Pathway to Japanese Literature

Reeds

I

The reeds swayed all day under the oppressive shade of great chinquapin trees.

Winding around the promontory called Shōgandai, the river abruptly widened its breadth and meandered eastward for over twenty *chō* before flowing into the sea.
On the left bank where the river broadened and curved sharply, at a spot eroded into the shore as though gouged out, there lay a stagnant pool edged with reeds.
Behind them rose a crumbling clay cliff of modest height, crowned by seven or eight squat old chinquapin trees that spread horizontally, their bases thick with bamboo grass and shrubs.
The pool had originally been quite deep, but through accumulated sediment and decaying leaves borne by the current—combined with the ceaseless crumbling of cliff soil—it had gradually grown shallower from the bank side until winter's dry season exposed an extensive unsightly riverbed.
Yet the mud remained deep and soft beneath this retreating water, and since waterweed thrived there, fish favored gathering in that spot to spawn.

That bank faced north.
Moreover, from above, the darkened branches and foliage of the chinquapin trees and the thicket pressed down, so it was always dark and damp, and the air was filled with a moist, musty odor.
The reeds at the water’s edge were deprived of sunlight.
Their stems were slender and pale, delicate and supple; when the leaves grew thick, they would stagger and sway at the slightest breeze.
The foolish reed warblers, attempting to rest their wings, were frequently shaken off, breaking the fragile stems in their commotion before flying off elsewhere……There, time passed with unimaginable tedium, crawling by at a snail’s pace.
Nothing ever happened; except for the rare occasions when an otter would chase fish, creating violent splashes, it always remained silent and gloomily hushed.

On a morning after autumn had set in, when the sky was brightening but the ground still dark, and fog had begun to rise over the river’s surface, a young woman came down to this bank.
She used bamboo grass and tree roots as handholds, crumbling the cliff soil underfoot.
The woman was beautiful—but hers was a beauty far removed from any air of purity or innocence, carrying instead a faint hint of immorality.
Her eyebrows and hairline had been shaved back.
Her fine-textured, taut skin spoke of meticulous care; her lips were dry.
Her eyes were large with clear pupils, but they bore a troubled light that seemed to entice others.
The way she wore her unlined summer kimono—pale blue ground dyed with autumn grasses—and the subdued manner of tying her wisteria-patterned Hakata obi both skillfully accentuated the lines of her breasts and waist, appearing crisp yet artfully disheveled.
……The woman came to the water’s edge and crouched.
Then she placed the box she had been holding onto her knees.
It was a circular mother-of-pearl inlaid box measuring about five sun in diameter, fastened with a round purple cord.
The woman untied the cord, opened the lid, and took out an object wrapped in turmeric-dyed cotton from inside.
After hesitating briefly, she unfolded it.
When she brushed aside the rolled-up cotton, an old Chinese mirror emerged in full view.
……The woman wiped the surface of the old mirror and gazed at her own face reflected there.

The fog thickened and began crawling low and slow over river waves.
The sky flushed red through which high-flying birds became visible through mist.
……The expression of the mirror-gazing woman transformed.
In an instant’s span appeared rings around her eyes that cast deep shadows across her entire visage.
Pupils expanded while gleaming with severe light.
“I receive this honor,” murmured the woman as she rewrapped and pocketed the mirror.
She then withdrew a sealed letter from sleeve folds into box confinement.
When binding purple cords quivered both hands and tears fell from eye rims.

The fog grew ever thicker, forming streaks and swirling into eddies as it drifted downriver; a faint breeze began to stir.
Singing in a clear voice, a wagtail skimmed over the reeds and flew away beyond the stagnant pool.

Placing the box on the soil at the water’s edge, the woman stood up.
She looked at the river’s surface.
She licked her dry lips and bit down hard with her teeth.
Then, still wearing her wooden clogs, she put one foot into the water, and then the other.
She grabbed the hem of her skirt with her right hand; her slightly pale calves appeared—two steps, three steps.
The water reached her calves.
The woman’s face twitched, then transformed into a proud—and exceedingly beautiful—smile.
The fog rolled in, enveloped the woman’s upper body, and swirled into eddies.
Fifteen feet from the shore, the water soon reached her waist.
The fog grew ever thicker and gained density.
The woman’s figure grew faint as a phantom and soon vanished completely……The reeds at the water’s edge began swaying from the far side of the stagnant pool—the wind had risen.
The flow of fog quickened, swirling up and tearing apart.
For just an instant, the woman’s figure became visible.
Her upper body submerged in water, turning her back to this side, she continued quietly toward the river’s heart—… But the fog instantly enveloped her with its milky streaks; now nothing more could be seen.

