Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Delightful, delightful! Even if the weather was too nasty to go out and play, it was just fine—wearing a sedge hat and straw cape, trudging sopping wet through the rain as they crossed the bridge: that was a wild boar.

With his sedge hat pulled low over his eyes and his straw cape’s hem dragging long, he walked hunched against the wind to avoid getting splashed—face unseen, legs hidden—his back perhaps five shaku tall; for a wild boar, a grand one indeed! Most likely the king of boars, wearing such a triangular crown, had come out to town and was now crossing my Mother’s bridge.

As I watched, thinking this way, it was delightful, delightful, delightful!

On a cold morning during a rain shower—when I was little, though I can’t recall the exact day—I leaned out the window and watched.

“Mother, something delightful is walking by.”

At that moment, Mother—who had been making my gloves—handed them to me.

“Is that so? What passed by?”

“That wild boar.”

“I see,” she said with a laugh.

“That’s a wild boar—the king of boars.”

“Mother.”
“But it was huge! And it had a triangular crown on.”
“Even if he’s the king—because it’s raining—he got all soaked through. Poor thing.”

Mother raised her face and turned toward me,
“The rain’s blowing in. Come over here—if you stay like that, your clothes will get soaked.”

“Let’s close the door here, Mother—right?”

“No, if we don’t leave it open like this, even when guests cross over, they won’t leave behind the bridge toll.”
“Because they’re sneaky—if we shut ourselves away where no one can see us, they’ll just scurry right through without paying.”

At that time, I knew nothing of such matters, but Mother and I made our living through this bridge toll, taking a set amount from each person we allowed to cross.

The bridge stood a short distance from the city, where pine trees lined the embankment, and at its base grew a single hackberry tree known as Shigure Enoki.

Beneath this hackberry tree stood a box-like little guard hut where Mother and I lived together. The bridge was crude—a makeshift construction of planks laid across stakes with bamboo railings—yet even when five or ten people crossed at once, though it might sway somewhat, there was no fear of it breaking and collapsing.

For day laborers, construction workers, and porters living on the city’s outskirts—along with those who played shamisens, sold candy while beating drums, performed Echigo Lion Dances or monkey shows, peddled kindling wood, sang ballads, crafted hair ties, or made quick-attach wood boxes as side work—they had no choice but to cross Mother’s bridge when traveling to and from Mekugi Market. Thus each morning and evening saw lively streams of a hundred or two hundred people.

Then they would come crossing over from the opposite side, pass through this bridge and the squalid town at the outskirts, and emerge into the open field.
That area was a plum grove; the mountain above was a famous cherry blossom spot; below it lay Momotani Valley, where irises and rabbit-ear irises bloomed in abundance along the valley stream.
Buntings, tits, and larks sang in scattered chorus, so there would be broker women in fine kimonos and wealthy retirees passing through with staggering steps—some carrying gourds at their waists, others shouldering flowering branches.
That was in spring.
When summer came, people would go out to escape the heat.
In autumn, those who came out for mushroom hunting and those who went on leisurely outings had to all cross our bridge.

The other day, accompanied by two or three others, Teacher passed in front of our house; when she saw my face and I politely bowed, she just said “Oh?” and went off without leaving the bridge toll.

“Hey, Mother, isn’t Teacher being sneaky too?”

[...] I withdrew my face from the window.

II

“She’s being presumptuous, but sneaky,” I said. “I nearly said it straight out—but since she’s Teacher after all—and if they’d misinterpret it and gotten you hated for nothing—well—I kept quiet.”

As I trailed off, Mother continued sewing.

I picked up one completed glove that had fallen onto her lap, trying it against my palm, placing it on the back of my hand,

“Mother, even as it is, Teacher doesn’t show me any kindness,” he said imploringly.

At times like these, I’d recall how at school—though I didn’t understand why—whenever I spoke up, they never gave a kind reply, instead making sulky, curt remarks that left me feeling wretched. Thinking back on it now, I grew gloomy and looked down.

“Why do you think?”

Well, such behavior only became noticeable a mere four or five days ago—before that, there had been nothing of the sort at all. Having returned and said that to Mother, I thought I’d try asking why.

But when I entered the guard hut, I’d immediately rush out to play; upon returning, I’d eat my meal, then lie down and gaze at Mother’s noble, beautiful, reassuringly gentle—if slightly thin—face, hair tied back and glistening damply, all while trying to keep my eyes wide open during our conversation… only to end up falling asleep just like that. When I awoke, I’d promptly get ready and head off to school. There’d been no chance to speak of such things—but now, cooped up by the rain and feeling lonesome, I remembered and took the opportunity to ask.

“Why? What do you mean? The other day, Teacher gave an ethics lecture and said, ‘Humans are something… the most exalted beings in the world.’”
“That’s wrong, isn’t it, Mother?”

“Hmm.”

“No—you’re wrong, Mother.”

