Pathway to Japanese Literature

Every time we moved, she would mutter, "What of the sparrows?" Well over eighty and hard of hearing—she would strain those deaf ears, gaze absently at the sky, sit small and neat by the fire barrel, and murmur, "What of the sparrows, I wonder?"
With each move, I remember Grandmother muttering those words.
“Grandma, we’ll move together with you.”
When I offered some haphazard words of comfort, she deepened the wrinkles around her eyes, nodded warmly, and said, “Oh, is that so?”

That late Grandmother would always place leftover rice from Buddha's offerings and stray grains from washed rice on the small windowsill, caring tenderly for the sparrows.

As for matters we paid no mind to—clearly, this sparrow’s tale—even if we knew Ransetsu’s verses by heart, we never took note that they had sung again this morning.
But it was when we lived in Dote Sanbanchō—still within Kōjimachi—that we came to feel no small fondness for them.
Spring had deepened, and soon the rainy season would draw near.
……In the garden stood a single aged persimmon tree.
Because we neglected to tend to it, leaving it wild, a single sparrow fluttered about on the moss-covered stepping stones overgrown with weeds around their bases, wings spread wide as it moved along—more a gentle drifting than quick, darting steps.
My wife clattered down barefoot.
A mischievous woman indeed, she had clearly spotted the fledgling.
Chirp-chirp-chirp-chirp, cheep, cheep—it was soon in the palm of her hand.
“Don’t grab it so roughly—gently, gently.”
“Is this a Bush Warbler or a Grosbeak?” one might ask—tradition and propriety would demand procuring a proper cage, which we didn’t own and would need to purchase. But since the creature here was merely pecking at paste, deemed unworthy of such expense, we first placed it under the kitchen’s mesh basket along the southern edge.
Now, when you catch one alive and put it in a cage, it doesn’t quickly become tame like a Japanese white-eye—pecking at sweet potatoes or sucking on persimmons in no time at all.
Knowing from Grandmother that baby sparrows don’t take to food easily, we couldn’t let this frail creature—still stumbling through grass, unable even to fly—go hungry.
Surely the parent sparrow will come to feed it.
At this edge, [the parent] would likely be too frightened... so we placed it back on the original stepping stones.

The parent sparrow immediately came and flew at it.
For some time now, it had been flitting noisily between the garden trees—flying this way and that in restless agitation—which explained why.

Though we left the shoji screen open while watching, so enchanted was it by its chick's endearing form that it forgot all fear of cruel humans, fluttering anxiously round and round the mesh basket in two- or three-foot circuits. It pecked at the basket’s mesh, then pulled back abruptly to dart sideways, or soared upward mid-flight. Each time, the baby sparrow in the mesh basket yearned beyond words. Its voice clung shrilly with nothing but that kee sound, trembling its chest feathers as if they might tear away. The fledgling would swirl its ineffective wings in a vortex, trying to cling—this was when the parent sparrow would... peck repeatedly at the mesh basket’s gaps, then pull back sharply.

Looking closer, the parent sparrow had a small morsel—something like an insect—clutched in its beak.
Inside the mesh basket was an infant not yet weaned.
The infant wailing as if set ablaze was only natural.
Now, slipping through the mesh of the basket to feed from mouth to mouth—since even we humans had devised that strategy—was exceedingly simple.

Yet this act of showing food while making the fledgling cry out and retreating to circle around—even humans of limited cleverness could precisely comprehend it.
“Baby dear, baby dear, I’ll give you something yummy. Come out from there,” it seemed to say.
Sealed by another’s hand, how could the chick possibly remove the basket itself?
How could the parent possibly open the basket themselves?
What of their reasoning?

We had grown deeply, tenderly fond of them.

We brushed aside both the stones and the bento box lid, then opened the mesh basket.
“Forgive us.”
“We’re so sorry,” we said to the sparrows, exchanging glances before retreating dejectedly into the sitting room.

Feeling somewhat embarrassed, I avoided showing my face at the back door for some time.

Our household wasn’t one to keep garden clogs neatly arranged.

Grabbing the wooden clogs at the entrance, I went out to the back door in the evening and gazed at the lone star atop the persimmon tree while wondering, What of those sparrows?
Crossing what passed for stepping stones—though there were only about five—I came to a damp hollow where the ground immediately rose into a stone wall cliff overgrown with water dropwort, moss, and dragon’s beard grass. In one corner stood a kerria bush with thickly clustered azaleas planted nearby in rows. Beyond the fence lingered two or three blooms whose light flickered faintly through the twilight... On a low branch where dense leaves cast only shallow shadows perched a single sparrow looking utterly forlorn.
It was unmistakably the young one from earlier.
...its position barely two shaku above ground.
Unable to perch any higher than this—the mother bird who had brought it this far must have left it here as temporary shelter... No, I should say she deliberately entrusted it here.
Ah—the tender-hearted parent sparrow that had sensed our remorse over that mischief... Where might those parents be roosting now?... This little fledgling here seems so terribly lonely.

