Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

South of Hitachi Province’s Lake Kasumigaura lies a slender island called Floating Island, with a circumference of three ri. Over two hundred houses stood lined along the western shore, the distance to the opposite bank no wider than the Sumida River—close enough that if you were to call out, the ferryman would answer and row over. Yet the eastern side was dominated entirely by mountains and fields, and beyond them stretched a mile and a half of open water where even the great pine of Asō Tennōzaki appeared no larger than the Komatsunagi Pine depicted on a woman’s folding fan.

In the northeast corner of this Floating Island, amidst a vast thicket of reeds stretching as far as the eye could see, there stood a solitary hut that had endured since ancient times. This was the dwelling of Mansaku the fisherman. From summer through winter, reeds taller than a man grew thick and dense, leaving no trace of where the house stood. Yet those passing through might suddenly hear a duck’s cry from within the reeds, glimpse a ruddy fishing net jutting upward without warning, or watch a thin trail of blue smoke melt serenely into the sky. But there existed a clearer marker than these. It was the song that welled up from these reeds—the song sung by Mansaku’s daughter O-Hikari.

“Floating Island’s specialties—first daikon radishes, second crucian carp and eel, third O-Hikari’s song…”—so often did the island’s young people sing this that truly, there was no one in these parts who did not know of O-Hikari’s song. When the autumn sun sank westward, and waterfowl streaked two or three at a time from the indigo-tinted ridges of Magake through the golden sky toward Tsukuba; when the horizons of Takahama, Asō, and Itako turned a wash of pale violet; when a lopsided moon rose forlornly over Utsushima’s sky and crimson water rippled beneath Floating Island’s yellowed, withered reeds—it was then that a pure voice welled from the heavens. Piercing the autumn twilight’s hushed air, its undulating waves—now soaring, now sinking—quivered every reed leaf one by one, then rippled across Lake Kasumigaura’s waters until even the island’s rough fishermen, returning from smelt catches, shuddered and stilled their oars. Indeed, this song was Floating Island’s true specialty.

Ah, but alas, that song is no longer heard. Mansaku’s hut still stands in the reeds of Floating Island. But that song is no longer heard. Even if one were to stand until sunset, that song can no longer be heard.

II

It was fourteen or fifteen years ago—honest Mansaku, his hair already streaked with white, back then still a man in his fifties who could raise and lower an oar with one hand, a fisherman who also engaged in some farming. Their poverty wasn’t overwhelming, but their hardship had one singular aspect—they had no child. In their younger days they’d had no such worries, but as they approached fifty, this single concern weighed heavily on them. Husband and wife would speak of it upon waking and pray morning and evening to the revered Mount Tsukuba. One day Mansaku went to Itako to buy net thread and returned late. When his wife saw what he pulled from his pocket with a “Here’s a souvenir,” it was a beautiful infant girl. “What in the world is this child?” “This? This? This here… Old woman, we oughta give thanks to the revered Mount Tsukuba.”

Mansaku and his wife used their bodies as a living screen at night, letting no draft touch her. With no milk to give, they fed her daily with broth from rice gruel they cooked themselves. When her teeth began emerging, they shredded carp and crucian carp meat for her budding teeth to gnaw on. "Crawl then stand, stand then walk—such is a parent's heart," they murmured, forgetting their own advancing age as they cherished O-Hikari. She crawled. She stood. She walked. She grasped chopsticks alone—utterly adorable, yet undeniably peculiar. She never spoke, making them fear she might be mute. Instead, she watched everything intently, listened keenly to all things. From infancy, she'd gaze transfixed at steam curling freely from their kettle. She stared in wonder at fluttering butterflies. Given flowers or grass, she'd contemplate them endlessly. Wind's whispers, rain's patter, birds' calls—she'd cock her head and listen with rapt absorption. When older and taken boating, she'd marvel at mountains and water before scooping handfuls with maple-leaf hands, letting liquid trickle through her fingers without fear. Once Mansaku brought home a goldfish swirling in a glass orb—who knows where obtained—and gave it to her. After staring awhile, she carried it shoreward, released it into the lake, then clapped delightedly watching its shimmering form swim free. Birds enchanted her most—memorizing each species' cry, she'd spread arms winglike at sparrows or crows, flapping them as if dancing.