As I crumpled it roughly in frustration—startled—Mother pressed her hands onto the tatami mat and dropped the glove. Because wrinkles had formed along the side, she pulled—

“So I said that—no, I mean, Teacher, that’s not it."
“Humans, cats, dogs, and even bears—they’re all the same animals.”

“What did you say?”

“You’re speaking foolishness.”

“That’s right.
“And then—”

“And then—‘But do dogs or cats speak? Do they say things?’—that’s what she said.”
“They do.”
“Sparrows go ‘chit-chit-chit’—aren’t Mother and Father and the child and friends all talking together?”
"When I’m sleepy or dazed, they come right by my ear—chit-chit-chit—like they’re telling me something, see? Then she says—‘Nonsense! That’s just chirping.’"
“They don’t speak—they chirp, so you can’t possibly understand what they’re saying.’ I heard.”
“You see, Teacher—even with people! When there’s a whole crowd of them in the gymnasium all talking at once, and I listen from far away, I can’t understand a thing they’re saying—it’s just like the roaring of a river! I don’t get it at all.”
“And then when those boat rowers pass under our bridge singing something or other, what they’re saying is no different from birds raising their voices in drawn-out cries.”
“The one far downstream shouting ‘ho-ho!’—that could be a person, a dog—who knows!”
“If sparrows and tits would just stop perching on eaves and hackberry trees to sit and talk with me, we’d understand each other perfectly—but since they’re far away, I can’t hear them.”
“But if I quietly approach and try to converse with them, they all fly away—but once I grow up, even from afar, I’ll understand.”
“Because ears are small, they can’t take in all the different voices—Mother has been saying that since I was a baby.”
“Dogs, cats, and humans—they’re all the same.”

“Hey, Mother—right, Mother? Everyone will understand someday, won’t they?”

III

Mother smiled gently,

“Ah, so that’s what it was about—is Teacher upset?”

Not only that—even through my childish perception, I had noticed Teacher making that unpleasant face—but this came after we’d exchanged a few more words of various sorts.

At first, Teacher laughed and said, “Well, if you insist on thinking that way, we’ll let it stand for now.”
“However,” she continued explaining, “humans possess wisdom—something other animals like birds and beasts could never attain—and since you live by the riverbank,” she added, using examples from there to illustrate her point.

Fishing, casting nets, spearing birds—all through human wisdom. Because they know nothing, understand nothing, they get lured in, get speared, get devoured—that’s how it was explained.
I knew such things without being told—I saw them morning and night.

By the bridge, they would go up and down the river casting drift nets to catch fish—while standing rigidly in the water with hands cupped and trembling, they were humans with faces; yet when diving under, they inverted themselves and swam for nearly five minutes, only their legs visible.
The awkwardness of those legs was beyond description.
Beautiful—the sight of goldfish swimming with their tail fins, or the magnificence of ayu leaping up with their silvery glimmer fluttering—they simply couldn’t compare.
And then—soaked through like that, sticking their legs out from the great river—could there really be humans like this?
Now, thinking they're human feels strange—but if I imagine legs sprouting from the river itself, watching becomes so amusing I don't mind it at all. Mother says this makes far better entertainment than going to see dull sideshows, and so I believe it.

“And then—the ones fishing are, you see, Teacher,” I said to her again at that time. “That’s not human—it’s a mushroom. Look.” “A figure standing erect with one hand tucked in and a hat on its head could only be a solitary shimeji mushroom sprouting atop the embankment.”

When evening came and their lanky shadows stretched long—those dim mouse-gray silhouettes standing there—they resembled mushrooms all the more. Far into the distance they lined up: ten or thirty of them, small ones and large ones, short ones and tall ones, with those nearest the bridge serving as their heads. At peak times fifty or sixty sprouted daily, while clusters of five or six huddled here and there like thickets of a thousand shimeji mushrooms—though these were tiny ones. Trees and grasses swayed when the wind blew, but mushrooms—well, mushrooms didn’t budge an inch. These were the wise humans who fished—and they didn’t budge an inch. Meanwhile, all the fish swam about leisurely.

Even if they have wisdom, since they can’t speak words, compared to birds it’s an even match—that’s how it goes with bird catchers.

I had seen such a thing before.

An old bird catcher from elsewhere had come and stopped under the hackberry tree at our bridge’s end. When he aimed his pole at a cute bunting perched on the sixth branch’s tip and I cried out “Oh no!”, he hissed “Shh! Quiet! Quiet!” He glared at me with such a terrifying face that I stepped back and watched silently—he stopped breathing entirely, still as stone, then crouched low and slowly extended his pole straight through empty air to take aim. Yet all the while, oblivious to danger, the bunting kept chattering merrily with its “chit-chit-chit-chit”, as if holding conversation.

When he finally speared and caught it—the bunting whirling at his pole’s tip while still crying out fiercely—that wise old bird catcher stayed silent. He grabbed it like one snatches a loach, twisted it into his waist pouch without a word of explanation or apology, then lumbered away just as mutely as he’d arrived.

