisen was brought out, singing began, and people started dancing.

“It’s just like a dream, I tell ya.” Takehei the mirror polisher said with deep feeling, “If we knew we’d have this kind of joy even once a year—no, once every three years—I could bear any hardship.” A sigh rose solitary from the boisterous noise. Ihei closed his eyes briefly, then furrowed his brows as if stung and took a gulp of sake.

That woman returned to this scene. Though she usually came back well past midnight—whether from failing to find customers or not—she entered the earthen-floored area with a pale, sharp-featured face. Upon seeing this spectacle, she froze in astonishment, her hand still raised halfway through wiping her rain-damp hair. The first to notice this was Gen-san’s wife. Since her child often received candy drops and such, she had grown friendly with the woman inside; but now, being drunk, she seemed to have momentarily forgotten the daytime incident. “Oh! Miss Oroku, you’re back! This is all Master Mizawa’s treat—see how grand it is? Come now, miss, hurry up and join us!”

Just as she began to say this, the storytelling old man leapt up and shouted. "You're back, streetwalker! Come up here—I'll give your rice back! Get over here!"

Though his slight paralysis made his tongue somewhat slurred, his voice was remarkably loud, his eyes glared fiercely, and his entire body trembled. Everyone fell silent.

The singing and shamisen playing stopped abruptly, and everyone turned toward the woman.

“How dare you call people thieves!” The old man continued in a death-rattled voice, “Who the hell d’you think you are? Treatin’ this old man like—get over here! I saved this without touchin’ a single grain—serves ya right! Take it and choke!” “Wait now—don’t say that—just... let’s—” Mizawa Ihei stood to calm the old man. “People make mistakes,” he said. “She’s hurting too. We all carry our sorrows. Please forgive and make peace.”

He stammered incoherently and called out to the woman standing in the earthen-floored area. “Please—you too. It’s nothing serious. Come sit over here. There’s nothing special, but do share a drink with everyone. We’re all in this together.”

“Come on over here.” The inn mistress chimed in. “Since the master insists like that, come over here and join the feast.” Then everyone urged her to join. It wasn’t just the sake’s influence—these people couldn’t hoard joy or pleasure. Gen-san’s wife, the barrel-hoop mender, stood up and went over, then took the woman’s hand and brought her along. She sat with frosty composure and, as if drinking from obligation alone, silently reclined to take the cup.

“Now, let’s make this lively!” Ihei declared loudly, “—so that Heaven itself might be startled into putting away this rain! Come now, everyone, let’s...” As the commotion began anew, Mizawa Ihei—seeming to finally muster courage—picked up the tray before him and stood, entering the three-tatami room where his wife waited. Otayo faced a small desk with uneven legs, writing in her diary within a handmade notebook. Over their long years of wandering, this diary—kept without fail as if it were her only pleasure—had become her sole comfort. Having drawn the dim lantern light closer, when Ihei saw his wife sitting hunched over her desk, he set down the meal tray, sat before her, aligned his knees neatly, and bowed.

"I'm sorry. Please forgive me." Otayo quietly turned around. A smile played on the lips, but the eyes were clearly angry. "You participated in a gambling match, didn’t you?" "I must confess, I participated in a gambling match."

Ihei bowed again.

“I simply couldn’t endure it—hearing those things made me so sorrowful that I couldn’t possibly pretend not to notice. Everyone was suffering, the rain refused to cease, and imagining their feelings... I couldn’t remain motionless any longer.” “You vowed never to partake in gambling matches again.” “Yes, certainly—but this wasn’t for my own sustenance! I—well, I did drink some of it—perhaps rather more than some—but everyone was so delighted.”

And once again he bowed. "This is how it is—please forgive me. I'll never do it again. And please, just... as proof of your forgiveness, take one bite—just a single bite will do." Otayo smiled sadly and set down her brush before standing up.

III

The next morning, while it was still dark, Mizawa Ihei borrowed an old straw raincoat and hat, took a fishing rod and basket, and left the inn. About three blocks toward the castle town, there was a river called Magarigawa, said to be the local sweetfish fishing spot. Having been shown by the innkeeper, he too had gone out fishing two or three times and caught five or six small ones, but that morning, it seemed he had gone out not for angling but to escape from the inn.

He slumped dejectedly, his face downcast, occasionally shaking his head as if overwhelmed and heaving sighs. After crossing the bridge and turning left immediately, walking about two blocks along the embankment brought one to a place where shrubs grew thick along the riverbank. It was a spot he had visited before. There he paused briefly before resuming his unsteady walk, descending the embankment to enter a pine grove. “Ah… It’s already been seven years… ah…”

Inside the grove, the young pine needles were fragrant. Large raindrops pattered down onto the hat.

"As for me, it’s one thing—but what about Otayo’s feelings? Making smooth excuses, breaking your vow, engaging in gambling matches… Ah… When it comes down to it, you just wanted a drink, didn’t you? Licking your lips as you headed out, bouncing along all cheerful-like—shudder!"

Ihei pulled his head in and tightly shut his eyes.

