Pathway to Japanese Literature

A bird that doth pine for days long past—cedar needles fall
From Mitsui’s heights doth cross with cries—

―――Manyoshu―――

Though the sky hung thickly overcast, though the moon lay swallowed deep within clouds, light must have seeped through from somewhere—the world outside stood tinged a pallid white.
This brightness seemed quite vivid if one deemed it so—enough to make out roadside pebbles clearly—yet somehow all before my eyes stayed blurred and hazy; when I fixed my gaze into the distance, my pupils prickled with peculiar sensation—a phantom radiance both uncanny and strange.
It was a light that conjured thoughts of some far-flung eternal realm severed from mortal affairs.
Depending on one’s disposition that night, you might have called it moonless darkness or moonlit glow—or perhaps neither.
Through whitish haze ran a single stark-white highway straight before me.
Along both sides stretched endless pine rows as far as sight could reach, their boughs rustling whenever winds blew in from the left.
The wind bore strange dampness, heavy with brine.
The sea must be near, I thought.
I was seven or eight then—a boy timid since infancy—so walking this desolate country path alone at midnight chilled me to the core.
Why hadn’t my wet nurse come along?
Had I tormented her so that she stormed off in anger?
Yet despite these thoughts, I pressed onward less fearfully than usual.
My childish breast swelled not with night’s terrors but keener anguish—an ache beyond endurance.
That our home—our lively Nihonbashi home—had been wrenched to this backwater; that our fortunes crashed overnight—even my child’s heart knew unspeakable sorrow.
I pitied myself.
Until recently I’d worn padded yellow hakuchō silk beneath glossy crepe haori—even quick errands saw calico tabi and formal komageta—yet now what wretched metamorphosis!
I’d become some slobbering simpleton from temple plays—filthy, ragged, too shameful for public eyes.
Cracks and chilblains roughened my hands and feet like pumice.
Small wonder the wet nurse had gone.

My family no longer had the money to keep a wet nurse.
On the contrary, I had to help my father and mother every day and work alongside them.
I had to do all sorts of things—drawing water, lighting fires, scrubbing floors with a rag, running errands to distant places.

Can I no longer wander through those night streets of Ningyōchō, beautiful as brocade pictures? Can I no longer go to enjoy Suiten-gū’s festival days or visit Yakushi-sama in Kayabachō? Even so, I wonder how Miyo-chan from Komeyachō is doing now. What has become of Tetsu-kō, the son of the boatman at Yoroi Bridge? Are Shinkō of the kamaboko shop, Kōjirō of the geta shop, and that group still getting along well and gathering every single day on the second floor of Kakiuchi’s tobacco shop to play their theater games? I would likely never encounter those friends again until I reached adulthood. When I thought of this, I felt both resentment and desolation. But the sadness piercing through my chest did not seem to stem from that alone. Just as the hue of moonlight upon this pine tree-lined road was inexplicably sorrowful, so too did an infinite sadness of unknowable origin press itself upon my chest with unbearable intensity. Why am I so sad like this? And yet, while feeling so intensely sad, why do I not shed tears? Despite being a chronic crybaby, I haven’t shed a single tear. It was a sadness as clear and piercing as the crystalline waters of a mountain spring—the kind of sorrow one feels when hearing a shamisen’s mournful notes—seeping into the depths of my heart from some unknowable source.

To the right of the long pine grove, there had initially appeared to be fields, but as I walked and suddenly noticed, they had somehow transformed into a vast expanse spread out like a pitch-black sea. Pale white fluttering shapes appeared and vanished here and there across the plane. Each time the familiar briny sea breeze blew in from the left, those pale fluttering shapes multiplied further, rustling with a hoarse sound like an old man's feeble cough as they rippled and creased. I wondered if wave crests were forming on the sea's surface, but that didn't seem to be the case. The sea couldn't possibly make such a dry, crackling sound. At certain moments, it looked as though a fiend were baring white teeth in a sly grin, so I tried hard not to look that way. Yet the more unsettling I found it, the more compelled I became to steal furtive glances—a peek here, a peek there—but no matter how often I looked, I couldn't discern its true form. From amidst the roaring pine winds, that crackling voice grew ever more frequent, assailing my ears. Then from beyond the left pine grove in the far distance came the true sound of the sea—thud, thud, thud-thud—resounding through the night. That was unmistakably waves. The sea is roaring, I thought. The sea's sound resembled stone mortar grinding in a distant kitchen—faint yet oppressive, powerful and resonantly booming.

The sound of waves, the sound of wind through pines, the rustling of something unknown—I would sometimes come to an abrupt halt and listen intently to these sounds permeating my being, then trudge onward again.
At times, something like the smell of paddy fertilizer would drift in from nowhere.
When I looked back at the path behind me, an identical pine-lined road continued endlessly ahead.
No matter which direction I turned, not a single light suggesting human habitation could be seen.
Moreover, though I had already been walking for over an hour, there remained not a soul passing by.
The only things I occasionally encountered were telegraph poles standing parallel to the left pine grove at twenty-ken intervals.
And those poles too groaned hollowly like the waves.
Out of sheer desolation, I would overtake one telegraph pole only to fix my eyes on the next, walking onward while counting them—one, two, three...—in this manner.

