Sarashina Diary (Retold in the present tense) (1)

 

I have been raised in a remote province, a place far beyond the eastern end of the Tokaido Highway. Despite my rustic upbringing, I somehow learn of the existence of "romances" in the world and long to read them. During the long, idle hours of day and night, my elder sister and stepmother tell me fragments of these tales, including the deeds of the Shining Prince Genji. Their stories only fuel my yearning, but they can never recite the entire tales from memory as I so desperately desire.

Restless and consumed by this longing, I have a statue of the Yakushi Buddha carved, made to my own height. When I am alone, I wash my hands and steal away to my room to pray. Prostrating myself until my forehead touches the floor, I plead: "Please, let me go to the capital. There, I know I will find many tales. Let me read every one of them."

When I am thirteen, the time finally comes for us to return to Kyoto. On the third day of the ninth month, we first move to Imatate to undergo a ritual change of direction, seeking a more auspicious route according to the principles of Yin and Yang. The old house where I have played since childhood is being dismantled. At sunset, amidst a misty twilight, just as I am stepping into the carriage, I look back at the Yakushi statue—the one before which I have so often bowed. A wave of sorrow washes over me, and I secretly shed tears at the thought of leaving the Buddha behind.

Our temporary lodging is a crude, thatched house with neither fences nor shutters; we rely only on curtains and bamboo blinds for shelter. Situated on a low bluff, the house overlooks a vast plain to the south, while the sea creeps close to both the east and the west. It is a place of haunting beauty. When the morning mists descend, the scenery is so enchanting that I rise early every day just to gaze upon it, feeling a pang of regret at the thought of our departure.

On the fifteenth, under a heavy, dark rain, we cross the border of Kazusa Province and find lodging at Ikada in Shimousa. Our quarters are nearly submerged by the rain. Terrified, I can hardly sleep. In the surrounding wasteland, I see only three lonely trees standing upon a small hill.

The following day is spent drying our sodden clothes and waiting for the rest of our party to catch up.

On the seventeenth, we set out early and cross a deep river. I was told that in ancient times, a wealthy man named Mano lived there. He was said to have bleached thousands upon thousands of rolls of hemp cloth in this river, which now flows directly over the site of his former estate. Four great gateposts still remain, standing defiant in the midst of the current.

Hearing others compose poems about the site, I compose one for myself:

Had I not seen those ancient pillars gleam,

Standing defiant in the rushing stream,

I would have held the tales of his domain

As nothing but the shadows of a dream.

That evening, we lodge at Kuroto Beach. On one side rise the hills; on the other, white sands stretch toward the horizon. The pine groves are dark, and the moon shines with a brilliant clarity. The soft sighing of the wind stirs a deep sense of loneliness within me. While others are moved to compose tanka, I offer my own:

I shall not close my eyes to sleep tonight,

For if I drift away to restful peace,

I surely miss the autumn moon so bright,

Whose glory over Kuroto will not cease.

Early the next morning, we leave the place and go to the Futoi River on the boundary between Shimousa and Musashi Provinces. We lodge at Matsusato Ferry Port near the shallows upstream. All night long, our luggage is carried over by boat a little at a time.

My wet nurse has lost her husband and has given birth to their child at the boundary of the provinces. She must go up to Kyoto separately. I long for my wet nurse and want to go to see her. I am brought there by my elder brother, Sugawara Sadayoshi (1002–1065), in his arms. Our temporary lodging, however temporary it may be, is covered with curtains to block the wind, but my nurse’s, as there is no man to take care of her, is crudely built and covered only with reeds. She lies in her red dress.

The moonlight comes in, lighting up everything. In the moonlight, she looks fair although she belongs to the commons. I find her very white and pure. She weeps and caresses me, and I am loath to leave her. My brother pulls me away, with my heart lingering behind with her. Her image remains with me, which makes me sad. I am not interested in the moon, feel depressed, and just lie down to sleep.

The next morning, we cross the river in a ferryboat with our carriage firmly fixed in it. Those who have come thus far in their carriages to see us off return to Kazusa Province from the bank. We, who are going up to Kyoto, stay on the opposite bank for a while to watch them leave. Both those who return to Kazusa Province and we, who stay on the bank, weep and grieve. To my childish eyes, the scene looks sorrowful.

