Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Yamamoto Shugoro

I

Someone was watching her.
Nao had been aware of that fact for some time now.
Of course it came from the men’s seats on the right—when she casually turned her head to look, the person seemed to avert their gaze too quickly, making it impossible to catch those eyes. At this inaugural performance celebrating the newly completed Ninomaru Palace stage, where the Kanze troupe had been summoned from Edo and the lord himself would perform as Benkei in Ataka, those of associate rank or higher had been permitted to attend with their families.
Nao, who had no mother, had come accompanied by her aunt Masajo, but upon taking their seats, Masajo immediately met an acquaintance—a woman who then called over three more companions.
With old friends having formed a tight cluster, Nao found herself left outside the conversation before she knew it.
...With only an elder brother named Ichizo and no sisters, and a strict father who had all her lessons conducted at home by private instructors, Nao had never known what it meant to have friends.
When she looked around, most girls her age had companions—they rubbed ears comically, whispered secrets, exchanged knowing glances—their very attempts at demure refinement only making them appear all the more delighted.
Among them were some who turned crimson with shyness when men from the seats bowed to them, and others who boldly returned the greetings only to be swatted by their companion girls.

“Now then, next comes Ataka, Miss Nao. They say His Lordship’s Benkei performance earned great acclaim in Edo—we must observe it attentively.”

Her aunt had instructed this.
Nao nodded silently but found no interest stirring within.
Though she had already watched three Noh performances since arriving, their words and gestures remained obscure to her—their plots indistinct—leaving her utterly unengaged.—Yet those eyes watched still.
They lingered beyond her direct line of sight, but their unwavering focus upon her face left no room for doubt.
Not unpleasant yet increasingly disquieting—meanwhile onstage, Ataka commenced.
The spectators became shrouded in tension unlike before—the accompanying instruments rang out with piercing clarity.
Still that gaze remained fixed upon her.
It would waver momentarily only to return with renewed intensity—she could feel its weight distinctly near her right cheekbone.
...Nao imagined heat blooming where those eyes alighted.
The sensation spread through her chest—her pulse quickened—until her entire body became wrapped in a honeyed, tantalizing euphoria unlike any she’d known.

Who could it be? Perhaps one of Brother’s friends? Someone who knows Nao?

She tried to recall someone she knew.
She even imagined Iwata Hansaburo's face, but none matched the sensation of being watched now; those people would have looked at her differently were they to look. It was definitely a stranger, and though this was rude, Nao felt not the slightest anger.
Instead, a secret joy—one that felt almost mesmerizing—overflowed in her chest, and she found herself seized by a kind of sharp pleasure she had never known in all her seventeen years.

When Ataka ended, the seats began to stir with restless movement.
Many people stood to visit the lavatory, and in every seat they noisily unpacked their lunchboxes.
Nao turned quietly to search the area with her eyes where she thought it might be coming from—then someone bowed toward her. She started momentarily, but it was Iwata Hansaburo.
Her brother Ichizo sat with four or five of his usual companions: Fujimaki Sannosuke, Ikeda Ihei, and others.
Nao feigned ignorance of Hansaburo’s bow and averted her gaze.

It’s definitely not any of those people.

There were two more Noh plays after that; then came time for all ladies to leave the castle grounds.
After that would come the banquet hosted by the lord.
After tidying her belongings, she left her seat with her aunt.
The Hagi Corridor was crowded with people coming and going, and there were moments before reaching Nakanoguchi when she nearly became separated from her aunt.
In the midst of the bustling crowd, her aunt was animatedly discussing with her companions how exceptionally well the lord had performed as Benkei and the striking beauty of the Kanze actor who had played Togashi.

“Your behavior was rather improper today.”
Her aunt said this the moment they stepped outside: “You couldn’t keep still and kept glancing about. Though this may be your first occasion of this sort, it’s unseemly not to maintain better composure.”

“Noh is so tedious.”
Nao answered while unable to suppress her flushing face. “That voice makes me dreadfully drowsy—it was terribly hard to endure, I assure you.”

“There’s something frightening about you, don’t you think? Perhaps you take after your late grandmother—” Her aunt said this while eyeing her suspiciously. “Eyes that find no satisfaction in flowers or beautiful robes. Your gaze always seems fixed on some impossibly distant horizon... That sort of temperament is dangerous, you know. If you don’t take care, it could lead to real peril.”

