Pathway to Japanese Literature

The Tale of the Camphor Tree

At that time, my house stood within a spacious rural estate.
Within the estate grounds lay a bamboo grove, a pond, a graveyard, clusters of trees, an expansive garden, and even a small vegetable plot.
Throughout my childhood, I could roam about playing to my heart’s content without ever stepping foot beyond the estate.
And the greatest pride of my young heart was the enormous camphor tree that stood at the estate’s edge.
The trunk soared straight for dozens of *ken*, its base swelling round like a tumor to over ten *hiro* in girth.
From this massive base sprouted several young shoots that stretched straight upward.
Father would often prune these shoots, believing they shouldn’t be allowed to grow too long.
Perhaps because of this care, the ancient trunk—its age unknowable—retained a youthful vigor, with no hollow seeming to form within.
Above us all, its lush canopy of branches and leaves spread thickly like the vaulted ceiling of a great cathedral.

Next to the camphor tree stood an oak with a trunk roughly three meters in circumference.
And there was also an old Japanese hackberry tree.
The narrow patch of ground where the roots of the three large trees intertwined was elevated four or five feet above the flatland, and at its center—amidst the fallen leaves and dwarf bamboo—stood a small stone Inari shrine.

Long ago, before I was even born, it’s said that foxes often cried out in the night around that area.
I was told that when Mother first came to our house, she would often shudder violently at that cry.
I was also told that on another evening, two beasts with unidentifiable, eerie cries had been frolicking on the branches of the camphor tree.

Amidst a hamlet of some five hundred households, the Camphor Tree stood towering high enough to scrape the heavens. Even from afar, it was immediately recognizable. On my way home from elementary school, while following country paths with friends, I would feel an indescribable pride whenever I spotted that Camphor Tree in the distance.

When autumn came, acorns fell in abundance. Gathering them among the Camphor Tree’s fallen leaves—which carried a faint scent of camphor—became one of my cherished pastimes.

When winter arrived and snow blanketed fields and mountains, small birds deprived of food came flying from all directions toward the Camphor Tree’s thicket. There they found sheltering branches and nourishing fruits.

Father often shot those small birds with his gun. The gun was old-fashioned—while its barrel proved exceedingly long and heavy, its effective range remained remarkably great. Moreover, Father had once served in the Konoe Regiment and possessed considerable skill at shooting. Through narrow gaps in the foliage, he would shoot down birds perched in the camphor tree's branches. He bagged many thrushes and pigeons this way. Yet Father never shot crows or small Japanese white-eyes.

Occasionally a bird would fall with only one wing struck by a bullet. Using its remaining wing and legs, it would scramble toward the thicket. I delighted in chasing these wounded creatures. When I cornered a bird that had wedged its head into some crevice, my breath would catch in my throat. Clutching the fluttering thing gently between my palms, I'd dash breathlessly into the house. Feeling the soft warmth of its chest feathers and the rounded body beneath, I found myself utterly unable to kill it. Father too would say, "Don't kill it." So we decided to cage and keep them instead.

There were many birdcages available. Father, Mother and I tried our hardest to care for them. Yet most birds died within ten days.

Father was originally very fond of animals.
At one time he kept pigeons, and had also kept Japanese white-eyes, hawks, rabbits, goats, dogs, and the like, and at times raised pigs and even kept honeybees.
Chickens and cats were always there.
In the pond, carp were always present as well.
I still do not understand why Father, who loved animals so much, would so frequently shoot down birds from the Camphor Tree like that.
(If it had merely been for food, we still had sufficient wealth at that time to afford the luxury of buying birds every day.) Yet even I—I who couldn’t bear to kill the wounded small birds—would feel my heart leap with indescribable joy whenever I saw a bird struck down in a single shot spread both wings and come fluttering down from the Camphor Tree’s branches.

When I entered second grade, a small two-story house was built right beside the wide pond next to the bamboo grove, and Father, Mother, I, and one maid moved there to live.
“For Father’s health,” Mother said to me.
Father had long been afflicted with tuberculosis.
And around that time, he suddenly began to weaken.
I was sad about that.
That winter, Father never once took up his gun.
Before I knew it, I too stopped going to the Camphor Tree.
And together with Father, I came to take pleasure in feeding the carp in the pond.
The pond was filled with red, black, and various other variegated carp.