Thirty poles, thirty-one poles, thirty-two poles... fifty-six poles, fifty-seven poles, fifty-eight poles... Continuing in this way, it was likely when I counted what must have been the seventieth telegraph pole that a single glimmer of light appeared faintly in the distance down the highway.
My focus naturally shifted from the telegraph poles to that light, but the light flickered in and out of view amidst the pine groves.
The distance between the light and me seemed about ten telegraph poles apart, but when I walked toward it, it turned out not to be nearly that close.
Not ten poles—even after passing the twentieth, the light still flickered in the distance.
It seemed to remain perfectly stationary in one spot, about as bright as a lantern flame, yet perhaps it was moving straight ahead in the same direction and at the same speed as I...

It must have been how many minutes—or perhaps tens of minutes—later that I finally arrived about half a chō short of where the light was. The light, which had appeared as dim as a lantern’s glow, gradually grew stronger and more vivid until it illuminated the darkness of the nearby highway as clearly as daylight. Having grown accustomed over time to the faintly white ground and black pine trees, I finally recalled at that moment that pine needles were supposed to be green. That light was an arc lamp affixed to one of the telegraph poles. Just as I came directly beneath it, I stopped for a while and looked around at my own figure, its shadow clearly outlined upon the ground. Truly, I had even forgotten the color of the pine needles; had I not encountered this arc lamp here, I might have forgotten my very own form. When I stepped into this light and looked around, both the pine grove I had just passed through and the highway ahead—save for a radius of five or six ken around me—were all a world of pitch-black darkness. I found myself thinking how often I had passed through such dark places. When I walked through that darkness, perhaps I had become nothing but a soul—I cannot tell. And as I emerged into this brightness, my body might have returned to where my soul had been—I cannot tell.

At that moment, I suddenly noticed that the familiar dry, rustling sound still came from the darkness to my right.
White fluttering things bathed in the arc lamp's light seemed to move more vividly through the darkness than before.
The very fact these shifting forms bore only a faint glow made them feel all the more eerie.
Resolutely, I thrust my head out from between the pine trees into the darkness and stared fixedly at those fluttering shapes.
One minute... two minutes... I kept staring like this for some time, yet their true nature still eluded me.
Pale forms would abruptly ignite like countless phosphorus flames from beneath my feet all the way to the distant blackness, only to vanish again.
So astonished was I that even as a chill like doused water ran through my body, I continued gazing intently.
As I persisted, gradually—in the manner of some half-forgotten memory resurrecting itself, or perhaps like the faintest hint of dawn breaking—the mysterious thing's true nature suddenly became clear.
That pitch-black boundless plain was an ancient marsh where countless lotuses had been planted.
The lotuses stood half-withered already, their leaves parched like scraps of discarded paper.
Each time the wind blew, these leaves would rasp noisily as they struggled against it, exposing their pale undersides.

Even so, that ancient marsh must have been extremely large.
It had been threatening me for quite some time now.
Just how far did this continue onward?―――With that thought, I gazed across the marsh toward the path ahead.
The marsh and lotuses spread out endlessly as far as the eye could see, merging into the distant leaden overcast sky.
It was as if gazing out over a vast open sea on a stormy night.
But within it, there was a single small red flicker, like fishermen’s fires out at sea.

“Ah, there’s a light over there.”
“There must be someone living there.”
“Now that that house had come into view, I should reach the town soon.”

Feeling inexplicably happy, I gathered fresh courage and hurried onward from the arc lamp’s light into the darkness.

After walking about five or six chō, the light gradually drew nearer.
There stood a thatched-roof farmhouse, its shoji screens seemingly leaking light from a window.
Who could be living there?
Perhaps in that lonely house amidst the fields, my Father and Mother were waiting.
Could that place be my home?
When I opened that nostalgic shoji window where the light glowed, my elderly Father and Mother would be burning brushwood by the hearth,

“Oh, Jun’ichi! You’ve actually returned from your errand.”
“Come now, come up by the fire.”
“The night road must have been so desolate for you. What an admirable child you are.”

Having said that, might she be showing concern for me?

A stretch of highway appeared to bend slightly leftward near a farmhouse, its light visible where the pine grove ended.
The house front had four tightly closed shoji screens, with what seemed like a rope noren hanging at the side entrance beside them.
Firelight leaking through the noren dimly lit the highway’s surface, faintly reaching even the base of a large pine across the way.
………I had now drawn within one room’s length of the house.
From behind the noren came sounds of water—likely someone washing at the sink.
Thin smoke rose faintly from a small eave window, clustering thickly beneath the thatched roof like swallows’ nests.
What might they be doing at this hour?
Could they be preparing supper so late?
The instant this thought came, the familiar stinging scent of miso soup assaulted my nostrils.
Then followed the sizzling aroma of scorching fat—the savory smell of grilling fish.

