Pathway to Japanese Literature

This was a small, uninhabited island nestled within one petal of a lake said to resemble a hibiscus flower. In this mountainous lake region after summer's passing, there was hardly a day when storms did not rage. And this island—with nothing to break the winds, crowned by densely growing great trees whose roots coiled deep in the lakebed to sustain them—was battered so mercilessly by gales that one marveled it remained rooted rather than being torn away. Only during that brief interval when the spent south wind shifted northward—just long enough to scramble down the cliff and fetch water—did a windless stillness persist, where even the sound of woodworms gnawing larch cores replaced the earlier tumult.

The only things that informed the people across the lake of this Island Guardian’s well-being were Honjin, who occasionally brought provisions, the lantern light lit nightly, and the songs carried away by the wind. This man had been heir to the honjin when the village thrived along the highway in days past, but having fallen into decline due to changing times and repeated village calamities, he was now merely the master of a house counted among the smaller ones here—yet his street name remained unchanged as “Honjin.” As he was reputed to be the kindest soul in the village, Honjin was likely among the most virtuous people in the entire province. It was precisely for his goodness and simplicity that I loved this person from the heart. By nature, and especially now that I had grown quite misanthropic, even for me, this person’s coming to the island gave a joy akin to a trout swimming into view.—Postscript. Afterward, while I continued to wish we could meet once more to reminisce about old times, the opportunity never arose, and over the decades that passed, Honjin died. What a regrettable thing I did. I had heard through others that his house had been rebuilt and his descendants were thriving, and had rejoiced at this news though.

The villagers who occasionally brought pilgrims over likely spoke of me alongside grass shrimp and crow clams as one of this desolate village’s trivial local specialties. They forgot their own shadows might be cast and stealthily peeked through the shoji screen’s holes, or when they found me walking in the forest, they stared around as if trying to expose the true form of some supernatural entity. Many, upon seeing my displeased face, exchanged glances and whispered among themselves before making a hasty retreat, but there were also those who, driven by curiosity, timidly struck up conversation under the pretext of borrowing a light for their tobacco or asking the shrine’s name. Their questions followed a set pattern, like the paths of rats. What did I do living on such an island? Wasn’t I lonely? Wasn’t I afraid?… How should I have answered these questions? Having no house to dwell in, I had wandered like a duck and sought lodging on this island. If one spoke of loneliness—could anything have been lonelier than mingling among crowds in the city’s clamor, surrounded by people without a shred of understanding? This was an isolated island in the lake. Yet, like the Mizushima that chased one another, the sun and moon never failed to illuminate this island each dawn and dusk. I became friends and siblings with these trees, birds, insects, and fish, sending off and welcoming beautiful sister deities. Now that I was alone, I escaped the agony of having my foolish self observed by worldly-wise people; I came to understand how humans were pointlessly troubled by maintaining trivial interactions. I saw through all the wretchedness of the world. Now I wished only to obtain pure rest, even if just for a little while. O traveler, I feared nothing but that your clamorous voices might shatter this solitude.

When I was alone on the island, it was profoundly quiet. During breaks from reading and meditation, I roamed about like a beast sniffing around its den. Even on this island—no larger than a hibiscus petal where a horsefly might alight—each rain and wind brought some new occurrence. A chestnut branch snapping in the storm, a bird dropping a clam shell... these became events worthy of the island's historical record. At times too, Yumeno's deity would steal in to paint my chilled slumber with dream-brushes. These things I recorded daily in my diary with meticulous care—a mandala woven secretly by this Island Guardian amidst solitude.

September 23, Meiji 44 (1911)

I had Honjin, wearing a straw raincoat and hat, arrange for a boatman and crossed over to the island amidst a fierce squall. The house that would become my residence had been built for priests visiting from afar during the annual festival—its wall panels peeling in places, storm shutters not yet installed—barely sufficient to withstand a light rain shower. In this mountainous lake region where summer gives way instantly to winter, this island floating solitary as a single petal could do nothing to shield this city-bred man from the cold pressing in from the surrounding peaks. I laid several of the stacked tatami mats in the center of the house to create a sitting area, placed an unpainted wooden mikoshi on one side of the floor and cooking utensils on the other, wiped mold from the tatami, and swept away the surrounding dust—upon doing so, the dwelling became more comfortable than I had anticipated. On the beams were kasaboko banners and mandō lanterns. From the attic—which had become an intriguingly crude weave of branches, rope, and straw—hung drums and paper lanterns. Honjin gathered wood scraps from outside to prepare kindling, instructing me earnestly—"this much rice," "this much water," "tend the fire like this"—as he made lunch. When the meal was ready, he served it with deferential care. Then, after descending to the southern beach to wash dishes and complete the usual tasks,

“If there’s leftover rice, please make porridge and partake of it.”

With that, Honjin left. Remaining behind, I thought: Now I was truly alone.

The 24th

I left the island to pay my respects at Anyōji Temple. ——Note. Before moving to the island, I had been staying as a guest in the detached residence of Anyōji Temple by the lakeshore.

While we were talking by Ikeda-san’s hearth, a telegram arrived saying my sister in Fukuoka was critically ill. Though Ikeda-san’s people asked out of concern, I laughed and said, “It’s nothing,” keeping my composure.

I returned to the island.

I couldn't bring myself to prepare lunch. I lay sprawled in a daze. Suddenly recalling—Ah, she had said to take care of myself—I began feebly lighting the hearth fire. I put the rice on to cook. Sitting before the hearth while absently listening to the boiling sound, tears began streaming down my cheeks. She often took care of everything alone.—Note. Before my sister married and left, we three—Mother, myself, and my sister—had lived in the house at Koishikawa. She loved sewing and always kept a needle with her. I would make her prepare cocoa for me multiple times a day, and she would come wearing a look of quiet resignation. The image of her lying on her deathbed surfaced before my eyes. As the rice boiled over, I took it off the heat and put on a pot of vegetables. On the wooden lid, I chopped green onions and tossed them in one by one as if throwing stones. Tears streamed down. I wondered if I had already died, to be shedding this many tears. When she was dying, how she must have wanted to see everyone. The kindling had run out. I had to gather more for the evening meal.