The reeds swayed incessantly; as if whispering something to each other, their leaves brushed against one another with a rustling sound. The wagtail that had departed upstream returned with hurried fluttering as if tracing the waves, and just when it seemed to hide among the reeds, it suddenly took flight from an utterly unexpected place and vanished toward midriver, sharply crying all the while. The reeds rustled *saya-saya*, tirelessly and forever whispering something to one another.

II

Shōgandai too was shrouded in fog.

In the middle of the hill lay a wide grassland encircled by stands of trees.
At the grassland's edge stood a young samurai—his face marked by a defined jawline, thick brows, bright eyes, and an aura of unyielding resolve.
This was Senshin Ichizō, employed at his domain's finance magistrate office with a three-hundred-koku stipend, holding monogashira rank at twenty-seven years of age......He had waited there a quarter-hour already.
The appointed time had passed; though he could leave now, he found himself unable to decide—he would wait a little longer, he thought.
Here the fog hung nearly motionless; overhead stretched a fully cleared sky where clouds dyed orange burned vivid.
Ichizō whirled around abruptly—his brows lifting—at the sound of urgent footsteps climbing the slope.
He took his sword's hanging cord and slung it across his shoulder like a sash, then cinched his hakama's crotch panel taut.
At that moment from among the eastern trees bounding the grassland came a young samurai running up.
He was Sugano Matagorō of the same domain—pale and gaunt with a desperate, thorny countenance, eyes fiercely bloodshot.
His lips stood white and parched; he panted laboriously—likely from his sprint here.

“I’m late for the appointed time—my apologies.”
Matagorō said this while removing the straw sandals he had been wearing and carelessly drew his sword.
“……Come.”

Ichizō silently watched his opponent’s movements.
Then he drew his sword.
Matagorō looked this way with eyes devoid of focus and, keeping his sword at mid-level, shouted once more: “Come!”
Ichizō quietly adjusted his sword but immediately lowered it.

“What’s wrong, Senshin? Why did you lower your sword?”

“Because you have no intention of fighting this duel.”

“Don’t talk nonsense!”

“I’m stating what I see.”
Senshin Ichizō gazed at his opponent with calm eyes.
“You have no will to fight. This duel was your challenge. If you’ve abandoned that resolve, it never concerned me to begin with.”

“How do you know that?” Matagorō’s pale, dry lips curled back, baring his teeth.
“What proof makes you claim I’ve lost the will to fight?”

“Because we’re friends…”

A look of shock flashed through Matagorō’s eyes.
Ichizō wiped his sword and quietly sheathed it.
The impact on Matagorō appeared to be no ordinary matter.
He tried to say something more, took a step forward.
But that was all he could manage.
He immediately threw down his sword, sat on the grass, and covered his face with both hands.
Ichizō approached him and looked down at his friend.

“Speak honestly, Sugano. Has something happened?”

“You were right.”
Sugano Matagorō answered in a groaning voice.

“I was deceived—the woman ran away.”

Senshin frowned.
Then he drew himself up and gazed at his friend’s profile.
Matagorō kept his face covered and continued in a tone that seemed less angry than utterly drained.

“She devoured my pride and my name, stripped me from society, snatched me from friends—left me without a single drop of blood, only bones remain—and then she ran away.”

“Are you certain she ran away?”

“There is evidence—but I cannot speak of it.”

Ichizō seemed to ponder.
Yet he immediately reached out and pressed his friend’s shoulder.

“You should go home and rest, Sugano. I’ll come by later.”

“……”

“Let me say this—do not despair. You’ve seen it, endured it, lived through it. If you can recover, this ordeal will hold no small worth. Better to be deceived than to deceive—especially for a samurai.…If this settles matters, it’s a cheap price. Sugano—we’ll meet again.”