Now, we are in Musashi Province. The province has no charming sights. The sand of the beaches is not white, but like mud. The province’s fields are celebrated in poetry for their legendary purple dyes, yet we find only rank reeds and overgrown silver grasses growing so high that we can hardly see the bows of our horsemen who force their way through the tall grasses. Going through these reeds and tall grasses, we see a ruined temple called Takeshiba-dera. There are also the foundation-stones of the corridors.

"What place is this?" I ask, and they answer:

"Once upon a time, there lived a boy at Takeshiba. He was offered to the Imperial Palace by the Governor as a guard to watch the fire. He was once sweeping the garden in front of a Princess's room and singing:

Ah, me! My weary doom to labour here in the Hall,

My seven good wine-jars, and three more in all.

Where they stand, I hung gourds of the finest and best,

And they turn to the West when the East wind blows,

They turn to the East when the West wind blows,

They turn to the North when the South wind blows,

They turn to the South when the North wind blows,

While here I sit, missing their turning, my gourds and my jars!

"He was singing this alone, but just then a Princess, the favourite daughter of Emperor Nimmyo (810–850), was sitting alone behind the blinds. She came near the blinds, and, leaning against the doorpost, listened to the man singing. She was very curious to know what gourds looked like and how wine-jars were turning. She pushed up the blinds, and called the guard, saying, 'Man, come over here!' With great reverence, he drew near the balustrade. 'Let me hear once more what you have been singing.' And he sang again about his wine-jars. 'I must go and see them, I have my own reason for saying so! Royal Princesses are supposed to live without being married, but I refuse to live a life boxed in by such dynamic chains!' declared the Princess.

"He felt great awe, but he made up his mind, and went down towards the Eastern Province. He feared that men would pursue them, and, that night, placing the Princess on the other side of Seta Bridge, broke a part of it. With the Princess on his back, he arrived at Musashi Province after a seven days' and seven nights' journey.

"The Emperor and Empress were greatly surprised when they found the Princess lost, and began to search for her. Someone said that an Emperor's guard from Musashi Province, carrying something of exquisite fragrance on his back, fled towards the East. So, they searched for the guard, and he was not found. They said, 'Without a doubt, the man must have gone back to his home province.' The Imperial Government sent messengers to pursue him. When they got to the Seta Bridge, they found it broken, and they could not go farther. After three months, the messengers arrived at Musashi Province and searched for the man. “The Princess gave audience to the messengers and said:

“'It must be my destiny that I yearned for this man's home and made him carry me here; so he has carried me. If the man were punished and killed, what should I do? This is a very good place to live in. It must have been settled before I was born that I should leave my descendants in this province. Go back and tell the Emperor so!' So, the messengers could not refuse her, and went back to tell the Emperor about it.

"The Emperor said, 'It is hopeless. Even if I punish the man, I cannot get back the Princess nor bring her back to Kyoto.' He gave the order that, as long as that man of Takeshiba lived, Musashi Province was trusted to him, and his taxes and labor duties were exempted.

"In this way, a palace was built there in the same style as the Imperial Palace, and the Princess was placed there. When she died, they changed the palace into a temple and named it Takeshiba-dera. The descendants of the Princess received the family name of Musashi. After that, the guards of the watch-fire were women."

We pass hills and fields, forcing our way through the reeds and tall grass. There is the Asuda River along the border of Musashi and Sagami Provinces, where Ariwara Narihira (825–880) composed his famous poem about capital birds at the ferry port—though in the private collection of Narihira’s poems, the river is called the Sumida River:

If you are true to your illustrious name,

O birds of the capital, let me enquire:

Does she whom I love, in that distant domain,

Still live with her heart and her beauty entire?

We cross the river in a boat, and we are in Sagami Province. From Nishitomi, the mountain range looks like folding screens painted with beautiful pictures. On the other side, we see a very beautiful beach with waves coming and going.