The original large and spacious house had remained with its doors shut for some time, but eventually a great number of strangers came, completely dismantled it, and carried it off somewhere.
However, I felt neither particularly sad nor anything at all.
Because this new house was bright and newly built, and from the sitting room we could immediately see the carp in the pond.

The only strange thing was that even as the old large house had its tiles stripped off, walls torn down, and pillars toppled—with a large crowd of people working noisily—Father and Mother never once went near it.
Whenever craftsmen came before, Father would amiably direct their work while Mother had the maid assist and prepare various treats.
Yet at that time alone, everything was entirely different.
Moreover, none of the many laborers ever showed their faces at my new house.
It was as though no connection existed between the two groups.
I went alone to watch the house being demolished, but when people began staring at me, I hurriedly retreated to the new house.
Then Mother said, “You are not to go there to look anymore.”
I didn’t understand what she meant.

From about a month before the old house was demolished, Father had almost stopped going out.
Along with this, visitors became exceedingly few.
Sometimes two people from the village—I and K—would come.
There were times when they brought others along, but more often than not, it was just the two of them.
And so they would discuss something late into the night—Father, Mother, and the four of them.
Moreover, Uncle S frequently came from the capital.

However, such things held no relation to my heart. What saddened me was how Father had suddenly begun to weaken. Before I knew it, he was taking to bed more often. His cough grew severe too. And he would sit silent for long stretches, deep furrows gathering between his brows.

One morning, I overslept more than usual.
The previous night had seen an unusual number of guests, leaving me unable to sleep until late.
When I sat up, the sun already hung high in the sky.
A sudden realization struck me.
The thought of being late for school flooded my mind.
I sprang up and checked the clock—it showed past eight.
Without washing my face, I frantically gathered my school supplies.
At that moment, Mother appeared.

“Have you already gotten up?” Mother said to me.

“What am I going to do?
“I’m late for school.”
With those words, I was on the verge of tears.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Mother repeated.
“Since it’s already late today, you should take a day off from school.
“Earlier, a friend came to invite you, so I told them you’re not feeling well and are resting today.
“You should rest today.”

I watched Mother’s face as she spoke. Mother had never said such a thing to me before. When I slept, she would wake me early. She would say “You mustn’t be late for school” and wrap my books herself. “A single day’s absence is nothing serious,” Mother said again. “I’ll teach you what you were supposed to learn today later on.”

Mother’s face was pale. Eyes were slightly bloodshot. Yet she watched over me with an exceedingly gentle expression. Tears streamed from my eyes. I looked down and answered.

“Is it really okay for me to take the day off?”

“Yes. There’s no need to worry so much about taking a single day off.”
“Go on and wash your face.”
“It’s almost time for lunch.”
“And… Earlier, Father was waiting for you to wake up, so go see him.”
“In the garden, I suppose.”

As she said this, Mother’s eyes brimmed with tears.
That made me feel sad all over again.
I thought something terrible must have happened.

I hurriedly washed my face and went out toward the garden. Climbing a slight slope from the pond's edge brought me to the garden, beyond which lay the plaza where our former house had been cleared away. Father stood there leaning on his cane. As I pushed through the garden thicket and tried to run to his side, I suddenly stopped in surprise.

The morning sun backlit Father's figure. In that light, I noticed for the first time how his long hair had become streaked with white—countless silver strands shining amidst the reddish hue. This made me recall my deceased grandfather, whom I'd only seen in photographs.

While I hesitated, Father turned to look at me.
And he formed a weak smile.
I ran up to Father’s side.

“It’s okay for me to take the day off from school today. Mother said so, but…”

“Ah,” was all Father replied.

Father soon began walking through the plaza where our house had stood.
I followed silently behind him.
Father’s face looked more serene than I had ever seen before.
The skin of his cheeks, faintly flushed from illness, appeared almost translucent in the early summer light.