Senshin Ichizō left.
Before he could reach the grove, the fog enveloped his figure.……Matagorō remained seated in the same position for a long time.

After the sun rose high, Matagorō returned to a small dwelling in a place called Kumichō.
In that castle town, it was called 'Okoya', an area where samurai of the lowest status resided.
There were only three rooms.
A board fence enclosed the ten-tsubo garden, and the roof was thatched with cedar bark.
The building stood old, weathered by wind and rain, bleached and parched, its wood grain rising like carved relief.
As if merely proclaiming this was a samurai's residence, a separate servant's hut stood apart—a crude structure with but one low-floored room, something even merchant households would disdain as a woodshed... The elderly servant Seibei, who had been preparing a meal while listlessly puffing tobacco, noticed signs of his master's return and hastily stood up, batting away wisps of smoke with his hands.
Matagorō entered the room with his sword hanging from his right hand, like a man who had lost his soul.

“I don’t need food.”
He turned away from the servant and sat before the meal tray.
“If there’s sake, I want it.”

“I will go and check.”

Seibei stretched his already bent back and went out to the kitchen.
Sugano Matagorō collapsed backward.

III

Having raced about sleeplessly since past midnight—likely due to that fatigue and depletion of vigor—when he gulped down three cups of cold sake straight from the teacup, his head began to spin until he could drink no more.
He stood up and entered the six-tatami room next door.
In the barren space devoid of proper furnishings, morning sunlight streamed in with an almost garish freshness.
On the dun-colored old tatami lay a single fan and a faded aqua obi cord.
They seemed to testify to the woman’s hurried departure.
He lay down using his arm as a pillow and closed his eyes.

He had met the woman two years before. Her name was Shiho. Though nominally selling cut flowers—hence called the “Flower House”—it actually served alcohol and women, offering private-room entertainment; Shiho was a woman from such an establishment. In the summer of the year before last, he hired a boat with about five others, and on their return from duck hunting on the river—still under the lingering effects of sake they’d drunk aboard—they visited that house. It was his first experience. Shiho quickly noticed this and came to sit by his side on her own.

Led to a small dimly lit room and seated alone with her before a sake tray, he was drunk.
The woman’s eyes moved repeatedly with an enticing motion.

“You’re just the same as all men too, aren’t you?”
The woman slipped out of his grasp and said.
“Can you only view women as diversions?”

“I’m not that kind of man.”

“That’s just the same too—all men say that, but only at first.”

“I don’t understand—what should I do?”

“Make me lose my way, I beg you—lose your way too, I beg you. Until then—no—”

He went to that house alone the following night. After that, he began visiting frequently; the woman showed various sides of herself. She would make tea, arrange flowers, and display wild behavior that didn’t seem like drunkenness at all—but she did not surrender her body. She would draw him in as far as possible, then suddenly burst into laughter or become as cold as stone. It was an old-fashioned ploy, but the woman later confessed—“I thought I mustn’t get serious, so I struggled as much as I could.”

After they pledged themselves to each other, it grew deeper still. For both man and woman, their transgressions had compounded—a predetermined course. He had been a 250-koku storehouse officer, but when his misappropriation of shogunate funds came to light, it nearly became an official scandal. At that time, Senshin Ichizō provided money to cover it up, but his position was dismissed. ……The position’s stipend disappeared, and financial flexibility ceased. The collateral for loans against his stipend rice would not last long either; he began selling off possessions. The woman pushed herself to the limit, and they both reached an impasse. Reaching a dead end, the woman fled into his house. People came from the woman’s house. He responded while drunk; they must have wrung everything they could from the two. He had taken Shiho as his lawful wife. If anyone so much as laid a finger on Sugano Matagorō’s wife,… his conduct now bore no distinction from that of street ruffians; then he tossed out a small coin and said:

“Your trip won’t be entirely wasted—go have a drink on your way back.”

No further word came from the woman’s house, but their retaliatory hand reached out in another direction.
He was summoned by the administrative officers and received an order confiscating his stipend and residence.
By their exceptional mercy, they bestowed a hut upon him and granted a reduced stipend of twenty koku; henceforth, he was to conduct himself with prudence.
He returned the three foot soldiers he had been keeping, sold off notable household goods, and moved to the hut.
The one who followed was only the old retainer Seibei.

