Pathway to Japanese Literature

The Traveler was still lost.
From dark forest to dark forest depths, snow never once let up—busily powdering treetops and leaf-strewn ground below.
The young Traveler—not yet sixteen—walked shivering through snowdrifts while recalling Mother’s final kiss and the smiling face of a woman who had seen him off at the village outskirts—her beauty delicate as a fledgling sparrow’s.
The dark-dark forest showed no sign of ending.
Stretched endlessly onward. “Which way west? Which east? If I go here… might I reach his beautiful country?”
The Traveler—guided by an eighty-year-old grandmother in white hood and thick spectacles—journeyed from his village seven ri westward toward lands of blue-watered mountains and violet-cheeked maidens—a quest for utamakura.
Fine small snowflakes clumped into weightier forms and fell.

The snow fell plip-plop upon the dark green mantle, upon the red hat, and upon the soft red boots as it continued dampening them.
His cheeks glowed red from the cold wind’s bite, while golden hair spilled in soft waves from beneath the red hat to cascade over his shoulders.
Lips like a single plucked rose petal were tightly pursed, occasionally parting slightly to reveal teeth as they sang a snow poem.
The young Traveler was a poet who sang youthfully passionate verses like flowing blood.
Even as he wandered deep into the forest, lost and troubled, he did not forget to praise the silver-like powder snow.
The thickets of oak trees that stood like brooms stripped of their leaves grew increasingly sparse, and what appeared to be large, sturdy boot prints of a woodcutter were discovered.
The red lips opened without restraint and said, “We’re out of the village—out!”
His eyes opened even wider, yet his footing remained unsteady.
“Ahh—the village! The village!”
The small green-clad form traced a single line through the white snow.
It must have been due to the momentary relief of having reached the village.
However, there was no one to rouse him nor anyone to offer comfort.
It was just beyond the forest’s edge—and on a day when the snow lay deep at that.
From the distant faraway came a figure.
Not a man.
A long-haired beauty in white garments.
She glided smoothly to his side.
Then knelt down, gently stroked his head with her pale hand, and pressed her rosy cheek against his pallid one.

The young poet's eyes opened.
Gradually, color flooded back into his cheeks.
His eyes shone with incomparable beauty, radiant with joy and astonishment.
In a voice clear and beautiful, the Forest Woman said, “What happened? You’ve recovered already.”
The poet looked up and down at her noble figure like a forest-raised child might gaze at village women venturing from their homes.
Yet within the clever, beautiful poet’s breast rose memories suited to a youthful heart.
Crossing his slender arms over his chest as if confirming some truth, he declared, “Thank you, Snow Princess.
“You helped me this way because I’ve always loved snow, haven’t you?”
“Thank you, Princess,” he whispered tremulously, then pressed his lips to the back of her exquisite hand.

The woman trembled faintly as she said, “No no, I’m not such a person.”
“But still, I’m glad you noticed.”
“Then why are you traveling alone on such a snowy day?”
“I’m going seven ri west from the village to seek utamakura in that beautiful land.”
“Oh my! For one so beautiful to go to that beautiful land—truly!” she said, taking his hand and silently gazing into those lovely eyes.
After standing awhile, “Come along,” said the beautiful woman as she rose.
The poet wanted to resume his journey then and there, yet felt compelled to follow—drawn by that nostalgic pull he knew from meeting the eighteen-year-old girl next door who always doted on him—trailing silently in her wake.
The long-fingered woman walked lightly in red leather boots like a Greek goddess’s, white robe hem fluttering.
The poet scurried after her—what would any observer have made of them then?
Surely they’d think figures from ancient masterpieces had been lured forth by this exquisite snowscape.
The Traveler walked dreamily, as if wrapped in warmth.
Before he knew it, a beautiful small house appeared.
Neatly built of white bricks with ivy clinging round.
Crimson foliage everywhere, white flowers blooming thickly, windows of purple glass.
“This is my home—please enter.”
The poet was led inside by her hand.
Instantly a lovely fragrance enfolded him.
Snowlight filtered through purple curtains and glass bathed the room in pale violet; chairs and tables all elegantly formed.
In the exquisitely shaped stove blazed a fire roaring as if celebrating riches and joy.
Its marbled light flickered across the woman’s fair cheeks.

“You must have been cold. Quickly warm yourself up and then tell me stories of the human world.”

The woman had him remove his wet green mantle and sit in the chair beside her.

“You small and beautiful one, may I ask what your name is?”

“Me? I don’t have a name—it’s just that both the neighbor girl and my mother call me □□□, so I’ve come to think that must be my name.”

“Oh my, what a lovely name! How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

“Do you have a younger sister?”
“What do you do every day?”

“I have neither younger sisters nor older brothers.”
“Every day after eating breakfast, I go to the back pasture with the neighbor girl and play with this year’s lambs under the apple trees.”
“The neighbor girl Rose is as beautiful as her name suggests—with those white, slender arms of hers, she clasps my neck, gazes steadily at my face, and always tells me beautiful stories.”
“When noon comes, we return home and talk about various things.”
“Then when the sun begins dipping westward and reddens the forest canopy, I take my silver flute while Rose carries her songbook. We cross a small stream into the woods—gazing at purple mountains while leaning against tree trunks—Rose sings in her beautiful voice, and I play my flute in accompaniment.”
“When we do that, we feel so overwhelmingly good that we just fall silent holding each other’s hands.”
“Then without fail a poem would rise in my head.”
“I’d write it on paper then when the moon rose cross the river again to return home—show the poem to Mother—lean out the window to say ‘Goodnight’ to Rose next door—and climb into my white bed to sleep.”
“Rose does for me like an elder sister.”
“Mother also allows it.”