After we had walked awhile, Father suddenly stopped and asked me, “Do you like the new house or the old house better?”
“I prefer the new house,” I answered at once.
Father widened his eyes and stared hard at my face before asking again, “Truly?”
I nodded vigorously.
Then Father began to say something, but before those words could reach me, he was overtaken by a violent coughing fit.

Then we returned home.
Then Mother, Father, and I had breakfast together.
After the meal, Father immediately went to bed.

That day was truly an uncanny one.
Father lay with his eyes wide open.
His face held a natural brightness, and his eyes were filled with lucid sorrow.
Mother had brought out various documents from the safe and seemed to be examining them at Father’s bedside.
When that was done, she began tidying inside the chest of drawers.
She was wiping her eyes from time to time.

I wandered alone through the vast estate. The fact that I had skipped school had somehow transformed into a kind of joyful feeling. While all my friends were cooped up in their cramped classrooms, I found it unbearably delightful that I could run freely through the grounds. As I walked through every corner of the sprawling estate, my heart felt utterly liberated—a carefree freedom I could stretch out in. In the bamboo grove I discovered rare flowers; behind the storehouse loomed an unexpectedly large fruit tree. The only place I disliked was the empty plaza where our house once stood. That spot somehow felt desolate. And so beneath the camphor tree’s shade, I spent hours playing—cutting slender bamboo to fashion bows and such.

That day too, I remained almost indifferent to my parents’ distress.
Not paying the slightest attention to various events and pursuing only my own feelings was a habit of my childhood.
(The point about which I later felt the most intense regret and self-reproach toward my parents was precisely this.) However, because of that habit, even when I was told about the family’s circumstances by my parents that evening, I remained completely unfazed.

What I heard that evening, I do not clearly remember now.
Moreover, in reality, that was far too difficult for me to comprehend at that time.
And in the end, what I came to understand was that Father had immense debts; that Uncle S from the city and villagers I and K were sorting out everything; and that it was also the creditors who had demolished and carried away our former house—among other things.
Why they had come to such a predicament was beyond my comprehension.
Now that I think about it, everything seems to have originated from Father being too much of a magnanimous feudal lord-like dreamer.

While explaining such things—things I couldn’t really understand—at length, Father furrowed his brow nervously, and Mother occasionally teared up.
Why my parents were so troubled in heart, I couldn’t clearly understand.
When the tedious talk ended, I calmly said this.

“I don’t care if all the money’s gone.
That doesn’t matter at all.”

Then Mother blinked her eyes, and while a tear fell softly onto her lap, she smiled.
I found the smile within those tears beautiful.
The only other time I felt such pure beauty from Mother was when she stood before Father’s grave marker.
When Mother stood before my deceased Father’s grave marker.

When Father heard my words, his face turned deeply somber.
I couldn’t understand what had upset Father.
Even so, Father drank a little sake that evening and had me drink a few cups as well.

After two or three cups of sake, my head grew foggy.
And while lying beside the hibachi, I listened to Father and Mother’s conversation.
I couldn’t make sense of what they were talking about.
Before long, the words “Camphor Tree” reached my ears two or three times.
I sat up.

“Let’s at least keep the Camphor Tree.”
“Everything can disappear.”
“If only the Camphor Tree remains…”

I said it and was surprised at myself.
I felt as though I had said something that should not have been said.
But hearing my words, Father suddenly softened his expression and said.

“Yes, we must keep the Camphor Tree. If the court proceedings go well… Well, it should be fine.”

This made me breathe a sigh of relief, but at the same time I noticed Mother had an intensely sorrowful look in her eyes.

I heard Father’s words and became convinced that at least the Camphor Tree would be safe.
And my heart settled completely.

After that, visitors to the house became even fewer.
Instead, I and K came almost every day.
However, I no longer cared about such things.
The notion that everything would disappear leaving only the Camphor Tree delighted my childish imagination.
It resembled the feeling of yearning for "freedom".

Yet one day when I returned from school, I encountered something unexpected.

