Pathway to Japanese Literature

I It was a vast, lonely field. It was far removed from both town and village, a place where humans seldom ventured.

In the shade of a stone, the Everlasting summer flower was blooming. The flower was small, but crimson as a strawberry. The flower opened its eyes and looked—how astonished it must have been. "What a lonely world this is," thought the flower. No matter where it looked, there was only grass growing thickly and endlessly; as far as the eye could see, there were neither friends nor anything that would call out to it. The darkish stone right beside it remained silent, offering neither a "Are you cold?" nor a "Are you lonely?"

How could the small, timid Everlasting summer flower bring itself to speak to this unapproachable stone—this stone whose nature it couldn't comprehend, that somehow seemed stern and aloof? The flower was trembling alone. Yet the only one who cared for it with a gentle gaze was the sun. However, the sun did not care for it alone. Everything in this vast field was receiving its gentle light. This stone too, and the tall grasses nearby—they all bathed in its light. And they maintained composed expressions, as if they didn't consider it a blessing at all. However, the sun never took offense at this and continued gazing upon all with an equal smile.

The Everlasting summer flower felt an inexplicable fondness toward the sun, though it knew this warmth wasn't granted to it alone. It wished to somehow gaze upon that radiant face just a little longer. Yet even this modest desire remained unattainable here on these highlands. Suddenly white clouds would swirl low across the sky. They not only hid the sun without warning but sometimes erased all trace of its whereabouts.

The flower detested the appearance of these clouds. However, the stone beside it and the tall, sturdy grasses over there remained unfazed. The flower could still endure these clouds, but how it must have feared the cold wind and rain, and the thick, suffocating, cold fog. “Ah, if only that cold, piercing fog would cease to appear,” the Everlasting summer flower would often fantasize.

But nature's great law remained unmoved by the cries and wishes of this tiny flower—so small it was barely visible—and could not be swayed from its course. And so the mist—welling up from deep valley floors regardless of night or day—would roll away from the mountain range's ravines to engulf the foothill highlands, sometimes creeping slowly and languidly, sometimes advancing at a sprint.

While the mist hung over it, the flower was tormented without respite. Not only did it feel a prickling pain as if poisonous needles were pricking its soft skin, but it grew short of breath until finally its head became heavy like a drunkard's, its footing unsteady, leaving it unable to remain upright. And a malaise permeated its entire body. After the mist had passed, droplets plip-plopped as they blew across this vast field. Yet this suffering was a fate shared by all grasses, stones, and trees growing here. At least, the Everlasting summer flower thought while resigning itself. The stone beside it and tall grasses over there kept composed expressions even when wind-battered or mist-drenched. The flower found them both enviable and accursed.

II

It was an unusually clear day. From the mountain peaks across the highland, the color of the clear sky could be seen as deep, deep blue. The Everlasting summer flower raised its head and gazed intently at the sunlight. At that moment, a bird came flying, grazing the blue sky from nowhere in particular. At first, it appeared as nothing more than a black speck. And gradually, its form came into clear view. However, it was high, so high that even its singing voice barely reached the Everlasting summer flower.

"Where could that bird be flying off to? And to be so free..." murmured the flower, its crimson petals quivering in the wind.

Then, the bird’s figure drew increasingly closer. The flower saw this and found it strange. Why would that migratory bird descend into such a lonely, desolate field? At any rate, it concluded that the bird intended to land in this field.

The migratory bird indeed descended to the field just as the flower had thought. Moreover, it came right to the stone where the flower was blooming and stopped.

At this unexpected, utterly incomprehensible event, how astonished the flower must have been. The flower gazed intently at the agile-looking migratory bird it was seeing for the first time—its beautiful feather colors, gleaming black eyes, and sharp pointed talons. Then, tilting its head, the migratory bird gazed back at the flower with even greater intensity.

“What have you come down to this field in search of?” asked the flower.

At this moment, the indifferent stone lay sleeping in silence. The migratory bird sharpened its beak against the head of the stone. And it watched over the flower,

"I found you and made a special trip down to this field," replied the migratory bird.