The Mizawa family had served Matsudaira Ikino Kami for generations, maintaining a stipend of 250 koku. His father was called Hyōgo no Suke, and he was the only son. Due to being terribly frail in his childhood, he was entrusted to Sōkanji Temple, a Zen temple. He was dearly loved by Chief Priest Genwa and never ceased visiting even after growing up.

Just as his body had been weak, so too had his disposition—timid and hesitant, a child who did nothing but cry. But through the priest’s skillful tutelage, by the time he turned fourteen or fifteen, he had transformed completely: his body grew robust, and his temperament became bright and proactive.

There is fire within stone—strike, and it emerges. This had been Genwa’s favorite saying, but Ihei cherished these words like a protective talisman. Whether in scholarship or martial arts, when he encountered difficulties, he would quietly contemplate this. There is fire within stone; if you do not strike it, it will not emerge. How should one strike it? Come now—how can one draw out the fire from within the stone? Come now... He would ponder in this manner. Then (though not in all matters), in most cases, a path to a breakthrough would present itself.

His scholarship extended to Zhu Xi, Wang Yangming, and even Laozi; in martial arts, he mastered everything from swordsmanship to spear, naginata, archery, jujutsu, staff fighting, horsemanship, and swimming—moreover advancing each to unparalleled levels.

So did Mizawa Ihei rapidly rise through the ranks? No. Quite the opposite was true. Because of this, he had to leave his lord’s household and become a ronin.

There seem to be two reasons. The first was that his skill had become extraordinary; the second was his disposition. To summarize: In both swordsmanship and jujutsu, his techniques were utterly effortless yet unrivaled in strength. By around twenty-one or twenty-two years old, even the instructors in his discipline could no longer match him—not because he employed any particularly exotic techniques, but because matches concluded with startling simplicity, ending almost before one could believe it possible. —the single point that strikes fire from stone. In other words, when he discovered that "single point," the outcome was decided. However, because it was so offhand and so straightforwardly clear-cut, his opponent would be left unable to retreat with dignity, the spectators would grow disenchanted, and he himself would end up feeling awkward.

When his father Hyogo no Suke died, he succeeded to the family headship at twenty-four. At the same time he took a bride from the same household—the Kurematsu family—who was Otayo; but when soon afterward his mother too followed his father in death, he abruptly began to feel an oppressive sense of displacement. ...Thanks to Genwa he had become quite proactive, but his fundamental nature remained unchanged; inversely proportional to his growing martial prowess, his disposition grew ever more gentle, humble, and mild.

Not growing arrogant in victory might be considered a virtue, but Ihei would become flustered and apologetic every time he won. Because he earnestly became apologetic and flustered, his opponents found it increasingly impossible to retreat with dignity. Those around him also felt vaguely unsettled, and so he himself ended up feeling as though he’d done something wrong. As these incidents accumulated and gradually created awkwardness—though there had been some direct scheming by the domain's instructors—he ultimately requested resignation of his own accord and left his post.

――Given his considerable expertise, it would be safer for both parties if he were to go to an unknown land and enter new service.

After consulting with Otayo and obtaining her consent, he set out on a journey. However, it did not go well. Opportunities had existed, but when it came time to actually hold skill-testing matches, things would inexplicably go awry. He would defeat the local domain's swordsmanship instructors or those reputed as invincible with utmost ease, just as before. Then, due to the abruptness of it all, the gathering would grow cold, emotions would somehow become strained, and though his skill was praised, the matter of employment would never come to fruition—such was the result.

"This couldn't be right—with all this skill, what could possibly be wrong?" He reflected, deliberated, agonized. There had been two or three times when matters went smoothly, but whenever they did, some new trouble would arise. Whether feeling pity for opponents who lost their positions through defeat by him or being told tearful pleas (in fact, there had been instances where they implored, "Please decline the appointment—if I lose my position now, my wife and children would be left destitute"), when such things happened, he would become overwhelmed with guilt, at a loss, and end up apologizing and withdrawing on his own accord.

When he left his lord's household, he had considerable travel funds, but by the third year those too had run out, and he was forced to start participating in gambling matches at town dojos. This resoundingly succeeded. If opponents would only agree, he would undoubtedly win, and at times it could yield enormous sums of money. However, before long he was noticed by his wife, admonished through her tears, and made to swear never to do it again. Needless to say, they were immediately plunged into dire straits.

“I can do some handiwork as well, so please wait patiently for better times.”

Otayo began to insist. She had been born into a 950-koku quasi-elder official household and grown up in affluent freedom. The hardships of their unaccustomed wandering life had weakened her body and left her utterly emaciated. Ihei felt his breath catch merely at seeing her form. The pity that made him want to writhe meant he trembled and refused outright whenever handiwork was mentioned. Out of the question—he apologized for that alone, and instead himself devised petty trades.

