The Ninth Night

by Natsume Sōseki

The world was starting to stir. It felt as if war was about to break out. It was as if horses, driven from their stables, were rampaging around the mansion day and night, with foot soldiers chasing after them. Yet, inside the house, silence reigned.

In the house lived a young mother and her three-year-old child. The father had gone somewhere. He had left in the dead of night, when there was no moon. He put on straw sandals on the floor, covered his head with a black hood, and exited through the back door. At that moment, the light from the paper lantern the mother held cast a long, narrow beam into the darkness, illuminating an old cypress tree just beyond the hedge.

Since then, the father had not returned. Every day, the mother would ask her three-year-old child, "Where is Father?" but the child would say nothing. After a while, the child began to answer, "Over there." When the mother asked, "When will he come back?" the child would just say, "Over there," and laugh. At that, the mother also laughed. She then taught the child repeatedly, "He'll be back soon," but the child only remembered "soon." Sometimes, when asked, "Where is Father?" the child would even answer, "Soon."

At night, as the surroundings grew quiet, the mother would retie her obi, tuck a short sword with a sharkskin scabbard into her sash, carry her child on her back with a narrow sash, and quietly slip outside. The mother always wore zori sandals. The child would sometimes fall asleep on the mother's back, listening to the sound of her sandals.

Heading west through the residential area with its continuous earthen walls, and descending the gentle slope, a large ginkgo tree comes into view. Turning right towards this ginkgo, about one cho further in, there is a stone torii. Proceeding through the torii, with rice paddies on one side and dense bamboo grass on the other, one enters a dark cedar grove. Advancing about twenty ken further along the flagstones, one reaches the bottom of the stairs of an old main hall. Above the washed-out gray offering box, a large bell rope hangs, and when seen during the day, a plaque inscribed "Hachiman-gu" hangs beside it. The character for "hachi" (eight) is interestingly written in the shape of two pigeons facing each other. There were various other plaques as well, most of which displayed golden targets shot through by members of the household, along with the names of those who shot them. Occasionally, there were also plaques with swords enshrined.

After passing through the torii, an owl always hoots from the cedar treetops. Then, the sound of straw sandals, "picha-picha," echoes. When it stops in front of the main hall, Mother first rings the bell, then immediately squats down and claps her hands. At this time, the owl often suddenly stops hooting. Mother prayed wholeheartedly for her husband's safety. She believed that since her husband was a samurai, if she made such a desperate wish to Hachiman, the god of bows and arrows, it would surely be granted.

The child would sometimes wake up to the sound of the bell, and seeing the darkness around, would suddenly start crying on her back. At such times, Mother would pray something under her breath, swaying her back to soothe the child. Sometimes the child would stop crying, and other times would cry even more intensely. In any case, Mother could not easily stand up.

After finishing her prayers for her husband, she untied her sash, brought the child from her back to her front, and ascended the worship hall, holding the child in both arms. "Be a good child and wait for a little while," she said, rubbing her cheek against the child's. Then she lengthened the sash, tied the child with it, and fastened one end to the railing of the worship hall. After that, she descended the steps and performed the Hyakudo-mairi, walking back and forth across the twenty-ken stone path.

The child, tied to the worship hall, crawled around on the wide veranda as far as the length of the sash allowed in the darkness. Such nights were very easy for the mother. However, when the tied child cried out, the mother became distraught. Her pace for the Hyakudo-mairi would quicken considerably, and she would become breathless. When there was no other choice, she would go up to the worship hall midway, distract herself in various ways, and then resume the Hyakudo-mairi.

Thus, the father, for whom the mother had grieved for many nights and worried sleeplessly, had in fact been killed by a ronin long ago.

I heard such a sad story from my mother in a dream.