Pathway to Japanese Literature

*Commentary on the Patience Bag*

I

Komada Montayū was a short-tempered, argumentative old man who transformed into a reasonable humanitarian when drinking.
At that moment too, he was pleasantly intoxicated.
With his long-awaited retirement approval finally granted—and preparations complete for moving within days to a villa at Inariyama north of the castle where only he and his wife would reside—this presented his nephew Shōji Senzō with an ideal opportunity for consultation.
Naturally, he had first been greeted with a grimace.
Evidently a detailed letter had arrived from the Edo estate, for even trivial matters drew rebukes like “What disgraceful conduct!”
Senzō had prepared himself for this.
He’d never expected praise anyway—as a child, whenever this uncle visited Edo, he’d delighted in provoking outbursts through mischief.
While Father and Uncle drank together, he would slip dragonflies into their soup bowls, stuff twenty grasshoppers into their bedding, or hide swords when guests prepared to leave.
The most memorable pranks involved hurling a watermelon through the latrine window mid-use and rigging a soaked half-sleeve kimono above Uncle’s drunken slumber—the former producing a resonant thud followed by an otherworldly shriek from the crouched figure within.
The latter scheme exceeded expectations: upon rising, Uncle found himself drenched and—in apparent fury—drew his blade to slash wildly at the tumbling garment while roaring “Insolent cur!”, leaving young Senzō awestruck.
“That boy will never amount to anything,” they’d said since those days—so he’d braced for severe reprisal.
Yet the scolding proved unexpectedly mild, and Uncle’s face—now ruddy and plump from five years’ absence, glowing with drink—radiated a serenity befitting retirement.
Senzō grew so heartened he nearly concluded world peace might follow if all patriarchs were pensioned off.

“But why do you keep picking fights like this?”
Montayū’s tone took on a deeply affectionate quality. “While hot tempers may be common among the young, yours seems almost like a sworn vow. Most incomprehensible is this business of beating Nittaku Tajirō—he served in my office during my active years, an exceedingly gentle and sincere man. Not one given to quarrels or disputes. By what reasoning did you strike him?”

"That bastard's a worthless loofah."
Senzō twisted his lips sharply. “I went because he said he’d feed me dinner! Figured money might be tight for him, so I even hauled over a square sake cask myself. But that konjac ball—”

“Wait, Senzō—are you drunk?”

“Not at all—stone sober!”
He thrust his face forward as proof, then barreled on: “But that konjac ball had a wooden puppet in his alcove—a female one at that! I felt rage boiling up, but kept calm as I grabbed the thing and chucked it into the garden.”

“Is throwing things from the alcove into the garden what you call being calm?”

“Look—I didn’t hit him or pick a fight! I thought he was just some clueless country bumpkin, so I approached him gently! He should’ve taken the hint, but that blockhead started rambling—‘This puppet’s by some master craftsman!’ ‘You’ll become an honorable elder someday—cultivate refined tastes!’ Nothing but empty platitudes! There’s nothing worse in this world than logic lectures and sea-cucumber-level platitudes! I held back, but when he spat such disrespect—well, what was I supposed to do? Because of him, I wasted a whole shō of sake!”

“This makes no sense.”
Montayū crossed his arms and tilted his head. “Listening to you talk is like conversing with palanquin bearers or fishmongers! I know Edo speech tends to be rough, but yours is beyond excessive. You’re a messed-up loofah—promising dinner invitations while spouting konjac-ball nonsense and blockheaded drivel! These aren’t words befitting a samurai’s mouth—this won’t do, Senzō!”

Had there been no alcohol in his system, thunder would have struck at this point; however, the old man’s physiological condition was optimal, and rather than anger, he even came to recognize an isotopic element of himself within his nephew’s character, thinking it best to straighten him out as he himself had once been straightened.

“Come closer—”
Montayū softened his voice. “Your short temper springs from ignorance of worldly affairs and lack of hardship. Every person has their own feelings and pride—there are times when anyone might grow obstinate or spew venomous words. Now listen: suppose someone were to strike you here.”

“That could never happen!”

“This is an analogy—suppose you were struck and thought, ‘Ah, what a splendid feeling to be thoroughly beaten!’ Would you think that?”

“Who in blazes would think such nonsense? If someone like that existed—”

“Now listen carefully—if being struck displeases you, then the person you strike feels equally displeased. Isn’t that so?”

“Then strike them back—straightforward and clear.”

“Silence when I command silence! You’re swift with fists yet quicker with that insolent tongue—what must I do with you?”

The moment he tilted his head in thought, a brilliant idea struck—not quite like gold and jewels, but a plan of certain merit that would kill two birds with one stone. The old man smirked secretly and rubbed his hands.

II

“What do you make of that rain?”
Montayū pointed toward the garden. “What do you make of that rain—it’s been falling relentlessly for four days now, like some lingering return of the rainy season?”

“It’s so gloomy and infuriating I can’t stand it.”
He turned his face away from the garden as if disgusted by the sight. “If I could reach it, I’d grab it and give five or six good punches!”

“That’s right. But you can’t punch the sky—now come closer, Senzō.”

When told this, he had just casually shifted his knee forward when the old man clenched his fist and struck his nephew’s head.
The blow landed with such force that a thud resounded.
Senzō’s body jerked in a spasm; his right hand and one knee began an involuntary movement—a pure muscular reflex beyond conscious control, one particularly pronounced in individuals with sensitive sympathetic nervous systems.
Montayū instinctively raised a hand in defense, but Senzō did nothing.
As if expelling some gaseous substance from his body, his face flushed crimson, muscles straining, teeth clenched tight.

