Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

The woman sat alone in the room working. A lamp resembling a red festering eye hung from a thin wire that looked ready to snap. Around the house stood a forest. Night gradually closed in on this solitary house. In the forest lived black birds. They were often seen perching on dead tree branches. She also saw a small white-furred beast dart into a thicket. The dead tree referred to one that had been struck by lightning years prior and withered. The crown had split into two forks, all bark peeled away, gleaming white under sunlight. Around this dead tree stood deep green upon deep green, a dense thicket of trees crowding close. Yet because this single tree had died, a gap formed in the forest through which one could glimpse blue sky.

The woman saw the white beast as it darted out from a rounded thicket toward another. When it approached that spot, grass flattened across the ground would spring back upright. Vivid morning sunlight streamed over the thicket's green leaves, across the flat earth, and upon verdant blades. The day that emerged from the forest sank back into its depths once more. Like a heavy iron sphere glowing red-hot plunging into an abyss. Beyond a single wall's divide, the forest kept its silence. The terrible dark wings of night seemed to have rotted away all color, annihilated them, then sagged wearily to press against the forest's crown in a kiss.

The woman was still looking down, working.

“Good evening!”—The woman stopped her hands and raised her head. Three sides were walls. Only the eastern side had a torn shoji screen closed. Just as if chiseled away to expose bare earth, the color of night lay revealed.

The woman looked down again and returned to work. The lamp resembling a red, festering eye groaned—sputter-sputter, hiss-hiss—as it sucked up oil.

II On a dust-covered shelf in the corner sat a white earthenware vessel. It was unclear when it had been placed there. The earthenware remained silent, telling of having been placed outside the flow of “Time.” Its faded white color gave off the smell of a bygone era—one where humans had once handled it.

The woman, whose hair appeared reddish-brown, was working facing the torn shoji screen to the east.

“Good evening...” came a feeble, pleading voice.

The woman pushed aside the previous work and listened intently. She looked toward the wall and stared vacantly. One side of the walls was yellow; the other two had been painted gray.

The woman stood and opened the torn shoji screen. The night stretched out a black curtain, as though studded with gold paper flowers, and a handful of stars dotted the sky. In the dark forest, not even a wind stirred.

“Good evening. Please let me stay tonight.”

And then, a man stood before the woman. The flame’s shadow—resembling a red, festering eye—swam over the woman’s thick, purplish lips and the man’s caterpillar-like bushy eyebrows.

The woman was again facing east and working. The three yellow and gray walls stared with bewildered eyesight as the unfamiliar man entered. The lamp seemed to raise its voice even higher—sputter-sputter, hiss-hiss—as if hastening the oil’s depletion. Then night would break. In the house that had remained unchanged until now, tonight, for the first time, the firelight flickered several times as if to preserve that very lack of change. Alone, only the white earthenware continued to ponder, by itself, the eternal question of when it had been placed there.

Otherwise, in both the house and the forest, there were no changes. As expected, the light of dawn slipped pleasantly through the hole in the torn shoji screen. The forest’s crown was beautifully dyed crimson.

III

The following evening, the woman was working facing the eastern shoji screen as usual. Softly, moonlight shone in. The faint sound of wind blowing through the forest could be heard. The nocturnal cries of birds seeking nests could be heard. The woman had always kept her head down and had never noticed these things. Tonight, for the first time, she stopped her work and listened. The rustling of leaves—there was a softness there she had never heard before. Why would trees produce such an exquisite sound? The moon parted the deep thicket of leaves and pressed inward; chasing after it came a second wind. Those winds whirled through fresh foliage—dashing madly left and right from dense growths—some bursting through trees to graze moonlit fields before vanishing. To her ears, that wind’s cry seemed like a plea for kisses.

The woman looked at the moon and sank into reverie. The blue moonlight pierced through the torn shoji screen, laying bare the white earthenware on the shelf. Who had placed this vessel here, and when? The mute earthenware—stained bluish-pale—kept its silence.

