Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

It was a vast, desolate field. It was far removed from both towns and villages, a place humans seldom visited.

In the shadow of a rock, the Tokonatsu Flower was blooming. The flower was small, yet as crimson as a strawberry. The flower opened her eyes to look around—how astonished she must have been.

"What a lonely world this is," she thought. No matter where she looked, there was nothing but an endless expanse of lush, overgrown grass. As far as her eyes could see, not a single friend existed, nor anything that might call out to her. Right beside her, the blackish stone remained silent, offering neither a "Are you cold?" nor a "Are you lonely?"

The small, timid Tokonatsu Flower could never bring herself to address this stone—its unfathomable nature making it seem somehow aloof.

The flower was quivering alone. Only the sun cared for her with its gentle gaze. Yet this care wasn't reserved for her alone. Every being across the vast field received that tender light. The stone beside her and the towering grasses alike basked in its glow. They wore indifferent faces, showing neither gratitude nor complaint. Still the sun kept watching them all with undiminished kindness.

Though she alone was not particularly blessed, the Tokonatsu Flower felt an indescribable nostalgia toward the sun. And she wished to somehow gaze upon the sun’s face just a little longer. However, in this highland, even that was an unattainable wish. In an instant, white clouds swirled into vortices and flowed low across the sky. Not only did they swiftly hide the sun, but at times they even made its very whereabouts impossible to discern.

The flower detested the appearance of these clouds. However, the stone nearby and the tall, sturdy grass over there were unaffected. Though the flower could still endure these clouds, how she must have feared the cold wind and rain—and above all, the suffocatingly thick, cold fog. "If only that cold, cutting fog would never appear again," the flower would often fantasize.

But the great laws of nature could not be swayed by the tiny, barely perceptible flower’s cries and pleas. And so, whether night or day, the fog welling up from deep valley bottoms would roll forth—breaking free from the high mountain ranges’ ravines to sweep across the foothills, sometimes creeping languidly, sometimes racing ahead.

During the time the fog hung over her, the Tokonatsu Flower was tormented without respite. Not only did she feel a pricking pain as if being stabbed by poisonous needles across her soft flesh, but she grew short of breath until finally her head grew heavy as though intoxicated, her legs wobbled, and she could no longer remain upright. And she felt a deep sickness throughout her entire body. After the fog had lifted, the sound of droplets plopping as they were blown by the wind could be heard across this vast field. However, this suffering was the fate that befell all the grass, stones, and trees growing in this field. At least, the Tokonatsu Flower thought while resigning herself to this fate. The stone beside her and the tall grass over there maintained indifferent expressions, even when buffeted by wind or drenched in fog. The flower found herself both envious of them and resentful toward them.

II

It was an unusually clear, sunny day. From the mountain peak to the highland, the color of the clear, open sky could be seen as deep, deep blue.

The Tokonatsu Flower raised her head and gazed intently at the sunlight. At that moment, a bird came flying, grazing the blue sky from an unknown direction. At first, it appeared as nothing more than a black dot. And gradually, its form came into clear view. However, it was so high, so very high that even its singing voice barely reached the Tokonatsu Flower.

"Where could that bird be flying? And to be so free," the flower murmured to herself, crimson petals trembling in the wind. The bird's form drew steadily nearer. She watched with growing curiosity. Why would a migratory bird descend upon such a bleak, desolate field? At any rate, she concluded it must intend to land here.

The bird indeed descended to the field just as the flower had thought. Moreover, it immediately came to rest upon the very stone where the Tokonatsu Flower bloomed. How astonished the flower must have been at this unexpected, utterly incomprehensible event. She gazed intently at the migratory bird she was seeing for the first time—its beautiful feather colors, its gleaming black eyes, its sharp pointed talons. Then, the little bird tilted its head and gazed at the flower even more intently than she had.

“What have you come down to this field to search for?” the flower inquired. At this moment, the indifferent stone was silently sleeping. The little bird sharpened its beak on the stone’s head. And, keeping watch over the flower, “I have come down to this field specifically to find you,” it replied. The flower, feeling embarrassed upon hearing this, silently hung her head. Then, the little bird continued,

“This is truly a desolate field.” “No matter where I look, I don’t see any red flowers.” “I have come down here solely because I caught sight of you.”