“Now I needn’t care about society’s eyes anymore.”
He laughed with a liberated air.
“Bamboo pillars and a thatch roof—love’s path was fixed long ago. Whether we don these stiff ceremonial robes to live rigid, unfeeling lives for our days; whether we two lovers face each other without pretense, passing lifetimes of morning sake and lazy slumber—it’s all just a span until death regardless. Shouldn’t we live as humans ought while we still can?”

The love affair grew more intense as they sank deeper into ruin.
What spurred this on was alcohol; the two drank incessantly.
The woman, taught by her circumstances, knew that pleasure needed to be moderately restricted; this protected them from lassitude and dissolution.
……Of course, their life was growing increasingly desperate.
He had sold everything down to shameful items, keeping only the Sugano family’s heirloom Chinese mirror; the woman had long been stripped bare.

Senshin Ichizō suddenly came to visit.
He gave blunt opinions in plain words: to part with the woman and rebuild his life.

“We’ve done everything possible, but this has gone far enough. All things require closure—we must impose that closure now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Matagorō laughed.
“Our life has only just begun! Of course, you lot who live solely by formality and appearances wouldn’t understand what it means to live like human beings—you who cling to musty offices, ceremonial robes, and swords as your lifelines…”

Four

“That’s right—I don’t understand.”
Senshin said quietly.
“I believe life must produce something—your existence cannot be called living; this is indulgence. To create nothing, labor not, and drown in pleasure without shame—this equals beasts.”

Beside him was the woman.
Senshin’s voice held no restraint; that it was audible was certain. Matagorō demanded a duel in a tearful voice.

And then the woman fled.
Matagorō now thought this with a clear-headed feeling.
For a woman accustomed to comfort and indolence, even that irredeemable poverty alone must have been unbearable; had the duel materialized, regardless of its outcome, she would inevitably have been implicated—fleeing had been only natural.

Recalling those two years, he was now overwhelmed by a desolate sense of void; it resembled the mental exhaustion following heavy drinking—a powerless despair, fatigue, self-loathing, devoid of anger or sorrow. This absence itself startled him.……The sunlight that had been streaming in retreated beyond the window; a cool breeze arose. He sank into a heavy, unhealthy slumber.

In the afternoon，Senshin Ichizō came to visit.
They talked for about half an hour before he left；that brief span filled the two-year void in their friendship．They did not mention the woman once，and it felt as though the duel had never existed at all．

“It’s been a while—let’s have a proper drink sometime．”

As he was leaving，Ichizo said this．

After two days had passed, Ichizo came accompanied by an old woman named Matsuo and a younger sister named Yayoi.
Sake, ingredients for appetizers, utensils, and such were carried in, and Matsuo and Yayoi descended to the kitchen.
Before long, five old friends arrived—of course, it was Ichizo’s arrangement—everyone behaving with informal familiarity as if they had parted just yesterday.
After the banquet ended, Ichizo said he intended to leave the old woman there for a while.

“It’s truly inconvenient having no female help at all. Matsuo has long been familiar with your circumstances. Don’t hesitate to use her—she’s already agreed to this.”

He declined at first but ultimately accepted the kindness.
Matsuo was Yayoi’s wet nurse who had served the Senshin household continuously until now; her bright and efficient nature made her almost irritatingly diligent in every movement.

This oversight—in the best sense—became apparent to Matagorō only when a new cycle of days had already begun.
When he awoke each morning, clothes and hakama lay by his pillow—garments he had seldom worn before—and the crisp sensation of properly fastening them felt refreshing.
Every third day Matsuo took up a razor to maintain his shaven pate; undergarments were changed daily; the cramped house stayed spotless with incense burning and flowers arranged in the alcove.
…His longstanding habit of morning drinking proved difficult to mention to Matsuo—even when he occasionally stole a furtive sip, it left him restless and joyless without companionship.

About a hundred days passed.
He gained weight, and his complexion improved.
During this time, his old friends visited him in turn, gatherings were held where he was invited many times, and then Senshin Ichizō took him to the Kōshōkan dojo and had him grip a bamboo sword.