Nightjars came to the pines on the embankment.
In Tsukudo Forest, Ural owls hooted... It was just then—the hour of the waning moon.
The parent sparrow must have hidden it as deep as possible within shadowed leaves to keep it from dreaded eyes.
Though there were no straw scraps or cotton fragments to be found, under moonlight that barely illuminated more than lingered—a mist-like aura clung about the baby sparrow’s form, wrapping it in rounded brightness—this was no vague parental affection but a haloed shadow manifesting their bond.
“Hey.”
“What?” She beckoned with her hand. “Come see.” When we leaned in quietly from both sides—my wife and I—the motionless figure tilted its faintly yellow beak.
The soft chest feathers’ hue shone whiter than our collars where we peered.

Staying up late was practically our family business, so that night, we kept watch for stray cats until dawn broke.
We had entrusted it to a low branch—one that those creatures could reach if they stood on their hind legs.

We slept in late and became distracted by other matters.
In the midday garden, bathed in the unshadowed light of May, two sparrows darted freely like gold and silver—soaring from the stepping stones over the persimmon trunk, up and down among the azaleas and kerria bushes.
With wings fluttering and glistening—three inches, five inches, a foot, two feet—the fledgling followed the parent sparrow in flight as shadows from grasses and trees lengthened. Its wings grew gradually, steadily upward, upward, lighter and freer, until after clearing the Deutzia hedge’s height four or five times with practiced ease, it traced the cliff’s edge and vanished into Uemachi’s thicketed trees.

Could those wings—like yellow-dyed silk floss—ever grow accustomed to flying this swiftly?
All the while feeling this, we kept gazing without tiring.

Afterwards, from the kitchen to the narrow ledge of the north window in the maid's quarters—going back and forth, coming and going—were five or six, eight or nine sparrows; among them, distinguishing which two were that parent and chick proved impossible.

—two or three, five or six, ten, twelve or thirteen sparrows.
Having mentioned their numbers here, I wished to pose a question to those with modest expertise in various fields—not full scholars.

It was no different matter.
I wonder—do sparrow families not multiply too abundantly in the same location?
As you know, when rice ears swell in Inazuka and Inada fields, when millet and panicum ripen, they form vast flocks whose wingbeats—like those waterfowl that scattered the Heike's great army—startle travelers along ridge paths and field borders.
Scareclappers and scareboards amount to half-measures—preparations made precisely for this purpose, I should think.
In old tales too, over years passing, grandchildren and young ones ought to swarm the same backyard—and above all, one recalls those sparrow legions that once battled starlings for roosts.

Well, setting that aside—though over many years we had hoped our family might prosper even a little—they say “ten years pass like a single day,” but truly fourteen or fifteen years had passed since we moved from Totei-Sanchōme to our current home.
Ever since first understanding that tender affection between parent and child sparrows—though it was no grand feast to offer—we never failed to scatter a few grains of rice each day.
Even when traveling—leaving instructions about nothing but “fire safety” and “please look after the sparrows”—their numbers never increased beyond twelve or thirteen over all these years; whether two or three came occasionally or five or six gathered.
Though I was no wealthy man—and if they claimed it was because I didn’t provide bales of rice as support—well! Even I would have increased their provisions accordingly if their numbers had grown by ten.

It’s not that I was using the sparrows as an excuse to grumble about my stagnant fortunes.
It’s not that I particularly desired greater numbers of sparrows... but since I clearly saw five or six additional chicks brought by parents each spring and autumn, I couldn’t help wondering—when their count remained roughly the same—where did they go and what became of them.

Yet from all appearances, it seemed the parent sparrows waited until a fledgling became capable of independence, leaving only that juvenile at the dwelling while they changed roosts.

The baby sparrow would cheep-cheep, opening its beak as wide and red as possible, fluttering its tiny wings like a Christmas cloak, fluffing up its chest feathers as it tilted backward to beg. With a resigned expression, the parent sparrow transferred rice grains beak-to-beak—chit-chit, chit-chit—time and again... Even after eating, it kept begging.

While continuing to feed it and seizing upon its persistent begging, the parent sparrow—clutching a grain in her beak—flew from atop the fence (beneath the camellia branch where we placed rice) straight across the back garden to the tiled roof in one swift motion.

Then the baby sparrow floated after her in a soft flutter.

This appeared to be their method of wing training.

Another pair—similarly holding food—had the parent sparrow flutter up through the narrow garden to about the height of the hand-washing basin, whereupon the baby sparrow flew upward as if clinging to its chest.

Without letting their tails brush the ground, they danced and flew, circling the entire garden—this too seemed part of their wing practice.

Sometimes this aerial ballet would commence with three or even four groups simultaneously.

They sent deutzia blossoms swirling and wildly scattered bush clover flowers.

...We couldn't tear our eyes away from their charm, though in spring and autumn they stayed rooted to one spot—this fair-weather revelry.

We longed to adorn the garden with prettier curtains and carpets, but its cramped space lacked sufficient flowers whose petals might scatter poetically with their wingbeats.