"Ah, Mother is grilling her favorite Pacific saury.
It must surely be so."

I suddenly grew hungry.
I wanted to hurry over there and share a meal of Pacific saury and miso soup with Mother.

I had now come to the front of that house.
When I peered through the rope noren, just as I had thought, Mother was turned away, squatting by the hearth with a hand towel wrapped like a headscarf.
Holding a fire-blowing bamboo, blinking her eyes against the smoke, she kept vigorously blowing beneath the hearth.
There, two or three logs had been laid in the hearth, and each time the flame flared up like a serpent’s tongue, Mother’s profile would be faintly illuminated in a reddish hue.
In our days of wantless living in Tokyo, Mother had never once cooked rice herself—how harsh this must be for her now...Her back, clad in a tattered indigo-speckled work jacket over bulky soiled cotton garments, had become rounded like a hunchback’s from blowing so desperately at the fire.
Oh, when did she become such a country old woman?

“Mother, Mother! It’s me! Jun’ichi has come back!”

Having said this, I called out from the entrance.
Then Mother slowly set down the fire-blowing bamboo，folded her hands on her hips，and bent forward while gradually rising to her feet.

“Who were you again? Were you supposed to be my son?”

The voice that turned toward me as she said this was even more creaky, hoarse, and faint than the sound of lotuses in that ancient marsh.

“Yes, that’s right. I am Mother’s son.
“Your son Jun’ichi has come back!”

But Mother continued to stare fixedly at my figure and remained silent.
Beneath the elder sister-style kerchief, her hair streaked with white was dusted with ashes from the hearth.
Deep wrinkles had gathered on her cheeks and forehead, and she seemed to have grown completely senile.

“I’ve been waiting like this for my son’s return ten or even twenty years now,” she said, “but you don’t seem to be my child. My son should be much bigger by now. And he should be passing by this house on this highway any moment now. I have no child called Jun’ichi.”

“Oh, I see. So you were someone else’s granny?”

Now that I thought about it, that old woman was indeed not my mother. No matter how far she may have fallen into hardship, my Mother should not yet be this old. ———But if that’s the case, then where in the world could my Mother’s house be?

“Granny, I’ve been walking along this highway all this time wanting to see my mother again. Do you know where her house might be?”
“If you know, please—I beg you—tell me.”

“Your mother’s house?”

Having said this, the Old Woman stared with eyes gummed by sleep and bleary.

“Why in blazes would I know anything about your mother’s house?”

“Well then, Granny, I’ve been walking the night road and I’m terribly hungry. Could you give me something to eat?”

Then, with a sullen expression, the Old Woman looked me up and down from my feet to the top of my head.

"My, what a shameless child you are, acting so bold for your age!"
“You’re probably lying about having a mother.”
“Dressed in such filthy rags—aren’t you just a beggar?”

“No, no, Granny, that’s not true at all.”
“I have both a Dad and a Mom.”
“My family is poor, so I may look shabby, but I’m still not a beggar.”

“If you’re not a beggar, go back to your own house and eat your rice.”
“There’s nothing here for you to eat.”

“But Granny, there’s so much food right there.”
“Granny, you were just cooking rice now.”
“In that pot there’s miso soup simmering, and on that grill there’s fish being grilled, isn’t there?”

“My, what a horrid child you are.”
“To go prying into the kitchen pot—what a truly horrid child you are.”
“This rice and fish and miso soup here—I can’t give them to you.”
“I made this thinking my son would come home any moment wanting his meal.”
“How could I give something made for my dear son to the likes of you?”
“Go on now! Don’t linger here—out to the front with you.”
“I’ve work to tend to.”
“The pot’s boiling over—see how it’s burnt because of you!”

Granny puffed out her cheeks and said such things, then returned to the hearth with an air of indifference.

“Granny, Granny, please don’t say such heartless things.”
“I’m so hungry I could collapse right here.”

Even as I said this, Granny turned her back and continued working without a reply.………

"There’s no help for it.
I will endure my hunger.
So I will hurry to my mother’s place at home."

I pondered alone and stepped outside the rope noren curtain.

At the point where the highway curved left, about five or six hundred meters ahead, there seemed to be a hill. The road extended pale and straight to the foot of that hill, but from here, it was unclear what became of it beyond where it met the hill. On the hill, a jet-black pine grove—as large as those lining this highway—seemed to grow thickly all the way to its summit. It was too dark to see clearly, but I could imagine their dense growth from how the pine winds rustled and shook every part of the hillside. As I gradually approached, the road threaded along the hill's base, winding rightward through the pines. Around me, the darkness beneath the trees spread outward, thickening the gloom even more than before. I raised my head to look at the sky. But blocked by the dense pine branches, I couldn't see even a sliver of it. Overhead, the familiar sound of pine wind whispered through the branches. I had already forgotten my hunger and everything else, consumed entirely by terror. The groaning of telegraph poles and rustling of lotus marsh had faded away, leaving only the sea's roar still rumbling through the ground. Somehow, the ground beneath my feet had turned strangely soft, sinking squishily with each step I took. The road must have become sandy ground. If that were true, there was nothing strange about it—yet it still felt unsettling. No matter how far I walked, it seemed I remained in the same spot. Never before had I realized sandy ground could be so difficult to traverse. Moreover, unlike before, within moments the road repeatedly curved left and bent right. If I wasn't careful, I might stray into the pine grove. I grew increasingly agitated. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead as I clearly heard—with my own ears—the pounding of my heart and my ragged breathing.

