Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

South of Lake Kasumigaura in Hitachi Province lies Ukishima—a slender island measuring three ri in circumference, called the Floating Island. Over two hundred houses stood ranked along the western shore, the span to the opposite bank being about the width of the Sumida River—so narrow that a shout would draw an answer and send the ferryman rowing out. Yet the eastern side lay wholly claimed by mountains and fields, beyond which stretched three and a half ri of waves where even the great pine of Asō Tennōzaki showed no larger than a New Year’s pine painted upon a lady’s folding fan.

In the northeastern corner of this Floating Island, amidst a vast expanse of densely growing reeds, there stood a solitary hut that had existed since ancient times. This was the home of Mansaku the fisherman. From summer through winter, reeds taller than a person grew thick and dense, making it impossible to tell where any house might be. Yet when passing through this area, one might suddenly hear a duck’s call from within the reeds, see a reddish-black net thrust up abruptly, or catch sight of a single wisp of blue smoke drifting serenely into the sky. But there was a more striking sign than those. It was the sound of a song welling up from within these reeds—the song sung by Mansaku’s daughter O-Hikari.

“Ukishima’s specialties—first daikon radish, second crucian carp and eel, third O-Hikari’s song…”—so often sung by the island’s young folk that there wasn’t a soul in these parts who didn’t know of O-Hikari’s song. When the autumn sun sank westward, and two or three waterbirds swooped from the indigo-tinted ridge of Mount Makake into the golden sky toward Tsukuba; when the direction of Takahama, Asō, and Itako turned a pale violet; when a lopsided moon rose forlornly over Jūrokushima’s sky; when crimson water rippled beneath Ukishima’s yellowed, withered reeds—then a pure voice welled from the heavens, shattering the evening’s solemn air. Intermittent sound waves now soared high, now sank low, trembling every single reed leaf before gradually resonating across Lake Kasumigaura’s waters—and even the island’s rough fishermen, returning from smelt fishing, shuddered and stilled their oars. Indeed, this song was Ukishima’s true specialty.

Ah, but that song was heard no more. Mansaku’s hut still stood in the reeds of Ukishima. But that song was heard no more. Even if one were to stand until sunset, that song was heard no more.

II

Fourteen or fifteen years ago—honest Mansaku, already white-haired even then—was still a man in his fifties who could hoist and lower an oar shaft single-handedly, fishing when needed and tending modest crops otherwise. There was no poverty that outpaced their earnings—save for one true poverty: their childlessness. When young they had no such cares; but upon nearing fifty winters’ slope grew anxious enough that husband and wife would discuss this matter upon waking each dawn and pray each dusk before Lord Tsukuba. One day Mansaku went to Itako for net thread and returned late; when she saw him pull from his breast what he called “a souvenir,” there lay a beautiful year-old girl. “What’s this now—this child?” “This...this here...this...Granny—we must give thanks to Lord Tsukuba.”

At night, Mansaku and his wife would use their own bodies like a screen, not letting even a draft through any gaps. Because there was no milk, they made porridge every day and fed her the broth. When her teeth began to emerge, they would pluck the flesh of carp and crucian carp, chewing it for her budding teeth to grip. “Crawl, then stand; stand, then walk—such is a parent’s heart, forgetting the old age accumulating in their own bodies.” Mansaku and his wife, forgetting their old age, loved O-Hikari. She crawled. She stood. She walked. She used chopsticks by herself. She was oh so adorable. But something was odd. She did not speak—so much so that Mansaku and his wife worried she might be mute. Instead, she looked closely at things and listened intently. From a very young age, she would curiously watch the steam rise from the kettle she skillfully handled. She gazed curiously at butterflies in flight. If someone picked her a flower or blade of grass, she would simply gaze at it endlessly. Wind, rain, birdsong—she would prick up her ears and listen to each with rapt attention. When they put her on a boat as she grew older, she would gaze curiously at mountains and water; then before long, scooping water with her maple-leaf hands only to spill it again and again, she showed not the slightest fear. One day, Mansaku had bought—from who knows where—a glass globe containing a goldfish and given it to her. O-Hikari gazed at it before carrying it to shore, submerging it in the lake with water still inside. As she watched the goldfish’s shadow swim freely away, she clapped her hands. She loved birds dearly and memorized various species’ calls. Whenever she saw sparrows or crows, O-Hikari would immediately spread both arms like wings and mimic their movements.