At home, I and K along with four or five others from the village had come and were drinking sake.
They were all sitting on the veranda.
I lightly bowed my head before them and went into the back.
Then at the entryway threshold, Father appeared.
Father had pursed his lips tightly beneath his long mustache.
And in that moment, I had never seen Father’s forehead appear so broad and towering.
When Father saw me, he slightly furrowed his brows and barked out—not even giving me time to say “I’m home”—like this.

“Get back to the inner rooms!”

Father’s voice was sharp and quivering.
I froze in surprise, but Father did not turn around.
He stepped down from the veranda and headed away.
The villagers followed after him.

I ran into the back.
Mother was sitting motionlessly by the long hibachi.
The face that looked up at me had almost no color left in it.
Only the eyes were shining.
And there was no fire in the hibachi either.
When I saw that, my chest tightened.
When I threw myself onto Mother’s lap just like that, she held me tightly.

We remained still like that for a long time.
Mother was so motionless she might have stopped breathing altogether.
The chest and arms holding me tight were cold.
I kept my face pressed against Mother’s chest and found myself crying without realizing when it began.
No matter how much time passed, Mother said nothing.

Mother occasionally lifted her head that had been drooping against my back. Each time she did so, she sighed. I quietly peeked up at her from below. Mother was looking at the pillar clock. Every minute or two, she would look at the pillar clock and sigh. Then at last she spoke.

“Now, Mommy has a little errand to take care of.”

I left Mother’s lap and stood up. The initial surge of emotion and tears had already subsided. As I was taking off my hakama trousers, the Camphor Tree suddenly flashed into my head.

"It must be about the Camphor Tree," I thought. Then I couldn’t stay still. Seizing the moment when Mother went to stand in the kitchen area, I dashed out of the house. And as I tried to make my way through the garden toward the Camphor Tree, my feet froze in place.

Around the Camphor Tree stood a crowd of people.
On one side stood the villagers from earlier.
Everyone had terrifying faces and were glaring ahead. Before their gaze sat a crowd of people I didn’t know, spreading straw mats on the ground and crouching there.
Some wore kimonos while others had workmen’s aprons with leggings.
They all had sturdy physiques.
On one corner of the mat lay various tools: saws, axes, ropes, ladders.
They were all terrifyingly large.
Both villagers and strangers had removed their hats.
And between both groups stood Father with his back against the Camphor Tree.
A broad forehead slightly receding at the temples; piercing eyes; a tall nose; a thick red beard; lips pressed tight; all framed by thin cheeks with translucent skin stretched taut.

I hid behind the large trunk of the garden maple and, holding my breath, watched the scene unfold. The lush branches and leaves of the Camphor Tree enveloped the crowd in deep shadow. No one moved. A deep silence and shadow enveloped everyone. In the very center, against the moss-covered trunk of the Camphor Tree, Father’s figure floated as if thrusting up from the ground. His eyes remained fixed on the ground, but his broad forehead was turned toward the sky. I had never seen Father look so majestic. No, I had never seen a human figure look so majestic. I almost tried to forget that this was my father—that this was the same father who had been wasting away from illness.

A single Camphor Tree leaf fluttered down.
Because of that, the silence grew even deeper.
Along with that, a feeling of fear began to sprout in my heart.
If that silence were to break at any moment, I felt something terrible would happen.

At that moment, from the direction of the crowd of unfamiliar people, an old man stood up.
I involuntarily tried to dash out from behind the maple.
But I immediately let out a sigh of relief.
The man bowed his head respectfully before Father.
Then he spoke volubly about something for some time.
Then Father seemed to answer with a few words.
The voice did not reach where I was.

The man, having heard Father’s response, turned toward his companions and crouched down. Everyone moved in that direction. And they began discussing. After a while, the man from before stood up again and said something to Father. Father also answered something. Then the man, still standing, said something to his companions. Then a young man stood up, bowed slightly toward Father, and hurriedly left the spot, heading toward the gate. The others all took out their tobacco pouches from their waists and began to smoke.

At that moment, Father stepped away from the Camphor Tree’s trunk for the first time and turned toward the villagers.
Father’s form suddenly reverted to a sickly weakness.
The villagers, with Father at their center, seemed to be exchanging whispers about something in hushed voices.