The flower, feeling embarrassed upon hearing this, silently hung its head. Then, the migratory bird continued speaking, “This is truly a desolate field. No matter where I look, I see no red flowers. It was solely upon finding you that I descended here.” “I am a bird who flew here from over there. I have journeyed under this blue sky, crossing over mountains. And beneath this sky, I found your crimson figure—heartrendingly sorrowful. Please listen to my story about that.”

“I am a bird who travels over seas, mountains, and towns, flying aimlessly from one horizon’s edge to the other.” “I have encountered trials beyond counting—sorrows and loneliness past measure—in my wanderings.” “Among them all, even now when I behold this azure sky’s hue, what rises in memory are those days I sailed over the Northern Sea.” “At times upon some shore I rested; at times upon uninhabited isles; and at others still upon ships’ swaying masts.” “Day upon day thereafter revealed naught but the sea’s endless blue.”

“At such times, when I saw a red flag fluttering atop the mast of a ship sailing into the distance, how sorrowful and nostalgic I felt!” “Now that I behold your figure, I have grown nostalgic for the Northern Sea.” “Your figure—like a red flag fluttering atop that ship’s mast in the sea breeze—stirs the blood in my heart.” “That you can bloom here alone in this desolate field, so fragile and solitary—I perceive this to be akin to how that flag flutters amidst the tempestuous waves of the Northern Sea.” “Are you not lonely?”

Thus spoke the migratory bird.

The Everlasting summer flower found itself filled with such heartrending sadness. And when it raised its head to survey its surroundings, the tall sturdy grasses over there maintained their usual composed expressions with utter insensitivity.

III

The Everlasting Summer Flower heard from the Migratory Bird about various ways of the world. The world was infinitely vast. And it was also told that such lonely, precarious places were not all there was in the world. According to the Migratory Bird's tale, it was learned that the red flag atop the ship's mast—which had been said to resemble one's own fate—though exposed to salt winds, beaten by rain and storms until its colors faded, and stained black by sea spray, would nevertheless after days or months of drifting across the sea eventually enter a harbor with beautiful lamplights, moving human figures, and rows of buildings—a lively place where it could find temporary respite.

In comparison to that, how unfortunate my circumstances were! I wondered if I would have to remain in this field forever like this. The flower could no longer stay still and endure it. Thereupon, the Everlasting summer flower made a request to the Migratory bird.

“Don’t you find me pitiable?” “If I must stay here forever like this, I’ll perish from loneliness and sorrow.” “Please take me somewhere lively,” pleaded the flower.

The migratory bird was listening to what the flower was saying. “Miss Little Red Flower, I believe your grievances are entirely justified.” “However, in this world, no matter where one goes, there is no salvation from its precariousness and sorrow.” “Please remain here peacefully.” “I will surely descend to comfort you when I pass through this sky again someday.” “And I shall share with you all manner of fascinating tales I have witnessed in this world.” “Hearing them, you would feel their truth as keenly as if beholding them yourself.” “Even should I never return here again for any reason, among migratory birds there will surely be one that shares my heart—one who will find you and descend.” “That bird shall speak gently as I do now and bring you solace.” “You must endure this lonely place while cherishing that hope,” answered the migratory bird.

“Bird, isn’t that impossible? I had thought the entire world was a place of cold winds and deep mist. And I resented why I had been born into such a world. But now from you, I heard tales of bustling towns and lively villages. I learned that the world is by no means limited to this alone. Please take me to a lively town. If I could just catch one glimpse of a bright, lively world, I would be content to die,” the flower entreated once more.

"I cannot know what may bring you happiness or misfortune," said the Migratory bird, not immediately granting the flower's request. "Bird, yet before frost falls and snow piles deep, I am fated to perish." "Do you deem it my natural destiny to wither in this desolate wasteland?" "I implore you—take me to the bustling town." "I believe you have the power to make it so," said the flower.

“I can take you to a lively town,” “And put you in a safe place.” “But whether that will truly make you happy or unhappy—I cannot know,” answered the Migratory bird.

The Migratory bird, unable to refuse the Everlasting summer flower's persistent entreaties, finally consented. The Migratory bird dug into the soil with its sharp beak, picked up the flower, detached it from the ground, and then soared high into the sky. The flower grew dizzy. The Migratory bird flew for a long time, arrived at the bustling town that evening, descended into the park, and planted the flower in a corner of the flower bed.