Instead, violets we'd never planted bloomed purple where feathers brushed them or beaks dropped seeds, while knotweed reddened its spikes here and there.

Now, of all things, parent sparrows were indulgent; their young cunningly played the spoiled child.
...As we watched, that little one with white chest feathers would soon become quite capable of gathering food on its own.
With a composed face, it ate haughtily, tapping away.
Two or three mischievous ones came flying in under their parents' watchful eyes, even engaging in peck-peck-peck squabbles.
Despite their cheekiness, when the parent sparrow swooped in with a scolding look, their squabbling beaks and defiant wings instantly went limp. Cheep-cheeping in infantile voices, they playacted helplessness—mouths gaping wide, chest feathers fluffed out—waiting expectantly to be fed.
Chit-chit, chit-chit—even when told to eat on their own, they refused.
Even when they shook their heads sideways, they refused.
Cheep-cheep-cheep... they were hungry... Oh, with their wobbly “we want food” act, this foolish parent immediately softened, going for the white parts of the rice grains—picky creatures these—for though we mixed cracked barley into their feed at home, they wouldn’t touch it unless starving.
These creatures had struggled terribly during the great earthquake—pecking with their beaks while pushing and stuffing food into their chicks’ mouths so frantically it seemed unbearable to watch—appearing almost to rub cheeks against them in desperation.

They acted unruly, causing trouble for their parents.
...Despite that, they were harmless things, cheerful by nature, and when their stomachs grew full, they drowsily dozed off.
...Come now, let us step out to the veranda once—and imagine them emerging in unison onto the clothesline from atop the fence.
Amidst the gentle sunlight bathing everything, voices clamored and shadows danced.

The clothesline teemed so splendidly with activity that I crept close and peered from the second-floor corner window behind the bookshelf, blinking against the glare. From pillars, crossbeams, and the small eave above my head, warm shadows swirled as wings glinted—then all fled in unison. Their flight was swift—barely an instant to cross ninety meters to the great loquat tree in the rear estate. (This loquat tree served as roost for our familiar sparrow family, though another group nested in five or so cherry trees along the front street [Arijima family's], who seemingly never visited our grounds—different territories, it seems.) Meanwhile, a hanger rod the maid had carelessly left askew when putting things away lay diagonally fallen.
Just beyond a single pane of glass, right before my nose, one adorable sparrow remained lingering blankly directly in front of me.
When I managed to catch one that had flown into the room and become disoriented, it thrashed in my palm—never before had I gazed so intently upon a sparrow’s face.
Plumply, softly—each slender feather drinking in sunlight one by one—oh, you might as well be made of candy, I wanted to say—its eyes drowsy and half-closed in sleep.
Logically, one would expect it to startle at nearly colliding with human eyes and that beak, yet as I watched, it showed no alarm. The tiny legs that had been firmly planted now lifted one foot, slipping downward again and again—each time jerking upright with a start. ...Was it too distressed to move? Had it injured itself?...

Some years ago, when we lived in Sōshū Zushi for about four years, there was a Japanese white-eye we named (Mitarō).

It had been born in Sakura-yama and was given to us by someone who caught it using a decoy.
But where could it have learned this—amidst nests of brown-eared bulbuls, dunnocks, those buntings common to the area—to sing anything... ho-ho-ke-kyo, ho-ke-kyo, ho-ke-kyo—clearly voicing the bush warbler's call.
I don’t know whether it was a failure as a Japanese white-eye, but to me, it was a great treasure—since we gave it water under the broken eaves of our tenement house and fed it sweet potatoes, I laughingly dubbed it "Mitarō" with an honorific. It became so tame that when I placed it on my palm like a lord settling his hawk, it would dart off to exterminate insects.
On lonesome winter days, when we placed a red camellia flower on the kotatsu and opened his cage, he would cover himself with the blossom, sucking nectar until his beak turned bright yellow, then scurry about atop the quilt.
When I played the shamisen for him to hear, he would compete with its sound, trilling loudly beneath the eaves.
On lonely days when a guest would come and begin talking, he would chirp incessantly outside the shoji screen, as if refusing to be outdone.
How adorable.
...As endearing as they are, I will absolutely never keep them caged.
On a lonely autumn day when cold rain fell in dreary drizzle, as we prayed for its safety and released it at Iwayadera Kannon's mountain—my wife and I stood desolate, hearing those plaintive cries follow us through trees along the downward slope, their calls clinging low to branches until moved beyond words—one of us returned home with dampened sleeves.
But—regarding that Japanese white-eye.
..."Cold wind this—even a single gust blows relentless and bone-chilling," cried Tagoshi Village's foremost young man through chattering teeth, amidst daikon boiling on the stove and the Fuji-oroshi northwest wind's fierce evening assault. In that busy chill, with reckless force matching the gate's resounding slam, he sent the eaves-hung birdcage swinging violently before it flipped over with a bang.
The moment he gasped, the Japanese white-eye inside tumbled from the perch without even fluttering its wings—fell like a leaf caught between others—and lay crumpled.
"Oh no... Mitarō's passed out."
"Oh my—this is terrible!" cried the woman still wearing her tasuki sash as she threw down her kitchen knife and took up the Japanese white-eye in her palms—her eyes brimming with tears—"What should we do?"

