Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface

"Ah, they've started!"

With that, the father put down his pen and stood up.
He wouldn’t rise for mere air-raid warnings, but when anti-aircraft guns began firing, he would cease work, place an air-raid hood on the five-year-old girl, carry her in his arms, and enter the shelter.
Already, the mother crouched deep in the shelter with a two-year-old boy on her back.

"They seem close."

"Yes."
"It's just... this shelter is so cramped."

"Is that so?" said the father grudgingly. "But this depth is just right. Any deeper and there'd be risk of being buried alive."

"But couldn't it be made just a little wider?"

"Well, yes, that's true, but right now the ground's frozen hard, so digging's difficult."
He said vague things like "We'll get to it soon," silenced Mother, and listened intently to the radio for air-raid updates.

When Mother’s complaints came to a pause, this time the five-year-old girl began to insist, “Let’s get out of the shelter already.”
The only means to calm her was picture books.
Momotarō, Kachi-kachi Mountain, The Tongue-Cut Sparrow, The Lump-Removing Tale, Urashima-san—the father read these tales aloud to the child.

This father was poorly dressed and appeared foolish in countenance, but he was by no means ordinary.
He was a man who had mastered the truly peculiar art of creating stories.

Long, long ago—a tale from times of yore.

And so, while reading the picture book aloud in that strangely vacant voice, within his breast another separate tale was already being brewed of its own accord.

The Lump-Removing Tale

Long, long ago—a tale from times of yore.

ミギノ ホホニ ジヤマツケナ

THE OLD MAN WITH THE LUMP

This old man lived in Awa in Shikoku, at the foothills of Mount Tsurugi.
It’s merely that I have a feeling it was something like this—there’s no particular source to back it up.
Originally, this Lump-Removing Tale seems to have originated from Tales from Uji, but here in the air-raid shelter, conducting any proper investigation into its source material is impossible.
Not limited to this Lump-Removing Tale, even in the Urashima story I intend to develop next, first of all the fact is properly recorded in the Nihon Shoki; there is also a chōka poem about Urashima in the Man'yōshū; moreover, through works like the Tango Fudoki and Biographies of Japanese Immortals, similar accounts seem to have been transmitted; furthermore, even in recent times there exists Ōgai's dramatic work, and I wonder if Shōyō didn't adapt this tale into a dance piece—in any case, Urashima-san's appearances extend all the way from Noh and Kabuki theater to geisha dance performances.
I have a habit of immediately giving away or selling off books I’ve read, so I’ve never had anything like a proper collection of books from way back.
So, at times like these, I end up having to wander about searching for books I must have read long ago, relying on vague memories—but now, even that would be difficult, I suppose.
I am now squatting in the shelter.
And so, there is only a single picture book spread open on my knees.
I suppose I must now abandon any academic verification of the tales and confine myself solely to spinning out my own imaginings.
No—in fact, that very approach might give rise to a more vivid and engaging tale.
Engaging in such self-questioning that resembled making excuses for defeat, and so, that father—that peculiar figure—

Long, long ago—a tale from times of yore.

In a corner of the shelter, while reading the picture book, he conjured up in his mind an entirely new story separate from the one in the book.

This old man was terribly fond of sake.
Those who drink sake tend to be lonely within their households.
Was he drinking because he was lonely, or had he become isolated because his family detested his drinking? That was likely as fruitless an inquiry as clapping both palms together and trying to determine which one made the sound—a pretentious overanalysis leading nowhere.
At any rate, this old man always wore a sullen expression when at home.
That said, his household was by no means a bad one.
The old woman remained alive and well.
Though nearing seventy, her back stayed straight and her eyes remained clear.
She had been quite a beauty in her youth, it was said.
From girlhood she had been quiet, devoting herself earnestly to housework.

“Ah, spring’s come already. The cherry blossoms are blooming,” the old man chirped.

“Is that so?” she answered flatly. “Now move aside. I must clean here.”

The old man’s face fell sullen.

Moreover, this old man had a son—already nearing forty—whose conduct was so exemplary it seemed rare in this world: he drank no sake, smoked no tobacco, nor laughed nor raged nor rejoiced, instead working wordlessly in the fields. The neighbors could not but hold him in awe, his fame as the Awa Saint growing so great that some wondered if he were little more than wood or stone—unwed, beard untrimmed. In truth, one had to call this old man’s household a splendid family through and through.

However, the old man felt somehow sullen.
And so, while restraining himself out of consideration for his family members, he found himself unable to resist the urge to drink.
However, drinking at home only made him feel all the more sullen.
Neither the old woman nor their son, the Awa Saint, would scold him even if he drank.
Beside the old man sipping his evening drink, they ate their meals in silence.

“By the way, what was it...” As the old man grew slightly drunk, he began craving conversation and started uttering trivial remarks.
“It’s finally spring.”
“The swallows have come too.”

Such remarks didn’t need to be said.

The old woman and her son remained silent.

“A spring night’s moment is worth a thousand gold pieces, I suppose?” he muttered—another remark that didn’t need saying.

“Thank you for the meal,” said the Awa Saint, having finished eating, then faced the tray and bowed reverently before standing.

“I suppose I’ll have my meal now too,” the old man said sorrowfully, setting down his cup.

When he drank sake at home, it usually turned out like this.

アルヒ アサカラ ヨイテンキ

ヤマヘ ユキマス シバカリニ

The old man’s pleasure was, on fine weather days, to hang a gourd at his waist, climb Mount Tsurugi, and gather firewood.
When he had grown reasonably tired of gathering firewood, he would sit cross-legged on a rock and—ahem!—clear his throat with importance.
and with an air of importance, gave a single cough,

“Ain’t this a fine view?”

he said, then slowly drank from the gourd of sake at his waist.
He made a delighted face.
He appeared completely different from when he was at home.
The only thing unchanged was the large lump on his right cheek.
This lump had appeared about twenty years prior—in autumn when the old man turned fifty—when his right cheek grew strangely warm and itchy, gradually swelling until persistent stroking made it grow ever larger; the old man smiled a lonely smile,

“Well now, I’ve got myself a fine grandson,” he said, but his son, the Awa Saint, responded with extreme seriousness,

“There is no such thing as a child being born from one’s cheek,” he stated flatly, and the old woman too,

“It’s not life-threatening, I suppose?” she asked without so much as a smile, uttering only this single remark before showing no further interest in the lump.
On the contrary, it was the neighbors who would sympathetically inquire with words of concern: “How did such a lump come about? Doesn’t it hurt? It must be quite a nuisance, I imagine.”
However, the old man laughed and shook his head.
Far from being a nuisance, he now truly regarded this lump as his beloved grandchild—his sole companion to console his loneliness. Even when washing his face each morning, he would specially and meticulously rinse the lump with clear water, purifying it with care.
On days like today, when he drank sake alone in the mountains in good spirits, this lump became an especially indispensable conversational companion for him.
The old man sat cross-legged on a rock, drinking from his gourd of sake while stroking the cheek lump,

“There’s nothing scary here at all.
“No need to hold back at all.
“Every last person ought to get drunk.
“Even seriousness has its limits.
“I’m in awe of this Awa Saint.
“I’ve sorely underestimated you.
“Oh, so you’re so great now, are you?” he whispered to the lump while bad-mouthing someone, then—ahem!—gave a loud cough.

Suddenly, thunder rumbled.

The wind roared and howled.

The rain also poured down in torrents.

A spring evening downpour was rare.
Yet on a mountain as lofty as Mount Tsurugi—one had to assume—such meteorological caprices occurred with some regularity.
The peak lay veiled white beneath torrential rain while pheasants and copper pheasants erupted skyward from every quarter—streaking arrow-swift through curtains of water—to plunge deep into sheltering woods.
The old man neither panicked nor ceased smiling,

“It’s not so bad, this lump getting cooled by the rain.”

After saying this, he remained seated cross-legged on the rock for a while longer, gazing at the rainy scene, but as the downpour grew ever fiercer and showed no sign of abating,

“Well now, this is...
“It’s cooled too much—I’m cold,” he said as he stood up, gave a big sneeze, then shouldered the gathered firewood and crept into the forest.
The forest was in utter chaos with birds and beasts taking shelter from the rain.

“Excuse me,”
“Pardon me there.”

The old man cheerfully greeted each monkey, rabbit, and copper pheasant as he proceeded deeper into the forest, then crawled into the wide hollow at the base of a great mountain cherry tree,

“Well, this is a fine chamber.
"How about it, everyone?" he called out to the rabbits. "There's no stern old woman or Saint in this chamber, so please do come right in—no need to hold back!" he carried on with great merriment, until eventually he began emitting soft snores and fell fast asleep.
Drunkards may spout nonsense when in their cups, but by and large, they’re harmless creatures like this.

Evening storm’s end he waited within,
Weariness emerged, old man?
Soon fell fast asleep.

The mountain had cleared, without a cloud.
It had become a bright moonlit night.

This moon was the waning crescent of spring. A sort of pale green—or so one might call it—the moon floated in a watery sky, and in the forest too, moonlight spilled out like pine needles in abundance. However, the old man was still sleeping soundly. A bat flapped out from the tree hollow. The old man suddenly woke up and was startled to find night had already fallen.

"This won’t do."

He spoke, and what immediately rose before his eyes were the stern face of that old woman and the solemn visage of the Saint. Ah, this was disastrous—though those people had never scolded me before, returning this late would surely make things awkward. Come now—any sake left? When I shook the gourd, there came a faint sloshing sound from its depths.

"There's some!" he declared with sudden vigor, draining every last drop and growing pleasantly tipsy. "Ah, the moon's out. A spring night's moment—" Muttering such trivialities while crawling out of the tree hollow,

"Oh, what stirs this rustling sound?"

Behold, how strange—is this a dream?

And so it came to pass.

Behold.
In the depths of the forest's grassland, a bizarre spectacle unthinkable as belonging to this world was unfolding.
Oni—what exactly they were, I did not know.
For I had never seen one.
Since childhood, I had grown thoroughly sick from seeing so many of their painted likenesses, yet I had yet to be graced with encountering an actual specimen.
It seemed there were various types of oni.
From how we called detestable things like murderous demons and vampires "oni," one might think they were utterly vile creatures—yet then you saw phrases like "the demon genius So-and-so Sensei's masterpiece" in newspaper book review columns, leaving one thoroughly perplexed.
Surely they couldn’t have used that suspiciously strange term “demon genius” in the review column with the intent to expose how this So-and-so Sensei possessed talent as grotesque as an oni’s and thereby issue a warning to the world.
At its most extreme, they even went so far as to foist upon So-and-so Sensei such impertinent and dreadful epithets as “demon of literature”—under these circumstances, one would think that even this So-and-so Sensei ought to have been furious. Yet contrary to expectations, it seemed he was not; rumors suggested he himself secretly tolerated this bizarre title despite its utterly disrespectful and grotesque nature. I, in my foolishness, grew all the more perplexed.
That oni with the tiger-skin loincloth, red face, and crude iron rod-like object—I simply could not conceive of such a being as a deity presiding over all the arts.
Terms like “demon genius” or “literary demon”—those perplexing phrases—were perhaps better left unused, or so I had long been foolishly pondering. Yet this might merely have stemmed from my own narrow experience, for it could well be that oni, too, came in many varieties.
At this point, were I to glance even briefly into something like the Japanese Encyclopedia, I too might have instantly transformed into an erudite scholar revered by young and old alike—(so-called experts were mostly like that)—and with a suitably scholarly demeanor, expounded at length about oni. But alas, there I was crouched in that shelter, with nothing but a children’s picture book spread open on my knees.
I had no choice but to base my judgments solely on the illustrations in that picture book.

Behold.
In the depths of the forest, within a somewhat wide grassland, grotesque beings—whether one calls them over a dozen people or over a dozen creatures—in any case, those unmistakable crimson giants clad in tiger-skin loincloths sat forming a circle, in the midst of their moonlit banquet.

At first, the old man was startled, but drunkards—spineless and utterly useless when sober—showed remarkable courage surpassing others when intoxicated.
The old man was now pleasantly tipsy.
He became quite the brave warrior who would fear neither the stern old woman nor the virtuous Saint.
Upon encountering the bizarre scene before him, he did not display any disgraceful spectacle like losing his composure.
Having emerged from the hollow while remaining on all fours, he stared intently at the strange banquet scene before him,

"They look so merry in their cups," he murmured, and somehow, from the depths of his chest, a strange joy began to well up. Drunkards, it seemed, felt a certain kind of joy even when seeing others in their cups. They were probably not what you would call egoists. In other words, they might possess something akin to an altruistic spirit—raising a toast to a neighbor's happiness. One might want to get drunk, but if neighbors too would happily join in the revelry, that joy seemed to double. The old man knew this too. The enormous crimson creatures before him—neither quite human nor animal—he intuitively recognized as belonging to that fearsome race called oni. Even based solely on the tiger-skin loincloth, there could be no mistake about it. However, those oni were now in good spirits and thoroughly drunk. The old man was also drunk. This was, without question, a situation where a sense of affinity could not help but arise. The old man, still on all fours, continued to intently observe the bizarre moonlit banquet. That said, these oni before him did not belong to a race possessing malicious traits like murderous demons or vampires; though their red faces appeared fearsome, they seemed remarkably cheerful and guileless—so the old man perceived. The old man's assessment had been generally accurate. In short, these oni were of an exceedingly gentle disposition—ones you might even call hermits of Mount Tsurugi. These oni were of an entirely different race from the demons of hell. First of all, they did not carry dangerous implements like iron clubs. This could indeed be called proof that they harbored no malicious intent. However, though called hermits, they were not like those bamboo grove sages who had retreated to the bamboo forest overwhelmed by excessive knowledge—the hearts of these Mount Tsurugi hermits were profoundly simple. I once heard a profoundly simple theory: since the character for "hermit" was written with "mountain" and "person," anyone dwelling deep in the mountains—regardless of circumstances—might rightly be called a mountain sage. If we followed this doctrine, then perhaps these Mount Tsurugi hermits too, however simple-minded they might be, deserved the venerable title of hermit.

In any case, this group of red giant creatures now engrossed in their moonlit banquet seemed more appropriately called hermits or sages than oni.
As I had already mentioned their simple-mindedness, observing the state of their banquet revealed them emitting strange cries without purpose, clapping their knees in uproarious laughter, standing up to leap about haphazardly, or curling their massive bodies into balls and rolling clattering from one end of the circle to the other—since this appeared to be their notion of dance, their level of intelligence scarcely bore contemplation, and their artlessness knew no bounds.
Even based on this single instance alone, it seemed one could prove that terms like “demon genius” or “literary demon” were utterly meaningless.
That such foolish, artless creatures could be deities presiding over all the arts—this I simply cannot conceive.
The old man too was appalled by this inept dancing.
chuckling to himself,

"What a clumsy dance this is."
"Why don't I show you my folk dance?" he muttered.

THE SKILLFUL DANCING OLD MAN

UPON LEAPING OUT TO DANCE

THE LUMP SWAYING AND DANGLING

VERY STRANGE, VERY AMUSING

The old man had the courage of mild intoxication. Moreover, since he felt a sense of affinity toward the oni, he had nothing to fear; he leapt into the center of their circle and danced his proud Awa Dance,

The maiden’s Shimada coiffure and elders’ wigs,

Bewildered by red sashes—no wonder why

The bride too dons her hat—won’t you come? Come along!

he sang in a clear voice this Awa folk song.
The oni were overjoyed—cackling and guffawing in strange voices, drooling and weeping as they rolled about laughing.
The old man, carried away,

Pass through Ootani—nothing but stones

Pass through Sasayama—nothing but bamboo grass

he continued singing with even greater volume, dancing with ever-increasing deftness.

DEMONS GREATLY PLEASED

MOONLIT NIGHT / INEVITABLY / COME GATHERING

DANCE DANCING SHOW IT

THAT PROMISE'S TOKEN

IMPORTANT THING CONFISCATED

Having declared this, the oni whispered furtively among themselves—that lump on his cheek was gleaming suspiciously bright, must have been some extraordinary treasure they reasoned in their foolishness, and if they kept it as collateral, he'd surely come back without fail—then promptly tore off the lump.
Though they were ignorant, perhaps due to having long dwelled deep in the mountains, they might have picked up something akin to hermit’s magic.
They cleanly tore off the lump without any difficulty.

The old man was startled.

“Oh, that won’t do! He’s my grandchild,” he protested. When he said this, the oni let out a raucous cheer, looking triumphant.

MORNING COMES / DEW’S SHINING PATH

THE LUMP-TAKEN OLD MAN

BORINGLY STROKING HIS CHEEK

DESCENDED THE MOUNTAIN AND WENT

The lump had been the lonely old man’s only companion, so having it taken away left him feeling somewhat forlorn.
However, the lightened cheek being caressed by the morning breeze wasn’t an unpleasant feeling.
In the end—no loss nor gain, just a balance of pros and cons—or perhaps the only real benefit was getting to sing and dance to his heart’s content after so long?
While pondering such carefree thoughts as he descended the mountain, he unexpectedly encountered his saintly son heading out to the fields.

“Good morrow,” said the Saint, solemnly removing his hood to offer the morning greeting.

“Oh,” said the old man, fumbling awkwardly.
With that alone, they went their separate ways.
Having noticed the old man’s lump had vanished overnight, even the Saint felt some inward astonishment; yet deeming any commentary on his parent’s appearance contrary to sainthood’s path, he pretended not to notice and parted in silence.

When he returned home, the old woman,

“Welcome back,” she said calmly, without asking about what had happened the previous night. “The miso soup has gone cold,” she murmured softly as she prepared the old man’s breakfast.

“Cold is fine—there’s no need to warm it up,” said the old man with excessive deference, bowing slightly as he sat at the meal tray.

While eating the rice served by the old woman, he desperately wanted to tell her about last night’s strange incident.

But overwhelmed by her solemn demeanor, the words caught in his throat and he could say nothing.

He kept his head bowed, eating his rice forlornly.

“The lump looks shriveled.”
The old woman tersely remarked.

"Hmm."
He no longer wanted to say anything.

"It must have burst and leaked fluid," the old woman remarked nonchalantly, maintaining her composure.

"Hmm."

"It'll probably swell up again when fluid accumulates."

"Probably."

In the end, within this old man’s household, the matter of the lump never became an issue of any consequence.
However, in this old man’s neighborhood, there lived another old man with an obtrusive lump on his left cheek.
And this old man truly hated that obtrusive lump on his left cheek as a genuine nuisance, sighing several times a day before the mirror over how this lump hindered his social advancement, how through this lump he had been scorned and ridiculed by others, plotting to grow his cheek whiskers long enough to bury the lump within their strands and make it disappear—yet alas, the lump’s crown emerged vividly through the sea of white whiskers like a sunrise, until it rather became a wonder for all to behold.
From the beginning, this old man’s bearing was not lacking in refinement.
His build was imposing, his nose large, and his gaze sharp.
His speech and demeanor were dignified, and he appeared to possess considerable prudence.
His attire was splendid indeed; moreover, he seemed to possess scholarly knowledge, and it was said his wealth far surpassed that of the sake-drinking old man. All the neighbors held him in high regard, addressing him with honorifics like “Master” or “Sir,” and in every respect he was an admirable gentleman—yet due to that obtrusive lump on his left cheek, the master remained perpetually sullen, finding no joy day or night.
This old man’s wife was remarkably young.
She was thirty-six years old.
She wasn’t exactly a beauty, but with her fair complexion and plump figure, she was always cheerfully laughing and carrying on in a somewhat frivolous manner.
There was a twelve- or thirteen-year-old daughter who was quite a beautiful girl, but her disposition tended somewhat toward impertinence.
Yet, this mother and daughter got along splendidly, always laughing boisterously over one thing or another, so that despite the master’s expression as if he had bitten into a bitter bug, the household managed to give people a generally bright impression.