Standing by the reeds where waterfowl dwelled, she would watch them fly off toward distant Mount Tsukuba—and even after they vanished from sight, she’d gaze at the sky for half an hour, an hour, on end.

From around three or four years old, O-Hikari didn’t speak—instead, she often sang. She had a voice so pure, like a silver bell. Whether she was inside, outside, or playing, she was always singing something. No one had taught her; she sang on her own. As for her songs—they hovered between meaning and meaninglessness—yet she sang them in such a beautiful voice, with such a captivating melody, that all who heard could not help but smile faintly. She would also say the most peculiar things. “Mama, I wanna be a butterfly… Wanna suck on flowers ’stead of eatin’ food an’ fly around…” “Papa, why does that puff-puff rise up? Does it go to heaven? I wanna go too… Hey, turn me into puff-puff!” One winter, when Mansaku caught ducks with a sticky net and was plucking their feathers, she saw this and said: “Oh Papa, you’re takin’ away Totto’s clothes! Totto’s cryin’ ‘I’m cold, I’m cold!’” Another time, when Mansaku had caught a carp and was preparin’ it, she clung to his right hand and said: “Oh Papa, no no! I don’t wanna eat fish anymore!” And with those adorable hands, she wiped the blood flowin’ from the carp’s fin and tried to fit each fallen scale back into place. Mansaku and his wife, comforted day by day by O-Hikari as she grew, doted on their butterfly-like child while murmurin’: “What a strange child she be.” “She’s a strange child.” Thus they spoke together.

Bunka no Sawa had reached even this island village, and though crude, an elementary school had been set up. When O-Hikari turned eight—despite her parents’ protests about the road being too far with no companion—she ignored them and walked the two-ri round trip daily with her lunchbox. Whose bloodline she had inherited remained unknown; though taciturn by nature, her scholarly gifts were such that within months she overtook even the village headman’s preening eleven- and twelve-year-olds to claim first rank in her class. The teacher doted on her. Jealousy festered. The women banded together to shun O-Hikari. The boys taunted her at every turn. Yet O-Hikari simply hid away and paid them no heed. Then someone began whispering—“O-Hikari’s a foundling! A castoff!”—until all took up the chant: “Foundling! Foundling!” That evening upon returning home,O-Hikari whirled toward her mother:“Mama—am I a foundling? Huh? An abandoned child?” Her mother stiffened but recovered:“Don’t talk nonsense! You’re no foundling.” “It’s lies!”

The next evening, as soon as O-Hikari returned home again, she said, “Mama, am I a foundling? Huh? A foundling?” Though she had begun with a dismissive “Don’t be silly!”, night after night O-Hikari would fixate and relentlessly press the question, until Mother—perhaps realizing that sealing the truth indoors would do no good once it had already leaked outside—one evening drew O-Hikari onto her lap and, through tears, told her everything. Namely, seven years prior on a night of fierce kogarashi winds—terrifyingly cold—O-Hikari had been abandoned among the reeds between Shioto and Ushibori, crying so hard she could scarcely breathe, when Mansaku found and brought her home; but as there had been no identifying marks, her birth parents—who they were, what sort of people—remained entirely unknown. For seven years, we had never even dreamed of such a thing—so now she is entirely a daughter of this house—she explained in detail through tears. O-Hikari listened in silence, but when she had finished listening, she teared up and hung her head. Peering into her face, Mother said, “O-Hikari. I’m already growing old, bit by bit.” “From now on, you’re my only support,” she said, whereupon O-Hikari spilled tears in streams and suddenly clung to the old woman’s neck.

After that, no matter how they tried to persuade her, she refused to go to school. She stayed home playing all day. Once she asked, “Mama, what happens to abandoned children?” but after seeing how it wounded her mother’s heart, she never asked anything again. She stopped inquiring about whether her real parents existed. Yet though she never spoke of it, a single shadow of sorrow lingered in her small heart like unmoving mist—visible even to outsiders. Poor O-Hikari, still only seven or eight years old, found herself constantly dwelling—if unconsciously—on thoughts of being an abandoned child and her unknown parents, her heart tormented by questions she couldn’t unravel alone. The only one who knew this truth was Heaven above.