Even calling it peddling was an overstatement—it was nothing steady. He would make extremely simple toys himself—Yajirobei balancing toys, jumping rabbits, bamboo dragonflies, paper popguns, flutes, and such—or depending on the season and location, catch small creatures like crucian carp, crabs, and frogs, selling these primarily to young children. The quality of the inns they stayed in gradually declined, until before they knew it, they had grown accustomed to cheap lodgings. He had always liked children, so this peddling was by no means unpleasant to him; the guests at the cheap lodgings—though there were exceptions—were simple and warm-hearted, and their shared state of destitution created a common bond that made interactions refreshingly straightforward.

“That has become ingrained in me—how pathetic, how pathetic—don’t you think, Ihei?” He pouted and let out a sigh. When he noticed, he found himself standing motionless in a pine grove, raindrops incessantly striking his sedge hat. “I really must get serious soon—it’s too pitiful for Otayo otherwise. When you consider how Otayo must feel, isn’t that right? Isn’t that so, Ihei?”

He abruptly turned his head to the side. Voices had begun rising from that direction. When he looked, four or five samurai were gathered in the grassland just beyond the pine grove, talking about something. If someone saw me standing here absentmindedly like this—wearing a straw raincoat and holding a fishing rod—it would be embarrassing. He tried to start walking hurriedly but turned back again. Just as he thought he heard something ominous, the samurai drew their swords with a metallic gleam.

Oh no.

Ihei was startled. When he realized five men were encircling a single youth, he involuntarily threw down his fishing gear and dashed from the pine grove toward them.

“Stop it, please stop!”

He waved his hand while shouting that. IV In the drizzle, they all wore ghastly expressions, their excitement so intense it bordered on frenzy.

“Please stop, please wait.” Mizawa Ihei ran up to the side and, making a gesture as if restraining both parties with his hands, said. “Since getting injured would be dangerous, please stop such reckless actions as swinging those things around—I beg you, everyone!” “Step back, wretch! Shut your mouth!” shouted one of the surrounding men. “If you keep meddling, I’ll cut you down first!”

“That may be true, but in any case—” “Still talking, you wretch?” “Oh, that’s dangerous! Such violence! Ah—” One of the enraged men—likely intending to intimidate—raised his sword and charged forward. Ihei somehow managed to dodge, grabbed the opponent’s dominant arm, and pushed his way into their midst while pleading, “Please, I don’t know what this is about, but stop this—it’s pointless. Please.” The samurai whose dominant arm had been grabbed flailed wildly but could not break free from Ihei’s grip no matter how he struggled. Seeing this, the four companions grew enraged,

“Let’s take care of this wretch first!”

With this shout, they too came charging forward, swords glinting. Ihei dodged sideways in distress, pleading, “Please stop! That’s—ah, dangerous! Just that—at least here—ah—” Waving his hands, bowing, pleading all the while—darting right and left, jumping aside, dodging blows, circling around—he performed such a dizzying flurry of movements that within moments he had seized all five men’s swords from their hands. Bundling them together in both arms and raising them high above his head, he kept repeating “Please forgive me! I deeply apologize! As you can see here—please just wait a moment!” as he scrambled about trying to escape.

A short while earlier, three samurai had ridden up on their horses to the road opposite the pine grove and were watching the scene. Then, upon seeing the five men chasing the fleeing Mizawa Ihei while shouting things like "Return our swords!", "You insolent wretch!", and "Stop right there, knave!", they finally dismounted their horses, and two from their group began approaching this way.

“Cease this! You make a disgraceful spectacle!” A corpulent samurai of forty-five or six years old stopped them in a resonant, weighty voice. “Dueling is prohibited by law. Desist!” “It’s Lord Aoyama!” Another shouted, “All of you—cease! Lord Aoyama himself is present!”

Another one barked.

“Cease this commotion at once! Lord Aoyama is here!” He must have been quite an authoritative figure, for at this single remark, everyone froze in surprise and obediently ceased their fighting. The middle-aged samurai addressed as Lord Aoyama fixed them with a glare and immediately came over to Ihei. “I don’t know who you are, but you stopped them admirably. I am Aoyama Shouzen of this domain—allow me to express profound gratitude.”

“Ah—no—not at all.” Of course he had lowered the swords he had been holding up, but as usual, he became flustered and turned red. “On the contrary, it is I who have been discourteous and ended up angering everyone.” “Those hot-blooded fools must have been quite a laughable sight. I must apologize for their rudeness.” “Ah, I am Mizawa Ihei—a masterless samurai. I had gone fishing to the river over there, but since things here seemed dangerous, I… well, ended up involved in this without thinking.”

“Are you staying in this area?” “At Matsuba-ya in Oiwake—no—that’s not it at all. Please pay me no mind—I’ve done nothing worth mentioning.” He set down the swords there and retreated with a bow. “Please don’t trouble yourselves—my wife awaits me, and I’ve left a borrowed fishing rod unattended. I must take my leave.”

And he hurriedly left that place. The fishing rod and fish basket were right where he had left them. Since he no longer felt like fishing, he picked them up and set off on the return journey with a disappointed air.

“Engaging in duels—how reckless of them to do something so dangerous.”

While walking, he muttered. "They must have parents, siblings, wives, children—yet it's all about pointless stubbornness and samurai honor... But what a failure that was. Holding up five swords over my head with both hands while apologizing and scrambling about—even I must admit how pathetic it was. And to have been seen doing that... ugh."