“I am a bird that flew here from over there.” “I have journeyed under this blue sky, crossing over mountains.” “And under that sky, I found your poignantly sorrowful crimson form.” “Please listen to my story about that.” “I am a bird who journeys over seas, mountains, and towns, flying aimlessly from one end of the sky to the other.” “I have encountered countless sorrows and loneliness—so many kinds of hardships they are beyond number.” “Among all these, even now whenever I see this blue sky’s color, what comes to mind are those days spent sailing over northern seas.” “Sometimes on a shore, sometimes on an uninhabited island, and other times upon a ship’s mast I rested my body.” “And day after day, and the next day too, all I saw was the blue color of the sea.”

“During those times—when I saw a red flag fluttering atop a distant ship’s mast—how sorrowful and nostalgic I felt.” “Now that I see your form, I’ve grown nostalgic for the North Sea.” “Your form—like a red flag fluttering atop that ship’s mast, blown by the sea breeze—makes my heart’s blood surge.” “That you can bloom so vulnerably alone in this desolate field—I consider it akin to how that flag flashes amidst the raging waves of the North Sea.” “Aren’t you lonely?”

Thus spoke the little bird. The Tokonatsu Flower found herself filled with sorrow so profound it verged on tears. And when she raised her head to look around, the tall sturdy grass over there maintained its usual indifferent expression, utterly unfeeling.

III

The Tokonatsu Flower heard from the migratory bird about various ways of the world. The world was boundlessly vast. And she was told that such lonely, precarious places were not all that existed in it. According to the little bird’s story, she learned how even when the red flag atop a ship’s mast—so often likened to her own fate—had been exposed to sea winds, beaten by rain and storms until its colors faded, or stained black by ocean spray, it would still drift across the sea for days or months until finally reaching a bustling port aglow with beautiful lights, alive with moving figures and rows upon rows of buildings, where it could find respite at last.

Compared to that, how unfortunate my circumstances were! She wondered if she would have to remain in this field forever like this. The flower could no longer stay still; she could not endure it. And so, the Tokonatsu Flower made her request to the little bird. “Don’t you think I’m pitiful? If I remain here forever like this, I will die from being crushed by loneliness and sorrow. Please, take me to a lively place,” the flower said.

The bird was listening to what the flower had said.

“Miss Little Red Flower, I believe your lament is entirely justified.” “However, in this world, no matter where one goes, no one can ever be saved from unreliability and sorrow.” “Please remain here calmly.” “When I pass through this sky again someday, I will certainly come down to comfort you.” “And I will tell you all sorts of interesting tales I’ve seen in this world.” “If you listen to them, you will feel as though you’ve seen them yourself.” “Even if I cannot return here for any reason, among migratory birds there will surely be one who shares my heart and finds you.” “That bird will speak kindly, as I do, and comfort you.” “In anticipation of that, you must endure this lonely place,” answered the little bird.

“Little Bird, isn’t that impossible? I had thought the entire world was a place of cold winds and deep fog. And I resented why I had been born into such a world. But now, from you, I’ve heard stories of bustling towns and lively villages. I have learned that this world is by no means limited to this alone. Please take me to the bustling town—I wouldn’t mind dying if I could see even just one glimpse of a bright, bustling world,” the flower pleaded once more.

“I cannot know what will bring you happiness or unhappiness,” said the bird, not immediately granting the flower’s request. “Little Bird, but before frost falls and snow piles up, I must die—such is my fate.” “Do you consider it my natural fate to wither away in this desolate, barren land?” “Please, take me to the bustling town.” “I believe it can be done through your power,” the flower said.

“I can take you to the bustling town.” “And I can place you in a safe location.” “However, I do not know whether that will truly make you happy or unhappy,” answered the little bird. The little bird found it impossible to refuse the Tokonatsu Flower’s desperate pleas and finally consented. The little bird dug into the soil with its sharp beak, grasped the flower, detached it from the ground, and then soared high into the sky. The flower’s head spun. The little bird flew for a long time, arrived at the bustling town that evening, descended to the park, and planted the flower in a corner of the flower bed.