As I walked with my head bowed, staring at my feet, I suddenly felt as though I was emerging from a narrow, cave-like space into an open expanse, and instinctively lifted my face.
The pine grove still stretched endlessly ahead, but far beyond it, like when peering through a spyglass, there was a small, round brightness.
However, that brightness was not like lamplight, but a sharp, cold brightness as if silver were shining.

“Ah, the moon! The moon! It’s risen over the sea.”

I immediately thought so.
The pine grove directly ahead had thinned out, creating window-like gaps through which streamed that crystalline silver light—glinting and shimmering like polished silk.
The path I walked remained dark, but over the sea’s expanse, clouds had parted—and there, through that breach, a radiant moon must now be shining.
As I watched, the sea’s brilliance grew ever more intense, reflecting dazzlingly even into the depths of this pine grove.
Somehow, while glittering and reflecting ceaselessly, the water’s surface swelled up plumply, as if roaring and churning turbulently.

The sky clearing from over the sea gradually spread over the forest in the mountain’s shadow, and the path I walked grew steadily brighter with each passing moment.
Finally, even upon my own figure, the pale moon began to cast the shadows of pine needles with stark clarity.
The hill’s promontory gradually receded to the left, and unawares, I found myself standing almost abruptly at the edge of the vast sea’s foreground, having emerged from within the woods.

Ah, what a breathtaking view!―――I wandered there in a daze for some time.
The highway I had walked continued along the coast where white foam broke against the shore, stretching as far as the succession of long inlets and curved bays extended.
Was this Miho no Matsubara? Tagono Ura? Suminoe’s shore? Akashi’s beach?——Be that as it may, pine trees with intriguingly shaped branches—the kind one might recall from picture postcards of such famous sites—cast vivid diagonal shadows upon the ground here and there along the highway.
Between the highway and the shoreline lay snow-white sandy ground—likely unevenly undulating, but under moonlight so uniformly radiant that every contour vanished, leaving only a flat, smooth expanse.
Beyond that, apart from a bright full moon hanging in the vast sky and the sea stretching endlessly to the horizon, there was not a single obstruction to the eye.
The part that had been visible earlier from the depths of the pine grove was precisely the area directly beneath the moon, where it shone most intensely.
That part of the sea not only glowed but was discernibly moving as it shimmered, writhing like twisted wire.
Or perhaps it could be said that because it was moving, the light grew even stronger.
That must have been the sea’s center, and because the tide whirled upward from there, the entire sea may have swelled outward.
In any case, with that part as the center, it was a fact that the sea appeared to swell into a convex shape.
As it spread outward from the swollen center, the reflected light shattered into fine fragments like fish scales, flickering amidst the undulating ripples as it quietly advanced toward the sandy shore.
At times, it would even mingle into the water that crumbled at the shore’s edge and lapped its way up onto the sandy ground.

At that moment, the wind died down completely, and the pine branches that had been rustling so loudly no longer made a sound.
Even the waves lapping at the shore seemed to strive not to shatter this moonlit silence, producing only a faint, hesitant, whispering sound.
It sounded like a woman’s stifled sobs, like bubbles gurgling from gaps in a crab’s shell—a long, sorrowful voice, faint enough to vanish yet endlessly continuing.
That voice was less a "voice" than a deeper "silence"—an emotional music that rendered this night’s stillness even more mysterious………

Anyone who sees such a moon would think of eternity.
Since I was a child, I had no clear concept of eternity, yet I felt something akin to it swelling in my chest.―――I had a memory of seeing this very scenery somewhere before.
And it wasn’t just once—I had seen it many times over.
Perhaps it was from before I was born into this world.
Memories of a past life might have been reawakening within me now.
Or perhaps I had seen it not in the actual world, but in a dream?
In dreams, I had a feeling I had seen this exact scenery many times before.
That’s right—I had indeed seen this in dreams.
I had seen it two or three years ago, and just the other day as well.
And so I had been convinced that somewhere in the actual world, there must exist scenery identical to that of those dreams.
In this world, there comes a time when one encounters that scenery.
The dream had been hinting at this to me all along.
That hint had now become reality and appeared before my very eyes.
―――

Since even the waves were lapping hesitantly, I wanted to walk with quiet steps—slowly, as if sneaking along—if I could.
But somehow, I became strangely agitated and hurried along the highway by the coastline, almost fleeing.
The surroundings were too deathly still; perhaps that’s why I felt a kind of terror.
If I let my guard down, I too might become like those shore pines and sandy beaches—utterly still, frozen in place, unable to move.
Then I would turn to stone on this coast, year after year, bathed head to toe in that cold moonlight.
When faced with a scene like tonight’s, anyone might wish to die just a little.
If you died here, dying itself wouldn’t seem so frightening.
——It was likely this thought that stirred me.