“Th-that was the moment.”
In desperation, she ladled water from the hand-water basin—scooping it into droplets like morning dew—forced open the Japanese white-eye’s beak to let it drink, loosened its collar, pressed warmth against its skin. After some time, it began twitching feebly.
“Oh, it’s saved!”
Praying for divine mercy, she opened the cage toward Iwayado and placed it inside—only for it to fail grasping the perch.
Terrified of falling perhaps, it shrank into the deepest corner of that cramped space.
The whole next day it remained listless, leaving mere traces of its beak in the ground meal—thin streaks like pencil lines.
Yet it had fully revived.

We had this experience.

Wanting to give it some water to drink, when I opened the shoji screen, at that sound—despite its injury—the baby sparrow flew off mischievously, circling around twice.
It had been drowsily nodding off in sleep.
……It wasn't detestable.

The baby sparrow was quite the mischief-maker—though this wasn’t due to Mitarō of Zushi… that Japanese white-eye… for whom mimicry was child’s play—for when we placed its cage on the sunny veranda unattended, the area around it became covered in sparrow footprints.
On an autumn-clear day, when we had hung the cage beneath the eaves of the thatched bathhouse in the backyard facing Sakura-yama, during a quiet mid-morning of fine weather, a sparrow... slipped smoothly into the bamboo gutter above where the Japanese white-eye was kept, popping out just its little black head to peer down into the cage from above.
With a small green caterpillar clutched in its beak, darting this way and that to flaunt it, the one in the cage—coveting it as though it were a love letter from a sweetheart—scrambled up and tried to snatch it, only for the teaser to swiftly turn its face aside and continue tauntingly showing off the prize.
No—what a mischievous little spitfire she was.
...But in her enthusiastic swinging, she ended up dropping that caterpillar plop onto the cage's mesh—a comical turn.
The Japanese white-eye nonchalantly licked it up in one gulp.
She wore a look of utter astonishment but flew off as if shot from the gutter’s spout.

There was a Noh chant that went, "A tit nesting in a gourd."
Sparrows seemed fond of the inside of gutters.
Five or six—sometimes seven or eight—would line up horizontally side by side, their faces peeking out as was their custom.

While a certain lord was patrolling his domain, he set up his camp stool at a peasant house where chrysanthemums bloomed. On a plum branch in the back field hung an enormous gourd.
It was not the season for plum blossom viewing.

“This… Ah, what might that gourd be for, pray tell?”

The peasant of that farmhouse replied,
“Yes, yes—it serves as lodging for mountain tits.”

“Ah, how tasteful a thing.”

In the chant from the Noh kyogen’s komai dance,

Ah, here lies a pitiable sight.
Papier-mâché faces and molded dolls.
Shukusha knots, sasa knots, Yamashina knots, and windmills.
Mountain tits nesting in gourds, companion birds lost in walnuts...

“Now I’ve come to understand.”
“Though meager, allow me to take payment for the food.”

There existed a lovely tale from the tenth month.

The mountain tit from the Noh chant—the one that caught the lord’s eye—made its home in a gourd.
Our sparrows dwelled in row houses, sharing bamboo gutters as their rented dwellings.

When hunger struck, they would emerge in full assembly upon the telegraph wires, perching one after another high in the sky in neat rows.
Among them, the leader perched alone atop the telephone pole and let out a sharp chirp.
At this signal, they all began to chirp in unison—where the fence meets the loquat tree.
They would press their demand: "Give us food."

I immediately relayed this,

"They’re pressing their demands, pressing their demands."

"How restless they are... So noisy."

While saying such things, they filled bowls and made their way to the garden path.
If this was delayed any further, a bold one came pressing in.
With the momentum of a mounted charge, it leapt from the small garden to the veranda, tap-tap-tapping through the door in sparrow-like strides into the kitchen, circled before the stove, then suddenly flew up to the sliding window above.

“You should work a bit yourself and catch some bugs.”

Though there was nothing to willingly share, under these words they descended from the camellia tree atop the wall to that supple slender branch of bush clover—slipping smoothly through blossoms, rustling across leaves... Upon landing, they slid straight down the length before pausing to let the tip dip slightly.
Immediately spinning around to show their bellies, slipping beneath the leaves to nimbly climb up—then another one dropped down from atop the wall in the same manner.
Upon descending, they smoothly bent the branch, hung for a moment, then abruptly slid down.
Another one, unable to wait any longer, descended with a tap.
Five or six sparrows swayed a bush clover vigorously, never dislodging even its fullest blooms—pecking with beaks, flicking with tails, peering sideways with cocked heads—all while flipping leaves front and back to hunt insects. Just as their comical bouncing seemed about to send them tumbling down with a thud, they fluttered their wings to dance midair and nimbly alighted upon the twig’s tip.