IV After planting the frightened flower in a corner of the park's flower bed, the little bird looked back at it and, “Well now, I have brought you to your desired place.” “Here you can both see where humans walk and clearly hear their voices.” “And remaining here will keep you safe.” “You shall now come to learn various wonders of this world.” “Whether I shall ever visit you here again remains uncertain.” “May you live in happiness,” spoke the little bird in a tender, mournful voice from the dimness.

The grove of trees in the park stood against the bluish-black night sky. The fine leaves swayed in the breeze as if revealing cute, pearly teeth through their smiles. The flower realized her surroundings had completely changed. She felt she had doubtfully—yet unthinkably—parted forever from that lonely, chilly highland, leaving her in vague restlessness, and thus forgot to properly thank or bid farewell to the little bird.

“Goodbye.” With those parting words, the little bird’s shadow flew off into oblivion. The flower endured a night of restless anxiety. Yet when she thought, “I’ve finally reached the place I yearned for,” vitality suddenly surged through her. Gradually the night paled to dawn, and the sun ascended. What vision did the flower witness in that moment?

From that day onward, this flower's life completely transformed. In the flower bed bloomed red, yellow, purple, white, and flowers of every hue. The Tokonatsu Flower had never seen those flowers before. They were all taller than herself—fragrant, beautiful flowers. She wondered why so many different flowers had been planted here. One day, a honeybee flew over, tried to pass above her head, then turned back and landed on the Tokonatsu Flower.

“What a shriveled little flower you are.” “You don’t even have proper nectar.” “Where in the world did you come from?” asked the honeybee. The Tokonatsu Flower grew angry at the honeybee’s scornful tone but endured patiently, “I was born in a distant highland,” she answered, “where I bloomed exposed to rain and wind and fog.”

“Who brought you here? I fly around this flower bed every day inspecting each of these many blooms one by one, yet I never once noticed you,” said the honeybee. “A nameless traveling bird brought me here,” answered the flower. At that moment, the Tokonatsu Flower recalled that fog-filled highland where chilly winds blew through desolate emptiness. How beautiful her small red form had seemed when she lived on that plateau! When she remembered how even birds soaring high in blue skies would spot her and deliberately descend, she now felt sad and ashamed to find her own shabby, stunted figure lost among these splendid flowers in the flower bed—so insignificant it scarcely drew notice.

“Where did all the flowers blooming here come from?” asked the Tokonatsu Flower, addressing the honeybee. “They have come from western countries, from southern countries, and even from tropical islands across the sea.” “People brought them by ship—seeds and seedlings,” answered the honeybee. The Tokonatsu Flower sank into thought. And she recalled the silent stones that had been beside her in that highland, and the figures of tall grasses that had stood over there from where she was—now even those things felt nostalgic.

V

No longer did the flower, drenched in cold mist, behold her own beautiful, troubled form adorned with dripping dewdrops, nor did she harbor the sorrowful longing for the faintly lit, cloud-rent sky beyond the high mountain range at dusk. The flower born of that highland had utterly transformed into an ordinary bloom. Not only this flower alone—all those rare blooms gathered here from various lands had lost their distinctive features, uniformly drenched from head to toe in wind-borne dust from the streets until their leaf surfaces turned white.

The park on a muggy summer afternoon appeared weary, with even the grass and trees looking tired and languid. And the red flowers, yellow flowers, and purple flowers were all tangled together, blooming listlessly.

Just then, a shabby-looking man entered the park. The man wandered aimlessly around the area for a while with a vacant expression, as if lost in thought, but before long, he arrived in front of the flower bed. “Where are the lilies blooming?” he said, scanning the area. In the flower bed, there were areas where not just lilies but countless varieties had been gathered. Eventually, the man approached its front,

“Ah, here it is.” “Isn’t there a black lily?” the man said as he turned his gaze over the lilies and searched. The man found a single black-budded lily among them. “Could this be the black lily?” he wondered, tilting his head. And then, sitting on a bench in the nearby tree shade, he lost himself in reverie. The man had such memories. Every summer, in that small town, there was a festival. That town may have been called small compared to this great metropolis, but in his childhood, how bustling a place it had been! Moreover, there was nothing one could want that this town didn’t have. Therefore, it was truly considered the most vibrant spot. And this festival was the Houonko memorial service held at the head temple of a certain Buddhist sect in the town, drawing not only men and women from nearby areas but also those who came from distant places. It was precisely through those people gathering in this town that the entire town took on a festive mood.