“Strangely, you haven’t dulled at all.”
When he had worked up a sweat and removed his gear, Ichizō, who had been watching, said with a laugh.
“The way you countered from *men* to *do* earlier was truly magnificent! With skills like that, you’ll compete in the spring tournament.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—I can’t see that happening at all.”

“Let me take a strike.”

Ichizō stood up and put on his gear.
They exchanged three strikes—two were taken, but the one point Matagorō secured was decisive. It filled him with inexpressible joy and confidence, bringing him nearly to tears.

The year turned; on the evening of the Doll Festival, he was invited to the Senshin household—the only guest. His mother and two younger sisters wholeheartedly entertained him. After that, facing each other and drinking sake, Senshin Ichizō quietly looked into his eyes and asked about the woman in a casual tone. He gave a wry smile utterly naturally—utterly naturally…

“But are you certain of that?”

“It’s certain—she was waiting for an opportunity. There was an ancient mirror passed down through generations in my family. When we were nearly destitute from selling off possessions, a tool dealer pestered us to sell it for twenty gold coins—a rare piece from the Han Dynasty, he claimed.”
“We’d hesitated to sell it since it was a family heirloom—but she took that thing and fled. In the end, it settled our debts.”

“Is there no lingering attachment in your heart? Even if we were to meet again…”
“No fire will catch in ashes; it burned away completely.”

“Very well—I have a proposal.”
Ichizo set down his cup.
“Since you’re resolved this clearly—how about taking official employment? There’s a clerk vacancy at my office.”

“Will they approve it?”

“The resistance may be fierce—but regardless, we can’t move forward without penance. The crux lies in your perseverance.”

Matagorō requested time to consider.

V

One year later, Matagorō’s diligent service at the accounting office was recognized, and he was promoted to supervisory weight overseer, a position he held for three years.
His work primarily involved overseeing land taxes and business tax collections; the tasks themselves were delicate, and relations with taxpayers often proved difficult.
Particularly with major landlords and wealthy merchants, there existed traditional decayed connections; he placed himself and them in a state of inseparable proximity with utmost skill—he neither severed relations nor became entangled in personal favoritism.
Even that alone likely gave ordinary taxpayers an impression of “fairness”; his reputation was favorable, and collection results improved.

When he turned thirty-one, Matagorō had his original stipend of 250 koku and family status restored, was promoted to chief of financial affairs, and received a new residence. …This was that rare instance of official advancement.
Because of his past affair, because of his downfall, and because of the courage with which he had risen from it, people’s trust in him ran deep.
He knew that; he no longer drank alcohol.
Even at official banquets, he would turn his cup over after the first toast; in all dealings with senior officials, he avoided entering teahouses.
And when he returned to the residence, he secretly calculated his savings.

Two years after being appointed chief of financial affairs, he turned thirty-three.
He visited Ichizō and said, “I’d like you to accompany me for a bit,” then headed straight for Shogandai.
It was early spring; the trees were still bare, and the grassland lay desolate and withered. Matagorō came and stood upon that grassland with his friend.
He quietly surveyed his surroundings, then looked into Ichizō’s eyes; Ichizō nodded.
That was an expression saying, “Don’t say anything—I understand.”

“That’s right—there’s nothing to say.”
Matagorō lowered his head.

“What you did for me—I cannot put into words. For a person to fall so low in society’s eyes and their own heart, to wallow in such ruin and depravity yet still rise again… it verges on the miraculous. But I believe this: had I, in the depths of my despair, heard even once the words ‘Because we’re friends,’ any man would have been granted the strength to rise.”

“That relationship was relative—you were nearly drowning; I stood on dry land; I could see the shallows. That’s all there was to it.”

Matagorō silently took out a furoshiki-wrapped package from his pocket and handed it to his friend while saying, “This is the money you saved me with during my negligence as a storeroom official.” Ichizō accepted it without a word and placed it in his pocket.

“I find it strange,”
Matagorō spoke reflectively as they left Shogandai together:
“What comforts humanity, strengthens it, makes the world beautiful and joyful—these are women and alcohol. Both are indispensable for enriching human life and giving it purpose. Yet why do these two things sometimes corrupt and destroy people?”

Ichizō said nothing, and Matagorō did not continue after that.