The woman frantically clung to the work. The sound of wind, whispers from the forest, voices of nest-seeking birds—the moon gradually brightened. She detected flowing water in the distance. That current was a spring's gush. It was water running under moonlight—shattering silver-white through parted green grass. She had never before encountered such a stream in these woods. For a while she listened to its murmur and ceased working. Her mind entwined with watery sounds rode the current—through dark forest depths beneath red and white blossoms—until emerging from trees. With distant-dreaming resolve it drifted—past tall towers, red brick homes, gleaming seas... She saw them all......

The woman could no longer remain seated, stood up, and opened the shoji screen. A moon as sharp as a sickle hung from the dead tree’s branches. Before long, stitching through the green leaves, the blue moonlight leaned against the horizon.

Still, the woman had not done even half the usual weekday work. The lamp—like a red, festering eye—once again claimed the dark room as the moon vanished. The woman, as she had the previous night, faced east, looked down, and set to work.

The surroundings were silent. The dark night hung heavily over the forest, and the small birds seemed to have hidden beneath night’s wings to sleep.

“Good evening…” The woman stopped her hands and raised her head.

A room like one hung with a black curtain. Stars as few as gold foil flowers pasted on. The forest stood out silently. There was no longed-for figure there.

IV

The following day, the woman entered the forest and walked about searching for the spring she had heard the previous night. The lush green leaves dyed the grass below an even deeper green.

The woman’s face and the color of the kimono were both tinged blue-green by the reflected light from the green leaves above.

The woman sat on the grass that seemed to dream softly and listened intently. A faint wind sounded. Fluttering light from green leaves. The leaves rubbed together and sang a pleasant song. The woman had experienced many strange things since the man came. She heard springwater she'd never heard before. She saw wind colors she'd never understood. At that moment came an unfamiliar clatter of bird wings. When she turned, two large birds with red-purple feathers were building a nest high in a tree. The nest hung black between branches, some patches glowing gray. From it dangled black tangled strands like a woman's hair, swaying midair. They resembled seaweed debris floating on ocean waves. Seeing the black hair, the woman wondered where these birds had carried it from.

Could it be that in the depths of this deep forest lay the discarded corpse of another woman? The flesh rots; faces and eyes and noses putrefy, crumble away, emitting foul stenches. Could those red-and-purple-mottled birds be flying there to pluck these hair strands from some rotting head? Might a woman’s body lie dead somewhere in these woods?

The woman remembered the thief who had come to visit. That man must have frightened women elsewhere, humiliated them, killed them, and discarded their bodies. When she thought this, she noticed the thistle flowers blooming with poisonous intensity nearby—their hues, she realized, closely resembled those of the man’s cheeks and lips.

But the lips of the woman plucking the thistle and pressing a fervent kiss to it were an even deeper purple. They were the color of ripe almonds. The woman stared fixedly at the thistle and laughed brilliantly. At that moment, the birds building their nest cried out in an eerie voice. Their tails were long, hanging down until they nearly reached above their heads. The crimson of the birds’ spread wings reflected in the soft, glossy light of the green leaves. Their long necks curved into S-shapes as they craned toward the sky and cried out in resolute, strained voices. When the woman heard this cry, there was a voice in her own belly that eerily echoed theirs.

V

“Good evening.”……She wanted to hear that voice again. The woman was overcome with longing. The next day too, she saw those birds building their nest. And she heard that eerie cry. In her belly, she heard an eerie cry echoing back. Blue rubbed against blue, green steamed and mingled with green, added to this the fierce fragrance of purple flowers. All thirsted for water. They thirsted for pure water that shone in sunlight, flowing while singing a mysterious song. The purple-lipped woman too thirsted for water. She could no longer bear pushing deeper into the forest. The fierce sunlight burned upon green leaves. When she stepped on grass, stifling heat rose as if her body steamed. Seeing sunlight glinting on green leaves and wind made her vision blur. White flowers and purple flowers alike glowed piercingly under sunlight.