She was a talkative, flighty aunt who would forget what she had said the moment the words left her mouth.
Nao ignored what she heard and thought to take out a tissue, putting her hand into her left sleeve. Then, feeling something strange touch her hand, she gently pulled it out.—It was a tied letter.

II

While saying she would return immediately，her aunt became engrossed in a long conversation with old nurse Sono；then startled by the sun’s descent，she hurriedly rose from her seat.

Nao, who had been waiting with sleeves that might as well have been aflame, entered the parlor the moment her aunt left and untied the letter to read it.

"I shall await you from ten o'clock tonight beneath the nemu tree in the garden. Let the gods bear witness—should you not come, this life of mine shall end with this night."

Accompanying it was what appeared to be a love poem possibly borrowed from the Shinkokinshu, with the signature simply marked as "K."
Nao's face paled, but her eyes took on a drunken, ecstatic sheen that then naturally closed.
There was no mistake—it was the owner of those eyes, the very one who had stared so intensely, so single-mindedly at her.
It had likely been placed in her sleeve within the Hagi Corridor—if so, she might have glimpsed that person.
A tingling sensation ran through Nao’s body, and a deep, gasping sigh escaped her lips.

Of course it hadn't been long; Nao immediately shuddered and opened her eyes.
Her aunt's words came back like a guilty verdict—"There's something frightening about you. You might take after Grandmother. You must take care, or it will be dangerous."

…Aunt was Father’s only sister, having married Suma Saburozaemon—a 500-koku senior retainer—yet her nature since girlhood had been brash and unreserved; she possessed a habit of blurting out anything without restraint, seeming to find relief once the words were spoken. Though fundamentally kindhearted enough to avoid earning hatred, she appeared to lack anyone with whom she shared deep connections.
Today she had abruptly brought up “Grandmother,” but in the Sugawara household it had been customary since Nao’s childhood never to speak of her grandmother; though when her sickly mother—who was always either abed or rising—had still been alive, she had overheard Nurse Sono and others discussing such matters, yet to her childish mind it had only conjured a vague impression of some resplendent and beautiful sin, with no concrete details remaining in memory.
However, this impression of something both “resplendent” and “beautiful” yet sinful had become one of Nao’s heart-pounding secret yearnings.

Eyes that found no satisfaction in flowers or beautiful robes, eyes that always seemed fixed on some impossibly distant horizon.

Aunt had said that.
I couldn't say for myself, but there might indeed be such tendencies.
Since childhood, there had been moments when she felt—separate from her real self—that her true self existed somewhere else.
These fantasies might depict a beggar's pitiful existence or a princess's resplendent life, but either way, she found it strange how such imaginings felt more vivid and imbued with reality than actual life itself.
Even after becoming engaged to Iwata Hansaburo and setting their wedding date, she would suddenly be assailed by the illusion that someone was calling her from afar.

“Come quickly—what are you hesitating for? If you don’t hurry, something irreparable will happen.”
The voice called out like this.
“Quickly, quickly now—just come out as you are.”

Nao now reflected deeply—her own disposition might truly be dangerous. Despite being engaged, reading a letter from a stranger hidden in her sleeve… An ordinary girl would never do such a thing. She would immediately tell her parents or tear it up unread.—Nao tried to tear the letter she held.
But a stronger emotion prevented her from doing so.
While she hesitated, footsteps approached, and she heard the nurse call, “Lady Nao.”

“Yes, Nurse. I’m here.”

As she answered, she stored the letter inside the writing box.
“Master has returned.”

The nurse delivered this message and headed toward the entrance; Nao pressed down the lid of the writing box with one hand and held her breath for about five beats.

Father returned home with his go-playing friend Narita Shōgen, had sake prepared in the guest room, and began a game of go.
Her brother had likely gone elsewhere after the banquet—he showed no signs of returning even by nine o'clock... Nao sat pale-faced in the parlor, leaning against the small desk with her eyes tightly shut.
The nurse was directing the maids and serving girls in the kitchen while still attending to the guest room.
A go game accompanied by sake always lasted long; it often extended past midnight.—Could she not go out to the garden? No—Nao did not hesitate in the slightest. The voice that once admonished her was no longer audible; she simply waited for the appointed time. Soon she would enter her bedroom; then extinguishing the lamp, she could slip out. Nao knew no obstacles would arise—she couldn’t prove why, yet felt certain none would occur....A faint smile hovered on Nao’s pale, translucent face.

