Pathway to Japanese Literature

This was a small, uninhabited island located within one of the petals of a lake said to resemble the shape of a hibiscus flower. In this mountainous region’s lake, after summer passed, there was hardly a day when storms did not blow. And this island, with nothing to obstruct it, bore towering trees that grew in dense profusion—yet even this landmass coiling in the lake to nurture their roots was battered so mercilessly by the wind that one marveled it remained unuprooted. Just during the brief interval when the fiercely blowing south wind shifted to the north—a span barely long enough to scramble down the cliff and fetch water—the previous tumult gave way to utter stillness: only the sound of wood-boring insects gnawing at larch hearts persisted in the windless calm.

The only things that informed the people across the lake of the Island Guardian’s safety were Honjin, who occasionally brought provisions, the lamplight lit every night, and the sound of songs carried away by the wind. This man had once been heir to the honjin master during the village’s prosperous era when it lay along the highway, but due to shifting times and repeated calamities that befell the village, he fell into decline. Now he was merely master of a single house counted among the smaller dwellings here, yet his byway name remained unchanged—he was still called “Honjin.” Honjin was likely one of the most virtuous people in the entire province, just as he was said to be the kindest in the whole village. It was precisely because of his goodness and simplicity that I loved this man from the bottom of my heart. By nature—and especially now that I had grown quite misanthropic—even for me, this man’s visits to the island brought a joy akin to a trout swimming upstream.—Postscript. Afterward, though I continued yearning for a chance to meet him again and share heartfelt reminiscences, decades passed without opportunity, and Honjin died. I had done something regrettable. I had heard through others that his house had been rebuilt and his descendants were thriving—news which had pleased me—

The villagers who occasionally brought pilgrim visitors likely spoke of me as one of this poor village’s trivial local attractions, alongside grass shrimp and crow clams. They forgot even the casting of their shadows as they stealthily peeked through holes in the shoji screens, or upon finding me walking in the forest, circled around to stare as though trying to expose the true form of some shape-shifter. Many people, upon seeing my displeased face, exchanged glances, whispered among themselves, and soon enough departed; yet there were some among them who, driven by curiosity, timidly struck up conversations under the pretense of borrowing a light for their tobacco or asking the shrine’s name. Their questions followed paths as fixed as those of rats. What do you do living on such an island? Aren’t you lonely? Aren’t you afraid?… How should I answer these questions? Because there had been no house for me to live in, I wandered like a duck and sought lodging on this island. If we speak of loneliness, could there be anything lonelier than mingling amidst the clamor of the city with a crowd that holds not a shred of understanding? This was a remote island in the lake. Yet like the sun and moon chasing one another across Mizushima, they never failed to illuminate this island at dawn and dusk. I had become friends and brothers with these trees, birds, insects, and fish, and together we welcomed and sent off the beautiful sister deities. I had now become alone, escaping the agony of having my foolish self observed by worldly-wise people, and had come to understand how humans were needlessly troubled in their persistence with trivial interactions. I had seen and exhausted all the wretchedness of the world. Now I wished only to obtain pure rest, even if just for a little while. O travelers, I feared nothing but your clamorous hoarse voices shattering this solitude.

If I am alone on the island, it grows quiet enough to satisfy the heart’s longing. Between reading and meditation, I prowl its bounds like a beast sniffing around its den. Even this island—no larger than a hibiscus petal where a horsefly might alight—knows fresh happenings with each rain or gust of wind. A chestnut branch snapping in the storm, a bird letting fall a clam shell… such events merit inscription in the island’s annals. At times the god of Yumeno steals in to daub my chilled slumber with dreamt pigments. These things I record daily in my diary with meticulous care. This is the mandala woven in secret by the Island Guardian upon his isle.

September 23, Meiji 44 (1911)

I asked Honjin—wearing a straw raincoat and hat—to arrange for a boatman and crossed over to the island amid fierce winds. The house that would now become my residence had been built for priests visiting from afar during the annual festival; its clapboard siding slid loose in places, and with no storm shutters yet installed, it barely sufficed to shelter me from rain and dew. In this mountain-ringed lake—where summer gave way to winter as swiftly as if this solitary island had surfaced solely to be targeted by the cold pressing in from the surrounding peaks—such a dwelling proved utterly useless in shielding this city dweller from the chill. 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 the mold from the tatami, and when I swept away the surrounding dust, it became a more comfortable dwelling than I had expected. On the beams above were festival kasaboko floats and rows of mandō lanterns. From the attic—now an interestingly crude woven texture of branches, rope, and straw—hung drums, lanterns, and the like. Honjin gathered wood scraps from outside to prepare kindling, and while kindly instructing—“this much rice,” “this much water,” “build the fire like this”—he made lunch. When the meal was ready, he deferentially served it. After that he went down to the southern beach to wash dishes and complete other routine tasks,

“If there’s any rice left, make it into porridge and have it.”

With those words, Honjin went back.

Remaining behind, I thought, *Now I am truly alone*.

September 24 I left the island to pay my respects to Mr. Anyōji.

——Note. Until I moved to the island, I had been staying under the care of Mr. Anyōji in his annex by the lakeside. While I was talking by Mr. Ikeda’s hearth, a telegram arrived saying my sister in Fukuoka was critically ill. Mr. Ikeda’s people showed concern and asked, but I smiled and calmly said, “It’s nothing.”

I returned to the island.