IV

The Migratory bird planted the frightened flower in a corner of the park's flower bed and, looking back at it, “There—I have brought you to your desired place. Here you may watch where people walk and clearly hear their voices too. This place offers safety. Henceforth you shall come to know all manner of the world’s mysteries through these surroundings. Whether I shall ever visit you here again remains uncertain.” From within the twilight shadows came its gentle yet sorrowful voice: “May you dwell happily here.”

The park's grove of trees stood against the blue-black night sky. The delicate leaves swayed in the gentle breeze as if revealing charming, pure teeth in a smile. The flower realized its surroundings had completely transformed. Because it lingered in such restless uncertainty—doubting whether it had truly parted forever from that lonely, chilly highland while feeling such separation couldn't possibly be real—the flower forgot to offer proper thanks or farewells to the Migratory bird.

“Goodbye.” With those parting words, the shadow of the Migratory bird flew off into the unknown.

The flower spent an anxious, tormented night. However, when the flower thought,*I had finally come to the place I longed for*, it suddenly felt a surge of vitality.

Before long, the night brightened faintly, and the sun rose.

At this moment, what scene did the flower behold?

From that day onward, this flower's life underwent a complete transformation.

In the flower bed, red and yellow and purple and white—flowers of every color—were blooming in full. The Everlasting summer flower had never seen those flowers before. All of them were flowers taller than itself, fragrant and beautiful. It wondered why so many different kinds of flowers were planted here. One day, a honeybee flew over, attempted to pass above its head, then turned back and landed on the Everlasting summer flower.

“What a stunted little flower.” “This flower hasn’t a proper drop of nectar.” “Where on earth did you come from?” asked the Honeybee.

The Everlasting summer flower became angry at the honeybee’s contemptuous manner of speaking but endured it, “I was born in a distant highland, where I bloomed exposed to rain, wind, and mist,” it answered. “Who brought you here? I fly around this flower bed every day, checking each of the many flowers blooming here, yet I never noticed you,” said the Honeybee.

“A nameless migratory bird brought me here,” answered the flower.

At this moment, the Everlasting summer flower recalled that mist-shrouded highland where chilly winds blew—a place of profound solitude. And back when she had been on that highland, how beautiful had her own small red form seemed? When she considered how even the Migratory bird soaring high in the blue sky had noticed her and specially descended, now that she had come to this flower bed and found her own shabby, stunted form nearly invisible among these beautiful flowers intermingled here, she felt sorrowful and ashamed.

“Where did all the flowers blooming here come from?” asked the Everlasting summer flower to the Honeybee. “They came from western countries, southern countries, and even tropical islands across the sea.” “People brought them by loading seeds and saplings onto ships,” answered the Honeybee.

The Everlasting summer flower sank deep into thought. And she recalled the silent stone that had been beside her on that highland and the forms of tall grasses that had stood yonder from where she grew—now even those things felt dear to her.

V

No longer did the flower behold its own beautiful, troubled form drenched in cold mist with droplets trickling down; nor did it harbor that sorrowful longing for the twilight sky beyond the high mountain range where pale light streamed through rifts in the clouds. The flower born of that highland now transformed entirely into an ordinary blossom. Not only this flower alone—all those rare blossoms gathered here from various lands likewise lost their distinctive features, uniformly coated in dust carried by winds from the city streets until their leaf surfaces turned white.

The park on a sweltering summer afternoon appeared weary and listless, even its grasses and trees. And the red flowers, yellow flowers, and purple flowers, intertwined with one another, bloomed in utter languor.

Just then, a shabby-looking man entered the park. The man wandered aimlessly about for a while with a dazed expression, as if pondering something in his head, and before long, he arrived before the flower bed.

“Where might the lilies be blooming?” he said, scanning his surroundings. In the flower bed, there was an area where lilies of numerous varieties—though lilies alone—had been gathered. Before long, the man approached it,

“Ah, here it is. I wonder if there’s a black lily here?” the man muttered while directing his gaze over the lilies and searching.

The man found a single lily with a black bud among them. "Isn't this a black lily?" he murmured, tilting his head. Then he sat down on a bench in the shade of a nearby tree and sank into reverie.

