It was for a kyūjitsu —a pleasure trip.
Soon, the other women joined her. Their chatter was a soft, comforting melody—gossip about a kimono pattern, a rumour from the capital, a silly poem one of the maids had written. For a single, perfect hour, Nene was not the “Mother of the Nation.” She was just an old woman with sore knees, laughing at a story about a clumsy stable boy. Hot Springs Pleasure Trip Nene Yoshitaka JAPANE...
Beneath falling leaves, The mountain’s hidden heart burns— Warmth for weary bones. It was for a kyūjitsu —a pleasure trip
“My lady, the water is said to heal even the weary bones of a dragon,” chirped Chika, her youngest attendant, her eyes wide as the steam from the natural springs began to ghost through the trees. For a single, perfect hour, Nene was not
She was the first to enter. The water was searing, miraculous. She gasped, then sighed, lowering her thin shoulders beneath the milky, mineral-rich water. The heat sank into her marrow, loosening decades of grief, of war, of the terrible, glorious burden of building a nation.
The inn was a modest, elegant ryokan nestled beside a rushing river. The owner, a stooped but sharp-eyed woman, bowed so deeply her forehead nearly touched the tatami. “Lady Nene, it is an honour beyond measure. The private bath has been prepared.”