Mr. Mizukami heard this and suggested with a gentle smile.

“Please have a swing prepared.”

Since his estate’s garden was spacious, he had immediately noticed this spot—something we had never imagined. We tied cedar chopsticks with thread and hung them from that bush clover branch. ...But if we grew too enthusiastic describing this charm, the sparrows would start performing for us, so we restrained ourselves. Yet riding swings and tumbling into gourds were nothing extraordinary. At times I would notice two sparrows amiably pecking together atop the wall. Then one would suddenly vanish from sight—not having flown away, but somehow hiding from human eyes... When you searched like this, there it would be: pressed vertically against the backside of the wall’s coping stone where it had just perched, head seemingly crammed into the surface. It clung there skillfully despite having no foothold.

Then its missing companion, looking perplexed, would chirp “chit chit” while peering about—but since its head was pressed against a slight protrusion on the coping’s underside, no matter where it looked from above, it remained unseen. “Chit chit, chit chit”—after searching briefly, it would suddenly fly back to the loquat tree. Then, stealthily poking half its head out from hiding, it would peer about before fluttering its wings joyfully and darting after the other with a whoosh... It made me think of human children playing hide-and-seek.

Now, while we were exchanging these trivial remarks—as I mentioned earlier—the fledglings would grow up, gain independence, and learn to play alone. Then the parent sparrows would vanish entirely save for those with white breast feathers, flying off to some unknown destination.
Their numbers neither increased nor decreased, perpetually hovering between fifteen and sixteen—and during that span, buds would become leaves, leaves would blossom into flowers, flowers would bear fruit, and the sparrows' throats would darken to black.
Year after year, two or three times over without fail, this cycle repeated itself identically.

The curious thing was that the bush clovers, camellias, morning glory flowers, and dayflowers I had just mentioned—they seemed thoroughly accustomed to every branch and vine... Or rather, it appeared they were taught by the parent sparrows.
—but if there was even the slightest unfamiliar thing, they grew frightened and did not approach.
They retreated to some distant place for even a day or two.
However, there were times when we ourselves had to beg pardon for interrupting their customary ritual.
It was when we hung the futon out to dry.

The young misses and little masters—the whole family together—being in high spirits and attempting their plump futon conviviality proved unbearable. Plop plop—their aftermath lay scattered everywhere. This overwhelmed us. So we contrived to hang up a leopard skin we'd received from elsewhere and stored away. Crouching in their loquat roost, they now approached even the back roof with timid caution—(like monks startled by a marten’s pelt)—making it all the more amusing.

However, there was a time when we bought evening primroses at a summer festival and planted them beside the bush clover. Under the evening moon, when those flowers burst open perfuming the dew with their scent—though at this twilight hour they would usually clamor for their evening meal—not a single one came fluttering by, leaving the garden utterly silent. At first they grew wary, but by the second and third days had settled into caution. Cowards. Timid creatures. Though crow-dipper gourds and evening glories had long been their familiars, the yellow blooms of newly opened evening primroses seemed terrifying... Just as we murmured, "They look so pitiful—should we replant them?" around dusk on the fourth day, they finally began to emerge. Once they'd gotten a taste, they clung on so eagerly they scarce could sip the dew.

There was more.
When I spoke of Dote Sanbancho and mentioned things like the deutzia hedge—though it may have sounded somewhat boastful—those flowers had indeed bloomed in that garden.
Since they were rare in this area, when we moved, we broke off a branch and planted it as a cutting. Though it gradually grew tall, only leaves flourished without forming buds.
Exactly ten years later, at the end of April the year before last, it finally bloomed.
When only that single branch—the one stretching high over the wall into good sunlight—burst into pure white blossoms, from that very morning the sparrows stopped coming abruptly.
Cowards.
Once again rice was placed beneath that deutzia branch.
Having learned from last year's evening primroses, they pretended indifference this time.
Eventually they came stealthily, one by one.
Soon they were playing among the deutzia flowers just as they had frolicked in the bush clover.
If even white flowers made them fearful, one could imagine their timidity on snowy mornings—I wanted to call it Biwazuka—buried within that hill of pure white trees across the way, pitifully silent without uttering a sound.

Even if we brushed aside the camellia leaves, cleared a path across the stepping stones, or showed food where the snow had begun to melt on the clothes-drying area—they showed no shadow.

Under the blazing sun, on the midday tramway bathed in scorching sand—those said to possess mantis-like tenacity would normally thrive, yet here they were—what had become of them?
...When we first moved here, the sparrows that stayed with us for a year or two were never startled by something like snow.
They soared through blizzards, cloaked in snow like mountain-leaping hares scattering the storm—

There, I thought.
I thought that when it came to their children and grandchildren—through two or three generations passed down successively—though of the same lineage, someday the parent sparrows' teachings regarding yellow flowers, white flowers, snow, and such would disappear.