The man had such memories. Every summer, there would be a festival in that small town. Though called small compared to this vast metropolis, how bustling it had been when he was a child! Moreover, there was nothing one could want that wasn't available there. Thus it had truly been considered the most developed place. And this festival was the Buddhist memorial service of a certain sect's head temple located in the town, attended not just by local men and women but also people from distant regions. It was through precisely these people gathering that the whole town became festive.

Showmen also came from their travels. Every year without fail, they would cross borders to come on that very day. One day, jostled by the crowd, he entered the temple grounds. There were various things lined up—dog shows, acrobatic acts, giant serpent exhibits, kappa displays, sword dances, magic tricks, maiden dances, and the like. Among them was a female acrobatic act. This booth had the tallest ridgepole, and because its signboard looked splendid and intriguing, he finally paid the admission fee and proceeded toward the back.

What did he see there? He saw a semi-nude young woman crossing a rope while holding an umbrella, performing handstands atop a ladder, and various other things. However, while none of those left any deep impression on him, there remained one thing he could not forget. It was the spectacle of a young woman—plump as a peach, her face thickly powdered to the point of peeling, with only her eyes enlarged and blackened, her hair styled in modern Western fashion—fastening a stiff black obi around her waist as she lay supine on a raised platform, several heavy rice bales stacked upon her stomach.

He found himself unable to forget that woman’s vivid face, her red lips, her black obi, and her thick, short legs. Even after exiting the booth and walking through town, the boom-bang, boom-bang of the music being played at this acrobatic booth clung persistently to his ears.

VI

When white seagulls could be seen flying north toward the northern sea at dusk, and when the fields became filled with large watermelons that would reveal vivid crimson flesh when split—their round forms rolling and tumbling about—the town's festival drew near.

The rumor stating, "Her obi tore, and the acrobatic woman died in a southern town," reached his ears—whether because someone had seen it written in a newspaper—and he was startled. Up until this moment, that woman's image had still remained vividly before his eyes, so when he thought she might have died, he became aware of his heart pounding violently. What kind of place was this southern town? Under the bright sky, he vaguely pictured a scene of red flags and white flags fluttering while figures came and went through the town.

Before long, the day of the festival truly arrived. And the showmen who had gathered last year once again assembled from far and wide in the temple grounds. An acrobatic troupe also arrived. How he must have looked forward to that day—how he must have been waiting!

A year had thus passed. In both fields and gardens, flowers that bloomed around this time last year were once again flowering in yellows and purples. He walked through town toward the lively clang-clang noises resounding from afar. Jostled by crowds as before when entering the temple grounds, he found a tall acrobatic booth on one side bearing a painted signboard like last year's. He paid admission and peered inside. From the group of young women clad only in flesh-colored undergarments, he searched for the one etched in his memory. These girls tumbled about so wildly they scarcely seemed human—like beasts rolling across the ground. Yet he couldn't find that particular woman. Remembering the rumor he'd heard, he grew sorrowful imagining she might truly have died. Just then.

“Last year, the young woman who performed here met an untimely demise in a certain region when her obi tore during a rice bale stacking act.” “As this remains a life-risking feat, we earnestly request your applause should she complete it safely,” declared the showman. Having finished his announcement, the showman struck his wooden clappers and withdrew into the booth’s rear.

The one who appeared was a slender-backed woman. For some reason, it didn’t stir in him the same excitement as the previous year.

"So after all, the black obi tore and that woman died." When he thought this, he felt an indescribable gruesomeness regarding the fates of those women.

On this day, the town differed from its usual self, with various night stalls lining both sides from near the main gate all along the main street, leaving scarcely any space. He saw a merchant at the crossroads spreading out various plants and flowers on the road. From there, if one were to go straight down the wide main street, it would still be bustling; but the road leading toward the back alleys grew darker with fewer flickers of light ahead and behind, appearing even desolate like ditch hollows. Dahlias, cannas, lilies, and other flowers, illuminated by the flickering lantern flames as if floating forth, gave him the impression of gazing upon a painted scene where several alluring women stood. And among them were petals on the verge of decay, hanging long and limp like protruding tongues.

“What is this black flower?” Pointing to a spindly stem where a single flower bloomed heavily at its tip, he asked.

