I know you remember the heat and the odors rising from the bodies that surrounded us in Mitsu-ura. Two and a half hours from Matsue by jinrikisha and then the remainder of the journey on foot—a steep climb followed by a slippery descent via a narrow, crumbling path—before we reached the tiny fishing village of Mitsu-ura, and it was not even the final destination of the day. Someone in Matsue—may he make that journey for an eternity—had told you about a sea cave that was said to be visited every night by the spirits of young children, who leave behind their footprints on a sandbank where there is a statue of Jizō, the Buddhist god who protects their spirits and eases their loneliness in the unseen world. Mitsu-ura was where we could hire a boat to take us to that sea cave.

While the jinrikisha man went to find someone to row us to the cave, we waited inside the dwelling of a fisherman to whom I had paid a considerable sum because it was there or under the hot sun. The village was too small to have an inn, and no one was able to name even a teahouse. Soon the narrow alleys separating the fisherman’s house from his neighbors were swarming with villagers. I asked the fisherman to slide close the walls of his house. He was reluctant because of the summer heat and because he was now a part of an entertaining show.

In Mitsu-ura there was also silence, Yakumo.

You nodded and offered your greetings in Herun-san’s language to the assembled villagers. They came closer each time, as if you had invited them to take a better look. The fisherman soon had no choice but to close up his house as I had asked, but its shōji walls were torn in so many places that the sight of the foreigner and his rashamen simply became smaller and more haphazardly framed. The viewing continued, and the fisherman demanded loudly from within his dwelling that his neighbors pay due respect to his “foreign visitor.” It took all of my will not to inform the fisherman that you were not there to visit with him. As sweat beads ran down your face, Yakumo, a shadow or a memory darkened your eye.

When the jinrikisha man returned, he wove his way through the dense crowd, and together we headed for the boat and its two rowers, a husband and wife. The villagers parted to allow us a clear path, but they followed closely behind and stood at the shoreline until we were a dot in the offing. They were not there to bid us farewell or safe passage. They were waiting, same as children watching a fish on a hook take its last openmouthed breath.