With his red lips moving as if lightly singing a song, he spoke in such a voice while leaning against the woman’s body, his eyes taking on a reminiscent look.
The woman—
“What does Ms. Rose look like?”

“Rose?
“Oh, she’s a beautiful person.
“She closely resembles me—with large green eyes and hair of true gold that she always wears loose without adornment—dressed in white robes and sheepskin boots, a person blessed with a beautiful voice.
“She’s my sister—isn’t it only natural she’s beautiful?”

“Truly, you know.
“Please stay in my home forever from now on.
“I’ll always sing beautiful songs and cherish you, okay?”

She said this while gripping [his] small hand with all her strength, her eyes sparkling.
The Traveler seemed both delighted and troubled,

“Well, I could stay here, but I still have somewhere else I need to go, you see.”

“There’s nowhere else you want to go besides here, is there?
“This is the place you wanted to come to, you see.
“From now on, I’ll take you around everywhere here every day.
“Okay? That’s alright, isn’t it?
“Please stay.
“I’m so unbearably lonely all by myself, you see.
“How old do you take me for? I’m still only eighteen.
“But I’m all alone in a place like this.
“I’m a mysterious being, you see.”

she said while resting her cheek on the traveler’s head.

“Huh? Alone?”
“Oh how pitiful… You’re all alone in such a lonely place.”
“Oh… and you say you’re a mysterious person.”
“Please tell me, okay?”
“I’ll stay here forever, okay?”

“Thank you. I shall tell you.”
“I was a foundling originally.”
“You see that lone pine over there? That’s where I was left abandoned.”
“Then came a great stag—oh how large he was—who found me and brought me to this house.”
“This happened when I was four winters old.”
“The deer reared me in wondrous ways—making me learn songs from the forest wrens, verses from river currents, how to shape myself from meadow blossoms—until I grew as you see me now.”
“And he commanded: ‘You must never meet humans while I live, lest grave misfortune befall me,’ keeping me ever within.”
“Yet that stag perished three moons past.”
“So here I dwell alone since.”

The poet pressed a hand to his thundering chest as he drank in her every word.

“My, what an interesting story!”
“So you must not be human after all.”
“But I will stay here forever.”
“Okay? Elder Sister.”

He said “Elder Sister” in a small voice, his face flushed as he looked up at the woman.
The woman’s eyes remained constantly fixed upon the poet’s face.

“Thank you,” said the woman as she took the traveler’s hand and gently pressed it to her lips.
While trembling slightly and embracing his delicate shoulders with both hands,

“Why are you so beautiful?” she said.
The poet didn’t hear it, but—
This was the first time the woman had met a young and beautiful man—it was only natural she found him so wondrously beautiful.

“You must be exhausted already—let’s rest early. I’ll sing you a lullaby, my beautiful one,” she said with a smile.

The beautiful traveler poet, having been saved by the mysterious and beautiful woman, came to live in this house.
The two of them pressed the carpet-like green grass with their toes and entered the bedroom.
By the marshmallow-white bed stood a lamp draped with peach-colored silk, while pale purple curtains hung around all four sides.
The beautiful woman laid the traveler down upon it and, while cradling his head in her hands, sat in a nearby chair and sang a lullaby in a small, pure voice—truly like the murmur of a brook.
The traveler turned his face toward her chest and quietly tried to enter the land of dreams.
Soft peach hues beautifully enveloped the two, and the warm air was fragrant like spring.
The traveler fell peacefully and soundly asleep.
The woman softly withdrew her hand yet still did not look away.
And in a small voice,

“Truly beautiful one… I wonder if you understand my heart now.”
With eyes filled with longing, she lightly closed them, pressed a maidenly kiss to his soft lips, and left with frequent backward glances.
Their dreams entwined sweetly, and dawn broke alongside the voices of the forest’s small birds.
After finishing a light breakfast, the two went to the forest.
The snow had completely ceased, and under the beautiful morning sun, it glittered magnificently beyond all words.
They walked quite a distance upon it, stepping lightly.
Gradually, the snow grew sparse, and they arrived at a place now completely free of snow.
Stretching their legs in the blue grass, they listened to the woman’s story told in a light, serene tone like a song being sung as warblers chirped around them.
The story was one she had heard from a walnut-loving squirrel in the forest when she was small.
It was a charming little tale.
The woman wrapped her white hands firmly around the poet’s neck, drawing him close to her quietly heaving chest, her cheeks flushing as she gazed at the traveler’s face.
The sun sank behind a speck-like spot on the distant mountain ridge; the poet’s golden hair glistened beautifully while the tip of the woman’s little finger shone through with translucent clarity.

“Let’s return now.”
“The sun has set as well, you see,” she said in a rapt voice, gazing up at the sky.

“Truly, Elder Sister—your shadow and mine have turned pitch black, with our heads merging into one, you see.”
"My heart is now filled with an indescribably beautiful feeling."
“Please, just a little longer—keep it like this, okay?”

“Yes, yes—as much as you like.”
“Please let me hear your beautiful poem,” said the woman, gently clasping his hand as if to preserve that exquisite moment unbroken, her eyes now turned toward the mountaintops beyond. Her profile—small lips slightly parted—she regarded with a gaze one might reserve for a sacred marble statue.
The traveler’s mouth opened slightly, and his song praising the evening cicadas came forth as if gushing from a crimson heart.
The emotionally heightened young poet, not yet sixteen, leaned against the chest of a woman who seemed not of this world, pressing a hand to his own chest while gazing upward, singing in a beautiful voice.
His large eyes filled with tears, his cheeks flushing crimson.
The woman wrote with a slender pen on pale-colored paper.
The faint sound of a flute calling distant flocks of sheep echoed through the air.
The boy’s song ceased at some point.
The movement of the woman’s hands stopped at some point.
The two remained fused together without moving a muscle.
Beautiful tears flowed from the poet’s eyes.
His hand stayed pressed against his chest.