Standing by the reeds where waterbirds took flight, she would watch them vanish toward distant Mount Tsukuba—gazing at the empty sky for half an hour, even an hour, long after they’d disappeared.

From the age of three or four, instead of speaking, O-Hikari often sang. She had a truly pure voice, like that of a silver bell. Whether she was inside, outside, or at play, she would always be singing something. Without anyone having taught her, she sang alone. As for her songs—they hovered between meaning and meaninglessness—but she sang them in a voice so beautiful and melodies so enchanting that all who heard them smiled despite themselves. She also uttered utterly strange things. “Mama, I wanna become a butterfly,” she said. “I don’t wanna eat rice—I wanna sip flowers and fly around forever!” “Papa, why does that smokey-smoke keep rising up? Does it go to heaven? I wanna go too—c’mon, turn me into smokey-smoke!” Another winter, when Mansaku caught a duck with his sticky net and began plucking its feathers, she watched and cried, “Oh Papa! You’re taking off ducky’s clothes! Ducky’s crying, ‘Cold, cold!’”

Another time, when Mansaku had caught a carp and was preparing it, she watched him before clinging to his right hand and saying, “Oh Papa, no no—I don’t want to eat fish anymore.” And with her adorable hands, she wiped the blood flowing from the carp’s fin and tried to fit each fallen scale back into place. Mansaku and his wife, comforted daily by O-Hikari’s blossoming vivacity, would murmur as they doted on her butterfly-like whimsy: “What a strange child.” “She’s such a strange child.” Thus they spoke.

The reach of civilization extended even to this island village, where a modest elementary school was established. When O-Hikari turned eight, despite her parents’ refusal—arguing the road was too far and there was no one to accompany her—she paid them no heed, commuting daily along the one-ri road with her lunchbox in hand. Whose blood she inherited was unknown; though she spoke little, her academic talent proved so exceptional that within a short time, she surpassed even the village head’s child—an eleven- or twelve-year-old who boasted proudly—to claim the top rank in her class. The teacher doted on her. Jealousy arose. The women formed an alliance and ostracized O-Hikari. The boys would reprimand O-Hikari every time they passed her on the road. However, O-Hikari avoided and hid, paying no heed. Before long, someone started saying that O-Hikari was a foundling, an abandoned child—until finally they all jeered in unison: “Foundling! Abandoned child!” That evening, the moment O-Hikari returned home, she abruptly turned to her mother and asked, “Mama…am I a foundling?” “Huh? An abandoned child?” Granny was startled but quickly composed herself. “Nonsense! A foundling?” “Nonsense!”

The next evening, as soon as O-Hikari returned home again, she blurted out: “Mama, I’m a foundling, aren’t I? Huh? A foundling?” Though Granny had denied it with a curt “Nonsense!”, night after night O-Hikari pressed her with relentless questions—so much so that Granny, perhaps realizing the futility of stopping rumors outside while keeping secrets within, one evening pulled O-Hikari into her lap and tearfully told her everything. Seven years prior, on a night of bone-chilling cold with howling northwesterly winds, O-Hikari had been abandoned in the reeds between Shioto and Ushibori, wailing so desperately she could barely breathe—until Mansaku found her and brought her home. With no identifying marks left behind, her birth parents—who they were, how many there might have been—remained wholly unknown. For seven years they had never even suspected such a truth, so Granny explained meticulously that she now belonged entirely to this household. O-Hikari listened in silence, but when the words ended, her eyes brimmed with tears and she bowed her head. Peering into her face, Granny murmured, “O-Hikari… We’re getting older day by day now.” “From now on, you’ll be our only strength,” she said, whereupon O-Hikari burst into tears and suddenly clung to Granny’s neck.