That autumn, he married.
His bride was the daughter of the Spear and Sword Magistrate—a woman who had once wed another but been divorced.
To him, marriage had become merely another administrative task.
A household required a wife—to manage domestic affairs and bear children—while passion, ideals, and dreams had long since faded.
For the wedding ceremony, he prepared an itemized expense report and split all costs equally with his wife’s family. His father-in-law paid his portion with a grimace, yet proudly boasted of acquiring such a ‘miserly’ son-in-law.

Within five years, three children were born; all were boys.
The wife, knowing she was not loved by her husband, for the first time seized the position and authority of household mistress, grew stout, and doted on her children.
Because the husband, for the sake of the future, no longer desired to father more children and had ceased approaching her, a minor dispute had arisen over this.

“Wouldn’t that be rather unnatural?”

“That is human life. Only beasts and plants follow nature as it is. If left to nature, fields and paddies will be overrun by useless weeds. Humans select, cut, uproot, and restrict. This goes against nature, but it benefits humanity and drives progress.”

“I don’t understand these logical arguments, but for people of our standing, it’s normal to raise two or three more children.”

“You’re forgetting the calculations—the eldest son will inherit the house, but the second son and those after him must either be adopted out or live as dependents their entire lives. This brings misfortune not only to them but becomes an unnecessary burden on society. To bear children without the savings needed to divide a household in a samurai family is immoral. You should try calculating it properly once.”

The wife softened her dissatisfaction by doting on their three children while simultaneously attempting to validate herself.

He served as county magistrate for two years and was promoted to office overseer at the accounting office.
He succeeded Senshin Ichizō as chief accountant.
His stipend increased to three hundred twenty koku, and he now commanded seven ashigaru.
After serving there for three years, he was promoted to yōnin rank, granted an additional stipend of 100 koku, and ordered to be stationed in Edo. …This too was an exceptional appointment; at that time, he resolved to grow a beard.

VI

When the wind passed, the reeds swayed gently, rippling and glittering.

Once, they had extended sparse, feeble stems along the stagnant pool's edge; now their roots spread unrestrained, already covering more than half of the pool.
There they had dredged crisscrossing waterways about six shaku wide, through which boats for reed-cutting and duck hunting came and went from autumn to winter. ……The bank, its edges constantly crumbling away, had receded considerably and grown noticeably lower as a result.
The large chinquapin trees were cut down, leaving only one remaining; the thickets of bamboo and shrubs had become farmland. Thus, now the riverbank was bright, and the gloomy view could no longer be seen.

On a summer morning when a rare lingering rain had cleared, leaving the sky so piercingly bright with vivid azure it stung the eyes, an old man appeared at this riverside bearing a fishing rod and basket—it was Sugano Matagorō.
Wearing a ramie unlined summer kimono that had seen long use, with only a short sword thrust at his waist, an expensive tobacco pouch swayed.
To all appearances, he seemed a retiree wholly satisfied with his lot.
He had no pangs of conscience about the past, no anxieties in the present; morality and order protected him, and society recognized his achievements and authority, paying him respect.
Indeed, he was a satisfied old man.
But he was not entirely satisfied with everything.
His mustache was white, but his hair remained black and abundant; his complexion had a healthy glow, and his stout body brimmed with elasticity and vigor.
In the spring of that year, he resigned as Head of Official Affairs, handed over his house to his eldest son, and retired; however, this was merely a preparatory step to secure the position of Domain Elder.
If one retired, they would be appointed as an Elder Councilor due to their years of meritorious service—a position that corresponded to the Domain Elder rank and served as inspector of domain administration.
If he leveraged his unique experience and talents, reaching for the position of Domain Elder from there would present no difficulty…… His taking up activities wholly unsuited to him—like fishing—was merely a posture to feign having abandoned worldly ambitions.

He sat down at the riverbank and cast his fishing line.
The bank faced north, and with the chinquapin tree’s shadow falling upon it, the spot was cool; the wind passed through freely as the reeds rustled softly while swaying.