The woman—

“What’s the matter, my beautiful one? Are you missing home?”

“No, that’s not it at all. I always end up feeling sad when evening comes, you see. Even when I go to the mountains with Rose, tears are sure to spill, you see. At such times, Rose would silently let the tears fall, then later press my head to her chest and say, ‘My dear, you mustn’t cry anymore,’ wiping the tears from my face with her own cheek. At such times I would always start crying all over again, pressing my head against her chest. Sometimes Rose would cry with me too. Neither I nor Rose understand why ourselves, you see.” The hand pressed against the chest came loose and fell away.

The woman, without saying a word, took the poet’s hand and,

“Now the sun has fully set,” she said.
“Let us return.”
The poet stood up silently.
The two shadows vanished into the forest.
That night’s dream too was hazy.
Yet after having once gone to bed, the woman rose again and—while fiddling with her long-stretched hair at the fingertips—said these things before lying down once more.

“No matter what Rose says—it’s no use.”
“I love him—that beautiful young poet—you see.”
“No matter what happens—it’s no use—I truly am.”

The next day, and the day after that, and the day after that as well, he spent each day in the beautiful manner he had always longed for.
He composed three or four poems in a single day.
Every single one of them was beautiful beyond anything seen before.
Thus they spent about two months.
Every day filled with seeing nothing but various rare and beautiful places—on this evening marking two months, the two of them still remained in the forest.
It was when the sunset cast its glow over that exquisite landscape.
The woman wearing a white dress fastened with a light blue sash and adorned with a Makka ruby brooch pressed her cheek to the young poet’s and whispered in a small trembling voice.

“My beautiful beloved, you know that □□.”
With a faint blush rising to her youthful cheek, she spoke in a voice even more beautiful than usual.

“I don’t know, but Rose had said so too, and I’ve heard others say it as well—‘The human heart becomes most beautiful when desire, praise, enmity, and strife vanish, which is when one is in love.’ I’ve also come to know this through stories—it truly does seem beautiful.”
“But I am only thinking it in my heart, you see,” he said.
In a manner truly befitting the speaking of beautiful things—with a beautiful voice.

“Yes, yes—it’s truly a beautiful thing. There could be nothing more beautiful in this world.”
“Here now—suppose there’s a certain woman.”
“You see, this woman had come to feel unbearably for someone younger than herself—a person of such surpassing beauty it defies description.”
“But that person was far too young.”
“And so, try as she might, he simply couldn’t understand the woman’s heart.”
“And so there’s a tale that the woman was tormented nearly to death, you see.”
“What do you think of that?”
She said earnestly, slightly raising her head.
The poet made a slightly troubled face, but in his imagination-rich mind, something had immediately surfaced.

“How pitiable indeed.”
“If I were a woman, you know, I’d surely do the same.”
“Let me keep this heart full of tender yearning, enter the sea or marsh I love, and die—but only after meeting that man and receiving his kiss.”
“If it were me, I’d surely do the same,” he said as though speaking of his own circumstances.

“Well then—if there were someone right beside you who felt that deeply about you?”

“I don’t know, you see.”
“I can’t possibly know whether they truly exist or not, you see.”
“Even if there were, I wouldn’t know, you see,” he said with aloof directness.
The woman made a forlorn expression and crossed her hands over her chest as she spoke:

“Such feelings… So that’s how it is,” she said, and then fell silent.
However, as usual, they sang songs and returned while pressed close together reciting poems.
The poet paid no particular heed, but the woman’s face brimmed with incomparable sorrow.
With one hand resting on the boy’s arm and her gaze downcast, she parted at the usual hour saying “Goodbye—sweet dreams.”

The poet had no sooner slipped into bed than he fell dreaming, but the woman found no sleep.
In the peach-hued lamplight, cradling her slender head, she spoke in a voice that seemed to dissolve away.

“Ah, it was just as I thought,” she said.
What should I do?
But there’s nothing to be done.
Still so young, you know.
Ah, those words from earlier—they say I’ll die still clinging to beautiful feelings.
Ah, right—I am far too young to be harboring such feelings.
Once he leaves, I’ll surely… Ah—I must find my way into his heart no matter what.
She buried her face in a white cushion as she slipped into a dream of wandering lost in a lonely, deep forest.
Day after day, the woman continued whispering enigmatic words into the young poet’s ear.

On the morning after ten days had passed, the young traveler said to the woman.

“Elder Sister, my head has become full of poems.”
“So I want to return home and truly write them, but—”
He said with an apologetic look.

“Are you leaving already?”
“Then please return home.”
“And write with all your strength.”
“I shall stay by your side always to protect you.”
“But please—do not forget the woman raised by deer who dwells alone in this forest.”
“Promise me...”
“As a token,” she said, placing a crimson ruby upon the beautiful one’s palm.
Still clasping his hand, she continued in a voice hushed yet strained—still beautiful.

“So you’ll return in the end without ever understanding my heart—I see. But someday, please remember.”
“My peerlessly beautiful one.”
“Farewell, farewell—your guide shall be a small white dog.”
“Please do not forget me, you beautiful and kind one.”

“Goodbye, goodbye,” he said, waving his hat as he passed through the gate.
The woman’s face remained visible amidst the green trees, on and on.

The traveler, led by a small white dog, walked with uncharacteristically brisk steps that never wearied him.
When he had crossed about three stretches of forest, the village entrance came into view before his eyes.
The figure of the small white dog was nowhere to be seen.
The poet sat down beside the standing stone there, wiping his sweat as he looked around at the village now dressed in early summer attire.
The women’s kimonos had all turned pale hues, and children were floating boats along the riverside.