After that, no matter how much they pleaded, she refused to go to school anymore. She stayed home playing all the time. Once she asked, “Mama, what happens to abandoned children?” but after seeing how it pained her mother’s heart, she never asked anything again. She never again asked whether her true parents existed or not. However, though she never spoke of it, a single dark cloud of sorrow lingered in her small heart like an unyielding mist—a shadow visible even to outsiders. Poor thing—O-Hikari, still only seven or eight years old—unconsciously dwelled on thoughts of her true parents as an abandoned child, her heart tormented by unresolved questions she alone could not answer. The only one who knew this was the Heavenly Deity.

III

Mansaku’s dwelling was, as mentioned before, a solitary house at the northeastern corner of Ukishima (Floating Island), and in terms of its vista, it likely commanded what was considered Ukishima’s foremost scenery.

Behind lay fields that immediately gave way to mountains; to the left and right stretched nothing but an endless expanse of reeds growing in untold layers, with only the front slightly open. Through this open space, seeping all the way to the house’s entrance, was Lake Kasumigaura; stretching straight across the horizon through this same opening lay the Tsukuba mountain range. In front of the house were planks laid across piles driven into the water—here they washed their faces on frosty mornings; rinsed rice; did laundry; tidied up; scrubbed nets during evening showers; and even cleaned their mud-caked hoes on moonlit nights—all took place here. In the water, there were always broken pieces of bowls, rice grains, and vegetable leaves falling in, around which small fish and water striders would gather. Immediately across on the post, a single small boat was always moored so close to Mount Tsukuba it nearly grazed it, and around there, ducks constantly paddled about with noisy splashes. Beyond it lay a large fish basket holding eels and crucian carp, half-submerged in water. Further still grew reeds in chaotic tangles—some stretching skyward to brush the clouds, others snapped halfway up—their leaves floating, roots sinking, shadows reflecting on the water as ripples swayed those reflections. Was it shadow or substance? Substance or shadow? Deep or shallow? None could tell. On the right stood a clothesline pole, and beyond it in a slightly open spot among the reeds was a large old willow stump; sitting here, Lake Kasumigaura lay spread out before one’s eyes. Waterfowl took flight; white sails skimmed; clouds gathered and Mount Tsukuba retreated; fish leaped to trace rings upon the water. Ah, it defied description.

The house of Mansaku, which occupied this breathtaking scenery, had only its master who lacked refinement. A fisherman’s home might be celebrated in song, but inside lay a single undivided room with a sunken hearth, a soot-blackened adjustable hook hung above, and every corner crammed with fishing gear.

Behind the house, separated by just a single wall, stood coops for chickens and ducks that made mornings and evenings quite noisy. When dawn whitened the east, Mansaku’s family of three would rise promptly—scooping water from Lake Kasumigaura to wash their faces, worshipping Lord Sun—then opening the bird coop to release the ducks became O-Hikari’s daily task while Mansaku went fishing for carp or crucian carp when season allowed; hauled nets when hired; hunted wild ducks at times; or when none of these sowed barley and planted radishes in the back field. Collecting firewood and weeds, sewing needles and cooking meals fell to Granny’s duties while O-Hikari sometimes boarded boats with the old man or played freely alone. At night Mansaku usually grew drunk on bedtime sake; when sober he made straw sandals or wove raincoats; Granny mended rags and repaired nets under dim paper lantern light while O-Hikari—even after quitting school—still diligently practiced writing and studied books. Who would tend to this 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 mountains only as weather forecasts and waters solely for observing fish movements, indifferent to how Lake Kasumigaura might surge or Mount Tsukuba might loom—nothing else was visible. But through O-Hikari’s eyes, how wondrous and novel must the ever-shifting scenery of the four seasons have appeared! When the willow tree at the back door began draping green threads and pale purple buds sprouted here and there among the withered reeds, then came the saying: “Before snow speaks, first purple is Mount Tsukuba.” Because of the haze, it grew distant, and Lake Kasumigaura—true to its name—became a sea of spring mist. Amidst this, here one, there two—palm-sized white sails would glide as if unnoticed into the depths of the haze. How wistfully must this scene have imprinted itself upon O-Hikari’s heart. And then summer came. In all directions there was nothing but deep blue reeds—reeds, reeds. It was as if every wind in the world had united to blow upon this place. It was an evening shower. From Mount Tsukuba’s peak, lightning split the sky and plunged into the lake—two or three streaks flashing bright—as thunder roared. Pitch-black clouds scattered swiftly across the lake’s heavens, and a gust of icy wind whipped up waves. Before the reeds at the doorway could finish rustling, torrential rain burst sideways from Asou’s direction, racing across the lake’s surface. In moments, it seemed to engulf two or three fishing boats desperately rowing to escape—erasing even the panicked cries of a flock of ducks—before finally blurring the willow tree right before their eyes with a single brushstroke of pale ink. Skies cleared; dusk fell—an evening moon rose faintly over the jet-black forest’s ridge into dawn’s clouds; silver droplets scattered without wind, plink-plunk. In the darkness, water among ink-painted reeds glimmered faintly here and there while fireflies thickened the air. How coolly must O-Hikari’s heart have felt.