“Mother. Why is Father’s lump so red? Like an octopus’s head,” the impertinent girl remarked bluntly.
The mother didn’t scold her but laughed softly. “That’s right. But it also looks like a wooden fish dangling from his cheek.”
“Shut up!” roared the master in anger, glaring fiercely at his wife and daughter. He rose abruptly, retreated to the dimly lit back room, peered furtively into the mirror, and slumped in dismay.

“This is no good,” he murmured.

Just when he had resolved to cut it off with a knife—even if it killed him—he caught wind of a rumor that the sake-drinking old man’s lump had suddenly vanished.
Under cover of night, the master secretly visited the sake-drinking old man’s thatched hut and had him recount that tale of the mysterious moonlit banquet.

"Hearken! Rejoice! Behold!"

"Very well! I too shall rid myself of this lump—"

"By all means—remove it for me!"

he declared resolutely.
Fortunately, the moon shone that night as well.

The master, like a warrior marching into battle, eyes blazing and mouth tightly pursed into a sharp inverted V-shape, resolved that tonight—no matter what—he would perform one magnificent dance to awe the oni. Should they remain unimpressed, he would slaughter them all with this iron fan. What fools these drunken oni were! What threat could they possibly pose? Whether he went to dance for them or exterminate them, he strode deep into Mount Tsurugi’s heart with shoulders squared and iron fan gripped in his right hand, driven by a ferocious resolve that defied all logic.

In this way, the artistic endeavors of those rigid with so-called "masterpiece consciousness" tend to turn out poorly.
This old man’s dance, too, with its utterly excessive enthusiasm, ended in complete failure.
The old man solemnly proceeded into the very center of the oni’s banquet circular formation with reverent dignity,

"Though I am unskilled," he prefaced, then opened his iron fan with a flourish, stood erect gazing at the moon, and remained motionless like a great tree.
After some time had passed, he stamped his feet lightly and slowly began to chant,

“I am a monk who spent one summer at Awa no Naruto. Now this inlet being where the Heike clan met their end, I feel profound sorrow, and every night I come to this shore to humbly recite sutras. On the rocky shore, for a time rooted fast to stone—for a time rooted fast to stone—whose night boat? White waves where only oar sounds echo at Naruto. How tranquil the inlet this eve, how tranquil the inlet this eve. ‘Yesterday passed, today draws to its close, tomorrow again shall be thus.’” He shifted minutely, then stood erect once more gazing at the moon, maintaining rigid formality.

“Oni comrades, salute!

Steadily, steadily they rise and flee.

TO THE MOUNTAIN DEPTHS

“Please wait!” cried the Master in an anguished voice as he chased after the oni. “If you escape now, I can’t bear it!”

“Run away! Run away!”
“That might be Shōki!”

“No, I’m not Shōki!” cried the Master desperately as he clung in pursuit. “I have a request—”
“Please—please take this lump away!”

“What? A lump?”
The flustered oni misheard him. “Oh, that’s it?
“That’s an important item we’re keeping for the old man from before, but if you want it so badly, we’ll hand it over.”
“Just stop that dance!”
“Our hard-won drunkenness is fading.”
“We beg you.”
“Let us go.”
“We need to go somewhere else and start drinking anew.”
“We’re pleading.”
“We’re pleading—let us go!”
“Hey! Someone—give this weirdo back the lump from before!”
“He’s apparently the one who wants it back.”

The oni returned the lump from days past.

Attach the lump—right cheek.

Oh dear oh dear—at last—two lumps

Dangle-dangle heavy now

The old man looked abashed.

He returned to the village and went on his way.

Truly, it became a pitiful outcome. In folktales, those who do wrong generally receive due retribution, but this old man had committed no particular misdeeds. Was it not simply that his dance grew grotesque from excessive tension? Yet his household contained no true villain either. Neither that sake-drinking old man, nor his family, nor even the Mount Tsurugi oni had done anything wrong. In short, this tale contained not one so-called "unjust" incident, yet still produced an unfortunate soul. Thus extracting everyday ethical lessons from this Lump-Removing Tale becomes profoundly vexing. Now then, should some impatient reader confront me demanding, "What exactly did you mean by writing this story?" I suppose I must answer thus.

It is what is called a tragicomedy of character.
Beneath the surface of human life, this problem perpetually flows.

Mr. Urashima

Urashima Taro is said to have actually lived in a place called Mizue in Tango.
Speaking of Tango, it is what is now the northern part of Kyoto Prefecture.
It’s said there remains even now—in some cold village along that northern coast—a shrine dedicated to Taro.

I had never visited that area myself, but according to others' accounts, it appeared to be a starkly desolate seashore. There dwelled our Urashima Taro. Naturally, he did not live alone. He possessed both father and mother. He had younger brother and sister. Moreover, numerous servants resided there. In short, he was the eldest son of a celebrated old family along this coast. Eldest sons of such families seem to maintain a certain consistent characteristic across eras past and present. Aesthetic proclivity—this very thing. When phrased favorably: refinement. When phrased harshly: self-indulgence. Yet even termed self-indulgence, it diverges markedly in essence from what's commonly called debauchery—the womanizing or drunken dissipation. Those dissolute libertines who swill liquor vulgarly, entangle themselves with disreputable women, and besmirch their family's honor appear more frequently among second and third sons. Eldest sons lack such barbarous tendencies. Being endowed with ancestral so-called permanent assets, they naturally cultivate constancy of heart and considerable propriety. That is to say, the eldest son's self-indulgence differs from second or third sons' drunken frenzies—not an obsessive pursuit but merely casual diversion. Through such pastimes, should he gain recognition for the dignified elegance befitting an old family's heir while himself marveling at his life's cultivated grace, then he attains complete satisfaction.

“Brother! You’ve got no adventurous spirit—hopeless!” said his sixteen-year-old tomboyish younger sister.
“Stingy!”

“No—that’s not it,” objected the eighteen-year-old rough younger brother. “His masculine appeal is too strong.”

This younger brother was dark-skinned and a rough fellow.

Even when hearing his younger brother and sister's such blunt criticisms, Urashima Taro did not show any anger and merely smiled wryly,

"Exploding one's curiosity is adventurous; suppressing it is still adventurous—both are dangerous.
People have something called destiny," he said in a tone of having attained enlightenment about who-knows-what, crossed his arms behind his back, left the house alone, and began strolling along the coast here and there,

Of cut reeds
Scatter forth
Appear
A fisher's skiff

and so on—murmuring fragments of his customary elegant-sounding verses,

pondering this simple question with a magnanimous shake of his head—"Why must people criticize each other to survive?"—he reflected, "The bush clover flowers on the sandy shore, the small crabs crawling near, the wild geese resting in the cove—none of them criticize me.
Humans too must necessarily be thus.
Every person has their own way of living.
Is it not possible for us to continue respecting each other’s ways?
Though I strive to live elegantly without causing trouble to anyone, people still find something to say.
What a nuisance," he let out a faint sigh.

“Excuse me, excuse me, Mr. Urashima,” called out a small voice from below at that moment.

This was the turtle in question.
Not that I'm particularly knowledgeable about such matters, but even among turtles there are various kinds.
Those dwelling in freshwater and those inhabiting saltwater naturally differ in shape.
The ones sprawled out drying their shells by Benten-sama's pond—what you might call stone turtles—often appear in picture books showing Mr. Urashima riding such a creature's back while gazing toward distant Dragon Palace with shaded eyes.Yet such turtles would likely choke on seawater and die instantly upon entering it.
However,the ones attending ceremonial island displays beside cranes at auspicious occasions—those Penglai Mountain scenes with Old Man and Woman where they're praised through sayings like"Cranes live millennia,turtles ten thousand years"—these indeed seem stone turtles too,yet island stands featuring softshell or hawksbill turtles remain rare.
Thus picture book artists naturally assume(since both Penglai and Dragon Palace resemble each other)Mr.Urashima's guide must be this stone turtle—an understandable conclusion.
Still,I can't help finding unnatural their clawed ungainly hands scraping water during deep-sea dives.
Here we absolutely require broad fin-like hawksbill flippers parting waves with leisurely grace.
But wait—not that I claim expertise—another problem arises here.
I've heard hawksbills inhabit Japan's southern regions like Ogasawara,Ryukyu,and Taiwan.
Along Tango's northern coast—that Japan Sea shoreline—sadly no hawksbills crawl ashore.
So I considered making Mr.Urashima from Ogasawara or Ryukyu,yet he's firmly established since antiquity as Mizue,Tango native.Moreover,since Urashima Shrine still stands on Tango's north coast,fabricating such careless absurdities remains impermissible even under pretext of respecting history.
Thus we must request Ogasawara/Ryukyu hawksbills visit Japan Sea.
Yet biologists protest this notion,and we literary scholars resent being scorned as unscientific.

So, I thought.
Is there not another saltwater turtle besides the hawksbill that has flipper-like hands?
Was there not something called a loggerhead turtle?
About ten years ago—(I’ve grown older myself)—there was a summer I spent at a seaside inn in Numazu. At that time, a sea turtle with a shell nearly five shaku in diameter came ashore on that beach, causing quite a stir among the fishermen. I saw it with my own eyes.
I recall it was called a loggerhead turtle.
That's the one.
Let’s go with that one.
If it came ashore at Numazu’s beach, then even if it were to circle around to the Japan Sea side and graciously come to Tango’s shore, it probably wouldn’t cause such an uproar in the biological community, one might think.
If they still clamor about the tides being this or that way, then I wash my hands of it.
As for its appearance in that place where it had no business gracing—how strange—I shall declare it was no mere sea turtle and have done with it.
Scientific spirit—or whatever you call it—isn’t all that dependable.
Aren’t theorems and axioms also hypotheses?
No need to get cocky.
Now, that loggerhead turtle—(the name "loggerhead turtle" being rather long and awkward on the tongue, henceforth to be referred to simply as "turtle")—stretched out its neck and looked up at Urashima-san,

“Excuse me, excuse me,” it called out. “No wonder.”
“I get it,” it said.
Urashima was startled,

“What’s this—you.
“Aren’t you the turtle I saved the other day?”
“You’re still loitering around here?”

This was, in short, that very turtle—the one Mr. Urashima had taken pity on when he saw children tormenting it, bought himself, and released into the sea.

“How pitiful—‘loitering around here?’”
“You’ll make me hold a grudge, young master.”
“I—though I may look this way—wanted to repay your kindness. Ever since then, I’ve come to this shore day and night to await your arrival, young master.”

“That’s what you call shortsightedness. Or perhaps it could be called reckless. If you're found by the children again, what will you do? This time, you won’t return alive.”

“Putting on airs, are we? If I get caught again, I’ll just have the young master buy me back. My shortsightedness was quite the blunder, wasn’t it? I simply had to see you again, young master—there was no helping it. That 'no helping it' part—that's the very weakness I've fallen for. Appreciate my fighting spirit, will you?”

Urashima gave a wry smile,

"What a selfish creature," he muttered.
The turtle caught this and,

“Oh, come on, young master. You’re contradicting yourself! Even though you yourself were just declaring how much you hate criticism earlier, now you’re the one going on about me being shortsighted, reckless, and now selfish—isn’t that right? You’re the selfish one here, young master. I have my own way of living, you know. At least give me some credit here,” he masterfully retorted.

Urashima blushed,

"Mine isn't criticism—this constitutes admonishment."
"You might even term it tactful remonstrance."
'Though tactful remonstrance may grate on ears, its execution yields benefit—such is its nature,' he declared with feigned solemnity, sidestepping the matter.

"If he'd drop the pretensions, he'd be decent enough," muttered the turtle under its breath. "No—I'll hold my tongue.
"Do take a seat upon this shell of mine."

Urashima stared incredulously,

"What absurdity are you proposing?
"I abhor such barbaric customs.
"Perching upon a turtle's shell—one could only deem this madness.
"This bears no resemblance to refined conduct."

“What does any of that matter?”
“I’m simply trying to repay my debt by guiding you to the Dragon Palace.”
“Now hurry up and climb onto my shell.”

“What—the Dragon Palace?” he burst out laughing. “This is no jest. You must have drunk yourself senseless. What preposterous nonsense.”
“The Dragon Palace has been extolled in verse since antiquity and passed down through tales of celestial wonders, but it holds no existence in our mortal realm—do you grasp this?”
“One might say it has always been what we refined souls deem a beautiful aspiration—a wistful dream.”
His tone had grown excessively polished, taking on an affected edge.

This time it was the Turtle who burst out laughing,

“This is too much! I’ll gladly hear your refined lecture later—so for now just trust me and get on my shell already! The trouble is you don’t understand the thrill of adventure.”

“Oh my—you’re saying the same sort of rude thing as my sister! Admittedly I am not particularly fond of what you call ‘adventure.’ Take that—it’s akin to vaudeville! Even if ostentatious—vulgar through and through! Heresy! It lacks resignation to destiny! No grounding in tradition! Like ‘a blind man fears no snake’—that’s precisely its form! We orthodox aesthetes deeply frown upon such things! Contemptible! I wish to walk our predecessors’ tranquil path straight ahead.”

“Pfft!” The turtle burst out laughing again. “Isn’t that very path of your predecessors itself the path of adventure? No—it’s just that using a clumsy word like ‘adventure’ makes it sound like some bloody, unsavory ruffian’s business, but what if we rephrased it as ‘the power of belief’ instead? Only those who could truly believe that beautiful flowers bloomed beyond that valley would cling to a wisteria vine and cross over without hesitation. People think it’s mere acrobatics—some applaud, others click their tongues at what they see as a cheap bid for popularity. But that’s completely different from a tightrope walker’s act. Those clinging to the wisteria vine to cross the valley are simply trying to see the flowers on the other side. They don’t harbor such vulgar pretenses as thinking they’re on some grand adventure right now. What adventure could possibly be worth boasting of? Ridiculous. They believe. They believe with absolute certainty in the existence of those flowers. Well—they’re just tentatively calling such behavior adventure. The fact that you lack an adventurous spirit means you lack the capacity to believe. Is believing vulgar? Is believing heresy? Frankly, you gentlemen take pride in not believing—that’s why it’s such a mess. That isn’t intelligence, you know. It’s something far more base, you know. It’s stinginess, you know. It’s proof you’re only thinking about avoiding losses, you know.”

“Rest assured.”
“No one’s going to beg you for anything.”
“You people don’t even know how to accept others’ kindness sincerely.”
“Worried about the return favor being too much trouble?”
“Ah—aesthetic devotees are just stingy.”

“What a terrible thing to say.”
After being roundly criticized by my younger sister and brother and coming out to the beach, even the turtle I’d saved now subjected me to the same impertinent remarks.
Those without any awareness of traditional pride in themselves certainly do say whatever they please.
One might call it reckless abandon.
I understood everything perfectly well.
Though unbecoming for me to say, there existed an immense class difference between your destinies and mine.
They had been different since birth.
It wasn’t my doing.
This was bestowed by heaven itself.
Yet you seemed to find this utterly galling.
You kept carping about this and that, trying to drag my destiny down to your level—but heaven’s design lies beyond mortal interference.
“Enough of your lies about taking me to the Dragon Palace and scheming to associate with me as an equal! I see through it all now—stop struggling pointlessly and scurry back to your seabed hovel.”
“What now? After I went through the trouble of saving you, getting caught by those brats again would render it all meaningless.”
“It’s you people who don’t know how to properly accept others’ kindness.”

“Heh heh,” the Turtle laughed defiantly, “I’m much obliged you went to the trouble of saving me.”
“This is precisely why you gentlemen are so detestable.”
“When you show kindness to others, it’s a great virtue—yet while secretly expecting some gratitude in return, you regard others’ kindness with such terrible suspicion, thinking you mustn’t associate with them as equals—it’s utterly disheartening.”
“Well, I might say this—but you only helped me because I was a turtle and those tormenting me were children, correct?”
“When it’s between a turtle and children, mediating won’t leave any bad blood—no sir.”
“Moreover, to children, even five mon coins are a fortune.”
“But really—you haggled them down to five mon?”
“I had thought you’d pay a bit more.”
“I was appalled by your stinginess.”
“When I realized the price put on my body was a mere five mon, I felt utterly heartless.”
“Even so, back then—since it was a turtle and children involved—you went ahead and offered five mon to mediate.”
“Well, that was just a whim, wasn’t it?”
“However, if the ones involved back then hadn’t been a turtle and children—say, for instance, a rough fisherman harassing a sick beggar—not only would you not have given five mon—you wouldn’t have offered a single mon. No—rather, you’d have just grimaced and hurried past without a doubt.”
“You all really hate being shown the raw reality of life, you know.”
“It seems you feel as though your own lofty destiny has been doused with excrement.”
“Your compassion is mere play.”
“It’s indulgence.”
“You helped because it was a turtle.”
“Because they were children, you gave them money.”
“In the case of a rough fisherman and a sick beggar, it’s absolutely out of the question.”

“You find it absolutely detestable—the raw, earthy winds of real life brushing against your face.”
“You don’t want to dirty your hands—or rather, people call this sort of thing... well, you know how it goes, Urashima-san.”
“You’re not angry, are you?”
“Because I like you, you see.”
“Well, will you be cross?”
“It’s quite a predicament—people of noble destiny like yourself seem to consider it a disgrace even to be liked by us lowly creatures.”
“Especially since I’m a turtle, you see.”
“You must find it unsettling to be liked by a turtle, but please bear with me—likes and dislikes aren’t governed by reason.”
“It’s not because you saved me that I like you, nor is it because you’re some cultured aesthete.”
“I just... suddenly like you.”
“Because I like you, I feel compelled to speak ill of you and tease you.”
“This, in short, is how we reptiles express affection.”
“Well, you see—we’re reptiles, relatives of snakes. It’s no wonder we’re not trusted.”
“But I am not the snake of Eden—I am, if I may say so, a Japanese turtle.”
“I’m not scheming to entice you into going to the Dragon Palace and corrupting you.”
“Just take me at my word!”
“I just want to play with you.”
“I want to go to the Dragon Palace and play.”
“In that country, there’s no such thing as annoying criticism.”
“They’re all living nice and leisurely there.”

“So it’s the perfect place for playing.”
“Since I can climb up to land like this and dive back down to the seafloor, I’ve been able to compare both lifestyles—but really, life on land is so noisy.”
“There’s far too much mutual criticism.”
“Every conversation in land life is either slandering others or boasting about oneself.”
“It’s nauseating.”
“Thanks to my occasional trips ashore like this, I’ve become somewhat corrupted by land life—started parroting these secondhand criticisms and such. While I recognize this as a terrible influence, there’s an addictive quality to this habit of criticism. Why, I’ve even begun finding life in the Dragon Palace—completely free of criticism—rather dull at times.”
“Truly, I’ve developed a bad habit.”
“A sort of disease of civilization, perhaps?”
“Now I can no longer tell whether I’m a fish of the sea or an insect of the land.”
“Like that bat that can’t decide if it’s a bird or a beast.”
“I’ve become a wretched being.”
“You might say I’ve turned into some sort of heretic of the ocean depths.”
“Gradually, even my homeland of the Dragon Palace has grown uncomfortable to inhabit.”
“However, I guarantee it remains an excellent place for amusement.”
“Please believe me.”
“A realm of song and dance, exquisite cuisine and sake.”
“It’s the perfect country for refined aesthetes like yourself.”
“Didn’t you just now lament at length how detestable criticism was? The Dragon Palace has none of it.”

Urashima had been utterly overwhelmed by the turtle's astonishing loquacity, yet found himself suddenly struck by its final remark.

“If only such a country really existed.”

“Huh? Still suspicious?”
“I’m not lying.”
“Why won’t you believe me?”
“I will get angry.”
“Do you call yourself a cultured aesthete—sighing with longing but never acting?”
“How utterly repulsive.”

Even the mild-mannered Urashima, having been so harshly berated, could no longer simply withdraw.