I gathered dead cedar leaves from the forest behind. One by one, I gathered them into my left hand. Tears welled up. Birds about the size of jays screeched and fought.

Evening arrived without my having done anything. Tonight’s approach felt lonesome. With a heart set on preserving a single grain of daylight within that night’s darkness, I went to light the lantern at the island’s ridge. While listening to the sound of fallen leaves and my own footsteps echoing through the trees, I descended the stone steps, lit the lantern, and gazed out at nothing in particular. The lantern’s reflection was cast upon the water. In the water’s depths lay branches accumulated over untold years; above them, tiny fish darted—their forms visible through the clear water. They truly seemed to have found their rightful place, as though cast forth from heaven. Today was cloudy. Smoke rose from both Iizuna and Kurohime. The smoke dragging its skirts must have been from the mountain downwind.

The 25th

The moment I awoke at dawn, I thought of my sister. It was today’s first sorrowful thought. I feel Fukuko might still be alive. And then I think she must have woken now too—just like me.

A wind laced with rain blew violently, and the island resounded all day with waves crashing and leaves rustling. On the island, leaves fell like rain. From dawn until dusk, and from dusk until daybreak, they bid farewell without hesitation to the treetops they had long inhabited and returned to earth. Even after settling on the ground, they kept their youthful spirit awhile longer, chasing one another about and chattering here and there. Fukuko had only recently sent word that she would come to Tokyo next spring holding her child. I told her I would await it eagerly. Fukuko must live to keep her promise and come next spring as agreed. She was my one dear sister among all siblings.

I made my way through the rain, lantern in hand, to light the beacon. Because the lantern hung high, even after climbing onto the waterside rock, I still had to stretch my arm to its limit. Watching for lulls in the wind, I lit it again and again, but the flame would die before piercing the glass pane. I gave up and returned, yet feeling unsettled, went back undeterred to light it once more.

I stood beneath the lantern. The wind grew increasingly fierce, and the waves now and then washed against the shore. Impatiently beginning to light it without waiting for a lull, I succeeded on the third attempt. Stepping down from the rock and wringing my sodden hem, I gazed up at the shadows flickering with fleeting joy, thinking: The villagers who glimpsed this light across the lake would surely regard it merely as a lantern signaling that the Island Guardian had passed another day unharmed.

The 26th

Morning. Clear. While I was starting a fire with the cedar leaves I had gathered yesterday, Honjin arrived carrying a hatchet, a saw, a cutting board, the dried bonito flakes I had requested, and some aromatic roasted flour sent by Mr. Ikeda. “You shouldn’t just keep roasting and eating the rice cakes—make them into zōni soup,” he said, pulling two large overripe eggplants from his sleeve. So plump they overflowed both hands and hard as stone. He also gave me some miso from a small jar, adding that it might taste bland due to the small amount of koji. Then, using a board I had picked up as a makeshift cutting surface, he shaved dried bonito flakes for me with a hatchet, but I decided to save the zōni for another time and roasted the rice cakes to eat. In this way, this humble abode came to be stocked with an array of delicacies ill-suited to its austerity. The solitary cook focused solely on simplicity, using as few ingredients as possible. The rice remained in its bag as brought, full; the sugar likewise untouched; and the Naniwa-zuke pickles sent by Yamada still unopened. Eggs—about ten in the basket; one green onion; haze corn still remaining. Now endowed with this wealth of Solomon, the Island Guardian found himself expending no small effort in determining the optimal sequence to store these provisions within his belly. After finishing preparing the kindling, Honjin smoked a cigarette while instructing me on balancing the miso soup’s seasoning and such.

At some point, a mated pair of rats had taken up residence inside this palanquin. They seemed enraged at having their peaceful life disturbed by a mere human like me, rampaging unconscionably every night, so starting last evening, I decided to break a piece of rice cake into several morsels and scatter them across the floor. Thanks to the offering, they remained quiet all night, but upon looking, the rice cakes had been neatly carried away.

The 27th

News arrived that Fukuko’s condition had improved, making yesterday a happy day.

When I went down to the southern beach this morning, Honjin had come without my noticing. “Master! Master!”

he called. As I had just started climbing a few steps up the slope, “A postcard has arrived. It says her condition is excellent!” he said. Honjin, concerned about my recent poor spirits, kindly inquired after me each time he visited. Moreover, he deeply sympathized with my distress over Fukuko.

Evening. While standing on the pier, I noticed fog billowing from the gorge of the northern ridge and watched, thinking it would soon envelop the island—but it slowly crossed the lake and trailed off toward the eastern mountains. With autumn’s arrival, the fog had abruptly thinned. When I lit the lantern and returned, the rats’ sounds could already be heard. Last night, having offered a handful of rice instead of rice cakes, I had no sooner gone to bed than there came a discreet pattering of eating. Tonight I will offer haze corn.

Suddenly came the sound of rain.

The 28th

The dead of night. I was roused by the fearsome howl of the wind. Now everyone must be asleep, with only me awake. Thinking of being utterly alone in this island's storm, I drifted into sleep brimming with an unexpected contentment.

The 29th

Morning. Among the scattered fallen leaves lay winged seeds of the itaya maple. The mountains seemed to have exhausted their full force of wind, leaving this morning quiet. Among the jays, woodpeckers, and birds calling from tree to tree across the island, the voice of the brown-eared bulbul echoed distinctly through the hollows. Some bird in the crown of a great cedar cried out as if casting a jade shuttle. The shadows of clouds reflected in the lake moved quietly, and the school of minnows broke the smooth water’s surface with bubbles, as though inhaling the fresh air brought by the shifted winds.