Autumn arrived. The endless reeds swayed as one, chanting autumn wind's elegy. Reed flowers bloomed. Wild geese called. Cold showers passed. The reeds gradually began to wither. At last came mornings when frost lay white on every leaf of boundless reeds, when Lake Kasumigaura—polished mirror-bright—breathed pale mist into vast skies. Then even distant Mount Tsukuba drew near enough to count its pores, and by sunset, the stone steps of Aomizaki Kannon below seemed almost numbered. How must O-Hikari's heart have drunk in this pristine scene! Winter came. The landscape sank into desolation. The razor-sharp beat of duck wings pierced the chest. When snow began falling, sky and lake merged into one—whether Tsukuba stood there or something nearer, none could tell—as flakes fluttered endlessly down. No creak of oars, no birdcalls; only the occasional *snap* of reeds breaking under snow's weight. In such hours, how bitterly must loneliness have gnawed at O-Hikari's heart.

After she stopped going to school, she grew even more distant from the world; though Mansaku and his wife’s love for her remained unchanged since learning she was an abandoned child, there now seemed to be some flaw in heart—she sank into constant brooding over something. What slightly comforted that sorrow were songs and Mount Tsukuba. One might say O-Hikari sang before she even spoke. What does she sing? It is not the folk songs commonly sung on this island. The lyrics were indistinct, yet they seemed to carry profound emotion, as though appealing to someone. With a silvery voice that swelled and receded, she followed a rhythm born of nature—untaught by any—and there she sat, utterly enraptured by her own song, as if consoling herself. She sang even when working. She sang even when playing. She sang whether inside or out. But her most cherished place to sing was during the beautiful sunset hours, seated on the old willow stump in front of the house, gazing afar toward Mount Tsukuba as she sang. Mount Tsukuba had been O-Hikari’s friend since her childhood. It stood to reason—when she awoke each morning, washed her face, and lifted her eyes, there was Mount Tsukuba facing her, smiling brightly as if to say, “Good morning, O-Hikari!” In the evening, after putting away the meal and returning to the old willow stump to gaze out, Mount Tsukuba would face her as if clearly saying, “Goodnight, O-Hikari—see you tomorrow.” Wherever she went, if she but raised her eyes, Mount Tsukuba was always facing this way. At times it would hide among the reeds, pretending *“I’m not here!”* but at the slightest opening, it would peek out as if to say *“Boo! O-Hikari, I’m right here!”* Having grown so accustomed to seeing it since childhood, O-Hikari’s heart perceived Mount Tsukuba as a living being, and from her earliest years, whenever she gazed upon the mountain, she would exclaim: “Oh, Mr. Mountain’s wearing a purple robe! Look, he’s wearing a pale indigo robe now. Oh, he’s put on a white robe! “Oh, he’s slipped into the veil!” When winter came and he appeared gaunt, bones protruding, she would say, “Oh, Mr. Mountain looks cold.”