"It's a black lily," answered the merchant. He looked at the black lily and felt himself becoming enchanted. At that very moment, the woman's black obi resurfaced in his mind. Yet finding the association unsettling, he departed without making a purchase. Later he would learn that black lilies grew only rarely in Hokkaido. He would also come to hear they weren't considered flowers of good omen.

VII He subsequently experienced various things and also faced hardships. By chance, he came to this park, saw lily flowers, and was reminded of things from long ago.

The everlasting summer flower watched as the man remained seated on the nearby bench without leaving all that time, sitting there deep in thought. The flower tilted its small head upon hearing him say “Might there be any black lilies blooming here?” and recalled scenes from its highland home. Though having once lived on that highland itself, since this everlasting summer flower had never seen black lilies before now stretching its stem upward trying catch sight of those blossoms. Yet for all its craning from where this crimson bloom crept along ground level—that single black lily mingling among distant lily beds remained unseen.

Before long, dusk began to fall. The treetops began to rustle softly, the color of the sky appeared deep blue-black, electric lights glimmered, and their reflections could be seen on the grass blades and treetops. The man stood up from the bench.

“I’ll come again when the black lilies bloom. Why is the starlight so scarce in this sky? Back in my hometown, every night you could see stars twinkling like showering glitter...” the man said as he departed. The Everlasting Summer Flower realized just as the man had said that since coming here the starlight was nowhere to be seen, and began to wonder why. Back when it lived on that highland, when dawn winds swept across the sky overhead and dew droplets dripped from leaf tips, countless stars had glittered. As if chasing one another, gold and silver and blue and red stars had glittered. And then, when time passed unnoticed, they would all sink away as shadows beyond the horizon.

The next day, from early morning, the Everlasting Summer Flower found the sky looking ominous and physically sensed the approach of a storm.

Around noon, the honeybee from before came from nowhere and landed on the flower. "What's wrong?" asked the Everlasting Summer Flower. Then came reply: "It's windy today—something's gone strange with weather." "Days like these make tall-stemmed blooms perilous perches." "No matter their fragrance or fair blossoming—wind may hurl them down or break their necks." "Let me shelter with you today." "You hug earth with low stem—safe haven here." "Mark those clouds scudding swift," addressed she who bore translucent wings.

The flower raised its head and looked up at the sky.

"That’s true." “Have you seen the black lily flower?” asked the Everlasting Summer Flower of Honeybee.

The Honeybee quivered its small, translucent wings and answered, “A black flower? We say those grow from human corpses. Since they’re poisonous, we never land on them. Black flowers are rare enough as it is. They say even looking at one brings bad luck.”

The Everlasting Summer Flower drew back its neck upon hearing this. And then, recalling how it had stretched its stem upon hearing the man’s words in an attempt to see if any were blooming nearby, it shuddered involuntarily. “Why do you ask such a thing?” inquired Ms. Honeybee. "No..." said the Everlasting Summer Flower, and fell silent.

The wind grew ever stronger.

VIII

"Is there something happening in the park today?" asked the flower to the honeybee who knew every occurrence in this vicinity so thoroughly that nothing escaped her notice—for people had been streaming around the flower beds through the wind since earlier.

Then, the Honeybee rubbed her limbs together and said: “There’s an agricultural exhibition happening.” “Back when flowers bloomed freely, I too would fly from field to field.” “After all, I once traveled two ri away.” “As days passed, those vegetables grew thick roots, became plump, and bore large grains.” “Since yesterday, local farmers have been bringing daikon radishes, leeks, beans, and potatoes to the venue.” “And they say first and second prizes come with substantial awards.”

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

On this day, the white-haired old woman appeared at the agricultural exhibition venue. The old woman had no particular interest in agricultural products.

Though she lived in an outlying town, when she came to visit an acquaintance here on an errand, she heard about the exhibition at that person’s house.

When she heard that "any well-grown produce—be it daikon radishes, eggplants, potatoes, anything—would receive first or second place honors and prizes," something suddenly came to the old woman’s mind.

"Where is this exhibition?" inquired the old woman. "It’s right nearby in the park. "Oh, why don’t you go take a look? "It has large eggplants, splendid cucumbers—all sorts of vegetables, you see. "And the daikon radishes—you’d wonder how they could possibly be so thick," said the acquaintance.

When she heard this, the old woman bustled out of the house and made her way to the park.