I loathed even preparing lunch. I lay sprawled out in a daze. Suddenly recalling—Ah, you told me to take good care of yourself—I feebly began lighting the fire in the brazier. I put the rice on to cook. Sitting before the brazier and listening absently to the sound of boiling, tears began streaming down. She often took care of me all by herself.—Note. Before my sister got married, the three of us—my mother, me, and my sister—had lived together in the house in Koishikawa. She liked sewing and always carried a needle. When I made her prepare cocoa for me multiple times a day, she would come wearing a pitiful expression. The figure of her lying on her deathbed floated before my eyes. As the rice boiled over, I took it down and put on the vegetable pot. On the wooden lid, I cut green onions and threw them in one by one as if hurling stones. Tears spilled forth in a steady stream. I wondered if I’d already died, for so many tears to be falling. When she was dying, how she must have wanted to see everyone, I thought. The kindling ran out. I had to gather more for dinner.

I gathered the cedar’s dead leaves from the forest behind. I picked them up one by one, gathering them in my left hand. Tears spilled out. Birds about the size of crows were cawing and squabbling.

Without doing anything in particular, evening arrived. Today felt lonelier as night fell. With a feeling of preserving a single speck of daylight within that night’s darkness, I went to light the lamp on the island’s ridge. Listening to the sound of fallen leaves and my own footsteps echoing through the grove, I descended the stone steps, lit the lamp, and gazed out at nothing in particular. The lamp’s shadow cast its reflection on the water. At the water’s bottom lay branches that had fallen and piled up over countless years, and above them, the movement of small fish could be seen through the water. They truly appeared to have found their place, as if cast down from heaven. Today was cloudy. Smoke rose from both Iizuna and Kurohime. The smoke trailing its hem must be from the mountain wind.

September 25

The moment I awoke in the morning, I thought of my sister. It was the day’s first sorrowful thought. I feel like □□子 is still alive. And I think she must have just woken up now, like me.

A rain-laden wind blew fiercely, and the island resounded all day with waves crashing and leaves rustling. On the island, leaves fall like rain. They bid farewell from dawn till dusk, from dusk till dawnbreak, to the treetops they had long inhabited, returning unabashedly to the earth. Even after falling to ground, they retained their youthful vigor awhile longer, chasing and chattering about. □□子 had just recently sent word: “Next spring I’ll come up to Tokyo holding my child.” I told her I’d await it eagerly. □□子 must still be alive and come up next spring as promised. She was the one dear sister among us siblings.

In the rain, I trudged out carrying a lantern to light the lamp. Because the lamp stood high, even after climbing onto the rock at water's edge, I still had to stretch my arm to its limit. Watching for lulls in the wind, I kept lighting it again and again, but the flame died each time before catching the wick. I gave up and returned home, yet feeling restless, went back once more to try lighting it—undeterred by repeated failures.

I stood beneath the lamp. The wind grew increasingly fierce, and the waves now and then lapped at the shore's edge. Impatient, I began lighting it without waiting for a lull—this time, it caught on the third attempt. Descending from the rock and wringing the hem of my sodden clothes, I gazed up at shadows flickering with fleeting joy, thinking: The villagers gazing upon this light across the lake must see it only as a lamp signaling that the Island Guardian survived another day.

September 26

Morning. Clear. While I was starting a fire with yesterday’s gathered cedar leaves, Honjin arrived carrying a hatchet, saw, sweet bean slab*, dried bonito flakes I’d requested**, and aromatic roasted grain powder sent via Mr./Ms. Ikeda***. “You shouldn’t just roast mochi—make zōni stew instead,” he said*****, pulling two large overripe eggplants from his sleeve. They overflowed both hands******, hard as stone. “The koji’s scarce******* so it might taste rough,” he said*********, handing me miso from a small jar. Using a scavenged board as makeshift cutting surface**********, he shaved bonito flakes with his hatchet************, though I resolved************* to save stew-making for later************** and roasted mochi instead. Thus this austere hut became stocked with incongruous delicacies. A celibate cook*************** clings***************** to simplicity******************, using minimal ingredients. Rice stayed piled in its sack*******************; sugar untouched; Naniwa pickles from Yamada still sealed. Ten eggs remained********************* in the basket—one leek**********************, dried corn lingering. Now possessing Solomon’s wealth***********************，this Island Guardian labored over how best************************* to sequence these treasures into his belly. Honjin finished preparing kindling**************************，then puffed tobacco while lecturing on miso broth adjustments.

At some point, a mated pair of rats had taken up residence inside this portable shrine. They seemed enraged at having their peaceful life disturbed by someone like me, rampaging outrageously every night, so starting last evening I resolved to break a piece of mochi into several portions and scatter them across the floor. Thanks to the offering, it was quiet all night, but when I looked, the mochi had been neatly carried away.

September 27

News arrived that □□子’s condition had improved; yesterday was a happy day.

This morning, when I went down to the southern beach, Honjin had arrived unnoticed at some point.

“Sir! Sir!” he called out. When I had taken two or three steps up the slope

“A postcard has arrived. They say it’s excellent,” he said. Lately, whenever Honjin visited—concerned I was unwell—he would kindly inquire about my condition. He also deeply sympathized with my anguish over □□子.

Evening.

While standing on the pier, I watched as fog came billowing from the Northern Hill Gorge—thinking it would soon envelop the island—but it slowly drifted across the lake and trailed along the Eastern Mountains. With autumn’s arrival, the fog suddenly thinned. When I lit the lamp and returned, the sound of rats was already there. Last night, instead of mochi, I offered a handful of rice, and no sooner had I gone to bed than I heard the discreet pitter-patter sounds of them eating. Tonight I will offer dried corn.

Suddenly, the sound of rain.

September 28

Midnight. I was awakened by the terrifying sound of the wind. Now, all the people were asleep, and I alone was probably awake. I contemplated my solitary existence amidst the island’s storm and fell asleep filled with happiness.