Bright light shone through the guest room's shoji screens; the night sky was dark, not a single star visible.
Nao, having slipped out of her bedroom, walked quietly as if gliding toward the nemu tree in the corner of the garden.

III

“Haven’t you been unwell? These past four or five days your complexion has looked pale, and you’ve seemed listless—utterly drained of vitality.”

Ichizo said this and furrowed his brows.
Nao slowly turned around and, with a gaze so deep it seemed sorrowful, looked into her brother’s eyes as she spoke.

“There are only six days left until the eighteenth, you know.”

Ichizo’s eyes took on a deeply pained expression as he comprehended her meaning.
Then he drew closer and plucked something imaginary from his sister’s hair—though nothing had been there—a simple expression of solicitude.

“You know—Iwata is a gentle, good man. There’s nothing at all to worry about.”
“The nurse will be going with you too, won’t she?”

"No, I won't have the nurse accompany me."
Nao gently shook her head. "It's not that—it's something you wouldn't understand, Brother."

"That may be so—but still I worry."

Nao laughed softly as she stroked her brother's hand.

"It's all right, Brother. You should go over there. Truly, it's just that my spirits have been low... A woman—how strange we are."

That night too, Nao slipped out from her bedroom.
Bathed in the pale moonlight, the nemu tree’s flowers were hazily tingeing the night sky like a dream.
Three steps away stood a fence, and the man had come to wait beyond it.
Nao leaned into the nemu tree's shade.
The soil and weeds warmed by the daytime sun emitted a faint, enticing fragrance.
The man let out an "Ah"—not from his throat—a whisper formed inside his mouth, almost at the tip of his tongue.

“You have come again—I could count each of your footsteps from the main house to here, every single one. That graceful tread barely grazing the soft earth… Tonight makes three nights I’ve heard it, yet until you actually stood there before me, I kept freezing with dread that it might not be you.”

The man let out a deep sigh—then, as if fearing Nao might speak, continued in a timid, pleading tone:

“No—please don’t say anything. I know myself—I am a base and incompetent human. Only through remaining nameless and unseen can I address you like this. I’m someone unworthy of living in this world—you cannot imagine how often I’ve thought it would’ve been better never to have been born. Can you fathom a person wishing they’d never existed? —But now everything has changed.”
“I beheld your form—that I can speak to you like this—for the first time I thanked the gods that I had lived, that I existed.”

The man's whispers continued for nearly half an hour.
Nao’s entire nervous system seemed to go numb, and her body—leaning against the nemu tree’s trunk—felt as though it were lifting from the ground, about to dissolve into space like foam.

“I would never presume to ask for your hand.”
The man soon whispered a pleading entreaty: “At least let me touch the edge of your sleeve—I need to know you aren’t angry with me.”

“No, please don’t come closer.” Nao uttered tremblingly, “Merely coming here strains my resolve to its limit. If even this were discovered—”

“Ah, you must not speak of what comes next—I know it full well, that you will soon be wed. Do you imagine me despairing? Weeping? No—you will simply marry elsewhere. Your station will change, your name will change, yet the true you remains eternal within my heart. That radiant form I beheld still shines undimmed in my eyes… No power can ever steal away or extinguish this you dwelling within me. Does this not make me blessed—?”

“Someone is coming.”
“It might be my brother,” Nao interjected. “Please come here.”

Voices and footsteps approached this way.
From beyond the fence, the man whispered.

“Tomorrow night once more—please, just once more.”

While listening to the stealthy footsteps retreating, Nao leaned her back against the nemu tree’s trunk and kept her eyes tightly closed in a wanton posture.
The voices had already reached there. Besides her brother, Ikeda Ihei and Fujimaki Sannosuke seemed to be together. After them came the nurse, having the maids carry something over.
“This spot will do.”
Her brother came to halt at the lawn’s edge. “Have them bring the rug over here. You can leave that there, Nurse—no, a bit more this way.”
Preparations were underway for the banquet; holding an evening banquet in the garden while viewing the nemu tree’s blossoms was an annual tradition.