Ihei shrank his neck and groaned.

He returned to the inn, but there was nothing to do. He had already made more than enough toys for peddling, and even if he were to make more, he worried about having enough money for materials (what with the inn fee). The day after drinking heavily, with the persistent temptation to drink again, since there was nothing to be done, he ate a combined breakfast and lunch and went to sleep. In his sleep, he had a splendid dream. A feudal lord from somewhere came with many retainers and insisted on employing him.

"That would lead to more awkwardness," he declined. The feudal lord would not yield. "I will grant you a stipend of one thousand koku," he said. When it came to a thousand koku, the matter was different. His heart pounded as he thought the long-awaited moment had finally arrived, filling him with a dreamlike happy mood. At that moment, his wife woke him.

“A guest has arrived.”

Around the third attempt, he woke up. And though considerably disappointed to find it had indeed been just a dream, upon hearing the guest was a samurai from the domain, he became fully alert this time. "A samurai, you say? No—I'll be right out. Just let me wash my face quickly."

Ihei rushed out to the back. The guest was one of the men who had ridden their horses into that grassland—the man who had shouted, “It’s Lord Aoyama!” He appeared to be thirty-four or thirty-five years old and was called Ushio Dairoku; seemingly overwhelmed by the cheap inn, he stated his business while standing in the entryway. To summarize, he wished to offer a cup of sake in gratitude for that morning’s affair and had matters to discuss, so he earnestly requested that Ihei come to the residence of Aoyama Shouzen. Ihei was thrilled.

It might have been a prophetic dream. He couldn't dismiss the possibility this was an omen. When Ushio suggested accompanying him—explaining a palanquin stood ready—Ihei asked him to wait while making preparations.

“What business brings him here? Where did you make his acquaintance?”

Otayo asked with a worried look. Not wanting to disappoint her, he said he would explain everything when he returned, then put on his faded but still presentable crested formal attire with hakama trousers, fastened his long and short swords for the first time in ages, and left together with Ushio Dairoku under the suspicious yet envious gazes of their fellow lodgers.

5 At the Aoyama residence, he received hospitality with food and drink. There were no other guests; only Shouzen and he were present, with a young retainer named Hayashi serving them. Though referred to as a clan elder, one wondered what exact rank Shouzen held—for the residence was remarkably vast, and the trees and rocks visible in the inner garden from the guest room appeared more elaborately arranged than ordinary. Shouzen made no mention of that morning’s incident; after offering his thanks, he immediately began praising Ihei’s martial prowess.

“To be honest, I observed from the roadside—they too were quite skilled, but to see them handled like mere children was astonishing. If I may ask—what school do you follow?” “Ah, I studied the Ono-ha school and battōjutsu, but of course I’m still unskilled.”

“Setting aside unnecessary modesty—given your considerable skill yet remaining a ronin—I imagine there must be particular circumstances behind this. If it’s not too forward, might you share them?” “There’s truly nothing worth calling circumstances—it’s merely something laughable, if I may say.” Ihei recounted the outline of his life’s circumstances. As was customary, he did not name his former lord’s house. Though he only hinted at matters, his listener appeared satisfied—Ihei’s humble manner of speaking seemed to compensate for the vagueness of his account, and Lord Shouzen appeared to grasp both his reasons for becoming a ronin and why subsequent official appointments had gone awry.

“Such things do occur. Hmm—a disposition that someone like myself would consider refined may conversely become an impediment in other situations. Whether you call it circumstantial misfortune, twists of fate, or preordained destiny...” Lord Aoyama murmured something and nodded. “Then I presume you possess proficiency not only in swordsmanship but also archery, horsemanship, spearmanship, and jujutsu?”

“Mastery is out of the question—as I stated before, I remain thoroughly careless in these matters.” “Ah, understood. To speak plainly, this hasty invitation stems from a request I must make.” In essence, he wanted another demonstration of skill there—indeed, he had kept three men waiting expressly for this purpose. By then, sake had already flowed freely. Though Aoyama Shouzen seemed to have intentionally made him drink, Mizawa Ihei—who actually preferred being somewhat inebriated for such occasions—readily agreed with cheerful compliance.

“If it’s acceptable to you, we can proceed immediately.”

“Then, though this may trouble you...”

When Lord Aoyama called out, Ushio Dairoku appeared. He had apparently been waiting in the adjacent room. Having been told to go inquire about their preparations, he withdrew but soon returned to report that everything was ready. He was led to a training hall. Attached to this residence, it was located two turns down the main house’s corridor—small yet properly constructed, with what appeared to be a waiting room. [...] As Mizawa Ihei entered behind Aoyama Shouzen, three figures emerged from that waiting room in perfect synchronization with their arrival. But for some reason, one of the three men started at the sight of Ihei and, after saying something to his companions, turned right back to the waiting room.