The unshadowed moonlight shines over heaven and earth.
And all those illuminated so fully by the moon are dead.
Only I am alive.
Only I am alive and moving.

Such feelings drove me onward from behind.
The more I was driven onward, the faster I walked.
Then this time, the fact that I alone hurried became the source of terror.
Out of breath and in pain, when I abruptly stopped, the surrounding scenery forced itself into my eyes whether I willed it or not.
All things remained serenely still—the sky, the water, the distant fields and mountains—dissolved into hazy moonlight. That pale quietness resembled a motion picture film halted mid-reel.
The highway’s ground gleamed pure white like frost, upon which lay vivid shadows of shore pines like snakes crawling from the roadside to sprawl across it.
Though pine and shadow joined at their roots, the shadow stayed so distinct it would scarcely fade even were the pine to vanish.
It felt as though the shadow reigned supreme, the pine merely its subordinate.
This relationship held true even for my own shadow.
When I stood motionless staring at my elongated shadow, it too lay flat on the ground gazing steadily up at me.
Outside myself, only this shadow moved.

“I am not your servant.”
“I am your friend.”
“The moon was just too beautiful, so I wandered here without thinking.”
“Since you must be lonely alone, I’ll keep you company.”

And so it seemed the shadow was addressing me with such words.

Just as I had counted the telegraph poles earlier, I now walked while counting the shadows of the pine trees.
The distance between the highway and the water’s edge would vary, now growing distant, now drawing near.
At times, waves lapping at and eroding the beach came surging close enough to nearly wet the bases of the pine trees.
When crawling in the distance, they appeared like thin white silk crepe spread out; but when surging near, they took on a thickness of an inch or two, rising like melted soap in hot water.
The moon, even against those mere inch or two of rising waves, faithfully cast their shadows upon the sandy beach.
Indeed, on such a moonlit night, not even a single needle can escape casting its shadow.

Whether it came from far out at sea or from beyond the countless shore pines lining the path ahead, I couldn’t tell which—but suddenly, a strange sound had crept into my ears.
It might have been an auditory illusion, but at any rate, it resembled a shamisen’s notes.
The way the tones abruptly ceased only to abruptly resound again left no doubt—this was unmistakably a shamisen.
During my time in Nihonbashi, when held in my wet nurse’s embrace and drifting to sleep beneath the futon covers, I had often heard that very shamisen sound.―――

“I want tempura, I want tempura.”

And the wet nurse would always chant in tune with that shamisen melody.

“See now, when you listen to that shamisen, doesn’t it sound like it’s saying ‘I want tempura, I want tempura’? Come now, can’t you hear it?”

Having said that, the wet nurse would always peer into my face as I pressed my hand against her chest and fiddled with her nipple.
Whether it was my imagination or not, it was indeed singing “I want tempura, I want tempura” in a melancholic melody, just as the wet nurse had described.
The wet nurse and I would gaze into each other’s eyes for a long time, still quietly listening to the sound of the shamisen.
Through the frozen street of a cold winter night devoid of passersby, clattering and clacking her wooden clogs, the shinnai performer passed before my house from Ningyocho and flowed away toward Komeyamachi.
The sound of the shamisen gradually faded into the distance, seeming on the verge of vanishing faintly.
“I want tempura, I want tempura”—what had been clearly audible gradually grew thin and faint, caught fleetingly by the wind at times before vanishing entirely.
………

“Tempura……… I want tempura.”
………want to eat.
“Tempura… tempura… tem… pra… pra… eat…”

In the end, it began to blur into scattered fragments like this.
Even so, with the feeling of staring fixedly at a single firelight diminishing into the depths of a tunnel, I still strained my ears intently.
Even after the shamisen’s sound ceased, for a while the whispering voice of “I want tempura, I want tempura” still clung stubbornly to my ears.

"Oh, is the shamisen still playing, I wonder?
………Or is it just my imagination?"

While pondering these things alone, I found myself gradually being drawn into the silent depths of sleep.

The familiar shinnai shamisen resounded with its melancholic tones of "I want tempura, I want tempura" as ever tonight, scattering sporadically across this highway.
Though unusual in lacking the clatter-clack of wooden clogs accompanying it, that timbre left no room for doubt.
At first only the "tempura... tempura..." portion came through clearly, but as whatever produced the sound gradually drew nearer, even the "want to eat" segment became distinctly audible.
Yet on the ground—apart from myself and the pine shadows—nowhere could be seen any human figure resembling a shinnai performer.
Even when surveying the moonlit expanse from end to end, there moved along this highway no soul besides myself—not so much as a stray pup.
Perhaps the moonlight shone too brightly, making vision paradoxically harder instead.
―――Such thoughts drifted through my mind.