The forest he always visited grew so thick and jet-black that it conjured in the poet’s mind visions of marshes where a goddess of beauty might dwell and lilies standing taller than his own height.
The young traveling poet spoke, his large eyes darting restlessly about.

“Ah, I’ve finally reached the village,” he said.
“My home is nearly here.
I had already been living with that mysterious woman for four months.
And during that time I saw mysterious places and heard mysterious tales.
I must write about them now.
I must hurry back soon.”
He recalled how Rose had grasped his hand, shedding tears yet smiling as she said: “Though it saddens me that I won’t be able to play with you anymore, I won’t cry—for your sake.
I will not play with anyone until you return.
And don’t you dare forget that I’ll be waiting,” she had said while seeing him off.
“She must have truly been waiting,” he murmured.
“That’s right—I must!” he declared in a voice brimming with joy, quickening his pace even more than before.
Before long, a hexagonal house came into view.
That was none other than the young traveler’s house and Rose’s residence.

“There it is! There it is!”

The one who had called out started running as though he could wait no longer. Toward the window at the farthest corner on the south side of the hexagonal house, he raised a beautiful voice mingled with laughter,

“Rose! Rose! I’ve just come back!”
His voice trembled with joy as light footsteps began descending the stairs.
The heavy door swung open lightly, revealing a pale beautiful face floating in the darkness.
The traveler folded his arms across his chest and stared at that face.
The beautiful countenance drew near to him with a start, as if propelled by her own gasp.
There before the weighty door appeared two figures seemingly suspended in air—a maiden in a peach-hued kimono with white boots, and a supple form clad in light-blue robes wearing red leather boots fastened with white ribbons, their bodies soft as young bracken shoots. A breeze swayed the maiden’s golden locks and the poet’s white ribbon before vanishing into nothingness.
Crimson yarn strewn carelessly about their feet tangled around them, drifting lightly as though murmuring some enigma.
Though he had forgotten all else in his elation, Rose—three years his senior—

“Have you gone to see your mother yet?” asked Rose.

Realizing this, the poet spoke in an apologetic voice,
“I haven’t gone yet.”

“Please go. Your mother must have been waiting so anxiously.”
“When evening came, she would gaze toward the forest you had gone to and say, ‘He still hasn’t returned.’”
“And then come back again, please.”
She released the hand that had been wrapped around her neck.

“Alright, I’ll go then.”
“Starting tomorrow I must write, and I must tell you all those mysterious stories.”
“Rose, I’ll see you later.”

The figure of the beautiful one entered the neighboring gate.

The poet, as soon as he entered inside,

“Mother, I wanted to see you so much,” he said as he rushed in.
The poet’s still-young mother was doing embroidery by the window.
Hearing that voice, she jolted to her feet,

“Oh, you’ve come back safely!”

When she had said this, the poet’s chest was already pressed against his mother’s.
The white cloth floated as if upon green waves, and the Rose in the vase swayed lightly as though rejoicing at the return of the beautiful child.
Hearing the voices, the grandmother who had been dozing in the cool room also entered with a bright expression,

“Welcome back,” said Grandmother, stroking his head with her withered hands before pressing a kiss to his smooth white forehead.
Suddenly the house burst into bustling commotion as his mother—having abruptly altered the dinner arrangements—worked contentedly alongside a maid in a white apron.

The beautiful poet lay on a soft sofa bathed in gentle light, weary from his journey as he dreamed.
The grandmother in the white hood watched over her grandson’s incomparably beautiful sleeping face.
When the poet awoke, it was already dinnertime—he found himself moved into a snow-white bed with fresh clothes laid out by the pillow.
The poet opened his eyes wide and stared at a corner of the ceiling.
Those powerful eyes were inexplicably moist.
The beautiful poet had dreamed of his Forest Woman collapsed in tears, her form dissolving into nothingness.
It was merely a dream, yet tears welled from the young-hearted poet’s very core.
Nevertheless he rose, donned those clothes, smoothed his hair, and went out.
Dinner concluded pleasantly.
While savoring grapes as beautiful as Rose’s eyes—which she had specially gathered because his mother loved them—the poet meticulously recounted everything from his snowy departure through the gate to that day’s return.
Both mother and grandmother listened intently to this story resembling a mysterious tale.
The tone of his clear voice unfolded each matter like someone reading aloud from a beautiful story.

When the story finally concluded, the grandmother took a deep breath and spoke.

“You are a fortunate child. You will surely become a great poet.”

“Do your best, my child blessed with so much fortune,” she said joyfully, plucking another grape.
The poet silently waved his hand.
A flush had risen to his cheeks.
After standing for a moment, the poet said, “I must write,” and entered the room bathed in beautiful peach-colored lamplight, dipping a quill pen into ink.
His eyes looked upward while his hands lay sprawled across the green cloth like living creatures.
Within that soft chest, something stirred.
Upon the white paper, a single character—a supple, beautiful character—was inscribed.
One character more, then another—two sheets became buried in beautiful script, and sheet after sheet, four pages lay scattered across the table adorned with black patterns.
Then somewhere, a beautiful singing voice could be heard.
The ear of the poet, whose brush had ceased moving, tilted toward that sound.
A girlish, slender voice—soft and tremulous—came drifting through the damp darkness.
The voice was undoubtedly Rose’s.
The boy ran upstairs.
He opened the window at the very end and, as if to match the song’s rhythm,

“Rose, Rose—it’s me,”
he called in a voice that undulated like a half-remembered dream.

The singing ceased. A pale form seemed to hover within the darkness.

“Why did you stop?” he pressed, accusatory tones laced with uncharacteristic softness. “I came all this way because your song drew me—though I’d been writing till moments ago.”

Warmth prickled his cheeks as the specter spoke:

“How long since I’ve heard your voice... Won’t you sing for me?”
“My beautiful dear brother,” trembled the plea through night air.