Mizawa Ihei paid no particular attention to this, going to a corner to wring out the crotch cord of his hakama trousers before taking a single wooden sword from those Ushio Dairoku had brought without careful selection. He wore neither a headband nor a sash. On their side as well, one man was preparing while holding a slightly long wooden sword and whispered something to Lord Aoyama. A small-statured youth of twenty-seven or twenty-eight had white teeth that stood out strikingly against his tanned, rugged-looking face. Eventually through Lord Aoyama's introduction, the two faced each other. The youth was named Harada Juubei; when he saw Ihei’s stance, he smirked. The posture—with its straightened back and gaping imbalance—seemed laughable. Unaware of this perception, Ihei narrowed his eyes with a soft return smile before adding an offhand bow that nearly made Harada Juubei burst into laughter. Of course Harada Juubei did not actually laugh. Having barely restrained himself yet seeming greatly relieved nonetheless, he began actively shouting encouragement while repeatedly demonstrating his fervent fighting spirit.

Ihei’s stance was clumsy. It was utterly impossible to pin down. His powerfully built, broad shoulders slightly hunched forward, thrusting his wooden sword ahead, he gazed at his opponent with downturned eyes that seemed almost gentle. If one wasn’t careful, they might have mistaken it for the prelude to a staring contest.

Harada Juubei let out a piercing shout and struck with tremendous force, putting his entire body into the blow. The small frame looked like a stone hurled through the air. But Ihei merely stood on his tiptoes and raised the wooden sword straight overhead. Harada Juubei hurled forward and collided headfirst with the dojo's wooden wall, rebounded alone, collapsed flat yet immediately raised his upper body paused briefly then shouted “I yield!”

"My apologies." Ihei bowed deeply. "My most sincere apologies." Next came a man of thirty-six or thirty-seven named Nabeyama Matagoro, likely serving as the instructor. His calm eyes held an uncommon sharpness, his demeanor remained utterly composed, showing not the slightest opening.

“It might be a bit rough.” Nabeyama said calmly, “Please bear that in mind.” “Ah… Well then, I’m in your care.” Mizawa Ihei bowed casually, assumed the same stance as before, and gazed at his opponent with the same gentle demeanor as earlier. Nabeyama sharply pulled back his left leg into a half-crouch, lowered the tip of his wooden sword until it nearly touched the floor—assuming what might be called a ground-scraping blue-eyed stance—and fixed Ihei with a steadily intensifying glare.

This time, it took a little while. Both remained silent and utterly motionless. Yet while Mizawa Ihei maintained his unrefined stance, Nabeyama's entire body gradually filled with vital energy, his gaze even beginning to take on a murderous glint. As considerable time passed, the tip of Nabeyama's wooden sword began rising leisurely—with slowness nearly imperceptible to the eye—inching upward bit by bit until, unnoticed, it had shifted into a slightly lower blue-eyed stance.

The moment had come. The tension reached its peak, and it truly seemed as though sparks were about to fly. At that moment, Ihei’s wooden sword moved and lightly tapped his opponent’s. He had tapped it with an almost joking lightness, but the opponent’s wooden sword fell tip-down and embedded itself into the floorboards with a sharp crack. "Oh, this is terrible!" Mizawa Ihei, flustered, put a hand to his head. “This is truly—I’ve done something terrible! Damaging this important dojo—I don’t know what to say—this is inexcusable!”

Then he pulled out the embedded wooden sword and sheepishly stroked the hole-pierced floorboard.

Nabeyama Matagoro remained standing dazedly.

Six

Ihei returned to the inn after nightfall.

In excellent spirits, his face flushed red from drink and grinning broadly, he handed his wife a large box of sweets, declaring it a gift he’d received.

“I thought you’d be waiting with dinner ready, but they kept insisting so enthusiastically that I ended up staying late, you see.”

Even while changing clothes, he kept talking cheerfully. "I truly thought I'd be back much sooner—just a little longer and I could've returned—but they treated me to quite a feast, and then there were matters to discuss, you see." While putting away his discarded clothes, Otayo found a paper package in his kimono sleeve and looked at her husband suspiciously. She realized from its weight and texture that it contained money. "Ah—I'd forgotten! Completely forgotten about that! That's from Lord Aoyama—he said to make necessary preparations for your formal audience."

“When you say ‘you’…” Otayo asked anxiously in return, “—And when you mentioned ‘someone’ just now… I truly can’t make heads or tails of any of it.”

“Yes, yes—that’s right, I’m a bit drunk, you see. Ah—my apologies—could I trouble you for a glass of water?” Ihei began speaking while drinking water.

This time, his tone grew subdued and his speech became markedly calmer. Between husband and wife, talk of "clan service" had long become forbidden territory. Through too many repeated failures, they had learned to avoid nurturing hopes and took pains never to touch upon that subject. At first—overwhelmed by sudden joy and drunken exhilaration—he had let himself grow animated, but reading his wife's expression at last brought him back to sobriety; he recounted the day's events in carefully pared-down terms, affecting perfect nonchalance.

“So you had matches with the three of them?” “No—two. One apparently had some sudden issue—he did come to the dojo, but… Though truthfully, they might have made him wait until the next match instead. Since it was decided to hold it formally at the castle after all.”