“What’s wrong—not going to hit back?”

“I... w-won’t... hit... you...”
Senzō answered through clenched teeth: “I... c-can’t... raise... my hand... against you... Uncle...”

“That’s a proper mindset. Then hope remains.”
Montayū returned his hands to his knees. “Your short temper springs from worldly ignorance and unearned comfort—meaning you chase your own feelings without considering others. You gaze at the paper’s front while ignoring its back. One-sided thinking in all matters breeds impatience. This rain may oppress and vex you, yet to farmers it’s divine blessing. Raincloak peddlers and crossroads palanquin carriers likely profit handsomely too. Try thinking ‘Let it pour its fill’—your spirit will lighten and outbursts stay buried.”

“Hah...”

“You say you can’t strike back because I’m your uncle, but have you considered why I struck you? Don’t you recall ever having done something to me in the past that warranted being struck?”

“Long ago—” Senzō began, only to groan, “Ah...”
A dragonfly in a soup bowl, a watermelon thrown through a latrine window, an overturned half-coat—along with every other prank in his arsenal—came tumbling out of his memory like broken toys spilling from a crate.
“I see.”
Senzō nodded.

“Did you grasp my meaning? Has something come to mind?”

“I understand, but—”

Tilting his head as if overwhelmed by emotion, he unconsciously muttered under his breath, “So the old bastard remembered after all.”
This mutter reached the old man’s ears, but rather than angering him, it instead filled him with vengeful satisfaction—this was precisely what killing two birds with one stone meant.

“Consider this carefully, Senzō—everything in this world is governed by karmic law! Your very birth stems from your father and mother—*ahem*—that is to say, such grand causes. Flowers give nectar to butterflies to bear fruit; because the Minamoto clan destroyed others, the Taira clan was destroyed by the Minamoto. Karma shines bright—no waste, no false measures! To put it plainly: when there’s someone here who irks you, and you want to give them a good punch—this person has angered me now, but this person doing what angers me means that I—no, this person—wait—”

The old man had become tangled in his own rhetorical web, sweat beading on his forehead as he continued: “In short—this me interacts with you, see? Now suppose that you—this person here—make me angry. Then this me of yours would do something to make that you—no, I—damn it all, this is maddening! Ridiculous!”

Montayū wiped his brow with the back of his hand and said, “We’re done for today. Come again tomorrow.”

Having said this, he promptly stood up and left.

Senzō visited his uncle again the following day.――To outline his circumstances: he had been assigned to provincial duties this time because he inherited the Shōji family name and was appointed leader of the Thirty-Man Unit. The Shōji surname belonged to a distant maternal relative, its lineage having been severed two generations prior before being revived through his selection. Furthermore, arrangements had been made for him to marry Kana, second daughter of Uno Mataemon from the same branch of distant relatives.
――The Thirty-Man Unit served as close-guard retainers to the feudal lord, divided into two divisions of sixty-six men each stationed in Edo and the provincial domain. Composed of specialists in skills like water training, tree climbing, and speed walking, it was originally a division prepared for battlefield emergencies—a role with little utility during peacetime. Yet this very irrelevance became entwined with the hollow prestige of being “the lord’s personal guards,” fostering an atmosphere of audacious insolence, presumptuous arrogance, and haughty contempt until they had grown wholly unmanageable.
One might think abolishing it would be logical, but as an esteemed institution dating back to the Genki and Tenshō eras, it persisted partly due to the feudal lord’s opinion—a political strategy rooted in the feudal rationale that “even miscreant elements serve as pillars upholding samurai ethos.”
Given these circumstances, leading this unit was an arduous task—internally managing members as fierce as leopards and tigers, externally negotiating relations with the entire household. This predicament resembled suffering from a chronic intestinal disorder marked by urgent diarrhea and tenesmus while attending a formal ceremonial occasion: one either clenched their buttocks and excused themselves midway or relaxed control and faced public disgrace—these were the only options. Thus emerged the adage, “To take charge of the Thirty-Man Unit, one must sever ties with wife, children, and kin,” making it a position so detested that such sayings were born.

III

The plan to have Senzō reinstate the Shōji name and assign him control of the Thirty-Man Unit had come from Montayū.
Since the Shōji family was of a status that would eventually secure a middle councilor position, there was also the intent to have him undergo some training—alongside a childishly spiteful desire to make his mischievous nephew experience the kind of frustration that would make sparks fly from his eyes. However, when the nephew actually arrived, far from acting spitefully, he suddenly found himself worrying about everything, fretting over how to curb his nephew’s short temper and mold him into at least an oval shape if not perfectly round.
“Humans have something called a patience bag.”

Five days had passed since then, and Montayū’s opinions had finally begun to take on universal applicability.

“Since you’re human, you must possess one too. First, tighten it firmly—like this—” The old man pantomimed gripping something at his chest, “—tighten it like this, understand? Now then, put yourself in the other’s place. When someone says or does such things, perhaps I unknowingly insulted them or caused them displeasure long ago. If there’s no such reason, then this wretch must be suffering terrible misfortune or thwarted schemes that have put them on edge—pity them. Think this way. And for those you fundamentally dislike—the repugnant ones, the dullards, the arrogant—strive to find their merits. ‘I detest that one, but their nose is splendid,’ or ‘Vicious-tempered, yet their ears are noble,’ or ‘A fool but good-natured,’ or ‘Having no virtues at all makes their utter lack a virtue in itself,’ or ‘Twisted in spirit but straight-legged.’”