“Iwata hasn’t arrived yet, has he?”
Ikeda Ihei’s voice carried through: “He should’ve arrived before me—what a moon. We don’t need candlesticks.”

IV

While they were preparing the seating arrangements, Nao circled back to the main house along the shaded path through the shrubbery.
There at the front garden she encountered Iwata Hansaburo.
He appeared to have hurried over—his breathing unusually labored—but upon seeing Nao, he halted and addressed her.

“Ah—you’ve come tonight as well.”

A strange shudder passed through Nao.
Buried deep within those words, she thought she detected traces of that voice from beyond the fence.
Of course such a thing was impossible—Nao nodded with an “Mm.”

“I’ve been waiting—please take me along.”

“Are you sure being so lightly dressed is alright?” Hansaburo looked at her with an enveloping gaze. “The night dew will soon settle.”

“But I won’t be staying that long.”

Nao’s voice suddenly turned buoyant as she swiftly entwined her hand around Hansaburo’s arm.

“Let’s go—what a beautiful moon.”

The night banquet grew lively upon welcoming Nao.
The nurse too was made to hold a sake cup, and Fujimaki Sannosuke sang a short Noh song.
Nao drifted ceaselessly between fantasy and reality, bursting into laughter at unexpected moments.

“Let’s plant a nemu tree in the garden, shall we?”
Nao whispered this to Hansaburo.
“And when the flowers bloom, let’s hold banquets like this too—and when we become an old man and old woman, let’s host quiet banquets just for ourselves without inviting anyone... shall we?”

“If you wish it, I’ll have it done immediately.”
Hansaburo laughed softly. “But isn’t it too soon to speak of becoming an old man and old woman when we’ve yet to hold our wedding ceremony?”

Nao's eyes looked up enraptured at the night sky.
Right beside her ear, that voice whispered—“Tomorrow night once more—please, just once more.”

On June 18th, Nao was wedded into the Iwata household.
The Sugawara family served as elder mediators with an 850-koku stipend while the Iwatas held a 700-koku post as warehouse magistrates. Their wedding ceremony received a special envoy from the feudal lord himself, with celebratory feasts lasting three nights.
Since the Iwata residence had no mistress, the nurse brought maidservants and coordinated all arrangements with female relatives from both families.
Nao passed those days in a dreamlike haze.
By local custom, brides hosted female kin and acquaintances for two days after the wedding feast—days when guests could request artistic demonstrations matching the bride’s skills: music performances, dances, tea ceremonies, flower arrangements, incense rituals, sometimes even songs or haikai verse. Though Nao played her koto, she refused every other request with “That lies beyond my humble skills.”
The nurse smoothed over tensions to prevent outright awkwardness, though guests’ displeasure remained palpable.
Aunt Masajo repeatedly called her into shadowed corners to rage.

“That’s sheer arrogance, Nao-san! Such behavior is unforgivable! Do you intend to turn all our honored guests into enemies?”

“I understand already, Aunt. I detest it—these forced artistic displays feel so hollow.”

“This humiliates our guests—this is irreparable, Nao-san! At least perform the dance Lady Shimakawa requested! You know she’s the wife of the senior councilor!”

“That would be even more disrespectful to the other guests,” Nao calmly shook her head. “I’ve had enough—I hate it, I hate it, I hate it—”

The nurse stayed until the tenth day, but once the clothes and tools she had brought were put away and she saw that Nao was growing accustomed to the Iwata household’s servants, she returned home.
Iwata had a retired father-in-law named Saburozaemon—it was said he had suffered a stroke—who had been living in a separate retirement residence, with an elderly servant named Sonbee attending to all his needs.
The sister of her father-in-law—a woman married into the Akamatsu family—would occasionally come to offer instructions on household management. “Having a mother-in-law is trying, but not having one brings its own hardships,” she would say while tediously explaining intricacies that still eluded Nao’s understanding.
She spent the summer idly with a feeling as if she were a guest visiting somewhere.
Once every morning, visiting the retirement residence to prepare tea for the father-in-law had become her daily routine, yet she struggled to feel any visceral recognition that this man was her father.
It was the same with her husband—though their long acquaintance left no room for reserve, she couldn’t properly internalize the sense that this was the man to whom she should devote her entire being.
She often caught herself nearly calling him “Mr. Iwata” and would startle.—The promised nemu tree had been planted at the western edge of the garden—a larger specimen than the one in the Sugawara residence, its branches already fully spread, making one imagine how splendid it would look when in bloom.
When it became clear that the tree had taken root, Hansaburo delightedly had tea brought to its shade.