September 29

Morning. Among the scattered fallen leaves lay winged seeds of Japanese maple. The morning was calm, as if mountains had exhausted their store of wind. Through jays calling between trees and woodpeckers drumming island-wide, brown-eared bulbuls echoed with peculiar clarity. Some unknown bird cried from atop a great cedar like thrown jewels. Cloud-shadows drifted silent across lakewater while minnows dimpled smooth surfaces—schools breathing air made fresh by shifted winds.

Leaning against the desk，I dozed off until evening. During that time，I heard various bird calls. When I awoke，my hands were numb and dropped everything like an infant.

Such is the daily life of the Island Guardian.

When morning came and he awakened, following a long-established habit, the Island Guardian lay still on his bed until the post-sleep lethargy completely faded from his heart to the tips of his fingers. Once his body finally felt like his own again, he rose and went to wash his face at the southern beach. On rainy days or particularly cold mornings, he used water drawn the previous day to manage his needs. Next, from the storehouse’s stockpile, he gathered a handful of dried cedar leaves along with some partially green ones, added five or six pieces of wood chips, and lit a fire in the brazier. The fresh leaves produced thick white smoke when burning and crackled and popped nicely, so he intentionally mixed them in. He also took out one piece of tinder from a bundle bound with straw in addition to a single match, and wasted that one piece due to the sulfurous color when struck swiftly, the purple flames burning while foaming, and the strong aroma that stung his nose. He threw three or four handfuls of charcoal into the blazing fire. By the time the charcoal ignited, the cedar leaves had turned to ash and the wood chips had become embers, upon which the kettle was placed. After cleaning, he scraped mold off the rice cakes, arranged eggs and tea utensils nearby, and transferred soy sauce to a small dish—by the time he finished these tasks, the water had come to a boil. There he laid the fire tongs across the flames and placed rice cakes on them, amusing himself by adjusting the brazier’s door based on their roasting progress while dabbing them with soy sauce from the edge as he ate. Then he swallowed an egg, ate sweet bean paste, sipped tea to finish his morning meal, and after a short rest spent about an hour and a half tending the fire until tidying the dishes. The satisfaction of fully stuffing his stomach—emptied overnight—with sweet, salty, and bitter foods was beyond compare. After a short rest came reading or diary writing. To save time and effort, he skipped lunch; if it was warm, he went down to the southern beach to dry off. Entering the water up to his knees, exposing his chafed and flushed skin to the sunlight and cooling it in the breeze while gazing at the surrounding mountains—this feeling was truly refreshing. If there were clothes or dishes to wash, he took the opportunity to wash them. Returning home, he waited for his heartbeat to calm before reading, and took an afternoon nap if necessary. At 3:30 he began preparing dinner. This was because he ate two meals a day and wanted to secure time for a leisurely walk before nightfall. The general order followed that of the morning. However since dinner was zōni he had to first scrape mold off the rice cakes then use the same knife to shave bonito flakes peel eggplants and slice ginkgo nuts adjust the broth and set the pot to boil.

After resting quietly, he briskly tidies the dishes, extinguishes the fire, and heads to the torii. And then, along the long path from there to the shrine, he walks until lamp-lighting time—gathering fallen leaves, singing songs, stepping over tree roots, ascending and descending stone steps.

Evening.

When I went down to the torii, a single wagtail stood on the pier. I crouched quietly to watch it when suddenly it noticed me—with a *pip pip* cry it flew into Kojimagasaki’s reeds where two or three companions waited, calling back before they all winged toward Madarao Road. At the water’s edge lay a cluster of tree nuts. Branching pale-red stems bore dark green berries like those of heavenly bamboo. Thinking to take them home, I set them on a boat plank. Waves surged into hollows of blue bedrock as gray clouds pressed against distant Shirakane’s mountain pass. As dusk deepened, I gathered the nuts and kindled the lamp. Though I dwell resolutely alone on this island, watching autumn’s light fade beyond terrible clouds shrouding Myōkō, Kurohime, and Iizuna’s peaks—even I could not suppress an inexorable yearning for the village.

September 30 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 usual—was pasted a paper labeled “Naniwa-zuke” in blue ink, and the blurred vermilion seal too had its charm. I came to like Tennōji, Rokumantai-chō, and Rokumandō as well. I cut through the indigo paper around the rim with a small knife and pried open the lid slightly. When I did, a pungent smell of lees wafted out. Gently, I tried removing the lees. Below lay splendid melon pieces, hidden and beautifully ripe. Though something still seemed to lurk deeper within, I left it unseen for later enjoyment and took out the melon pieces. I cut a little from them on the lid to use as topping for tea over rice, then carefully buried the rest.

Evening.

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

Night. Rain. Around the island came the sound of a one-legged creature hopping and shuffling. Some unknown bird whistled through the darkness, wings cutting the air as it circled. The rain’s murmur held an unplaceable nostalgia—like the rustle of robes as a lover’s ghost slipped past.

October 1

It must have rained until dawn, as both the soil and fallen leaves were thoroughly damp; the clouds lingered as they were, yet the rain had ceased. The morning calm of the lake’s island is eternally quiet. The forest was profoundly silent, with only cedar leaves stealthily falling; not a single one of the countless leaves stirred.

I went down to the southern beach, washed my face, and rinsed the rice. Pale yellow clouds appeared over the Shirakane mountains, leading one to think today would be clear. Carrying the pot, I climbed up the slope. Behind the house, some bird let out shrill chirps. I had just lit the fire when Honjin came bringing eggs. The various chicken eggs rolling about in the bottom of the wide-rimmed basket were gathered for me from the scarce corners of the village. Honjin stayed talking until the rice had swollen its portion, then returned.

After the meal.