The exhibition venue in this park used a band to draw in crowds. And there, for those few designated days, vegetables were sold at low prices. When the old woman entered, without giving a glance to any of the exhibited items, she immediately went to see where the daikon radishes were displayed. There lay white, thick daikon radishes of various sizes, with a red paper tag bearing "First Prize" attached to the thickest among them.

Apparently, the first prize came with quite a substantial award. When she saw this, the old woman's eyes grew round. "Oh, so this is the first prize?"

she muttered to herself. The fact was, this very morning, the old woman had been astonished to see an enormous daikon radish at a greengrocer’s near her house. In all her long years, the old woman had seen many daikon radishes, but never before had she encountered one so large. "My, what a large daikon radish!" said the old woman at that time. “I’ve been a greengrocer 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 daikon radish that had won first prize, and thought that the one at the greengrocer’s storefront was larger than this one.

"I wonder if that daikon is still unsold," thought the old woman. "If I bring that one here and submit it, that one would surely take first prize." Then she hurried outside and boarded a train. Three or four hours later, she appeared at the exhibition venue carrying two large daikon radishes.

The officials were surprised. This was because they were indeed larger and thicker than the first-prize entry.

“Old woman, that’s truly a splendid daikon radish,” said the officials.

IX "Old woman, is the soil in your field red or black?" asked the officials. "It is black soil," answered the old woman.

“From where did you obtain the seeds? On what date in which month were they sown in the field? When and approximately how many times was fertilizer applied? Please tell us,” said the officials. When faced with such questions, the old woman had no idea how to respond—after all, these weren’t daikon she’d cultivated in her own fields. All she could do was fidget uncomfortably, utterly unable to respond. “Old woman, you didn’t grow this yourself, did you?” said the officials.

“I bought this at the greengrocer’s. But this is mine,” said the old woman.

“That won’t do. Purchased items are not permitted,” the officials replied, shaking their heads.

“Why? “Why isn’t such a large one permitted? “The daikon I brought should receive first prize!” declared the old woman in an angry voice, shaking her white-haired head fiercely. The officials laughed upon hearing this, “Certainly, this daikon meets first-prize qualifications. “However, since we don’t know who grew it, we cannot award the prize.” “Whoever grew it matters not—since I bought it, this daikon belongs to me. “The prize is mine,” insisted the old woman, as though stating an indisputable truth.

However, the officials shook their heads. "No, we award prizes only to honor those who actually grew the vegetables. We don't give them to anyone else." "The farmer who cultivated this daikon radish—you wouldn't know who they are or where they're from." "Since this is an exceptional specimen, we could display it here for public viewing without issue. Please let us keep it on exhibit for two or three days," said the officials.

The old woman rolled her eyes and glared at the officials, “How dare you say such a thing!” “Since this is mine, if you won’t give me the prize, I’ll take them back right away!” “If you’d just compare them properly! But you’re too stingy to award the prize and won’t even let me display them!” Fuming with anger, the greedy old woman hugged the two large daikon radishes to her chest and stormed out of the venue entrance.

The dusk sky had the color of starch syrup, while a fierce wind howled shrilly as it blew. The power lines groaned, and the park's evergreen trees and deciduous trees bent in the wind, their black crowns undulating like waves in the sky.

The old woman walked toward the tram intersection where a supervisor was waving a red flag, clutching two large daikon radishes with their leaves still attached. The wind tried time and again to blow the old woman over. The old woman walked clutching the two daikon radishes tightly, trying not to be blown over by the wind. The wind ruffled the old woman’s white hair and tugged at the daikon radish leaves, threatening to tear them off as it twisted and battered them.

Before long, a sudden gust of wind finally knocked the old woman over. The old woman tried to get up while still clutching the daikon radishes, but the wind was too strong for her to rise. Before long, passersby turned into dark figures and gathered around her.

“Honeybee, it’s quite noisy over there.”

The Everlasting Summer Flower said to the Honeybee.

“Soon, beyond this iron fence lies a thoroughfare. I’ll go take a look,” replied the Honeybee as it flew off.

Eventually, the Honeybee returned and landed on the flower. "When someone kindly helped up an old woman who had fallen, the thick daikon radish she was clutching snapped in two—and now she's furious about it," said the Honeybee. X

When the next day came, the wind had calmed. Early in the morning, before the sun had risen, the Honeybee awoke and prepared to fly.