In Western countries, I hear that the sparrows flocking in their parks grow accustomed to bread, playing upon people’s palms and hats alike.

Why do the sparrows in my backyard even fear the colors of unfamiliar flowers?
Precisely because they are flowers, they must exercise great caution toward even slightly altered human faces.
How many times have they been struck by sudden stones at the door?
There are numerous instances of mikan peels and pear pits—utterly unforeseen—landing in rain gutters and before planters.

If the milkman entered the alleyway, they would startle; if the liquor store boy shouted "Good day," they would flee; if they spotted a carpenter approaching, they would cower; if a roofer arrived, they would shrink back; even when a tatami maker came, they refused to approach.

Once, in some newspaper, I read that a certain man along the Tōkaidō was an old hand at sparrow hunting. Traveling along the tree-lined road from Goyu to Akasaka, I shuddered upon reading that his sparrow catch reportedly numbered no fewer than approximately one thousand.

Taking up air rifles and standing here at the alleyway entrance on Sunday mornings, the young gentlemen in hunting attire—with all due respect—looked like dog killers.

Last year at year’s end, the neighbor’s boy obtained an air rifle and walked about holding it high.
It was difficult to prevent with just the neighbor’s boy.
The errand item was just a bag of rice crackers, but for the sparrows' sake, our old lady had earnestly requested it.

The parents laughed,

“If he aims at your sparrows, we will confiscate his rifle—that’s our agreement.”

Once when passing through Hokuetsu and Kurikara by train, I saw sparrows on a station roof at the mountain pass—unfazed by roaring trains—basking in sunlight while freely moving across roof tiles and gutter lodgings. Seeing dianthus lingering in valleys below made me forget streets once torn by fire-oxen warfare.
It wasn’t that forgetting old battlefields was commendable.
The sparrows had made me forget.

Maupassant’s story about the Franco-Prussian War begins: “Paris is besieged and starving in its agony.” Did it not continue: “Sparrows on rooftops grow scarce; gutters gather less dust”?

When it came to snow—unlike unfamiliar flowers, for this was snow enveloping heaven and earth—if they feared this, it would be a heavenly catastrophe surpassing even a great earthquake for the sparrows. Tokyo’s snow vanished quickly enough, but what would become of them if it piled up for five or ten days? There are countries buried under snow for half a year.

On another occasion too, when they didn't show themselves for a whole day due to the snow... Though it was trivial to worry about such things, it turned out to be the next morning.

With a lonely "Twee——", a single Japanese white-eye came to a crimson winter camellia bloom dusted with snow, its wings and tail fluttering white as it slipped through the branches.

When I watched from the kotatsu, after a short while a sparrow suddenly appeared and flitted around the same branch, circling above and below the flower.
Then three or five more came all at once.
The rice lay right beneath their beaks.
With fluttering wings and chirping cries of delight—dancing midair while pecking—the Japanese white-eye soon joined their midst.
Even when colliding and frantically jostling to be first among themselves, the sparrows remained gentle and kind toward the Japanese white-eye.
And the white-eye gazed longingly yet curiously at the sparrows' food.

For some reason, I teared up.

The gentle Japanese white-eye would be blessed with flower nectar.
The parentless sparrows—taught and guided by that beautiful, lovely small bird—forgot their anxiety about the snow.

And yet—where did the parent sparrows go?—

——It was the end of July last year.
The heat was so unbearable that I reverted to childishness—truly, one mustn’t let this sweltering heat defeat me.
As a child, I would catch dragonflies in the midday sun, then confront the blazing sky and stroll through that same scorching daylight.

Seizing on that impulse... I somehow found myself wanting to search the hedges of those mansion-lined streets to see if I could find any Gongongoma plants.
This name alone makes it suitable for a child.
——I adore them.
Against the venerable appellations of Suzumenoendou, Suzumeuri, Suzumenohie, Himeyuri, Himehagi, Himeshion, and Himedemokko—all bearing either "sparrow" or "princess" in their names—I privately call this Gongongoma plant "Sparrow's Candle" among the row of sparrow-titled weeds, secretly favoring it.

Particularly in that month of Obon, I have a dear memory of picking this Sparrow’s Candle—Gongongoma—along country paths to gravesites and temple-adjoining grassy hedges, incense stick in hand.

And yet despite that—cowardly skulking around shady corners, peering into small shrine precincts and mansion hedges where I thought they might grow—I found that many of last year’s living fences had been replaced with brick.
——The cleaning reached even into Shimizudani’s depths.
——In rainy seasons past, hydrangeas once stood out here and there like moonlight casting shadows in pitch darkness, but these past two or three years their numbers had dwindled.
——Even where plants might sprout in oxcart ruts, they would never grow beneath automobile tracks—nowadays you couldn’t find plantain right away even if you looked.

And yet nowhere could I find those Gongongoma plants that resembled coral turned into mummies. Yearning for what wasn’t there yet persisting in my craving, I walked on until sweat streamed down my face.