III

Mansaku’s house, as mentioned before, was a solitary dwelling in the northeastern corner of Floating Island, and when it came to the view, it likely commanded what was perhaps the island’s foremost scenery.

Behind it, starting from the fields, the land connected immediately to the mountains; to the left and right grew nothing but vast reeds in countless layers—thick and wild—with only the front remaining slightly open. Through this open space seeped Lake Kasumigaura all the way to the house’s entrance, while across this same opening stretched the Tsukuba mountain range in a straight horizontal line. Before the house stood stakes driven into the water with planks laid across them—here they washed their faces on frosty mornings, rinsed rice, did laundry, tidied up after meals, cleaned nets following evening showers, and scrubbed mud-caked hoes beneath moonlit dusks. In the water lay perpetually fallen shards of rice bowls, scattered grains, vegetable leaves—all swarmed by small fish and water striders. At the stake just opposite sat a small boat moored close enough to graze Mount Tsukuba itself, with ducks constantly splashing about nearby. Beyond this lay a large fish basket holding eels and crucian carp half-submerged in water—farther still grew chaotic reeds: some stretching cloudward while others snapped mid-stem; leaves floated; roots sank; shadows rippled on water that swayed reflections—shadow or form? Form or shadow? Deep or shallow? All became indistinguishable. To the right rose a clothesline pole; beyond it in a reed-thinned clearing stood an ancient willow stump—sitting here revealed Lake Kasumigaura spread before one’s eyes. There flew waterfowl; skimmed white sails; emerged clouds that hid Mount Tsukuba; leapt fish tracing rings upon water. Ah—but words failed to capture it all.

The house of Mansaku that commanded this breathtaking scenery had only its master lacking poetic grace. Though worthy of being sung about as a fisherman’s dwelling, its interior was merely a single undivided room with a hearth dug into the floor, a soot-blackened adjustable pot hook hanging above, and every corner crammed with fishing implements. Behind the house stood chicken and duck coops separated by just one wall, their mornings and evenings filled with clamor. At daybreak, the three members of Mansaku’s household would rise straightaway, scoop Lake Kasumigaura’s water to wash their faces, pay respects to the Sun God, then open the coops to release the ducks—this being O-Hikari’s duty—while Mansaku might go fishing for seasonal carp, crucian carp or eels; be hired for net-hauling; occasionally hunt ducks; or otherwise sow barley and tend radishes in the back field. Gathering firewood, weeding, sewing and cooking fell to the old woman’s lot, while O-Hikari sometimes joined the old man on boat outings or played freely alone. Come nightfall, Mansaku would usually grow tipsy on bedtime sake; when sober, he fashioned straw sandals or wove raincoats. Under the dim glow of an oil lamp, Mother patched clothes and mended nets while O-Hikari—even after quitting school—still applied herself diligently to reading and writing practice. Who had nurtured her heart?

O-Hikari’s body was raised by Mansaku and his wife, but what nurtured her heart was Mount Tsukuba and Lake Kasumigaura. To Mansaku—who saw the mountains only for weather signs and the waters only for fish movements, indifferent to how Lake Kasumigaura might shift or how Mount Tsukuba might appear—nothing else was visible; but through O-Hikari’s eyes, how marvelously and wondrously must the scenery—shifting moment by moment with the seasons—have appeared! When the willow at the back door draped its green threads and pale purple buds began to sprout here and there among the withered reeds—then came the saying: “Before snow speaks its arrival, first comes Mount Tsukuba cloaked in purple.” Because of the mist, it grew distant—Lake Kasumigaura, true to its name, was a sea of spring haze. In that expanse, here one, there two—white sails small enough to rest on a palm—drifted unseen into the mist’s depths; how wistfully must that scene have imprinted itself upon O-Hikari’s heart. Then summer came. All around was nothing but deep blue reeds, reeds, reeds. The winds of the world—every last one of them—seemed to unite and blow here, or so it felt. Then came a sudden evening downpour. From Mount Tsukuba’s peak, lightning split the sky—two or three crackling streaks plunging into the lake—as thunder roared. Pitch-black clouds scattered across the heavens in the blink of an eye. A gust of cold wind whipped up waves; before one could finish saying “the reeds at the doorway rustle…,” a sudden downpour roared from Asou, sweeping sideways across the lake’s surface. Two or three fishing boats, frantic to row through, were engulfed almost instantly—erasing a flock of startled ducks along with their cries—before blurring the willow tree right before one’s eyes with a single brushstroke of pale ink. The sky cleared, darkened; above the ink-black forest’s spine, an evening moon rose faintly into dawn-clouds, silver droplets scattering without wind—pattering. The darkness revealed water and reeds like an ink painting, flickering faintly, while the air all around was thick with fireflies. How refreshingly cool must O-Hikari’s heart have felt.