Before long he wanted to smoke and tried to thrust the rod he held into the soil.
It was merely soft clay soil threaded with reeds’ roots.
The thrust rod met resistance—not from reed roots but with a sensation like striking a hollow.
He tentatively dug into the soil at the rod’s base, where emerged a round basket-like object about five sun in diameter.
...The entire thing had grown brittle and was on the verge of decay—yet fragments of mother-of-pearl remained here and there where inlay work had once been; though now thoroughly rotted beyond recognition, frayed ends of a cord still clung to it.
His interest piqued; he thrust the fishing rod into another spot, sat back down, and removed the half-broken lid.
Inside lay a single sealed letter.
...He pondered awhile—whether this act would bring no shame to his conscience; whether there was any risk of disadvantage should it be exposed—then reassured himself and picked up the sealed letter.

How many years had passed? It was only because the box had been made with mother-of-pearl inlay that its form had barely endured.
Humidity and the long passage of time had fused it into a single solid plate.
With patience and meticulous care, he gradually pried it apart from the edges.
It was a woman’s letter written in crude kana script.
But the ink had completely faded—the beginning was wholly illegible, and from the middle onward only fragmentary phrases could be deciphered, their meaning reduced to scattered lines like those left behind.

……For two full years—over seven hundred days—hidden away from the world’s gaze, night and day without cease, we pledged ourselves as our hearts desired… I, with nothing but this body, while you cast aside everything—your house, your name, your kin, your friends—leaving me in this empty shell of existence where even Buddha’s mercy seemed distant. How often did I lie drenched in cold sweat, shivering in this endless void…

……Body and soul have burned to ashes—for an ordinary woman of this world, surpassing three lifetimes’ worth—I have tasted all joys and pleasures to their fullest. What days could yet await me here? Though I wind the spindle anew each day, no flame shall ever rise again. Only by ending this life amidst such joy can love’s path find its pure conclusion… (illegible)…

……Ah—that such love existed… that such joyful death existed… This self who bet seven lives on hell seeks no prayers for rebirth… As memento—the family heirloom…

He suddenly raised his face because the bell on the fishing rod's tip began ringing shrilly.
The float raced across the water's surface, the rod bent—he threw down the letter and grabbed the rod.
When he set the hook, the strike proved fierce.
Having no refined technique, he stood up half-dazed and swung the rod.
The fish's desperate struggle to escape vibrated violently through his hand.
It felt not like tension traveling from line to rod, but as if he gripped the fish directly... After days of rain, swollen waters ran turbid.
The fish being reeled in revealed itself through the murk.
It flipped over, shook its head, slapped water with its tail—then scales flashed gold. A carp.
But then without warning the main line snapped, leaving the rod weightless.
Two abrupt splashes sounded before it vanished into deeper waters.

He stood rigidly for a while.
Then, with a bitter smile, he wiped his sweat.
That such a large fish had taken the rod he’d had no intention of catching anything with, that he himself had gotten as excited as a child—both struck him as unexpectedly comical.
—This must be how one gets hooked, he thought as he reattached the line and hook, then sat back down there with renewed determination.
For no particular reason, he felt a fish like the one he’d just lost might bite again…… He cast his line, let out a relieved sigh—then noticed the half-read letter and looked back.
He couldn’t find it anywhere; he stood up to look.

“I left it here, but…”
Muttering this, he scanned his surroundings.
And he at last discovered it floating on the water—the letter was drifting along the current; it must have fallen when he stood up earlier.
He tried extending the rod toward it; it didn’t reach, and he wasn’t interested enough to try anything further—he sat back down.

"What kind of woman had written this to what kind of man? It seemed like a suicide note, but why was it buried here? …And what became of her?"

Something seemed to smolder within his distant memories; yet what it was he could not discern. He recalled the letter’s script.
It was utterly fragmentary and disjointed, but the overflowing joy of love—a fierce joy of love akin to a triumphal paean—that suffused it all, along with the clumsiness of the prose and handwriting, left a deep impression on him.
Of course, that was all there was to it; his consciousness had not lingered long on such things.
Eventually removing the tobacco pouch from his waist and taking out his flint pouch, he began calculating the costs of the splendid banquet held upon his appointment as Domain Elder.

The wind swept through incessantly, and the reeds rustled and swayed with a whisper.
Catching the wind at an angle and glittering, as if whispering secrets to one another, they swayed and rustled endlessly.