Otogizoshi: The Fairy Tale Book of Dazai Osamu

The Sparrow Who Lost Her Tongue

I’ve been writing these fairy tales little by little in what spare time I’ve had, what with being mobilized for civilian duty and dealing with the post-bombing remains of my house and what have you, and despite a persistent fever, hoping only that they might prove a mild diversion suitable for any moments of leisure afforded those fighting courageously to help Nippon through her national crisis. My intention was to follow up “The Stolen Wen,” “Urashima-san,” and “Click-Clack Mountain” with “Momotaro” and “The Sparrow Who Lost Her Tongue,” and then to bring my fairy tale book to a close.

The tale of Momotaro, however, has undergone a process of such simplification, the hero himself made into such an idealized symbol of the Japanese male, that it has more of the flavor of a poem or ballad than a story. I was, of course, going to recast the yarn, making it my own. In particular, I intended to portray the Oni of Ogre Island as utterly depraved and despicable characters, genuinely worthy of our hatred. I would have shown them to be a race capable of such unutterably monstrous atrocities that subjugating them was simply the only option left to mankind. In doing so, I would evoke in readers so much sympathy with Momotaro and his mission that they would be biting their nails as I unrolled a stirring description of the battle itself-a touch-and-go, breathtakingly suspenseful affair.

(When describing their plans for unwritten works, authors are prone to naïve exaggeration. Everyone knows it’s not that easy. But let it go. It’s all just hot air anyway. Stifle the jeers and hear me out.)

In Greek mythology, the most repellent, perverse, and disgusting monster of all was snake-haired Medusa. Wrinkles of deep distrust creased her brow; the brutish embers of murderous intent glowed in her small gray eyes; her pale cheeks twitched with menacing fury; and her dark, thin lips twisted with loathing and scorn. And, yes, each long strand of her hair was a separate, live, red-bellied, poisonous snake. Emitting a horrible hissing sound, these numberless snakes would rear their heads as one to face any enemy. One glance at Medusa and an unsuspecting man would suddenly begin to feel ill; before he knew it, his heart would freeze solid and his entire body would turn literally to cold stone. Medusa wasn’t terrifying so much as skin-crawlingly creepy. The worst part was not what she did to the flesh but to the heart and mind. A monster like this deserves mankind’s most righteous hatred and must be exterminated with all due haste. Compared to her, our monsters in Japan are innocent and even endearingly charming creatures. The Onyudo, with his telescoping neck, or the one-footed umbrella goblin, for example-they rarely do any harm but tend merely to ease the tedium of a drunkard’s wee hours by performing artless dances in dark old temples. As for the inhabitants of Ogre Island, they’re physically large enough, according to the picture books, and yet when a monkey scratches one on the nose, for example, the victim lets out a squawk, topples over, and surrenders.

There’s nothing the least bit scary about the Oni in “Momotaro.” They even seem like fairly nice chaps, all in all, which rather takes the air out of the whole subjugate-the-ogres storyline. What one needs are monsters who inspire even more revulsion than the head of Medusa. Without such antagonists, one can hardly expect readers to be biting their nails. And then there’s the fact that the conquering hero, Momotaro himself, is so overwhelmingly strong that the reader at times feels almost sorry for the ogres and experiences none of the thrill of the hair’s-breadth escape. Even the illustrious hero Siegfried had that vulnerable spot on his shoulder, didn’t he? And they say that Benkei too had his Achilles’ heel. In any case, a completely invincible hero just isn’t good story material.

Further complicating the matter is that, while I presume to understand to some extent the psychology of the weak, perhaps because I’m a helpless sort myself, I’m afraid I don’t really have a clear understanding of the psychology of the powerful-particularly the absolutely invincible variety, which I’ve never met or even known to exist. I’m a story writer with such feeble imaginative powers that unless I myself have experienced something, I can’t write a line-can’t write a word-about it. It would have been impossible for me to describe Momotaro as one of those invincible heroes I’ve never seen. My Momotaro would have been a crybaby as a child, a weak, timid, and basically useless young man who, after running up against merciless and incomparably foul ogres who destroy human hearts and souls and drive people into hells of eternal hopelessness and horror and resentment, realizes that, weakling though he may be, he cannot back down from this fight. Taking, therefore, a truly courageous stand, he sets out for the Oni’s island lair with a sack of millet dumplings tied to his waist.

Such would have been my plotline, I imagine. As for Momotaro’s three vassals-the dog, the monkey, and the pheasant-they were not to be the typical faithful, exemplary sidekicks but rather individuals with uniquely problematic character flaws that would have inevitably led to the occasional squabble. I imagine they might have turned out somewhat like Monkey, Pigsy, and Sandy in the Chinese epic Journey to the West. But when I finished “Click-Clack Mountain” and was about to begin “My Momotaro,” a sudden and terrible gloom descended upon me. Isn’t it best to leave at least “Momotaro” alone, to let it remain in its current simplifed form? It’s a national poem, a song that has been passed down through the ages, touching all Japanese. It doesn’t matter if the plot is full of holes and contradictions. To tamper with the plain and straightforward nature of this big-hearted poem would be a disservice to Japan in a difficult time. Momotaro, after all, carries the banner that reads Nippon-ichi-Number One in Japan. An author who has never been number one in Japan-or even number two or three-can hardly be expected to produce an adequate picture of Japan’s foremost young man. The moment his “Nippon-ichi” banner came to mind, I gallantly abandoned all plans for “My Momotaro.”