“Well, I suppose there’s no help for it,” he said with a bitter smile. “As you say, I’ll try sitting on your shell.”

“I can’t stand a word you say,” the turtle sulked in earnest. “What do you mean by ‘try sitting’?"
“Trying to sit down or actually sitting down—doesn’t your fate end up the same either way? Whether you doubtfully test turning right or resolutely believe and turn right, your destiny remains unchanged.”
“Either way, you can’t go back.”
“The moment you attempt it, your path gets irrevocably set.”
“There’s no such thing as ‘trying’ in life.”
“Trying is no different from doing.”
“You humans truly cling pathetically.”
“You still think you can turn back.”

“Alright, alright, I get it. Then I’ll believe you and have you take me on!”

“Alright, let’s go.”

The moment Urashima sat down on the turtle’s shell, its back rapidly expanded to about the size needed to spread two tatami mats, then swayed gently as it entered the sea.
After swimming about one chō from the shore, the turtle then,
“Close your eyes for a moment,” came the stern command. When Urashima obediently shut his eyes, there was a sound like a sudden evening shower. A vaguely warm presence enveloped him, and a wind resembling a spring breeze—yet slightly heavier than a spring breeze—began teasing his earlobes.
“The water depth is one thousand fathoms,” the turtle said.

Urashima felt a chest tightness similar to seasickness.

“Is it alright if I vomit?” he asked the turtle, his eyes still closed.

“What’s this? Gonna puke?” The turtle reverted to its former flippant tone. “You’re one filthy passenger.”
“Oh my—still keeping those eyes shut like an honest fool.”
“This is exactly why I like you, Mr. Taro.”
“You may open your eyes now.”
“Open them and behold the scenery around you—that nausea will vanish straightaway.”

When he opened his eyes, there was a dim and hazy expanse—a faint greenish, strange brightness—and nowhere were there shadows, only a boundless void.

“The Dragon Palace?” Urashima said in a drowsy, drawn-out tone.

“What are you talking about? We’re still only at a thousand fathoms deep. The Dragon Palace lies ten thousand fathoms beneath the sea.”

“Huh...”
Urashima let out a strange voice.
“The sea is vast, isn’t it.”

“Don’t go saying things like some mountain monkey when you’re supposed to be shore-raised. It’s just a bit larger than your house’s garden pond.”

Looking in every direction—front, back, left, right—there was only a boundless expanse. Peering down at his feet revealed an endless continuation of faint greenish brightness. Gazing upward showed not the azure sky but a cavernous watery void. Apart from their voices, not a single sound could be heard. A wind resembling a spring breeze—yet slightly more viscous—did nothing but tickle Urashima’s earlobes.

Urashima eventually discerned a faint speck in the far upper right—as if a handful of ash had been scattered—and,

“What is that? A cloud?” he asked the turtle.

“Don’t talk nonsense. There are no clouds drifting in the sea.”

“Then what is that? It looks like an ink drop fell. Just some trash?”

“You idiot. It should be obvious if you’d look properly. That’s a massive school of sea bream.”

“Huh? They’re so tiny. Even so, there must be two or three hundred of them.”

“What a moron,” the turtle sneered. “Are you actually serious?”

“Then, two or three thousand?”

“Get a grip.”
“First off, roughly five or six million.”

“Five or six million? Don’t try to scare me.”

The turtle smirked slyly,

“That’s not sea bream. It’s a sea fire. What thick smoke! With that much smoke, well now, a vast area equivalent to about twenty Japans combined must be burning.”

“Don’t lie. How can fire burn in the sea?”

“Shortsighted! So shortsighted! There’s oxygen in water too, you know. There’s no reason fire wouldn’t burn.”

“Don’t try to deceive me. That’s ignorant sophistry. Jokes aside—what on earth is that trash-like thing? So it’s sea bream after all, huh? Surely not—it can’t be a fire.”

“No—it’s a fire.
“Tell me—have you ever considered why, despite countless rivers from the land world pouring ceaselessly into the sea day and night, its waters neither increase nor decrease but always maintain exactly the same volume?”
“The sea has its own difficulties too, you know.
“With all that water gushing in relentlessly like that, we find ourselves at our wits’ end managing it.
“So you see, from time to time we dispose of excess water by burning it away in such a manner.
“Whoa! Burning, burning—it’s a massive conflagration!”

“Nonsense. The smoke isn’t spreading at all.”
“What on earth is that?”
“From how it hasn’t moved at all since earlier, it doesn’t seem to be a large school of fish.”
“Stop with these mean-spirited jokes and just tell me already.”

“Then I’ll tell you.”
“That, you see, is the moon’s shadow.”

“Aren’t you just pulling my leg again?”

“No, shadows from the land do not cast any reflections upon the seafloor, but shadows from celestial bodies, falling directly from above, do appear here.”
“Not only the moon’s shadow, but all shadows of celestial bodies are reflected here.”
“Therefore, in the Dragon Palace, we rely on those shadows to create our calendar and determine the four seasons.”
“Since that moon’s shadow is slightly less than full, today must be the thirteenth night, perhaps?”

Because the turtle spoke in such an earnest tone, Urashima thought it might indeed be true, yet he also felt something was amiss. But when he gazed across the pale green expanse of that vast hollow and saw the faint black speck lingering at its edge—even if it were a lie to call it the moon’s shadow—for Urashima, a man of refined taste, this held far more charm and nostalgic appeal than viewing it as either a great school of sea bream or a raging fire.

Before long, the surroundings grew eerily dark, and with a thunderous roar like "gō," something akin to a fierce wind came rushing in, causing Urashima to nearly tumble off the turtle’s back.

“Just close your eyes again for a moment,” the turtle said in a solemn tone. “This marks the entrance to the Dragon Palace.”
“When humans explore the seafloor, they usually decide this is the very end of the ocean depths and turn back.”
“Venturing beyond here—among humans, you may be both the first and the last.”

To Urashima, it seemed as though the turtle had suddenly flipped over. Upside down it remained—that is to say, swimming belly-up—and Urashima clung to the turtle’s shell in a posture midway through a somersault, yet without spilling off, feeling a truly strange illusion of progressing steadily upward together with the turtle while inverted.

“Open your eyes,” the turtle told him, but by then that upside-down sensation had vanished. He sat properly on the turtle’s shell as it swam steadily downward.

The surroundings were bathed in a twilight-like dimness, and beneath his feet, a hazy white form could be seen. Somehow, it looked rather like a mountain. It also appeared as though towers stood aligned, yet they were too immense to be towers.

“What is that? A mountain?”

“Yes.”

“The Dragon Palace’s mountain?” His voice grew hoarse with excitement.

“Yes.” The turtle swam onward diligently.

“It’s pure white! Could it be snowing?”

“Well now, those blessed with lofty destinies do think differently.” The turtle’s tone dripped with mock admiration. “How splendid—to imagine snow falling at the sea’s very depths.”

“But if fires can exist underwater,” Urashima retorted, seizing his chance for payback, “snow might well fall here too. We do have oxygen, after all.”

“Snow and oxygen are worlds apart, I tell ya.
“Even if there were a connection, wouldn’t it be about as tenuous as wind and bucket shops?”
“Ridiculous.”
“You can’t pin me down with that kinda logic, I tell ya.”
“Honestly, you refined folks are terrible at jokes.”
“What kinda sense is ‘snow tra-la-la comes back home’ supposed to make?”
“Not exactly clever, is it?”
“Still better’n your oxygen theory, I tell ya.”
“Oxy-crap? Kinda looks like white poop.”
“Oxygen’s just no damn good, I tell ya.”
In the end, he was no match for the Turtle in verbal sparring.

Urashima forced a wry smile,

“Now, about that mountain—” Urashima began, but the Turtle sneered again,

“Now, 'by the way,' ain't that coming on a bit strong?
“Now, about that mountain—it’s not that snow is falling there.
“That is a mountain of pearls.”

“Pearls?” Urashima exclaimed in surprise. “No—that’s a lie.
“Even if one piled up a hundred thousand—no, two hundred thousand—pearls, they could never form a mountain that high.”

“A hundred thousand grains? Two hundred thousand? That’s a petty way to count.
“In the Dragon Palace, we don’t bother with petty calculations like counting pearls one or two grains at a time.
“We count them by the mountain—one, two mountains at a time, I tell ya.
“They say one mountain amounts to about thirty billion grains, but no one’s ever actually counted them one by one.
“Pile up about a million mountains of them, and you’d end up with roughly that many peaks.
“We’re having trouble with the pearl dumping grounds.
“When you get down to it, it’s just fish waste, you see.”

And so they arrived at the main gate of the Dragon Palace.
It was unexpectedly small.
At the base of the pearl mountain, it stood compactly, emitting a phosphorescent glow.
Urashima descended from the turtle's shell, was guided by the turtle, and stooped slightly to pass through its main gate.
The surroundings were dimly lit.
And it lay in profound stillness.

“It’s quiet, isn’t it?
“It’s terrifyingly quiet.”
“It’s not hell, is it?”

“Pull yourself together, young master,” said the Turtle, tapping Urashima’s back with his fin. “All palaces are this quiet.”
“Did you really entertain that hackneyed delusion that the Dragon Palace hosts some foolish commotion like the Tango Fishermen’s Dance year-round?”
“How pitiful.”
“Isn’t ‘simplicity and profundity’ what you people consider the pinnacle of refined elegance?”
“Hell? How contemptible.”

As one grew accustomed to it, this dimness provided an inexpressibly gentle respite for the heart.
“Please watch your step.”
“If you slip and fall, it’ll be an embarrassing spectacle.”
“Oh, you’re still wearing your sandals, aren’t you?”
“Take them off. How rude.”

Urashima blushed and took off his sandals.
When walking barefoot, the soles of his feet felt unpleasantly slimy.

“What is this path?
“Disgusting.”

“This isn’t a path.”
“This is a corridor.”
“You’ve already entered the Dragon Palace.”

“Is that so?” Urashima exclaimed in surprise as he looked around, but there were no walls, pillars, or anything of the sort.
The dim light simply rippled and shifted around him.

“In the Dragon Palace, it neither rains nor snows,” the Turtle explained in an oddly benevolent tone.
“That’s why there’s no need to build cramped roofs and walls like those land houses do.”
“But the gate had a roof, didn’t it?”

“That is a marker,”
“Not only the gate—Princess Otohime’s chambers also have roofs and walls.”
“However, those too were created solely to maintain Princess Otohime’s dignity, not to shield against rain or dew.”

“Is that so?” Urashima replied with a still-bewildered expression. “And where exactly is this Princess Otohime’s room you speak of?”
“When I look around, it’s as if we’re in the land of the dead—a desolate, silent realm without a single tree or blade of grass in sight.”

“You provincials are hopeless.”
“You may gawk in astonishment at massive buildings and gaudy decorations, yet show not an ounce of appreciation for this profound beauty.”
“Mr. Urashima, your refinement isn’t worth much after all. Though what can one expect from an aesthetic of Tango’s rugged shores?”
“Your so-called traditional education—hearing about it makes me break out in a cold sweat.”
“You actually called yourself an orthodox aesthete!”
“When actually faced with this situation, you’re such a complete country bumpkin that I must say I’m impressed.”
“Well then, I suppose you’ll be giving up this charade of imitating refined elegance from now on.”

The Turtle’s venomous tongue had grown even more intense since arriving at the Dragon Palace.
Urashima’s unease knew no bounds,

“But I can’t see anything at all!” he said in a nearly tearful voice.

“That’s why I’ve been telling you to watch your step! This corridor isn’t just any ordinary corridor—it’s the Fish Bridge. Do take care. Countless fish are packed so densely together they’ve formed what looks like the floor of a corridor.”

Urashima flinched and rose onto his tiptoes. No wonder—he’d been thinking all along that the soles of his feet felt slimy. When he looked down, there indeed lay countless fish of all sizes, their backs packed tightly without gaps, utterly motionless.

“This is terrible,” Urashima said, his pace becoming timid and halting, “what bad taste. So this is what they call the beauty of simplicity and profundity? Walking by stepping on the fish’s backs—what an utterly barbaric practice! First of all, it’s cruel to these fish. Such bizarre elegance is beyond a country bumpkin like me,” he added, venting here the resentment from being called a provincial earlier and feeling some satisfaction.

“No,” came a thin voice at his feet, “we gather here every day to listen enraptured to Princess Otohime’s koto music.”
“The Fish Bridge was not made for artistic purposes.”
“Never mind that—please proceed.”

“I see,” Urashima smiled bitterly to himself, “I thought this too was one of the Dragon Palace’s decorations.”

“It can’t be just that.”
The Turtle promptly interjected, “Perhaps this Fish Bridge too was specially ordered by Princess Otohime for the fish to welcome Young Master Urashima—”

“Oh, this—” Urashima flustered and blushed, “Surely I’m not so conceited as that. But, you see, you were making irresponsible claims about this being a substitute for a corridor floor, so I ended up thinking those fish might be in pain from being stepped on.”

“In the world of fish, there’s no need for floors. If I were to compare this to a house on land, I gave that explanation thinking it might correspond to a corridor floor—I certainly wasn’t speaking carelessly. What? Do you think the fish actually feel pain? At the bottom of the sea, even your body weighs no more than a single sheet of paper. Don’t you feel like your own body is floating lightly?”

When told this, he couldn’t deny feeling something akin to a floating sensation. Urashima felt as though he was being subjected to unnecessary mockery time and again from the Turtle, and he found it utterly vexing.

“I’ve lost all inclination to believe anything.
“This is exactly why I hate adventures.
“Even if I’m deceived, there’s no way to detect it.
“I have no choice but to obey whatever the guide says.
“If I’m told ‘This is how it is,’ then that’s all there is to it.
“Truly, adventure deceives people.
“I can’t hear any koto music or anything else at all!” he finally resorted to random criticism.

The Turtle calmly said,

“You’ve spent too long in terrestrial planar existence—that’s why you assume objectives must lie north, south, east, or west.
“However, the sea has two additional directions.”
“Namely, up and down.”
“You’ve been fixated on seeking Princess Otohime’s location straight ahead this whole time.”
“Here lies your grave error.”
“Why don’t you look overhead?”
“And you don’t look underfoot.”
“The world of the sea floats and drifts.”
“Both the main gate from earlier and that pearl mountain—they all float and move slightly.”
“You yourself sway in all directions—that’s why you can’t perceive others moving.”
“You may think you’ve advanced far ahead since earlier, but well—you remain in place.”
“In fact, you might be retreating.”
“Right now, the tide pulls you steadily backward.”
“And from our starting point, we’ve all floated upward a hundred fathoms.”
“Well, let’s try crossing this Fish Bridge a little further.”
“You see? The fishes’ backs grow sparse.”
“Mind your footing.”
“What? Misstep and you’ll just drop through—you weigh less than paper anyway.”
“In short: this bridge ends nowhere.”
“Cross this corridor and find emptiness ahead.”

“However—look below.”
“Hey fish—clear the way! The Young Master goes to meet Princess Otohime.”
“These form something like a ceremonial canopy over the Dragon Palace’s main keep.”
“Call it a jellyfish-drifting canopy—would that please your refined tastes?”

The fish quietly and silently scattered to the left and right.
Faintly, the sound of a koto could be heard beneath one's feet.
It closely resembled the sound of a Japanese koto, but was not as forceful as that instrument’s tones—softer, more ephemeral, and carrying an oddly lingering resonance.
Dew on chrysanthemums.
Gossamer robe.
Evening sky.
The thud of a fulling mallet.
Floating slumber.
Bush warbler.
None of these were it.
Even to Urashima—a man of refined tastes—there flowed beneath it an elusive delicacy, ephemeral yet carrying a noble desolation unheard on land, whose nature he couldn’t quite place.

“What a curious piece of music,” he said. “What is that piece called?”

The Turtle strained its ears and listened.

“Shōtai,” it answered tersely.

“Shōtai?”

“The ‘holy’ character from ‘sacred,’ combined with ‘resignation.’”

“Ah, yes—Shōtai,” Urashima murmured, and for the first time perceived in the Dragon Palace’s undersea existence something sublime that transcended our own aesthetic sensibilities.
Indeed, my own refinement is not to be relied upon.
When I prattle on about traditional cultivation and orthodox refinement, no wonder the Turtle breaks into a cold sweat.
My refinement is mere imitation.
I am no different from a country mountain monkey.

“From now on, I’ll believe anything you say.”
“Shōtai.”
“So that’s how it is.”
Urashima stood dumbfounded, still listening intently to that mysterious *Shōtai* melody.

“Now then, we’ll jump down from here.
“There’s nothing dangerous about it.
“When you spread both arms wide like this and take a step forward, you’ll sway gently down in a pleasant fall.
“If you go straight down from where this Fish Bridge ends, you’ll arrive precisely at the steps before the Dragon Palace’s main hall.
“Now then, what are you dawdling for?
“We’ll jump down now—is that all right?”

The Turtle swayed gently downward.
Urashima too regained his composure, spread both arms wide, and when he took a step beyond the Fish Bridge, he was smoothly drawn downward in a pleasant descent, his cheeks cool as if brushed by a faint breeze. Soon the surroundings took on a green hue like tree-shaded light, and just as he thought the koto’s sound was growing distinctly nearer, he found himself standing beside the Turtle before the steps of the main hall.
Though called steps, they were not tiers of clearly defined individual rises, but rather formed a gentle sloping incline resembling a ramp—covered with small, dull gray pearls that glinted faintly.

“Are these pearls too?” Urashima asked in a low voice.

The Turtle looked at Urashima’s face with eyes full of pity,

“If you see a sphere, everything’s a pearl.”
“The pearls were discarded and have become such a tall mountain, haven’t they?”
“Well now, why don’t you try scooping up some of those spheres with your hands?”

Urashima tried to scoop up the spheres with both hands as instructed, only to feel an icy chill.

“Ah, hailstones!”

“Don’t be ridiculous.
“Go ahead and put that in your mouth.”

Urashima obediently stuffed five or six of the ice-cold spheres into his mouth.

“Delicious.”
“Is that not so?”
“This is a sea-cherry.”
“If you eat this, you won’t age for three hundred years.”

“I see. No matter how many I eat, it makes no difference?” Even Urashima—a man of refined tastes—forgetting all decorum, began eagerly scooping up more to eat. “I’ve always detested the ugliness of aging. Dying itself isn’t so dreadful, but senile decay simply doesn’t align with my sensibilities. I believe I’ll try eating more.”

“She’s smiling! Look up above. Princess Otohime has come out to greet us. My, you look even more resplendent today.”

At the end of Cherry Slope stood a petite woman wrapped in pale blue gauze, smiling faintly.
Through the gauze, pure white skin could be seen.
Urashima hurriedly averted his eyes,

“Princess Otohime?” he whispered to the turtle.
Urashima’s face was bright red.

“It’s already settled, isn’t it?
What are you fumbling about for?
Now, quickly make your greetings.”

Urashima grew increasingly flustered,

“But what should I say? Even if someone like me were to announce my name, it wouldn’t help—from the start, our visit is too sudden.”
“It’s meaningless.”
“Let’s go back.” Even Urashima—who was supposed to have an exalted destiny—became utterly servile before Princess Otohime and began preparing to flee.

“Princess Otohime already knows all about someone like you.”
“Isn’t this what they call ‘a thousand-mile threshold’?”
“Understand this and simply make a polite bow.”
“Moreover, even if Princess Otohime knew nothing about you—she’s someone utterly unacquainted with such stingy matters as caution—there’s no need for reserve.”
“Just say ‘I came to play.’”

“No way—that’s so rude!”
“Ah, she’s laughing.”
“Anyway—I’ll just bow.”

Urashima bowed so deeply that his hands reached the tips of his own toes.