I walked along the island’s ridge. A cornelian cherry branch lay fallen. The village children who had come to play that morning must have discarded it. I picked up a large bird’s feather. The feathers that birds shed were as joyful to my child’s heart as treasures fallen from heaven. When I picked up a soft feather, at home I would make it into a feather broom to sweep together powdered tea. Claiming I was the one who had found it, I would set a number as a reward and have them let me turn the millstone. I liked deliberately making the mortar jump to send the tea powder scattering. A refreshing fragrance filled the air. The hushed sound of the tea mortar still lingers in my ears, evoking memories of the distant past. This was a wide feather with a faint navy luster, appearing translucent like gauze. I thought I would make it into a bookmark.

On the southern beach, small chrysanthemums bloomed profusely among the weeds. Apart from the single large tree standing at the water’s edge, there was only one dogwood and a willow with intertwined branches where I usually drew water and rinsed rice—no other notable trees to speak of. The willow leaned out over the water, swaying on windy days and casting its shadow on cloudless ones. At its base, moss or some thread-like roots were washed crimson by the waves, while on the shore, pebbles mingled with sand appeared beautifully translucent. When I washed the dishes there, a school of minnows approached and nibbled at my fingers. At times, when I scooped up a crab crawling with raised claws using a spoon and tossed it into the water, it simply disappeared into the depths. There, driven by the north wind against the cliffs and forest, lay the warmest spot on the island. The southern hill, gentle as a spring field, sent waves across the distant lake; there one could see shrubs dotted in patterns, paths winding toward a small village of hazel trees, and horses and people laden with grass passing by. I had heard that everyone went to cut grass in autumn, but looking around, I saw that here and there it had been neatly cut, with mown grass piled in several heaps.

Evening.

I went down to the middle 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, one fish trap had washed ashore, so I looked around to see if there were others when a heron abruptly took flight and headed toward Kitaura.

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

2nd

Morning.

The birds, seeing the morning light cross over the mountains, called out, "Awaken, awaken, awaken." The one awakened by their calls on this island was me alone. And then, awakening and reflecting on the purity all around me, I felt deeply satisfied at heart. Through the broad-leaved trees, green light shone piercingly, and 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 could be seen on the lake or the hills.

After the meal. I went out to the pier. Along the Madarao path moved packhorses no larger than beans, while sedge hats climbed through Sugikubo—they must have been harvesting buckwheat. Beside them lay dark brown millet fields and lush corn fields; the rice paddies along the lakeside shimmered smokily, while even the lacquer trees interwoven with vermilion among the green of the northern hill’s mixed woods stood out so vividly one could almost touch them. Myōkō and Kurohime—their peaks had imperceptibly begun to turn autumnal hues. The morning clouds moved like livestock being led, forming a line that stretched intermittently from Kurohime to Iizuna. The water’s depths were transparent far below, a golden net woven by sunlight billowing and swaying, while uprooted waterweed buds drifted languidly, neither floating nor sinking.

I decided to go to the Southern Hill and left the island. ——Note. There was no boat on the island. I must have boarded whatever boat happened to come.—When I stopped by Mr. Ikeda’s place, an old woman was steaming barley beside a winnowing basket with billowing steam. Apparently they let it ferment to make soy sauce.

The path to Mt. Kariyasu wound along shrub-covered hills, alternating between shade and sunlight as it twisted onward. The absence of travelers and the encroaching hills made it feel lonelier than the Madarao path. Even the farmers I occasionally met were likely villagers, but their faces remained unfamiliar. In a mountain's shadow, I came upon a young girl carrying bundled firewood on her back. Sixteen or seventeen years old and slender, she had a faint flush between her brows, a single streak of sweat tracing her pale cheek. Like a startled sparrow, she passed timidly by, casting fearful glances downward near her chest. When I examined the red fruits mingling with wolfberries along the field ridges and lakeside, each tree proved distinct.

Mt. Kariyasu—the Southern Hill—was a beautiful hill. Across the grassy slope that lay as if drowsing, fallen leaves and shrubs beginning to yellow mingled with young pines' green, appearing like various beasts with precious pelts grazing naturally together. The ferns had withered, but maidenflowers still clung to bloom. What was the name of this flower with its clusters of pale purple bells? When I walked through the bellflowers, a swarm of horseflies rose buzzing all at once. With no wind, the sun felt warm as spring. Bush clovers and lacquer trees blushed autumn hues while oak leaves glistened with reflected light. The gray trunks of mountain azaleas stood clustered in beauty, having shed most leaves. Mixed trees thrived like a belt through smooth hollows because a clear stream flowed there. Lying on the grass gazing spellbound, I watched clouds over distant peaks well up and vanish of their own accord.

3rd

A storm broke out in the middle of the night. When I awoke to find the shoji had come loose, I got up and tied it fast with rope. The rustling of branches, waves crashing against the island's base, birds' frantic cries blown from their perches—all these sounds reached me. On days when the Shirakane-oroshi rages fiercely, Southern Beach's water turns muddy, so I draw water from Kitaura.

Evening. The wind that had been raging all day abruptly ceased. The sun faintly shone; both mountains and water lay utterly still. Before I could even process it, the north wind came roaring in, bringing rain. Traces of wind appeared on the lake as the day faded away dreadfully.

4th

It had been drizzling since morning.

Afternoon. I was roused from a dozing dream by a woodpecker hammering at the wooden door. I drank roasted grain tea to clear my head. With the kindling exhausted, I went behind the house to collect cedar leaves. As I gathered those clinging damply to the earth and tossed them onto the dirt floor, they grew into a mountainous heap. That I should find such profound contentment in living alone like this—it pierces me with joy.