“If they’re bow-legged—”

“Then look at the hands, the spine, the line of the nose.”

“But if every single part is crooked—”

“In that case—if the whole is crooked—then in its own way, there’s uniformity. And uniformity in its own way means straightness. But don’t interrupt—you’ll tangle the discussion.”

“In short,” Senzō said, now wanting to be done with this after making his eighth trip to the Inariyama villa to receive counsel, “in short, as long as I don’t pick fights or hit people, that’s what matters, right?”

“Not only that—respect others, value their opinions, interact with generosity, forgive mistakes, and always keep the string of your patience bag tightly drawn—”

“Understood. I’ll handle it properly, so please rest assured.”

“Can you guarantee it’ll hold?”

“I can’t say if it’s a guarantee, but considering I’ve listened to your lectures eight times today without once losing my temper——”

“There, I told you so. Good—don’t forget those words.”

Having said this, the old man glared as if to drive the point home.

To tell the truth, Senzō had already discovered his own patience bag and succeeded in tightening its strings at this point.
There had been two instances where he had to exercise restraint—once regarding his residence, and once concerning Tomita Yairoku, a squad leader of the Thirty-Man Unit. As for the house—disliking its cramped and aged condition, he had pressed the responsible office, but with no vacant residences available, he endured being asked to wait a while longer.
Yairoku’s situation had been quite precarious.
In hindsight, he seemed to have come to probe Senzō’s state of mind; standing at the entrance with his chest puffed out, he insolently demanded, "When will you commence your official duties?"
The man was arched backward so severely that from Senzō’s vantage point, only his chin remained visible. Senzō’s head throbbed—an itch began near his navel, migrating upward into the pit of his stomach. By prior experience, this signaled readiness for action, but now the migrating sensation collided against something. Near the cardia of his stomach, it struck an unidentifiable mass and halted indecisively—which is to say, this unknowable mass was none other than the patience bag. The moment he realized this, Senzō mustered every ounce of strength to yank its strings taut—yanking once, twice, with all his might.
Tomita Yairoku edged backward, seemingly growing uneasy as Senzō remained silent without responding. Having finally finished tightening the bag’s opening, Senzō quietly answered, “I will commence my duties on the twelfth.”
Yairoku covered his cheek with his right arm the moment “kono” was uttered, assumed a posture with his left hand as if blocking something, and leapt out the entranceway as swiftly as a locust.
The swift precision of this movement proved he too was a man of particular caliber. Yet despite his rapid evasive maneuver, upon realizing no fists or open-handed strikes came flying, he—already at the gate—looked around in apparent astonishment. Confirming that Senzō remained standing motionless at the entrance, showing not the slightest sign of violent intent, he jutted his chin once more in this direction before departing leisurely beyond the gate.
Through his uncle’s opinions—drilled into him until he could practically taste bile—these two experiences, and above all the discovery of his patience bag, Senzō had gained confidence in his own capacity for this new life.

IV

The world was a waiting room of hardships where humans were born bearing karmic suffering from the womb; thus life resembled braving storms along a treacherous mountain path—a cruel and unrelenting journey demanding vigilance at every hour and every moment. Upon assuming his post as group leader at the office, Senzō had come to know this truth firsthand.
He had been entrusted with improving the warrior ethos of the Thirty-Man Unit.
Their audacious insolence and presumptuous arrogance stemmed from neglecting their fundamental duties; authorities reasoned that compelling rigorous practice of their specialties—tree climbing, water training, speed walking—would naturally cultivate humility and moral discipline. This logic had officially assigned Senzō his duties.
——On his first day of service, senior officials introduced him to five squad leaders before an audience of veterans. These subordinates then escorted him to the duty station where sixty men awaited formal presentation.
The ceremony amounted to a blunt proclamation: “Shōji Senzō becomes your group leader today.” Yet when formalities concluded, Senzō found himself nursing a profoundly disquieting impression.
It felt as though those sixty-five men had collectively assumed leadership roles, reducing him to their sole subordinate under this inverted hierarchy.
Coastal crabs supposedly sense approaching tempests; if true, Shōji Senzō must have shared their crustacean prescience—for his initial misgivings proved accurate.
That these men constituted not merely superiors but the most superior-like authorities among all officials would be demonstrated ten days into his tenure through the following events.

“Since it’s the season, I’d like to start swimming practice. What do you think?”

Senzō called Sui Eisuke, the squad leader, and spoke these words.

Sui Eisuke answered “That sounds splendid” while shouting “Hah!” and swinging one hand to effortlessly snatch a fly midair—a man like a fly-catching spider.

“Then when shall we begin?”

“Indeed, whenever you wish.”

“Shall we begin tomorrow?”

“That should be fine, I suppose.”

“Then starting tomorrow—I assume the location and instructor have been decided?”

“As for the location—river, sea, swamp, or pond—it’s entirely up to your preference. Anywhere but the castle moat should pose no concerns for swimming. I’m unaware of any instructors, but if you desire one, shall I have someone search for you?”