“They say it won’t bloom next year but will the year after.”
He said to Nao, “In that case, shall we devise a special night banquet?”

But Nao was thinking of something else entirely.

Five

Tomorrow night once more—that night when those words had been spoken was rainy; moreover, she had been detained late into the evening by wedding preparations with the nurse and ultimately couldn’t venture into the garden.
After coming to Iwata, hectic days had followed one after another. Through summer she had only occasionally recalled it, but when autumn winds began to rise and life settled into routine, the sight of the rooted nemu tree’s leaves starting to wither mournfully would frequently bring back that night’s whispering voice—and mysteriously, those heart-fluttering moments returned.

That night—he must have stood drenched in rain through the endless hours; yes, and the next night too, and the night after that, surely...

The vision burned vivid and raw behind her eyelids; then her nerves awakened like water-drinking plants, her pulse hammered high and tense, a pleasant tightening gathering in her muscles—and Nao felt herself alive.
Day by day, life grew only flatter and more tedious; her husband showed far greater kindness than anticipated—a considerate, meticulously attentive affection.
None of the servants proved particularly disagreeable; though she struggled with Aunt Akamatsu and Aunt Kazuma, their visits grew less frequent with time, and when they did come, she could manage by offering vague acquiescence.
Dawn and dusk passed in windless calm—these quiet, privileged days that would surely be any new bride's greatest desire seemed to Nao like walls of barren irritation.
Something essential was missing—this life felt unreal to her—and only fantasy offered fleeting rescue from these clinging doubts.
Whispers from beyond the hedge roused Nao more vividly than reality—Grandmother's hidden tale, that resplendent sin's truth, gradually taking shape within her fantasies to paint scenes of abandon... Sleep remained ceaselessly assailed by dreams.
Even by daylight she shunned sunlit spaces, shutting herself in the parlor to sink into brooding thought.

Her husband seemed to have noticed the change in Nao.
Yet knowing the girl's own inherent nature, he appeared to refrain from pestering her with persistent questions or deliberately doting on her.
The servants too gradually developed restless, fidgety movements and tried to stay out of Nao’s presence as much as possible.
—These days passed with suffocating slowness—more tedious than pitiable, darkly sorrowful, filled with irritation and dissatisfaction.

When the new year came and February arrived, there was the seventh-year memorial service for Nao’s deceased mother, and she stayed at the Sugawara residence for about seven days.
In early March, her elder brother Ichizo married, and then Nao herself was bedridden with a cold for about ten days.
Of course, it wasn’t anything serious, but during this period she received many visits as well as letters and gifts.
It was when she had almost fully recovered—a letter arrived bearing the unfamiliar name "Aya." She immediately opened it, but Nao turned deathly pale.
It was the same handwriting from a year ago; it read as follows.

That you planted the nemu tree awakened my very life; since learning of your ailment, night after night beneath its boughs have I prayed for your recovery. Whether these devotions bear fruit I know not—yet I beseech you to at least pardon these nights of prayer.

It was not written characters but that very whispering voice itself.
Nao heard that voice with vivid clarity.
She couldn’t remember how she spent the time after that. When night fell, her husband and the servants had gone to sleep, and the entire house sank into profound silence—Nao slipped out of her bedroom and into the garden.
Though it was spring, the night air was cold, and the darkness lay impenetrable.
Circling around, lamplight from the retirement residence’s shoji screens cast a faint glow, and the garden’s trees emerged dimly illuminated in the partial light.
With demon-driven steps, Nao approached the nemu tree.

“Ah, you’ve come after all,” came an immediate whisper from beyond the trifoliate orange hedge. “Has your illness passed? Is it not harmful for you to be out at such an hour?”

Nao found herself supporting her weight against the nemu tree’s trunk—her entire body numb, certain she might collapse then and there.
The whispering persisted.