Otayo merely nodded with cautious wariness and a resigned expression—a gesture that seemed to say, "Don’t get your hopes up too much." Ihei spoke with forced nonchalance: “Either way is fine, but since Lord Aoyama went out of his way to say that... And if we buy something with the preparatory funds, we’d make that much more profit... No, no—absurd! That’s just a joke.” After saying this, he continued with a burst of enthusiasm: “But regardless—this Lord Aoyama seems like a man of substance. I told him everything about my past circumstances, you see? His way of understanding was completely different—yes, far beyond what others have shown. And whether by luck or not—they’re apparently looking for someone to serve as the young lord’s tutor. They want first-rate experts in archery, spearmanship, horsemanship... They say the lord himself is deeply devoted to martial arts. Not that I’d rejoice over that fact alone, no... But well—this time—somehow—I can’t help but feel that this time might just work out.”

“Does that mean you won’t be having dinner now?”

Otayo casually diverted the conversation. She must not let herself be swept up in her husband’s emotions; she must not trust mere words alone. The way she was restraining herself seemed truly pitiful to Ihei.

The next day also saw rain falling, but he went to the castle town and purchased a ready-made kamishimo, paper handkerchief pouches, folding fans, tabi socks, footwear, and other items. With a considerable amount of money remaining, he bought a hairpin for his wife. It's been ages since I bought something for Otayo.

He felt somewhat better, but once he stepped out onto the road and began walking, he furrowed his brows tightly with that familiar expression of someone who’d been stung. This is no joke. Not only had it not been ages—this was the first time he had ever bought something for his wife. After eight and a half years of marriage, all the things she had brought from her parents' home had been sold. When he left the Matsudaira family, he still had some small tools, but during their wanderings, he ended up selling every last one of them. And not a single thing had I ever bought for her myself. He looked dejected and let out a sigh. Then he suddenly raised his face in a manner as if picking a fight. “But this time it’s a prophetic dream, you hear?” He muttered this and glared at the sky. “There were omens right before the messenger came—all the conditions are in place. So any day now—by all rights, it’s about time for the season to arrive.”

Ihei started walking energetically through the rain.

Then, on the fifth day, the rain suddenly stopped. Until midnight the previous night there had been no hint of clearing—the rain had fallen endlessly in that steady drizzle—but when morning broke, it cleared completely, and now the sun glittered in a sky so blue it seemed you could fall right through it. “It stopped! The rain stopped! The weather’s cleared!” Each and every one of the fellow lodgers looked up at the sky and shouted those words. It was the simple, veritably joy-bubbling voices of those who had regained their lives. And to Ihei’s place as well came a messenger from Shouzen. The message instructed him to come prepare for attending the castle.

“What a splendid omen this is, isn’t it?” Ihei began saying this with a beaming smile, but upon seeing his wife’s resigned face, he hastily added, “Not that this concerns me particularly, but everyone’s been cooped up over twenty days with this rain! Now they’re finally saved—yes, look how overjoyed they are! Why, even we can’t help feeling happy ourselves, can we?”

"I shall prepare for our departure as well," she said. "Yes, that’s right," he replied. Glancing at his wife, he added, "However, we can’t possibly depart today—I may be late returning." "Please put on your tabi socks first."

Otayo once again casually diverted the conversation.

7

Mizawa Ihei returned late in the afternoon, as the sun began to set. The outcome must have been favorable—he was desperately trying to suppress the welling joy, but no matter how hard he restrained it, it kept surging up, leaving him with an unstable, grim expression that even he found difficult to contain. "I stopped by Lord Aoyama's on my way back."

He said this and placed a large package there.

“They absolutely insisted on sharing a celebratory drink—of course I declined today—but it would’ve been rude not to stop by at all. This is a gift from the lord.” Two packages wrapped in paper stamped with family crests—Otayo seemed startled for a moment, but she quickly regained her composure, quietly accepted them, and put them away in a corner.

“Let me have a drink today.”

Ihei said while taking off his kamishimo. “Very well.” Otayo’s response alone was cheerful. Generally speaking, such cheap inns didn’t have baths. He went to the public bath at an inn about ten blocks to the west and then sat down to a modest drinking meal. While serving drinks, Otayo spoke with unusual volubility in a heartfelt tone—about how so-and-so and so-and-so among their fellow lodgers had already departed, how certain others would leave tomorrow, the messages from those who had gone, and how they had all wept together.

“We’ve become acquainted with so many people staying at inns like this, yet every one of them was such a kind, good soul. Even when their own lives were far from satisfactory, they always worried about others, wept sincerely over others’ misfortunes, shared what little they had without hesitation… They were all such deeply compassionate, warm-hearted people—so different from others in the world—it almost breaks your heart.” “The poor must rely on each other; that’s why living while clinging to one’s own desires becomes difficult, I suppose.”

“The storytelling old man said this: ‘I may never lay eyes on you again, but wherever I go, I shall pray for your continued prosperity.’” Otayo quietly lowered her eyes. “Then he wiped his tears and said, ‘I’ll never forget what happened that day as long as I live. Something so kind and joyful—I’ve never experienced anything like it since the day I was born. To realize at this age that the world can be such a good place…’ My chest tightened so much I could hardly breathe.”