Leaning against the desk, I drifted into a doze until evening. During that time, various bird calls could be heard. When I opened my eyes, my hands had gone numb, and no matter what I tried to hold, I dropped it like an infant.

The Island Guardian’s daily life unfolded thus. When I woke in the morning, I lay still on my bedding, following a long-standing habit, until the post-sleep lethargy had completely dissipated from my heart to the tips of my fingers. Once my body finally felt like my own, I rose and went to the southern beach to wash my face. On rainy days or particularly cold mornings, I managed my needs with water drawn the previous day. Next, from the store in the earthen floor, I gathered a handful of dead cedar leaves and some slightly green ones, added five or six wood chips, and lit the hearth. I intentionally mixed in some fresh leaves because when they burned, they produced thick white smoke and crackled pleasantly. In addition to one match, I extracted a single piece of tinder from the straw-bound bundle and wastefully used that one strip for the sake of sulfur’s vivid hue when swiftly struck, the bubbling purple flame that flared up, and the pungent aroma that stung my nose. By the time the charcoal tossed three or four handfuls into the blazing fire began to kindle, the cedar leaves had turned to ash, the wood chips had formed a bed of embers, and upon them rested the kettle. After cleaning, I scraped mold from the rice cakes, arranged eggs and tea utensils nearby, and poured soy sauce into a small dish—by then, the water had come to a boil. Then, laying the fire tongs across the flames to place rice cakes atop them, I adjusted the hearth door’s opening according to their roasting progress—entertaining myself alone as I dabbed each morsel with soy sauce from the edge of the dish and ate. Then I swallowed the eggs, ate the bean paste, sipped the tea to finish my morning meal, and after a brief rest, spent approximately an hour and a half tending the fire until it was time to clear away the dishes. The satisfaction of fully stuffing my stomach—emptied overnight—with sweet, salty, and bitter foods was beyond compare. After a short rest, I read or wrote in my diary. To save time and effort, I skipped lunch; if it was warm, I went down to the southern beach to rinse off. The sensation of wading into water up to my knees—exposing skin reddened by friction to sunlight and cooling it in the gentle breeze while gazing at the surrounding mountains—was truly refreshing. If there were clothes or dishes needing washing, I cleaned them while I was at it. Returning, I waited for my heartbeat to subside before reading; if needed, I took an afternoon nap. At 3:30, I began preparing dinner. This was due to having only two meals a day and my desire to secure time for a leisurely stroll before nightfall. The general order followed that of the morning.

However, since dinner was rice cake soup, I had to first scrape the mold off the rice cakes with the same knife, then shave dried bonito flakes, peel eggplants and cut ginkgo nuts, adjust the broth’s seasoning, and set the pot to boil. After resting quietly, I quickly tidied the dishes, put out the fire, and headed to the torii gate. And then I walked along the long path from there to the shrine until lantern-lighting time—gathering fallen leaves, singing songs, stepping over tree roots, ascending and descending stone steps.

Evening.

When I descended to the torii gate, there was a single wagtail on the pier. Crouching quietly to watch, I soon found it noticing me. With pip-pip cries, it flew into the reeds of Kojimagasaki—where two or three companions waited—and together they winged off toward Madarao Road. A cluster of tree fruit had fallen on the shore. At the tips of branching pale red stems grew dark green fruits resembling those of nanten. I decided to take it back and placed it on the boat plank. In the hollows of blue bedrock where waves surged up, gray clouds far in the distance dashed against the mountain pass of Shirane. As dusk fell, I retrieved the fruit and lit the lantern light. Resolutely dwelling alone on this island, yet when I saw autumn’s light fade and sink away beyond those terrible clouds shrouding Mount Myoko, Kurohime, and Iizuna, even I could not help but feel an inexorable longing for human hearths.

The 30th

Having grown tired of rice cakes, I cooked rice. Since it turned out well, I took out the Naniwa-zuke. On the lid of the barrel—sturdy as ever—was pasted indigo paper imprinted with "Naniwa-zuke," and the blurred crimson seal also had its charm. I also came to like Tennōji, Rokumantai-chō, and Rokumandō. With a small knife, I cut through the indigo paper sealing it and pried open the lid slightly. Then—pungent—the smell of lees struck me. Gently peeling away the lees, I found at the bottom a splendid piece of melon hidden with appetizingly ripe color. There seemed to be something more within, but savoring the anticipation, I deliberately refrained from looking further and took out the melon. On the lid I sliced off a small portion for my tea-soaked rice topping, then carefully buried the remainder for safekeeping.

Evening.

When I returned from the torii, a brown ladybug was crawling across the desk.

Night. Rain. Around the island came the sound of a one-legged creature hopping and walking. Some bird whistled through the darkness as it circled endlessly. The sound of rain felt somehow nostalgic—like the rustle of a lover’s spirit passing through.

October 1st

It seemed the rain had fallen until dawn, leaving both soil and fallen leaves thoroughly dampened; though the clouds lingered unchanged, the rain had stopped. The morning calm of the lake island was immeasurably quiet. The forest lay profoundly still, only the cedar’s dead leaves softly drifting down; not a single one of the countless billions of leaves stirred. I went down to the southern beach, washed my face, and rinsed the rice. Pale yellow clouds appearing over the Shirane mountain range made me think today would be clear. Carrying the pot, I climbed the slope. Behind the house, some bird let out sharp, squeaking cries. Just as I had lit the fire, Honjin came bringing eggs. The assortment of chicken eggs tumbled together at the bottom of the wide-rimmed bamboo basket had been gathered for me from every corner of the impoverished village. Honjin stayed talking until the rice had cooked its fill and then left.