The Turtle watched with bated breath,

“You’re being too polite.”
“This is getting tiresome.”
“Aren’t you my benefactor? Show a bit more dignity, won’t you?”
“Flopping down into some ridiculous deepest bow—there’s nothing elegant about that.”
“There—that’s Princess Otohime’s invitation.”
“Let’s go.”
“There—stand tall with your chest out, put on a face that says ‘I’m Japan’s finest bachelor and a first-class connoisseur of elegance,’ and strut your stuff.”
“You put on such high-and-mighty airs with us, yet around women you’re utterly spineless, aren’t you?”

“No, no—one must show proper deference to such a noble personage.” His voice cracked from tension, legs tangling as he staggered up the stairs in drunken steps. When he looked around, he found himself in a hall vast enough for ten thousand tatami mats. Or rather than a tatami room, it might be more appropriate to call it a garden. Bathed in green light—filtered as if through tree shade from some unknown source—the plaza (if one could call this ten-thousand-tatami expanse such) lay hazy and blurred. Tiny pearl-like grains, resembling hail, paved its surface, while here and there black rocks lay scattered without order—and that was all. Not only was there no roof, but not a single pillar either—as far as the eye could see stretched a desolate plaza that could well be called ruins. Looking carefully, he could nevertheless see small purple flowers peeking here and there through gaps in the tiny grains—a sight that paradoxically added to the loneliness, perhaps marking this as the pinnacle of profundity. Yet he let out what resembled a sigh of amazement—How could anyone live in such a desolate place?—before renewing his resolve and stealing a furtive glance at Princess Otohime’s face.

Princess Otohime said nothing, swiftly turned her back, and began to walk away at a measured pace.
It was then that he noticed for the first time—behind Princess Otohime swarmed countless golden fish smaller than killifish, fluttering as they swam. Wherever she walked, they followed in her path, their shimmering forms resembling golden rain perpetually cascading about her person. Truly, one sensed an aura of unearthly nobility.

Princess Otohime walked barefoot, her thin gauze fluttering about her person, but upon closer inspection, her pale small feet were not treading upon the tiny pearls below. Between the soles of her feet and the pearls existed the slightest gap.
The soles of those feet might never once have trodden upon anything.
When he thought how her soles must be as soft and beautiful as a newborn baby’s, Princess Otohime’s body—devoid of any conspicuous adornment—came to seem all the more possessed of true elegance, imbued with profound grace.
He began to feel glad he had come to the Dragon Palace, a sense of gratitude for this adventure gradually welling up within him, and as he walked after Princess Otohime in a daze,

“Not bad, wouldn’t you say?” whispered the Turtle low at Urashima’s ear, and with his fin he tickled Urashima’s side repeatedly.

“Oh, uh—” Urashima flustered, “this flower—this purple flower is lovely,” he said, changing the subject.

“This one?” said the Turtle boredly. “This is the ocean cherry blossom.”
“It somewhat resembles a violet.”
“If you eat these petals, they’ll make you pleasantly drunk.”
“This is the Dragon Palace’s wine.”
“And those rock-like things over there—they’re algae.”
“Having existed for tens of thousands of years, they’ve hardened into these rock-like masses, but they’re still softer than bean jelly.”
“That tastes better than any delicacy on land.”
“Each rock has its own distinct flavor.”
“In the Dragon Palace, we eat this algae, get drunk on petals, put cherries in our mouths when thirsty, lose ourselves in Princess Otohime’s koto music, and spend our days watching small fish dance like living cherry blossom flurries.”
“Well? As I told you when inviting you—the Dragon Palace is a land of song and dance, fine food and wine. What do you think? Did it differ from your expectations?”

Urashima did not answer and gave a deep bitter smile.

“I understand.”
“Your imagination—well—it’s all a raucous affair with giant platters of sea bream sashimi and tuna sashimi, young girls in red kimonos doing hand dances, then heaps of gold, silver, coral, damask brocade—”

“No,” Urashima finally assumed a slightly displeased expression, “I’m not so vulgar a fellow.”
“Though I once considered myself solitary, having come here and encountered one who is truly solitary, I find my pretentious life until now unbearably shameful.”

“Are you talking about her?” the Turtle said in a low voice, rudely jerking his chin toward Princess Otohime. “That person isn’t solitary at all. No trouble at all. It’s because you have ambition that you fret over things like solitude. If you didn’t give a damn about other worlds’ affairs, being alone for a hundred or a thousand years would be perfectly comfortable. That’s precisely how it is for those who aren’t bothered by criticism from others. By the way, where are you trying to go?”

“No—it’s nothing, really,” Urashima flustered at the unexpected question, “but—you—that person was—”

“Princess Otohime isn’t particularly trying to guide you anywhere.”
“She’s already forgotten all about someone like you.”
“She will likely return to her own room now.”
“Get a grip.”
“This is the Dragon Palace—this very place.”
“There’s nowhere else I need to show you around.”
“Well, I suppose you’re here amusing yourself as you please.”
“And even with all this, you’re still dissatisfied?”

“Don’t pick on me. What am I supposed to do?” Urashima pouted. “That person came out to greet me, so it’s not like I’m being conceited, but I thought following after them was the proper thing to do. It’s not like I’m dissatisfied or anything. And yet you keep talking to me in this strange way, like I’ve got some ulterior motive or something. You’re really mean-spirited, you know. That’s just cruel. I’ve never felt this awkward since the day I was born. You’re really terrible.”

“You shouldn’t take it so seriously.”
“Princess Otohime is a composed person.”
“Well now—you’re a rare guest who’s come all the way from land, and besides, you’re my benefactor. It’s only natural she came out to greet you.”
“Moreover, your spirits seem refreshed and your manly demeanor commendable—no—that’s a joke, so don’t go getting conceited over nothing.”
“In any case, isn’t it simply that Princess Otohime greeted this rare guest who came to her home up to the stairs, felt reassured, then—pretending not to notice—withdrew to her own room like that, leaving you free to stay here amusing yourself for days on end however you please?”
“Truth be told, even we don’t fully understand what Princess Otohime thinks.”
“After all, she’s just so terribly composed.”

“Well, now that you mention it, I’m starting to get some sense of understanding,” Urashima said. “Your speculation doesn’t seem entirely off the mark. In other words, this might be the true noble’s way of hospitality—welcome a guest and forget them. Moreover, around the guest’s vicinity, fine wines and delicacies lie scattered about with no particular order. Nor are the music and dance performances conducted with any overt intention to entertain guests.”

Princess Otohime played the koto without any intention of letting anyone listen. The fish danced and played freely and joyfully without any pretension of showing themselves to anyone. They did not depend on guests’ praise. The guests too had no need to put on looks of particular attentiveness or admiration. They could even lie sprawled out pretending not to notice, and it would have been perfectly fine. The host had already forgotten all about the guest—moreover, permission to behave freely had been granted. If they wanted to eat, they ate; if they didn’t want to eat, they didn’t have to. Even if they listened to the koto’s sound while drunk in a dreamlike daze, it by no means counted as rude.

Ah, when receiving guests, one must always aspire to be this way—not fussing over this and that, pushing mediocre dishes with annoying insistence, exchanging empty compliments, laughing uproariously at things that aren’t even funny! How I want to show those small-minded, clever-stupid fools—putting on exaggerated shows of surprise at utterly commonplace stories, conducting social interactions consisting of nothing but lies from start to finish, fancying themselves masters of self-congratulatory upper-class hospitality—the Dragon Palace’s magnanimous way of receiving guests! They’re just excitedly worrying about whether they might lower their own dignity, then oddly wary of their guests, getting themselves all tangled up alone, and haven’t a speck of sincerity under their fingernails! What’s this? As if they need some kind of written contract!

“As if they need some kind of written contract for every single cup of sake—‘I made you drink this!’ ‘I received that!’—it’d never work.”

“That’s the spirit,” the Turtle said with delight. “But it’d be troublesome if you got so excited you had a heart attack or something.”
“Well, sit down on this seaweed-covered rock and have some cherry wine.”
“If you use only cherry blossom petals, the scent might be too strong for first-timers. Place five or six cherries on your tongue along with them—they’ll dissolve smoothly and make properly refreshing wine.”
“By adjusting how you mix them, you can create all sorts of flavors—so go ahead and devise your own preferred blend to drink.”

Urashima now wanted a slightly stronger sake.
When three petals and two cherries were placed on the tip of the tongue, the mouth instantly filled with fine wine—merely holding it there became entrancing.
Passing through while lightly tickling the throat, it brought a happy feeling as if a small light had flickered on inside the body.

“This is good.”
“Truly, a jeweled broom for sorrow.”

“Sorrow?” the Turtle immediately pressed. “Is there something melancholic weighing on you?”

“No, it’s nothing like that, ahaha,” he forced out a laugh to mask his discomposure, then released a faint sigh and stole a glance at Princess Otohime’s receding form.

Princess Otohime walked alone in silence.
Bathed in pale green light, appearing like fragrant translucent seaweed, she swayed gently as she walked alone.

Where could she be going? he murmured without thinking.

“Her room, I suppose.”
The Turtle answered with feigned composure, wearing an expression that suggested this was all a foregone conclusion.

“You’ve been going on about ‘the room, the room’ since earlier—where on earth is this room? There’s nothing—nothing anywhere—to be seen.”

In a vast hall as flat as a wilderness could be said to be, dully glowing as far as the eye could see, there was no shadow of anything resembling a palace.

“Don’t you see something far ahead—in the direction Princess Otohime is walking—even farther ahead?” the Turtle said to him. Urashima frowned and stared intently in that direction,

“Ah, now that you say it, there does seem to be something there.”

Far in the distance—nearly a ri away—in an area that wavered hazily like peering into the depths of an abyssal pool, there appeared a small, pure white thing resembling an underwater flower.

“That? It’s a small one, isn’t it.”

“For Princess Otohime to rest alone, wouldn’t a large palace be unnecessary?”

“Well, now that you mention it, I suppose that’s true,” Urashima said as he mixed another cherry wine and drank it. “Is Her Highness always so quiet?”

“Yes, that’s correct. Words, you see, sprout from the anxiety of being alive—don’t they? Like red poison mushrooms growing from rotten soil, life’s unease ferments our speech. There may be words of joy too, but even those reek of calculated affectations. Do humans feel dread even in their happiest moments? All human words are contrivances. Pretense. Where no anxiety exists, such vulgar artifices become unnecessary. I’ve never heard Princess Otohime utter a word. Nor does she practice that tiresome habit of silent people—those ‘hidden meanings beneath calm surfaces,’ secretly making cutting observations in her heart. She doesn’t think at all. She simply smiles faintly while plucking her koto, or drifts about this hall playing games with cherry petals in her mouth. Truly, hers is a life of perfect leisure.”

“Is that so? Does Her Highness drink this cherry wine too? Truly, this is splendid. With just this, nothing else is needed. Might I have a little more?”

“Yes, please go ahead.”
“It’s absurd to hold back now that you’ve come here.”
“You have been granted infinite permission.”
“Why not try something to eat while you’re at it?”
“Every rock you see is a delicacy.”
“Would you prefer something rich?”
“Would you prefer something light and slightly sour?”
“Whatever flavor you desire is available.”

“Ah, I can hear the koto.”
“I suppose it’s all right to lie down and listen, isn’t it?”

The concept of being granted infinite permission was truly something he had never experienced since birth.
Urashima abandoned all pretense of refined manners and sprawled flat on his back. "Ahh," he sighed, "lying here drunk feels marvelous."
"Might as well try some food while I'm at it.
Do you have seaweed with a taste like grilled pheasant?"

"There is."

"And then—what about seaweed that tastes like mulberries?"

"There should be.
But you do have remarkably barbaric tastes, don't you?"

“True nature exposed,” he said, his speech patterns shifting oddly. “I’m just a country bumpkin at heart. They call this the height of refined elegance.”

When he looked up, a hazy blue fish-canopy floated serenely in the distant heights. Suddenly, the canopy burst apart as a school of fish emerged—each silver scale glinting like stardust, transforming the sky into a blizzard of swirling snowflakes as they danced and played.

In the Dragon Palace, there was neither night nor day.
Always as refreshing as a May morning and filled with green light like that of tree shade, Urashima had lost all track of how many days he had spent there.
During that time, Urashima was indeed infinitely permitted.
Urashima entered Princess Otohime’s chambers.
Princess Otohime showed no sign of disgust.
She was merely smiling faintly.

Eventually, Urashima grew tired.
He may have grown tired of being permitted everything.
He began to long for the poor life on land.
The people on land—who worried about others’ criticisms, cried or raged, lived stingily in secrecy—became unbearably pitiable to him, and even somehow beautiful.

Urashima said farewell to Princess Otohime. This abrupt request for leave too was permitted with a wordless smile. In other words, everything was permitted. From beginning to end, he was permitted. Princess Otohime came out to see him off as far as the Dragon Palace's stairs and silently held out a small shell. It was a tightly closed bivalve emitting a dazzling five-colored light. This was what was known as the Dragon Palace's famed jeweled box.

Easy is the going, hard is the return. Again riding on the turtle's back, Urashima hazily departed from the Dragon Palace. A strange melancholy welled up in his heart. Ah, I forgot to say thank you. There is no other place as wonderful as that. Ah, I should have stayed there forever. However, I am a land-dwelling human. No matter how comfortable a life one leads, one's home, one's hometown clings stubbornly to a corner of one's mind and will not leave. Even if one gets drunk on fine wine and sleeps, the dream is of one's hometown after all. It's so draining. I had no right to enjoy myself in such a wonderful place.

“Ugh, this just won’t do. Lonesome, I tell ya!” Urashima shouted in a voice tinged with desperate resignation. “I don’t know why, but it just won’t do.” “Hey, Turtle.” “At least say something—anything—like a good lively insult again.” “You haven’t said a single thing since earlier, have you?”

The Turtle had been silently moving its fins all along.

“Are you angry?” “Are you angry that I’m returning from the Dragon Palace like some dine-and-dasher?”

“You’re bein’ ridiculous.”
“Land-dwellers are why I can’t stand it.”
“If you wanna go back, then go back.”
“Anyway, as you please—haven’t I said so many times from the beginning?”

“But somehow, you don’t seem your usual lively self.”

“You’re one to talk—look how you’re moping around.”
“Me, I’m fine with welcomin’ folks, but this send-off business—I ain’t cut out for it.”

“Easy is the going, right?”

“This is no time for jokes.”
“Somehow, this whole seeing-off business just doesn’t sit right.”
“Nothing but sighs—everything I say rings hollow. Honestly, I’d rather just bid farewell right here and now.”

“So you’re lonely too, after all.”
Urashima’s eyes grew moist. “This time, I’ve really been in your care quite a lot. I’ll say my thanks.”

The Turtle did not reply. As if to say, “What’s all this about?” it gave a little shake of its shell and then simply swam on diligently.

“Her Ladyship must still be there, amusing herself all alone, I suppose.”
Urashima heaved a deeply resigned sigh. “Though she gave me this exquisite shell,” he said, “this couldn’t possibly be edible, could it?”

The Turtle chuckled softly,

“My, you’ve become quite the glutton during your brief stay at the Dragon Palace, haven’t you?
That particular item isn’t meant for consumption.
Truthfully, I don’t fully understand it myself—but might there not be something inside that shell?” Like the serpent in Eden, the Turtle suddenly voiced these peculiar words calculated to pique curiosity.

Was this too part of the shared destiny of reptiles?
No, no—to conclude it thus would be unkind to this good-natured Turtle.
The Turtle itself had previously boasted to Urashima, “However, I am not the serpent in the Garden of Eden—though I say it with humility, I am a Japanese turtle.”
It would be cruel not to believe him.
Moreover, judging from this Turtle’s conduct toward Urashima up to now, it did not seem to possess a nature like that of the serpent in the Garden of Eden—deceitful and cunning, whispering terrible temptations of ruin.
On the contrary, one might even think he was nothing more than a lovable blowhard like those carp-shaped streamers mentioned earlier.
In other words, there had been no malice whatsoever.
I wish to interpret it as such.
“But perhaps it would be better not to open that shell,” the Turtle continued.
“Surely something like the Dragon Palace’s vital essence must be sealed inside it.”
“If you open it on land, strange mirages might rise up and drive you mad or something. Or perhaps the sea’s tides might gush forth and cause a great flood—who can say? In any case, releasing the ocean floor’s oxygen onto land—I suspect nothing good would come of it,” he said gravely.

Urashima believed the Turtle’s kindness.

“That might be true. If such a noble atmosphere from the Dragon Palace were indeed sealed within this shell, then upon contact with the vulgar air of the land, it might become confused and cause a great explosion. Well, I’ll keep this stored away carefully like this forever, preserving it as a family heirloom.”

They were already floating on the sea.
The sunlight was dazzling.
The hometown beach came into view.
Urashima now wanted nothing more than to rush into his home at once, gather his parents, siblings, and the many servants to recount every detail of the Dragon Palace's wonders. He would declare that adventure was the power of belief, that worldly aesthetic pursuits were just miserly aping, that orthodoxy was but another name for vulgarity—"Understand?" True elegance resided in the realm of sacred truth, not mere resignation—"Understand?" There was no place for bothersome criticism here, only infinite permission and nothing but smiles—"Understand?" They had forgotten their guest entirely—"You wouldn't understand!" Thus he would chaotically brandish these newfound ideas he'd just acquired. And if that realist brother of his showed even a hint of doubt, he'd thrust this beautiful Dragon Palace souvenir right under his nose to shut him up good. Resolved thus, he forgot even to bid farewell to the Turtle, jumped down to the shore, and hurried frantically toward his ancestral home.

ドウシタンデセウモトノサト

ドウシタンデセウ モトノイヘ

MIWATASUKAGIRI ARENO HARA

No human shadow, no path.

マツフクカゼノ オトバカリ

Thus unfolds the sequence of events.
Urashima, after much hesitation, finally decides to open the shell from the Dragon Palace; however, concerning this matter, that Turtle does not seem to bear any responsibility.
When told “You must not open it,” the human weakness of feeling all the more tempted to open it—this psychology is treated in much the same way not only in Urashima’s tale but also in the Greek myth of Pandora’s box.
However, in the case of Pandora’s box, the gods’ revenge had been planned from the very beginning.
The single phrase "You must not open it" stimulated Pandora's curiosity, and under the malicious expectation that she would inevitably open that box in days to come, [they] proclaimed the prohibition: "Do not open it."
In contrast to this, our good Turtle had told Urashima this purely out of genuine kindness.
Based on the Turtle’s seemingly single-minded manner of speaking at that time, I think we can believe that.
That Turtle is an honest being.
That Turtle bears no responsibility.
That I can attest to with conviction; however, another strange problem remains here that doesn’t quite sit right.
When Urashima opens that souvenir from the Dragon Palace, white smoke rises from within, and he instantly becomes a three-hundred-year-old man—and so concludes the commonly told "Urashima-san" story, with its lament of "How pitiful! Had he not opened it, all would have been well, yet it ended in such triviality."
It is a story, but I am seized by deep doubts regarding it.
Then was this Dragon Palace souvenir also a gift concealing Princess Otohime’s grave intent for revenge or punishment, akin to Pandora’s box filled with all manner of calamitous seeds for humanity?
Despite showing such a demeanor—saying nothing, merely smiling as though granting infinite forgiveness—yet secretly harboring a severe judgment beneath the surface, did she bestow that shell with the intent to permit none of Urashima’s selfishness and instead impose strict punishment?
Or rather, even without advocating such extreme pessimism—perhaps because those of noble station often engage in cruel mockery with perfect composure—Princess Otohime might have performed this mean-spirited prank with entirely innocent intentions.
In any case, that Princess Otohime—who was supposed to embody true elegance—would present such a troublesome souvenir is utterly baffling.
It is said that within Pandora’s box were contained all manner of calamitous demons—disease, terror, resentment, sorrow, doubt, jealousy, wrath, hatred, curses, anxiety, regret, servility, greed, deceit, sloth, violence—and when Pandora gently opened that box, they burst forth like a great swarm of winged ants, spreading to every last corner of this world without exception. Yet when the dazed Pandora hung her head and peered into the empty box’s depths, did she not discover there in the darkness a small gem shining like a single star?
And on that jewel, it is said, was indeed inscribed the character for "hope."
By this, it is said that a faint flush of blood rose even to Pandora’s pale cheeks.

