Cow Thief: Chapter 1

Previous TOC Next

Ryoichiro Satake slammed the lattice door shut with unnecessary force and stomped heavily on the stepping stones in his lace-up boots as he walked. Upon entering the house and removing his shoes in the dirt-floored entryway, an elderly woman crossed the hallway and greeted him with a smile that made her face, as wrinkled as a dried persimmon, crinkle even further.

“Oh my, Master, you're home quite early today,” she said.

He gave her a curt "Hm," in response, barely sparing her a glance, and climbed into the hallway. His steps echoed noisily as he marched through the house, making no effort to soften his footsteps.

“Tokuma! Tokuma!”

Calling out loudly, he made his way to the sitting room. Once there, he threw his black leather bag across the room and slammed his fedora onto the tatami mat. Plopping himself down cross-legged in front of the alcove, he folded his arms and furrowed his brow in a display of irritation.

Not long after, Tokuma Tanaka entered the room. Dressed in a kimono with the sleeves tied back for work, his forehead glistened with beads of sweat. Yet he smiled warmly, as if nothing were amiss.

“…What’s so funny?” Ryoichiro growled.

Still smiling, Tokuma snapped his fingers with a crisp click near his temple.

“You think my anger is amusing, do you?”

Tokuma gave a slight nod, then settled down in a proper kneeling position before Ryoichiro. He extended his arm to point at the garden visible through the open sliding doors, then made a sweeping gesture over the tatami mat with his right hand.

“So, you were cleaning the garden?”

Tokuma nodded slowly.

“What’s the use? No matter how much you sweep, until every petal has fallen, they’ll just keep scattering down, and it’ll all go back to square one.”

The old cherry tree in the garden was in full bloom. The small garden, no bigger than a cat’s forehead, was packed with hydrangeas, rhododendrons, and bird cherry trees, all blooming in clusters. While the cherry tree had been planted there long before they rented the house, the smaller flowers were all Ryoichiro’s doing.

“Master, would you like some tea?”

The old woman poked her head out from the corridor and inquired.

“Yes, please. Bring some for Tokuma too.”

“Right away, sir.”

Her reply was loose and carefree as she disappeared into the kitchen. Soon, steaming tea was brought in, and as the aroma wafted to his nose, Ryoichiro tilted his head slightly.

“This smells familiar,” he said.

The old woman nodded lightly. “That’s because Tokuma bought it when he went back to his village.”

“I see…” he murmured, sipping the tea. Its rustic flavor was unrefined but comforting.

Last month, Ryoichiro had sent Tokuma back to his family for about two weeks after receiving a telegram that his mother had fallen ill. It seemed she had been bedridden, unable to rise, but fortunately, the doctor’s medication worked well, and she recovered within four or five days. Tokuma had remarked that it had been a shock, given she’d never fallen ill before, and even a cold had left her bedridden.

“Have you heard any news from your family since then?” Ryoichiro asked.

Tokuma smiled softly.

“How’s Tomie’s health?”

Tokuma nodded slowly, indicating that she was well.

“That’s good to hear.”

As she collected the tea tray, the old woman sighed. “Truly, it’s a relief… But, Master, taking care of you while Tokuma was away was no easy task. Every morning, the first word out of your mouth was ‘Tokuma.’”

Her remark was heartfelt. Ryoichiro retorted sharply, “It wasn’t such a big deal.”

“Oh, no, no,” she insisted, shaking her head. “When I brought you water for washing, you complained that it was too cold, then too hot. It was early spring, and the mornings were still chilly, so I laid out a thick shirt for you, only for you to snap, ‘It’s not winter; I can’t wear something this heavy.’ When I prepared your bedding, you grumbled that it was placed too far from the shoji screens for your liking and criticized it even as you lay down for the night.”

Ryoichiro grew uncomfortable in front of Tokuma. Clicking his tongue as a warning, he shot a sharp glance at the old woman, but she, emboldened, showed no signs of stopping her chatter.

"The woman who marries you, sir, will have to start by taking lessons from Tokuma on how to handle your 'ways.'"

Her comment struck a nerve. "My 'ways' don’t matter one bit!" Ryoichiro shot back defensively, but the old woman, having said her piece, seemed satisfied. She left the room briskly, leaving him fuming. Left with no outlet for his anger, Ryoichiro muttered curses under his breath, then flopped onto the tatami mat. Restless, he rolled back and forth in frustration before finally settling on his stomach, using a folded cushion as a makeshift pillow.