When it no longer looked snow-capped, O-Hikari would spend entire days listless. The older she grew, the deeper her fondness became; the more she gazed, the more vividly alive the mountain seemed. With sorrow weighing on her heart, she sat on the willow stump staring intently—and through her eyes, the mountain appeared to draw gradually nearer, smiling and beckoning with a small wave. “O-Hikari—what troubles you?” “What weighs on your mind?” “I want to meet my real father and mother.” What made her so sad? “Don’t weep—we’re watching over you,” they murmured, gazing steadily toward her with kind expressions. The longer she looked, the more she felt joy, sorrow, longing, and nostalgia—O-Hikari imagined skimming like rustling water across Lake Kasumigaura’s surface to embrace the mountain, envying birds’ wings—when “No need for worry,” came the reassurance, their comforting gaze fixed upon her. “You’ll join us soon enough. Until then, endure patiently.” She gazed until sunset, until even beloved Mount Tsukuba vanished into twilight’s depths—still she lingered motionless—until Granny’s shrill voice called: “O-Hikari! What are you doing out there in the dark? Hey now—come quick!” She kept staring until hearing her adoptive mother’s shrill summons—“Come inside now!” To O-Hikari’s eyes, Mount Tsukuba—its male and female forms standing serene between water and sky—seemed not just human-like but truly parental; its tranquil, gentle, noble purity filled her with such longing that singing before it felt like collapsing into her parents’ lap to weep over distant sorrows—and after singing until tears fell, her heart would find solace.

IV

How many autumns had come and gone over Lake Kasumigaura when O-Hikari, the fisherman’s daughter, welcomed her fourteenth spring. Her old striped cotton kimono was soiled, her hair tied up carelessly—yet in her lingered the delicate features of her birth parents, her beauty shining without artifice, true to her name. Outshining even tinted snow, her disheveled hair gleamed lustrously; lips like red plum blossoms were endearing, eyebrows delicately slender—that first glance held a clarity beautiful beyond compare, like jade or dew or autumn water. Moreover, she showed no sign of trying to improve her appearance—always wearing a sleeveless kimono with an old hand towel draped over her head—doing laundry, cooking meals, sometimes going out fishing with the old man, and rowing the oar with a skill belying her slender arms. Yet with her heaven-born beauty, there had been times when, going to Shiotome with the old man, the brothel owner saw O-Hikari and declared, “This one’s a real prize—worth three hundred ryō!” The island’s young men would sometimes dote on her when they saw her, but O-Hikari seemed utterly oblivious.

Autumn was gradually deepening into its later days, becoming prime hunting season. One day as O-Hikari dried daikon radishes at the back door, Granny’s voice called out “O-Hikari! O-Hikari!” When she went to check the garden, she found three or four young men in Western hunting attire carrying guns, along with another man—an islander—shouldering a net bag stuffed full of rabbits and ducks, all standing there in boisterous commotion. “O-Hikari, since Papa’s away, you’ll accompany these guests to Ushibori,” said Granny. This appeared to be a Tokyo hunting party that had crossed over from the back mountains, likely seeking ferry service. With practiced efficiency, she prepared the boat, laid out reed matting for the guests, and began rowing immediately. One brash traveler tugged his companion’s coat hem and jerked his chin toward O-Hikari. “Quite the beauty for these parts—what a waste,” he remarked. The net-bearing man chuckled hoarsely. “O-Hikari! The gentlemen are complimenting you—how about treating them to a song, eh?” “Can she actually sing?” another guest inquired. “Sing? She’s the finest songstress around here!” “They call her the Floating Island’s living treasure.” “Well now, that’s intriguing.” “Hey there, Miss—won’t you favor us with a tune?” “Exactly! Consider it our souvenir!” Pretending not to hear their clamorous pleas—“We’d love a song!”—and averting her face from their buzzing stares, O-Hikari kept rowing. Her eyes wandered sideways without intent until suddenly locking onto one figure. This was unmistakably their leader—a young aristocrat from a noble house. A fair-complexioned man of about twenty-five with thick brows and keen eyes. He wore a pale indigo velvet hunting cap and an eggshell-colored woolen hunting suit, cartridge belt cinched tight around thin leather gaiters, sitting cross-legged as he casually puffed Manila smoke through his pipe. When she stared too long, the nobleman abruptly turned her way. Flustered, O-Hikari bent forward to push the oar—only to glimpse her disheveled reflection in the water and flush crimson. The reflection blushed in tandem. Suddenly self-conscious, she continued pushing the oar with one hand while smoothing her hair at the temple with the other.