“Your preference—”
Senzō swallowed his saliva. “I have no particular requests myself, but does that mean your subordinates have been conducting training without an instructor until now?”

“Who? What are you referring to?”

“I’m asking whether your subordinates have been conducting water training without an instructor.”

“Us?”
Eisuke looked at him as though he’d asked something absurd. “Why would you inquire about such a thing? We neither practice water training nor have ever desired to do so. Wasn’t this ‘starting tomorrow’ your own proposition as Group Leader?”

“————”

Senzō clenched his teeth and wrenched the patience bag’s cord tight. The bag writhed in protest—thrashing, convulsing, shrinking taut before lurching upward again. Drenched in sweat, he grappled with it until finally pinning it down, only for Eisuke to impudently remark, “What an absurd notion—ordering a water-training squad to swim.”
He muttered this as he stood up and left.
Senzō closed his eyes and ground his teeth; then, to shift his thoughts, he tried muttering empty words like, “Well, today... Today I was supposed to have some business...”
There was indeed something he needed to do.
That day, he was supposed to go to Inari Mountain in the afternoon and meet Uno Mataemon’s second daughter at his uncle’s house.
However, as a result of being utterly exhausted from his verbal sparring with Eisuke and grappling with his patience bag, he had completely forgotten.
“Today, today,” he repeated ten times before muttering, “Alright, today I’ll have eel for dinner.”
He, who had been single-mindedly thinking about eels all the way until leaving the castle, no sooner returned home than he ordered his servant to prepare them.
His order was flatly rejected with a curt reply: “There ain’t no eels in these parts.”

To begin with, this servant Shūroku was a lazy good-for-nothing—no, worse than that—when just then, a messenger from Inari Mountain arrived at the entrance and gasped out breathlessly, “Everyone is waiting impatiently!”
Senzō involuntarily groaned “Ah, I’ve messed up!” and dashed out of the house, his clothes only half-changed.
As previously noted, Shōji Senzō had already become engaged to Uno Kana, with their wedding ceremony scheduled for November, but at her request—or rather demand—to meet once beforehand and ascertain her appearance and character, that day’s gathering had been arranged. To speak plainly, this was less a “meeting” than a form of summons issued by Kana herself.
How Senzō felt about this fact goes without saying; however, gripping his patience bag in one hand and with his mind filled with Sui Eisuke, being over an hour late, water training, eels, and Kana, he rushed to his uncle’s house.
In the guest room of Inari Mountain, the Uno couple, Kana, and the host Montayū had been waiting exhaustedly—no, to call it merely exhausting would be too mild; it would be more accurate to say they had been waiting with mounting impatience, poised for confrontation, their anticipation blazing.
Montayū took one look at his nephew’s face and bellowed, “What were you doing?”
In response, Senzō wiped his sweat with one hand and answered, “I was swimming at the office.”
“At the office, swim——!” Montayū’s eyes bulged grotesquely wide, while Mataemon snorted with derisive laughter.
Kana sat as poised as a Buddha statue, her refined eyes and sculpted nose turned toward him, gazing with immaculate composure at Senzō’s face.

V

With two harvests—the invitation to the Mid-Autumn Harvest Moon and the recognition that Kana was as poised as a Buddha statue in every aspect—he returned home.
Between his blunder of declaring “I was swimming at the office,” the anxiety over his patience bag that seemed ready to burst free if he loosened his grip, and Sui Eisuke’s phantom image laughing and clapping hands mockingly inside his head, he retained no memory whatsoever of what topics had been discussed or how he had even responded. On his way home, though he spotted an eel shop along a certain street, he could only marvel—so worked up into a state of agitation was he—at how “Truly, there are no eels in this area after all.”

It was about half a month later that Senzō called Arika Konohatchō.
Arika Konohatchō was the squad leader of the Speed Walking Squad, yet he was so dominated by his towering six-foot frame and terrifyingly corpulent body that an amateur observer could scarcely discern where he himself resided within that colossal mass of flesh.
Having temporarily postponed negotiations with the Water Training Squad, Senzō selected this Konohatchō as his second counterpart for discussions.
It was said that overly corpulent people were generally good-natured, and particularly since Arika appeared physically and mentally transcendent in all matters, he reasoned there would be no fear of him wielding malicious paradoxes like Sui.
However, this was a grave miscalculation—Konohatchō’s demeanor of transcendental detachment in all matters stemmed not from spiritual poise, but from the maximum accumulation of fat causing the surface tension across his entire skin to reach its limit, rendering him incapable of reflecting psychological states through either holistic or localized expressions. When the actual Konohatchō emerged from within that colossal mass of flesh, he proved to be a character entirely unlike what Senzō had anticipated.

“I can’t quite grasp what you’re saying, sir.”
In response to Senzō’s question, he countered in a leisurely tone tinged with a sibilant lisp, “What sort of practice are you referring to, exactly?”

“Since you’re the Speed Walking Squad, shouldn’t you be practicing speed-walking techniques?”

“Ah, so that’s what you mean.”
He nodded leisurely. “Then we’ve been doin’ it o’ course—or are you suggestin’ we haven’t, sir?”

“I’m not suggesting that—but from now on we must strive even harder through organized methods.”

“Oh, do rest assured—everyone’s quite capable, truly astonishing I must say. On that matter, there’s not a speck o’ concern to be had.”

“That may be so, but since this concerns our duties, we must press on.”