Evening. The rain had stopped but left no clearing sky. I went to light the lamp. Not a reed leaf stirred; both inlet and abyss lay dreadfully stagnant. Tattered gray clouds clung to the mountains without slightest quiver. Listening yet not listening to two woodpeckers vying at treetops behind me, I gazed into watery depths where reed shoots strained skyward with tips barely breaching surface—Do they crave sunlight so desperately? I wondered. The lake shimmered as small waves rose. Shoreline rippled, reeds swayed, leaves began trembling like cicada wings. Clouds that had clung to peaks imperceptibly unraveled and drifted away. While waves surged at Kitaura, Minamiura’s waters lay crystal-clear to fish-breath depths. Peering for duck flocks or mandarin pairs yielded no shadowed forms. Hearing the usual fisherman drag his boat through reeds from sandbar’s tip, I turned mid-water toward mountains.

“Usually around this time snow has already come to Mt. Myoko—though once it does come it will—but when I went gathering shellfish at Biwa-ga-saki Cove two days back there were some ten mallards and mandarin ducks too.”

he said.

That was an inlet next to the Southern Hill—a cove where a cape curved like a biwa lute narrowed inward as narrow as a lizard’s tail. O mandarin ducks—drifting sleepers who crossed from the sea’s edge to nestle together in the boat-shaped cove embraced by those quiet grassy hills—surely the ancient God of Judea, at creation’s end, stitched remnants of all fair-feathered birds into a robe, then swelled your breasts with honey-sweet breath of love to craft you wandering nomads of paired pilgrimage.

I lit the lamp, gazed regretfully at the lingering clouds over Shirakane Mountain, and returned.

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

5th

An icy west wind blew all day. Thinking snow had come to the mountains, I went out to check, but no snow was visible. Honjin had said that a west wind would blow the clouds away, but though patches of blue sky and sunlit clouds could be seen here and there, most clung stubbornly, showing no sign of clearing. When I glanced suddenly toward the southern shore, a duck with a whitish breast was flying low. Trying to get a better look at it, as I made my way along the shore through the undergrowth, a duckling suddenly took flight from right beneath my feet. I gathered four acorns. Three were chestnut-colored; one was glossy blue. One in a spiny cupule, two without cupules, and a young, slender one. There was something pleasing about having gathered these large acorns.

Evening.

I went to light the lamp. A cold wind blew the gray clouds as the day faded away sorrowfully. Because the wind was strong, maple leaves were falling still attached to fresh branches. I gathered cedar leaves in bloom on the stone steps. Since Honjin had brought salt-pressed cucumbers and boiled greens for me, when I brought up the topic of ducks, he said, “Those ducks—some are good at dancing, others excel at diving through water.”

Night. While arranging large acorns and cedar leaves to write my diary, there was a splashing sound in the southern cove, and a flock of birds seemed to land. The moon, pale in the distance, illuminated the lake while casting only scattered fragments of light upon this island, blocked by the forest. The tree trunks towered straight, and the moonlit night was more dreadful than the darkness.

Dream. An old man held a fine brush in his right hand, steadily dyeing the neck and shoulders of a docile dove perched on his left hand in hues of dove-gray and navy blue. They said feathers of that color would grow in this way. Nearby, a pink parrot hung from a tree branch, its beak hooked into the wood......

6th I went to the tree at the southern shore and basked in the sun. The sky cleared, and the abundant sunlight warmed the shore; driven by the cliffs and trees, the west wind soared high overhead. Is this tree twelve to fifteen meters tall? With sparse branches bearing broad leaves resembling those of an oak, at its base lay two old root stumps and the mercilessly shattered trunk of a dead tree, toppled sideways into the water. When I was gazing at the silver clouds drifting lazily over the Southern Hill, a kingfisher flew by, its back glinting as it darted away with sharp, swift beats. If people could be reborn as they wish, I would want to become that kingfisher dwelling alone in its clever solitude, cloaked in beautiful garments amidst the rock wall’s hidden recesses. Perhaps because the trees in the surrounding mountains shed their leaves in autumn, all the birds came seeking roosts on this island.

Since it was the first clear day in some time, I carried down all the utensils to wash, did the laundry I had let pile up, bathed in the water, and returned. And while praising my own diligence that day, I began preparing dinner a bit earlier as a reward—making miso soup and opening the Naniwa-zuke pickles. From the bottom of the thickly packed lees emerged a whole pickled watermelon with a plop. I cut the melon—its thick wrinkles now plump and imbued with the aroma of sake—into neat slices on the lid before transferring them to a plate. The soup had boiled. I ate the meal with eager briskness.

Pier. Today both the hill trees and island trees spread their branches and leaves wide and drank in sunlight while the torii gate and lamp cast unusually fresh shadows. On the eastern side of lakeside hill shade at last began to spread while sun of clear day lingered reluctantly as it sank. Is Kurohimeyama sun’s tomb? As I saw its fading glimmer even clear evening felt pitiful. Firewood boats and field farmers had all returned home yet beautiful herd grazing on Fodder Mountain remained intoxicated by sweet scent of grass showing no sign retreating burrows.

Perhaps the work of birds, small clam shells lay scattered along the island’s ridge. All four lay upturned, showing their white undersides; I absentmindedly flipped each one over. While placing the wave-like patterns—dyed in water-blue and mud-brown—on my palm, I returned and arranged them on the desk. Resting my cheek on the desk now lively with large acorns, shells, and cedar flowers, I vaguely began to think about the kingfisher.