Showmen also came from their travels. Year after year, never forgetting that day, they would cross borders to come. One day, he entered the temple grounds while being jostled by the crowd. Then came all sorts of attractions lined up—dog shows and acrobatic stunts, giant serpent exhibits and kappa displays, sword dances and magic tricks and maiden dances. Among them was a female acrobatic act. This show booth was the tallest, and because its signboard looked quite intriguing, he finally paid the admission fee and ventured inside.

What did he see there? He saw various things—a half-naked young woman crossing a rope while holding an umbrella, doing handstands atop a ladder, and other such acts. Yet none of these left any deep impression on his heart; only one thing remained unforgettable. It was a scene of a young woman—plump as a peach fruit, her face thickly powdered white enough to flake off, with eyes disproportionately large and black, her hair fashionably styled—wearing a stiff-looking black belly band as she lay supine on a raised platform, several heavy rice bales piled atop her stomach.

He could not forget, for some reason, the woman’s vivid face, her red lips, her black belly band, and her thick, short legs.

Even after leaving the show booth and walking through town, the boom-bang, boom-bang of the acrobatic troupe’s performance clung persistently to his ears.

VI

When white seagulls could be seen flying north toward the sea at dusk, and the time came when large watermelons—crimson inside when split—tumbled about the fields, the town’s festival drew near.

The rumor that “Her belly band snapped, and the female acrobat died in a town in the southern country” reached his ears—whether someone had seen it written in a newspaper—and he was shocked. Even now, her figure remained so vividly before his eyes that when he thought she might have died, he became acutely aware of his heart pounding wildly. What kind of place was this town in the southern country? He vaguely pictured a scene under a bright sky where red flags and white flags fluttered about, and figures of people came and went through the town.

Before long, the real festival day arrived. And the showmen who had gathered last year once again converged on the temple grounds from all directions. An acrobatic troupe also arrived. How eagerly he must have awaited that day in his heart. A year had thus cycled by.

In both the fields and gardens, the flowers that had bloomed around this time last year were once again blooming in yellows and purples. He walked through the town toward the source of the lively rhythmic drumming echoing from afar. Upon entering the temple grounds—jostled by the crowd just as before—he found a tall acrobatic booth on one side, its painted signboard identical to last year’s. He paid the admission fee and peered inside. From the throng of young women clad only in flesh-colored undergarments, he searched for the one who had lingered in his memory. Those women tumbled about so wildly they scarcely seemed human—like beasts rolling across the ground. Yet he could not find the woman he remembered. Recalling the rumor he had heard, he grew sorrowful at the thought that she might truly be dead.

It was exactly at that moment.

“Last year, the girl you had the honor of seeing here met an untimely end in a certain region when her belly band snapped as she was stacking rice bales.” “Regarding that matter as well, as this is a life-risking feat, when it has been safely completed, please give your applause,” the announcer said. The announcer clapped his wooden clappers and retreated into the back of the show booth.

What appeared was a woman with a gracefully tall figure. For some reason, he felt none of last year’s thrill. "As expected—the black belly band snapped and she died." When this thought came, he sensed an unspeakable cruelty in those women’s existences.

On this day, the town was different from usual, with various night stalls lining both sides from near Daimon all along the main street, packed so closely there was scarcely room.

He saw a merchant laying out various plants and flowers across the road at the intersection. From there, while the wide main street straight ahead remained bustling, the path leading toward the backstreets grew dimmer both before and behind—the firelight dwindling until it appeared dark and desolate as a ditch’s hollow. The dahlias, cannas, and lilies illuminated by the lantern’s flickering flame seemed to float into view like figures in a painting—several alluring women standing together. And among them hung petals on the verge of decay, dangling long and limp like lolling tongues.

“What could this black flower be?” Pointing at a spindly stem with a bloom that seemed to weigh heavily upon its tip, he asked.

“It’s a black lily,” the merchant answered. He looked at the Black Lily and felt captivated. Just at that moment, the woman’s black belly band flashed through his mind. However, because he felt unsettled, he left without buying it. After that, he heard that Black Lilies were rarely found in the vicinity of Hokkaido. He also heard that it was not a particularly auspicious flower.