IV

The bunting was taken by the wise bird catcher, but it kept on singing.
It was speaking.
The man remained silent, and even I, watching nearby, couldn't say a thing.
There's no use comparing—you can't determine which is superior anyway.

Because I had said all those things, I truly believed them.

But it seems Teacher hadn't been angry about that.

And she went on and on about all sorts of things, lecturing that humans were superior to birds and beasts, but since she kept citing examples from places I didn't know or understand—like the middle of the ocean or deep in the mountains—I couldn't argue back, yet not a single thing she said struck me as convincing.

Because I didn't think what Mother said were lies.
Would Mother ever tell lies?

Teacher tried to care for thirty or forty children in her class all by herself while Mother cared only for me alone—so even if Teacher's words might deceive me, what Mother told me could never differ from the truth. That's what I thought, yet Teacher kept saying things completely opposed to Mother's teachings—how could I ever be convinced?

Because I didn’t nod, Teacher said again, “Very well then—we’ll let everyone have it your way.”
“But surely even *you* can understand that humans stand superior and splendid above mere trees and grasses! Let us first establish *that* as our foundation before engaging in proper discourse.”

I didn’t understand—I didn’t think that way.

“That’s what Mother said—(but Teacher, flowers are more beautiful than you)—that’s what she said.”
“I truly thought so—because in the garden, you see, I could see chrysanthemum flowers blooming.”

Teacher was a woman with her hair done in a Western-style bun—dark-complexioned, short-statured, rock-solid in build, and rotundly plump—and when I said that, her face flushed red. Then since she abruptly began speaking in this blunt, hammering manner, I figured that must have been what provoked her anger.

“Mother, so that’s why she got angry? That’s how it was?”

Mother nodded emphatically,

“Oh my, did you say such a thing, boy?”
“That stands to reason.”

She said this with a smile, but it was no different from when I’d act up and refuse to accept Mother’s words—she never scolded me, never made a frightening face, only ever showed that same gentle smile.

That’s right.
Teacher’s anger must have been because of that.

“But Teacher’s always saying ‘You mustn’t tell lies,’ you know?
I really do think flowers are more beautiful.
You see, Mother—the flowers are more beautiful than that young master’s kimono with its blues and purples all mixed together. That’s what you mean, right?
But Teacher’s just…”

“Oh, but still—you mustn’t say such things before others.”
“Besides you and Mother, there exists no one else who knows such wonderful things.”
“If you speak thus to those who don’t understand, they’ll grow angry.”
“But you see, so long as you keep thinking that way, you mustn’t voice it aloud.”
“Understand?”
“And though they claim Teacher harbors anger and resentment—how could such a thing be possible?”
“That’s all because *you* perceive it so. When you watch sparrows gathering crumbs and think them joyful, then joyful they appear. When you heard that bunting pierced by someone and deemed its voice sorrowful—didn’t it cry ‘hee-hee-hee’ like a pitiful wail?”

“Even so, if Teacher makes a frightening face, you needn’t look at such things. You should gaze upon those beautiful chrysanthemums you mentioned instead.
“Now then—are they blooming in the school garden?”

“Ah, so many.”

“Then come to school if you want to see those chrysanthemums.
Flowers may not speak—you cannot hear them with your ears—but in return, they show their beauty to your eyes.”

The one complaint was the foul weather—outside, the rain showed no sign of letting up.

V

He leaned out again and looked at the river from the window.
Earlier, the rain had fallen so densely that everything appeared as though printed with pale ink—embankments, stone walls, gabions, patches of grass on sandbars—all mottled here and there with darkened blotches, damp and dim enough to obscure vision. But as the skies now cleared slightly, every rain-soaked thing became visible.

In the distance, midway down the stone wall beneath the embankment, cowering like an ornament, there was a monkey.

This monkey had no owner.
It was tied to a post with thin hemp rope, so passersby—like that marsh-mushroom of a man who gave half his boxed lunch rice ball, or young masters and nursemaids sharing sweets from their sleeves, or Mii-chan’s crimson sparrow in her red kimono and Yoshikō’s white-eye in his blue haori, even the manor’s princess—would all go tease it as their favorite plaything: making it hold flowers, draping towels over its head, spraying it with water guns. In return, they’d share whatever food they had. Though no one claimed ownership or tended to it regularly, the monkey never starved.

At times it would play pranks—plucking the crown feathers from crimson sparrows or scratching bull-headed shrikes—so with Sarumatsu around, one couldn’t carelessly let adorable little birds outside unattended. Unless someone was keeping watch, it was too dangerous, which was why they had often untied his rope to set him free on several occasions.