On a day when the south wind blew strongly, I went to draw water from North Cove with a bucket. As usual, I descended the dimly lit slope quietly, my gaze fixed on my feet as I sank into thought. The branches of the large tree layered overhead in such profusion that even birds soaring through the sky would fail to glimpse this figure. The leaves that had fallen and piled up over countless years had turned into soil, burying toes softly while heels made no sound—like those of a beast stalking its prey. The trees on the cliff pressed against each other in water-sucking avian forms, stretching their necks over the bluish-dark abyss. When I suddenly looked, a woman sat perched on a Japanese horse chestnut branch extending from the shore, intently fishing. Her emerald hair streamed over shoulders; lapis lazuli wings folded against her back; eyes fixed on the float were rounded like jewels, and her swaying calves—left and right—seemed carved from coral. Was she Mizuhaka the water spirit or Yamahime the mountain princess? Her strangely wondrous form illuminated even the depths of the bottomless abyss. I staggered involuntarily and dropped the bucket I held. Startled, she emitted a whistle-like cry before circling the island alongshore and flying toward Ryūgū Cape. Afterward, I pressed my cheek against the warm Japanese horse chestnut branch and gazed entranced at shadowless waters. The branch—chilling without awaiting nightfall—would tell how not abyss-dwelling trout fry but I myself had been caught in mercyless hooks.

Night. Thinking I heard the voices of ducks, I descended to the shore guided by the sky’s light. The full moon hung over the sparse branches of a nameless tree, while mist spread like a curtain along the lakeside hill’s base. Bathed alone in this moonlight on the meager shore of the lake’s remote island, my heart gazing across waves at a distant hill of mere grass was nothing but tears. It is said that long ago, the Lunar Goddess embraced her still-young lover in a cave on Mount Latmos and lulled him into a sweet, unending slumber. I stood here alone now, yearning like this—yet why wouldn’t she come quickly and embrace me? The lotus of old longing, bathed in pure light, once again opened its petals. O Lunar Deity, I shall gaze upon thy gentle visage and pass the night—my form like an ascetic Brahmin, my heart like a devotee of thirsting faith.

Dream.

In the pitch-dark cold cedar forest, I gazed toward North Cove and waited for mandarin ducks and wild ducks to come. Before long, a duck swooped down from the west and plunged into the water. Then five, then seven more arrived, their puffed-up chests creating small ripples as they advanced like arrows. There were ducks with crimson napes, canary-yellow ones, and among them swans mingled—ducks of such beauty as I’d never seen.

7th

Evening. As I descended the stone steps to the first torii gate, I suddenly noticed fallen chestnuts and thought, "The chestnuts have ripened," then looked up. On the high branch, three chestnuts—nearly dripping with dew—had split open with a grin, their husks peeling back distinctly. With my heart racing, I picked up dead branches and threw them, and as I did, I learned the knack and managed to hit them squarely. As I ran to search through the grass where the large burrs had split open with a pop and scattered, a dried husk fell and struck my head so thoroughly that—Ah, right!—I recalled an old trick and pulled my haori over my head like a hood. I put a handful of chestnuts into my sleeve and brought them back, but when I spilled them out onto the desk, insect dust scattered beautifully.

It was said that snow had come to Yakeyama.

8th

Honjin brought me snake gallbladder and buckwheat flour buns. When I mentioned the chestnuts, he told me there was a large chestnut tree on the western side of the island, so I followed him down the cliff behind the shrine. Amidst the thicket that would soon grow dense stood a chestnut tree, its figure like that of a valiant warrior spreading cracked, ferocious arms—yet not a single chestnut remained.

“Last year it got so bad you couldn’t even get through,” he said as we searched from tree to tree where they might be, but not a single burr had fallen. Honjin wore a look of idle uncertainty and headed around the cliff’s face, remarking, “There are pears to the south.” I gathered acorns all along the path instead of chestnuts. Honjin talked about things like how in the Kiso region they mix acorns with beans to make miso, or how deep in the mountains you can eat torreya nuts, hazelnuts, and beech nuts—all while leading the way ahead. On the southern cliff stood a kenbo pear tree. “This one also bore fruit so abundantly last year it was like they fell like rain.” “But there are only seven or eight left high up.” “We finally found three or four by parting through the undergrowth.” “They’re hard and small, but their fragrance was rich.” “Silverberries, knotweed flowers.”

9th

I descended to the beach at morning calm. The mountains draped a curtain of clouds; the lakeside shrubs, like maidens, reflected the morning visage; in the treetops, a bird came and sang a mellow rustic song.

Evening.

I dropped the chestnuts.

10th The north wind howled, carrying snow clouds, and it seemed the lake might freeze over by tonight. I built a roaring fire, peeled chestnuts, and cooked chestnut rice. Hunching my shoulders, I listened to the snow-laden wind howling through the forest.

Midnight. An unexpected moonlight streamed in brilliantly. The cry of an owl, the sound of the waves.

11th

Morning.

In the light rain, Honjin brought greens, a pheasant whistle, and a large basket full of shimeji mushrooms. Every time he came, Honjin brought along some rustic tale or another typical of the mountain village. That shimeji mushrooms were the finest in this area, and that people even ate those eerie ones with caps measuring a shaku (about 30 cm) in diameter—things like that.

Snow had come to the mountains during the night. The saying goes that if snow falls three times on Myoko, it will reach the village as well—and now, with the grass-cutting finished and the harvest begun, the village was in an uproar. The autumn festival on the twelfth—though called a festival, it was nothing of the sort. By then—having finished cutting the grass, eaten fresh buckwheat, and begun the harvest—they completed all farm work by mid-November; after which the people, bodies and minds unburdened, each departed for their chosen hot springs.

I headed to the pier. The mountains were buried in cold-looking clouds, and even the color of snow was nowhere to be seen. Fragments of fog, torn by the wind, scurried swiftly and silently across the water before my eyes. When I returned along the tree-lined path, a bush warbler sang on the frozen island, and no white-eyes called. Beyond the small flat area in front of this dwelling lay a steep cliff of five or six jō? It became a steep cliff, and below it lay the southern beach. On the cliff, amidst towering cedars, a zelkova trunk of elephant-hide gray spread its branches; the gnarled itaya stood like a rhinoceros, and the decayed enkianthus, having shed most of its boughs and leaves, lay entwined in kuzu and kadsura vines. On warm days, I opened the shoji screens to gaze upon these tall trees—their offspring standing like valiant warriors—and found solace in my heart. The clustered leaves of the trees, voraciously devouring sunlight, wove a beautiful pattern to form a natural canopy; through gaps here and there, patches of sky could be seen, and across those small skies, silver clouds drifted. The slightly larger tear in that canopy was the sole path through which heavenly light reached this house. Therefore, for me, morning dawned late, and the day faded away in the blink of an eye. When night fell, countless huge trunks became like malevolent spirits to intimidate people, and the stars, filtering through the clustered leaves, looked like cold tree fruits.