Since then, humankind had been able to gain courage through this "hope" and endure hardships even when assailed by any demons of suffering—or so it was said. In comparison, this Dragon Palace souvenir lacked even a shred of charm. Only smoke. And suddenly, he was a three-hundred-year-old man. Even if that star of 'hope' had remained at the shell's bottom, Urashima-san was already three hundred years old. Giving 'hope' to a three-hundred-year-old man—that resembled malicious mockery. It was impossible from the start. In that case, how about bestowing a proper 'Holy Truth' there? However, the other party was three hundred years old. At this point, there was no need to bestow such affected pretentiousness—once humans reached three hundred years of age, they'd long since resigned themselves. In the end, everything proved futile. No hand of salvation could be extended. Truly, he had received a dreadful souvenir. Yet if one surrendered here, perhaps Japanese folktales might be deemed crueler than Greek myths—such things foreigners might say. That would indeed be an unbearable thought. Moreover, even for the sake of that cherished Dragon Palace's honor, I wished to somehow discover noble significance in this perplexing souvenir. However unnecessary it seemed—even granting that days in the Dragon Palace equated to centuries on land—there was no need to make that span of years into some cumbersome keepsake for Urashima to carry back. Had Urashima simply transformed into a white-haired tricentennial upon emerging from the Dragon Palace's waters, the tale might still hold coherence. Furthermore, had Princess Otohime truly intended through kindness to preserve Urashima's youth eternally, there would have been no need to deliberately have him bring back such a perilous 'do not open' item.

Couldn’t they have just left it discarded in some corner of the Dragon Palace?
Or does it mean that you should take back your own filth?
In that case, it seemed like nothing more than a terribly vulgar backhanded insult.
It was unthinkable that Princess Otohime of Holy Truth would plot something as base as a tenement couple’s squabble.
It simply defied comprehension.
I pondered this matter for a long time.
And then, only recently, I came to feel as though I had finally begun to understand a little.

In other words, we have been misled by the preconception that becoming three hundred years old was a misfortune for Urashima.
In picture books as well, Urashima becomes three hundred years old, and then it is written: "Truly, he met a miserable fate."
Phrases such as "How pitiful" are not written there.

Suddenly, a white-haired old man.

And that was the end.

“Pitiable,” “foolish”—such judgments were nothing more than we common people’s arbitrary blind assumptions. Becoming three hundred years old was by no means a misfortune for Urashima.

The notion that there was a star of "hope" at the bottom of the shell which saved him strikes one upon reflection as rather girlishly sentimental and not without a contrived quality, but Urashima is saved precisely by that rising smoke itself.
There need not be anything left at the bottom of the shell.
Such things are not the problem.

It is said:

Years are humankind’s salvation.

Oblivion is humankind's salvation.

The Dragon Palace's noble hospitality, through this unadorned souvenir, appeared to have reached its very zenith.
Is it not said that memories grow more beautiful the further they recede?
Moreover, even the summoning of those three hundred years had been entrusted to Urashima's own discretion.
Even at this juncture, Urashima had received infinite permission from Princess Otohime.
Had he not been lonely, Urashima would not have done something like opening the shell.
When left with no other recourse and driven to seek salvation in this single shell, he might have opened it.
If opened, instantly came three hundred years of time and oblivion.
This much explanation should suffice.
In Japanese folktales, there exists this kind of profound mercy.

Urashima, it is said, lived thereafter as a happy old man for ten years.

Kachi-kachi Mountain

In the tale of Kachi-kachi Mountain, the rabbit is a maiden, and that pitifully defeated tanuki is a homely man in love with that rabbit maiden.
This already seemed to me like an unassailable, solemn fact.

This incident was said to have occurred in Koshu, at the lakeside of Kawaguchi—one of the Fuji Five Lakes—around the back mountains of present-day Funatsu.
Koshu’s human sentiments were rough.
Perhaps because of this, this tale too had turned out somewhat rougher compared to other folktales.
First of all, the story was cruel right from its very beginning.
The whole granny soup business was awful.
It didn’t even qualify as buffoonery or wit.
The tanuki too had committed such a trivial prank.
When we reached the part where granny’s bones were scattered beneath the veranda, it truly attained the height of gruesomeness; as so-called children’s literature, it would regrettably have been unable to avoid the unfortunate fate of being banned from sale.
The Kachi-kachi Mountain picture books currently being published had therefore wisely glossed over such details as the tanuki injuring Granny and fleeing.
Well, this way they could avoid a sales ban, which was all well and good, but as punishment for such a trivial prank, the rabbit’s retaliation felt far too relentless.
It was not some dashing vendetta that felled the foe in a single strike.
Leaving him half-dead, tormenting and tormenting him, and finally drowning him in a mud boat with a gurgle.
The means were deceit from start to finish.
This was not the way of Japanese Bushido.
However, while one might have conceded that if the tanuki had performed such wicked deceptions as making granny soup, receiving that degree of relentless torment as retribution could be deemed unavoidable, when considering both the influence on children’s minds and the fear of a sales ban, it seemed somewhat unjust for the tanuki—merely punished for injuring Granny and fleeing—to be subjected by the Rabbit to such numerous humiliations and pains, culminating in an utterly undignified drowning.
Originally, this tanuki—utterly guiltless—had been leisurely playing in the mountains when it was captured by the old man and brought to the desperate fate of being made into tanuki soup. Even so, struggling to somehow carve out an escape route through the chaos, it had resorted to deceiving the old woman as a last-ditch ploy and narrowly escaped with its life.
Plotting something as vile as granny soup was certainly wrong, but as for merely scratching Granny and injuring her while fleeing—as depicted in recent picture books—the tanuki might have been struggling desperately at that moment, acting in a frenzy of self-defense and unintentionally harming her, which did not seem like such a hateworthy crime.
My five-year-old daughter took after her father in looks—which was rather unfortunate—and, to compound her misfortune, her mind also seemed to have inherited some of his peculiarities.
When I read the Kachi-kachi Mountain picture book to them in the air-raid shelter,

“Poor Mr. Tanuki,” she blurted out unexpectedly.
To be sure, this daughter’s “poor” had become her recent refrain—she would fire it off at anything she saw, her transparent ulterior motive to win praise from her doting mother rendering it hardly surprising.
Perhaps when taken by Father to Inokashira Zoo nearby, she had watched tanuki ceaselessly scurrying about their enclosures and convinced herself they were endearing creatures; thus in this Kachi-kachi Mountain tale too, she might have favored the tanuki regardless of justification.
In any event, our little sympathizer’s words held little credence.
The basis for her notions was flimsy.
The grounds for her sympathy remained nebulous.
In the first place, it scarcely warranted consideration.
Yet hearing my daughter’s utterly irresponsible outburst granted me a certain insight.
The child had merely babbled some haphazard phrase she’d lately learned—but through those words, Father came to realize: *Indeed, this Rabbit’s retaliation goes too far. With such young children one might gloss it over somehow, but for older ones already schooled in Bushido and honorable combat—wouldn’t they deem these punitive methods “underhanded tactics”? This poses an issue.* Thus did foolish Father knit his brows.

If we follow the plotline of recent picture books—where the Tanuki merely gives Granny a superficial scratch yet ends up being maliciously manipulated by the Rabbit, has his back burned, chili peppers smeared on the burns, and finally meets a tragic fate of being killed aboard a mud boat—then of course even children attending national school would immediately sense something amiss. But even supposing the Tanuki had attempted some outrageous act like making granny soup, why did the Rabbit not declare her name properly and deliver a single honorable strike of retribution? The rabbit being weak does not serve as an excuse in this case. A vendetta must be conducted honorably and aboveboard. God sides with justice. Even if unsuccessful, divine retribution! One should shout and charge straight into battle from head-on. If the disparity in skill proves too overwhelming, then one must endure hardship and bide one’s time—retreat to Kurama Mountain and devote oneself wholeheartedly to swordsmanship training. Since ancient times, Japan’s great people have mostly been doing that. No matter the circumstances, there appear to be no vendetta tales in Japan that employ underhanded tactics and culminate in torturous killings. Yet in this Kachi-kachi Mountain alone, the method of vengeance leaves much to be desired. Fundamentally—isn't this unmanly? Anyone—be they child or adult—who harbors even the slightest yearning for justice would feel some measure of distaste toward this, wouldn't they?

Rest assured.
I too have thought about that.
And I came to understand that it was only natural for the Rabbit’s methods to be unmanly.
This Rabbit is not male.
That is certain.
This Rabbit is a sixteen-year-old maiden.
She still lacked any coquettish charm, but she was a beauty.
And among humans, the most cruel are often women of this sort.
In Greek mythology, many beautiful goddesses appear, but among them—excluding Venus—the virgin goddess Artemis seems to be regarded as the most captivating.
As you know, Artemis is the moon goddess, with a pale crescent moon shining on her forehead, agile yet headstrong—in short, a deity who is Apollo made female.
And all the fearsome beasts of the earthly realm are retainers of this goddess.
However, her form was by no means that of a wild, rock-like imposing woman.
Rather small in stature, slender, with delicate and cute limbs, and a face so eerily beautiful it sends shivers—yet lacking Venus-like "femininity," her breasts also small.
She calmly performs cruel acts upon those she dislikes.
There was even an instance where she swiftly splashed water at a man who had peeked at her while bathing and turned him into a deer.
Even catching a mere glimpse of her bathing form would send her into such a rage.
If someone were to grab her hand, one cannot imagine how terrible a retaliation she would exact.
If a man were to fall for such a woman, he is certain to suffer an utterly miserable disgrace.
However, men—and the more foolish the man, the more so—are prone to falling head over heels for such dangerous women.
And so, the outcome is almost always predetermined.

Those who doubted needed only look upon this pitiful tanuki.
The tanuki had long secretly nurtured admiration for that Artemis-like rabbit girl.
Once establishing this Rabbit as an Artemis-type maiden, whether the Tanuki committed granny-soup atrocities or mere scratch wounds mattered little—one had to sigh and concede his spiteful, unmanly punishment became inevitable.
Moreover, true to form among men smitten by Artemis-types, this specimen proved unremarkable even among tanuki brethren: rotund dullard and glutton extraordinaire—making his wretched fate foreordained.

The tanuki had been captured by the old man and was on the verge of being made into tanuki soup, but driven by his desire to see that rabbit girl just one more time, he struggled desperately, managed to escape back to the mountains, muttered something under his breath as he wandered about searching for the rabbit, and finally found her.

“Rejoice with me!
“I cheated death!”
“I waited for the old man to be away, then took down that old woman with a hearty ‘Take that!’ and made my escape.”
“I’m a man blessed with strong luck,” he declared with a triumphant grin, spraying spittle as he narrated the details of how he had overcome this great ordeal.

The Rabbit hopped back to avoid the spittle and listened with a scornful "Hmph" on her face.

"There's no reason for me to be happy about this."
"That's disgusting—spraying so much spit."
"And that old man and old woman are my friends."
"Didn't you know?"

"Oh," said the Tanuki, aghast. "I didn't know. Please forgive me."
"If I'd known that, I would've let myself be made into tanuki soup or anything," he mumbled dejectedly.

“It’s too late to say that now.”
“You knew about it, didn’t you—how I used to go play in that house’s garden from time to time and was treated to tender, delicious beans and such?”
“Despite that, you lied about not knowing—that’s awful.”
“You are my enemy,” she declared cruelly.
By this time, the Rabbit’s heart was already set on exacting a certain kind of revenge against the Tanuki.
The maiden’s anger was merciless.
Especially toward the ugly and obtuse, there was no mercy.

“Forgive me.”
“I really didn’t know.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Believe me,” he pleaded in a clingingly persistent tone, stretching his neck long and hanging his head low. Spotting a nut fallen nearby, he swiftly picked it up and ate it, then darted his eyes about searching for more while adding, “Honestly, if you keep raging at me like this, I’ll want to die.”

“What are you talking about? You’re always thinking about nothing but food.” The Rabbit turned sharply aside as if consumed by contempt. “A lecher and a glutton—you’re utterly disgusting.”

“Let it slide,” he pleaded, wandering restlessly while searching the area. “I’m starving. If only you understood how miserable I feel right now.”

“I told you not to come near me. You reek. Get further away over there! They say you ate lizards—I heard all about it. And oh, how ridiculous—they say you even ate dung.”

“No way,” Tanuki said with a feeble smile.
Still, for some reason appearing unable to offer a firm denial, he once again feebly twisted his mouth and said, “No way...”

“Putting on refined airs won’t help you. Your stench isn’t mere foulness—it’s something far worse,” declared the Rabbit with icy composure, delivering her merciless verdict. Then, as if suddenly struck by a brilliant idea, her eyes abruptly lit up. Swiveling back toward the Tanuki with an expression that seemed to bite back laughter, she continued, “Very well then—just this once, I’ll forgive you. Hey—I told you not to come closer. There’s no room for even a moment’s carelessness. Why don’t you wipe your drool? Your lower jaw’s all slack. Calm down and listen well. I’ll specially forgive you just this once, but there’s a condition. That old man must be utterly dejected by now, having lost all will to go gather firewood in the mountains—so we should go gather firewood in his place.”

“Together?”
“Are you coming along too?”
The Tanuki’s small, cloudy eyes burned with joy.

“Huh?”

“What’s there to dislike? Let’s go right now, today!”
Overwhelmed with joy, his voice grew hoarse.

“Let’s make it tomorrow, okay? Early tomorrow morning. You must be tired today, and besides, I’m sure you’re hungry,” she said with suspicious gentleness.

“Thank goodness! I’ll make a big lunchbox tomorrow, bring it along, work with single-minded devotion to cut thirty-seven and a half kilograms of firewood, and then deliver it to the old man’s house. If I do that, you’ll surely forgive me, right? You’ll be nice to me then, right?”

“You’re being tedious.”
“That will depend on your performance then.”
“Perhaps I might even be nice to you.”

“Heh heh,” the Tanuki suddenly laughed lewdly. “That mouth of yours is infuriating."
“I’ll make you work yourself to the bone, you little wretch!”
“I’m so—” he began, then swiftly gobbled up a large spider crawling toward him in one swift gulp. “I’m so happy, I could just—sob—cry like a man,” he sniffled, feigning tears.

The summer morning was refreshing.
The surface of Lake Kawaguchi lay white and hazy below, veiled in morning mist.
At the mountaintop, the Tanuki and Rabbit—soaked through with morning dew—busily cut firewood.

Observing the Tanuki’s work revealed not single-minded devotion but a wretched spectacle verging on half-mad frenzy.
With exaggerated effort, he groaned “Hmm, hmm” while wildly swinging his sickle, occasionally letting out theatrical yelps of “Ow-ow-ow!”—all in desperate bid to make Rabbit witness his labors as he rampaged recklessly about.
After a fierce bout of this, he finally adopted an expression of utter exhaustion that screamed “I can’t go on,” and flung down his sickle,

“Look at this.”
“My hands have developed so many blisters.”
“Ah, my hands are stinging.”
“I’m thirsty.”
“I’m hungry.”
“Anyway, it was tough work.”
“Let’s take a little break, shall we?”
“Shall we open the lunchbox now?”
“Heh heh heh,” he giggled as if to hide his embarrassment with an awkward laugh and opened the large lunchbox.
Thrusting his snout into the lunchbox—as large as an oil can—he ate with single-minded devotion, making raucous noises of munching, gobbling, and crunching all the while.
The Rabbit made a dumbfounded face, stopped her firewood-gathering, peeked into the lunchbox—Ah!
She let out a small cry and covered her face with both hands.
Somehow, that lunchbox appeared to contain something horrifying.
However, today’s Rabbit—perhaps harboring some ulterior motive—refrained from hurling her usual insults at Tanuki, remaining silent all the while with nothing but an artful smile playing about her lips as she diligently cut firewood and feigned obliviousness to his various frenzied antics.
The Rabbit peeked into Tanuki’s large lunchbox and was startled but still said nothing merely shrugging her shoulders tightly before resuming her firewood gathering.
The Tanuki being treated with such unusual leniency by the Rabbit today simply basked in self-satisfaction. *Finally—has Yatsuko-san fallen for my vigorous firewood-gathering figure after all?*
With manliness like mine surely no woman could remain unimpressed—ah I’ve eaten now I’m sleepy—might as well take a nap he thought completely letting down his guard and indulging his whims as he began snoring thunderously.
Even in sleep he muttered incomprehensible things—something about an absurd dream ‘Love potions—those don’t work at all—useless…’—and when he awoke it was nearly noon.

“You slept quite a while,” said the Rabbit with continued gentleness. “Now that I’ve prepared one bundle of firewood too, I’ll carry it on my back and take it to the old man’s front yard for you.”

“Ah, let’s do that,” said the Tanuki with a big yawn while scratching his arm vigorously. “I’m starving.”
“When I’m this hungry, there’s no way I can stay asleep.”
“I’m sensitive like that,” he said with a serious face. “Well then, I’ll hurry and gather the cut firewood too so we can head down.”
“The lunchbox has already been emptied, so I need to finish this job quickly and then go search for food right away.”

The two shouldered their respective bundles of cut firewood and began their return journey.

"You go on ahead."
"There are snakes around here, and I'm scared."

"Snakes?
"Snakes? They ain't scary."
"As soon as I spot one, I'll catch it—"
"Eat—" he started to say, then faltered. "I'll catch 'em and kill 'em for you."
"Come on, follow me."

“After all, men are so reliable in times like these.”

“Don’t flatter me,” he snapped bitterly. “You’re acting peculiar today, aren’t you? It’s downright unsettling. You’re not planning to take me to the old man’s place and make me into tanuki soup now, are you? Ha ha ha! That’s one thing I’ll pass on.”

“Oh my, if you’re going to be so suspicious, then fine,” she said. “I’ll go by myself.”

“No—it’s not like that.
“I’ll go with you, but snakes or whatever—there ain’t nothin’ to be scared of in this world—it’s just that old man I can’t stand.
“When you go sayin’ you’ll make me into tanuki soup—I hate that.
“In the first place, ain’t that vulgar?
“At least I don’t think it’s good taste.
“I’ll carry this firewood on my back as far as that zelkova tree before the old man’s yard—you take it from there.
“I plan to slip away there.
“Whenever I see that old man’s face, I get this... indescribable disgust.
“Hm?
“What’s that?
“That’s a weird sound.
“What could it be?
“Don’t you hear it too?
“There’s this click-click sound.”

“Isn’t that obvious? Because this is Kachi-kachi Mountain.”

“Kachi-kachi Mountain? This here?”

“Oh? You didn’t know?”

“Yeah.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I didn’t know until today that this mountain had such a name.”
“But that’s a strange name.”
“Isn’t that a lie?”

“Oh, but don’t all mountains have names? That’s Mount Fuji, that’s Mount Nagao, that’s Mount Ōmuro—don’t they all have names? That’s why this mountain is called Kachi-kachi Mountain, you know. See? Listen—you can hear that click, click sound.”

“Yeah, I can hear it. But that’s strange. Until now, I’ve never once heard such a sound in this mountain. I was born in this mountain and have lived here thirty-some years, but such a—”

“Oh my! You’re already that old? You’re the one who told me you were seventeen the other day! How awful! Your face is all wrinkled and your back’s a bit bent—I thought seventeen was strange, but I never imagined you were hiding twenty whole years! Then you must be close to forty. My, that’s quite something.”