One day, the woman came to the forest and watched as those eerie birds—their large, glossy, soft wings seeming almost unwieldy—the two birds entangled with each other while building a nest. Their long curved necks were intertwined; their long tails fluttered like banners in the wind. Only there was a difference: fierce eyes and gentle eyes gleamed. Now clinging to the branch below as if exhausted—the bird with gentle eyes lying limp—she thought it must be the female bird. The male bird was now lying on its back beneath the nest, pushing something into it. Something fluttering—like seaweed from the sea, like strands of woman’s hair—was half-torn and caught on a lower branch. For some reason, the birds left it untouched and did not retrieve it. The remaining half swayed faintly in the wind as before.

The sky hung round and serene. She couldn’t tell how deep it was. Pale greens and blues differed between south and north. Like the breast feathers of a seabird, light white clouds flew. The birds building their nest let out a shrill cry. The cry from the woman’s belly also shrilly answered back.

The woman felt a stabbing pain and a tremor.

Plucking a green bud from a branch, gazing intently at it, the woman teared up.

VI

Autumn came to the forest. Where had the birds with eerie cries and purple-red mottled feathers vanished? The chicks of these birds flew off with their parents toward a warm southern country where red flowers bloomed. The leaves turned yellow. The nest with black hair-like strands dangling from it swayed beneath a clear blue sky. Each rainfall sent yellow leaves fluttering down. Among them slid long-stemmed rotten ones, blackened strands slipping from branches like plucked hair.

The tree split by lightning stood dyed red by the sunset. The wind screamed mournfully, and the rain drew out the woman’s tears many times over. Before long, white snow began to fall. The cry of a white beast could be heard at midnight. Black birds could be seen flying about beneath a leaden sky—from grove to grove, alighting on white snow and tree branches.

Eventually, winter departed.

The woman still faced east, head bowed, working. The shoji screens looked as wretched as if their thin outer layer had been chiseled away, exposing night’s black underbelly beneath. The forest had before long been colored again in heavy blues and greens. The dark wings of night sank lower and lower. Soon they kissed the black forest’s summit. The small birds that had been singing hid beneath night’s black wings and fell asleep.

Now, the woman sitting under the lamp—which resembled a red, festering eye—was not alone. On her back, she carried a small infant. The child was sleeping peacefully. The feeble lamplight did not reach there.

The child was emaciated. The mouth was pointed. With each breath, the ribcage bones twitched outward, then sank back in. The eyes were large, protruding as if inlaid with saucers. The hair had only a few dozen strands growing in clumps. The mouth was large and open. The air of this world was dense, and breathing it seemed difficult. A head—disproportionately large compared to its torso—was flung over the woman’s back.

VII It was as if this frail body was bound with black, sturdy rope. The thin cord was tied around the mother’s body. With each breath, the feeble ribcage bones seemed to twitch and faintly protrude.

The woman worked in silence, her head bowed. When viewed from behind, her reddish-brown hair caught the lamplight and reflected a weakened glow. The lamplight also reached purple lips. They were no longer thick as they once were. Her eyes were dejected; the flesh of her cheeks had wasted away. Yet the male of those eerie birds had borne just such a fierce gaze. Those purple lips resembled a withered flower. The hollowed cheeks recalled autumn’s yellowed hues. Now only her eyes labored. Only her eyes remained alive.

The night deepened. The wind blew again as it always had, indifferent to the woman. The spring's murmur offered her no reply. The woman strained to catch the wind's whispers. Then she sneered at nature's antics. The Chinese parasol leaves clattered before her window—great black palms applauding the dark. Where those shadowy hands clapped, ten thousand newborn mosquitoes rose from rotting wood in droning chorus. A swarm massed mid-tree and chanted: "Blood-starved, blood-starved—we smell beast-flesh." "Let us cling to living meat, suck vital blood till our bellies crimson and swell like paper lanterns."... Another swarm clustered on lower boughs. They stiffened whenever wind-shaken leaves trembled. One host rolled away like a ball; another came tumbling back. And they sang.