Afternoon.

Clear. I descended to the beach and washed mushrooms.

Evening. I gathered fallen chestnuts. Three or four. The first snow fell whispering upon the peaks of Myoko, Kurohime, and Iizuna; the mountains that until yesterday had loomed fearsome now wore a nostalgic countenance. Lingering clouds drifted about to depart. Small fish quietly slipped into the basket trap faintly visible at the water’s bottom. He found a peaceful lodging by the island’s shore, if only for a single night. He walked along Kojimagasaki’s sandbar while listening to lapping waves. This place was hemmed in by shrubs, forming a sort of crevice. The surrounding hills had grown quite deep in autumn foliage. Where had all those bush warblers that sang so abundantly gone? As I wondered this, I suddenly picked up a curved dead branch and felt tears welling up. Today grew later than ever before. The mountains and lake darkened, and all the birds returned to the island, perching on the treetops.

12th

Autumn festival.

In the morning, Honjin came to pick me up.

I walked along Madarao Road. The millet fields remained a youthful green indefinitely. The foxtail millet fields had turned a deep shrimp-red yet remained unharvested. In the area where sedge hats had been seen yesterday, a section of rice plants hung drying. When I turned back due to tired feet and entered the village, it was just as a mendicant nun emerged from beneath a house’s eaves where she had finished chanting sutras. As we passed each other, I casually peered beneath her deep-brimmed hat. Her cheeks—as if tinted with dye—her lips flushed from sutra recitation, her existence flowing like springwater through stone fissures: in this nun’s life lay such poignant beauty that none could dwell there tearlessly. She headed toward Madarao Road—where would she go next?

I went to Honjin’s place, where I had been invited beforehand, and drank shochu with a bird hotpot. Honjin, slightly drunk on a bit of shochu, turned crimson-faced like a mythical drunkard,

“Sir, I can no longer row the boat.”

he said. After walking around the area for a while to sober up, his complexion had somewhat returned, but he was still pinching his nose. The Shirane-oroshi blew with reckless abandon. 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 to you.” When the time comes for trout fry—who first flicked their fledgling fins at the mouth of a mountain spring many years prior—to become mothers and fathers, they recall the taste of that clear water first drawn into mouths that knew no mother’s breast, and return to those same reedy banks to let their own offspring drink; there, we sink our nets to catch them. “From the mountains and hills in all directions, countless crows return to the island.” “From now on, mountain birds driven by snow will all gather on this island until it’s covered in droppings—but come spring when the snow melts, they say you’ll find seeds from tree fruits and grass berries spread out like a carpet.”

At night, two horned owls came to the monk’s tree beside the shrine and croaked hoarsely as they foraged through the darkness.

13th

Afternoon. In the rain, I went down to the beach, drew water, and boiled edamame. The woodpecker ceaselessly patrolled the island, chattering reproachfully at the mere glimpse of a human shadow. This beautiful deep-mountain carver appeared as if, each day wielding a small chisel, it tried to carve the previous night’s dream into the tree trunk.

Honjin brought cabbage, taro, and shimeji mushrooms. A cabbage with leaves layered ten or twenty deep—looking almost edible in their lushness—shaggy taro, and mushrooms still fresh and whimsically shaped tumbled about together in the basket. Honjin

“I’ve picked up something else you’ll enjoy, Sir.” As he said this, he put on a face like Ebisu and produced twenty or thirty wild chestnuts from his sleeve. He also gave me eggplants and daikon pickled to a saliva-inducing hue, saying the landlady’s hometown miso pickles—now in their third year—were well-fermented. While I boiled water, cooked rice, and sliced pickles, Honjin chopped cabbage, went down to the beach, and washed the mushrooms and taro. Then, while drinking tea with cheap sweets, he remarked, “In Echigo and Etchu provinces there are nunneries everywhere with many nuns going out for alms.” “Around here too,” he continued, “when Buddhist memorial days come around, some houses enjoy sutra readings or offer lodging.” As we talked like this, the rice finished cooking.

“Thank you for the feast.”

With that, Honjin left. Left alone afterward, I happily shaved bonito flakes to make broth—as if I’d gained a king’s fortune—then took cabbage and mushrooms from the basket and tossed them in. The mushrooms bubbled and churned vigorously. I pressed down with the lid. Listening to the simmering sound inside, I thought I didn’t want to leave here.

Every night, the rats ate only the bodies of the camel crickets and left their legs scattered about. With no broom to sweep them away, the remains piled up in great numbers. Even as they were devoured again and again, other camel crickets still wandered about, their long legs flailing as if swaying.

Dream. Around midnight, I stood atop a great mountain covered with large trees, just like this island. By the faint light of the moon or stars, I could barely make out the ground. There were several paths leading down, but none led to any human settlement. I stood there without feeling lonely. When I suddenly looked up, countless hornet nests hung from branch to branch, and tens of thousands of bees, their wings seeming ready to catch fire, vigorously applied wax.

14th

Morning.