No sooner was it released than the monkey scurried about everywhere, indulging in reckless mischief.
They said that on moonlit nights, it had knocked on temple gates; that it had sneaked into people’s kitchens, hauled pots and rice tubs up onto large roofs, and eaten with its hands; that it had pulled at the sleeve of a beautiful bird—its blue feathers fluttering with flecks of red—and pointed to a distant mountain until the bird fainted. Even in my own memory, someone once cut its rope.
At that time, it was lying on its back where the branch of the Shigure Enoki tree forked into two, catching a crow’s leg.
Then it dumped the sand sharks—caught by that damp marsh-mushroom of a man and stored in a basket—committed all sorts of mischief, and was finally caught by the barber at Ukiyodoko near the bridgehead, who square-cut the hair on its forehead. Though they showed mercy and banished it, come dawn, there it was again—properly tied to its usual post.
Midway along the stone wall atop the gabions, where on the upper embankment there was a willow stump.

I knew that once again they had started up—catching the monkey on this street and tying it up there—and made a great fuss wondering, "Who could it be? Who could it be?"

And this monkey had an origin.

That was something Mother knew, and she told me about it.

About eight or nine years ago—when I was still small inside Mother’s belly—it was New Year’s, the beginning of spring.

Now, in this vast world, all Mother and I possess is this guard hut and temporary bridge, but back then I’m told a bridge of this scale was merely one scenic element within the estate’s garden.
Now when townspeople came for seasonal outings in spring, summer, autumn, and winter—to Sakura Mountain, Peach Valley, that Plum Grove, and Iris Pond—all were Father’s. What appeared from this window along embankment banks, beneath willows, atop gabions—their body colors alone resembling buntings, white-eyes, tits—were not actual small birds. Truly lovely, beautiful beings could apparently be seen just like this from the second-floor window with vermillion-lacquered railings.
Though she hasn’t spoken of it today, during lonely rainy times like this she would always tell me about those days.

VI

Now that there was no such joyful, beautiful flower garden anymore, from this small window where the bamboo basket for collecting bridge tolls had once sat, I could see countless things instead—a peculiar wild boar braving winds, a rare mushroom of uncanny shape, a mysterious monkey, and still others: birds with human faces, beasts of all sorts. Since Mother said these at least became memories worth keeping—and perhaps because I too chose to see them this way—when people walked by, lifting one leg reminded me of a one-legged bird, which amused me.
When I saw people laugh, I found it amusing—it was like watching a beast open its big red maw.
When Mii-chan spoke, I found it funny—it was as if a little bird had started chirping.
And everything was so amusing and ridiculous that I couldn’t help bursting out laughing.

But just as Mother said moments ago, only she and I know such wonderful things. How could the likes of Mii-chan, Yoshikō, or even that schoolteacher possibly understand, even if we taught them?

To be trampled upon, kicked at by hind legs that kicked up sand, tormented and blamed, forced to drink scalding water, pelted with grit, whipped until you cried from dawn till dusk with a parched throat, spitting blood until you nearly vanished—all while people watched from their perches above, finding amusement in it, laughing at it, taking comfort in it, delighting in it—until your eyes grew bloodshot, your hair wild, your lips torn raw—thinking "How infuriating! How infuriating! How infuriating! How infuriating! You beasts! You brutes!" over and over—unless five or eight years had passed like this, they said one couldn’t truly understand or remember—so Mother had taught me in full about these horrors that would make even my late Father and herself shudder to hear: those agonizing, painful, bitter, cruel trials she herself had finally come to grasp. And so I would cling to Mother’s shoulders crying "Mama! Mama!", clamber onto her lap, rummage through her sewing box, spin rulers about, drape half-sewn garments over the skylight, get scolded and scamper off—yet through it all she properly instructed me. Once I had learned and understood this—seeing people as birds, beasts, grasses, trees, insects, mushrooms—nothing could be more fascinating or splendid.
Yet when I thought of Mother—she who had taught me such wondrous things—a gloom settled over me.
This held no amusement at all—it was saddening, wasteful—or so I thought.

But Mother must not listen carelessly.
Since I had taken such pains to finally teach you this—if you were to listen carelessly now—you would incur punishment.
That humans and beasts, plants and trees—even insects—though their forms may differ—are all fundamentally the same.

Since she put it that way, I always listened with my hands pressed to the floor.

At first, I simply couldn't see people as birds or beasts. Being treated kindly made me happy; being scolded frightened me; seeing someone cry filled me with pity—and I thought all sorts of things. Each time I mentioned this and asked Mother about it, she would say there was no difference at all—it was all just birds chirping, dogs barking, that monkey baring its teeth, trees shuddering—yet I still couldn't fully accept it. But whenever I cried from being bullied or felt happy from being comforted while sniffling, Mother taught me about it each time, until nowadays I no longer feel anything at all.

And whereas before I would think "They must be cold like that, how freezing," feeling pity when seeing someone drenched and dripping from the rain as before, or find amusement in watching anglers who seemed to be enjoying themselves—nowadays it was nothing but strange mushrooms and peculiar boars; nothing but absurdity; nothing but amusement; nothing but tedium; nothing but unsightliness; nothing but utter foolishness. Then someone like Mii-chan was adorable; someone like Yoshikō was beautiful—yet this differed not one bit from how a crimson sparrow is beautiful or a white-eye is adorable—beautiful, adorable.
Beautiful, adorable.