Autumn came. A vast expanse of reeds swayed in unison, singing an elegy for the autumn wind. The reed flowers bloomed. The wild geese cried. A cold rain fell. The reeds gradually began to wither. Before long, morning frost lay white upon each and every leaf of the boundless reeds, and Lake Kasumigaura—polished to perfection—spread out like a mirror, its breath rising in white wisps to meet the vast sky. Mount Tsukuba, once distant, drew near enough to see its pores, and by sunset, one could almost count each stone step of Aomizaki Kannon beneath its shadow. How deeply must O-Hikari’s heart have absorbed this pristine scenery?

Winter came. The scenery grew desolate. The crisp sound of waterfowl wings struck her chest. And when the snow began to fall, the sky and lake merged into a single mass, obscuring even Mount Tsukuba and anything beyond arm’s reach—the snow swirling down in relentless flurries. No sound of oars could be heard, nor any birdsong; only the occasional snap of withered reeds breaking under the weight of accumulating snow. In such times, how lonely and sorrowful O-Hikari’s heart must have felt.

After she stopped going to school, she grew even more distant from society; and though Mansaku and his wife’s love for her remained unchanged since learning she was an abandoned child, their hearts now seemed to bear some flaw, leaving them constantly sunk in brooding thoughts. What provided some solace were songs and Mount Tsukuba. One might say O-Hikari sang before she even spoke. What did she sing? They were not the folk songs commonly sung on this island. The lyrics were indistinct, yet they seemed to carry profound emotion—as if appealing to someone—as she would raise her silvery voice, drawing out the notes only to pull them back, her rhythm—untaught by anyone—naturally settling into exquisite harmony. Even she grew entranced by her own voice, and so it seemed she found solace in this very act. She sang even while working. Even while playing, she sang. She sang whether she was inside or outside. But her most cherished time was when the sunset was beautiful—sitting on the old willow stump in front of the house, gazing at distant Mount Tsukuba as she sang. Mount Tsukuba had been O-Hikari’s friend since childhood. Naturally so—for when she rose in the morning, washed her face, and lifted her eyes, there was Mount Tsukuba turned toward her, grinning as though about to say, “Good morning, O-Hikari.” In the evening, after putting away the meal and returning to gaze from the old willow stump, Mount Tsukuba faced her as though about to say, “Goodnight, O-Hikari. See you tomorrow.” Wherever she went, if she but raised her eyes, Mount Tsukuba was always facing her way. At times it would play peek-a-boo from behind the reeds, but given the slightest opening, it would pop out its face as if to say, “Boo! O-Hikari, I’ve been right here all along.” Having grown so accustomed to seeing it since childhood, Mount Tsukuba seemed alive in O-Hikari’s heart—from her earliest years, she would gaze at it and exclaim, “Oh! The mountain’s put on a purple robe!” “Oh! The mountain’s put on a pale turquoise robe.” “Oh! The mountain’s put on a white robe.” “Oh! The mountain’s gone into the curtain now,” she would say. When winter came and the mountain appeared bare-boned and emaciated, she would say, “Oh! The mountain looks so cold.”