"Tokuma, rub my shoulders."

Without a sound, Tokuma approached and straddled Ryoichiro’s back. The weight pressing against his lower back was heavy, and the mere thought of Tokuma’s crotch pressing so closely, separated only by layers of fabric, sent a wave of heat coursing through Ryoichiro’s body. A firm press on his shoulders sent a wave of both discomfort and inexplicable pleasure washing over him.

"I always thought university was a place where learned, high-minded individuals gathered. Turns out, that’s not entirely true," Ryoichiro began to speak, knowing Tokuma couldn’t reply.

"Earlier today, I went to a soba shop with the assistant and a few students. The conversation drifted to life in the countryside. I told them how, as a child, I once went to watch a public execution. Remember the time that group of farmers, convinced that Westerners were skinning people to extract their fat, started a rebellion? The leader was beheaded. You were with me when we went to see it—you must remember."

Ryoichiro struck the tatami with his fist.

"When I mentioned it, Fukushima, the assistant, sneered and said, 'In this enlightened Meiji era, believing that Westerners extract human fat is nonsense. Your countryside must be full of savages.' Can you imagine? The audacity!"

He shifted slightly, his irritation growing.

"Then, I told them about the ‘Cow Driving’ ritual during the Koji Festival, where every year the sacrificial cow disappears from the shrine grounds. And what does Fukushima do? Laughs right in my face! He says, ‘Isn’t it just someone playing a trick to make it seem like the cow vanished? Even I, who’ve only heard the story secondhand, can figure that out. Surely, you don’t still believe the cow actually disappears, do you?’ The nerve of that man! I was so furious, I threw my half-eaten soba over his head and yelled, ‘You idiot!’"

When Ryoichiro barked, "That’s enough," Tokuma climbed off him. Now face-to-face, Ryoichiro suddenly felt embarrassed about how petulantly he had been complaining.

"Why don’t you get back to sweeping or something," he muttered. Tokuma nodded and left the room.

Ryoichiro continued to laze on the tatami, but the rhythmic swishing of the bamboo broom eventually lured him out to the veranda.

In the dim light of evening, Tokuma was meticulously sweeping the scattered debris and fallen petals in the small garden. His face, pale as porcelain, seemed almost translucent. People often mistook Tokuma for someone from the northern provinces, where it was said that the snow drained all color from the skin. Though Tokuma’s mother, Tomie, was quite dark-skinned, Tokuma’s complexion likely came from his father, who had died when he was a child.

Tokuma’s head and face were small, his features clean and refined. With his slender build and somewhat feminine face, he might have been mistaken for a woman, but his sturdy legs and resilience betrayed his rural upbringing. Even Ryoichiro, accustomed to mountain trekking, couldn’t match Tokuma’s strength or stamina.

Ryoichiro had brought Tokuma, the son of his wet nurse Tomie, with him to Tokyo when he was sixteen to attend the preparatory school for the First Higher School. Since then, Tokuma had accompanied him through preparatory school, college, and now university. Last year, Ryoichiro had been appointed as an assistant at the Imperial University’s Faculty of Science.

When he announced his decision to take Tokuma with him to Tokyo seven years earlier, his father had been flabbergasted. “What good will a mute servant do you?” he’d asked incredulously.

Ryoichiro had replied, "I have a temper, and a quiet servant like Tokuma is far better than a chatty, nagging one." That answer had made his father laugh.

The pretext for bringing Tokuma to Tokyo was that Ryoichiro needed someone to take care of him, but the real reason was that he didn’t want to leave his older foster brother behind in the countryside. Around the same time Ryoichiro’s move to Tokyo was decided, a marriage proposal came up for Tokuma. The match was with a mute girl from a neighboring village. Since everyone assumed that her inability to speak would make finding a husband nearly impossible, the offer took them by surprise. This realization made Ryoichiro think, I can’t leave him where I can’t keep an eye on him.

Ryoichiro first became aware of his feelings for Tokuma when he was in middle school. Before that, he would scoff at his precocious friends talking about local girls, dismissing them as “shameless” and feeling no interest whatsoever.