After the meal. I walked along the spine of the island. A dogwood branch lay fallen. It must have been discarded by the village children who came to play that morning. I picked up a large bird’s feather. To my childhood self, the feathers birds shed seemed like treasures fallen from heaven, filling me with joy. Whenever I found a soft feather, at home we would make it into a feather broom for sweeping matcha powder, and I—insisting it was my discovery—would be rewarded with permission to turn the mortar a set number of times. I delighted in making the mortar leap so it sent tea powder flying. There was a refreshing fragrance. The muted sound of that tea mortar still lingers in my ears, summoning memories of a distant past. This wide feather bore a faint navy-blue luster, appearing sheer as gauze. I thought I would use it as a bookmark.

Small chrysanthemums bloomed profusely among the weeds on the southern beach. And aside from that single large tree standing on the shore, there was only one water tree and a willow intertwining their branches at the spot where I always drew water and rinsed rice—no other trees of particular note. The willow reached out over the water, swaying on windy days and casting shadows when clouds were absent. At its base, thread-like roots of moss or lichen were washed crimson by the waves throughout, while on the shore, pebbles mingled with sand appeared beautifully translucent. When I washed utensils there, swarms of small fish would gather to nibble at my fingers. At times I would scoop up a crab that raised its claws while crawling near, tossing it back into the water with a spoon where it would retreat into the depths. Here, where north winds rushed through cliffs and forest, lay the warmest place on the island. The southern hill, gentle as a spring meadow, seemed to ripple with waves across the lake; there I could see shrubs dappled with patterns, a path winding toward a village of hazel trees, and horses and people laden with grass passing through. I had heard that everyone went grass-cutting when autumn came, and indeed looking around, patches here and there had been neatly trimmed with mown grass piled into several mounds.

Evening.

I went down to the midpoint of the stone steps leading to the torii and stood there. The north wind howled, lashing the rain. In the dim reeds to my right, a single fish trap had washed ashore, and as I looked around to see if there might be others, a heron took flight hurriedly toward Kitaura.

Night.

From the grove behind came the shrill cry of a heron.

October 2nd

Morning. The birds, seeing the morning light cresting the mountains, called out: *Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!* On this island, I alone was roused by their calls. And waking to this, I thought of the serene cleanliness surrounding me and felt a deep satisfaction welling up within. Through the broadleaf leaves, green light cut sharply as the morning air flowed in without a sound. I descended the cliff and emerged onto the beach. The villagers must have just woken up; no shadows were visible on either the lake or the hills.

After the meal. I went out to the pier. Along Madarao road went a packhorse no larger than a bean, while a sedge-hatted figure ascended through Sugikubo—they must have been heading to cut buckwheat. Beside them lay burnt-umber millet fields and dewy foxtail millet fields; the lakeside rice paddies glistened like mist, and to the north, amidst the green of the hill’s mixed trees, lacquer interwoven with vermilion appeared close enough to touch. The peaks of Myoko and Kurohime had also begun to tinge with autumn hues. The morning clouds drifted in broken stretches from Kurohime to Iizuna, forming a line like draught animals being led away. The water’s depths lay transparent far below, a golden net woven by sunlight fluttering and swaying, while uprooted water plant buds drifted about—neither floating upward nor sinking down—swaying gently in place.

Intending to go to the Southern Hill, I left the island. ――Note. There was no boat on the island. He must have boarded whatever boat happened to come by.—When I stopped by Ikeda’s place, an old woman was steaming barley beside a winnowing basket billowing with warm steam. She let it ferment to make soy sauce, I heard. The path to Fodder Mountain followed hills covered in shrubs, winding through alternating patches of shade and sunlight. With no passersby and the hills pressing close, it felt even lonelier than Madarao Road. The farmers I occasionally encountered were likely from the village, yet all their faces remained unfamiliar. I met a young woman carrying brushwood in the shade of a mountain. Sixteen or seventeen, slender, with a faint flush between her brows and eyes, a single streak of sweat tracing down her fair cheek. Like a timid bird, she cast a fleeting glance, kept her eyes lowered near her chest, and passed by with hesitant steps. Along the rice field ridges and lakeshore, red fruits—some mingled with wolfberries—grew abundantly; but upon closer inspection, each tree differed from the next.

Fodder Mountain—the Southern Hill—was a beautiful hill. The grassy slope lay drowsing, its contours dappled with fallen leaves and shrubs beginning to yellow amidst young pines' green—a scene resembling noble beasts clad in varied pelts grazing peacefully together. The ferns had withered, but maidenflowers still clung to bloom. What was the name of that flower with strands of pale purple bells? When I walked through the scabious blooms, a swarm of horseflies rose en masse with a thunder of wings. With no wind stirring, the sun held springlike warmth. Bush clover and lacquer trees showed their autumn hues while oak leaves glistened, reflecting sunlight. The clusters of gray trunks from mountain azaleas—now mostly bare—stood beautiful in their own right. Through a smooth depression where mixed trees grew thick as a belt flowed a clear stream. Lying on the grass and gazing upward spellbound, I watched clouds over distant peaks well up from within themselves only to dissolve back into nothingness.

October 3rd

A storm arose around midnight. When I awoke, the shoji had come loose, so I got up and fastened it with rope. The sound of branches, waves striking the island’s base, and the frantic cries of birds blown from their perches. On days when the Shirane downwind blew fiercely, the southern beach’s water turned muddy, so I drew water from Kitaura.

Evening. The wind that had raged all day ceased abruptly. A faint sun cast its light; mountains and water lay steeped in utter stillness. No sooner had this registered than a north wind roared in, ushering rain before it. The lake’s surface showed wind’s advance, and daylight plunged toward a dreadful dusk.

October 4th

From morning, the rain fell steadily.

Afternoon. I was roused from a dream during my doze by a woodpecker rapping on the wooden door. I drank kōsen to wake myself. Having run out of kindling, I went behind the lodge to gather cedar leaves. Collecting those damp ones clinging to the earth and tossing them onto the dirt floor until they formed a mound. This solitary living seeps into my bones with joy.