When the snow-clad mountain vanished from view, O-Hikari remained despondent all day long. The older she grew, the deeper her bond with the mountain became; the more she gazed upon it, the more vividly alive it appeared. With a sorrowful thought in her heart, as she sat on the willow stump gazing fixedly, the mountain seemed to draw gradually nearer to O-Hikari’s eyes, smiling and beckoning with a small hand. “O-Hikari, what are you worrying about? What are you thinking about? You want to meet your real parents. What is making you sad? Don’t cry. We’re watching over you,” they said with a gentle expression, gazing steadily this way. The more she gazed, the more she felt joy, sorrow, longing, and nostalgia—O-Hikari yearned to skim across Lake Kasumigaura’s glistening surface and cling to the mountain, envying the wings of birds in flight—when a voice consoled her: “Don’t fret. Soon, you’ll come to our side. Until then, endure,” gazing this way with a gentle expression. She gazed and gazed until the sun set, and even after her beloved Mount Tsukuba vanished into the depths of twilight, she remained standing there—until she heard her foster mother’s insistent voice calling, “O-Hikari! What are you doing out so late?” She kept gazing until she heard her foster mother’s voice clamoring, “Hey, hurry up and get over here!” To O-Hikari’s eyes, Mount Tsukuba—its male and female forms standing serenely side by side between water and sky—seemed not merely human-like but akin to two parents. Its tranquil, gentle, grand, noble, and pure visage felt so dear, so dear that when she sang before it, it was as though she had collapsed into her parents’ laps to weep over sorrows borne elsewhere. She would sing until she cried—and in doing so, her heart found solace.

Four

Autumn at Lake Kasumigaura returned time and again, and O-Hikari—the fisherman’s daughter—greeted her fourteenth spring. Her frayed striped cotton kimono bore stains, her hair was carelessly tied up, yet she possessed an unadorned beauty that seemed to inherit her birth parents’ refinement—a radiance true to her name “Light,” shining without polish. Her disheveled hair outshone snow’s purity with its luster; lips like crimson plum blossoms, brows delicately arched—her gaze held a clarity beyond compare, neither jade nor dew nor autumn waters capturing its beauty. She made no effort to neaten herself, always wearing a sleeveless kimono with an old hand towel wrapped about her head—laundering clothes, cooking meals, sometimes joining the old man on fishing trips, rowing with oars skillfully despite her slender arms. Such was her heaven-sent comeliness that when she visited Itako with him, a brothel keeper once saw O-Hikari and declared, “This one’s remarkable—worth three hundred ryō!” Though island youths often fawned over her when she passed, O-Hikari appeared wholly unaware.

Autumn gradually grew older, and the hunting season reached its prime. One day, as O-Hikari was drying daikon radishes at the back of the house, her mother’s voice called out, “O-Hikari! O-Hikari!” When she went out to the garden to look, she saw three or four young men in Western-style attire carrying guns, and another man shouldering a net bag stuffed full of rabbits and ducks—this one was from the island—all standing there making a racket. “O-Hikari! Since Papa isn’t here, you’ll need to accompany these guests to Ushibori,” her mother said. This was a hunting party from Tokyo; having come over the back mountain, they likely needed passage across the water. She deftly prepared the boat, laid out reed matting for the guests to sit on, and immediately began rowing. One of the guests, unburdened by traveler’s reserve, tugged a companion’s coat hem and jerked his chin toward O-Hikari. “Quite a beauty,” he said. “Too good to be stuck out here, ain’t she?” The man carrying the net chuckled softly and said, “O-Hikari, the gentlemen are praising you. Won’t you sing a song for them? Hmm, O-Hikari?” “Is she good at singing?” “Good? She’s the best singer around here! “They call her the Floating Island’s famous attraction!” “Well now, that’s curious.” “Hey, girl, won’t you sing something for us?” “That’s right! This here’s a real treat.” O-Hikari, feigning not to hear the clamorous voices urging “I’d love to hear a song!” and bothered by the group’s stares, kept her face turned away as she rowed. Yet when she glanced sidelong without meaning to, someone immediately caught her eye. Who else but their party’s leader—indeed, he was unmistakably a young nobleman of high birth. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, with thick eyebrows, piercing eyes, and fair skin that marked him a handsome man. He wore a pale turquoise velvet hunting cap and an eggshell-colored woolen hunting outfit, his cartridge belt smartly fastened and thin leather gaiters strapped on. Sitting cross-legged, he idly held a pipe from which Manila tobacco smoke curled. While gazing absently, she started when the young nobleman suddenly turned toward her. Flustered, O-Hikari bent forward to push the oar—only to catch sight of her disheveled hair reflected in the water, her cheeks flushing crimson. Her reflection blushed too. Suddenly self-conscious, she kept one hand on the oar while smoothing her hair with the other.