“Let’s stop this. For me, seeing you like this brings even greater sorrow—more pain.” Ihei’s face crumpled, then he suddenly spoke up as if buoyed. “Though one might say this too has ended now—in truth, today my stipend amount was nearly finalized.”

“But before this… once…” “No, today was different—I demonstrated swordsmanship, extended the archery target to twenty-eight ken for a five-sun mark, and handled a Kiso-bred black horse that no one had ridden before—a real brute. But that’s beside the point.”

The lord was Shinanokami Akiaki of the Nagai clan—a man in his early twenties who had only recently inherited his position, yet was deeply devoted to martial arts and an ambitious reformer determined to overhaul domain governance. After witnessing Ihei’s skills, he insisted he join the clan’s service—not by displacing the current officeholder, but through newly created appointments. “Not that I consider this absolutely certain,” Ihei said, “but really—to doubt things so thoroughly this time seems rather…”

“That is certainly the case.” Otayo nodded evasively. “—Shall I serve you seconds? Or would you prefer to have your meal now?”

“Yes, right—let’s have our meal.” Having fully tested his skills for the first time in ages, his entire body overflowed with invigorating fatigue and satisfaction. Moreover, the prospect of securing a position was all but certain. Given past precedents, his wife refused to believe it and seemed determined to avoid broaching the subject as much as possible; yet for Ihei, this very attitude struck him as pitiful, and he couldn’t help but wish to somehow—without making definitive claims—reassure her even a little.

The next day, three of their fellow lodgers departed. Gen-san the barrel-hoop mender’s wife, while bouncing the child strapped to her back, said, “I suppose we’ll never meet again. Please take good care of yourselves, both of you. I’ll pray for your success and prosperity. Truly, thank you for all your kindness—we’re so grateful for everything you’ve done.” Having said this, she wiped her tears with her sleeve. “Once everyone has settled somewhere, they say we’ll never meet again.” Otayo later remarked, “They’ve always said it so definitively before—why don’t they ever say they’d like to meet again someday?”

Mizawa Ihei said, "Well..." and averted his eyes in a flustered manner. For those people, there was only today; they couldn't know their own tomorrows. They could believe in being together now, but they couldn't hold onto any hope of meeting again. It wasn't limited to those people journeying onward—this applied to all humans... Such was the damp thought that had arisen.

When evening came, five new guests arrived. Among them was a monkey handler who, after dinner, made the monkey perform tricks and himself sang rare provincial folk songs from various regions. The lodgers were greatly delighted, but when the monkey handler, seizing his moment, said, "If you'd all loosen your purse strings a bit, I'll have the monkey do a suggestive dance next," they left without hesitation and returned to their places.

The next morning.

Soon after finishing the meal, Otayo began packing their belongings. "It’s a fine day today." While wrapping something, she murmured as if to herself—"Even on days with just a few clouds, they say that pass often has rain—so if you’re going to cross it, a day like today is best."

VIII

“Yes, it’s truly clear today.”

Mizawa Ihei, as if to divert the conversation, looked up at the sky beyond the low eaves, fidgeted, looked up at the sky once more, and then stood up.

“Are you going out?” “No—I’m not going out, just…” He went outside the inn and gazed toward the castle town with unsettled eyes. He seemed quite irritated; he started to walk that way on impulse, then reconsidered and let out a brief sigh. Just then, from behind came the sudden rat-a-tat-tat of a drum. So abrupt was the sound that he leapt sideways in surprise.

“Good morning! May today bring perfect harmony and great fortune!”

It was the monkey handler. With a frame somehow warped and withered, that unnaturally jovial monkey handler gave such a greeting, perched the monkey on his back, and hurried off toward the castle town while beating his drum. "The weather's beyond reproach, though..." After returning to the small room, Ihei spoke up following a pause, "At any rate, it's still only the second day. They'll likely send some word from their side too. I don't think we can simply pack up and leave without a word."

“That may be so, but I’ll at least continue preparing.” “That’s certainly true—but either way, we’re leaving this place…” Mizawa Ihei jolted and—speaking with forced emphasis—raised his head like a praying mantis. The clatter of horse hooves ceased before the inn. Otayo must have heard it too; she appeared momentarily startled but quickly recovered and resumed wrapping their belongings. Mizawa Ihei stood to adjust his collar and said with studied calmness, “It seems they’ve arrived.” With these words, he stepped out.

Just as Ushio Dairoku entered the earthen-floored area. Ihei steadied his pounding heart, feigned composure as best he could, and with a gentle smile went to greet him at the raised-floor threshold. “Ah, I’ll take my leave here.” Ushio Dairoku looked somewhat uncomfortable as he surveyed the filthy dwelling interior, then spoke in a far more clipped ceremonial tone than before. “Lord Shouzen humbly states that you are a truly rare martial artist—with peerless skill and noble principles—and earnestly wishes to retain your services regardless of stipend. Furthermore, it appears even the domain lord himself has shown particular enthusiasm.”