For a while, the scene continued unchanged. When I finally let out a sigh of relief, I noticed my body was damp with sweat. The early summer sun was shining directly from my head down my back. And I wanted to either come out from behind that maple or make some noise. However, I feared Father. If Father discovered me hiding there, I felt that something terrible would happen.

I bore it silently.
And before I knew it, I had crouched down there and was plucking grass from the maple’s roots with frantic fingers.
How much time had passed, I did not know.
It felt both endlessly long and yet like only a fleeting moment.

A man in a suit and fedora came rushing into my house on a bicycle.
He placed his bicycle by the middle gate and went straight to Father.
The crowd buzzed with agitation.
The unfamiliar men all stood up at once.

The man in the suit and Father seemed to exchange a few words of greeting.
Then he took out a single sheet of paper from his jacket’s inner pocket and handed it to Father.
Father skimmed through it, then handed it to the elderly man from before.
He looked at it for a while, then returned the piece of paper to Father.
Then he said something to his companions.
Two or three men seemed to have a brief exchange of words with him.
But before long, they took up various dreadful tools, rolled up straw mats, shouldered ladders, and trailed off toward the gate.
The elderly man stayed behind last and exchanged a few words with Father.

As the strangers departed, Father once again exchanged greetings with the man in the suit and the villagers, then led everyone toward the house.
When leaving that place, Father briefly looked up at the Camphor Tree.
Father’s figure looked painfully as though he had lost all vitality.
(I later learned that the man in the suit was someone from the court.)

After everyone had left, I was left alone behind the maple trunk. And somehow I felt I couldn’t enter the house. The villagers and the man in the suit were in the house. And I also felt that seeing Father and Mother would be wrong.

I remained hidden within the estate until evening that day. My heart became shackled by an indescribable sorrow. While passing time behind the storehouse, in garden corners, and among bamboo groves, I occasionally turned to gaze up at the Camphor Tree’s crown. Yet I did not approach its roots. Something felt terrifying. In the end, I crouched before the chicken coop and blankly watched the hens peck about. I never noticed my own shadow stretched long across the ground, gradually fading away.

“Oh, you were here.”
Mother’s voice echoed from behind.
I startled and jumped up.
Mother stood right behind me.
I clung to Mother’s hand as if leaping at her and burst into loud sobs.

“There’s nothing to cry about,” Mother said while stroking my head. “Let’s go home now… What have you been doing all this time?”

I did not answer anything. And still clinging to Mother’s hand, I entered the house.

Father was still in the drawing room talking with I and K.
When I peeked in quietly, even sitting seemed laborious for him.
I worried about Father’s health.
However, that evening I never had a chance to exchange a single word with Father.
Mother made me eat dinner first and put me to bed early.
In the futon, I lay awake for a long time, but before I knew it, I fell asleep.

What I had worried about had come to pass.
From that day on, Father abruptly lost his vitality and began spending more time confined to bed.
The doctor’s medicine, which until now had been only one kind, became two kinds.
However, he would get up for meals.
Then he would sometimes get up and crouch on the veranda to feed the carp in the pond.

I stopped leaving the house except to go to school.
I no longer played around inside the estate either.
I avoided going near the base of the Camphor Tree all the more.

I often stayed by Father’s side.
Father would read various storybooks to me while lying down.
When he grew tired, he would fall silent.
Then Mother would take over reading to me.
Yet it might have been more fitting to say those books were truly meant for Father himself.
Whether he read them aloud to himself or Mother did so in his stead, they were always directed at him.

Listening to those stories, preparing for school, and watching the carp in the pond became my daily tasks. I never grew tired of watching the carp, no matter how long I looked.

One evening, about a month later, Father said to me.

“The Camphor Tree may have to be cut down as well. I’m sorry.”

That Father spoke words to me that seemed to beg forgiveness was, as far as I could remember, the first time. As for the Camphor Tree, unbeknownst to me, I had come to feel it was fated for such a destiny. Hearing Father’s words, the feelings I had unknowingly harbored until now rose clearly to my mind. I wasn’t particularly surprised. It was merely the tone of Father’s words that startled my heart. I watched Father’s face without answering anything. However, Father said nothing more after that. Mother too remained silent. Unbeknownst to me, Father and Mother had become immersed in the same feelings as I.