The guests were clamoring noisily. I listened intently, wondering if this commotion concerned me—but no, it did not. Yet an uneasiness stirred in my chest, my heart pounding as though others might hear its thrum. After some time passed, they arrived at Ushibori and the group noisily went ashore. "You’ve had quite the ordeal, Beauty. Here’s a little something for a hairpin," said one of them, handing her a few crumpled bills. O-Hikari accepted them without enthusiasm, watching their departure with resignation. She let out a weary sigh and was about to turn the boat around when she noticed something white lying in the hull. When she picked it up to examine it, there lay a white silk handkerchief edged with purple stitching. O-Hikari—wondering what impulse moved her—gently touched her cheek with it before tucking it into her kimono.

“Old woman, what’s happened to O-Hikari? She’s actin’ strange, ain’t she?” These were Mansaku’s words to his wife about fourteen or fifteen days after the aforementioned events. “Somethin’ ain’t right.” “She’s always been an odd kid, but lately, she’s been actin’ real strange.” She had gradually stopped singing her songs altogether. She had stopped gazing at the mountain as well. She did her work. But she seemed to lack enthusiasm. She was constantly sighing. Moreover, unlike before, she also began to care about her hair. She gazed at her reflection in the water. Toward her parents, she spoke even less than before. She sighed vacantly, her gaze fixed nowhere in particular. Even the good-natured Mansaku, growing old and prone to grumbling—with a touch of spitefulness emerging—seemed to suspect that O-Hikari, that damnable girl, might be neglecting them out of longing for her real parents. At times he would scold her more harshly than ever before, but O-Hikari merely listened in silence, without uttering a word in protest—until Mansaku himself, overcome with guilt, would stop. “O-Hikari would never do such a thing.” This was the old woman’s attempt to placate Mansaku.

Amidst the uncertainty, two or three months had passed, and O-Hikari turned fifteen in February. O-Hikari boarded a boat with the old man and went to Katō Island; after stopping by Itako to complete their errands and beginning their return journey, they noticed another boat moored nearby—splendidly prepared for guests with a rug laid out and even tobacco and tea trays arranged. Soon after, a man arrived carrying three or four guns bundled together on his shoulder, followed by the clamorous footsteps of a large group of men and women trailing behind him. As they descended toward the boats, a mingled stench of perfume and liquor assaulted them. At the forefront was a woman—a prostitute—her shoulders gripped by a staggeringly drunk man whose eyes glazed bloodshot as he lurched forward in unsteady steps. When they saw him, they were astonished: it was that handsome young nobleman who had ridden in their boat last autumn. The Young Nobleman, utterly devoid of composure in his drunkenness, collapsed spread-eagle into the boat the moment he boarded. O-Hikari gasped in shock, staring at him first with bewilderment, then sorrow, and finally bitter resignation—before urging the old man to depart. Ignoring the commotion behind them and the prostitute’s coquettish laughter (“Do come again! Ohohohohoho!”), they pushed the boat out onto the water. “Hey, O-Hikari! What’re you throwin’ away?” “That white thing… huh?” “Hmm, a handkerchief?” “What’re you doin’?” O-Hikari did not answer. She fell silent.

That day, upon returning home, when Mansaku heard O-Hikari singing as though she had suddenly remembered how after months of silence, he said, “Granny... O-Hikari’s a strange child, ain’t she? I thought somethin’ was wrong since she hadn’t sung in ages, and then she up and starts singin’ again.” Indeed, O-Hikari had started singing again after a long time, and also sat down on the willow stump after a long interval. And after a long interval, she gazed toward Mount Tsukuba. Then Mount Tsukuba seemed to say, “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, Hikari-chan? What’s been the matter with you?” As though saying *“Welcome back,”* it still gazed serenely, nobly, and purely.