“Why, rest assured—golden sandals stamped with the grand seal need no rope nor matting! Back in Lord Keitoku-in’s reign there was a speed-walker called Usubachi Hyakubei—when Masaka Mountain crumbled and flooded seven villages’ fields, that Hyakubei made twenty-one ri and twelve chō round trip in half a day! And now in my squad there’s Iida Tenkurō here—why, he can do five ri in half a koku at regular pace! Though mind you—in Lord Jumon-in’s time there was one… later when Lord Sōhō-in went to pluck Kurakahei’s beard—that was surely the Snake Egg Debate they still talk of in Edo mansions—snakes comin’ to steal eggs from henhouses—no—makin’ ceramic eggs to trick the hens! Why trick ’em? See, when a hen lays an egg—”

Senzō was no longer listening—clutching his patience bag with both hands, eyes screwed shut and teeth gritted—as he fixated on how Uno’s Kana resembled a Buddha statue, how recently the servant Shūroku dared address him while standing upright, and how he longed to devour Edo-style grilled eel until nausea set in.
After holding forth for nearly two hours, Konohatchō retreated into his mountainous flesh-mass and lumbered away with that corpulent bulk.
Among human senses, none rival sight and hearing as such perverse materialists—utterly ungovernable libertines. Consider vision: when straining to catch a beloved actor’s perfectly timed expression at the theater, or glimpsing a maiden bathing nude in a riverside grove from a speeding train window before hastily turning away (aesthetic decorum demands it!), one never beholds what one desires. Yet unwanted sights—those that make you avert your gaze—burn themselves into memory’s photographic plate with maddening clarity.
The ears prove equally wayward—whether endeavoring to parse the delicate nuances of Séverac’s cloying pastoral suites or, at an inn, distinguishing between noises from the adjacent room—no, not a young couple’s chamber—that is to say, during wartime battles, attempting to differentiate enemy bombers from friendly aircraft by engine roar—they prove utterly inept when needed most. Yet unwelcome sounds—those you’d block with palms pressed to ears—resound with crystalline precision; the more you resist them, the more they amplify, etching themselves like epitaphs into memory’s stone. Herein lies why Aku Shichibei gouged out his eyes and why Monsieur Van Gogh severed his ear.
Senzō kept his eyes closed and mind elsewhere; he strained desperately to avoid seeing Konohatchō’s form or hearing his voice.
Yet for days afterward, every shape morphed into Konohatchō’s bulk, while serpents and Lord Sōmon-in and Iida Tenkurō and ceramic eggs howled *“Shēn! Shēn!”* in his ears—a cacophony that robbed him of peaceful sleep through endless nights.

The circumstances surrounding Senzō within the household began crystallizing around this period.
They had verified it—that there existed a notorious brawler named Shōji Senzō at the Edo estate, short-fused and lightning-handed, fearsomely strong in combat; that everyone should take care since this ruffian was supposedly coming soon. Yet the very rumor-monger now showed not the faintest trace of pugnacity even after forty or fifty days since his actual arrival.
Even when testing him with minor provocations, he parried them only with either meek deference or deferential meekness—not so much as a sliver of his famed short temper could be detected.

“That reputation’s a damn lie—he’s completely spineless, like a limp cat!”

The household’s observations had thus made an about-face.

VI

Having been rebuffed in both water training and speed walking, Senzō attempted to sound out the tree-climbing squad several days before the Mid-Autumn Harvest Moon—this time avoiding squad leaders and instead summoning a seemingly mild-mannered subordinate named Okuno Hyōe for discussion.

“Me?”
Hyōe’s eyes widened. “Me doing tree-climbing—that thing children play at—” he blurted, his voice suddenly resembling a sheep being dragged to slaughter. “I beg you—spare me this at least! I’m thirty-seven years old—a man with a wife and six children!”

“Does this training have anything to do with age or having a wife and children?”

“Just imagine—a man with this beard and white streaks in his sideburns huffing and puffing up trees like some seven- or eight-year-old brat! No—please spare me! I might endure it myself, but think how pitiful it’d be for my wife and children! Don’t make my family weep—show mercy to my wife and children, I beg you!”

Senzō dismissed him and summoned another subordinate, Yoshiki Tazaemon.
This was an excessively cheerful, still-young man with an open demeanor, but upon hearing the proposal, he leaned forward and said, “Is that true?”
His face lit up as he licked his lips, brimming with such fervor that he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Will you really grant permission? You’re not deceiving me, are you?”

“I wouldn’t deceive you about official duties, but—”
Senzō grew slightly uneasy. While he appreciated Yoshiki’s eagerness, its excessiveness made him wary—given how matters had progressed thus far, he thought he might need to try a different approach than before. *Surely he’s not misunderstanding? When I say ‘training,’ I mean tree-climbing.*

“No misunderstanding here at all! Tree-climbing—usin’ hands ’n’ feet to scale trees, right? I know exactly what you mean. With the season just comin’ into its prime, couldn’t be better timing. Let’s get started right away.”

“—coming into its prime.”
Senzō looked at the man. “Since when does tree-climbing have a season?”

“You weren’t aware, were you?”
“If you’re unaware,” said Yoshiki Tazaemon, leaning further forward, “allow me to inform you—tree-climbing’s prime season runs from summer through winter, making it most exhilarating then.”

“Let me think for a moment—”

Senzō waved his hand and dismissed [him], saying they were done for the day.