Evening. The rain had stopped, but it hadn’t cleared. I went to light the lantern. Not a single reed leaf stirred; both the inlet and the deep pool lay unnervingly stagnant. Over the mountains clung tattered fragments of gray clouds, not even quivering. As I half-listened to two woodpeckers alighting on the treetops behind me, pecking in rivalry, and gazed into the water’s depths, I noticed reed shoots straining with all their might to thrust their tips skyward—though they’d barely reached halfway to the surface—and wondered: *Was sunlight truly worth such struggle?* The lake glittered, and small waves began to rise. The shore shimmered, the reeds swayed, and soon the tree leaves trembled like cicada wings and began to sing. The clouds that had clung to the mountains gradually loosened their grasp and drifted away from the peaks. While waves surged at Kitaura, Minamiura lay so clear one could see fish breathing. Where were the flocks of ducks? I scanned the waters for Mandarin Ducks, but no shadow resembling them appeared. When I noticed the usual fisherman dragging his boat through the reeds from the tip of the sandbar, he stood waist-deep in the water and turned to gaze at the mountains while—

“Usually by now we’d have snow on Mt. Myoko—though if that were the case, it would come—but when I went gathering clams at Biwa-ga-saki inlet the day before yesterday, there were about ten mallards and even some mandarin ducks.”

He said. That inlet lay next to the Southern Hill, along a cape curved like a biwa lute, narrowing into the land as slenderly as a lizard’s tail. O mandarin ducks—drifting sleepers who crossed from ocean’s end to nestle in boat-like forms within that inlet embraced by quiet grassy hills—the ancient Jewish God, at creation’s close, must have stitched remnants of all fair-feathered birds into a plumed robe, then swelled your breasts with honeyed breath of love to fashion you twilight wanderers.

I lit the lantern, lingered over the clouds veiling Mount Shirane, then turned back.

At night, herons circled the island crying. Without turning to rain or wind, the anxious darkness deepened soundlessly, with no moon in sight.

October 5th All day long, an icy west wind blew. I went out thinking snow might have come to the mountains, but no snow was visible. Honjin had said that if the west wind blew, it would clear away the clouds—but though patches of blue sky and sunlit clouds could be seen here and there, most clung tenaciously, showing no sign of peeling away. When I glanced toward Minamiura, a single duck with whitish breast feathers was fluttering low. Trying to get a better look at it, as I moved along the shore through Bosa, a duckling flew up from right beneath my feet. I gathered four acorns. Three were chestnut brown, one a glossy blue. One nestled in a thorny cup, two without cups, and a young slender one. I felt an inexplicable joy at having gathered these acorns.

Evening.

I go to light the lantern. A cold wind drives gray clouds as the day fades sorrowfully away. The wind was so fierce that itaya maple leaves fell still clinging to their living branches. I gathered cedar leaves with blooms on the stone steps. When Honjin brought me salt-pressed cucumbers and boiled greens, I mentioned the ducks. He replied, "There are two types—ones that fly well and ones skilled at diving underwater."

Night. As I arranged acorns and cedar leaves while writing my diary, a splashing sound echoed from the southern inlet—a flock of birds seemed to alight. The moon, paling in the distance, cast its light upon the lake waters, yet to this island it could only throw scattered fragments of illumination, blocked by the forest. The trunks of great trees stood towering straight, and moonlit nights were more dreadful than darkness.

A dream. An old man, holding a fine brush in his right hand, dyed the neck and shoulders of a pigeon perching calmly in his left hand with hues of pigeon-feather gray and navy blue. They say doing this makes feathers of that color grow. Nearby, a pink parrot hung from a tree branch, its beak hooked onto the wood.……

October 6th

I went to the tree at the southern beach and basked in the sun. The sky cleared; the abundant sunlight warmed the beach, and the west wind, driven by the cliffs and trees, swept high overhead. This tree stood four or five jō tall? Its sparse branches bore broad leaves resembling oak foliage, while at its base lay two ancient root stumps and the shattered trunk of a withered tree, toppled sideways into the water. While entranced by silver clouds drifting lazily over the Southern Hill, a kingfisher flashed its iridescent back as it darted away in swift, sharp bursts. If one could be reborn as they please, I would wish to become that kingfisher dwelling alone in the crevice of the cliff wall—adorned in beautiful robes, living with artful solitude. Perhaps because the surrounding mountain trees shed their leaves in autumn, all the birds came aiming for this island in search of roosts.

Taking advantage of the first clear weather in days, I carried down all the utensils to wash, did the accumulated laundry, bathed in the water, and returned. Then, while praising myself for today’s diligence as a reward, I began preparing dinner a little early—making miso soup and opening the Naniwa pickles. From the bottom of the densely packed lees emerged a whole pickled watermelon with a muffled plop. I neatly sliced the thickly wrinkled fruit, thoroughly steeped in the aroma of sake, on the lid and arranged it on a plate. The soup was done. I ate my meal with brisk contentment.

The pier. Today, both the hill trees and island trees spread their branches and leaves to their fullest and drank in sunlight, while the torii gate and lantern light cast shadows of rare freshness. On the eastern side of the lakeside hill, shadows at last spread out, and the sun of this clear day sank down lingeringly with particular reluctance. Mt. Kurohime—a burial mound for the sun-wheel? Gazing at its vanishing gleam, even this clear evening brimmed with pathos. Though the firewood gatherers and field farmers had all returned home, the herd of beautiful beasts grazing on Fodder Mountain remained drunk on the fragrant grass, refusing to retreat to their burrows.

Whether it was the birds’ doing, small clam shells lay scattered along the island’s ridge. All four lay upturned, their white undersides exposed; for no particular reason, I turned each one over. While placing the wave-like patterns—dyed in hues of light blue and mud-brown—upon my palm, I returned and arranged them on my desk. Resting my cheek in my hand at a desk now lively with acorns, shells, and cedar blooms, I began absently pondering kingfishers.