That winter, Ryoichiro caught a terrible cold for the first time in years. He had nearly died of illness as a child, and the memory of it sent his father into a panic. A doctor was summoned from a distant town, but despite their efforts, Ryoichiro’s fever remained stubbornly high. For three days, he drifted in and out of restless delirium. Finally, on the morning of the fourth day, his fever broke, and he opened his eyes to find Tokuma asleep by his side, collapsed in exhaustion.

The sight of Tokuma in repose struck him in a way it never had before. The pale wrist, so thin and delicate that the veins were visible beneath the skin. The bluish tint of his closed eyelids, framed by long lashes. His lips—thin, but vividly red. Ryoichiro thought it beautiful. As he stared, he felt an odd itchiness in his lower back, and then a sharp throb in his groin.

Until that moment, Ryoichiro had been aware that Tokuma was pale and slender, but he had never given much thought to his appearance. Tokuma was simply Tokuma. His looks had seemed irrelevant, even unimportant. He was Ryoichiro’s older foster brother, the mute man he trusted more than anyone else. No matter how unreasonable the demand, if it could be done, Tokuma would always smile and carry it out without complaint. Tokuma had been both a substitute for Ryoichiro’s absent mother and, in truth, a mother in every way that mattered to him.

But as Ryoichiro looked at Tokuma’s pale, sleeping face, an inexplicable unease began to buzz in both his head and body. He felt restless, unsettled. A bizarre question surfaced in his mind: Is he really a man?

Despite the fact that they had stood side by side to relieve themselves countless times as children, Ryoichiro felt compelled to confirm his doubt. Slipping carefully out from under his futon, he crept closer to the sleeping Tokuma. Gently, he lifted the hem of Tokuma’s kimono. Even when his gaze fell on the fundoshi (traditional loincloth), his unease did not dissipate.

I need to see what’s inside, Ryoichiro thought, and at that moment, he realized he was fully aroused.

His first experience with sexual desire was one he instinctively tried to rationalize by convincing himself that his curiosity was driven by doubt over whether Tokuma was “really a man.” But even after that incident, his impure, indecent feelings for Tokuma did not disappear. Instead, they lingered, tormenting him. Was he mad? Was there something fundamentally wrong with him?

Ryoichiro agonized over these thoughts, unable to confide in anyone. At the same time, he couldn’t bring himself to distance Tokuma. The very idea felt unbearable.

It wasn’t until he moved to Tokyo that he encountered the term nanshoku (male love). A city friend casually mentioned that some men desired other men, explaining that in Tokyo, it wasn’t just women who could be bought, but boys and men as well. Hearing this, Ryoichiro felt as if scales had fallen from his eyes.

“Tokuma.”

Tokuma paused his sweeping and slowly approached.

“The sunset is beautiful, isn’t it?”

The older man smiled and nodded.

“Don’t you have any errands to run?”

Tokuma tilted his head, then retrieved a notepad and pencil from inside his kimono—the ones Ryoichiro had given him.

‘If there’s something you want, shall I go and buy it for you?’

He wrote and showed the note to Ryoichiro.

“No, it’s not that… I just suddenly felt like taking a walk.”

Tokuma scribbled something else.

‘Shall we go for a walk, then?’

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

Ryoichiro stood up, went back inside the sitting room, and fetched his wallet from his bag, slipping it into his pocket. Holding his hat in his right hand, he stepped into the hallway, where Tokuma stood on the veranda, still wearing his work apron.

“What are you doing? You’re coming with me,” Ryoichiro said.

Tokuma hastily removed his apron and ran to the entrance to put away the broom.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

What began as a casual stroll along the riverside took a detour when Tokuma, on their way out, was saddled with errands by the old woman. They made their way to the busy shopping street, where Tokuma stopped at the egg seller and the seaweed shop before finally entering a thread shop. While Ryoichiro waited outside, two young women, likely schoolgirls with large ribbons tied in their hair, entered the store. They had been chatting loudly until they noticed Tokuma. Their voices fell silent, their cheeks flushed, and they quickly looked down.

Tokuma’s pale, slender figure gave him a youthful, almost student-like air, even at the age of twenty-seven. Over time, Ryoichiro had come to appear the elder of the two, and whenever he brought Tokuma to university, new acquaintances inevitably asked, "Is he your student assistant?"

Once the errands were done, they returned to the riverside street. As they walked leisurely along the dusty road, watching the hazy sunset, Tokuma trailed half a step behind. A teahouse’s sign near the bridge caught Ryoichiro’s eye, and he suddenly realized he was hungry. He recalled he hadn’t even finished half of his soba at lunch. Though dinner awaited at home, his hunger got the better of him, and he sat down on a bench beneath the teahouse’s awning. Gesturing to Tokuma, he motioned for him to sit beside him.