How filled with hardships the world was, and how difficult and dreary a thing life truly was—it was now that this reality seeped into his very bones and came to be understood by him.
He grew solemn and bowed his head to life—now he understood—the fixed price of “society” had been set terrifyingly high for him.

The cancellation of the Mid-Autumn Harvest Moon invitation from the Uno family arrived two days later—the reason given being "because it looked like rain"—but the day itself dawned clear, and the radiant harvest moon remained visible throughout the night.
To be precise, Senzō hadn’t actually gazed at it—that day, as he descended from the castle, strangers cornered him at the main keep’s *masugata* gate. The moment he passed three approaching men, someone roared, “Halt!” When he turned, the trio surrounded him. “You struck my sword scabbard just now,” one declared. “Got some grievance?” Though Senzō had no memory of this, their intent to provoke a fight was clear, so he apologized.
He bowed his head and said, “There’s no excuse.”

“I am Hayama Tsutarō of the Spear Unit.”
He glared down at Senzō from his height. “For official records—which station do you serve at? State your full name.”

When Senzō gave his name, the man’s eyes widened in theatrical surprise. He stared brazenly before proclaiming, “So it’s true after all! That patience bag of yours being made of cowhide—I’d thought it mere rumor, yet here stands the genuine article!”

The trio departed cackling—their laughter echoing through the castle gate’s stonework.

“A leather patience bag?” they jeered loudly—yet fortunately, the bag itself didn’t thrash about much; only cold sweat seeped under his arms. But those words—“made of cowhide”—clung relentlessly to his ears, and with his chest heavy as if from indigestion, he burrowed under his futon early that evening. *A leather patience bag?—but so what? Now my endurance has its price tag plainly marked.*
Satisfied with this thought, he sneered, “Let the moon do as it pleases.”

VII

The leather bag now bore a price tag.
Now endowed with thousand-man strength, Senzō soon received notice from the Uno family—who had canceled their moon-viewing invitation—of wedding postponement, citing “certain circumstances that prove somewhat difficult to comprehend.” People had their own reasons for things. Very well—he replied that he understood.
After all, with this thousand-man strength—even when overhearing deliberately loud whispers in castle corridors or being intentionally shouldered by passersby—the cowhide-made bag didn’t so much as quiver. His office seat was gradually pushed to the farthest corner while petty officers sprawled across the center. *What did it matter if positions reversed? No cosmic upheaval would follow.* Tomita Yairoku possessed an admirable chin, and Arika Konohatchō’s physique wasn’t suited for corners anyway. “Forbearance and compromise matter most—only then does society settle into tranquil peace.” Indeed—nothing surpassed tranquil peace. Humanity’s eternal ideals remained ever freedom and harmony—yet nothing proved harder to attain or more fleeting once achieved. Just as the writer disbelieved in perpetual peace, so too would they doubt this leather bag’s price tag.
For this “price tag” was designed for replacement at any time.
At last came the day when the price tag peeled from the leather bag—not replaced, but torn clean away—.

It was a sweltering day, as if the lingering summer heat had returned.
When he returned home from the castle, the servant Shūroku lay sprawled asleep in Senzō’s living room.
Stretched out at full length with his elbow for a pillow, he slept soundly in apparent contentment, even snoring.
Cold sweat seeped from Senzō’s armpits—a physiological phenomenon that had persisted since his patience bag grew docile.

“Well, fine—”
After observing his servant’s sleeping form awhile, he muttered, “Shūroku’s human too—must want to nap in a spacious, breezy room now and then.”

Then, stealthily moving his footsteps, he quietly went to the bedroom, changed clothes, and went out back to wipe his sweat.
And it was when he drew water into the handled bucket at the wellside and crouched to wash his face.
He saw a strange human face reflected in the water’s surface and startled, turning around hurriedly—of course there was no one there. Upon looking again carefully, it seemed to be his own face; certainly there was something familiar about it. He couldn’t confidently insist *That’s my face*, yet neither could he definitively declare *That’s not my face*.
Senzō grew uneasy.
Leaving the hand towel discarded, he hurried back to the bedroom, retrieved a mirror from the long chest, went to sit in the bright area of the engawa, and peered intently at the mirror’s surface—it showed no difference from what had been reflected in the bucket’s water. “This is definitely me—but this is absolutely not my face.”
What in the world had happened? He set down the mirror and crossed his arms.
How long had he been lost in thought when a loud “Aaaah” of a yawn came from the living room, followed by the thud of legs being flung out?
At that very moment—alongside the thud of legs being flung out—something snapped near the cardiac orifice of Senzō’s stomach, and the shout “You insolent wretch!” burst from his lips.
It had been a completely unconscious shout, and by the time he realized—*Ah, I’ve roared something*—he was already standing over Shūroku’s pillow in the living room: “Get up! If you want to stay in one piece, withdraw to your own room!”
The servant—perhaps thinking he was dreaming—gaped open-mouthed up at his master, then suddenly let out a scream of terror, his legs giving way as he shrieked, “Un- Un- There are eels! There are eels!” in deranged panic before scrambling away across the tatami.
Senzō noticed he was still holding the mirror. He peeked at it and tried to place it in the alcove, but then peered again as if startled.
Then he went out to the engawa, wiped the mirror’s surface, and gazed intently... It was his own face. Undeniably, unmistakably the face of Shōji Senzō. “Hah...”
He nodded like this—“Hah...”—without needing to resort to dialectics. If one couldn’t grasp what these two faces revealed, they’d be nothing but a fool and a spineless konjac ball.
What was there to doubt? Senzō set down the mirror and shouted at the top of his voice, “Shūroku, come here!” Shūroku came running.
Senzō kept his face turned away as he said, “You understand that I’ve lost my patience, don’t you?”