On a day when the south wind blew fiercely, I went to draw water from North Inlet, carrying a bucket. As usual, intently gazing at my feet while lost in thought, I quietly descended the dimly lit slope. The branches of the great tree spread in multiple layers overhead, so that even birds flying through the sky would not see this figure. The leaves that had fallen and piled up over countless years had turned into soil, softly burying my toes, while my heels made not a sound, like those of a beast stalking its prey. The trees on the cliff, shaped like water-sucking birds, pressed against one another as they stretched their necks over the dark blue abyss. When I glanced up, there on a hackberry branch extending from the shore sat a woman, wholly absorbed in fishing. Her emerald hair streamed over her shoulders; lapis wings folded upon her back; eyes fixed on the fishing float were round as jewels, and her gently dangling calves seemed carved from coral. A water spirit? A mountain princess? Her strangely wondrous form illuminated even the depths of the bottomless abyss. I stumbled unexpectedly and dropped the bucket I was holding. Startled, she let out a whistle-like cry and flew away along the shore, circling the island toward Ryūgū Cape. After that, I pressed my cheek against the warm hackberry branch and gazed in a trance at the water devoid of shadows. The hackberry branch, chilling before nightfall, would tell me this: that the merciless hook had caught not some abyss-dwelling trout fry, but I myself.

Night.

Thinking I heard a duck’s call, I descended to the shore guided by the sky’s light. The full moon hung upon the sparse branches of a nameless tree, while mist spread like a curtain across the base of the lakeside hill. Illuminated by this moon alone on the meager shore of the lake’s remote island, gazing across waves to a distant hill cloaked in grass—my heart was nothing but tears. The Goddess of the Lunar Realm is said to have long ago embraced her still-youthful lover in a cave on Mount Latmos and lulled him into an endless sweet slumber. Even though I stood there alone, yearning like this, why did she not come quickly to embrace me? The lotus of ancient yearning, bathed in pure light, unfurled its petals once more. O Moon Deva, I shall pass the night gazing upon your gentle countenance—my form like that of an ascetic Brahmin, my heart like a devotee of fervent longing.

A dream.

In the pitch-dark cold cedar forest, I gazed out toward North Inlet, waiting for mandarin ducks and wild ducks to come. Before long, a duck swiftly descended from the west and plunged into the water. Then five, even seven more came, forming ripples near their puffed chests as they advanced like arrows. Among them were ducks with crimson napes, canary-yellow ones, and others of unseen beauty—and mingled among them was a swan.

October 7th

Evening.

As I descended the stone steps toward the first torii gate, I suddenly noticed fallen chestnuts on the ground. *Chestnuts have ripened*, I thought, and looked up. On a high branch, three chestnuts—glistening as if about to drip with dew—had split open completely. With my heart leaping, I picked up a dead branch and threw it, and as I did so, I got the hang of it and managed to hit my target. As I darted over to search through the grass where the large chestnut burr had split open with a crack, scattering its contents, a dried burr fell and struck my head with such force that I muttered *Ah, of course*—recalling an old trick, I pulled my haori over my head like a hood. I brought back a handful of chestnuts in my sleeve and spilled them onto the desk, only to find a beautiful scattering of insect dust.

They said snow had come to Mount Yake.

October 8th Honjin brought me snake gallbladder and buckwheat flour buns. When I mentioned chestnuts—"There's a large chestnut tree west of the island"—I followed him down the cliff behind the shrine. Amidst a thicket of densely packed trees stood a chestnut with cracked limbs spread like a warrior’s arms—magnificent yet bearing not a single viable nut. "Last year it grew so thick you couldn’t pass through," he said while searching tree after tree in likely spots, but finding no burrs. With an idle look, Honjin added, "There’s pears to the south," and rounded the cliff’s midslope. I gathered acorns along the way instead. Honjin led ahead, talking—how in Kiso they mix acorns with beans for miso; how deep-mountain folk eat kaya nuts, hazelnuts, beech mast. On the southern cliff grew a lone kenbo pear. "This one too—last year they fell like rain." "But up high, only seven or eight remain." "We pushed through undergrowth and found three or four." "Hard and small—but fragrant." Silverberries. Water knotweed flowers.

October 9th

I descended to the shore at morning calm. The mountains draped clouds as a canopy; the lakeside shrubs, like maidens, reflected their morning visages; in the treetops, some bird sang a mellow country song.

Evening. I dropped the chestnuts.

October 10th The north wind howled as it carried snow clouds, and I feared the lake might freeze over by tonight. I stoked a crackling fire, peeled chestnuts, and cooked chestnut rice. Hunching my shoulders, I listened to the snow-laden wind howling through the forest.

Midnight. Unexpected moonlight poured in brilliantly. The cry of an owl, the sound of waves.

October 11th

Morning. In the light rain, Honjin brought me greens, a pheasant whistle, and a large basket filled with shimeji mushrooms. Honjin came bearing some quintessentially rural tale every time he visited. He mentioned that shimeji mushrooms were the finest in this area—and that they even ate some unsettling mushroom with a cap spanning a foot in diameter.

Last night, snow came to the mountains. They said there was a folk belief that when snow fell three times on Mount Myoko, it would reach the villages too—and so now, with grass-cutting finished and harvest beginning, the village was in an uproar. The autumn festival on the twelfth—though called a festival, there was nothing much to it. By then, they would finish cutting grass, eat new buckwheat noodles, begin the harvest, and complete all farm work by mid-November—after which the people, body and soul unwound, would each go to their own hot springs.

I stepped out to the pier. The mountains were buried in cold-looking clouds, and even the color of snow could not be seen. Fragments of mist, scattered by the wind, swiftly skimmed across the water's surface before my eyes.

When I returned along the tree-lined path, robins sang within the frozen island, but there were no white-eyes.