A girl of about ten came to take their order, her wide-eyed gaze lingering rudely on Ryoichiro. She had a country accent and an unpolished manner, suggesting she was new to the city. Ryoichiro’s Western attire—shirt, suit, and trousers—was no longer uncommon in Tokyo, but her reaction hinted at her rural origins. Ryoichiro disliked kimono and had disposed of all but his formal ones. Even at night, he slept in Western-style pajamas. Kimono, with their impracticality, seemed to him relics of a stifling and outdated era.

Though he had once dressed Tokuma in Western clothes, Tokuma hadn’t taken to them and quickly reverted to his kimono and hakama. His only concession was wearing a shirt instead of an undergarment, a lingering trace of Western influence. Since forcing the matter further felt childish, Ryoichiro had let him be.

Soon, tea and dumplings were brought out. At first, Tokuma refused the offered dumplings, but on the second offer, he gave a small nod and picked up a skewer.

The sun had dipped considerably, casting long shadows of the passersby. A rickshaw clattered noisily across the bridge, and street vendors selling seedlings and fishcakes called out their wares as they passed.

As Ryoichiro idly watched the flow of people, a young couple crossed the bridge. They walked close together, almost certainly husband and wife. Glancing at Tokuma, Ryoichiro noticed he was watching a small boat drifting down the river. The sight of the couple began to nag at Ryoichiro, and though he intended to approach the matter casually, his blunt nature got the better of him.

“Don’t you have someone you like?”

Tokuma turned, blinking in surprise.

“I asked if there’s someone you like,” Ryoichiro repeated quickly, his tone almost angry.

After a moment of thought, Tokuma took Ryoichiro’s hand. The cool sensation of Tokuma’s fingers tracing his palm sent a brief shiver down Ryoichiro’s spine, though it was quickly replaced by a jolt of emotion as he read the words Tokuma had written:

‘There is someone I like.’

Ryoichiro looked at Tokuma, whose gaze remained calm, faintly serene.

“Who is she?”

Tokuma gave a vague smile.

“Have you told her?”

Tokuma shook his head.

“Why not?”

Tokuma smiled vaguely again. Perhaps finding it too much trouble to take out the paper and pencil, he instead wrote directly on Ryoichiro’s palm: “Confessing would likely be a nuisance to her.” Whether it was his inability to speak or the possibility that the woman was of a higher social standing, it was clear he had no intention of expressing his feelings.

“I see,” Ryoichiro replied curtly, falling silent. Tokuma’s cold fingers withdrew from his hand. Though he couldn’t stop wondering about the woman Tokuma liked, pressing for details about her would feel tasteless, especially since Tokuma had already said he wouldn’t confess. While Ryoichiro sat stewing in frustration, Tokuma remained utterly composed, sipping his now-lukewarm tea without a care.

Tokuma was a good-natured man, and though he couldn’t speak, his character was something Ryoichiro could vouch for. Even if there were a disparity in their social statuses, Ryoichiro felt he should take responsibility and help Tokuma convey his feelings. Yet, if the woman truly were of higher standing, there was no way she would entertain the idea of a mute man as a partner.

Ryoichiro questioned whether it would truly be a kindness to intervene. Even if he tried to help, the woman would likely reject Tokuma, and the one left hurt would be Tokuma himself. Knowing this, would it still be meaningful to get involved? Kicking a pebble toward the river, Ryoichiro grappled with his thoughts.

He rose from the bench at the teahouse, paid the bill, and began walking, with Tokuma trailing close behind. As they walked, Ryoichiro’s thoughts churned. Kindness? That’s a lie. The truth is, I want to tell the woman how Tokuma feels, hoping she’ll reject him outright. That way, she’ll disappear from his heart.

What Ryoichiro couldn’t bear was the fact that Tokuma harbored feelings for anyone.

I’ll offer to speak to the woman on his behalf, Ryoichiro decided. If she says no, so be it. But if by some chance she reciprocates… I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. Whether he spoke up or stayed silent, regret seemed inevitable. He cursed himself for asking, “Don’t you have someone you like?” in the first place. But it was too late to take it back.