“No—that’s far too generous of you. I’m hardly deserving of such praise.” “Given these circumstances, we had nearly decided to employ you when an unforeseen complication arose.” Mizawa Ihei held his breath, felt the ground begin to sway beneath him, and gripped his knees tightly. “While we call it a complication, it doesn’t stem from our side—the responsibility lies entirely with your own actions.” Ushio Dairoku continued coldly, “That you participated in a gambling match—at a certain dojo in the castle town where you wagered gold on a duel, won, and carried off that gold… You must remember this clearly.”

Ihei barely managed to nod. And he recalled how once at Lord Aoyama’s dojo, one of the three opponents had fled the moment he laid eyes on him. “I do remember it clearly—I do—but...” Mizawa Ihei stammered, “That—that was actually because there was a truly pitiful soul staying at this inn...” “Regardless of circumstances,” came the cold reply, “for a samurai to engage in gambling matches constitutes the foremost dishonor. Since this matter has been formally reported, we must regrettably withdraw our offer. You will kindly consider this arrangement as never having existed.”

Ushio Dairoku placed a paper-wrapped bundle atop a white folding fan and, setting it before Ihei, said, “Lord Shouzen humbly requests that you kindly accept this modest sum to aid your travels.” “No—absolutely not! This...” Ihei waved his hand with a tearful face. “Please—there’s no need for such concern. We’ve already received so much from you, so really, this...”

“No—we gratefully accept it.”

As she said this, Otayo came and sat down beside her husband. Mizawa Ihei was flustered, but Ushio Dairoku too, surprised, bowed ambiguously and tried to say something. However, Otayo did not allow that opening. Though somewhat excited, she said the following in a firm, clear tone.

“It was wrong for my husband to hold gambling matches—I too had long wished he would stop them. But I’ve only now come to understand my error. My husband surely knew how dishonorable such matches were; he knew, yet there are circumstances where one cannot help but act—where one has no choice but to proceed. At last I understand: through his gambling matches, how overjoyed people became—how saved they felt.”

“Please cease this—it’s discourteous.”

“Yes, I will stop—and I will say this only to you.” Otayo turned to face him directly and said with a trembling voice—“From now on, whenever you wish to do so, please hold gambling matches whenever you like, and please bring joy to everyone around you—all those poor, helpless, pitiful people.”

Her words were lost to sobs. Ushio Dairoku, disconcerted, stepped back awkwardly, gave a vague bow there, then nimbly departed outside.

Though the timing was inopportune, resolved to make a clean break, the two soon departed the inn. There was still rice left from that night’s portion, but they divided the money Lord Aoyama had given them and entrusted half to the innkeeper, requesting he use it to assist any guests in need during future prolonged rains... As the couple were fastening their straw sandals, the woman called Oroku-san approached. Contorting her gaunt, sharply featured face into what might pass for an ingratiating smile, she produced three weathered medicine packets. “Madam, take these,” she said. “They’re for when straw sandals chafe your feet—mix tobacco ash with spit into a paste. Wretched offering... Wanted to give something finer... Pitiful little thing though it be...”

“No, I’m truly pleased—thank you.”

Otayo expressed her thanks in a familiar tone and, looking truly pleased, tucked it into her kimono. They were seen off by the inn people as far as the outskirts of Oiwake, and from there turned right to head toward the mountain pass. Ihei seemed unable to free himself from dejection; Otayo did not attempt to force consolation.

To possess such splendid skill yet find oneself unable to advance in the world through it—what a strange twist of fate; what an absurd society this was. Even as she thought this, she found herself unexpectedly smiling.

But I find this state perfectly acceptable—to live without pushing others aside or stealing their places, mingling with those who though poor are true of heart, and whenever the chance arises, you give everyone joy and hope. You remain splendid just as you are. With these words she wished to say—yet never voicing them—stealing occasional glances at her husband’s face, Otayo walked on with light footsteps.

Mizawa Ihei seemed to gradually regain his composure; he was accustomed to disappointment and had become skilled at shifting his emotions (through habit). Yet out of consideration for his wife’s feelings, he couldn’t abruptly brighten his mood—or so it appeared.

But the time came when he finally forgot even that restraint. When they reached the mountain pass’s summit—as if a curtain had been torn away—the mountains and fields of the neighboring province suddenly spread open before them, and as a refreshing wind swept up, his face lit up and he cried out, “Ah! Ah!”

“Ah! This—this is magnificent! Look at that—what a beautiful view!”

“How truly, truly beautiful.” “How about it—doesn’t your whole body tingle with vigor, hmm?”

He broke his round face into a broad grin, his eyes brimming with a boyish, lively light. He already seemed to have begun imagining a new life and new hope within that vista.

“Please cheer up. Let’s regain our spirits.” He said earnestly to his wife. “That castle town you see over there yields 105,000 koku—it’s famous for prosperity, and after all, 105,000 koku is no small matter. I think we can say ‘this time for sure,’ so let’s go forth with spirits high.”

“I am well.”

Otayo laughed brightly and, looking up at her husband with earnest effort, skillfully mimicked his words.

“I think it could be said.”