VII

There were hateful ones too, others that grated on the nerves—but these differed not at all from moments when a monkey seemed hateful or a bird proved irritating. When all was said and done, everything amounted to mere absurdity; laughable fodder all, never anything worth grasping hold of properly.

Which meant that being moved by emotion—to grieve, lament, take pleasure, rejoice—these remained Mother's domain alone, dependent on time and circumstance. My own heart grew daily more indifferent to others' conditions. Yet to reach this state of mind—for my instruction regarding those seen and heard each day and night—who could say what hardships Mother might have endured? How meticulously she must have labored: kindly without respite, earnestly grinding understanding into me through patient repetition.

Given this, how could outsiders like the schoolteacher ever comprehend such matters through trivial exposure? No one could possibly understand.

However, it seemed there existed one other person besides Mother and me who knew these things—the old monkey handler, that man who had been the monkey’s former owner—the one Mother always told me about, who huddled over there like a discarded ornament.

What I had meant earlier when I said the monkey had an origin—this was what it referred to.

When I was still in Mother’s womb—she had said that, hadn’t she?

On the first Day of the Hare, Mother had visited the Tenjin Shrine in the Utsumi district of the city, accompanied by two maidservants, and returned in the evening.
There—across the river where the monkey now resided—the Old Monkey Handler had sat upon that willow stump on the embankment, gripping the monkey’s tether, hunched over and shriveled into himself, breathing heavily through his shoulders.

It was thought they must have been what we now call the Crimson Sparrow's sister and the Bunting's brother of today.
Men and women—seven or eight of them—gathered around, swarming over the monkey, teasing it until it shrieked "kyaa kyaa," roaring with laughter as they clapped their hands and cheered, finding endless amusement in their cruel sport. After thoroughly diverting themselves with shouts of "Here's sweets!" "Throw it a tangerine!" "Make it eat rice cakes!" they piled a mountain of treats upon the monkey before stampeding off when darkness fell.
And it was said not a single soul showed kindness to the old man.

Taking pity on him, Mother gave him coins and draped a shawl over his shoulders; then the old man shed tears, bowed in gratitude, and rejoiced—and so,

"(Ah, Madam, I wish to become a beast.
"Why, they're all beasts—this monkey must be one of their lot.
"While feeding their own kind, they pay no mind to a mere human like myself." Glaring around as he said this—this old man likely understood, or rather, needed no understanding—Mother recounted how he spoke these words, knowing without being told that humans are beasts.

You know your stuff, old man.
The old man, Mother, and I—the three of us.

At that moment, when the old man tried to abandon the monkey by tying its tether rope to a post there as it was and walking away, the accompanying maid spoke up and asked what he intended to do.
When Mother also chimed in from nearby, asking, "Well, isn't it pitiful to abandon a child like this?" the old man reportedly sneered,

“No, no need for concern, Madam. If humans were treated thus, they might starve or freeze—but as this one is a beast, do watch over it with patience in time to come, for it shall never know hunger again.”

And with that, he thanked her profusely, then parted ways and went off somewhere—it’s said.

Indeed, the monkey was not starving.
By now, it must have been of considerable age.
So it was the old monkey man.
No wonder it had such a strange face—seasoned and knowing yet earnest and unfazed.
I can see it, I can see it! Through the window, as clearly as if I could reach out and touch it—there it sits hunched over in the rain, I tell you!

VIII

Though it was a monkey I’d grown accustomed to seeing morning and night—nothing special about it—now that I’d started thinking these thoughts and pondering all sorts of things, it felt strangely dear to me again.
"I want to go see that funny face right away," I thought, placing my hands on the windowsill and stretching up until my shoulders poked fully outside—then rain splashed against me, the edges of my eyes stung cold, and a chill breeze swept across my cheeks.

Just then, the makeshift bridge creaked violently, scattering the mist-like rain across the river surface as if scooping it up, and the current turned black before surging forth swiftly.
Along with that commotion, a man in Western clothes was crossing the bridge from the opposite bank.

The bridge planks creaked and groaned as he approached—Dr. Anglerfish in mouse-gray Western attire, buttons undone to expose a gaudy cravat at his chest. His narrow shoulders gave way to an absurdly protruding paunch supported by stubby legs and oversized shoes. A tall hat crowned his elongated face, his nose red from the cold.
With great strides, he lifted each sturdy-looking boot alternately as he came walking.
The red soles of his boots were clearly visible one after another from my vantage point, though he himself likely couldn't see his own toenails.
It was said that anyone with a belly that swollen had never glimpsed anything between their navel and knees.
Oh!
Oh! A figure in a short coat and boots came rolling toward me, I thought, watching intently—then as he reached the bridge's midpoint and removed his nose glasses, raindrops fogged the lenses.

He took out a handkerchief from his coat pocket and began to wipe them, but since he was holding the umbrella in one hand, he tried freeing his hand by tucking its handle between his neck and shoulder. Bowing his head, he started cleaning the lenses.