“No—seventeen, seventeen! I’m seventeen. The way I walk all hunched over like this isn’t because of my age at all. It’s because I’m hungry—that’s why I naturally end up looking like this. That ‘thirty-some years’ thing—that’s about my brother, you know. Since my brother’s always saying that like it’s his catchphrase, I ended up blurting out something like that without thinking. In other words, I just sort of caught it from him, that’s all. That’s how it is, you know.” In his panic, he used the word “you.”

“Is that so?” said the Rabbit calmly. “But this is the first I’ve heard of you having an older brother. Didn’t you once tell me, ‘I’m lonely—all alone with no parents or siblings—don’t you understand this solitude?’ What explains that contradiction?”

“Right, right,” Tanuki said, losing track of his own words, “the world’s just so complicated like this—you can’t generalize everything. Having a brother or not having one.”

“That makes absolutely no sense at all,” the Rabbit finally exclaimed in utter exasperation. “This is pure nonsense.”

“Well, actually, I do have an older brother.”
“This is painful to say, but he’s a drunken ne’er-do-well—I’m so ashamed, so mortified—for thirty-some years since I was born, no—he’s the one! For thirty-some years since he was born, he’s done nothing but heap trouble upon me.”

“That’s strange too, isn’t it? A seventeen-year-old being inconvenienced for thirty-some years—how peculiar.”

Tanuki pretended not to hear,

“In this world, there are many things you can’t sum up in one word! From my side now, I’ve disowned that thing as nonexistent—huh? Something smells burnt. You don’t feel anything?”

“No.”

“Is that so?”
Tanuki had no confidence in his sense of smell since he always ate foul things.
With a puzzled look, he cocked his head. “Maybe it’s my imagination...
“Wait—isn’t there a crackling, booming sound like fire burning?”

“That’s exactly how it should be. This is Crackle-Boom Mountain, you know.”

“You’re lying! You’re the one who just said this was Kachi-kachi Mountain earlier!”

“That’s right. Even the same mountain has different names depending on where you are. There’s a mountain called Kofuji on Mount Fuji’s midslope, and then Ōmuroyama and Nagaoyama—aren’t they all mountains connected to Mount Fuji? You didn’t know that?”

“Yeah, I didn’t know. Hmm... So this is Crackle-Boom Mountain? For thirty-some years—no, according to my brother’s stories, this was just the back mountain—but no, wait—it’s getting strangely warm here, isn’t it? Could there be an earthquake or something? There’s something eerie about today. Oh! This is terribly hot. Hot! Ouch! Ouch! This is awful! Ouch! Ouch! Help me! The firewood’s burning! Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!”

The next day, Tanuki secluded himself in the depths of his hole and groaned,

“Ah, this hurts.”
I might actually die this time.
When I think about it, there’s no man more unfortunate than me.
All because I was born with halfway decent looks, women keep their distance out of reserve.
Truth is, refined-looking men get the short end of the stick.
They probably think I hate women.
Well, I’m no saint.
I do like women.
But they seem to think I’m some high-minded idealist and never try to seduce me.
At this point, I want to scream my lungs out and run wild.
I like women!
Ah! It hurts! It hurts!
These burns are such a pain.
Throbbing nonstop.
Just when I’d escaped becoming tanuki stew, I had to go step into that nonsense called Boubou Mountain—that finished me off.
What a worthless mountain.
The firewood went up in roaring flames—horrible.
“Thirty-odd years—” I started, then glanced around furtively—“Why hide it? I’m thirty-seven this year—heh, got a problem? Three more years till forty. It’s obvious. The natural way of things. Anyone can see that.”
Ow ow ow—still, in all thirty-seven years since I was born playing in that back mountain, I’ve never had such a weird experience.
Kachi-kachi Mountain and Boubou Mountain—even their names sound fishy from the start.

"Hmm... How strange," he muttered while pounding his own head and sinking into contemplation.

At that moment, the voice of a peddler calling out could be heard from outside.

“Senkingō, how about it? Burns, cuts—anyone troubled by dark skin here?”

Tanuki was startled more by the mention of dark skin than by burns or cuts.

“Hey! Senkingō!”

“Oh? And who might this be?”

“Here! It’s deep inside the hole.”
“Does it work on dark skin too?”

“That’ll take just a day.”

“Oh ho!” he exclaimed joyfully, crawling out from the depths of the hole. “Ah!
“You’re Rabbit.”

“Yes, I am indeed a rabbit, but I’m a male peddler.
“Yes, I’ve been peddling around this area like this for thirty-some years now.”

“Hmm,” Tanuki sighed, tilting his head. “But there really are rabbits that look alike.”
“Thirty-some years... Oh, so it’s been you all along.”
“Well, let’s drop this talk about time.”
“This isn’t fucking interesting.”
“Aren’t you being too damn persistent?”
“Well, that’s just how it is,” he fumbled evasively, “anyway, could you spare me some of that medicine?
“The truth is, I’ve got a bit of a problem, you see.”

“Oh my, that’s a terrible burn.”
“This is bad.”
“If left untreated, you'll die.”

“No—I’d rather die.”
“What do I care about these burns?”
“But more than that... I... right now... my... appearance—”

“What on earth are you saying?”
“Isn’t this the boundary between life and death?”
“Oh my, your back is the worst part, isn’t it?”
“How on earth did this happen?”

“Well, y’see,” Tanuki said with a twisted grimace, “all ’cause I went an’ stepped into this mountain with some fancy-pants name like Crackle-Crackle Boom-Boom Mountain—no lie—things went plumb crazy, I tell ya. Got the shock o’ my life.”

Rabbit inadvertently burst into giggles.
Tanuki didn’t understand why Rabbit was laughing, but he joined in with a hearty laugh of his own,

“Good grief.
“It’s utterly ridiculous!”
“I’ll give you a fair warnin’ too—don’t you go near that mountain.”
“First there was Kachi-kachi Mountain, an’ then it turns into Crackle-Crackle Boom-Boom Mountain—but that one’s no good, I tell ya.”
“It turns into a helluva mess.”
“Well, y’see, they oughta know better’n to push past Kachi-kachi Mountain an’ call it quits right there.”
“Once you go stompin’ into Boom-Boom Mountain or such places, this is the kinda mess you end up in.”
“Ow, ow, ow.”
“Listen here.”
“I’m warnin’ you.”
“You’re still young, so don’t dismiss the words of an old-timer like me—no, not exactly old—but anyhow, don’t make light of ’em. Just respect what this friend has to say.”
“After all, it’s comin’ from someone who’s been through it.”
“Ow, ow, ow, ow.”

“Thank you very much.”
“Let us be cautious.”
“By the way, what shall we do about the medicine?”
“As thanks for listening to my kind advice, I will not accept payment for the medicine.”
“Anyway, let me apply it to the burns on your back.”
“It’s only because I happened to come along at just the right time that things turned out well—if not for that, you might have lost your life.”
“This must have been some form of divine guidance.”
“It must be fate.”

“Maybe it’s fate,” Tanuki groaned lowly, “I’ll take the free treatment then. Been broke lately—fallin’ for women sure costs a fortune. While you’re at it, can’tcha put a drop o’ that ointment on my palm an’ show me?”

“What are you doing?”
Rabbit’s face took on an anxious look.

“Nah—uh, it’s nothin’.
Just wanna take a peek.
What color’s it s’posed to be, I wonder.”

“The color isn’t particularly different from other ointments or anything.
“This is all I can offer,” she said and placed a tiny amount onto Tanuki’s outstretched palm.

When Tanuki swiftly tried to smear it on his face, Rabbit panicked—thinking such an act would expose the medicine’s true nature—and blocked his hand.

“Ah, you mustn’t do that! That medicine’s too strong for your face. Don’t be absurd.”

“No—let me go.” Tanuki, now in reckless desperation, pleaded, “I’m beggin’ you—let go o’ my hand. You don’t understand how I feel! For thirty-odd years since I was born—this dark complexion—can’t even describe how dreary it’s been. Let go. Let go! I’m beggin’ you—let me put it on.”

Finally, Tanuki raised his leg and kicked Rabbit away, then smeared the medicine with blinding speed,

“At least my face—I don’t think the features are bad at all.”
“It’s just that I’ve been feelin’ self-conscious ’cause of this dark complexion.”
“I’m fine now.”
“Yow!”
This was awful.
It really stung.
Strong medicine.
But I figured my dark skin wouldn’t get cured ’less it was this strong.
Ow, terrible.
But I had to endure it.
Damn it all—next time that one sees my face all entranced, heh, I won’t care if she gets lovesick.
Ain’t my responsibility.
Ah, it stung.
This medicine sure worked.
“Alright! Now that we’re here—my back, wherever—slather it all over.”
“I don’t care if I die.”
“Long as I get fair-skinned, I don’t care if I die.”
“C’mon, apply it.”
“Slap it on thick and bold—no holdin’ back!”

The scene had become truly tragic.

However, the cruelty of a beautiful and haughty maiden knew no bounds.
It was almost akin to a demon.
She calmly stood up and applied a thick layer of the aforementioned chili paste to Tanuki’s burns.
Tanuki immediately thrashed about in agony,

“Hmm, it’s nothing.
This medicine really works.
Agh, awful!
Water... Give me water...
Where am I?
Hell?
Have mercy on me.
I have no recollection of ever falling into hell.
I didn’t want to be made into tanuki soup—that’s why I took care of that old woman.
I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.
For over thirty years since I was born—just because I’m dark-skinned—I’ve never once been popular with women.
And then—my appetite—ah, because of that, how many times have I been made to feel ashamed?
No one knows.
I’m lonely.
I’m a good person.
I don’t think my features are bad at all,” he muttered in pitiful delirium before collapsing unconscious.

However, Tanuki’s misfortune was not yet over.
Even I, the author, found myself sighing as I wrote this.
In all of Japanese history, there were likely few examples of one who had endured such an unfortunate latter half of life.
Having escaped the fate of becoming tanuki soup, no sooner had he rejoiced than he suffered severe burns of no consequence on Boubou Mountain, narrowly escaping death; crawling his way back to his den and groaning with a twisted mouth, he then had chili paste slathered thickly onto those burns, fainted from the agony, and thereafter was finally placed aboard a mud boat to sink to the bottom of Lake Kawaguchi.
There was truly nothing good about any of it.
This too might be considered a kind of romantic calamity, but even so, it was an unbearably clumsy one.
There wasn’t a single shred of refinement in any of it.
He lay in the depths of his den for three days with breath like a dying insect, wandering the very boundary between life and death, until on the fourth day he was struck by ferocious hunger. Leaning on a cane, he stumbled out of the hole and wandered about muttering to himself while searching for food—a sight so pitiful it defied all comparison.
However, thanks to his inherently sturdy, rock-solid body, he fully recovered within ten days. His appetite returned as voracious as ever, and even a touch of lust emerged—yet despite knowing better, he once again lumbered off to Rabbit’s hermitage.

“I came to visit, you know. Hee hee.” He laughed shyly with a lewd edge.

“Oh!” said Rabbit, her face twisting in undisguised disgust. “It’s just you?” But the sentiment behind those words—no, something far worse—hung thick in the air. What are you doing here again? How shameless can you be? No—even more cutting than that. Unbearable! The plague incarnate has come! Filthy! Reeking! Drop dead already! Though this extreme revulsion—Filthy! Reeking! Drop dead!—was written plainly across Rabbit’s features, such uninvited guests remain blissfully ignorant of their hosts’ loathing.

This truly defies psychological understanding. Mark my words, dear readers. When you grudgingly visit a house you find oppressive, that household often secretly welcomes your presence. Yet when you eagerly call upon a home you consider your second sanctuary—more comforting than your own dwelling! Your sole refuge! What joy to visit!—there you’ll find yourself reviled, detested, feared; a broom waits behind the sliding screen to sweep you away.

To expect respite in another’s home proves one’s folly from the outset. In matters of visitation, we labor under astonishing delusions. Unless pressing business demands it, even relatives’ homes should not be visited wantonly. Let those who doubt this author’s counsel behold Tanuki.

Tanuki was now clearly committing this dreadful error.
“Oh!”
“Oh!” she said, and even when she made a disgusted face, Tanuki didn’t notice in the slightest.
To Tanuki, that “Oh!”—
That cry too seemed like a maiden’s innocent voice, startled yet delighted by his sudden visit and spontaneously uttered; it thrilled him to the core, and he interpreted Rabbit’s furrowed-brow expression as surely stemming from distress over his recent Boubou Mountain ordeal,

“Why, thank you,” he said, expressing gratitude even though no get-well wishes had been offered, “No need to worry. I’m all right now. I’ve got a god on my side. I’m lucky. That Boubou Mountain was nothing but a kappa’s fart! Kappa meat’s supposed to be tasty—I’m thinking of trying to get my hands on some one of these days, you know. That’s a digression, but I was sure surprised back then. Well, you see, it was such a tremendous blaze. How about you? You don’t seem hurt at all. Managed to escape that fire unscathed, did you?”

“I wasn’t unharmed at all,” said Rabbit with a pout. “You’re just terrible. You left me all alone in that terrible fire and went running off. I choked on the smoke and nearly died. I resented you for it. It seems one’s true feelings really do come out in such moments. I’ve now come to clearly understand what you call your true feelings this time.”

“I’m sorry.
“Forgive me.
“The truth is, I’m covered in awful burns too—maybe even a god’s abandoned me. Went through hell.
“I never once forgot what might’ve happened to you, but what can I say—my back just grew so hot right then, I didn’t have a moment to go save you or anything.
“Can’t ya just understand?
“I ain’t no unfaithful man.
“Burns ain’t somethin’ to take lightly, I tell ya.
“And, um, those Senkingō plasters and Senkigō plasters—those things’re no good.
“Man, that stuff’s terrible!
“Doesn’t do a damn thing for the dark patches either.”

“Dark stuff?”

“Nah, it’s nothin’. It’s this thick black medicine—strong stuff, I tell ya! This little weirdo who looked just like you said he wouldn’t charge nothin’, so I figured why not try havin’ him slather it on me? But damn! Even regular medicine ain’t no joke! You better watch out for that crap—caution don’t mean squat! Felt like some tiny drillin’ whirlwind shot up from my crown and BAM! Down I went.”

“Hmph,” Rabbit disdained. “Serves you right.”
“It’s because you’re such a cheapskate that you got what you deserved.”
“To try it just because it was free medicine—how could you utter such vulgarity without shame?”

“That’s a harsh thing to say,” Tanuki muttered lowly, yet showed no sign of being affected, instead basking snugly in the bliss of being near his beloved. He planted his weight firmly, scanned his surroundings with eyes murky like a dead fish’s, plucked up insects to eat, and went on: “But I’m one lucky fellow.
“No matter what happens, I won’t die.
“Maybe some god’s watching over me.
“You made it through safe, and my burns healed up just fine too—here we are chatting all peaceful-like again.
“Ah, it’s like a dream.”

Rabbit could no longer bear it—she had wanted him gone since earlier.

So sickening, so sickening—a feeling like she might die.
Wanting by any means to have him leave the vicinity of her own hermitage, she devised yet another devilish scheme.

“Hey, did you know this Lake Kawaguchi is teeming with delicious crucian carp?”

“Dunno.”
“Is that true?” said Tanuki, his eyes instantly lighting up. “When I was three, my mom caught a crucian carp and let me eat it—it was delicious.”
“I’m not exactly unskilled or anything—no, that’s not it either—but I just can’t catch things like crucian carp or anything else in the water. I mean, I know they’re delicious and all, but ever since then—thirty-some years now—no—ha ha ha! I ended up just imitating my brother.”
“My brother also loves crucian carp.”

“Is that so?” said Rabbit, nodding distractedly. “I don’t particularly want to eat crucian carp myself, but if you’re so fond of them, I suppose I could go catch some with you now.”

“Is that so?” said Tanuki, beaming. “But those crucian carp are quick little devils. I tried catchin’ one once and nearly ended up a drowned man myself,” he confessed, inadvertently revealing his past blunder. “You got some good method for it?”

“If you scoop them up with a net, it’s no trouble at all.”
“Lately, very large crucian carp have been gathering by the shore of Cormorant Island. Come on, let’s go.”
“What about the boat?”
“Can you row it?”

“Well,”
Letting out a faint sigh, he blustered, “It’s not that I can’t row. If I put my mind to it, no problem at all.”

“Can you row it?” said Rabbit, knowing full well it was a lie but feigning belief. “Well, that’s perfect.”
“You see, I do have a small boat, but it’s much too tiny for the two of us to ride in.”
“Moreover, since it’s just a shoddy boat made from thin planks, water seeps in and makes it dangerous.”
“But no matter what happens to me, something mustn’t happen to you, so let’s work together from now on to build your boat.”
“Because a plank boat is dangerous, let’s make it more sturdy by kneading mud.”

“I’m sorry.
“I’ll cry now.
“Let me cry.
“Why am I so damn tearful?” he said, fake-sobbing. “While you’re at it, why don’t you just build that sturdy mud boat all by yourself?”
“Hey, do this for me, will ya?” he said, making this shamelessly lazy proposal. “I’ll owe ya one.”
“While you’re making that sturdy mud boat of mine, I’ll go pack some lunch.
“I’m sure I’ll make an excellent cook.”

“I suppose so,” said Rabbit, obediently nodding as she pretended to believe even this selfish opinion of Tanuki’s.
And so Tanuki smirked to himself, thinking how sweet the world was.

By a hair’s breadth, Tanuki’s tragic fate was sealed.
The foolish Tanuki did not know that those who believed all his nonsense often harbored some dreadful scheme in their hearts.
He smirked, thinking things were going smoothly.

The two went out to the lakeside together.
The white expanse of Lake Kawaguchi lay without a single wave.
Rabbit promptly began kneading mud to craft what might be called a sturdy, well-made boat, while Tanuki darted about here and there muttering “Sorry, sorry” as he devoted himself solely to perfecting his lunchbox’s contents. By the time the evening breeze began to stir and small waves rippled all across the lake’s surface, the small clay boat gleamed steel-gray and was launched.

“Hmm, not bad at all,” said Tanuki, bustling about as he first loaded the lunchbox—about the size of an oil can—onto the boat. “You’re quite the clever girl.”
“To think you built such a beautiful boat in the blink of an eye.”
“Divine craftsmanship!” he said with nauseatingly transparent flattery. If he made such a skilled worker his wife, he mused, perhaps he could live in luxury off her labor while idling about—now felt not just lust but even greed stirring within him. Secretly steeling his resolve to attach himself to this woman for life no matter what, he heaved himself onto the mud boat. “You must be good at rowing too.”
“I’m not saying I don’t know how to row a boat—of course I do—but today I’d like to see my wife’s skills in action.”
His way of speaking had grown annoyingly presumptuous.
“I was once called a master or even an expert when it came to rowing boats, but today I suppose I’ll just lie back and watch.”
“Never mind that—just attach the bow of my boat to the stern of yours.”
“The boats’ll stick together nice and tight—die together if we must! Won’t abandon ya,” he said with greasy affectation, then collapsed to lie sprawled at the bottom of the mud boat.

Being told to attach the boats, Rabbit wondered—had this fool noticed something after all? She stole a startled glance at Tanuki’s expression—but there was nothing to it. He was already lost in slumber, grinning lecherously as he wandered dreamland. "Wake me when you catch some crucian carp." "They’re tasty, I tell ya." "I’m thirty-seven," he muttered—such foolish sleep-talk. Rabbit snorted with laughter, tethered Tanuki’s mud boat to her own, then struck the water’s surface with a slap of her oar. Smoothly, the two boats left the shore.

The pine forest of Cormorant Island, bathed in the setting sun, looked like a wildfire.
At this point, the author played the know-it-all: the story went that the pine forest on this island was sketched and stylized into that design depicted on the boxes of Shikishima cigarettes.
Since I had heard it from a reliable source, readers could believe it without loss.
Of course, since Shikishima cigarettes are no longer around these days, this story holds no interest for younger readers.
I had gone and spread such trivial knowledge.
Pretentiousness inevitably ends in such foolish results.
Well, perhaps only readers born thirty-some years ago or more would vaguely recall—ah, those pines—alongside memories of geisha entertainment and make such a bored face, and that’s about the best one could expect.