The guests were clamoring noisily. She listened carefully, wondering if the commotion was about her—though it was not—but her heart pounded as though its beating might be audible to others. After much ado, they arrived at Ushibori; the party noisily made their way up. “You’ve had a hard time being a beauty—here’s a little something for a hairpin,” said one of them, twisting some bills in paper and handing them over. O-Hikari accepted them blankly and watched them leave, her expression vacant. Heaving a deep sigh, she started to turn the oar—when she noticed something white lying in the boat. When she picked it up and looked, it was a white silk handkerchief embroidered with purple along the edge. O-Hikari gently rubbed her cheek with it and tucked it into her kimono.

“Granny, what’s gotten into O-Hikari? She’s actin’ strange, ain’t she?” These were Mansaku’s words to Granny fourteen or fifteen days after the aforementioned events. “She’s actin’ downright strange.” “She’s always been a strange child, but lately she’s actin’ downright odd, you know.” “Before we knew it, she’d stopped singing her songs altogether.” “She’s stopped gazing at the mountain too.” “She does her work.” “But her heart ain’t in it.” “She’s always sighing.” “And unlike before, she’s paying mind to 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 good-natured Mansaku, growing old, had become prone to grumbling—and perhaps harbored a touch of suspicion—for he seemed to think that O-Hikari—that brat—might be neglecting them out of longing for her birth parents. Though he now sometimes scolded her more harshly than ever before, O-Hikari would simply listen in silence without uttering a word of protest, until Mansaku himself grew remorseful and relented. “There ain’t no such thing with O-Hikari.” This was Granny’s attempt to placate Mansaku.

While they wavered, two or three months passed, and O-Hikari turned fifteen in February. O-Hikari had gone by boat with the old man to Katō-shima, then stopped by Shiotome to complete their errands and was about to return when, next to them, there appeared a boat laid with a splendid woolen carpet in anticipatory fashion—complete with tobacco tray and tea set. Soon a man arrived shouldering three or four guns bundled together, followed by the clattering footsteps of a large crowd of men and women. When they descended toward the boat, a pungent blend of perfume and liquor filled the air. At the forefront staggered a man—utterly drunk, eyes glazed crimson, leaning on the shoulder of a woman unmistakably dressed as a courtesan—and to their shock, they recognized him as that handsome young nobleman who had ridden in their boat last autumn. The Young Nobleman collapsed spread-eagle upon boarding. O-Hikari gasped sharply, her face shifting through bewilderment to sorrowful resignation as she stared—then urgently motioned the old man to depart. Pushing off into the water, they left behind the commotion and the courtesans’ shrill laughter—“Do come again! Ohohohoho!” “What’s this now, O-Hikari? What’re you tossing?” “That white thing there.” “Hunh—a handkerchief?” “What’re you playin’ at?” O-Hikari did not answer. She remained utterly silent.

That day, upon returning home, Mansaku heard O-Hikari singing for the first time in months, as if she had suddenly remembered how, and said, “Granny… O-Hikari’s a strange child, ain’t she? Just when I thought she’d gone so long without singin’—now she up and starts singin’ outta nowhere.” Indeed, O-Hikari had begun singing again after a long silence and, for the first time in ages, settled onto the willow stump. Then she turned her gaze toward Mount Tsukuba once more. The mountain seemed to say, “Long time no see, Hikari-chan. What’s been troublin’ you? Welcome back,” its presence still radiating serene nobility and purity as she looked on.