This was someone I'd seen countless times before—for as a child prone to nosiness, whenever five or six people clustered within sight over anything at all—be it an old woman's tumble or flowers blooming—I would invariably stop to watch, regardless of place or circumstance.
In any gathering of fifty people or more, there had never been an instance where this gentleman wasn't present.

Whenever he looked around, he would almost invariably seize someone nearby and speak in an ascending, composed tone about something or other.
Moreover, having never heard anything from others himself, he was perpetually making others hear him.
Yet even when no listeners remained, he would continue speaking alone—uttering "Hmm," "Ah," as if assenting to something—not as soliloquy, but in a manner demanding to be overheard.
Mother too knew of this and said it was simply the doctor's way.

But he was certainly no yellowtail—that swollen belly of his so resembled an anglerfish's that I called him Dr. Anglerfish in private, I tell you. Not long ago, he had come to observe at the school. Back then too, he wore that same tall hat he had on now—but why on earth did he insist on wearing such an absurd hat again?

You see—when he tried to wipe his glasses while pressing the umbrella under his chin—the moment he looked down, his hat tilted under its own weight and began slipping until, before you knew it, it had slid all the way down over that red nose of his. With his glasses removed and the hat covering them completely, he panicked when his vision disappeared—his entire face swallowed by the hat, only his mouth remaining visible as it gaped open crimson-wide. Frantically jerking his head back to shake off the hat, he sent the umbrella clattering down.

As it fell, the umbrella spun wildly three times through the air—and in that brief moment, Dr. Anglerfish himself whirled around about five times before reaching out. A sudden sideways gust caught it, sending the umbrella flying diagonally downstream where it landed with infuriating leisureliness in that hateful breeze—floating down gently only to immediately shoot away like an arrow carried by the current.

Dr. Ōnosuke held his glasses in one hand while keeping the other on his hat; then, violently and abruptly, he stomped the void beneath his soles so rapidly it defied counting—the bridge creaked and groaned as it shook.

“Mother, Mother, Mother.”
And I stomped my feet.

“Yes,” came the calm reply from behind me.

Without turning around from what I saw through the window, I blurted out,

"Oh no, it's flowing away!"

"A bird or a beast?" she responded with unshakable calm.

"A bat! An umbrella! Oh, it's already gone—look, see? It's washed away!"

"A bat, you say?"

"Oh! He dropped it! How pitiful."

I involuntarily sighed and muttered.

Mother said with laughter in her voice,
“Renya, that’s a sign the rain will clear.”
At that moment, the monkey moved.

IX

It spun once around the ring, placed its front paws down, climbed onto the stake—likely checking the weather—and looked up at the sky.
When it cleared up, it would go soon.

Mother does not lie.

Dr. Ōnosuke was gesturing frantically but seemed unable to speak.
And then, he rushed up and tried to pass silently in front of the hut.

“Mister! Mister!”

I called out sternly.
I pressed on,

“Leave the bridge toll, Mister.”

And so I said.

“What?!”

It was no single coherent voice—more like he’d been bottling up words in that swollen belly until they hardened, then violently snapped them out with a popgun crack. Head bowed low, red nose jutting downward, he glared up from under his brow.

“What is it?” he said magnanimously this time.

I did not reply.
It wasn’t that I was surprised, nor was I afraid.
Though anglerfish-like, his face didn’t quite fit—what should I compare it to? What does this high red nose resemble, its tip slightly drooping to drape over the upper lip in the most absurd way? Not a fish nor beast, but rather a bird’s beak.
Sparrow? Tit? No, not quite.
And when, even then finding no match, I thought of a turkey—in that same lukewarm tone—

“Fool.”

Dismissing it with that, he tried to shake the sinking hat back into place and started to walk away.

“You,” Mother declared in a firm voice, flicking off two or three thread scraps from her lap with her slender, white fingertips before smoothly rising to stand by the window.

“You mustn’t neglect to pay the toll.”

“Er, er, er.”

he said with visible exasperation,

“Do you not know who I am, uh, at all?”

“And who might you be?” she said coldly. Hearing this, I felt a wave of satisfaction. She splashed water on whatever displeasing thing came into view, washing it down from the skylight—it was always like this, utterly splendid.

Anglerfish puffed out his belly and shrugged his shoulders, then took a business card from his coat pocket and placed it straight into the bamboo basket with deference.

“This is what I am! This! Me!”

—and with a terribly short finger wearing a thick gold ring, he pointed at the title.

Without even taking it in hand, he recited in a low mumble: City Sanitation Committee Member, Educational Discussion Society Executive, Life Insurance Company Employee, Ichirokai Association President, Art Promotion Society Director—Ōno Kitarō.

“This gentleman?”

“Uu,” he grunted—his puffed-up nose tip wobbling—then flicked some sort of badge on his chest with his hand.

“Do you understand now?”

This time he said in a gentle tone and made to leave again.

“You must not pass. If you won’t pay, then turn back,” Mother said.

The Teacher stood blankly with a peculiar expression but then became slightly more earnest,

“W-well, there aren’t any small coins.”