Now, Rabbit gazed out, captivated by the evening scenery of Cormorant Island,

“Oh, what a beautiful view,” she murmured.
This was truly bizarre.
One might think that even the most heinous villains would lack the composure to gaze entranced at natural beauty in the very moment before committing some cruel crime—and yet, this sixteen-year-old beautiful maiden narrowed her eyes to admire the island’s evening scenery.
Truly, innocence and demonic evil are separated by but a hair’s breadth.
To those men who drool over a spoiled virgin—one who knows no hardship, with her nauseatingly pretentious demeanor—while exclaiming “Ah, the purity of youth!”—beware.
Their so-called “purity of youth” often proves—as seen in this Rabbit’s case—a chaotic dance of indistinguishable sensual elements, remaining composed even when murderous intent and intoxication reside side by side within their hearts.
It was beer foam of the utmost danger.
A state where tactile sensation overrides ethics—this we term either imbecility or demonic.
American films that once took the world by storm featured many such so-called “pure” males and females who fidgeted restlessly as if overwhelmed by their own tactile sensations, moving about like spring-driven mechanisms.
I don’t mean to force connections here, but one might almost think that the progenitor of this so-called “purity of youth” perhaps originated in America or thereabouts.
Things like *Ski* and *Ranran*.
And all the while, they nonchalantly committed terribly foolish crimes.
They were either imbeciles or demons.
No—perhaps demons were inherently low-intelligence beings from the start.
The sixteen-year-old maiden Rabbit—petite and slender-limbed, once compared to the moon goddess Artemis—had now become something utterly uninteresting and dull in this light.
An imbecile?
Well, there was no helping it then.

“Hyah!” A strange voice arose from underfoot.
It was the scream of our beloved yet thoroughly impure thirty-seven-year-old male—Tanuki.
“Water! Water!”
“This won’t do!”

“You’re so noisy.”
“It’s a mud boat—of course it’ll sink.”
“Didn’t you realize?”

“I don’t get it.”
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“There’s no logic to this.”
“That’s just impossible.”
“You couldn’t possibly—no, you wouldn’t—something so demonic—no, I just don’t understand.”
“You’re my wife, aren’t you?”
“Ah, it’s sinking!”
At least the sinking itself was an undeniable reality before him.
Even as a joke, this was too vicious.
This was practically violence.
“Ah, it’s sinking!”
“Hey, what are you doing?”
“The lunch will go to waste!”
“This lunchbox has earthworm macaroni coated in weasel droppings inside!”
“What a waste!”
“Glub!”
“Ah, I’ve swallowed water now.”

“Hey, I’m begging you—cut out your cruel jokes already.”
“Hey, hey—don’t cut that rope!”
“If we die, we die together—husband and wife share two lifetimes, an unbreakable bond like the stern rope... Ah, damn! I’ve cut it!”
“Help me!”
“I cannot swim!”
“I confess.”
“I could swim a little back then, but once a tanuki hits thirty-seven, all his muscles stiffen up—he just can’t swim anymore.”
“I confess.”
“I’m thirty-seven.”
“The truth is—there’s too much of an age difference between us.”
“Respect your elders!”
“Don’t neglect your duty to respect elders!”
“Glub!”
“Ah—you’re a good kid—c’mon, you’re a good kid—so reach that oar over here! I’ll grab it—Ow! Ow! What’re you doing? That hurts! Hitting my head with the oar—Fine! Got it! I get it now!”
“You’re trying to kill me—now I get it.” Even as Tanuki reached death’s doorstep, he finally saw through Rabbit’s scheme—but it was already too late.

Thud, thud—the merciless oar rained down upon his head.
Tanuki bobbed up and sank in the lake’s surface glittering with sunset,

“Ow! Ow! Isn’t this too cruel?”
“What wrong have I done to you?”
“So what if I fell for you?” he cried, then sank abruptly—and that was all.

Rabbit wiped her face.

“Oh, what dreadful sweat,” she said.

Now, could this be what one might call a caution against lechery? Or perhaps it’s a comical tale that hints at the well-meaning advice that one must not approach a beautiful sixteen-year-old maiden? Or perhaps it’s an etiquette textbook that says one must observe moderation, for if someone becomes too persistent in their inquiries after taking a liking, they will ultimately be met with extreme revulsion and meet such a terrible fate as being murdered—is that what this is?

Or perhaps it was a comical tale suggesting that people in this world, in their daily lives, mutually scold, punish, reward, or submit to one another based not on moral good and evil but on personal inclinations—could that be what this was?

Ah, but rather than rushing to such critic-like conclusions, wouldn’t it suffice to simply take note of Tanuki’s final words as he meets his end?

"So what if I fell for you?"

It would not be an exaggeration to say that since ancient times, the central theme of sorrowful tales throughout the world's literary arts had always hinged precisely there.
In every woman dwelled this merciless Rabbit, and in every man, that good-natured Tanuki perpetually struggled on the verge of drowning.
Even when considering the author's own rather unsuccessful career spanning those very thirty-odd years, this truth had been abundantly clear.
And perhaps it held true for you as well.
The rest was omitted.

The Tongue-Cut Sparrow

I had been writing this *Otogizōshi* book piece by piece during whatever spare moments I could find—despite my imperfect body that had recently been running a slight fever—attending to official duties when summoned, handling post-disaster cleanup at my house and other such tasks, all in hopes of creating a suitable little diversion for those battling to resolve Japan’s national crisis during their scarce leisure hours.

I had planned to complete this *Otogizōshi* by writing *The Lump-Removing Tale*, *Urashima Taro*, *Kachi-kachi Mountain*, followed by *Momotaro* and *Tongue-Cut Sparrow*. However, the story of Momotaro has already been pared down to its barest essence, transformed into something resembling a symbol of Japanese manhood that feels more like poetry or song than a proper tale.

Of course, I too had originally intended to recast this Momotaro within my own stories.

That is to say, I had meant to endow those oni of Demon Island with a certain detestable nature.

By all means, I had resolved to portray them as grotesque, utterly evil humans who simply couldn’t be left unsubjugated.

Through this approach, I had schemed to make Momotaro’s demon-quelling stir deep resonance among you readers, rendering those battles into truly perilous clashes that would leave readers gripping their seats in suspense.

(When discussing plans for their own unwritten works, authors typically spin such artless tall tales.

“It never goes that smoothly.”) Well now—anyway—do listen.

“It’s all bluster anyway.”

“Just listen without jeering, if you please.”

In Greek mythology, the most cunningly wicked, ugly, and defiled monster must surely be that snake-haired Medusa.

Her forehead bore deeply carved wrinkles of suspicion; her small gray eyes blazed with brazen murderous intent; her pallid cheeks quivered with threatening rage; her blackened thin lips twisted as if convulsed by loathing and scorn.

Every single strand of her long hair was a red-bellied venomous serpent.

When facing enemies, these countless serpents would swiftly raise their sickle-shaped heads in unison and confront them with an ominous hiss.

They say anyone who glimpsed Medusa’s form would be overcome by an indescribable revulsion—their heart freezing solid as their entire body turned to cold stone.

This was less fear than visceral disgust.

It harmed minds more than flesh.

Such monsters are the most detestable of all and must be exterminated posthaste.

By comparison, Japanese monsters prove simple and even amiable.

The Great Monk of Ancient Temples or the one-legged umbrella monster would typically perform guileless dances for drunken heroes, doing no more than relieve those champions’ midnight tedium.

Moreover, the oni of Demon Island in picture books were all brawn with their massive builds, only to have their noses scratched by monkeys—Ah!—then flip over and surrender. They weren't frightening in the least. They even seemed like beings of good character. In that case, this much-anticipated demon subjugation would make for a rather anticlimactic tale. At this juncture in the narrative, a monster more terrifying than Medusa's head—one utterly repulsive—simply had to be introduced there. Otherwise, there'd be no way to make readers grip their seats in suspense. Moreover, were Momotaro the Conqueror too overwhelmingly strong, readers might start pitying the demons instead, and that story would lose all its hair-raising tension. Even Siegfried—that great immortal hero—had a single weak point upon his shoulder, did he not? Benkei too was said to have had his vulnerable spot; in any case, a perfect absolute strongman simply didn't make for a good story. What's more, perhaps due to my own weakness, I believed I understood somewhat the psychology of the weak; however, I must confess I knew little of the strongman's mind. Especially when it came to some invincible paragon who'd never lost to anyone—I'd never encountered such a being myself, nor even heard rumors of one. I was a storyteller of meager imagination who couldn't write a single line unless I'd experienced it myself to some degree. Therefore, even when writing this Momotaro tale, it proved utterly impossible for me to introduce such an absolutely undefeated hero I'd never laid eyes on. And so my Momotaro—a man who'd been a crybaby since childhood, frail and shy, completely hopeless—would now resolutely stand against demonic spirits of unparalleled cruelty and grotesquery, those who shattered human hearts and cast them into a hell of eternal despair, trembling dread, and bitter curses. Though powerless himself, he could no longer remain silent. With millet dumplings at his waist, he'd set out toward their lair—or so this tale seemed destined to unfold. Moreover, those three animal retainers—the dog, monkey, and pheasant—would by no means be model helpers; each would have their own troublesome habits, occasionally starting quarrels until they became nearly akin to Sun Wukong, Zhu Bajie, and Sha Wujing from *Journey to the West*. However, just as I was about to begin working on this "Momotaro of mine" after Kachi-kachi Mountain, I was suddenly overcome by intense listlessness. At least Momotaro's story alone I wanted to leave in its simple form as it was. This was no longer a story. It was a Japanese poem sung and passed down by all our people since ancient times.

No matter what contradictions existed in the tale's plot, it mattered not. To meddle now with this poem's clear and expansive spirit would be inexcusable to Japan. For Momotaro is after all a man who bears the banner declaring him Japan's Greatest. An author who had never experienced even Japan's greatest—let alone its second or third—could never possibly depict such a peerless hero of Japan. When I came to visualize that "Japan's Greatest" banner of Momotaro's, I resolutely abandoned my plans for "My Momotaro Story."

And so I resolved to immediately write the Tongue-Cut Sparrow story next and thereby bring this *Otogizōshi* to a provisional conclusion. In this Tongue-Cut Sparrow tale as with the previous Lump-Removing Tale, Urashima-san, and Kachi-kachi Mountain—none feature any so-called "Japan’s Greatest" figures—my responsibility remained light, allowing free composition. Yet when matters are labeled "Japan’s Greatest," even tentatively deemed foremost in this noble land, no amount of being mere folktales would permit such haphazard writing. Should foreigners see this and exclaim "What? Is this Japan’s Greatest?"—the humiliation would be unbearable. Hence my need to stress this thoroughly here: The two old men from The Lump-Removing Tale, Urashima-san, and Tanuki-san from Kachi-kachi Mountain—none are Japan’s Greatest! Only Momotaro holds that title! Precisely why I refrained from writing Momotaro! Were the true Japan’s Greatest to manifest before your eyes, their radiance might sear your vision shut. Listen—do you comprehend? The characters in my *Otogizōshi* rank neither first, second, nor third in Japan—nor are they representative figures. These are merely utterly ordinary characters created through the foolish experiences and meager imagination of one called Dazai. To judge Japanese people’s worth through them would be like carving boat marks to retrieve sunken swords—a futile exercise in strained logic. I cherish Japan. This being self-evident, I avoided depicting Momotaro as Japan’s Greatest while tediously explaining why others fall short. Surely readers won’t begrudge my peculiar insistence on this matter? Even the Taikō declared it—did he not? “Japan’s Greatest—it is not I,” he said.

Now, as for the protagonist of this Tongue-Cut Sparrow tale, far from being Japan’s greatest, he might well have been called the most useless man in Japan.
First of all, he was physically weak.
A man with a weak constitution seemed to hold even less societal value than a lame horse.
He was always coughing weakly with sallow complexion; each morning upon rising he would beat dust from the room’s shoji screens and sweep dirt with a broom—whereupon he would collapse exhausted for the day beside his desk, squirming between lying down and getting up until evening meal’s end when he promptly laid out his futon and slept.
This man had continued such a pitiful existence for over a decade.
Though not yet forty years old, he had long signed himself as “the venerable old man” while ordering household members to address him as “Grandfather.”
Well—could one have called him some sort of hermit?
But even hermits require modest funds for worldly renunciation; penniless day-laborers find society pursuing them despite resolve.
This “Grandfather” now resided in such modest thatched quarters—originally third son of wealth who defied expectations by pursuing no profession beyond idle farming and reading until illness struck—these days labeled “sickly fool” by resigned relatives who sent just enough monthly funds for subsistence.
Thus became possible this hermit-like existence.
Though dwelling in mere thatched hut one must admit his remained respectable station.
Yet precisely such respectable men prove least useful.
While physical frailty seemed factual—not bedridden illness—he should have managed some productive work.
Yet Grandfather did nothing.
Books alone he read abundantly—whether forgetting them immediately or never sharing insights remained unclear.
He simply idled.
This alone brought societal worth near zero—compounded by childlessness despite over ten married years.
Thus stood complete his failure at every social obligation.
What manner of wife could have stayed wedded to such listless husband over decades? Curiosity stirred faintly.

However, those who peered through the hedge of that thatched hut found themselves sorely disappointed—"Oh, is that all?"
She was such a thoroughly dull woman.
Her complexion was jet-black, her eyes glistened wide and unblinking, her hands—large and covered in wrinkles—hung limply before her as she hurriedly walked through the garden with a slight stoop; seeing her thus, one might think she was even older than the old man.
However, she was said to be in her thirty-third year—an unlucky age.
This woman had originally been employed as a servant in the old man’s family home, but having been made responsible for caring for the sickly old man, she had before long come to take charge of his entire life.
She was uneducated.

“Now take off all your undergarments and bring them here. I’ll wash them,” she commanded sternly.

“Next time.”
The old man answered in a low voice, resting his cheek on his hand at the desk.
He always spoke in an extremely low voice.
Moreover, the latter half of his words would settle in his mouth, becoming indistinguishable from vague utterances like “ah” or “uh.”
Even the old woman—who had been married to him for over a decade—could not properly make out what he was saying.
Needless to say, this held all the more true for others.
After all, he was practically a hermit—it might not have mattered to him whether others understood him or not. He held no steady employment; though he read books, he showed no inclination to use that knowledge for writing; though over a decade had passed since his marriage, he had produced no children; and what’s more, even in daily conversation he couldn’t be bothered to speak clearly, mumbling the latter half of his words into obscurity. Whether one called this grudging effort or something else altogether, his passivity defied description.

“Hurry up and hand them over. Look, the collar of your underrobe—isn’t it gleaming with grease?”

“Next time.” He muttered again, half under his breath.

“Huh? What did you say? Speak clearly.”

“Next time,” he said with somewhat clearer articulation this time, keeping his cheek propped on his hand and staring unblinkingly at the old woman without a trace of a smile. “It’s cold today.”

“It’s already winter. Not just today—tomorrow and the day after will be cold too,” she said in a scolding tone. “Do you know which is colder—someone sitting still by the hearth indoors, or someone out at the wellside doing laundry?”

“I don’t know,” he answered with a faint smile.
“Because your wellside has become a habit.”
“This is no joke,” the old woman said with a frown. “It’s not as if I was born into this world just to do laundry.”
“Is that so?” he said, keeping a straight face.

“Now, hurry up and take them off and hand them over. Your replacement undergarments are all inside that closet.”

“I’ll catch a cold.”

“Well then, very well.”
Having declared this resentfully, the old woman retreated.

This was in a large bamboo thicket in the Sendai suburbs of Tohoku, at the foot of Mount Atago, facing the swift currents of the Hirose River.
In the Sendai region, sparrows had likely been abundant since ancient times—the Sendai bamboo crest featured two stylized sparrows, and in the play *Senbai Hagi*, a sparrow appeared in a role surpassing even the lead actor’s importance, as I believe everyone knows.
Also, last year when I traveled through the Sendai region, a certain friend there introduced to me the following old children’s song as a traditional nursery rhyme of the area.

Kagome, Kagome
Inside the basket, the sparrow
When, oh when will it emerge?

This song, however, seems to have become a children’s play song not only in the Sendai region but throughout Japan; yet,

“Inside the basket, the sparrow”

The fact that it explicitly specifies the caged bird as a sparrow, along with the seamless insertion of the Tohoku dialect term Deharu—these elements made it seem to me that calling this a folk song of the Sendai region would not be unreasonable.

Around this old man’s thatched hut in the large bamboo grove, countless sparrows also resided, raising a deafening clamor morning and evening.
At the end of autumn that year, on a morning when hail pattered briskly through the large bamboo grove, the old man found a small sparrow lying on its back in the garden soil, its leg twisted; he silently picked it up, placed it by the hearth in his room, and fed it. Even after its leg healed, the sparrow would play in the old man’s room, occasionally fluttering down to the garden only to return immediately to the veranda, peck at the food he tossed, and leave droppings—at which the old woman would,

"That’s filthy," she would say, chasing it away, while the old man silently stood and carefully wiped the veranda droppings with a sheet of tissue paper.
As days passed, it seemed the sparrow had learned to distinguish between those it could be affectionate with and those it could not—when only the old woman was home, it would take refuge in the garden or under the eaves, and when the old man appeared, it would immediately fly over to lightly perch on his head, hop about his desk, drink water from the inkstone with soft throaty sounds, hide among the brush holders, and play all manner of games to disturb his studies.
However, the old man usually pretended not to notice.
Unlike bird lovers in the world who give their beloved pets such affected, pretentious names,

He did not say things like, “Rumi, are you lonely too?” No matter where the sparrow went or what it did, he maintained an air of complete indifference. And from time to time, he would silently bring a handful of feed from the kitchen and scatter it across the veranda.

The sparrow, now after the old woman's exit, fluttered down from under the eaves and alighted lightly on the edge of the desk where the old man sat propping his cheek on his hand.
The old man did not change his expression in the slightest and silently watched the sparrow.
From this point onward, the tragedy in this little sparrow’s life would gradually begin.

After some time had passed, the old man uttered a single word: “I see.”
Then he let out a deep sigh and spread open a book on the desk.
He flipped through a page or two of the book, then propped his cheek again and stared blankly ahead while muttering, “ ‘Wasn’t born to do laundry,’ she had said.”
“Even she still fancies herself charming,” he muttered with a faint, bitter smile.

At this moment, suddenly, the small sparrow on the desk spoke in human language.

“What about you?”

The old man was not particularly surprised,

“Me? I was born to speak the truth, you see.”

“But you don’t say anything at all.”

“Because everyone in the world is a liar, I’ve grown to dislike conversing.”
“Everyone tells nothing but lies.”
“And what’s even more frightening is that they themselves are not aware of their own lies.”

“That’s just a lazy person’s excuse.”
“When someone dabbles in learning, it seems they all want to adopt such lazy airs like that, don’t they?”
“You aren’t doing anything at all.”
“There was a proverb: ‘Do not wake others while lying asleep,’ you know.”
“You’re in no position to talk about others.”

“That may be true,” the old man said without haste, “but there’s a place for a man like me. I may seem to be doing nothing, but it’s not entirely so. There are things that cannot be done unless it’s me. I don’t know if the time will come during my lifetime when my true worth can be displayed, but when that time does come, even I will work with great vigor. Until then, well, I’ll remain silent and read.”

“Who knows,” said the sparrow, tilting her head slightly. “It’s always you spineless behind-the-scenes braggarts who put on such a defiant front of sour grapes. Or should I call you a decrepit retired hermit? A doddering old body like yours replaces irretrievable past dreams with future hopes, comforting itself that way. It’s almost pitiable. That doesn’t even amount to bluster. A pervert’s grumbling. But you aren’t doing anything good at all.”