Beyond the meager stretch of flatland before this dwelling lay a steep cliff of five or six jō? It became a sheer precipice whose base met the southern beach. On that cliffside, among towering cedars, zelkova trunks the hue of elephant hide spread their branches; gnarled ancients stood like rhinoceroses with bark knotted and ridged; while a decayed enoki tree, having shed nearly all its foliage, lay swathed in creeping vines. On warm days I would open the shoji screens and take comfort in observing these lofty trees’ valiant warrior-like forms. The clustered leaves greedily drinking sunlight wove themselves into a natural canopy whose scattered gaps revealed fragments of sky—across those blue shards drifted silver clouds. Among them, a slightly larger tear in this leafy tent served as the sole channel through which celestial light reached my house. Thus for me dawn came late and daylight slipped swiftly toward dusk. At nightfall those countless massive trunks transformed into phantom demons to menace intruders, while stars peering through clustered leaves resembled cold arboreal fruit.

Afternoon. Clear. I descended to the beach and washed mushrooms.

Evening. I gathered fallen chestnuts. Three or four. A light first snow whispered down upon the peaks of Myoko, Kurohime, and Iizuna, and the mountains that had seemed fearsome until yesterday took on a nostalgic air. Lingering clouds drifted hesitantly as they began to depart. Into the basket trap visible faintly at the water’s bottom, a small fish quietly slipped through. He found a place of refuge along the island’s shore—if only for a single night.

While listening to lapping waves breaking ashore，he walked along Kojimagasaki’s shoal．This place was hemmed by shrubs into a narrow cleft．The surrounding hills had deepened considerably in their autumn hues．Where have all those warblers that sang so abundantly gone？While pondering this，I suddenly picked up an arched dead branch and felt tears welling．Today had grown later than ever．Mountains and lake alike darkened，all birds having returned to roost atop island trees．

October 12th

Autumn Festival. In the morning, Honjin came to pick me up.

I walked along Madarao Path. The Japanese millet fields still retained their vibrant green hue. The foxtail millet fields had turned a deep russet yet remained unharvested. In the area where sedge hats were visible yesterday, about one tier’s worth of rice plants hung drying. As I turned back toward the village where my legs had grown weary, a mendicant nun happened to emerge from beneath the eaves of a house where she had just finished chanting sutras. While passing by, I casually glanced inside the deep sedge hat. Her cheeks, rosy as if tinted; lips flushed from sutra chanting; and the nun’s existence—like clear water flowing through rocky crevices—were so poignantly alluring that one could scarcely dwell there without tears. Wondering where to go next, I headed toward Madarao Path.

I went to Honjin’s place, where I had been invited beforehand, and drank shochu with bird hotpot. Honjin, slightly drunk on shochu, turned crimson like a drunken demon. “Master, I can’t row the boat anymore,” he said. And then, after walking around there for a while and returning, the flush had faded somewhat from his face, but he was still pinching his nose.

The Shirane downwind blew with single-minded fury. Honjin pushed the oar with all his might while saying, "With this wind, we can catch trout—if there are any good ones, I'll bring them along." When the time came for young trout—who first flicked their fins at the mouth of clear mountain streams many years prior—to become fathers and mothers, they recalled the taste of that pristine water first drawn into mouths that knew no mother's breast in infancy. Sought to let their own offspring drink from those same reeds, they gathered there, only for people to lower scoop nets and catch them. From mountains and hills in every direction, countless crows returned toward the island. From then on, mountain birds driven by snow would all gather on this island, turning it white with their droppings; yet come spring when the snow melted, they said the ground became carpeted with seeds from trees and grasses.

At night, two mysterious owls came to the monk tree beside the shrine and croaked their guttural calls as they foraged through the darkness.

October 13th

Afternoon. In the rain, I descended to the beach, drew water, and boiled edamame. The woodpecker constantly patrolled the island and, should it catch even a glimpse of a human shadow, scolded loudly as if reprimanding. This beautiful mountain sculptor appeared to wield its tiny chisel day after day, as if striving to carve last night’s dream into the tree trunk.

Honjin brought cabbage, taro roots, and shiitake mushrooms. A cabbage with leaves layered ten or twentyfold, shaggy taro roots, and mushrooms still unopened into whimsical shapes tumbled together inside the basket. Honjin,

“I’ve gathered another thing you enjoy, Master.”

Saying this with a face like Ebisu, he produced twenty or thirty wild chestnuts from his sleeve. He also gave me eggplant and daikon pickled to a saliva-inducing hue in miso from the landlady’s hometown—apparently in its third year of fermentation, he said they were well-aged. While I boiled water, cooked rice, and sliced pickles, Honjin chopped cabbage, descended to the beach, and washed mushrooms and taro. Then, while drinking tea with cheap sweets, he mentioned how throughout Etchu and Echigo provinces there were nunneries everywhere, with many nuns going out for alms. “In this area too, when Buddhist memorial days come around, they enjoy sutra chanting, and there are houses that offer lodging,” he went on talking about such things until the rice finished cooking.

“Thank you very much for the meal.”

With that, he left. Left alone, I shaved dried bonito flakes into broth with the quiet contentment of one who’d gained a king’s fortune, then took cabbage and mushrooms from the basket and tossed them in. The mushrooms bobbed and danced in the boiling broth. I pressed down with the lid. While listening to the soft simmering within, I thought how much I didn’t want to leave this place. Every night, the rats ate only the bodies of the millipedes and left their legs scattered about. With no broom to sweep them away, they had piled up in great number. Even when devoured time and again, other millipedes still wandered about, their long legs flailing as if doing a jig.

Dream. Around midnight, I stood atop a great mountain shrouded by towering trees, much like this island. Whether from moonlight or starlight, I could faintly make out the ground beneath me. There were several descending paths, but none led to human settlements. I stood there without feeling lonely. And when I suddenly looked up, countless hornet nests hung from branch to branch, tens of thousands of hornets holding their flame-like wings upright as they vigorously daubed wax.

October 14th

Morning. I had just finished my meal when Honjin arrived in urgent commotion,

“I caught trout! I caught trout!”