His indecision lingered all the way home. As he reached the lattice door and stood before the front sliding door, he turned back. Tokuma, intending to deliver the items they’d bought to the old woman, was heading around to the back entrance.

“Tokuma,” Ryoichiro called.

Tokuma stopped and turned.

“About what we discussed earlier…” Ryoichiro began. Tokuma tilted his head slightly.

“The woman you said you like… If you’d like, I could speak to her for you. At the very least, I can help you tell her how you feel.”

Tokuma gazed steadily at Ryoichiro, then shook his head with a quiet smile. The evening sunlight bathed his face, making it seem faintly melancholic. With a small bow, as though thanking Ryoichiro for his offer, Tokuma turned and disappeared through the back door.

Watching his retreating figure, Ryoichiro felt an overwhelming sense of relief that Tokuma hadn’t said, “Please, help me.” But in the next moment, he loathed himself for that very relief.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

"Satake is a brute and a terrible person..." The voice drifted from beyond the assistant’s room door. Standing just outside, Ryoichiro furrowed his brow in irritation.

“He has no respect for his seniors, nor does he understand the concept of gratitude. He thinks that just because he wears Western clothes, he’s a true city dweller, strutting around as if he’s something special. No matter how much he dresses up in Western style, he can’t mask the stench of the countryside clinging to him.”

It was Fukushima’s voice, a fellow assistant in the botany department. Blood rushed to Ryoichiro’s head, and he slammed the door open with a loud bang. Inside, Fukushima and a student assistant named Hara turned in shock, their faces frozen as though caught red-handed.

Ryoichiro stomped into the room, deliberately making the floorboards creak under his heels. The moment they saw him, they clamped their mouths shut and pretended to be engrossed in flipping through pages of The Illustrated Guide to Flora or something equally disingenuous. Marching up to Fukushima, Ryoichiro snatched the book from his hands and hurled it to the floor.

“Instead of wasting time gossiping with students in the middle of the day, why don’t you try sorting the pressed plant specimens we collected at Mt. Gondoyama two months ago? Leaving them piled on your desk like that makes them nothing more than dried weeds. Trash. Shall I call a junk dealer to take care of it for you?”

It was a pointed jab at Fukushima’s neglect of the specimens under the excuse of “still being pressed.” His face turned beet red, his lips tightening as he trembled with clenched fists. Ignoring him, Ryoichiro turned his back and placed his textbook on the desk assigned to him.

“You—you have no sense of respect, do you? I joined Professor Minekura’s lab before you and have been assisting him ever since. That makes me your senior!” Fukushima shouted, his voice quivering with rage.

Ryoichiro paid him no mind, walking over to a shelf and peeling back an old newspaper to inspect the dried specimens sandwiched between its layers. Pinching the edge of a leaf, he pressed it with his nail to test its texture. It was drying nicely.

“And all you collect are those wretched lower plants that reek of poverty!” Fukushima spat.

Ryoichiro turned to face him, his expression disdainful, and let out a sharp laugh through his nose.

“High or low, what does it matter? I collect them because no one else will. And let me add, I show respect only to those who deserve it. I deal with people as they deserve to be dealt with.”

The next thing Ryoichiro knew, his collar was grabbed, and a loud thud echoed beside his head. By the time he registered the pain, his back was against the white plaster wall.

“Stop it, please, sir! Professor, stop!” Hara clung to Fukushima’s arm, trying to hold him back. Fukushima, his nostrils flaring like an enraged bull, seemed unsatisfied with just one punch.

Normally, Ryoichiro’s own short temper meant he was quick to anger. But when someone else beat him to it, his anger curiously dissipated.

“You damn country bumpkin! Get out of here!” Fukushima roared.

This room was assigned to all three assistants, including Ryoichiro, so there was no reason for him to leave. However, seeing the distressed, tearful look on Hara’s face, Ryoichiro decided to relent and walked out.

He strode down the wooden corridor, descended the stairs, and saw Professor Shinosuke Minekura ascending from below. Minekura, a man in his mid-fifties with an air of dignity and refinement, sported an impressive mustache beneath his nose. Though Ryoichiro disliked kimono, he had to admit that Minekura wore them with exceptional elegance.

As Ryoichiro nodded in greeting and moved to pass by, Minekura stopped him with a call: “Satake-kun, Satake-kun.”

“During the fieldwork the other day, there was that unusual aquatic plant in the irrigation canal. Do you think you can classify it?”