Five

O-Hikari now avoided going out among people more than ever before, and even when men tried to jest with her, she would abruptly turn her face away. In return, she became even more devoted to her parents than before. She didn’t speak much, but indeed paid meticulous attention. Had she forgotten about her birth parents? In front of the Mansaku couple, she showed no outward signs, but when alone, she would sink into deep, deep contemplation. At such times, she would immediately sing. She sang in a deeply sorrowful manner. She would sing and then weep; when she wept, she would immediately go to the willow stump and gaze at Mount Tsukuba. She gazed for a little while longer. Mount Tsukuba had always comforted O-Hikari’s heart.

Mansaku and his wife were now past sixty, their bodies growing increasingly frail. Mansaku in particular had recently injured his right arm from rheumatism, forcing him to take long breaks from work. With poor catches persisting and nets tearing, their livelihood grew ever more precarious—until finally, he began drinking more heavily than ever before, drunkenly lashing out at the blameless O-Hikari. But O-Hikari did not utter a word in protest. With her small arms—she was barely fifteen—she worked diligently catching eels and setting nets. Moreover, whenever she had even a little free time at night, she would take out the practice sheets the teacher had written for her and work on her calligraphy. Though Mansaku would sometimes lash out, when met with such tenderness he would start whimpering and clutch O-Hikari to his chest; she too would cling to him, and before they knew it parent and child would sit facing each other in tears.

In time, Mansaku’s rheumatism gradually worsened, until finally he became bedridden. Their livelihood grew increasingly dire.

It had reached mid-August. One day, a man named Kantarou—an acquaintance of Mansaku’s from the same island—came to visit and made this proposal. It concerned the son of Itako’s wealthiest family who had taken a fancy to O-Hikari at some point and now insisted on making her his concubine—offering fifty yen as preparation money along with ten yen monthly and a set of nets for Mansaku and his wife. Mansaku nodded to each point, dismissed Kantarou, and immediately called O-Hikari to explain the proposal. O-Hikari stared fixedly at the old man’s face with desolation before shaking her head and going outside. Mansaku grew furious. Kantarou returned every three days to press the matter. The old woman interjected from inside: “Please don’t do such a heartless thing.” To O-Hikari she murmured: “Papa wasn’t always like this—O-Hikari. At his age—O-Hikari—and with that illness too—O-Hikari—don’t you fret over it now—O-Hikari.”

O-Hikari never cried where others could see her, but whenever she had even a moment to spare, she would immediately go to the willow stump. There, singing softly under her breath, she would gaze at Mount Tsukuba’s twin peaks rising into the distant heavens and sink into deep contemplation.

Before long, it became September. From the beginning of the month, the weather had been an unpleasant mix of sweltering heat and biting cold, but with each passing day, the skies grew increasingly ominous; by mid-month, it was as though the very gates of heaven had burst open—torrential rains and gales descended, and from then on, it rained ceaselessly day after day, pouring and pouring until it seemed it would never end. “The lake’s waters swell with the May rains”—and water from all directions poured relentlessly into Lake Kasumigaura. The waters of Lake Kasumigaura gradually pushed southward. Floating Island lay directly in its path, making it utterly unbearable. The water breached the entrance of Mansaku’s house. Soon, it reached the floor. Even after lining up barrels and laying down planks, the water inside was already surging in relentlessly, and the house could no longer hold out. Even Mansaku, whose condition had somewhat improved, managed to rouse himself, and the three family members exerted great effort to build a makeshift hut on the back mountain that barely sheltered them from the elements, where they then lived. Perhaps due to having exerted himself in this way, from that evening Mansaku’s arm began to hurt terribly, and he even developed a slight fever, appearing to feel parched as he kept repeating that he wanted *shochu*—wanted *shochu*. He muttered deliriously. *Shochu!* “*Shochu* in this water!”