Gasping for breath, he came bearing over four hundred rainbow trout. Freshly caught, their eyes still glistened as if alive. Their gills pierced with coarse straw ropes, they gaped open goblin-like mouths to reveal rows of hook-shaped teeth. Their heads were glossy black like pottery, their bodies a reddish-black with a sheen—a fish possessing not so much beauty as a wild charm. I filleted them and marinated in miso.

Honjin, saying he would gather firewood, dropped the decayed tree that had fallen from the cliff down to the beach and chopped it with rhythmic thud-thud blows of his hatchet.

Afternoon. The south wind calmed as sunlight fell in warm patches. Before north winds could return, I went down to wash rice at shore. A crab emerged from its willow-root hollow and studied me curiously; when I offered my finger, it snapped with a dry click before retreating home. By time I finished rinsing grains, air stirred anew. I laundered clothes and bathed in lake shallows before returning. For supper I simmered trout. It carried lakewater's mineral breath.

The pier.

The fog had completely enveloped everything, leaving only the lakeside flatland. Honjin had said they cut rice by day and threshed through the night, but even as dusk fell now, shadows of people kept moving through the fields where something was piled high. As I watched the flock of crows clamoring after one another on their return, now and then clouds parted to reveal patches of sunset sky in unexpected places. At first, countless stars appeared over the surrounding hills; soon they began to wriggle like mosquito larvae, gradually growing larger into avian forms—black wings emerging, voices carrying—until I realized they were all crows homing toward the island. Crows are truly the farmers among birds. With their strong beaks as plows, they till the earth from dawn till dusk without wearying. Thus their plumage glistens a beautiful navy-black, and their robust songs resound through field and mountain.

At the spot where one passed through the first torii gate stood the most beautiful cedar tree on the island. Its trunk—an armful’s girth at the base and three armfuls around where it split into twin trunks—bore coin-patterned lichen that clung to every bough and branch as if embroidered with calico-like patterns, while dusky black leaves cradled a profusion of blossoms in their midst. The large wasp nest suspended magnificently beneath those high branches was one of the daily pleasures when coming here. The jar-shaped palace with spiral relief carvings had entrances everywhere; on warm days, hundreds of knights in crimson-laced armor charged forth across the lake to sip at the fragrant lips of lovers who awaited them with smiles in the distance.

October 15th

Since the day of my departure drew near, each morning upon waking, an indescribable loneliness welled up.

Today an old man came alone to visit the shrine and stated he was from such-and-such village in Nakakubiki District, Echigo Province—

“Are you staying here like this to perform some kind of ascetic practice? If you’re engaged in such practices, I suppose our chatting like this would be a disturbance.” While saying this, he slowly lowered himself to sit down. I

“No, I do not engage in ascetic practices.” At this he seemed slightly unsettled yet unconvinced, all the while eyeing my demeanor as he muttered to himself: “As I said earlier, I’m from Echigo Province—came yesterday with my children to visit relatives in this village, stayed the night, and now paid my respects here. But I’ll be taking the children back soon.” The old man appeared to have come to offer a lantern light at the shrine.

“Put it out because it’s dangerous.” After instructing the children, he still seemed unconvinced and pressed on, asking repeatedly, “What are you doing here? What exactly are you doing?” I gave an offhand reply: “I secluded myself in a place like this because I was born in the city and grew weary of it.” The old man gaped wordlessly, sweeping his gaze across the surrounding forest and rafters before—

“After all, when night falls, I suppose they still come to converse with you here.”

he blurted out something strange. I must have appeared unable to comprehend, “Well, I have long heard that in places like this, Lord Tengu and the gods come to converse with those who dwell here.” he said. I replied earnestly,

“In this season, such things rarely occur anymore.” When I said this, he apparently found it unbearable and nodded with exaggerated emphasis. “Might His Majesty the Emperor cease his visits here as well?”

he said. Then, after staring at my face as though trying to bore holes through it,

“I must apologize for my rudeness.” He bowed politely and left. According to a story my aunt told me when I was little, Lord Tengu would occasionally do things like this to torment people. I thought it was just as well that I had managed to avoid saying anything that might have offended him. That day the drizzle set in. Through cedar treetops intertwined like clouds, rain streaks gleamed white. For dinner’s side dishes, I grilled trout and simmered taro and cabbage.

October 16th

I was roused by the cries of birds departing the island at dawn. When I opened my eyes, there came the pattering sound of raindrops striking leaves. Listening to the steady autumn shower, I peeled chestnuts and prepared chestnut rice.

Evening.

From that day onward, I went to the pier during lulls in the rain. Through breaks in the mist clinging to both hills and villages, the deep hues of autumn leaves could be seen; people cut rice late into the day, undaunted by the rain. Lingering with reluctance, I stood and stood, on and on without end.

The birds had all returned. The rice harvesters vanished from sight as the fog dissolved into darkness. Today I lit both lanterns and stood again on the pier, watching firelight reflections shape themselves into 'shi' and 'ku' characters upon the water.

October 17th

The terrifying Shirane Downwind raged. Early in the morning, Honjin came to pack and carried them down one by one to the boat. He said that because the day’s wind was strong, he had tied the boat to the cove at Kojimagasaki. I descended to the torii gate, boarded the boat tied to the stake at the shore, and waited for Honjin, who was doing the final cleaning. The island’s trees roared and roared, while sunlight-drenched clouds flew away like galloping horses.

I launched the boat.

Praiseworthy indeed—the island, crimson with autumn leaves, resembled a mandarin duck. In the land’s earliest days, this island had likely been a single mandarin duck. He, having provoked the jealousy of the god Magatsuhi, lost his only lover and in his grief became this very island. Thus, even now in this age thousands of years later, when autumn comes and their children’s children cross to that inlet, they are drawn by bonds of affection to reveal their beautiful forms of old.

No sooner had I rounded the cape than large waves came in rapid succession; dodging them one after another in the boat, I reached the lakeshore.