When had it been—how much time had passed since then—that I finally noticed the figure playing the shamisen a distance of one or two chō ahead? During the long time it took me to reach that spot, how deeply I must have been steeped in moonlight and the sound of waves. "Merely saying 'a long time' cannot actually convey the sensation of that duration." People often experience feelings spanning two or even three years within a single dream. The sensation I felt in that moment exactly resembled that. In the sky there was the moon, along the road there were shore pines, and on the beach waves broke against the coast—along this highway I may have walked for two years, three years, perhaps even ten years. As I walked, I wondered if I was no longer among the living. When humans die, they embark on a long journey—I wondered if I was now undertaking that very journey. In any case, it felt that long.

“I want tempura, I want tempura.”

Now, the sound of that shamisen could be heard clearly close at hand.
Accompanied by the rustling sound of waves washing over sand, the crisp handling of the plectrum seeped sacredly into my chest like droplets from a spring, like silver bells.
The person playing the shamisen was unmistakably a young woman.
She wore a woven sedge hat like those donned by bird-chasers of old, walking slightly hunched forward—the nape of her neck, though perhaps due to moonlight, was startlingly pure white.
Only a young woman could possess such whiteness.
The wrist of her hand gripping the tuning pegs occasionally emerged from her right sleeve’s edge, equally white.
Though still over a hundred meters away—too distant to discern her kimono’s striped pattern—the whiteness of her nape and wrist alone stood out like glinting wave crests offshore.

"Ah, I realized."
"That wasn't human at all."
"It had to be a fox."
"A fox transformed into one."

Suddenly seized by timidity, I cautiously followed after the figure, trying as much as possible not to let my footsteps make a sound.
The figure continued trudging forward without looking back, still playing the shamisen.
But if that were indeed a fox, it would hardly be unaware of me walking behind it.
Even though she knew, she was deliberately pretending not to notice.
Now that I mentioned it, that pure white skin didn't seem like human flesh at all—it looked more like fox fur.
There was no reason something not made of fur would shine so white and glossy like willow catkins.

Despite me walking slowly, the woman’s figure steadily drew closer.
The distance between us was already no more than five ken.
My shadow cast on the ground verged on catching up to her heels.
In the time it took me to walk one shaku, my shadow stretched forward by two shaku.
The shadow’s head and her heels came perilously close to grazing each other.
Her heels—though the cold was bitter, she wore hemp-soled sandals on bare feet—were pure white like her nape and wrists.
The reason they hadn’t been visible from afar was likely because they had been concealed beneath the long kimono hem.

After all, it was a dreadfully long hem.
It might have been omeshi or chirimen silk—the long, trailing hem like those worn by actors playing courtesans or dandies covered the instep and hung down so heavily that it nearly dragged along the sandy ground.
However, perhaps because the sandy ground was clean, neither her feet nor the hem showed any trace of dirt.
With each pattering lift of her sandals, soles so pure white they seemed almost lickable came into view.
Whether it was a fox or a human remained unclear, but the skin was unmistakably human.
The moonlight slid down her woven sedge hat, coldly illuminating from the nape of her neck down along her forward-bent back, making even the delicate protrusion of her spine distinctly visible.
On either side of her spine, slender shoulders flowed smoothly along with the garment trailing along the ground.
Her shoulders were so narrow that they seemed even slimmer than the brim of her woven sedge hat spreading to either side.
At times when she bent forward deeply, between the beautiful hair at her nape—like hair soaked through with water—and the hat cord pressing it down, the underside of her earlobe’s flesh became visible.
However, what remained visible was only up to that earlobe; beyond that, the hat cord obstructed any view, rendering her face completely indiscernible.
The more he stared at her delicate, wind-vulnerable figure from behind, the more inhuman she seemed—until he began to suspect she must indeed be a fox in disguise.
She presented herself as a tender, fragile beauty from behind—but what if, once I drew near, she were to whirl around with a terrifying demon’s face and cry “Boo!”?………

By now, my footsteps must have clearly reached her ears.
If she knew I was behind her, she ought to turn around at least once—yet seeing her feign ignorance only deepened my suspicion.
If I didn’t proceed cautiously, prepared to be startled, there was no telling what might happen... My shadow stretching across the ground had already caught up to her heels and was crawling up the hem of her kimono inch by inch.
The shadow of my head, which had been cast near her waist, gradually shifted toward her obi and was now about to crawl along her spine.
Beyond my shadow lay the woman’s shadow.
I resolutely stepped slightly off into a side path to see.
Then my shadow instantly left her waist and, aligning its shoulder with hers, was clearly imprinted on the ground ahead.
By now, no matter how one might argue, there was simply no denying it appeared to be a woman.
Yet still, the woman did not turn toward me.
She was playing the shinnai ballad with all her might—though with utmost grace—calmly and composedly.