VII

After that, he went through various experiences and endured hardships. By chance, having come to this park and seen the lilies, he remembered things from long ago.

The Tokonatsu Flower watched as the man remained on the nearby bench without leaving, sitting there lost in thought. The flower tilted her small neck, heard the man say “I wonder if a black lily is blooming somewhere?” and recalled the scenery of the highland. The Tokonatsu Flower had once been in that highland but, having never seen a black lily, craned her neck trying to glimpse the flower. Yet to the crimson blossom clinging to the ground, the single black lily mingling among the lilies in that bed remained unseen.

Before long, the day began to darken. The treetops began to rustle softly, the sky appeared a dark blue, the lantern lights glittered, and their reflections could be seen on the blades of grass and the treetops.

The man stood up from the bench.

“When the black lily blooms, I’ll come again.” “Why does this sky have so little starlight?” “Back home, every night I saw stars glittering like falling rain...” said the man as he turned to leave. The Tokonatsu Flower tilted her small neck, realizing exactly as the man had said—why she hadn’t seen any starlight since arriving here—and grew uneasy. In her highland days when dawn winds crossed overhead skies and dewdrops fell from leaf tips, countless stars had shimmered their light. Gold and silver stars, blue and red ones too, sparkled as if chasing each other. Then before anyone noticed time passing, they all sank into shadows beyond the horizon.

The next day, from early morning, the Tokonatsu Flower felt in her very being that the sky looked ominous and a violent storm was approaching.

Around noon, the honeybee from the other day came from nowhere and landed on the flower.

“What’s wrong?” called out the Tokonatsu Flower to the honeybee. Then came its reply:

“It’s windy today—the weather has turned strange somehow,” said the honeybee to Tokonatsu Flower. “Perching on tall-stemmed blooms becomes dangerous on such days.” Her wings hummed with pragmatic urgency as she continued: “However fragrant or fair your petals may be, it serves nothing if gales snap your stem or send you tumbling.” A pause hung between them before she concluded: “I shall take my leave here—your low growth hugging earth makes this spot safe enough.” Her antennae gestured skyward: “Mark those clouds racing westward.”

The Tokonatsu Flower raised her head and looked at the sky.

“You’re absolutely right.” “Have you seen the black lily flower?” the Tokonatsu Flower asked the honeybee. The honeybee quivered its small translucent wings, “A black flower you say? “We say black flowers sprout from human corpses. “And since they’re poisonous,” “we never alight on them.” “Black flowers rarely exist.” “They say merely looking at one brings ill fortune,” answered the honeybee.

When Tokonatsu Flower heard this, she drew in her neck. And recalling how she had craned her neck to try to see what bloomed nearby—prompted by what the man had said—she shuddered involuntarily. "Why would you ask such a thing?" the honeybee asked. "No…," the Tokonatsu Flower replied before falling silent. The wind grew increasingly fierce.

VIII “Is there something happening at the park today?” asked the Tokonatsu Flower, addressing the Honeybee—who knew everything about events in this area—as people had been filing around the flower bed in the wind since earlier.

Then, the honeybee rubbed its limbs together while,

“There’s an agricultural exhibition happening.” “When flowers were in bloom, I too would flit from one vast field to another.” “After all, I went as far as two ri away.” “As days passed, those vegetables developed thick roots, plumped up roundly, and bore large fruits, you see.” “Since yesterday, local farmers have been bringing radishes, green onions, beans, potatoes, and such into the venue.” "And apparently, first and second places can receive substantial prizes," answered the Honeybee.

Truly, the park was bustling with all sorts of people. From over there, the sound of instruments played by the band reached them carried by the wind, and voices singing could also be heard.

On this day, a white-haired old woman appeared at the agricultural exhibition venue. The old woman had no real interest in agricultural products. Though she lived in a rundown town, when she came to visit an acquaintance here on an errand, she heard about the exhibition at their house.

When she heard that “radishes, eggplants, potatoes—anything well-grown would receive first prize, second prize with honors and prizes,” something suddenly came to the old woman’s mind. “Where is this exhibition?” asked the old woman. “It’ll be at the nearby park soon.” “Well, go and see for yourself.” “They have large eggplants, splendid cucumbers—every kind of vegetable imaginable.” “The radishes there are so thick you’d wonder how they even exist,” said the acquaintance.