“I didn’t eat anything at all yesterday. Since I’m absolutely starving today, I have to go around searching for large flowers and suck up plenty of nectar. Well then, goodbye. I look forward to seeing you again,” said the Honeybee as it prepared to bid farewell to the Everlasting summer flower. The Everlasting summer flower had remained silent but, just as the Honeybee was about to fly away, called out to stop it,

“Honeybee, no matter how hungry you are, you must never land on black lilies or anything like that. Please be careful,” said the Everlasting summer flower. “Thank you for your kindness. I’ll be careful,” replied the Honeybee, buzzing its wings energetically as it flew off into the morning air. That day, rain fell from afternoon through the night. And before long, the rain stopped. Then a refreshing atmosphere drifted through the air, and the wet tree leaves and grass blades, illuminated by the electric lights standing here and there, glistened brightly.

The Everlasting summer flower wondered where the Honeybee had gone to sleep, as night had fallen and it still hadn’t returned. As the wind blew crisply through, the dew clinging to the trees pattered down to the ground. Before long, lulled into a pleasant mood, the flower fell asleep—when suddenly in the dead of night, a chill ran through its body, startling it awake. The flower thought that the Honeybee had returned late and brushed against it with a damp body, but when it looked under the shining electric light, it saw not the Honeybee but a small, pointed moth with yellow wings. The moth’s translucent yellow wings appeared unnervingly cold, their color reminiscent of sulfur. The flower had seen many moths during its time in the highland. However, it had never seen any moths that gave off the same impression as this one. This moth had two round, swirling eyes that resembled human eyes.

The flower felt no desire to say anything to the moth, yet found itself unable to feign ignorance,

“Yellow Moth, where have you flown from at this hour?” “I have never seen a moth like you before.” “From the mountains?” “From the plains?” “Where have you flown here from?” [the flower] asked.

The moth answered in a cold, piercing voice that perfectly matched its body color.

“We were born on battlefields,” “We were born in a vast field where countless humans had perished and their corpses lay rotting.” “We detest bright daylight, fire, and flames.” “We adore absolute darkness.” “On days when the wind blows, we fly from dark field to dark field, town to town.” “And we extinguish every last fire there is.” “We turn bright cities into absolute darkness.” “For that reason, we do not mind if our bodies burn in flames or even if we die.” “Brightness is more terrifying than death,” said the moth, watching over the flower with its two swirling eyes.

“Do you all journey together in such large numbers?” asked the flower. “Tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands—the exact number escapes us." “We can darken even sunlit skies.” “And however lively a city’s bright lights may be, we extinguish them all. Last night, while crossing the sea toward southern lands, a small number strayed here with the wind’s caprice.” “Soon our full swarm shall pass through this very sky,” declared the moth.

The flower raised its head and looked at the nearby electric light—several moths were perched there.

Eleven

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 flower petals had showered down.

Suddenly, there was a rustling sound. Thinking the lamplight had dimmed, the flower looked toward the electric lamp and saw hundreds—no, thousands—of moths assaulting the flame. Because they blocked out the light, among them were moths that smashed their heads against the glass and fell below, others fluttering around the flame as if seeking an opening—a multitude of such scenes unfolded. At this moment, even looking at the electric lamp standing over there revealed the same kind of scene. And the white powder from their wings scattered through the space around the flame like glittering dust being strewn. The Everlasting summer flower recalled what the moth had said and realized that the moth’s companions had finally arrived here.

The moths came attacking to extinguish this city's lights. The Everlasting summer flower was struck with such horror that it shuddered when it saw how each of these countless yellow moths possessed two swirling round eyes resembling human eyes, along with long antennae and large mouths. It closed its eyes and tried not to look.

At last, the interminable night began to break. Though tossing and turning, the flower felt as if it had managed some semblance of sleep. Yet its head remained heavy. When dawn brightened the surroundings, the flower noticed the yellow moth that had been perched on its body was gone. Raising its head to look around, it grew astonished to find every last one of the countless moths that had swarmed in now vanished without trace.

"Was last night all just a dream?" The flower could not help but doubt.