The shadows aligned without the slightest discrepancy, unnoticed.
For the first time, I caught a fleeting glimpse of the woman’s profile.
Beyond the hat cord, the rounded rise of her cheek’s contour finally became visible.
The contour of her cheek alone was unmistakably not that of a Hannya’s visage.
There’s no reason a Hannya’s cheek would be that plump.

From the shadow of her plump cheek, little by little, ever so gradually, the pointed tip of her nose came into view.
It was just like when gazing at the scenery from a train window and a cape gradually emerged from the flank of a mountain.
I hoped her nose would be a tall, splendid, refined nose.
I didn’t want to think of this woman walking in such poetic grace under the moonlight as an ugly woman.
As I thought this, the tip of her nose gradually emerged more prominently from beyond her cheek.
The gentle curve of her nostrils extending below the pointed tip became discernible.
Even with just that, one could imagine the general shape of her nose.
Undoubtedly, that was a high nose.
Undoubtedly, that was a high—and splendid—nose.
I’m all right now.………

I was truly happy.
Especially when it became clear her nose possessed a perfect beauty—far more splendid than I had imagined, as if painted in a picture—how immense my joy must have been.
Now her profile—beginning with that dignified bridge of her nose—stood fully revealed, perfectly aligned with my face.
Still she would not turn toward me.
She refused to show anything beyond her profile.
The half beyond her nose’s contour remained hidden like a flower in mountain shadow.
Her face was beautiful as a painting yet felt ‘like a painting’—all surface with no depth.

“Auntie, Auntie, Auntie—how far are you walking?”

I asked the woman this, but my timid voice was drowned out by the crisp shamisen notes and never reached her ears.

“Auntie, Auntie, ………”

I tried calling once more.
Rather than saying "Auntie," I actually wanted to call her "Sister."
As someone who had no sister, the desire to have a beautiful sister had always resided within my heart.
The circumstances of friends who had beautiful older sisters were always enviable to me.
And so, when calling out to this woman, a sweet, nostalgic emotion akin to that felt toward an older sister welled up in my chest.
I somehow disliked calling her "Auntie."
But if I suddenly called her "Sister," it might seem overly familiar, so I ended up defaulting to "Auntie" for lack of alternatives.

The second time, he had intended to raise his voice loudly, but still the woman did not respond.
She did not shift her profile.
She continued earnestly playing the shinnai ballad, swishing, swishing, as the hem of her long kimono spread across the sand, walking straight ahead with her face down.
The woman’s eyes seemed fixed solely on the shamisen’s strings.
She was likely enraptured by the music she herself was playing.

I took a step forward and peered directly at the woman’s face—which until now had only been visible in profile—from the front.
Her face lay hidden in the shadow of the dark woven sedge hat, yet this very concealment made its pallor appear all the more striking.
The shadow shrouded everything up to her lower lip, leaving only the very tip of her chin—where the hat cord pressed into flesh—faintly exposed to moonlight.
That chin was as small and lovely as a flower petal.
And her lips bore thick applications of rouge.
Until that moment I hadn’t noticed—the woman wore heavy makeup indeed.
No wonder her complexion had seemed excessively pale; both face and collar were thickly coated with white powder applied so starkly it verged on garishness—yet this did nothing to diminish her beauty.
Under harsh electric lights or sunlight such heavy makeup might have appeared vulgar, but here beneath tonight’s pallid moonlight, this enchantress’s painted face instead evoked a mysterious and almost demonic dread impossible to ignore.
Truly that white powder suggested not beauty nor florid charm, but rather an intense sensation of cold.

For some reason, the woman suddenly stopped, raised her downcast face, and gazed up at the moon in the vast sky.
The cheek, faintly pale and scented in the shadow of the dark hat, at that moment seemed to suddenly emit a silvery light like the distant sea's tide.
Then, from that radiant cheek, something glinted repeatedly as it rolled down like dewdrops slipping from a lotus leaf.
It would glint and vanish somewhere, only to glint once more and disappear.

“Auntie, Auntie, Auntie—you’re crying, aren’t you.”
“Auntie, isn’t what’s glistening on your cheek tears?”

When I said this, the woman answered while still gazing up at the vast sky.

“They are tears, but it is not I who am crying.”

“Then who is crying?”
“Whose tears are those?”

“This is the moon’s tears.
“The moon is crying, and its tears are falling onto my cheeks.
“Look there—see how Her Ladyship the Moon is crying!”

When told this, I too looked up at the moon in the vast sky in the same way. However, I couldn’t really tell whether Her Ladyship the Moon was truly crying or not. I thought that perhaps it was because I was a child that I couldn’t understand it. Even so, why was it that the moon’s tears only fell upon the woman’s cheeks and did not rain down upon mine?

“Ah! You are crying after all! Auntie told a lie!”

I suddenly couldn’t help but say it.
Yet despite this, the woman kept her head raised, trying to prevent me from noticing her tear-streaked face as she incessantly whimpered and hiccuped.

“No, no—what reason would I have to cry? No matter how sad I am, I will not cry.”