“You will forgive me—won’t you?—for coming to meet you thus again? Do you imagine I spent a year in wretched, meaningless days without seeing you? No—I was happy. You dwelled always within me. Awake or dreaming, I could ceaselessly behold your form and hear your voice.—And now at last, the time has circled back for us to meet like this once more.”

She hardly understood the meaning of the words; there was no need to. Whispers spoken only with the tip of the tongue; the emotion-laden tone intoxicated Nao, drawing her into inexpressible ecstasy.

“Let us not destroy this happiness. I will wait here on the fifth night—every five days. I beg you—I believe you will come.”

The following morning, Hansaburo stared wide-eyed in astonishment at Nao’s face—radiantly clear and brimming with revived vigor—as she emerged from her bedchamber.

Six

Nao began to sleep soundly and became visibly cheerful.
She began diligently attending to her husband’s care—which she had tended to neglect—and showed smiles to the servants.
The one dream she lacked had been granted; her days were no longer tedious. She constantly felt the joy of living within her.
The whispers every fifth day—they soothed her flat, gray existence, set every nerve ablaze, and intoxicated her senses with their numbing intensity.
Of course, no love could remain stationary there; Nao finally began to sense that danger would inevitably draw near someday.

What should I do when that time comes—will I be able to persist in refusing?

After mid-April came the seventh night.
The man whispered ceaselessly as always before pleading in a voice drained of self-restraint—he could no longer endure this state.

“Do not speak another word.”
Nao shuddered as though frightened. “Or else I—I shall vanish.”

“Are you commanding me to die? Would you have me perish in anguished torment?”

“You demand what cannot be granted. I shall make no further inquiries. If you continue speaking thus, I can no longer come here either.”

“Please wait— Ah, don’t go—”

However, Nao quickly left.

Outside the trifoliate orange hedge, the man strained his ears.
But when he confirmed the fading footsteps showed no sign of returning, he clicked his tongue and stepped back from the hedge.
With a derisive tsk, he turned—only to find someone standing directly before him.
Moonlight bathed the figure from above; the man gasped out a strangled “Ah—”. It was Iwata Hansaburo.
The impostor groaned, retreating step by step—then twisted violently and lunged at Hansaburo with a wild slash.
The blade flashed pale blue through the darkness before being caught mid-swing, arm and all, in his opponent’s iron grip.
“You wretched coward.”
Hansaburo wrenched the captured arm backward. “Fool! What would killing me here accomplish? I knew you had vile habits, but never imagined you’d be this brainless—you fox!”
A sickening crack echoed as the sword changed hands.
Bent arm clutched to his chest, the man emitted an animalistic snarl and sprang sideways like a cornered beast.

“Never come again. I’ll keep it from the world. Go home and take a good look at your own face.”

The man fled weasel-like.

Hansaburo circled around the hedge still holding the sword he had seized and entered the garden through the fence’s gate.
His brows were furrowed, yet there was no trace of anger or sorrow—he had already secretly attended their clandestine meeting three times and knew precisely what their relationship entailed.
The man was the second son of a certain elder official, one with an established reputation for such vices.
A stern word would settle this matter, but how to handle his wife—how to avoid tragedy, how to safely extract her from that situation?

The problem lay solely in that. Hansaburo had hidden himself near them up to three times, attempting to find the key within their conversations, and now he had discovered the sole method.

“There truly is no other way.”
With a furrowed brow, Hansaburo muttered these words.
“If that can prevent collapse, then such effort is worth expending.”

Nao spent days as though burning with fever.
The man’s urgent passion—his flame-like whispers—clung to her ears and would not leave.
When alone, she could find no moment’s respite—that voice kept haunting her.—Are you telling me to die? To perish in agony?
Nao could no longer endure it and gasped; her breath grew labored.

I will never go to the garden again—never.

Like a cornered creature, she struggled only to escape from there.
But she could not escape—the poisonous pleasure lay precisely in knowing it was poison.
When the fifth day came, her blood stirred.
An uncontrollable anxiety—yet a shuddering joy—enveloped her.

No—I won’t go to the garden. No matter what happens, if I meet that person this time, it will spell my ruin.
She clung to this resolution until nightfall.
Yet she knew its futility.
When ten o'clock struck, Nao stole from her bedchamber—a rain-laden darkness enveloped the night, the retirement residence's windows gone dark, insect songs humming about the grove.
Nao arrived at the nemu tree's shadow.
Her body turned ice-cold; dizzying vertigo threatened to overwhelm her.