No moon graced the sky. Pinprick stars shimmered above; below, white blossoms craned upward from the lawn as if straining toward celestial whispers. The poet’s gaze swept downward before lifting again—

“Elder Sister! My Elder Sister! Let’s sing something—then you can sing one too.”

The poet pressed those gentle arms to his chest, opened his red lips, and recited: it was a beautiful, tender poem improvised on the spot.
It was: “I now tremble beneath the fragrance of beautiful Rose.
Yet the ill-willed veil of night has shrouded everything in black drapery, refusing to let me glimpse her form.
It was of the meaning that said, ‘O hateful night’s darkness! O ill-willed god of night!’”
It was a beautiful poem perfectly suited to such a gentle night.
When the poet released both hands, a beautiful voice arose from the white shadow.
It was the welcoming poem that the poet had once improvised when he went out to the fields with Rose, now being skillfully and delightfully sung.
The youthful voice struck a beautiful rhythm through the night air.

The poet, in a voice brimming with joy,

“Thank you, thank you, Elder Sister.
Please come to my house, won’t you?”

“Thank you. But it’s already late, isn’t it?”
“Let’s go up tomorrow.”
“My beautiful brother, good night now. See you tomorrow.”
“It’s harmful to stay there forever, you know.”
The poet said in a disappointed voice.

“Oh...”

There were no voices from either side.
A blue star flew by with a swish, trailing its tail.

In the darkness, in a faint voice,

“Rose”

A voice called out.
The white figure across the way also responded in a faint, beautiful voice,

“My beautiful brother, please come in quickly. It’s getting cold.”
“Even if it is summer, let’s go inside now.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“I doubt I shall sleep tonight.”
“Surely, let’s go to that mountain again tomorrow.”
“Goodbye, my brother. Good night,” said the white figure as she moved.

The poet too,

“Well then, let’s go in. Goodbye, Elder Sister.”

The two shadows went inside.
The poet set his brush in motion again in his original room.
Whenever his brush grew dull, he would feel as though a soft hand were guiding his own, and then the brush would move swiftly, lightly, beautifully across the page.
Mother entered holding a hand candle.

“Are you still writing? You must be tired. Go to bed now. I’m going to sleep too, so you can write more tomorrow morning,” she said, standing behind him.

The poet,
“Ah, I’ll stop now.”
“But if I stop now, I’ll forget everything! Just a little longer.”

He looked up at her with pleading eyes.

“Then go ahead and write,” said Mother. She extinguished the hand candle’s flame and, as if to avoid disturbing the beautiful thoughts even slightly, walked on tiptoe to watch the pen tip moving skillfully beneath her white hand.
From the tip of the slender goose quill emerged beautiful, noble poems—so splendid in their beauty that Mother had never seen their like before.
Mother’s eyes sparkled with joy and surprise.
Ten sheets of paper were filled.

“You may rest now. You can continue tomorrow.”

The hand candle’s flame glowed only around its edges in a perfect circle.
Mother had already put on a loose nightgown and her fluffy hair had been combed.
The poet obediently stood up, stacked the paper, and placed the inkstand atop it,

“Mother, thank you for waiting so patiently.
I’m sorry for being selfish.”

The one who created beautiful poems was also kind to his parents.

“Goodness no, not at all.
If only something splendid can be created, I don’t mind remaining awake however long it takes.”

She answered lightly and stepped ahead.
The young child’s dream was a circle.
In the white bed until morning, with cheeks flushed and lips slightly parted—by the time he awoke, the sun had already fully risen.
Next door, Rose stood by the window wearing a pale kimono and combed her golden hair with its great undulating waves.
The poet knocked knock-knock on his mother’s living room door while still clad in his white baggy nightgown.
Mother smiled happily as she rose from her chair and said.

“Good morning. Did you sleep well? Once you change your clothes and eat breakfast, go to Rose’s place. She came by early this morning and was asking for you.”

“Yes, Mother. Which kimono should I wear? My body must have grown a little, don’t you think? Let’s eat breakfast here.”

“Right, the kimono—well then, I’ll get them out now. Go wash your face.”

She left looking happy.
The poet smiled as he looked upward, thinking about what to do today.
Mother brought a light blue, airy kimono that suited a pale face.
The poet put it on, ate his meal, and went along the garden to the window where Rose was.
The window of Rose’s room was low with a flower garden before it, and inside the window, Rose sat by the nearest chair, intently reading something.
The poet softly peered out from the window and saw that Rose showed no sign of noticing; floating his body forward quietly, he reached out his hand and lightly poked that soft, dewy cheek with the tip of his little finger.
Then he swiftly concealed himself and buried his body amidst the dahlias’ hues.

“Oh! Who’s there?”
A youthful voice escaped beyond the window.
And those keen, perceptive eyes discovered the small, well-formed figure in light blue crouching amidst the red hues.

“Good morning! If you keep hiding like that, your lovely light-blue kimono will get stained by that nasty flower sap. Hurry out so I can thank you properly for walking twice this morning on your account.”

“Oh! Good morning. I was rude last night, but thanks to you, I had a lovely dream.”

The young beautiful woman said, shielding her eyes from the morning sun while holding up her little finger tip to its light.
The door opened to reveal her still wearing a loose kimono with a pink ribbon sash trailing to the hem, clutching a small blue-bound book in one hand as she peeked out just her face.
Her slender figure vanished as if sucked away.
Soon after, beautiful laughter spilled from within that window.

An hour had passed.

Again, the beautiful slender figure appeared at the doorway,

“You’ll be fine!” With those words from Rose echoing behind him, he stood at the entrance of his own house.