I shall not mention the place.
But ahead, a forest came into view, and there was a tree-covered slope.
Even since I can remember, there had been a tempura rice bowl shop—one where you passed through a central courtyard reminiscent of old roadside inns and sat on the earthen floor.
——On one side of that descending slope, where it began to level out, there was a wide, empty ditch that followed the slope’s contour, and along the road, a dilapidated fence had been erected.
Beyond that empty ditch, crawling and thriving from the far side of a thicket fence that descended diagonally through unchecked weeds, I found—for example—Sparrow’s Candles resembling small crabs carved from agate.

Even if I grabbed hold and braced myself to lean out, the ditch kept me separated, and my hand couldn’t reach.

I tried to scrape it closer with my cane’s handle, but it slipped. As I rustled about noisily, from a lattice door below my eyes—I hadn’t realized there was an entrance here—a round, portly man emerged, tilting his head upward through the weed-covered door.
He wore faded hempen work clothes and lacquered wooden clogs, but his immense bulk made his limbs and belly jut out starkly, giving him the appearance of being stuffed into a short workman’s jacket—a robust frame mismatched with his calm, gentle voice.

“Have you lost something? Shall I help you look for it?”
said the Portly Man.

He appeared to be around forty years old.

I gave a greeting and found myself obliged to explain my purpose.

“Ah, Gongongoma... For medicinal use? Or perhaps some charm?”

In any case, it was roadside work with dust swirling about.
“There’s plenty of clean spots in the back cliff area—why not rest awhile?”
His manner of speech and genial expression left no room for hesitation—they simply didn’t permit refusal.

“It being mid-afternoon nap time, I find myself quite at leisure.”

Following his lead, I passed through the lattice door into what could be described as a solitary house in the valley—not particularly spacious, but surrounded by forests on three sides. The garden was leisurely overgrown, and across it, the veranda of the tatami room appeared cool and serenely quiet amidst the drone of cicadas.
I had intended to sit there briefly and take my leave with a nod, but the old tatami matting was oppressively hot. As a token of hospitality, he brought out a bamboo flower vase, and when I stepped back into the garden, there was a well near the kitchen area. Its bucket swung wildly into the empty air, bouncing like a monkey.
Beside it grew a thick clump of blue pampas grass, with two or three early-blooming bellflowers blossoming freshly. Adding a budded branch and three stems of blue pampas grass as accents, he arranged them in a bamboo tube. With a solid stance, he drew up water from the well using the swinging bucket with a splash, filled a one-handed pitcher, and watered the bellflowers. Though his chest-baring posture revealed hair covering him down to his belly, he placed it on the floor and, with rounded hands, gently bent the branch arrangement into shape—a display of composed elegance executed with deft precision.
There were no hanging scrolls or anything else visible.
However, that single bellflower was arranged as if illuminated by a purple star.
Due to this treatment, I had to move from the engawa into the tatami room.

“I shall serve you a cup of coarse tea.”
“Everything here is just as you see—a simple, rustic abode.”
“Um… the tea utensils. Bring them here.”

When he said this, in the next room—where cliffside grasses peered right through—on the damp bamboo-lattice veranda, facing away... sat someone who had politely greeted me when I first entered, now seen from behind, diligently sewing a small red object that, given her age, was certainly not a beanbag but perhaps a bran pouch or something similar.
...a fair-skinned woman with a glossy Shimada chignon—delicate and pale—stood up to assist; together with the Portly Man, they soon moved the brazier to the veranda.
...they added kindling to the fire, replenished the charcoal, placed the kettle on the brazier, arranged the tea set on the tray; then began flapping a folding fan at the brazier’s opening with a hastahasta sound.

"There are plenty in that—the thickly grown area there."

“It’s a cliff that looks like a waterfall might cascade down—I never imagined such a place could exist in the middle of the city.”
“Truly splendid in its tranquility.”
“What appears like mist rising.”

“It is black nightshade.”
“Because it’s dim and shaded there, they bloom abundantly even during the day.—Over there, you’ll find as many Gongongoma as you could want.”
“You mentioned something like... ‘Sparrow’s Candle.’”

From this point onward, during what might be called the time it took for the tea to boil, I spoke there of all the endearing qualities of the sparrows chronicled in this volume. She would occasionally smile and turn to listen.

Was she a daughter? A young wife? Or perhaps a mistress?
In the presence of a woman beautiful enough to turn heads in this world, it went without saying that one carelessly enticed would find his spirits aroused.
Now they changed the tea several times.

“Let this mark our connection.”

“Of course—we shall renew this in due time.”
“——Well then, I’ll take my leave.”

“Ah, please stay a little longer.”
“……This belongs to you—your garment.”

When I became self-conscious, even the garment felt embarrassing—though it was just a yukata, the seam at the back had, moreover, come quite undone.

"Even if this place was once a thatched cottage, it’s no country road now."
"A tucked-up hem... Outrageous. ...Ah, you there—mend this properly."

"Yes."

Immediately, the beautiful woman’s needlework scattered like dewdrops across her lashes—invisible to the eye—while she tenderly drew the thread between her gleaming teeth.