“Ah—after all—”

From beyond the trifoliate orange hedge arose a man’s low whisper: “You came after all. Do you understand how I’ve suffered? How I’ve suffered?”

VII

Nao trembled violently.

“The reason I came—”
She answered earnestly, “The reason I came was solely to refuse you—I can no longer—”

“Please don’t say that.”
The whisper took on a pleading tone: “It was my fault. That night, I was not myself. I knew from the start I shouldn’t have desired such things, yet I succumbed to foolish passion.”

“You believe you were mistaken, don’t you?”

“Why would we destroy such a beautiful love?” The whisper took on a singsong cadence. “You exist there, I exist here like this—when I give voice to these feelings overflowing from my heart, you stay there listening. Though a wall of reality stands between us, nothing separates our hearts.”

“Oh, say it—say it.”
Nao dreamily closed her eyes and leaned against the nemu tree’s trunk as though intoxicated. “Please keep speaking like this—I’ve yearned to hear such words from you. Please say it—”

“Yes, this is our love. Here there are no mundane routines or societal obligations. Nothing exists here but the night’s stillness and these trees and grasses to hinder this love. Should one enter reality, even the deepest true affection would eventually grow cold—I shall never seek your hand again. This is enough.”

With tears streaming down her cheeks, Nao prayed that this time would last forever.
There was no doubt that the danger had passed.
Every five days, the man would whisper love in words more beautiful than ever before, speaking the thoughts of his heart like a song, like a painting.
However, he sought nothing beyond that.
Nao slept soundly and brightened the household with her contented cheerfulness.
Her secret joy was reciprocated by her husband in the form of apologies; Nao’s affection grew so strong that Hansaburo became bewildered.

Thus the season approached the rainy season.
It was an oppressively humid night when she detected a strange phrase in the man’s whispers.

“When next year comes, this nemu tree—”
The man said, “—will cover us with a dreamlike, misty canopy of blossoms...”

When next year comes.
Nao suddenly looked up—though it was still too early for flowering season, how could he know it wouldn’t bloom this year? When this thought struck her, Nao stifled a cry—“Ah!”—as if an invisible hand had split her body clean in two, struck by tremendous shock.

No—it can’t be. It can’t be that.

She listened to the whisper with her entire being—a voice so low and faint it seemed formed at the very tip of the tongue. It was barely discernible through the hedge, but if she listened with focused attention, she noticed an undeniable cadence—the particular way of phrasing words—that too was his alone. Nao left the shade of the nemu tree as though bereft of her soul—almost in a trance, staggering with each step as she returned home.

She sat on the bedding in her bedroom, closed her eyes, and retraced everything from the beginning.
Yes—at that night banquet in the Sugawara residence's garden, he had arrived later than anyone else, and in such frantic haste too.
That person knew Nao intimately—knew what Nao required... Hadn't that person willingly planted the nemu tree?
Living under the same roof, he couldn't possibly have remained ignorant of the secret garden trysts held every five days.

“You take after your grandmother, you know. If you’re not careful, that temperament will be dangerous.”

He understood Aunt’s concern even more acutely than that.
The whisper beyond the hedge was her husband.
When Nao thought that far, stealthy footsteps were heard in the corridor, and someone entered her husband’s bedroom.

Nao stood up trembling and opened the sliding door.
Hansaburo looked this way in surprise.
He wasn’t wearing his sword, but his appearance clearly showed he had just returned.

“What’s wrong—you haven’t gone to bed yet?”

They were warm eyes wearing a faint smile—eyes that knew everything; eyes that knew every corner of Nao's heart yet softly enveloped her. Nao imagined herself flushing crimson from head to toe-tip, trembling with shame and joy as she cried out and fell against her husband's chest.

"You... you—"

"If you keep raising your voice like that, they'll hear across the way."
Hansaburo quietly embraced his wife. "What's wrong? Why are you crying?"

“May I tell you…”

Nao fiercely rubbed her cheek against her husband’s chest, half-laughing and half-crying as she said.

“May I tell you—that I love you this much—that I love you so very, very much...”