The two had promised to go sing songs at the mountain across the way come evening. Afterward, he wrote alone in his room until dusk approached. From time to time he would open the window to breathe fresh cool air, gaze at blue mountains and purple cloud-shadows, then dip his newly sharpened goose quill in ink to continue writing. White papers piled like snowfall atop the tall rectangular form draped with a green tablecloth. He gathered them edgewise into bindings, reread them, then smiled. Evening came rather early. The sun had not fully set yet; eucalyptus leaves by the window cast pitch-black monster-shadows across the desk.

“Ah, it’ll be bad if I’m late. Let’s go right away—Sazo must be waiting,” he said, then went straight out toward the connected garden.
In his hands he held white paper and a pencil,

“Rose—Rose, you’ve been waiting, right? Let’s go.”
[He] called out in a pleasant voice beneath the window.

“I was waiting—let’s go quickly.” She picked up a small white paper from the desk.
Their well-balanced, shapely shadows disappeared into the forest along a slender path.
The two walked farther and farther into the distance.
Gradually, the forest’s thickets grew denser, and the scent of white lilies deepened around them.
Suddenly, a large green lake spread open before their eyes, and the mountains beyond loomed faintly in the haze.
They took their seats on the soft grass of that shore and, in a quiet place removed from the world, felt a soft, dream-like yet abundantly joyful mood.
Rose opened her mouth,

“Ever since that day when the snow fell so heavily and I sent you out, I’ve had this feeling like when I sent beautiful petals down a swift river—I stood all day by the window overlooking that forest.”
“I was truly worried, you know,” she said, her eyes now taking on the look of someone recalling that moment.
The young poet too spoke carefully without omitting a single detail—from the feeling of helplessness he had felt at that time until his return that very day.
In Rose’s heart—still young and drawn to rare wonders—it felt as though a story she had once read had truly manifested itself, leaving her utterly enraptured by what she heard.
And both of them, having been able to see each other’s miraculously safe and somewhat grown bodies, kept joyfully repeating, “Thank you truly, God.”
He was meant to return miraculously safe—the poet was young, beautiful, talented, and there were many people at home who had been waiting impatiently for him.
The sun had already completely set, and the darkened mountain edges took on an indescribably beautiful, divine hue of moonrise as they appeared in the distance; meanwhile, the sheep that had looked like placed objects had already vanished into the shadows without notice.
The slender, supple silver flute was pressed to the red-lipped poet’s lips, and his delicate ten fingers—knowing nothing but holding white pens—moved in the deepening dusk, as trembling sounds welled forth from the small metallic fittings, perfectly suited to the languid, nostalgic twilight sky.
The gusting evening wind beautifully intertwined Rose’s golden hair with the poet’s locks as he played the flute to completion.
The flute’s notes traveled far and wide—resonant enough to stir even a shepherd boy’s heart as they passed through trees exhaling the twilight’s darkness, onward into the distance. Right beside him, Rose—who had been absorbed in the music while stretching out her legs and gazing at her white boot tips—gradually lifted her eyes upward, then let them fall once more to rest upon the lake below, its surface shifting through ever-changing hues.
The poet, with eyes closed, blew into the short, slender silver flute as though his very soul had been seized by it.
The end of the melody he played was drawn into the distant mountain’s shadow, and the flute’s sound ceased.

“Thank you.”

She said with a smile, as though awakening from a dream.
The white paper flipped over, and from between white teeth tumbled a beautiful maidenly voice.
Those phrases had all emerged from the tip of a youth's goose quill.
The initial voice was slow and low; then as the moonlight turned silvery, the singing voice gradually rose higher before fading away.
The poet pressed his well-formed head against the woman's white soft chest, closed his eyes, and listened to her song—a truly beautiful voice.
The gentle pulse of her chest throbbed as if resonating to the very depths of the poet's heart.
The woman's hand left the white paper and wound around the young man's beautiful neck.
Soon the melody changed into a beautiful tender lullaby that seemed to beckon dreams.
The poet, eyes still closed, found himself drawn into a deep slumber.

The moon rose high.
The moonlight illuminated both the woman's face and that of the person three years her junior with a beauty so noble and radiant it defied depiction in art; as her song ceased, her hand tightened its grip around his neck more firmly than before.
Her eyes trembled and blazed with such intensity that she seemed to scan from the water’s surface to the distant mountains as though imploring—if only there were someone who could save this beautiful person—to reveal themselves.
Platinum waves upon the lake broke into a beautiful melody.
The night wind pierced through him, and suddenly the poet awoke; then, as if frightened, he clung to the woman’s chest.
And with eyes still clouded by lingering dreams, he looked up at the godlike woman’s face.
He felt more heartened than if a hundred warriors were guarding him.

The two felt like staying just as they were forever. However, the cold night air struck the thinly clad bodies of the two bitterly. The woman three years his senior, thinking she mustn’t let her precious one catch a cold, spoke in a gentle voice.

“Let us return now.”
“It has grown cold—they must be waiting at home, mustn’t they? You may come again tomorrow. Come now—the moon has already risen so high.”

The two headed home along the moonlit path that stretched like silver over lakes left behind.
When they emerged from the forest summer night’s essence enveloped them—houses fully lit ahead—and they hastened toward where third lanterns glowed from their path’s beginning.
They stood at doorway,

“Goodbye—sweet dreams—see you tomorrow!”

Having exchanged these words, they parted.
Mother and Grandmother had felt somewhat uneasy about his late return, but upon seeing his cheerful, beautiful face appear in the doorway,

“Oh, you’re back. You’re a bit late, don’t you think? You must be hungry—please eat quickly. The tea is hot too,” was all they could say.