Just as I had finished my meal, Honjin arrived looking as if it were a major crisis,

“I caught trout! I caught trout!” Panting breathlessly, he brought down over four hundred ame trout. Freshly caught, their eyes still seemed alive. A coarse rope passed through their gills, their crow-tengu-like mouths gaping wide to reveal hook-like teeth. Their heads were glossy black like pottery, their bodies bore a reddish-black luster—a fish more ruggedly charming than beautiful. I filleted them and marinated them in miso. Honjin, saying he would gather firewood, dropped a rotten tree that had fallen on the cliff down to the beach and chopped rhythmically at it with a hatchet.

Afternoon.

The south wind calmed, and the sun began to beat down warmly. Before the north wind arrived, I went down to the beach to wash rice. A crab emerged from a hole at the base of a willow tree and stared curiously; when I quietly extended my finger—*snap*—it pinched me before hastily crawling back into its hole. By the time I finished washing the rice, the wind had already risen. I did laundry, bathed in the water, and returned. For dinner, I boiled and ate trout. It tastes of lake water.

Pier. The fog had completely enveloped everything, leaving only the lakeside flatland. “During the day, they harvest rice; at night, they thresh it,” Honjin had said, but even as dusk fell, people’s shadows kept moving busily in the fields, and something was piled high. As I watched a flock of crows cawing raucously while chasing one another homeward, clouds intermittently parted to reveal unexpected glimpses of sunset sky. At first, countless stars appeared over the surrounding hills. Then they began to squirm like larvae, gradually growing larger until they took the shape of birds—their black wings visible, their voices audible—and I realized they were all crows returning to the island. Crows are truly the farmers among birds. With their strong beaks as plows, they till ceaselessly throughout the day, never wearying of their labor. Therefore, their plumage shines a beautiful navy-black, and their robust songs resound across fields and mountains.

Just past the first torii gate stood the most beautiful cedar tree on the island. The trunk, about an armful’s girth, and another section three armfuls around split into two from the base, with coin-patterned lichen growing on both trunk and branches like chintz designs, while flowers bloomed in profusion amidst dusky black leaves. The large wasp nest exquisitely suspended beneath those high branches was one of the daily pleasures when I came here. The jar-shaped palace, adorned with spiral reliefs, had entrances in many places; on warm days, hundreds of knights clad in crimson-laced armor would surge forth eagerly across the lake toward the fragrant lips of lovers who awaited them with smiles.

15th

As the day of my return draws near, each morning when I wake, an indescribable loneliness wells up within me.

Today, an old man came alone to visit the shrine and introduced himself as being from such-and-such village in Kubiki District, Kuninaka, Echigo Province. “You staying here like this—are you performing some religious austerities? If you are, then us talking like this must be a disturbance...” With that, he slowly lowered himself to sit down. I— “No, I do not perform religious austerities.”

When told this, he seemed calmer yet unconvinced. While observing my demeanor, he muttered to himself: “As I said earlier, I’m from Echigo—came yesterday with my children to visit relatives in this village, stayed overnight, and now I’ve paid my respects here. But I’ll be taking the children back soon.” The old man appeared to have offered a lamp at the shrine. “Put it out—it’s dangerous,” he instructed the child, still unsatisfied, then pressed on: “What do you do here? What do you do?” “I was born in the city and tired of it—that’s why I’ve shut myself away in this place,” I answered dismissively. The old man gaped his mouth open, scanning the surrounding forest and rafters—

“As expected, come nightfall, you must have visitors for conversation.”

he started saying something strange. Since I must have looked puzzled, “Well, I’ve heard tell since ancient times that in places like this, Lord Tengu and the gods come down to hold conversations.” he said. I replied earnestly, “In this season, such things rarely occur anymore.” When told this, he seemed unable to contain his emotion and nodded emphatically. “I wonder if His Majesty the Emperor might take the form of a maiden.” he said. After staring so intently at my face that it felt like holes might bore through,

“I must apologize for my rudeness.”

He bowed politely and left. According to a story my aunt told me when I was small, Lord Tengu would occasionally do things like this to torment people. I’m glad I managed not to say anything that might have irritated you.

Today, the passing showers set in again. Through the cloud-like tangle of large cedar branches, glistening rain streaks were visible. For the evening meal’s dishes, I grilled trout and boiled taro root and cabbage.

16th

I was awakened by the voices of birds leaving the island at dawn. When I opened my eyes, there came the pattering sound of droplets striking leaves.

While listening to the pouring autumn rain, I peeled chestnuts and cooked chestnut rice.

Evening.

Today being the final day, I headed to the pier during a break in the rain. Through breaks in the fog that had settled over both hills and village, the deep colors of autumn leaves could be seen, and undaunted by the rain, people cut rice late into the day. I stood rooted there, lingering regretfully, on and on and on. The birds all returned home. The rice harvesters vanished from view, and the fog itself turned into darkness. Today I lit both lamps and stood on the pier, watching the firelight reflected in the water form shapes like the characters 「し」 and 「く」.

17th

The terrifying Shirane-oroshi blew. Early in the morning, Honjin came to pack the luggage and carried it down to the boat one by one. Today, as the wind was strong, he had tied up the boat in Kojimagasaki Cove. I descended to the torii gate, boarded the boat tied to the shore post, and waited for Honjin, who was doing the final cleaning. The island’s trees roared and roared, and clouds brimming with sunlight flew like galloping horses.

I set out in the boat.

Praiseworthy indeed—the island, crimsoned with autumn foliage, appeared like a mandarin duck. This island must have been a single mandarin duck at the dawn of the land. He had incurred the jealousy of the god Magatsuhi, lost his sole beloved, and in his overwhelming grief became this very island. Therefore, even now thousands of years later in this age, when autumn comes and the descendants of that child cross over to that inlet, drawn by the bonds of affection, they reveal their beautiful forms of old.

No sooner had I rounded the cape than great waves came one after another; dodging them again and again, I reached the lakeshore.