Upon hearing this, the old woman bustled out of the house and came to the park. This exhibition venue in the park used a band to draw crowds. There, vegetables were sold cheaply for a limited number of days. When the old woman stepped inside, she ignored all exhibits and went straight to where radishes were displayed. There stood rows of thick white radishes, with a red paper tag reading “First Prize” attached to the stoutest one.

Apparently, the first prize came with a substantial reward. When she saw this, the old woman widened her eyes.

“Oh, is this the first prize?”

she muttered to herself.

In fact, this morning, the old woman had been startled to see an enormous radish at the greengrocer’s near her house. Over her many long years, the old woman had seen countless radishes, but she had never encountered one as large as this.

“My, what a large radish!” the old woman said at that time.

“I’ve been running a greengrocer’s for a long time, but this is the first I’ve seen anything like this,” said the greengrocer. The old woman came to the exhibition, gazed at the first-prize radish, and thought the one at the greengrocer’s shopfront was larger than this. “I wonder if that radish is still unsold. If I bring that here and submit it, that one would take first prize,” thought the old woman. Then, hurrying outside, she boarded a train.

Three or four hours later, the old woman appeared at the exhibition venue carrying two large radishes. The staff were astonished. For they were indeed larger and thicker than the first-prize exhibit. “Ma’am, what splendid radishes these are,” said the staff member.

IX “Ma’am, was the field’s soil red clay or black loam?” asked the staff member. “Black loam,” the old woman answered.

“It was black loam,” replied the old woman. “Please tell us where you procured the seeds, on what month and day you sowed them in the field, and when you applied fertilizer approximately how many times,” said the staff member. When confronted with these questions, the old woman knew nothing at all—for these were not radishes she had grown in her own field. She could only fidget wordlessly, unable to respond.

“Ma’am, you didn’t grow these yourself, did you?” said the staff member.

“I bought these from the greengrocer’s.” “But these are mine,” said the old woman. “That won’t do.” “Purchased items are not allowed,” answered the staff member, shaking his head. “Why?” “Why isn’t such a large one allowed?” “The radishes I brought deserve first prize!” the old woman declared, shaking her white-haired head in an angry voice.

The staff member laughed upon hearing this and said, "Certainly these radishes qualify for first prize." "But since I don't know who grew them, I can't award you the prize." "As for whoever grew them—since I bought them—these radishes belong to me." "The prize is mine," declared the old woman with unshakable conviction.

However, the staff member shook his head.

“No, because prizes are meant to commend those who grew the vegetables. We cannot award them to anyone else.” “You likely don’t know who the farmer that grew these radishes is or where they’re from.” “Since it’s a splendid radish, there’s no issue with displaying it there for everyone to see, so please lend it to us for two or three days,” said the staff member. The old woman rolled her eyes and glared at the staff member,

“How dare you say such a thing! Since these are mine, if you won’t give me the prize, I’ll take them straight back. You could verify them by comparison, but you begrudge awarding first place and won’t even lend them out temporarily!” fumed the greedy old woman as she clutched her two large radishes and stormed out through the venue entrance.

The dusk sky was the color of liquid amber, and a fierce wind whistled as it blew. The power lines groaned, the park's evergreen and deciduous trees bent under the wind's force, their black crowns undulating like waves across the sky. Clutching two large radishes with their leaves still attached, the old woman walked toward the tram intersection where a signalman waved a red flag.

The wind repeatedly tried to blow the old woman over. The old woman walked clutching the two radishes tightly to avoid being knocked down by the wind. The wind whipped her white hair into waves and tossed the radish leaves as if to tear them off, twisting and battering them.

The wind finally knocked the old woman down with a fierce gust. Still clutching the radishes, she tried to get up but found herself pinned by the gale’s force. Soon passersby coalesced into a shadowy mass around her. “Honeybee,” came the voice from crimson petals trembling nearby, “how terribly clamorous it sounds over there.”

“And,” said the Tokonatsu Flower to the honeybee.

“Soon enough, beyond this iron fence lies a thoroughfare.” “I’ll go take a look,” answered the honeybee as it flew off. Before long, the honeybee returned and landed on the flower, “When some kind people helped up an old woman who had fallen somewhere, the thick radish she had been carrying snapped in two—and now she’s furious about it.”