He ate his meal and entered his room to dip the goose quill in ink.
Then as the pen raced across white paper, phrases were read beside his ear in his Forest Woman’s familiar voice.
He kneaded them in his mind and strung them together.
Two or three pages at a glance—five or six were written in the blink of an eye.
Yet there would be no chance later to add even one crimson character.
The mother who had slipped in unnoticed found herself captivated by the verses’ beauty and the brush’s motion.
And she thought:

“This child is truly a child of genius. Just as I had hoped—no，surely just as God had willed—this child is exactly that. My，the movement of that brush. My，the beauty of those phrases. Who would ever think those are the writings of a sixteen-year-old? I shall never scold that child again for staying in the forest however long he likes，so long as it doesn’t harm his health. He can produce such splendid things one after another—truly!”

The brush grew ever lighter, the text ever more beautiful; the white hand raced increasingly faster as the young poet's thoughts sharpened into unison with the night.
The mother, who had been standing and watching for some time, came unnoticed and left unnoticed.
Three hours later, when the clock struck twelve, the mother peered in again.
However, beneath the lamp, the sound of the racing pen still showed no sign of ceasing.
The next morning, at the time when they were to depart from Mukouyama, the mother peered into the poet's room: on the desk stood tall stacks of white paper densely covered in writing, and amidst them lay the poet with a seemingly contented expression, his cheek bathed in strong morning sunlight as he emitted faint snores.
The mother gently draped her own soft silk shawl over him and exited on tiptoe.
By the time the poet opened his star-like eyes wide, steam already rose from meat simmering in the kitchen.
He looked at the shawl covering his body, then recalled everything from last night until now with the feeling of remembering stories people tell about ancient times.

"I returned from the forest with Rose, ate my meal, came here, spread out paper, and when I began writing a line—there by my ear, the Forest Woman's familiar voice would teach me a slightly halting yet beautiful phrase. As I wrote it down, voices came from behind. When I looked to see who it was, there stood the Forest Woman in her same appearance from that time, gazing intently; she came silently to my side and took my hand, guiding the brush until I fell into a dreamlike pliant state, surrendering completely—then beautiful phrases sprang forth like a fountain, and exquisite ink patterns were written across the white paper. And then the Forest Woman placed her hand near my ear,"

“My dear little beautiful one, do you still remember me? Tonight alone—oh, tonight alone—we shall never meet again. But someday... surely someday... Yes, farewell—stay well.”

She said in a beautiful, imposing voice and vanished; from then on, I knew nothing of what happened, and I had been sleeping until now. Mysterious Forest Woman—what did she say when we parted in the woods?

“My dear little beautiful one, please never forget this woman all alone in the forest,” she had said.

How strange—I felt somehow uneasy.
"I'll hurry over there to see Mom and meet Rose too."

The beautiful little poet left his room like one buffeted by a cold wind, hurried through a lunch that felt both incomplete and dreadful, then visited Rose again through the back garden.
Rose was doing something with her back turned.
Yet she joyfully fluttered her beautiful hem and emerged to embrace him, ushering him into the room.
An hour or two—the young poet and the beautiful woman three years his senior spent their time in a soft yet weary mood, as if enveloped in mist both dreamily faint and redolent with strong fragrance—until about four hours had passed like a dream.
After bidding farewell and returning home, Rose stroked the poet’s beautiful hair with a small, soft trembling voice while—

“You’re fifteen and I’m eighteen—three years older.”

The way Rose had said that and gazed with eyes that seemed to hold deep feelings was something he simply could not forget.
That night, the poet neither went out nor wrote. Sitting beside his mother in her all-black kimono, he listened to her exchange lighthearted small talk with his grandmother—sometimes laughing in a clear voice, sometimes interjecting into his mother’s stories—before finally retiring to bed.
The next morning, before sunrise, light seeped from the poet’s room, and the sound of pen on paper sent tremors through the slumbering air.
By the time mother called out in the morning to say she was already up, there were already many papers scattered across the desk, stained with ink patterns.

For about a week after that, he did nothing but write fervently, only showing his face during meal times and not even letting Rose or anyone else see him otherwise.
It was a mere seven days.
Even in terms of time, it was a span of 168 hours—but for Rose, what a painfully long period it must have been.
When you were away on your journey, no matter how much I longed for you, I could hold onto the thought that I’d see you upon your return—but now, living right next door, close enough to hear each other if we called out—to spend seven days without meeting even once... it was truly agonizing.

“My dear one is writing something truly magnificent now.”
“His honor is my honor—this land’s honor—I shall endure it.”

She persevered with a strong, valiant heart.
On the evening of the eighth day—after what felt an eternity—the poet’s lovely form appeared in Rose’s room at last.
Upon entering through the doorway, suddenly—

“Rose, Rose—please look! It’s finally done!”
“Oh, how happy I am!”
“I’ll have you look at it first, then go to town to request they make it into a book.”
“By horse—let’s go together!”

In a lively voice, he spoke and extended his hand, upon which rested a thick, thick stack of writings.

Rose stood reading it restlessly as if murmuring “I can’t take this,” her form appearing even more girlish than usual as she remained upright. Her eyes racing across the paper—merged in astonishment and delight—shone with such an intensely beautiful light. The writings were thick beyond measure. There was no possibility of finishing them in a single day. When she had flipped through the pages stacked here and there and finally reached the end,

“Oh! What a magnificent poem this is! Please hurry and show it to the world—I’ll prepare the horses and change clothes right away!”

Ten minutes after Rose’s figure vanished from the doorway with an appearance as though declaring she was unbearably happy, her figure—now clad in a riding habit of a light hue and elegant cut—emerged once more from the doorway.

Five minutes later, the two pure white horses, their heads aligned, passed through the green forest and hastened toward the town abundant with lamplight.
When thirty minutes had passed, the two horses were standing at a bookstore in the bustling part of town.
The poet completed the publication procedures under his gentle pseudonym, and the two horses headed back toward the village.