In Indian-millet Field, we journey along the seashore with wonderfully white sands for two or three days. "In summer, Japanese pinks bloom here and make the field like pale and deep brocade. As it is autumn now, we cannot see them," says a man. I see some pinks blooming lovely, scattered about like dots. The man continues, "It is funny that Japanese pinks are blooming in the Indian-millet field," and everyone other than me laughs.

A mountain called Ashigara is covered with thick woods, which extend for four or five days' journey. Even before we enter the mountain, we can only catch an occasional glimpse of the sky. The woods spread beyond description and look terrifying. We lodge in a hut at the foot of the mountain. It is a dark, moonless night. I feel myself swallowed up and lost in the absolute darkness, when three female singers come from nowhere. One is about fifty years old, the second about twenty, and the third about fourteen or fifteen. We let them sit in front of our lodging, and a large paper umbrella is spread over them. My servants light a fire so that we can see them clearly. They say that they are the descendants of Kohata, a legendary singer of old. They have very long hair, which falls along their cheeks from their foreheads. They look fair and remarkably stylish. People are deeply impressed, whispering, "They seem more like maids serving in noblemen's families." The singers have clear, sweet voices, and their beautiful singing seems to reach the very heavens. Everyone is completely charmed and invites the singers to come closer. Someone says, "The singers of the Western Provinces are not nearly as good as them." At this, the singers brilliantly sing an impromptu reply:

If we are compared to those of Naniwa,

Whose fame at the bay is so grand,

We might be but shells on the shingle,

Yet we sing for the lords of the land!

They are pretty, with voices of rare beauty. As they vanish back into this fearful mountain, people deeply miss them; even tears come to their eyes. My childish heart is utterly unwilling to leave the shelter that these wondrous singers visited.

At the next break of dawn, we cross over Mount Ashigara. Words cannot express my terror in the midst of the mountain; we even step over clouds. Halfway across, there is an open space with three trees. Here, we see three mallows blooming. People are deeply touched by them, whispering, "In this mountain, so far removed from the human world, the very same sacred plants as those at Kamo Shrine are growing." We encounter three rivers within the mountain.

We cross the mountain with great difficulty and stay at Sekiyama. Now, we are in Suruga Province. We pass the Yokobashiri Checkpoint. Near the checkpoint in Iwatsubo—namely, the Rock Pot—there is an exceptionally large, square rock with a hole, through which extremely clear, ice-cold water comes rushing out.

Mount Fuji is located in this Suruga Province. In Kazusa Province, where I was brought up, I used to see Mount Fuji far to the west. The silhouette of the mountain is truly unique. This extraordinary peak towers into the sky, painted in a deep indigo, and covered with eternal snow. The mountain looks as if it wears a gown of deep violet with a white veil draped over its shoulders. From the small, level plateau at the summit, smoke rises into the air. In the evening, we even see fires flaring from the top.

At Kiyomi-ga-seki Checkpoint, the sea spreads on our left. The barrier consists of many buildings, and its fences stretch even into the waves of the sea. We see the mountain smoke drifting and the sea shrouded in haze. The checkpoint is washed by high, crashing waves. The scene is endlessly fascinating.

We make a detour aboard a boat around Tago-no-ura Seashore, which is washed by high waves.

We come to the ferry port of the Oi River. I find the torrent remarkable; its water is chalky white, looking exactly as if it has been thickened with rice flour. The water runs with incredible speed.

The Fuji River flows down from the mountains. A man of the province comes up to us and tells us a story:

"One year ago, I went on an errand. It was an extremely hot day, and I was resting on the bank of the river when I saw something yellow floating down the stream. It drifted to the bank and caught there. I picked it up and found it to be a piece of yellow paper, with phrases elegantly inscribed in dark cinnabar. Wondering what it meant, I read it. On the paper was a prophecy concerning the provincial governors to be appointed the following year. As for Suruga Province, the names of two governors were written. I was astonished and mystified. I dried the paper and kept it. When the day of the official announcement arrived, the paper proved entirely accurate. The man who became the Governor of Suruga Province died after three months, and the successor’s name was indeed the one written next to the first.

"Such was the event. I believe that the gods assemble there on the mountain to settle the official appointments for each new year. I find it truly wondrous."