Even as she said this, the woman was clearly weeping bitterly. Tears welling up from the shadowed eyelids of her upturned face flowed down both sides of her nose, trailing glistening strands toward her chin. Each time she stifled a sob, throat bones protruded cruelly beneath her skin and hollowed so piteously with each quiver that it seemed she might suffocate. What had initially spilled like dewdrops now drenched her entire cheek like water as I watched, mercilessly invading even her nostrils and mouth. As she sniffed back watery mucus and gulped down tears seeping into her lips, she simultaneously choked on harsh, convulsive coughs.

“Look at that.
“Auntie, you’re crying exactly like that, aren’t you?
“Auntie, what’s so sad that you’re crying?”

I said this and, bending down, rubbed the shoulders of the woman who was coughing violently.

“What do you mean by ‘sad’?”
“Walking outside on such a moonlit night—wouldn’t anyone feel sorrow?”
“You must surely hold sadness within yourself too.”

“That may be so.”
“I find tonight’s sorrow unbearable.”
“What could possibly be causing this?”

“That’s why I tell you to gaze upon the moon.”
“This sadness stems from the moon itself.”
“If your grief runs so deep—weep with me.”
“I implore you—let us weep together.”

The woman’s words sounded like beautiful music, no less than those Shinnai ballads.
Strangely enough, even as she continued speaking in this manner, the woman never once stopped playing the shamisen.

“Auntie, please don’t hide your tear-streaked face—turn toward me. I want to see your face.”
“Ah, you’re right—it was wrong of me to hide my tear-streaked face. You’re such a good child—please forgive me.”

The woman who had been gazing at the sky suddenly turned her head and, tilting her sedge hat, peered into my face.

“Go on—if you want to see my face, look your fill.
“I am crying just like this.
“My cheeks are drenched with tears like this.
“Come now, you too—cry with me.
“As long as tonight’s moon shines, let us walk this highway together weeping wherever it may lead.”

The woman pressed her cheek against mine and wept even more bitterly, her tears flowing unrestrained.
Though it might not have been sadness, crying like that seemed quite pleasant.
That feeling was clearly perceptible to me as well.

“Yes, let’s cry, let’s cry.”
“If it’s with you, Auntie, I could cry endlessly.”
“I’ve been holding back the urge to cry all this time myself.”

Even my voice as I spoke these words somehow seemed imbued with a beautiful melody, like the tune of a song.
With these words, I felt tears flowing down my cheeks.
The area around my eyeballs seemed to grow hot all at once.

“Oh, how well you cry for me.
“When you cry for me, I grow even sadder.”
“I become so sad—so unbearably sad.”
“But since I love being sad, let me cry all I want—as much as I possibly can.”

Having said that, the woman rubbed her cheek against mine again.
No matter how many tears streamed down, the white powder on her face showed no sign of peeling away.
Her wet cheeks instead glowed glossy like the moon’s surface.

“Auntie, Auntie, I’m doing exactly as you said and crying with you.
So instead, won’t you let me call you Sister instead of Auntie?
Hey, Auntie—from now on, it’s all right if I call you Sister instead, isn’t it?”

“Why? Why do you say such things?”

At that moment, the woman gazed intently at my face with eyes as slender as pampas grass plumes and said.

“Because I can’t help feeling you’re like a sister to me.
Auntie must surely be my sister.
Hey, isn’t that right?
Even if that’s not true, you could still become my sister from now on, couldn’t you?”

“You don’t have a sister, do you?”
“You only have a younger brother and sister, don’t you?”
“When you call me things like Auntie or Sister, it makes me even sadder.”

“Then what am I supposed to call you?”

“What do you mean? Have you forgotten me?”
“Am I not your mother?”

As she said this, the woman brought her face as close to mine as possible.
At that moment, I realized with a start.
Now that she mentioned it—yes—this was unmistakably Mother.
There was no way Mother could be this young and beautiful, yet undeniably, this was Mother.
For some reason, I could not doubt it.
I was still a little child.
And so I thought that perhaps it was only natural for Mother to be this young and beautiful.

“Ah, Mother—it was you, Mother?
“I’ve been searching for Mother all this time.”

“Oh, Jun’ichi—have you finally realized I’m your mother?”
“Have you realized it?―――”

Mother said in a voice trembling with joy.
Then she stood motionless while holding me tightly.
I clung to her desperately and refused to let go.
Within Mother’s bosom lingered the warm sweetness of breast milk………

Yet still, the moonlight and the sound of the waves seeped deep into my being.
The sound of Shinnai nagashi could be heard.
Tears still streamed ceaselessly down their cheeks.

I suddenly awoke.
It seemed I had truly been crying in my dream, for my pillow was damp with tears.
I am thirty-four years old this year.
And Mother has not been of this world since the summer before last.—When this thought arose, a fresh tear plopped down onto the pillow.

“I want tempura, I want tempura.………”

That shamisen sound still resonated deep within my ears, distant and far-off like a visitation from the other world.