“Not yet, sir. I suspect it might belong to the Droseraceae family, though.”

Minekura nodded thoughtfully, his chin jutting slightly forward, then gave Ryoichiro a warm smile.

"The details aren't finalized yet, but the department will soon be publishing a book. You might call it the 'Illustrated Flora of Japan,' a comprehensive collection of plants from across the country. I’ll be overseeing the project, but I’d like your help with it," Professor Minekura said.

At the mention of a botanical encyclopedia, a smile spread naturally across Ryoichiro's face.

"So, the project is finally underway?"

"That's right," Minekura replied, his eyes narrowing in satisfaction.

Japan didn’t yet have an encyclopedia that cataloged the country’s plants in their entirety. Botanical classification still relied heavily on books authored by foreign scholars, and Professor Minekura often voiced his dream of creating a nearly exhaustive encyclopedia of Japanese plants, written by Japanese hands. Ryoichiro had always wholeheartedly supported this vision.

"If I can be of service, I would be honored to assist. This book will undoubtedly become the cornerstone of Japanese botany," Ryoichiro responded with conviction.

Pleased with his enthusiastic reply, Minekura nodded in approval. Undertaking the creation of such an encyclopedia would demand even greater efforts in plant collection and classification. Ryoichiro, his earlier spat with Fukushima already forgotten, wandered into the small greenhouse built behind the university building, mulling over the possibilities of what the book could become.

The glass greenhouse housed rare plants that Minekura had brought back from abroad. Some, particularly tropical species, were challenging to cultivate due to the need for precise temperature and humidity control, yet a few had successfully taken root.

Managing the greenhouse was Ryoichiro's responsibility as the most junior assistant. Each morning, he arrived early to check the plants’ condition and water them. If time allowed before lectures, he diligently observed and sketched the specimens.

Ryoichiro loved the dense, humid atmosphere of the greenhouse. The thick, almost stifling air reminded him of the mountain marshes in his rural hometown.

Ryoichiro's biological mother had disappeared when he was six years old, during a severe illness that nearly claimed his life. She left the house and never returned. Neither had she gone back to her family’s home. Despite his father’s efforts to send people to search for her, she was never found.

People whispered, "She was so beautiful; perhaps she was abducted," while others speculated, "She abandoned her sick child and ran away—unforgivable."

The last person to see her was a traveling merchant who claimed to have spotted her heading toward Mount Kabura. Believing this, young Ryoichiro often ventured into the mountain with Tokuma to search for her.

Around the same time, Tokuma, the wet nurse’s son, had also fallen ill, losing his voice to a throat infection. Tokuma was a peculiar boy; no matter how deep into the mountains they wandered, he always found the way back. It was as if he had a compass in his head, guiding Ryoichiro without hesitation.

In the mountains, Ryoichiro called his mother’s name countless times. He truly believed she was somewhere out there. Perhaps it was the innocence of childhood, but without reason, he clung to the conviction that she would return someday. Though he had since given up hope, in some ways, that unwavering faith had made him happier than he was now.

One day, while searching the mountains, Ryoichiro discovered a cluster of small flowers growing near a marsh. Their pink-tipped petals reminded him of his mother’s fingernails. Her slender, fair-skinned fingers, with tips as delicate as sakura shells, had left a vivid impression in his memory.

He dug up the flowers and brought them home to plant in the garden, but they quickly withered, leaving Ryoichiro heartbroken and in tears. The next morning, Tokuma returned with more of the same flowers from the mountain. Yet, those too soon wilted. Undeterred, Tokuma went back again and planted the flowers throughout the garden. Though most died, a single cluster planted by the pond managed to root, blooming for about a month.

From then on, Ryoichiro began venturing into the mountains almost daily, bringing back various flowers to plant. At one point, he had collected so many that the garden became so overgrown with wildflowers that there was barely any room to walk.

The following year, Ryoichiro enrolled in a private school. However, being terribly shy and unable to warm up to the teachers, he threw a tantrum on his second day, refusing to go back. His father, a man deeply committed to education, believed that even the son of a rural sake brewer needed proper schooling and was prepared to drag his son to class if necessary. But Ryoichiro, once he made up his mind, was equally stubborn. At his wit's end, his father resorted to his trump card: the threat of sending Tokuma away into service. Knowing how deeply Ryoichiro was attached to Tokuma, refusing to let him out of his sight even for a moment, he used this as leverage. Reluctantly, Ryoichiro agreed, but only on the condition that Tokuma could accompany him.