The poet’s mother and grandmother trembled with joy, their evening prayer for this beautiful and blessed person’s future to stay true taking twice or thrice as long as usual.
Day after day passed joyfully, happily, and full of hope.
After a week had passed, a poetry collection in charming form made its appearance in the literary circles where young, vibrant people gathered.
The people who had been longing for something different, something rare promptly took hold of that rare visitor.
People were astonished by the details of that extraordinary journey and amazed by its beautiful, tender poetic verses.
The book’s reputation rapidly rose, and in the daily newspapers, various people were reviewing it with diverse perspectives.
Yet not a single one spoke ill of the work itself.
Those who, thinking the person who wrote those skillful, beautiful poems must be some worldly individual, visited his residence were astonished to find that the author was a large-eyed boy with eyes like those of a beautiful woman—helped out by his mother—and their surprise only deepened.
The people of the world further embellished the beautiful person’s beauty in their praises, and from society at large, they revered him as though the god of poetry had manifested himself in the human realm.
Inside the house and throughout the village, joy overflowed for this lone boy, and they buzzed with talk of being a village that possessed such an accomplished poet and of being the mother who had borne such a remarkable person.
Rose, rejoicing more than she did for herself, smiled morning and evening at the talk of people.
Three days passed, four days passed—about ten days went by like a dream.
On the day ten days had passed, the poet who visited Rose’s room had a face paler than ever before, his eyes moist; without saying a word, he clung to Rose’s chest, tears streaming from his large eyes.
Rose knew well the volatile heart of the young poet.
Quietly embracing his head, she spoke in a calm, gentle voice.

“What’s wrong? Why are you sad?”
“Did Mother scold you?”
“Or is it a beautiful bird? Has someone you know died?”

The poet silently shook his head from side to side and lowered his eyes.
Rose allowed the poet’s heart to have its way—shedding tears at falling flowers and birds grown cold.
Yet her chest and eyes overflowed with tenderness and warmth.
After standing for a while, in a thin, trembling voice from between white teeth,

“Rose, Rose—you don’t have another elder sister, do you?”

After that, without saying anything else, he waited for the voice that would spill from the lips of the beautiful person with wide-open eyes.

“That’s right, isn’t it? Or isn’t that so? What?”
“What’s wrong? Please tell me.”

As if disappointed by an answer far more abrupt than what he had awaited, he closed his eyes again and buried his noble head—a head capable of writing poetry so beautiful it could draw tears from people—into the chest enveloping young maidenly softness and warmth.
For a while, he remained just like that—motionless as someone who had touched a stone from Arabian Nights that petrifies those who touch it, like a person in a beautiful painting.
The boy’s face gradually reddened, and his eyes—blurred with tears—shone as if filled to the brim with new hope.
A faint, beautiful voice spoke.

“Elder Sister, humans die once, right? When I grow old—whether I want to or not—we’ll be parted by death.”
“Humans are beings that die—right? After all, we must each die once.”

Cheeks faintly flushed with red revealed white teeth as they formed a lonely smile.
How beautiful that sight was.

“My dear, why must you say such things today of all days?”
“Did something painful happen to you?”
“Please, tell me—your one and only.”
“Why would someone as young as you think such things?”
“Please forget about it.”
“And please think of a glorious future.”
“The world-famous poet—the joy I felt then, always by his side like a shadow—oh, please try to imagine it.”
“I’m starting to feel sad.”

She had spoken in an instructive, admonishing manner, but Rose herself was still just a girl—how could an innocent maiden untouched by the world possibly comprehend what was being pondered within that beautiful little poet’s mind? Even she herself became filled with a helplessly sad feeling, and something hot welled up from her eyes. She was recalling everything that had happened up to now without thinking. Suddenly, the matter of the Forest Woman—the woman raised by a white deer—was recalled like the light of a carriage lantern swiftly passing before her eyes.

“Ah—that Forest Woman—she’s certainly not of this ordinary world. And what did she say when parting? ‘You’d end up returning without ever knowing my heart, wouldn’t you? There will come a time when you remember. I must enter your heart no matter what.’ Oh, how eerie those words were! Definitely, definitely—that Forest Woman’s snake-like heart must have been tormenting this beautiful poet’s heart. Oh how dreadful, oh how ghastly!”

Shuddering, she softly peered at the poet, who lay with a relieved expression against a warm chest, emitting faint snores.

“Oh my—without even noticing, you must have been lying awake through the nights. How pitiful. Even if I’m exhausted enough to break my chest, I’ll keep this beautiful one’s eyes open—I must.”

She said in a small trembling voice and hugged the supple body tightly.
Holding the doll-like figure to her chest with no one to talk to, Rose recalled the Forest Woman’s eyes—the kind that once they embraced you would never let go until death—and her pale, slender face polished by cold air.
And now, each time she saw those eyes, she felt as though the life of the person resting against her own chest was gradually growing shorter,

“No—no matter what you say, it’s no use! I’m protecting you here even at the cost of my life! No demon could—I’ll protect you no matter what!”
“It’s all right, I tell you.”
“But somehow, I feel sad.”
“Oh, my dear one.”
“No matter what happens, you must escape from the Forest Woman’s hands.”

With the feeling of a poor household’s daughter who, upon receiving a beautiful kimono for the first time, forgot to wear it, Rose felt as though the person resting against her chest was someone noble beyond her own station.
The sun gradually sank westward, and the window glass glowed in five colors, yet the poet’s slumber still did not break.
Around the time a child in short pants shouted, “I found a single star—bring good luck!”, the one who had finally awoken seemed startled anew at how soundly they had slept—then, as if realizing how very long it had been since first dozing off until now—in a voice made unbearable by the heart of the one who had lent their chest without stirring them even once gradually seeping into their own heart, [text missing]