1-3 (1)

by Mizukami Kyouka · 2026-03-31

The traveling monk, thinking he would not unfold the map compiled by the General Staff Office again, yet found himself too hot to even touch it, so he rolled up the sleeves of his traveling robes and pulled out the folded map with its cover.

In the deep mountain path crossing from Hida to Shinshu, there was not a single tree to rest under, only mountains to the right and left. Peaks that seemed within reach piled up one after another, obscuring even birds in flight and the very shape of the clouds.

Between the path and the sky, there was only me. It was past noon, and the midsummer sun shone with a stark white brilliance. Beneath the deep brim of my single cypress-wood hat, I gazed at that map.

Saying so, the traveling monk rested his hands on the pillow, supporting his forehead as he looked down.

The accompanying priest, who had traveled from Nagoya to an inn in Echizen-Tsuruga and had just now laid his head on his pillow, was, as far as I knew, a person who rarely lay on his back, meaning he was arrogant and looked down on things.

Indeed, I remember him boarding the same train from the Kakegawa inn on the Tokaido. He kept his head bowed in the corner of his seat, as quiet as dead ashes, so he didn't particularly catch my eye.

At Owari Station, all the other passengers disembarked, leaving only the priest and me in the carriage. This train had departed Shimbashi at 9:30 last night and was scheduled to arrive in Tsuruga this evening. It was noon in Nagoya, so I bought a box of sushi for lunch. The traveling monk also sought sushi like me, but when he opened the lid, it was a cheap kind of mixed rice with scattered nori.

"Oh, it's nothing but carrots and kanpyo," I exclaimed involuntarily. The traveling monk, seeing my face, let out an uncontrollable chuckle. Although we had only just become acquainted, according to him, he was heading to Echizen to visit someone at Eihei-ji Temple, though of a different sect. However, he planned to stay overnight in Tsuruga.

I, too, had to stay at the same place as I was returning to Wakasa for the holidays, so we made plans to travel together there. He said he was a person affiliated with Mount Koya, aged forty-five or forty-six, gentle and without any particular eccentricities. He had a familiar, quiet demeanor, wore a broadcloth square-sleeved overcoat, a white flannel scarf, a Turkish-style hat, woolen gloves, and fair-weather geta with white tabi socks. At first glance, he seemed more like a worldly master than a monk, giving off a rather secular impression.

When asked, "Where are you staying tonight?", I sighed deeply, lamenting the dullness of traveling alone. First, the maid carrying a tray was dozing off, and the manager offered empty pleasantries. Walking down the corridor, I felt stared at, and what was most unbearable was that as soon as dinner preparations were done, the lights were immediately replaced with an oil lamp, and I was commanded, "Good night," in the dim light. I couldn't sleep until late at night, and the feeling during that time was indescribable. Especially these days, the nights were long, and ever since leaving Tokyo, I couldn't stop worrying about a night's lodging. If it wasn't an inconvenience, I wished to spend it with the monk.

He readily nodded and told me that there was an inn called Katoriya where I could always rest my staff whenever I traveled through the Hokuriku region. It used to be a single inn, but after a certain woman's reputation disappeared, they took down the sign. However, they would not refuse to lodge those who had been close to them for a long time, and an elderly couple would take care of them. He suggested that we should definitely go there, and placing his fan down,

he laughed, "The only dishes are carrots and dried gourd strips." Behind his seemingly reserved expression, a sense of ease was visible.

In Gifu, the blue sky was still visible, but after that, it was the famous northern sky. In Maibara and Nagahama, it was thinly cloudy, with a faint sun, and I thought the cold would penetrate my bones. However, in Yanagase, it started to rain, and as the train window darkened, white flakes began to flutter in.

"It's snow."

"Yes, it is," he said, but he didn't seem particularly bothered, nor did he look up at the sky. When I pointed out the old battlefield of Shizugatake or spoke of the scenery of Lake Biwa, the traveling monk merely nodded.

In Tsuruga, the persistent touting for inns was annoying. As soon as we got off the train, from the station exit to the edge of town, inviting lanterns and marked umbrellas lined up, and people surrounded travelers, reaching out and loudly calling out their inns. The most aggressive among them would quickly grab my luggage, saying "Thank you very much," which, for someone prone to headaches like me, was unbearable to the point of my blood rushing to my head. However, the traveling monk, as usual, looked down and leisurely circled around, not having his sleeve pulled by anyone. Fortunately, I was able to follow him into town, and I let out a sigh of relief.

The snow fell incessantly, now without rain, dry and light flakes softly hitting my face. The streets of Tsuruga, with their gates closed early in the evening, were quiet. Roads ran crisscross, one after another, and the street corners were spacious. Through the accumulated white snow, after about eight cho (about 870 meters), we arrived at an eaves, which was the famous Katoriya inn.

There was no ornamentation on the floor or in the rooms, but the pillars were magnificent, the tatami mats firm, the hearth large, and the carp on the pot hook gleamed as if it had golden scales. It was an old house with two splendid kettles lined up.

The innkeeper was a placid old man, with his hands tucked into cotton sleeves under a Hōnen-style topknot, not even extending them in front of the brazier. His wife was a charming, somewhat flattering old woman. When the traveling monk spoke of carrots and dried gourd strips, she smiled and served us a meal of chirimen jako (dried young sardines), dried flounder, and miso soup with tororo kombu (grated kelp). From the way she spoke, it seemed she had a close relationship with the holy man, and I felt very comfortable.

Soon, a bed was prepared for me on the second floor. The ceiling was low, but the beams were made of logs, each about two armfuls thick. At the end of the room, where the eaves extended diagonally from the ridge of the roof, it seemed to be supported by a skylight, a sturdy roof construction that would likely withstand an avalanche from the mountain behind without budging.

A kotatsu had been specially prepared, so I gladly got in. The bedding was also laid out in the same kotatsu, but the traveling monk did not come to it; instead, he placed his pillow beside it and slept on a cold futon.

When it was time to sleep, the holy man did not untie his obi, nor did he remove his clothes, of course. He remained dressed, curled up, and completely covered from the waist down, facing downwards. He draped the sleeves of the bedding over his shoulders and respectfully placed his hands on the floor. His manner was the opposite of ours, as he used his face as a pillow.

Soon it became quiet, and I was about to fall asleep, which was what I had repeatedly mentioned even on the train. I couldn't sleep until late into the night, and feeling sorry, I decided to keep him company a little longer and asked him to tell me some interesting stories from his travels.

The holy man nodded and said, "Since I reached middle age, I've developed a habit of sleeping on my back without a pillow. Even now, I'm in this sleeping position, but my eyes are still wide open. You probably can't fall asleep suddenly either, can you?"

He continued, "What a monk speaks about isn't limited to teachings, precepts, or sermons. Young man, listen carefully." With that, he began his story. I later heard that he was an honorable preacher of the sect, a great abbot named Socho from Rokumyo-ji Temple.