“Huh?”

“Let me make this clear—my fists hurt like hell and there’s no mercy here. I’ve already knocked eyes clean out of a man’s head before, so watch yourself.”

“Huh? Y-yes, I understand perfectly! And about the eels—”

“Buy them. Five portions of the rough cuts. And don’t forget the sake.”

He clenched his right fist and swung it through the air with such force it buzzed menacingly.
Shūroku squeezed his eyes shut and scrambled away.
The price tag had been torn off—that sharp snap near his stomach’s pit must have been the patience bag’s strings breaking. His chest and guts felt scrubbed raw, as if turned inside out and rinsed in the river’s flow. Muscles twitched restlessly, bones creaking like old timber. “What idiotic nonsense is this?”
He thudded down heavily before roaring, “What’s it matter if my face ain’t my face anymore with some price-tagged leather bag? Wrapping patience in cowhide won’t fatten the rice harvest! Caterpillars crawl, dragonflies dart—fools stay fools and water training’s just splashing about! If Montayū’s my uncle, then I’m Senzō his nephew! There’s no damn mystery to proper ways—I want none of it!”

Alas! Peace had finally lowered its curtain.

VIII

The new act began at dawn from the castle’s main gate.
He had come to the castle and encountered Hayama Tsutarō at the main gate.
Likely his companions from before, the three were walking along talking loudly about something. The moment Senzō recognized them unmistakably as Hayama of the Spear Unit, he closed in rapidly and suddenly slammed into them from behind with full force.
Caught off guard, the opponent lurched forward—no, it wasn’t merely a lurch; he planted his face magnificently into the ground.

“You insolent wretch!”
It was Senzō who shouted this: “Got some grudge to go colliding with people in broad daylight? Who the hell do you think you are?”

“————”

Hayama Tsutarō spat out gravel as he stood up. “Wh-wh-wha—”

“What the hell is this? Spit it out—ah, you’re that ‘instructor’ from before.”
He smirked. “Ah—so this is about that scabbard-clash grudge. I’ve got your measure now. No more debate needed. Let’s meet at Matoba Forest tomorrow morning at six—we’ll settle it there. Consider that your promissory note.”

Having said his piece, he started walking without a backward glance.
As he rounded the main keep, he found his second quarry.
It was that fellow—the one whose name he didn’t know but who’d conspicuously jeered “Leather bag! Leather bag!”—a squat, stubby little man. As Senzō overtook him, he snapped, “Children don’t belong in these precincts!” and issued this one too a promissory note for six o’clock tomorrow morning at Matoba Forest.
When he ascended from Nakaguchi to the corridor and encountered Tomita Yairoku, he said, “Hey now—your name could be read as ‘blundering fool,’ but that’s rather chic, isn’t it?”
Yairoku’s eyes bulged as he arched backward—he threw himself back so violently that only his jutting chin remained visible. “Look at you arching back again! Don’t you have any other act besides that?”

“This is an insult! An insult!” Yairoku shrieked in a piercing voice, “I will never forgive this! A warrior’s honor demands satisfaction! Everyone must bear witness! Bear witness to this—”

“Quiet! Stop pounding that ripped-leather drum of yours! If you want vengeance, come to Matoba Forest! I’ll be waiting at six in the morning!”

And then he walked off briskly.
When he entered the Thirty-Man Unit’s duty room, as luck would have it, Arika Konohatchō was drinking tea with Saruyama Shirōji, the tree-climbing squad leader.
Saruyama was the man who had once used Okuno and Yoshikita Zaemon to mock others—with a teacup and teapot set before them, Arika and Shirōji sat facing each other, talking about something.
Right through the middle, Senzō stomped straight past.
Tea bowls went flying, the teapot overturned, and hot tea splashed vigorously in all directions.
The two men must have thought they’d been struck by sickle-weasel spirits—Konohatchō instinctively chanted “Namu Toraya!” while Saruyama shut his eyes and flailed both hands through the air.
“Drink your tea by the bonfire!”
Senzō roared like this.
When they became indignant upon realizing it wasn’t sickle-weasel spirits that had just passed through but rather the group leader’s leather bag, he preemptively shouted, “Fine! Don’t say another word! We’ll settle this at Matoba Forest—come tomorrow morning at six o’clock! I’ll be waiting, so don’t forget!”
Arika looked at Shirōji’s face, and Saruyama looked at Konohatchō’s face.
And after shuddering, they stared at each other more intently.

By that time, Senzō had already seized his next target—in the place that should have been his seat, Sui Eisuke was sitting and saying something to subordinates.
He went to stand before him and looked down at his opponent.
Eisuke raised his face and looked this way.
Senzō kept staring down at him. "What an unpleasant face."
Having said this, he started wandering around him.

“Did you say something?”

“Was that me? Did you hear me say something like that?”
When Senzō spoke without turning around, Eisuke turned pale.

“I heard you.
I clearly heard you say, ‘What an unpleasant face.’”

“How fortunate. At least your ears prove you’re ordinary.”

