"Oh, I'm feeling a bit dizzy," said my brother's wife half joking and walked timidly clinging to Yoko's hand.
Azaleas were in bloom on the mountainside to our right. My brother carrying the pickaxe on his shoulder went over to the azaleas blooming in their full glory and slackened his pace a little. Wisteria flowers were slowly beginning to open. The path gradually sloped downhill, and we followed it to the top of the waterfall. At the small mountain stream nearly six feet wide, tree stumps were placed near the center of the current. After gaining a foothold, it looks like the stream could be crossed in two quick steps. One by one, we jumped across. Only my sister-in-law was stranded.
"It's no good," she idly said and smiled but did not try to cross. She crouched and did not move one leg forward.
"Please carry her piggyback," my brother ordered Aya. Although Aya went to the other side, she only laughed and waved him away. This time, Aya displayed his superhuman strength. He came hugging a giant root and threw it at the top of the waterfall with a splash, and managed to build a bridge. My sister-in-law started to cross but her leg didn't move forward. She placed her hand on Aya's shoulder and finally crossed halfway. The rest of the way was shallow, and she jumped down into the river from the impromptu bridge and waded through the water. The hem of her monpe pants, her white tabi socks, and her sandals were soaking wet.
"I'm ready to return home from Takayama," said my sister-in-law and smiled like she recalled my pitiful appearance after returning home from my earlier excursion to Takayama. Both Yoko and her husband burst out laughing, and my brother turned around.
"Huh? What?" he asked. Everyone stopped laughing. My brother looked odd, I thought he was waiting for an explanation. My story was too stupid, and I lacked the courage to begin the history of the "Return from Takayama." My brother said no more and walked off. My oldest brother was always alone.
Chapter Five
The West Coast
As I've explained many times before, although I was born and raised in Tsugaru, until today, I knew next to nothing about the land of Tsugaru. Aside from "Going to Takayama" in second or third grade on the west coast on the Sea of Japan side of Tsugaru, I never went anywhere. Takayama is nothing more than a fairly large village with a population close to five thousand people. Takayama is reached by leaving Kanagi and going due west by rickshaw about eight and a half miles. The shrine to Oinari-san on a small mountain on the coast is soon reached and is said to be a famous site. I remember some events from my youth, but only the failure of that outfit remains strong in my heart. All of what follows is rambling and hazy. From early on, I included plans to take this opportunity to tour the west coast of Tsugaru.
The day after going to the pond at Kanoko River, I left Kanagi for Goshogawara. Around eleven in the morning, I changed to the Gono Line at Goshogawara station and in less than ten minutes arrived at Kizukuri Station, which is on the Tsugaru Plain. I thought a short tour around this town was in order. When I got off, I saw a quiet, old town. The population was no more than four thousand, smaller than Kanagi's, but the town had an old history. I dully listened to the clanging sounds flowing from the machinery in a rice polishing mill. Somewhere under the eaves, a pigeon sang. My father was born in this place.
The generations of my family in Kanagi were only the women; the son-in-laws usually married into the family. My father was the third son in an old family called M in this village and became the whatever-generation head of the family having married into the family. Because my father died when I was fourteen, I can't say I knew my father as a human. I'll borrow a passage from my work Memories.
My father was a very busy man and rarely home. Even when home, he wasn't with the children. I feared my father. I wanted my father's fountain pen but never said so. I agonized alone over various matters. One night, I was talking in my sleep in bed with my eyes shut. I softly called, "Fountain pen. Fountain pen," to my father in conversation with a guest in the adjoining room. Naturally, it didn't seem to enter my father's ears or heart.
When my younger brother and I went inside the huge rice granary packed with bags of rice and played, my father stood in a wide stance at the entrance and shouted, "Get out of here. You brats." The huge shadow of my father with the light behind him looked black. Even now I think about my terror at that time and feel horrible… The following spring, while the snow was still piled high, my father coughed up blood and died in a hospital in Tokyo.
A local newspaper reported on my father's death in a special edition. Since his death, I was agitated by the sensation of it all. My name appeared in the newspaper mixed in with the names of the bereaved family. My father's corpse was laid in a large coffin, placed on a sleigh, and returned home. I went with many townspeople to a nearby village. I gazed at the hoods of some number of sleighs slipping out from the shadow of