Having reconsidered, therefore, I would like now to wrap up this my Fairy Tale Book with just one more story, that of the so-called tongue-cut sparrow. In “The Sparrow Who Lost Her Tongue,” as in “The Stolen Wen” and “Urashima-san” and “Click-Clack Mountain,” none of the characters are Nippon-ichi, which relieves some of the pressure and allows me to invent freely. When it comes to Number One in this sacred country, however-even though it may be in the context of a mere children’s story-there can be no excuse for writing irresponsible nonsense. How mortifying would it be if a foreigner were to read my retelling and think that this was the best Japan had to offer?

I would like, therefore, to repeat this ad nauseam, if necessary: The two old men in “The Stolen Wen” were not Nippon-ichi; nor were Urashima-san or the tanuki in “Click-Clack Mountain.” Only Momotaro is Nippon-ichi, and I didn’t write about him. If the true Nippon-ichi were to appear before you, your eyes would probably be blinded by the radiant light of his countenance. All right? You got that? The characters in this Fairy Tale Book of mine are not Nippon-ichi-or -ni or -san either. Nor are they in any way what you could call representative types. They were born of the doltish misadventures and feeble imagination of an author named Dazai, and as such they’re of very little interest. To evaluate the Japanese on the basis of these characters would be like rowing home complacently after marking the spot on your boat where you dropped your sword overboard, as the old Chinese proverb has it. The Japanese people are precious to me. That goes without saying, but it’s the reason I am not going to describe Momotaro or his adventures, and I believe I have made it abundantly clear that the characters I have described are decidedly not Nippon-ichi.

I have no doubt that you too, dear reader, will applaud my oddly fastidious insistence on this point. Didn’t even Toyotomi Hideyoshi, the Great Unifier, once say, “Nippon-ichi is not I”?

Now then. The protagonist of “The Sparrow Who Lost Her Tongue,” far from being number one in Japan, is possibly the most worthless man in the archipelago. He’s a weakling, for starters. It seems that a physically weak man is of less value to society than even a lame horse. This man is always coughing feebly. His complexion is sallow. He gets up in the morning, dusts the paper-screen door, and sweeps out the room, and that leaves him so exhausted that he spends the rest of the day at his desk, wriggling on his cushion or nodding off and jerking awake until dinnertime, and as soon as he’s finished eating he rolls out his futon and hits the sack. He has been living this pathetic sort of life for the past ten or twelve years. He’s not even forty yet, but for some time now he has styled himself “the Venerable” and demanded that relatives call him Ojii-san.

Perhaps we might think of him as One Who Has Abandoned the World. Those who abandon the world manage to do so only because they happen to have a little money saved up, however. A penniless man, though he may have every intention of leaving the world behind, will find that the world comes chasing after him. This self-styled Ojii-san resides in a humble thatched cottage now, but a look at his past reveals that he is the third son of a wealthy squire and that he betrayed his parents’ hopes by never acquiring a profession but rather living an uneventful and meaningless life, dabbling marginally in this and that and forever either falling ill or recuperating from something. The upshot of all this is that his parents and other relatives have long since given up on him, regarding him as a sickly halfwit and a pain in the neck, but provide him with a small monthly stipend that allows him to abandon the world and still keep the wolf from the door. And though his home is a mere thatched hut, one would have to say he has a pretty sweet life.

People who live pretty sweet lives don’t tend to be of much use to others. That Ojii-san is congenitally frail and infirm would seem to be true enough, but he isn’t so ill as to be bedridden, and surely there must be some sort of work to which he could apply himself if he cared to. But he does nothing. He seems to read a lot of books, but perhaps he immediately forgets what he’s read; at any rate, he never discusses his readings with anyone. He just sits there. His value to society is close to zero, particularly in view of the fact that after more than ten years of marriage he still has no offspring or heir. In other words, he has not fulfilled even a single one of the duties expected of a man in this world.

And what of the wife who has stood by this remarkably unambitious man all these years? One can’t help but be curious about her. But were you to peek through the hedge and catch a glimpse of her puttering about, you would be sorely disappointed. She is a dreary person in every respect. Dark of complexion, she is somewhat goggle-eyed and has large, very wrinkled hands. If you were to see her moving busily through the garden, with those big hands dangling before her and her back slightly bent, you might suppose that she’s older than Ojii-san. But she is exactly thirty-three, which makes this an unlucky year for her, according to the traditional view. She was originally Ojii-san’s housekeeper, though scarcely had she taken charge of his house before she found herself accepting responsibility for his life as well.

“Take off your underclothes and pile them here so I can wash them,” she says in a commanding tone.