“A tepid night; the color of night tinged with red and purple. “Everything in this world is connected to blood. “A night world like a flat, rusted red iron plate—its color resembled that of bloodstained iron from a guillotine. “We perform cruel cooking…. “We extol the color of night.”

When the sky’s color had been fully daubed in darkness, they divided themselves autonomously. Some slipped beneath green leaves to infiltrate the forest, intent on sucking wild beasts’ blood. Others wriggled one-by-one through torn shoji-screen gaps, entering to drain blood from this emaciated child and woman.

The lamp, resembling a red festering eye, could not keep watch over these small intruders. The tired yellow-gray walls, vague and indistinct, became a place for these intruders to rest and alight. From the mosquitoes’ abdomens, blood looked ready to drip as it touched the gray wall. These walls no longer held any power to intimidate. The walls had resigned themselves to being stained by the blood the mosquitoes had sucked.

The small intruders surrounded the woman. The woman had to work. The mosquitoes stung through her thin kimono. The child’s emaciated legs were covered so densely with them that they turned black. Competing fiercely，they tried to suck this poor infant’s blood dry. Exhausted from waking through listless slumber，the child cried like fire. Yet black ropes bound its body so tightly it couldn’t even twitch its legs. The starving mosquitoes never paused their bloodsucking for an instant. The infant strained against its bonds but remained immobile. Before her eyes，those withered legs—pierced by thicket-nurtured stingers storing venom—swelled thick and heavy with livid purple. Still their sharp mouthparts parted flesh from flesh，digging ever deeper. The child wailed like flames. Its voice—weakened by failing strength，empty belly，and sickly frame—gradually faded away.

The woman remained looking downward. Both eyes grew increasingly fierce under the dual assault of the child’s cries and the mosquitoes’ attacks. Anger, resentment, malice—they coalesced into a single fiery point and blazed. She swung her hand and struck the child’s sickly head.

八 The child’s soft, dry, wide-open eyes avoided the brilliant light of the rising morning sun. Even the midday light—this weak child’s eyes feared having it reflected in their pupils. After the terror of day came the terror of night. This child was a child who could not thrive in either day or night. Only in an even deeper night, an even darker world could this child’s weak eyes endure the stimulation of external light. However, as long as it was alive, it could not help but feel hunger. The child begged the woman for milk.

“Be quiet! Do you think I have time for you?”

The woman said this and remained looking downward. Around the child’s body, there had never been a moment when the thin black rope was removed. The child—unable to speak—could only cry out its hunger. A futile effort. The more it cried, the hungrier it grew. Eventually its voice turned hoarse. The oversized head hung limp from its morbid heaviness disproportionate to the torso, while soft feeble eyes stayed wide open without blinking. Having cried itself into exhaustion, the child happened to see the white earthenware on the shelf. And made a faint laughing sound.

Even while securely strapped to the woman’s back, the child stretched out its hand to reach for the earthenware. One time, the woman struck its outstretched hand, deeming it a nuisance.

Finally, the child died without holding the earthenware that had been on the shelf. The child left this world within less than a year of being born.

On the day the woman buried this dead child in the forest, there was a wind. The moisture-laden air settled the surroundings with gloom. The branches of the tall, prominent trees bent in the wind, bowing down only to rise again and bow once more. The branches of other low trees swayed to the right and swung back to the left. The clouds were white, layered in multiple layers.

The tall trees swayed; at their crowns, a blue sky was parting. The old trunk of the dead tree—its bark peeled away, once dyed crimson by the setting sun and gleaming under the morning light—had turned white, jutting out from the midst of the lush green forest.