From private school through middle school, Ryoichiro attended with Tokuma by his side. Despite being a servant’s son and mute, Tokuma learned to read English and Russian and even mastered kanji.

Going to school with Ryoichiro made Tokuma the target of sneers: "Pretending to be a master when you’re just a servant," or "Mute and useless, can’t even do proper work." His mother, Tomie, often felt deeply ashamed. She once bowed her head and pleaded, "Please, Master, leave my son alone." But Ryoichiro refused, clutching Tokuma’s kimono sleeve and refusing to let go.

Many mocked Ryoichiro for his relentless attachment to "just a servant," but Ryoichiro thought the real fools were those who had never experienced loss. They didn’t understand the cruelty of not knowing whether someone was alive or dead, leaving only hope behind. Even now, the memory of wandering through the mountains crying for his mother left his chest tight with pain.

Tokuma had been the one to absorb all of Ryoichiro’s despair during those years—a substitute for his mother and the one person who truly understood him. No one could replace him, nor could anyone ever hope to.

A sound broke his thoughts. Turning around, Ryoichiro saw Tokuma standing at the entrance to the greenhouse, startling him.

"What is it?"

Tokuma knew his way around the university. Ryoichiro often asked for his help with plant collection and classification, a habit that had started during Ryoichiro’s student days. Even the professors and assistant professors recognized Tokuma.

Carrying two umbrellas, Tokuma smiled warmly and squatted beside Ryoichiro, pointing to the small plants growing around the artificial pond.

"Do you know what this is?" Ryoichiro asked. Tokuma rubbed his fingers together lightly—a gesture indicating he remembered Ryoichiro once saying the flowers that bloomed in autumn resembled his mother’s fingernails.

Fukushima had scolded Ryoichiro for bringing this plant, Mizosoba, into the greenhouse, calling it a weed. The memory of that argument—and the punch that followed—rekindled a simmering anger deep within him.

"I don’t recall asking for your help. What do you need?"

Tokuma moved his right hand up and down, a gesture indicating rain. It seemed he had come to bring umbrellas, anticipating the rain. Before Ryoichiro had entered the greenhouse, the sky had been gray and heavy, but it hadn’t started raining.

"Not yet—"

Before he could finish, the sound of raindrops began pattering against the glass roof of the greenhouse. Tokuma grinned triumphantly, then pulled a piece of paper and a pencil from his pocket, writing:

‘Please leave the school through the back gate today.’

"The back gate?" Ryoichiro asked. Occasionally, Tokuma would insist on things like taking a different route home or carrying a talisman, as if warding off some unseen threat.

"Why not the main gate?"

Tokuma scribbled another note:

‘There’s something bad at the main gate. It could cling to you and cause trouble.’

After reading the note, Ryoichiro murmured, "I see." Tokuma had always claimed to see things not of this world. Since childhood, he had spoken of eerie phenomena that often unnerved those around him. His strange remarks led to rumors that anyone who got close to him would end up possessed by a fox spirit, and people generally avoided him.

"All right. I won’t use the main gate today."

Tokuma gave a small nod of acknowledgment.

"Then I should warn others not to use the main gate either," Ryoichiro suggested.

In response, Tokuma wrote: ‘That won’t be necessary.’

"Even so, if there’s something bad there, shouldn’t we do something to stop people from passing through…?"

‘Not everyone who passes will be harmed, and even if someone is affected, that’s simply their fate.’

A vague sense of unease crept over Ryoichiro.

"Because you warned me, I won’t be affected by whatever strange thing is there. Isn’t that unfair?"

‘No, it’s not.’

Tokuma wrote his denial firmly before continuing:

‘Whether someone unknowingly passes through and becomes afflicted, or whether I, working under you, can advise you and help you avoid misfortune—all of it is fate.’

Ryoichiro had no response to that. Tokuma placed the umbrella beside him and stood up smoothly.

Tokuma had a preference for wearing white kimono. Seeing him standing tall and composed in his white attire, Ryoichiro recalled a student once whispering to him, "He has the presence of a flower."

"Not exactly a compliment a man would want," Ryoichiro had replied with a wry smile, yet the comment had reinforced something he already knew: Tokuma’s beauty was evident to anyone who looked at him.