“Are you speaking seriously, or is this nonsense?”

“You can manage such stylish quips, can you, Eisuke? Hmm—quite something.”
Still circling around Eisuke as he spoke: “But let me make this clear—stop right there. Don’t utter another word. My fists aren’t just painful—they’re final and immediate. You’d better shut up before both your eyeballs go flying—aren’t you going to stand?!”

The words “Aren’t you going to stand?!” roared with such force that the ceiling panels and sliding doors shuddered; Eisuke sprang upward as though launched by a coiled spring.
Senzō planted himself firmly in the vacated seat. “This is the Group Leader’s seat! I am the Group Leader! Any fool who can’t grasp seating order gets hurled into the garden! Are all squad leaders accounted for?”

"They are present."
It was Okuyama Heizō who answered in a mosquito-like voice from across the room.

When he looked, from the corridor all the way to the bonfire room, the astonished faces of his subordinates were lined up.

"You lot move back there—this isn’t a sideshow. Squad leaders gather here. What’s with the dawdling? I’m busy. Get moving—now!"

The outcome was decided; the four squad leaders sat there as if possessed.

“Everyone’s here, then.”
Senzō glared around sharply. “Now then—listen well as I issue this decree. The Thirty-Man Unit isn’t just our lord’s personal guards! It’s the sole honorable institution carried down since Genki and Tenshō times! Those who belong must devote themselves to rigorous training, strictly cultivate their conduct, keep their duties unsullied, and serve as models for the entire domain! What defines this training? —Sui Eisuke! What does your squad count as training? What *is* your squad’s training?”

“W-water training…”

“Speak plainly! What’s your answer?”

“Water training.”

“Good. Saruyama Shirōji’s squad—what’s yours?”

“Tree climbing.”

“Arika,”

“Speed walking.”

“Good—water training stays water training, speed walking stays speed walking. Tomita Yairoku will commence drills tomorrow as official supplier for the Third Squad. Those who disobey this decree will be reported to the authorities and punished without exception. Understood?”

And Senzō rose from his seat and strode briskly down the corridor—to hunt the remaining prey, to issue Matoba Forest summons—and then, the next morning.

Nine

At five in the dim morning light, someone entered the gate of the Uno residence—which had just opened—and brusquely requested guidance at the entrance.
It was Shōji Senzō. “I need to see her. Now.”
It was a shout devoid of restraint or courtesy. A steward came running from the rear, attempting to quiet him: “Please quiet down! What business brings you here? Who might you be?”

“I have a message for Kana—tell her this.”
Senzō raised his voice even louder and shouted, “Gather all you cowardly dogs and come hear the sound of Shōji Senzō’s fists! If you’ve got the guts, show up at Matoba Forest by six o’clock—understood?”

Then, turning his back on the dumbfounded steward, he strode out of the Uno residence with forceful steps.

He passed north through the mist-shrouded castle town, circled around the large riding grounds, and walked three chō along a stream’s edge—there, surrounding the shooting range, spread a deep cedar forest.
Senzō went straight to the forest edge. He looked around—no one was there. Clicking his tongue, he sat down on a fallen rotten log. “Who knows... Maybe at least one person will come.”
He muttered this.

The chirping of small birds grew louder, and the mist thinned.
Senzō stood up from the rotten log and, stretching upward, peered down the road into the distance.
The appointed time had long passed, yet not a single person showed any sign of appearing. “Wha—”
He clicked his tongue, clenched his right fist, and swung it around vigorously.
Then from behind came a voice: “You should return now.”
At this, even Senzō started; he cried “Ah!” and whirled around.
There—Uno Kana stood.

“You—you—”

“Yes, I had come—just a little earlier than Lord Shōji—”

“Earlier than me? But how could that be?”

“There isn’t a soul throughout the castle town who hasn’t heard yesterday’s rumor. And having heard it, how could I possibly not come here—”

Senzō stared fixedly at Kana’s eyes, then once looked her up and down from head to toe before staring at her eyes anew.
She was not a buddha statue. Whether she herself had changed or Senzō’s eyes had transformed, the author does not know. “I see.”
Senzō smiled at Kana’s eyes—no longer those of a buddha statue—and nodded.

“I dislike making speeches. I trust you will consider my current words as the cancellation of the previous postponement.”

“There’s no one else coming now.” Kana averted her eyes as if dazzled. “I came here without telling my family, so if I don’t return soon—”

“I wanted to show you this—this right here.” He rubbed his right fist regretfully. “But another chance will come—and when it does, I’ll show you something truly satisfying.”

“I find it unpleasant.”

Oh, dear readers—can you imagine Kana’s eyes in that very instant she spoke? That gaze which poets have extolled for thousands of years past, and will never tire of praising for tens of thousands to come.

He escorted Kana to the corner of Ōmaba and parted ways with her, then immediately visited the house at Inari Mountain.

“Is Uncle awake?”
At the entrance, Senzō barked these words. Then Montayū emerged before him, growling “Quiet!” as he appeared. “What brings you here shouting at this ungodly hour?”

“I’ve come to return something.”
Senzō grinned.

“What’s this ‘something to return’?”

“It’s the patience bag. It’s finally torn to shreds, and I have no use for it anymore—returning it clean and proper.”

“—,—”

“And in November, I’ll settle the wedding ceremony.”
He said this and kowtowed, “Please give my regards to Aunt.”