X

By the next day, the wind had subsided. Early in the morning, before the sun had even risen, the honeybee woke up and prepared to fly. "I didn't eat anything all day yesterday. Today I'm absolutely starving, so I must visit large flowers and gather plenty of nectar. Well then, goodbye. I look forward to seeing you again," said the honeybee as he began bidding farewell to the Tokonatsu Flower.

The Tokonatsu Flower remained silent, but just as the honeybee was about to fly away, she called out to stop him. “Honeybee, no matter how hungry you are, you must never carelessly stop at black lily flowers.” “Do take care,” she said.

“Thank you for your kindness.” “I’ll be careful,” said the honeybee as he buzzed his wings and flew off briskly through the morning air. That day, rain fell from midday into the night. And soon, the rain stopped. Then, a refreshing mood drifted through the air, and the wet tree leaves and grass blades, illuminated by lights standing here and there, glittered brightly.

The Tokonatsu Flower wondered where the honeybee had gone to sleep，as night had fallen without his return.

As the wind blew crisply through, the dew on the trees pattered down to the ground. Lulled into pleasant drowsiness, the flower had fallen asleep when suddenly—in midnight's depth—she felt an icy touch against her body and startled awake. Thinking the belated honeybee had returned to brush her with his damp form, she looked beneath the electric light shining down only to find not him, but a small moth with pointed wings of yellow. The moth's sulfur-hued translucent wings felt unnervingly cold against her petals. She had seen countless moths in her highland days. Yet none had ever struck her quite like this one. This moth bore two whirling eyes that watched her like human eyes.

The flower could not bring herself to say anything to the moth, but neither could she pretend not to notice, “Yellow Moth, where did you fly here from at this hour?” “I have never seen a moth like you before.” “From the mountains?” “From the field?” “Where did you fly here from?” she asked. The moth answered in a voice as cold and clear as its body color.

“We were born on battlefields.” “Many humans died, and we were born in a vast field where their corpses rotted.” “We detest bright daylight, fire, and flames.” “We love pitch-black darkness.” “On windy days, we fly from dark field to field, from town to town.” “And we extinguish every last fire.” “We will plunge the bright city into complete darkness.” “That is why we do not hesitate to let our bodies burn in flames or even die.” “Brightness is more dreadful than death,” said the moth, watching the flower with its two whirling eyes.

“Do you all travel together in such large numbers?” asked the flower. “Tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands—the exact number is unknown,” “We can darken even skies where the sun shines.” “Moreover, no matter how lively and bright a city’s fires may be, we can darken them. Last night, while crossing over the sea toward southern lands, a small number of us strayed off course in the wind and flew this way.” “Before long, our companions will pass through this sky,” said the moth.

The flower raised her head and looked at the nearby lamplight, only to find several moths resting there.

XI The flower saw countless yellow moths come flying in an instant. On every tree leaf and every blade of grass, moths were perched. It looked exactly as if petals had fallen and settled upon them. Suddenly there came a rustling sound, and thinking the lamplight had dimmed, when she looked toward the standing streetlight, hundreds and thousands of moths were attacking the flame. Because they blocked the light, among them were moths that smashed their heads against the glass and fell below, others that fluttered around the flame as if seeking any opening, and various others. At this moment, even looking toward the streetlight standing over there revealed the same spectacle. And the white powder from their wings was scattering through the space around the flame, as if glittering dust had been sown. The flower now recalled what the moth had said and realized its companions had finally arrived here.

The moths attacked to extinguish the city’s fires. The Tokonatsu Flower felt such terror it made her shudder when she realized these countless yellow moths all possessed two whirling, round eyes like human eyes, along with long antennae and large mouths. She closed her eyes, trying not to look.

Before long, the interminable night began to dawn. Though tormented, the flower felt she had managed to sleep somewhat. However, her head was heavy.

When the surroundings grew bright, she noticed that the yellow moth that had been perched on her body was gone. Not only that, but when she raised her head and looked around, she was astonished to find that the moths that had flown in such great numbers were now completely gone.

"Was everything last night just a dream?" she couldn't help doubting.

The agile, free, and astute honeybee who knew everything must surely have known about last night’s events as well. The flower waited, hoping the honeybee would come quickly, but that day, it never arrived.