V O-Hikari now disliked going out among people more than ever before, and even when men made playful remarks to her, she would abruptly turn her face away. In return, she was even more filial to her parents than before. She spoke little, but was meticulous in her attentiveness. Had she forgotten about her birth parents? No—in front of Mansaku and his wife, she showed no sign of it, but when alone, she would sometimes sink deeply, deeply into contemplation. At such times, she would immediately sing. How sorrowfully she sang. She would sing and then weep; when she wept, she would immediately go to the willow stump and gaze at Mount Tsukuba. For a little while, she gazed. Mount Tsukuba 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 prolonged breaks from work. With poor catches persisting and nets tearing one after another, their livelihood became ever more precarious—until at last he began drinking more heavily than ever before, drunkenly lashing out at the blameless O-Hikari. But O-Hikari did not utter a word of protest. With her small arms—she was barely fifteen—she worked diligently, catching eels and mending nets. Moreover, whenever she had even a little free time in the evenings, she would take out the model characters the teacher had written for her and practice calligraphy. Though Mansaku would sometimes lash out in anger, when met with such tenderness, he would burst into tears and clutch O-Hikari to his chest—and she, in turn, would cling to him, until parent and child found themselves weeping face-to-face for reasons neither could name.

Before long, Mansaku’s rheumatism gradually worsened until he ended up bedridden. Their livelihood grew increasingly precarious.

It was mid-August.

One day, an acquaintance of Mansaku’s—a man named Kantarou from the same island—came calling and made a certain proposal. It was a proposal from the son of Shiotome’s wealthiest family—who had taken a liking to O-Hikari some time ago and now insisted on making her his concubine—offering fifty yen as preparation money, plus ten yen monthly and a set of nets to Mansaku and his wife. Mansaku nodded to each point, sent Kantarou away, and immediately called O-Hikari to relay the proposal. She stared fixedly at the old man’s face with a look of sorrow, then shook her head and went outside. Mansaku got angry. Kantarou came repeatedly to press the matter. Granny, inside, admonished Mansaku: “Don’t do such a heartless thing.” To O-Hikari, she comforted her: “Papa wasn’t always like that, you know, O-Hikari… At his age, you know, O-Hikari… And with his illness too, you know, O-Hikari… Don’t take it to heart, you hear? You know, O-Hikari…” O-Hikari did not cry where others could see her, but whenever she had even a moment to spare, she would go straight to the willow stump, singing softly to herself as she gazed far into the distant heavens at Mount Tsukuba’s twin peaks, sinking deep into thought.

Before long, September arrived. From the beginning of the month, the weather had been unpleasantly caught between heat and cold, but day by day the skies grew increasingly ominous. By mid-month, it transformed into such torrential rains and gales—as if the very gates of heaven had burst open—and from then on, it poured ceaselessly day after day, raining and raining until it seemed it would never stop. “The lake’s waters swell with the May rains”—and so water from various regions poured relentlessly into Lake Kasumigaura. The waters of Lake Kasumigaura were gradually pushing southward. Floating Island lay directly in its path, making it simply unbearable. The water had surpassed 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 relentlessly pressing in, and those inside the house could no longer endure it. Since Mansaku’s condition had improved somewhat, he forced himself up, and the three of them—parent and child—strained every muscle to build a makeshift hut on the hill behind, barely enough to shelter them from the rain, where they took up residence. Perhaps from overexerting himself in this way, that very night Mansaku’s arm began throbbing intensely, a slight fever even rising as he grew parched, and he kept repeating over and over that he wanted shochu—wanted it desperately. He muttered deliriously. “Shochu!” “Shochu in this water!” There was simply none on the island. They would have to brave nearly six kilometers of open water to reach Asou. O-Hikari sat on the straw, quietly massaging the old man’s arm as she watched his eyes—reddened and fever-glazed—observed the large beads of sweat welling up from his white-haired head and deeply wrinkled forehead, and saw how his lips grew parched and cracked. Then, gently setting his arm down, she took the one-shō jug that lay there and went outside.