Tokuma was watching him. Ryoichiro wondered why he was being gazed at so intently and realized it was because he hadn’t looked away himself. Feeling the need to say something, Ryoichiro opened his mouth.

"You must have a hard time, seeing all these unnecessary things."

Tokuma’s expression shifted to one of surprise, quickly replaced by a smile, but it was a lonely one.

Ryoichiro wondered if he had said something wrong. The thought gnawed at him, but he made no effort to retrieve the words he had already spoken and fell silent.

Tokuma gave him a small bow and left. After he was gone, Ryoichiro found himself overwhelmed with guilt, convinced of his own insensitivity, and sank into a deep melancholy.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

When Ryoichiro returned from the greenhouse to the assistant’s room, Fukushima was absent, and instead, the student Hara was there, alone, replacing the newspaper that had been used as desiccant between the specimens. Hara, perhaps intimidated by Ryoichiro, kept his gaze lowered, nervously avoiding eye contact.

Though the atmosphere was awkward, Ryoichiro tried to ignore it and began sketching some specimens. Immersed in his drawing, he had nearly forgotten Hara’s presence when the student timidly called out, “Satake-sensei, I’m sorry to bother you, but could I ask you something?”

Turning around, Ryoichiro saw Hara standing with a helpless expression, holding a newspaper in his hands.

“What is it?” Ryoichiro asked.

“I, uh, I don’t know what to do about this…” Hara replied, showing the newspaper. The specimen sandwiched inside was completely covered in mold. A bit of mold or dirt could typically be cleaned with alcohol, but this specimen was already rotting.

“Oh, this one’s beyond saving,” Ryoichiro said.

Hara paled.

“It seems you were late in replacing the newspaper desiccants.”

Tears threatened to spill from Hara’s eyes. “I was changing them every five days, just as I was told…”

“During this season, every three days is necessary. Besides, this room is intolerably humid,” Ryoichiro explained, staring at the decaying specimen.

“Throw it out. This is… Lychnis coronaria, isn’t it? We collected it last month at Mt. Gondoyama. It’s not particularly rare, and the professor collected some as well.”

Though he hesitated for a while, Hara eventually discarded the specimen into the trash bin. He brought over two or three more specimens afflicted with mold, seeking Ryoichiro’s judgment on whether they could be salvaged.

“You’re like a living botanical encyclopedia, Satake-sensei,” Hara said, impressed by how effortlessly Ryoichiro named the plants without consulting any books.

Ryoichiro, though modest in his response, couldn’t deny the compliment felt good. As they talked, he began to see Hara less as “Fukushima’s lackey” and more as a sincere and diligent young man.

The rain grew heavier, darkening the day more quickly than usual. Around 4 p.m., Hara announced, “I’ll be leaving for the day,” and bid Ryoichiro farewell. Yet, he lingered awkwardly near the door. Just as Ryoichiro wondered what was holding him back, Hara suddenly blurted out, “I’m sorry about earlier today…” referring to Fukushima’s outburst.

“Dr. Fukushima doesn’t usually speak ill of others. He seemed particularly irritable today,” Hara explained.

Seeing the worry in Hara’s eyes, Ryoichiro felt pity for the student caught between conflicting loyalties. “Don’t worry about it,” he said with unexpected warmth. Relieved, Hara’s tense expression softened.

The sound of rain intensified, a heavy downpour pelting the glass windows. As Ryoichiro looked out, he noticed a man under a large black umbrella leaving through the main gate. It was Fukushima. Likely, he had been holed up in the library since he wasn’t in the assistant’s room earlier.

“Hey,” Ryoichiro called to Hara.

“Today, leave through the back gate.”

Hara tilted his head in confusion. “Uh, alright.”

“It seems there’s something inauspicious near the main gate today,” Ryoichiro added.

Hara hesitated, then asked, “This inauspicious thing… can you see it, Satake-sensei?”

“No, I can’t,” Ryoichiro replied. “But someone I trust told me not to use the main gate.”

“Do you believe in such things, sir?”

“No,” Ryoichiro answered curtly. Seeing Hara’s puzzled expression, he added, “There’s nothing strange about it. I don’t believe in superstitions or charms, but I trust the person who warned me.”

Watching Fukushima disappear from view, Ryoichiro found himself thinking: We don’t get along, but I hope nothing inauspicious attaches itself to that man.

Previous TOC Next