The agile, free, astute Honeybee who knew everything must surely know about last night's events. The flower waited, hoping the Honeybee would come soon, but that day, the Honeybee never arrived. The flower born in the highland had grown terribly frail since coming to this city. That it no longer absorbed the cool dew each morning and evening was a cause of its lost vitality. Moreover, as the sweltering days persisted, even its head grew heavy and lifeless.

The Everlasting summer flower had feared encountering that cold, snow-laden winter while in the highland, but since coming here, with its body weakening so rapidly, it now seemed it might wither away before autumn even arrived. Ah, I don't have much longer either, the Everlasting summer flower thought to itself. And now even during daylight hours, it drifted through drowsy half-sleep. The sunlight that beat fiercely upon leaves of surrounding evergreen trees shone feebly over this wilted, pitiful bloom. The light reflected on its petals appeared bluish-white—like phosphorescent flames.

Hearing someone's murmuring voice, the flower abruptly opened its eyes to find night had already fallen. On the nearby bench sat unmistakably the same man who had been searching for the black lily days prior. "For some reason, whenever I hear that flute," he muttered, "memories surface of visiting that mountain hot spring with Mother. She was still healthy then—I just a child. At that primitive inn, nights stayed quiet save for the valley stream's murmur. Under paper lantern light, men would sit cross-legged with their calves bared, heads bent over their shogi boards."

The man was muttering to himself in this manner.

By then, the sky had grown dark, so the flower could not make out the man’s face. It was only that the voice sounded familiar.

From beyond the park's iron fence came the thin, fragmented sound of a flute played by a passing masseur. After that, there was nothing but the sighs of the man leaning against the bench in the darkness.

Twelve

The next morning was a fine day. White clouds quietly left the treetops and drifted across the sky. The Everlasting Summer Flower lay limp. And it had no vitality at all. From somewhere, a honeybee came flying. "Isn't it a fine day?" said the Honeybee, addressing the flower.

“Last night I had a terrible dream, and today my head feels unbearably heavy,” answered the Everlasting summer flower. “What kind of dream did you see?” “You really don’t look well.” “You seem quite exhausted, so please take care of yourself,” said the Honeybee.

The Everlasting summer flower related that a yellow moth had come two nights prior. Then，without listening to even half of what the flower was saying，the Honeybee— “What do you mean it was a dream? “It’s all true. “Because black lily flowers have bloomed and strange poisonous moths have appeared in this park，the humans are in an uproar. “Haven’t you heard anything at all yet?” said the Honeybee.

When the Everlasting summer flower heard this, “Did a black lily bloom?” asked the Everlasting summer flower. “There’s one blooming in the lily garden. So today, botanists have come there to examine it. Later, those people will probably come here too,” said the Honeybee. The Everlasting summer flower somehow felt a sense of foreboding.

“Honeybee, does that mean those moths from two nights ago were poisonous?” asked the Everlasting summer flower. “Of course they’re poisonous moths. Last night, that very man sitting right here on this bench was stung by them,” said the Honeybee. “And because he fell ill, scholars came to the park today searching for the moths. But despite there being so many before, not a single one could be found.”

The Everlasting summer flower was shocked to hear that the man who had been sitting on the nearby bench had been stung by moths and fallen ill.

“What an unfortunate person he must be,” said the Everlasting summer flower, recalling the man’s soliloquy. “That man tried to pluck a black lily during the day. The guard caught him and gave him a scolding. He came here at night. Then it seems some of the poisonous moths that had attacked this city the night before last remained behind and stung him. So now he claims the poison has spread through his body and he was about to die—but I think he must have touched the black lily,” answered the Honeybee.

At that moment, over there, the sound of lively music began to rise. It appeared some event was underway.

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 shuffling over. That was the group of scholars the Honeybee had mentioned earlier. One among them wearing a white Western-style suit and glasses approached where the Everlasting summer flower was blooming.

“Well, it’s rare to see such a flower blooming here. This Everlasting summer flower is one from a high mountain,” he said, turning to the others.

"Why would it be blooming in a place like this?" asked one of them.

“It’s a rare occurrence.

“The wind or something must have carried the seeds here,” answered the man in the white suit. And reaching out his hand, he uprooted the Everlasting summer flower from its roots.

The fate of the flower that the bird had carried in its beak and planted here finally came to an end.

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