“I shall give you your change.”

Mother reached into her obi.

Ten

Mother does not tell lies.
After Dr. Ōnosuke left the bridge toll and fled, the rain soon cleared.
The bridge and gabions, soaked black by the rain, stepped out into bright daylight.
From the hackberry branches, droplets pattered down intermittently.
Sunlight struck the midstream - to gaze directly was near-blinding.

“Mother, let’s go play.”

At this moment, she took up the scissors,

“Ah.”

“C’mon, let’s go out. It’s cleared up now.”

“That’s fine, Renya, but you mustn’t tease the monkey too much again.”
“You can’t expect the Winged Sister to always be there so conveniently.”
“And if you were to fall in again...”

She glanced briefly, gazed with her clear eyes, smiled faintly and bowed her head, then diligently continued sewing.

Yes, yes!
That was it.

Look at that one—scratching its cheek right now, puffing up indignantly from its sodden fur as it basks in the sun—what a detestable creature.

Half a year must have passed by now.
On one of those evenings when summer’s heat clung stubbornly to the air, I’d gone out to play as usual. When someone reached through the skylight to pat its head, the wretched beast—in some malicious jest—bared its teeth with a shrill screech and made as if to claw them. Startled, I tried to jump back, but it seized my sleeve with its front paws and refused to let go, leaving us locked in a desperate tug-of-war.
My left sleeve tore with a violent ripping sound; thrown off balance by the sudden release, my footing—still unsteady from the recent rain—gave way completely.
I slipped on the stones and went sliding down into the river.
A wave crashed over my face with a choked gasp—I drew breath only to sink backward into the water. Dazed, I tried to right myself but collapsed again; my vision darkened as I gulped another desperate breath, thrashing my arms and kicking wildly only to sink deeper with each panicked movement.
Just as despair began tightening its grip, I glimpsed Mother sitting calmly inside and rallied my strength—yet still I kept sinking deeper with every thrash. Strangely enough, I believe I even managed to ponder calmly what to do next.
Then came that peculiar sense of detachment—as if none of this were truly happening.
At moments I thought I might wake at any second; drifting in this haze until suddenly remembering I was underwater, I tried to scream—and swallowed another mouthful of river.
It’s over.

My chest ached with sudden resignation; then I swallowed water in slow motion. As I grew dazedly disoriented, a thread-like crimson ray—※（火＋發）—shot through the water. Enveloped in this sudden brightness, I gasped for breath. The mountain ridge appeared distant below; my body left the ground, held aloft by something cold beyond the peaks. Large beautiful eyes—framed by dripping hair—pressed against my cheek. I clung motionless, keeping my eyes shut tight.

It was no dream. After all, one sleeve had been missing. That I'd been saved from nearly drowning in the river—I heard this that evening while held in Mother's lap. Therefore, it was no dream.

"Who was it that saved me?" I asked Mother.
This was the only time when I asked something and she hesitated in her reply; the only time when it was not likened to a wild boar, a wolf, a fox, a bush warbler, a mountain tit, an anglerfish, a mackerel, maggots, caterpillars, grass, bamboo, pine mushrooms, or bog moss; the only time when her complexion changed; and the only time when she spoke in a small voice.

And then Mother spoke these words.

“Renya, that would be a beautiful sister with great iridescent wings, soaring through the heavens, you see.”

Eleven

“She’s a bird, Mother,” I pressed at that moment.

To this too Mother hesitated slightly,

“She’s not a bird—she’s a beautiful sister with wings.”

I just couldn’t understand.
When I pestered her until finally she said I wouldn’t understand—then pressed her again—still,

“I told you—a beautiful sister with wings.”

So with no other choice I stopped asking and resolved to look.
Desperate to see that beautiful winged being—“Where? Where?” I’d demand—yet she’d only say she didn’t know—until day after day of my persistence finally drew from her a resigned expression,

“You might go look in front of the bird shop.”

Then it was simple.

When I left the hut and walked about two hundred meters, there was immediately a slope, and at the base of the slope stood a single bird shop—a bright, bright little store on sunny days, devoid of any tree shade, aligned with the eaves of townhouses.
Parrots—with their small, dewy-looking eyes that seemed ready to drip—still had pupils that moved.
Day after day I went and stood there, until finally they began to recognize my face and nod—but that wasn’t it.

The robin—flying up from the bottom to the top of its tall cage, clinging there, then flipping abruptly to show its belly and dropping like a ripe persimmon with a plop, pecking at its feed—paid me no mind; it didn’t care about me in the slightest. But that wasn’t it either.
They were all different.
I asked people standing nearby, "Isn’t there a beautiful winged sister here?"—but some laughed, others mocked; some pretended not to hear, others dismissed it as nonsense; some called me a fool; some said this kid’s as touched as Mother at the guard hut.
They’re all beasts.