But when that day finally arrived, something indescribable welled up from the depths of my chest.

When I noticed from afar on my way home from school that the Camphor Tree's high foliage—always visible—had disappeared, leaving a lone hole amidst the village grove, I felt as though a hole had opened in my own chest. So I abandoned my friends and ran home. When I arrived home, I was panting. I concealed it, went up to the second-floor room, and cried alone. That was the first time I began hiding my true feelings in front of my parents.

The sound of axes striking the Camphor Tree echoed from afar.
It was an indescribably lonely sound.
At first, it resonated directly in my pounding chest, but as I cried, even that became enveloped in a dreamlike calm.
I stopped crying without even realizing it myself and was just blearily listening to that sound.

Suddenly hearing what sounded like someone calling me, I hurried downstairs.
Father lay on the bed with his eyes closed.
I sat at the bedside for a while, but Father said nothing.
I stood up, went out to the veranda, and fed the carp.
The carp swarmed chaotically across the water’s surface to devour the feed.
While I was gazing at them, Father had gotten up without my noticing.
And he threw feed for them himself.
When I suddenly looked back, Father’s eyes were filled with tears.
The moment our eyes met, tears began streaming down his face.
I didn’t know what to do.
I recklessly threw feed into the pond.

At that moment, Mother arrived.

“Why are you throwing so much?” Mother said.

At that, I felt strengthened.
Mother’s face was pale as ever yet drawn tight.
To me, it even seemed as majestic as Father’s face had been that day when he stood with the Camphor Tree at his back.

Mother urged Father to lie down again.
Father complied and laid himself in bed.

It took three days to fell the Camphor Tree and unearth its roots.
During those days, Mother, Father, and I passed our time in near silence.
The villagers no longer visited.
Only I came alone and managed all affairs for us.
He remained almost constantly at the Camphor Tree site, directing workers.
Throughout that time, I never once approached where the tree had stood.
Yet vivid in my mind lingered those people—just like before—their brows glistening as they sawed through sacred wood.

On my way home from school, a friend said to me.

“Was your family’s Camphor Tree cut down?”

“Yeah!” I answered defiantly.

When the Camphor Tree had been cut down, carried away, and even the strangers no longer came, I went to that place alone for the first time.

At the site where the camphor tree had stood, a large hole had formed.
The large oak that had stood alongside the camphor tree had also been cut down, and only its trunk—stripped of branches and leaves—lay fallen on the ground.
The stone Inari shrine had been placed off to the side, solitary.
And over there, bundles of firewood tied with small branches from the camphor and oak trees were piled up like a mountain.
The appearance of the area had completely changed.
And what struck me with the greatest sense of wonder was that the vast blue sky could now be seen directly overhead.
I had somewhat imagined beforehand that the appearance of the ground would change, but that such a vast blue sky would become directly visible due to the absence of the camphor and oak trees was entirely unexpected.
I gazed up at the sky in surprise for a long time.
What a blue, crystal-clear depth it was!
I felt as though I had never before seen such a pure, untainted sky.
And as I gazed at it, I felt my heart grow clear and bright.

After that, I went there many times and looked up at the sky.

On a day when his condition had slightly improved, Father was taken by Mother and me to visit where the Camphor Tree had stood. What seemed to startle Father most remained that vast sky. (If Father were still alive, how I would want to ask him clearly about this now.) For at that time, though tinged with loneliness, he had worn a truly pure smile on his face.

Afterward, the hole left by the camphor tree was filled in, the ground made level, and the Inari Shrine returned to its original place. Moreover, a red torii gate of round logs was erected, and a small camphor tree was planted beside the Inari Shrine. And Father, who had been a lifelong dreamer, likely died satisfied regarding this.

But now, when I try to conjure up that phantom place, three things come vividly to my mind.
One is Father’s solemn figure seen that day.
Another is the crowd of unfamiliar people I saw that day.
And another is the vast, radiant blue sky that suddenly opened after the Camphor Tree fell.
I cannot possibly express in words what I feel toward this blue sky.