“If you say so, well, perhaps that’s how it seems,” the old man replied with growing composure, “but even I have one splendid thing I’m practicing now.”
“That, if I must name it, is non-desire.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Take my wife—she’s been married to someone like me for over ten years now. You’d think she’d have abandoned worldly desires by this point, but apparently not.”
“Seems she still fancies herself charming.”
“It was so absurd, I couldn’t help bursting out laughing alone.”

Just then, the old woman abruptly appeared.

“I have no allure whatsoever.
“Oh?”
“Who were you talking to?”
“I heard a young woman’s voice, you know.”
“Where did that guest go?”

“A guest?”
The old man evaded her question as usual.

“No, you were definitely speaking with someone just now.”
“And bad-mouthing me too.”
“Well now—when talking to me, you always mumble so laboriously I can barely hear you, yet with that girl you chattered away so cheerfully in such a youthful voice, like a completely different person.”
“You’re the one who still has charm.”
“Too much of it—sickeningly sweet.”

"Is that so?" the old man answered vaguely. "But there's no one here."

"Don’t ridicule me," said the old woman, now truly angry as she thudded down onto the veranda. "What exactly do you take me for? I’ve endured all this time until now. You’ve already made a complete fool of me. I may lack proper breeding or education, and perhaps can’t be your conversation partner, but this goes too far. Since my youth I entered service at your household and tended to you—and now it’s come to this... Your parents were quite capable if that’s how things were, and even if I were to be with your son—"

“Lies, all of it.”

“Oh? Where exactly is the lie?”
“What lies did I tell?”
“But that’s exactly how it is, isn’t it?”
“Back then, wasn’t I the one who understood your heart best?”
“It had to be me.”
“Therefore, hasn’t it become my role to look after you for the rest of your life?”
“Where, in what way, is it a lie?”
“Please let me hear that,” she demanded, her face paling as she pressed closer.

“It’s all lies.
“Back then, you had no charm at all.
“That’s all there was to it.”

“What on earth does that mean?
“I don’t understand.
“Don’t mock me.
“I married you for your sake.
“I have no allure or whatever.
“You say such vulgar things.
“In the first place, you have no idea how lonely I’ve felt morning and night all because I ended up with someone like you.
“If only you would occasionally offer me a single kind word.
“Take a look at other couples.
“No matter how poor they are, aren’t they chatting about trivial matters and laughing together during dinner time?
“I am by no means a greedy woman.
“If it’s for your sake, I will endure anything.
“If only you would occasionally offer me even a single kind word, I would be satisfied with that.”

"You spout nonsense."
"How phony."
"I thought you'd finally given up by now, but no—you're still trotting out those same old complaints, trying to turn things around."
"That won't work."
"Everything you say is deception."
"It's all just your momentary whims."
"You're the one who made me this silent."
"Dinner-time chitchat is mostly just criticizing the neighbors, isn't it?"
"That's just slanderous gossip, isn't it?"
"And that too—you do it all based on your usual whims, recklessly bad-mouthing people."
"I've never once heard you praise anyone."
"I too have weaknesses of the heart."
"Being drawn into your sphere makes me want to criticize others."
"To me, that is detestable."
That's why I decided I wouldn't speak to anyone ever again.
You all only notice others' flaws while remaining blind to your own horrors.
I find people detestable.

“I understand.”
“You’ve grown tired of me, haven’t you?”
“This old woman has gotten on your nerves, hasn’t she?”
“I understand.”
“What happened to the guest from earlier?”
“Where is she hiding?”
“It certainly was a young woman’s voice, wasn’t it?”
“If you’ve managed to get yourself a young woman like that, it’s only natural you’d find talking to a hag like me unpleasant.”
“What’s this? Even if you put on that enlightened face, spouting off about non-desire and whatnot, the moment you’re with a young woman, you get all worked up, your voice changes, and you start prattling on—it’s revolting.”

“If that’s how it is, then so be it.”

“That won’t do.”
“Where is that guest?”
“Even I must offer proper greetings; it would be rude to the guest.”
“I may not look it, but I am the mistress of this house—let me greet her properly.”
“You shouldn’t trample on me too much.”

“This one,” said the old man, gesturing with his chin toward the sparrow playing on the desk.

“What?
“This isn’t a joke.”
“Does a sparrow speak?”

“It speaks.”
“And says rather clever things at that.”

“Must you keep mocking me so spitefully?”
“Very well then.”
In one swift motion she reached out, roughly seized the small sparrow on the desk, and declared: “To stop its clever tongue, I’ll tear it out myself.”
“You’ve always coddled this creature too much.”
“I found it revolting beyond endurance.”
“Perfect timing.”
“If you let that young hussy escape, I’ll take this sparrow’s tongue instead.”
“Serves you right.”
Prying open the beak of the bird clutched in her palm, she ripped out its tiny tongue—no larger than a rapeseed petal.

The sparrow flapped wildly and flew high into the sky.

The old man silently watched the sparrow’s departure.

And so, from the very next day, the old man’s search through the large bamboo grove began.

Tongue-Cut Sparrow

OYADO WA DOKO DA

TONGUE-CUT SPARROW

“Where is your home?”

Day after day, the snow continued to fall.
Even so, the old man searched through the deep bamboo grove as if possessed.
In the grove were thousands upon thousands of sparrows.
Finding the little sparrow with its tongue torn out among them seemed nearly impossible, yet he combed through them day after day with abnormal fervor.

TONGUE-CUT SPARROW

WHERE IS THE DWELLING?

TONGUE-CUT SPARROW

WHERE IS THE DWELLING

For the old man, acting with such reckless passion appeared to be something that had not once occurred throughout his entire life.
It seemed as though something that had lain dormant in the old man's heart was now raising its head for the first time, but what that something might be, even the author (Dazai) could not say.
A person who feels ill at ease in their own home as though dwelling in another's might suddenly encounter their most carefree self and pursue it—call this "love," and that would suffice—but compared to the psychology expressed by that casually invoked word "love," this old man's feelings may have been far more desolate.
The old man searched desperately.
It was the first stubborn activeness of his life.

TONGUE-CUT SPARROW

WHERE IS THE DWELLING

TONGUE-CUT SPARROW

WHERE IS THE DWELLING

It wasn’t as though he was actually singing this aloud while searching.
But the wind whispered hushedly in his ear in that manner, and before he knew it, within his own breast as well, those bizarre phrases—neither quite song nor Buddhist chant—welled up in perfect sync with each step he took through the snow beneath the bamboo grove, matching precisely the whispers of the wind at his ear—such was the nature of this phenomenon.

One night saw an unusually heavy snowfall even for the Sendai region. The next day dawned perfectly clear, revealing a dazzling silver world. Early that morning, the old man put on his straw boots and wandered through the bamboo grove as usual,

TONGUE-CUT SPARROW

WHERE IS THE DWELLING

TONGUE-CUT SPARROW

WHERE IS THE DWELLING

A large clump of snow that had accumulated on the bamboo suddenly dropped onto the old man's head with a heavy thud; whether it was due to an unlucky spot being struck, he lost consciousness and collapsed onto the snow.

Within the dreamlike realm, various whispering voices came to be heard.

“Poor thing, hasn’t he finally died?”

“Nonsense, he hasn’t died. He’s just passed out.”

“But if he keeps lying here in the snow like this, he’ll freeze to death.”

“That’s right. We have to do something about this. This has become a problem. If only we’d made that child leave before things came to this. What in the world has become of that child?”

“Oteru?”

“That’s right. It seems someone mistreated her and injured her mouth, but since then, she hasn’t shown herself around here at all.”

“She’s sleeping. Since her tongue was torn out, she couldn’t say anything—just kept crying with tears streaming down.”

“I see. So her tongue was torn out after all. How cruel someone must be to do such a thing.”

“Well... it was this person’s wife. Not that she’s a bad wife, but her temper must have been in a strange place that day—she suddenly ripped out Oteru’s tongue.”

“You saw it, didn’t you?”

“Yes, it was terrifying. Humans can be so unexpectedly cruel like that, can’t they?”

"It must be jealousy."
"I knew this person's household well too, but really he looked down on his wife too much."
"Doting excessively on one's wife is unbearable to watch, but being that cold isn't good either."
"And Oteru took advantage of that situation too, clinging oddly to this sir here."
"Well, everyone's at fault."
"Leave him be."

"Oh, isn't it you who's burning with jealousy?"
"You were in love with Oteru, weren't you?"
"You can't hide it."
"Didn't you once sigh and say Oteru has the most beautiful voice in this whole bamboo grove?"

“I’m not the sort to do something as vulgar as act jealous. But at the very least, Oteru has a better voice than you, and she’s prettier too.”

“That’s cruel.”

“Stop quarreling. It’s pointless. Rather than that, what are we going to do about this person? If we leave him be, he’ll die. Poor thing. How desperately he must want to meet Oteru, searching through this bamboo grove day after day until he’s ended up in such a state—isn’t it pitiable? This person must truly be someone of substance.”

“What nonsense. He’s a fool. At his age, chasing after a sparrow child—what a complete fool.”

“Don’t say such things. Come now, let’s let them meet.”
“Even Oteru seems to want to meet this person.”
“But you see, since her tongue’s been torn out and she can’t speak anymore, even if we tell her that this person is searching for Oteru, she just lies there deep in the grove, tears streaming down.”
“This person may be pitiable too, but Oteru is just as pitiable. Come now, let’s use our power to do something for them.”

“I don’t want to.
“I’m simply not made to sympathize with romantic entanglements.”

“It’s not romance.
“You wouldn’t understand. Now everyone—shouldn’t we find some way to let them meet?
“This isn’t something logic can solve.”

“Exactly so, exactly.
“I’ll handle it.
“What—it’s no trouble.
“We’ll ask God.
“When you want to cast aside reason and devote yourself utterly to others’ sake—that’s when you ask God.
“My old man taught me that long ago.
“They say in such times, God grants any wish.
“Now everyone—wait here awhile.
“I’ll go petition the shrine forest’s God and return.”

The Old Man awoke with a start to find himself in a tidy room with bamboo pillars.
As he sat up and surveyed his surroundings, the sliding door opened soundlessly, and a doll-like figure about two shaku tall appeared,

“Oh, you’re awake?”

“Ah,” the old man laughed magnanimously, “where might this be?”

“Sparrows’ inn,” answered the doll-like girl, sitting primly before the old man and blinking her large, round eyes.

“I see,” the old man calmly nodded. “Then, you—are you that Tongue-Cut Sparrow?”

“No, Oteru is sleeping in the inner room.”
“I am Orin.”
“Oteru and I are best friends.”

“I see.”
“So then, that little sparrow whose tongue was torn out—her name is Oteru?”

“Yes, she’s a very kind soul.”
“You should meet her quickly.”
“Poor thing—she can’t speak anymore and spends every day weeping silent tears.”

“Let us meet,” said the Old Man, rising to his feet. “Where does she lie?”

“I’ll guide you.”
Orin fluttered her long sleeves and stood, moving to the veranda.

The Old Man cautiously crossed the narrow green bamboo walkway, careful not to slip.

“Here we are. Please come in.”

Led by Orin, he entered the innermost room.
The room was bright.
In the garden, small bamboo grass grew thickly all over, and shallow clear water flowed swiftly between them.

Oteru lay sleeping under a small red silk futon.
Compared to Orin, she appeared even more refined and doll-like in her beauty, her complexion slightly pale.
With large eyes fixed on the Old Man’s face, she let tears stream silently down.

The Old Man sat cross-legged by her pillow, saying nothing, watching the clear water flowing through the garden.
Orin slipped away from her seat.

There was no need to say anything.
The Old Man let out a faint sigh.
It was not a sigh of melancholy.
The Old Man experienced peace of mind for the first time in his life.
That joy manifested itself as a faint sigh.

Orin quietly brought sake and side dishes,

“Please take your time,” she said and left.

The Old Man drank a cup of sake by himself and gazed at the clear water in the garden again.
The Old Man was not what you would call a drinker.
With just one cup, he became pleasantly drunk.
He took up his chopsticks, picked up just one piece of bamboo shoot from the tray, and ate it.
It was delightfully delicious.
However, the old man was not a big eater.
With that, he set down his chopsticks.

The sliding door opened, and Orin brought a refill of sake and different side dishes.
She sat down before the old man and,

“How about some more?” she offered the sake.

“No, I’ve had enough. But this is good sake.”
It was not a compliment.
Unintentionally, it had slipped out.

“Did it please you? It’s dew from bamboo grass.”

“Too good.”

“Huh?”
“Too good.”
As she lay listening to the Old Man and Orin’s conversation, Oteru smiled.

“Oh, Oteru is smiling. She must want to say something though.”

Oteru shook her head.

“It’s all right if you can’t say it. Right?” The Old Man turned to face Oteru for the first time as he spoke.

Oteru blinked rapidly and nodded two or three times with apparent delight.

“Well then, I’ll take my leave now. I’ll come again.”

Orin looked astonished at this overly blunt visitor,

“My, leaving already? You searched through the bamboo grove until you were nearly frozen to death, and yet now that you’ve finally met her today, you don’t even offer a single kind word of greeting—”

“I’ll pass on kind words,” the Old Man said with a bitter smile and stood up.

“Oteru, is this acceptable? Shall we prepare a return gift?” Orin hurriedly asked Oteru.

Oteru smiled and nodded.

"You're both as bad as each other," Orin laughed, then added courteously, "Well then, please do come again."

"I'll come," he answered earnestly. As he moved to leave the room, he paused abruptly. "Where is this place?"

"It's within the bamboo grove."

"Hmm? Was there ever such a peculiar house in the bamboo grove?"

“There is,” said Orin, exchanging a smile with Oteru, “but ordinary people can’t see it. If you prostrate yourself on the snow at the entrance to the bamboo grove as you did this morning, we will guide you here anytime.”

"That’s most kind," he said without flattery—unintentionally—and stepped out onto the green bamboo veranda.

Then, led by Orin once more, when he returned to the neat little tea room, there were wicker trunks of various sizes lined up.

“Though you’ve kindly come all this way, I’m ashamed we cannot offer proper hospitality,” said Orin, adopting a formal tone. “As a token souvenir from Sparrow Village, please take whichever of these wicker trunks catches your fancy—though it may prove burdensome.”

“I don’t need any of that stuff,” grumbled the Old Man, without so much as a glance at the numerous wicker trunks. “Where are my sandals?”

“This is troubling. Please take just one with you,” Orin pleaded in a tearful voice, “or later I’ll get scolded by Oteru.”

“She won’t get angry.”
“That child will never get angry.”
“I know.”
“By the way, where are my sandals?”
“I should have been wearing my dirty straw sandals.”

“We discarded them.”
“Then go home barefoot.”

“That’s cruel.”

“Then please take at least one souvenir home with you.
For mercy’s sake, I beg you,” she pleaded, clasping her small hands.

The Old Man gave a bitter smile and glanced at the wicker trunks lined up in the room,

“They’re all big.
“Too big.
“I hate carrying luggage around.
“Don’t you have a small souvenir that could fit in my pocket?”

“But even if you insist on such an unreasonable request—”

“Then I’ll leave.
“I don’t mind going barefoot.
“No luggage,” the Old Man said, making as if to dash out beyond the veranda while truly remaining barefoot.

“Wait, please. Just a moment.
“I’ll go ask Oteru.”

With a flutter of wings，Orin flew to the inner room and soon returned with a rice ear clasped in her mouth．

“Here—Oteru’s hairpin．Don’t forget her，now．Do visit us again．”

Suddenly, he came to his senses.
The Old Man was lying prostrate at the entrance to the bamboo grove.
What? A dream?
However, in his right hand was gripped a rice ear.
A rice ear in midwinter was a rare sight.
And it gave off a wonderful fragrance, just like a rose.
The Old Man carefully took it back home and inserted it into his desk brush stand.

“Oh, what’s that?”

The Old Woman had been doing needlework at home when she noticed it and questioned him.

"A rice ear," he said in a muffled tone.

"A rice ear?"
"Isn't that unusual for this time of year?"
"Where did you find it?"

"I didn't find it," he said quietly, then opened a book and began reading silently.

"Isn't that strange?"
"Lately you've been wandering through the bamboo grove every day, coming home dazed, and today you return with that thing looking oddly pleased—putting on airs by placing it in your brush stand. You're hiding something from me."
"If you didn't find it, how did you get it?"
"You could at least have properly told me."

“I got it from Sparrow Village.”
The Old Man snapped irritably.

But with such an explanation, it was utterly impossible to satisfy the realism-adhering Old Woman.
The Old Woman continued pressing him with one interrogation after another.
The Old Man, being incapable of lying, had no choice but to truthfully recount his strange experience.

"My, are you seriously saying such things?" the Old Woman finally exclaimed, laughing in disbelief.

The Old Man did not answer anymore.
Propping his cheek, he stared blankly at the book.

“Do you really think I would believe such nonsense?”
“It’s obviously a lie.”
“I know.”
“That day—yes, that very day—from when that young female guest came, you’ve become a completely different person.”
“You’ve been fidgeting strangely and sighing endlessly—exactly like someone caught in love’s snare.”
“How shameful!”
“At your age...”
“You can’t hide it.”
“Because I already know.”
“Where exactly does that girl live?”
“Surely not in the thicket?”
“You can’t deceive me.”
“A little house in the thicket with some doll-like girl inside—hmph! Spouting such childish tales won’t work on me.”
“If it’s truly real, then bring one of those souvenir wicker trunks next time you visit.”
“You couldn’t possibly.”
“It’s all fabrication anyway.”
“Had you brought that large trunk from the mysterious inn as proof, I might have believed you—but this rice ear you claim is that doll’s hairpin? How dare you spout such ridiculous nonsense!”
“Act like a man and confess properly!”

“I don’t consider myself an unreasonable woman.”
“What’s a mistress or two?”

“I don’t want those things!”

“Oh, is that so?
“Then shall I go instead?
“How about it?
“I just need to prostrate myself at the bamboo grove’s entrance?
“I’ll go.
“Even so—is that acceptable?
“You won’t be troubled?”

“Go ahead.”

“My, how brazen.
“To tell me to go when it’s clearly a lie.
“Well then—I’ll truly try it.
“Is that all right?” she said with a malicious smile.

“It seems you really want that wicker trunk.”

“Yes, that’s right, that’s right. I’m greedy after all.
“I want that souvenir!”
“Well then, I’ll just go out now and bring back the heaviest, largest wicker trunk among those souvenirs.”
“Ohoho.”
“How absurd, but I’ll go and return.”
“I can’t stand how much I hate that composed look of yours.”
“Just you wait—I’ll tear off that hypocrite’s mask and show you what’s underneath.”
“Prostrating on the snow to reach the sparrow’s abode—ahahaha! What nonsense. But very well, I’ll just go ahead and follow your instructions, shall I?”
“And later, even if you say it was all a lie, I won’t hear of it.”

The Old Woman, having set her course, tidied away her sewing tools, descended into the garden, plowed through the deep snow, and entered the bamboo grove.

After that, what became of her, even the author does not know.

At twilight, the Old Woman lay cold on the snow, still prostrate with the heavy, large wicker trunk strapped to her back. The wicker trunk was so heavy that she couldn't rise, and it appeared she had frozen to death just like that. And so, it is said that inside the wicker trunk was packed full of glittering gold coins.

Whether thanks to these gold coins or not, it is said the Old Man soon entered government service and eventually rose to become chancellor of an entire nation. The public called him Sparrow Chancellor and speculated that this promotion too was the fruit of his longstanding affection for sparrows, but whenever the Old Man heard such flattery, he would smile faintly and say, "No—it was my wife's doing. I caused her a lot of trouble with that," it is said.