The woman dug a hole beneath a tree she did not recognize, one with white flowers blooming. There, wrapped in black cloth, the dead child lay on the grass. The woman started digging, then discarded the hoe there and rested. A damp wind blew, teasing the woman’s dry, reddish-brown hair. The leaves of the trees rustled mockingly.

The woman’s cheeks hollowed, and her lips hardened, turning black and shrivelled. The dug-up soil was wet. Not even the light of day peered into the hole. In this damp soil, the child was buried. And the damp soil, without ever being exposed to daylight, was concealed once more as before. The dead child would never see daylight through the earth. Buried in dampness, it would naturally rot away. When it was dug up again later, soil clinging to green leaves scattered down in clumps and returned to the hole.

It was the child who had sought milk when hungry. It was the woman who had scolded without providing it. It was the child who laughed and reached out wanting the white earthenware. It was the woman who struck that hand. The child had fallen into a long sleep. It would not cry again. Now it would enter quietly into the earth to sleep. The woman watched the leaves stirring and shed no tears. The woman took up the hoe. Putting her strength into digging a hole some three feet deep, she placed inside the child wrapped in black cloth. The child’s emaciated legs protruded from the cloth. On those legs, mosquito bites had reddened. They had swollen crimson like strawberries. The woman pulled the child from the hole. She tried laying it with its head to the south. The hole was too narrow to stretch its legs straight. Once more she extracted the child’s corpse, turned its head westward, drew up its legs, and forced it in. Then she shoveled soil over its head.

The dead child was finally buried. The woman left the forest and returned home.

IX

Under the red lamp like a festering eye, the woman faced east and worked. The lamp sputter-sputtered, sputter-sputtered.

The night gradually deepened. The grey walls, like eyes devoid of strength that had strained wide, were hazy. The white earthenware, as an eternal question of when it had been placed there, had silently transcended beyond time.

The forest, pressed beneath the night’s large, thick, seamless black wings—heavy and gradually drooping—strained upward to kiss them. The wind, now and then slipping stealthily past outside the window, caused the torn shoji paper to flutter. The woman stroked tired eyes. At this moment, a faint crying voice could be heard coming from far, far away.

That crying voice was a grating one. It was the crying voice of the dead child. Indeed, rising from beneath the tree with white flowers blooming in the depths of the forest, passing between tree and tree, pushing through thickets, it reached here.

Suddenly, she thought the crying had stopped. When she strained her ears into the farthest distance, small footsteps came pattering toward her. The footsteps drew right up to the window and halted. The wind blew intermittently, like the forest holding its breath. After a time, faintly, from the far depths of the distance, came the familiar cry of a child. The cry rose from beneath the white-flowered tree—dodging gaps between trunks, forcing through thicket after thicket—until it reached her. A pitiful wail, as though it had struggled desperately to find this house. And that voice had spent every ounce of strength to claw its way here. Having arrived, once it slipped into her ears, it vanished abruptly. Next would come a voiceless soul, walking.

The woman cast aside the work she was supposed to do for the first time there. Her hands trembled from a kind of fear. At the inexplicable mystery, every hair on her body stood on end. She continued listening intently. When the intermittently blowing wind ceased and the world fell completely silent, small footsteps approached from afar. Trudging here and there as they wandered, they abruptly stopped when nearing the window. It seemed someone was peering into the house. It seemed someone was eavesdropping. The woman was tormented throughout the night by crying voices and footsteps.

When rose-colored morning light streamed through the torn shoji screen’s gaps, the woman—her face pallid—felt for the first time as though she had regained life. She immediately went to inspect the forest. Approaching the white-flowered tree that served as her marker, she discovered claw marks gouged into the earth where some unknown beast had tried during the night to dig out the corpse from underground. Above her head, a black bird perched on a branch watched the woman’s movements. The woman returned home and fetched the white earthenware. She buried it in soil, poured water inside, snapped off an overhanging white flower branch to arrange in it, then crouched and prayed to god for her dead child’s repose in the afterlife.

It was early summer. White clouds welled up above the forest.