The flower born in the highlands had grown terribly weak since coming to this city. The mere fact that she no longer drank the chilly dew morning and evening had already sapped her vitality. Moreover, with persistently muggy days continuing, even her head felt heavy and lifeless.

The Tokonatsu Flower had feared encountering that cold, snow-laden winter while in the highlands, but since coming here, she thought that if her body weakened this quickly, she might wither away before autumn even arrived. "Ah, I don’t have much longer either," the flower thought. And even during the day, she took to dozing off in a drowsy haze. The sunlight that beat down fiercely on the leaves of the surrounding evergreen trees also shone feebly upon this withered, pitiful flower. The sunlight cast upon this flower now even appeared bluish-white like a phosphorus flame.

Hearing someone’s muttering voice, the flower suddenly woke up to find that day had already ended. The person sitting on the nearby bench was indeed the man who had been searching for the black lily flower. “For some reason, whenever I hear that flute, memories of going to that mountain hot spring with Mother flash before my eyes. At that time, Mother was in good health, and I was still a child. At the rustic hot spring inn, nights were quiet with the sound of the mountain stream. Under the andon lanterns, men sat cross-legged with their shins exposed, looking down as they played shogi.”

The man was muttering to himself like this.

By now, the sky had darkened, so the flower could not discern the man's face. She merely recognized his voice. From beyond the park's iron fence came the thin, fragmented sound of a flute played by a passing masseur. Afterward, there remained only the sighs of the man leaning against the bench in the darkness.

XII

The next morning was clear and bright. White clouds quietly left the treetops and drifted across the sky. The Tokonatsu Flower lay limp. And she was uncharacteristically listless. From somewhere, a honeybee came flying.

“Isn’t it a lovely day?” said the honeybee, addressing her.

“Last night I had a dreadful dream, and today my head feels unbearably heavy,” replied the flower. “What manner of dream did you behold?” “Your complexion truly looks unwell.” “You appear quite fatigued—do take care of yourself,” said the honeybee.

The Tokonatsu Flower told of how a yellow moth had come the night before last. Then, without even listening to half of what the flower was saying, the honeybee— “What do you mean ‘just a dream’? “It’s all true. “In this park, humans are in an uproar because a black lily has bloomed and strange poisonous moths have appeared. “You still know nothing at all?” said the honeybee. When the Tokonatsu Flower heard this,

“Did the Black Lily bloom?” she asked. “In the lily garden one has bloomed. Therefore today a botanist has come there to examine it. Later on they will likely come here as well,” said the honeybee. The Tokonatsu Flower felt a vague sense of foreboding.

“Honeybee, does that mean the moths that came the night before last were poisonous ones?” she asked. “They certainly were poisonous. Last night, that very man sitting on this bench was stung by those moths,” said the honeybee. “Since he fell ill, scholars have come to the park today searching for them. Yet despite their numbers before, not a single one of those moths can be found now.”

The Tokonatsu Flower was shocked to hear that the man who had been sitting on the nearby bench had fallen ill after being stung by moths. "How unfortunate he must be," said the flower, recalling the man's earlier mutterings.

“That man tried to pick the Black Lily during the day. He was caught by the guard and scolded. The man came here at night. Then it seems some poisonous moths that had attacked the city the night before last still lingered somewhere and stung him. So they say the poison has spread through his body and he’s near death, but I think he might have touched the Black Lily,” answered the honeybee.

At that moment, over there, the lively sound of music was resounding. It appeared that some kind of event was taking place.

Where there were those who grieved, there were also those who rejoiced. That was the way of this world. At that moment, a group of people came trooping over here. That was the group of scholars the honeybee had spoken of earlier. Among them, one person wearing a white Western-style suit and glasses approached where the Tokonatsu Flower was blooming.

“Well now, it’s unusual for this kind of flower to be blooming here.” “This Tokonatsu is a Tokonatsu found in high mountains,” he said, glancing at the others. “Why is it blooming in a place like this?” asked one of them. “It’s a rare occurrence.” “The seeds must have been carried here by wind or something,” answered the man in the white suit. And then, he reached out his hand and uprooted the Tokonatsu Flower from its roots.

The fate of the flower that the bird had carried and planted there had finally come to an end.

The honeybee, upon seeing this, flew away to parts unknown.