"You..."

"Ah, might this be sewn with red thread?"

"Oh my—*ohohoho*."

At the hem where I stood rigidly, the woman’s spine seemed to coil around me as she twisted right and left, her bending shoulders making my position increasingly awkward while her pale fingers fluttered restlessly.

“I’m terribly sorry—I really don’t know what to say.”

“With three of us packed in here like this—first off, there’s my hulking frame to consider,” he said, sweat glistening across his hairy chest. “This heat’s downright unbearable, I tell you. Kindly remove your garments.” His voice took on a coaxing edge. “Come now—quick about it. You mustn’t stand on ceremony here—though I’ve nothing that might fit you… In which case—” He spread his meaty palms in theatrical resignation. “—this host shall bare himself completely.” A greasy smile split his beard. “Then your mind may be at ease.”

With practiced motions, he peeled away his layers like shedding bark, until only a loincloth girded his mountainous flesh—a hulking nude form that seemed to swell in the cramped space.

“There, you.”
“……Kindly remove your garments.”

And he sat cross-legged in his shaggy bulk.

Taken aback, I froze in place,

“Oh, come now—you there! You must remove your garments as well.”
“We’re all naked now.”
“If we do that, our guest’s reservations will vanish. Hahahaha—that’s what matters most.”
“C’mon, take them off, take them off.”

Even as a jest—I was so astonished I couldn’t speak—the woman immediately undid her narrow obi.
Pulling it to her knees, she drew both sleeves down and slipped it off smoothly, as though parting snow.
Her skin—more revealed than concealed—settled plumply over her frame, her spine flowing smoothly as she brushed her shoulders, a breast peeking from her white underarm.
Even so, as she—still halfway through removing her yukata, the garment half-caught at her knees—crawled forward with an “Oh!”, in that instant of “Ah!”, the Portly Man pulled it away with a drawn-out drag.

“Hahaha!”

he said with a laugh.

By now, it was but a single layer of ibis-colored cloth.

I undressed as well.
Sweat streamed down.
But, embarrassingly, my loincloth was white.
In the purple shadow of a single bellflower, the woman resembled a glistening jewel.

That hand pulled the thread and manipulated the needle.

When the sewing was done and I had fastened my obi, I doubled over and rushed headlong toward the gate.
Though farewells had been exchanged, in that sudden haste, the Portly Man and the woman likely had no time to don their garments... Still naked, they slipped out before the well—against the blue pampas grass, their white forms brushing past—resembling suspicious butterflies in human form.

That scene—whether hell or paradise—remained unsettlingly unclear.

“You… Give my regards to the sparrows.”

the woman said with a gentle smile.

I ran up the slope and let out a breath in relief.
But for a while, I wandered in a daze.
The sound of trains could be heard before and after, but I couldn’t discern their direction.
The blazing sky overhead was so intense that it dazzled my eyes.

At that moment—from the valley enveloped by the forest below my eyes, a xiao flute resounded loudly in one breath to the cloud-capped peaks.

In his story, he had mentioned that his practice disciple had also returned.
Does that master play the xiao? …Come to think of it, though his appearance was so unfamiliar as to invite doubt—what with those peculiar customs—the Portly Man had from the very beginning, even while naked, perched something resembling an eboshi court hat lightly upon his head.

“An eccentric.”

“Ah, no—they say there’s a demon’s den in that valley below the cliffs… In various senses.”
“After all, about ten years ago, there was a landslide during a storm, and quite a number of people died there.”

A friend said this to me.

There is an old samurai tale of one so exhausted from the blazing heat that his beautiful wife’s face appeared to him as that of a red horse.
Like frost blooming on branches, sweat—it might have painted a phantom.
But somehow, I—to tell the truth—feel as though I were accompanied by the sparrows’ roost.

To reiterate—days had accumulated to less than a month—when that great earthquake of September 1st struck.

"The sparrows... The sparrows..."

While camping outdoors to escape the fires, I spent midnight hours agonizing over shapes resembling small birds darting through flames within the blaze—but upon returning home, there on the edge of the water basin that had tumbled over yet still held water at its base, unbroken by cracks near the nandina roots, perched a single sparrow, which saw my face and chirped "chee."

Later, I stealthily went to peek at the valley house.
As I approached, my chest roared.
But it was just a burnt field.

I wondered if it had been a dream.
No—it felt like Sparrow’s Roost.
...I recalled the portly man’s round face—that small, pursed mouth of his.
The woman’s skin—like white pigment applied with hare-fur brushes—had there been a black mark somewhere around her chin, like the shadow of her bowed Shimada mage hairstyle—

The strange thing was that the cocklebur I had plucked then—though I couldn’t clearly recall when or what had become of it—had taken root among the autumn rain grasses and was creeping along the fence.

“How about it, Sparrow?”

Putting on a face of feigned ignorance and saying nothing at all, in the small garden where sunlight filtered through the nandina leaves, the sparrow hopped about here and there.