When I asked, “Isn’t there a beautiful sister with wings?”, they smiled faintly and stroked my head from both sides with their hands as if to encompass it—it was two cavalrymen in matching scarlet woolen trousers—when I asked—they smiled faintly, stroked my head from both sides with their hands, then wordlessly linked arms and climbed the slope. The long boots clomped hollowly, and two long silver swords stood straight, gleaming. That was all—the rest just mocked me.

For about five days，I’d return from school and go straight to the bird shop，standing there motionless until I even recognized the bird making rhythmic tapping sounds in the dark back shelves—but the Winged Sister was nowhere to be found。Dazedly and vacantly，I couldn’t help but feel I’d truly grown a little foolish，and I’d finally head home as dusk fell。
In the end，I resigned myself that she wasn’t at the bird shop，but since I couldn’t bear not seeing her，I begged Mother again。
Where are you？Where are you，beautiful winged person？
No matter what she said，I wouldn’t accept it，so Mother—

“Renya, why don’t you go look in the woods or the rice paddies out back? If she’s soaring through the heavens, she might not be in a cage at all.”

Then I—well—went to the plum grove place.

The place with Sakura Mountain, Peach Valley, and Iris Pond.

But there was nothing but green leaves there—short irises bunched together—and during those days when the water looked blackish, I went for two or three days straight but found no small bird.
Crows were everywhere.
When they’d caw for a spell then quiet down, their forms would vanish—probably hiding the sunlight with those wings of theirs.
Large wings—truly enormous wings—but not the ones.

Twelve

As dusk approached, plum trees lined up here and there, crisscrossing as they rapidly darkened.
What stood out white against the murky stagnant water in the paddy fields among the branches were herons—two birds here, three birds there—and then one bird ascended diagonally into the air about six feet, drawing up water like threads from its legs without a sound. But that wasn’t it.

The frogs began to croak all at once.
The forest darkened, and the mountains disappeared from view.

It should have been early evening, but with the sky overcast, not a star could be seen; everything lay shrouded in a gloomy haze the color of ash, while frogs croaked incessantly.

Looking up at a high place, there was a window with a vermilion-lacquered railing—a face peered out from it—I sat perched in a hole of the broken fence, staring vacantly while thinking that face must have been my own.

It’s fine to struggle all day seeking that beautiful winged person while my mind isn’t yet weary, but when it goes too far and grows so late, I always end up like this—despondent, feeling somehow estranged from people, distanced from the world, left both uneasy and forlorn, uncertain and afraid.
It’s an awful feeling, an awful feeling.

I tried to head back quickly, but my spirits grew heavy—yet my nerves sharpened—and despite it all, a yawn escaped me unbidden.
Ah!
Realizing I'd opened my red mouth, I startled myself with the thought.
The dimly visible plum branches seemed to stand stretching out their hands.
When I glanced around, it was pitch black; in the distance, something was calling out—hoo, hoo—what could it be?
The bird’s cry—piercing and clear, as if pushing open the edges of the wilderness; its *hoot-hoot-hoot-hoot* reverberation echoing like a sound traveling from afar—was an owl.

Not just one.

Two, even three.
What could they be discussing with me? What could they be saying to me?
When the birds spoke, I shuddered, and every hair on my body stood on end.

I had never known a night as terrifying as that one.

The frogs' cries grew ever louder—such an overwhelming multitude! Hundreds—no, thousands—of them were croaking there. Thousands of frogs, each with eyes, a mouth, legs, a body, dwelling in the water—each producing that sound.
One by one, they cried out—
A chill came.
A wind arose faintly, and the trees swayed ponderously.

The frogs’ cries grew ever louder.
I couldn’t sit still or stand still, and quietly began to move.
My body seemed to have given out—I couldn’t rise properly and crouched there, my skirt tangling around my legs, my obi slightly loosened, my chest exposed, sitting with my face down while staring at the skylight.
Things were dimly visible.

What was visible were my eyes—and I trembled again.

Trembling, I gently, carefully, secretly gathered my wrists and tried to look at my own body—when I spread my sleeves to either side, I involuntarily let out a shriek.
Because I looked like a bird.
How terrified I must have been!

At that moment, had Mother not firmly held me from behind, I don’t know what I would have done.
It was because she had come to check on me since it had gotten late, and yet I couldn’t even cry—
"Mother!" I exclaimed, determined not to let go, clinging firmly, firmly, firmly to her collar and looking up at her face—when suddenly I realized.

It seemed so—the beautiful winged person must indeed be Mother.
I won’t go to the bird seller anymore.
Never again to this terrifying place—not ever after.

But no matter how I looked, Mother bore no trace of those resplendent five-colored wings—which meant it couldn’t be her; perhaps another such person existed—yet uncertainty gnawed at me, leaving doubts unresolved.

The rain had stopped, and surely the stone field would be treacherously slick now.

Mother says that, but should I deliberately collide with that monkey and try falling into the river again?
If I do that, she’ll probably pull me up again.
I want to see her!
The beautiful Winged Sister.
But, well, it’s fine.
Because Mother is here. Because Mother came.

Meiji 30 (1897), April