The rain had stopped, and the sky was filled with stars. The moon was out as well.

When she looked down below, their house stood half submerged in water, and the tethered boat floated halfway up the trunk of the willow tree at the back. Shading her eyes and peering ahead, she saw only boundless waters with no birds in flight—the muddy waves swirling and flowing onward under moonlight were all that met her gaze. The Asou shore had sunk beyond sight as though separated by an ocean. When she gazed far northward, Lake Kasumigaura—familiar yet transformed—seemed to surge upward violently, its endless waters soaking the sky’s underbelly until every trace of land sank into insignificance, leaving only distant Mount Tsukuba glowing blue in lunar radiance. Looking further south, she found the waters of Kitakone, Yokokone and Shintone merging into one vast expanse—Jūrokushima had vanished without remnant. The roaring surge pressing fiercely southward sounded like a tempestuous sea.

“Granny, what’s O-Hikari doing?” “Honestly now, what could O-Hikari be doing?” Granny—who had been cooking rice—suddenly looked up and called out, “O-Hikari! O-Hikari!” But there was no reply. She slid open the straw door of the hut and craned her neck halfway out, scanning the area while shouting “O-Hikari! O-Hikari!” Still no answer. In sudden panic, she rushed outside and looked down toward the shore—the boat they had tied up was gone. “Could she have—” She stood on tiptoe, shielding her eyes against the moonlight. There—a small boat was cutting through raging waves toward Asou. When she strained her ears, faint oar strokes pierced through the water’s thunderous roar. “Old man—O-Hikari’s—! O-Hikari! O-Hikari!” At her desperate cry, Mansaku came stumbling out too. Clutching a tree, he wailed “O-Hikari! Ooooh-Hikari!” But even as they called, the boat kept drifting farther away until even the sound of oars vanished. “O-Hikari!” “Our O-Hikari!”

The old couple’s voices, strained to their limits in desperate cries, scattered uselessly into the clear void—and afterward, there remained only the boundless waters of Lake Kasumigaura, swirling and flowing endlessly.

6

The floodwaters that had long inundated the land finally receded. Mansaku and his wife left their makeshift hut and returned to their waterlogged house. But O-Hikari did not return. She did not return—did not return—even now still had not returned. Mansaku and his wife passed their days weeping at dawn and dusk, their tea and salt exhausted. Though they hung sacred ropes around the willow stump where O-Hikari always sat and prayed to Mount Tsukuba’s divine spirits, she never came back. All that returned was Mansaku’s familiar sake jug—how it had washed ashore unclear—drifting to Floating Island’s southern tip.

The islanders deliberated in various ways. Most held that the boat had capsized, but some among them suggested she might have drifted somewhere and never returned. To be sure, this was a tale from later times: Jirouhachi, a fisherman of the island, heard a faint singing voice one hazy moonlit night as he returned from smelt fishing—a voice so unmistakably O-Hikari’s that he rowed toward it as his guide. Yet no matter how far he went, there remained only the boundless lake under the dim moon, devoid of human presence. When he listened intently, the voice seemed to rise both from the water’s depths and the sky above. After drifting in confusion for some time, he finally turned back—whereupon the song grew now distant, now near, lingering faintly for what felt like an age, or so they say. Still others claimed it was merely waterbirds calling.

A bitter melody more piercing than metal or stone; a pure sound vanishing into distant heavens.

From Cangwu comes sorrowful yearning; white angelica stirs fragrant purity—

Flowing water passes Xiangpu’s shores; sorrowful winds flow through Dongting—ryūsui Shōho ni tsutawari, hifū Dōtei ni tsūzu. The song ends, and none see her; / Upon the river, azure peaks stand clear— / *kyoku owarite hito miezu / kōjō sūhō aoshi*