There was none to be found on the island. She would have to cut through a ri and a half of water to get to Asou. O-Hikari sat on the straw mat, quietly rubbing the old man’s arm as she gazed at his fever-glazed eyes tinged red, watched the large beads of sweat welling from his white-haired head and deeply wrinkled forehead, and observed his lips growing parched and cracked. Then, gently laying his arm down, she took the one-shō flask lying there and stepped outside. The rain had stopped, and the sky was filled with stars. The moon was also out. When she looked down below, their house was half submerged in water, and the tied-up boat floated halfway up the trunk of the backyard willow tree. When she shaded her eyes and looked ahead, there was an endless expanse of water with not a bird in sight, and muddy waves swirling into eddies could be seen flowing under the moonlight. Asou lay submerged beyond sight, as though separated by a great sea. When gazing far to the north, the familiar Lake Kasumigaura seemed to have abruptly surged upward, its waters forming a boundless expanse that soaked into the distant belly of the heavens, while every trace of land within sight lay sunken and diminished—leaving only Mount Tsukuba visible far in the distance, a blue silhouette beneath the moon’s glow. When looking further south, the waters of the Kitakone, Yokokone, and Shintone converged in one place, and Jūrokushima was nowhere to be seen—not a trace remained. The water’s force surged southward in a boundless, roaring expanse, sounding like a raging sea.

“Old woman—what’s O-Hikari doing?” “Goodness, what could O-Hikari be doing?” The old woman—who had been cooking rice—suddenly started and called out, “O-Hikari-chou! O-Hikari-chou!”, but there was no reply. She opened the mat door of the makeshift hut, craning her neck halfway out to look around while shouting “O-Hikari-chou! O-Hikari-chou!”, yet still there was no reply. When she frantically rushed out and looked down below, the boat that had been tied up was nowhere to be seen. Thinking *Could it be?*, she stretched up and shielded her eyes, peering through the moonlight—and there indeed was a small boat cutting through the raging waves toward Asou. When she listened closely, faintly audible amidst the roaring tumult of water was the creak of an oar. “Old man—O-Hikari has—! O-Hikari-chou! O-Hikari-chou!” When she stretched up and called out, Mansaku too came tumbling out, clung to a tree, and cried in a tearful voice, “O-Hikari-chou! Oo-Hikari-chou!”—but even as he called, the boat only drifted further and further from shore, until at last even the sound of its oar faded away. “O-Hikari-chou! Our O-Hikari-chou!” “Our O-Hikari-chou!” The old couple’s voices—strained to their limits in desperate cries—scattered fruitlessly into the empty sky, leaving only the vast waters of Lake Kasumigaura to churn and flow without end.

VI

The floodwaters lingered long before finally receding. Mansaku and his wife left their makeshift hut and returned to their waterlogged home. But O-Hikari did not return. She did not return. She did not return. Even now, she still has not returned. Mansaku and his wife spent their days weeping from dawn till dusk, going without even tea or salt; they hung sacred ropes around the willow stump where O-Hikari used to sit and prayed to Mount Tsukuba's divine spirit—yet still she never came back. The sole thing that returned was Mansaku's familiar sake flask, which had somehow washed ashore at Floating Island's southern tip.

The islanders held various discussions. The majority held to the theory that the boat had capsized, but there were also those who said she must have drifted ashore somewhere and simply never returned. This, however, was a story from later: Jirouhachi, a fisherman from the island, was returning from icefish fishing on a misty moonlit night when he faintly heard a singing voice that sounded exactly like O-Hikari’s. As he strained his ears to listen, it grew increasingly certain to him that it was hers. Using the voice as his guide, Jirouhachi rowed his boat onward—yet no matter how far he went, there was nothing but the boundless expanse of the hazy moonlit lake, with no human figure in sight. When he listened carefully, the singing voice seemed to be both beneath the water’s surface and in the sky above. After being lost in uncertainty for some time, he finally resolved to turn his boat back—whereupon the song’s voice grew distant at times and near at others, continuing to echo faintly for a long while, so it was said. But there were also those who claimed it was merely the call of waterfowl.

However, there were also those who said it was the sound of waterfowl.

A bitter melody fiercer than metal or stone; a pure sound vanishing into distant heavens. From the azure depths wells sorrowful yearning; the angelica breathes fragrant whispers.

Flowing waters pass through Xiangpu; sorrowful winds course through Dongting.

The song ended and the singer vanished; on the river, azure peaks stood silent.