“Next time.” Ojii-san, sitting at his desk with his chin on his hand, replies in a scarcely audible voice. He always speaks in what is barely more than a whisper. And he tends to allow the words to die in his mouth before he finishes them, with the result that everything he says comes out sounding like “ooh” or “ah.” Not even his wife, after living with him for more than ten years, can make out what he’s saying, much less anyone else. It may be that, being more or less One Who Has Abandoned the World, he doesn’t care whether others understand him or not. However, let us review: no steady job; no attempt to write or speak about his readings; no children after ten years of marriage; no effort to enunciate clearly or even finish his words. This passive nature of his, whether or not we give it the name “laziness,” beggars description.

“Give me them now. Just look at the collar of your undershirt. It’s shiny with grease.”

“Next time.” Again, the words barely escape his mouth.

“What? What did you say? Speak so I can hear you.”

“Next time,” he says somewhat more intelligibly, his cheek still resting on his hand as he peers gravely at his wife’s face. “Cold today.”

“It’s called winter. It’ll be cold tomorrow and the day after too.” The thirty-three-year-old Obaa-san speaks as if scolding a child. “And who do you think feels the cold more-the one who sits by the fire or the one who’s out at the well doing the wash?”

“Hard to say,” he replies with a hint of a smile. “You’re accustomed to it.”

“I beg your pardon?” Obaa-san scowls. “I wasn’t put on this earth to do laundry!”

“No?” he says, and leaves it at that.

“Off with them,” she says. “Hurry up. You have a fresh set in the closet.”

“I’ll catch cold.”

Obaa-san throws up her hands and exits the room in a huff.

Our story takes place in the Tohoku region, outside Sendai, at the foot of Mount Atago, on the edge of a vast bamboo forest overlooking the rushing rapids of the Hirose River. Perhaps the Sendai area has boasted an abundance of sparrows since ancient times; the crest of the famous Daté clan of Sendai depicts two sparrows amid bamboo, and in the play Sendai Hagi, as everyone knows, a sparrow performs a role more vital than even that of the lead actor. Furthermore, when I was on a trip to Sendai last year, a friend of mine who lives there taught me an old local children’s song that went something like

It seems that the song isn’t limited to Sendai but rather sung by children all across Japan. However, because of the fact that this version bids us to “see the sparrow in her cage” rather than the more common and less specific “wee bird,” along with the hint of northeastern dialect in the last line, which fits the melody so naturally and scans so effortlessly, I’ve come to wonder if we wouldn’t be justified in going ahead and pinpointing the Sendai region as the source of this particular traditional ditty.

In the bamboo forest surrounding Ojii-san’s thatched hut, in any case, live countless sparrows, and they raise a deafening racket morning and evening. In late autumn of this year, on a morning when crystalline pellets of frost crunch musically underfoot, Ojii-san finds a little sparrow upside down in his garden, flopping about with a broken leg. He picks the bird up and carries her into his room, where he sets her by the fire and brings her some food. Even after the sparrow’s leg is healed, she stays on in Ojii-san’s room, fluttering out to the garden from time to time, or hopping about on the veranda, pecking at the crumbs Ojii-san tosses out to her.

“You filthy thing!” Obaa-san shouts when the sparrow inadvertently poops on the veranda. She chases after the bird, and Ojii-san silently takes some paper from his pocket and cleans up the droppings. As the days go by, the sparrow seems to learn whom she can count on to be kind to her and whom she can’t. When the old woman is home alone she takes refuge in the garden or under the eaves, but as soon as Ojii-san returns she comes flying. She sits atop his head or hops about on his desk or drinks from the inkstone with a tiny gulping sound or hides in the brush stand, interrupting Ojii-san’s studies with her constant games. But Ojii-san, for the most part, ignores her. He does not, like so many bird lovers, give his pet an affected name or speak to it. (“Oh, Rumi, you must be lonely too!”) He displays, rather, absolute indifference to where the sparrow might be or what she might be up to. But from time to time he silently rises, shuffles to the pantry, scoops up a handful of grain, and scatters it on the veranda.

No sooner does Obaa-san exit with the laundry today than the sparrow comes fluttering back from beneath the eaves and lands on the edge of the desk, where Ojii-san sits with his cheek on his hand. Ojii-san looks at the sparrow with no change of expression. But this is where the tragedy begins.

After a pause of some moments, Ojii-san says, “I see,” and sighs heavily. He spreads out a book on his desk. He turns a page, and then another, and then he rests his cheek on his hand again and gazes off into the middle distance. “So she wasn’t born to do laundry. Still dreams of romance, I guess, with a face like that.” He cracks a small, wry smile.

It’s then that the sparrow on his desk begins to speak in human language.

“And you?” she says.

Ojii-san isn’t particularly startled.

“Me? Me, well… I was born to tell the truth.”

“But you don’t say anything at all.”

“That’s because the people in this world are all liars. I got sick of talking with them. All they do is lie. And the worst part is that they don’t even realize they’re doing it.”

“That’s just a lazy man’s excuse. Once you human beings acquire a little learning, you tend to become awfully arrogant. Look at yourself. You don’t do anything at all. Remember the old proverb? ‘Don’t wake the house while still a-bed’? Who are you to criticize others?”

“You’ve got a point.” Ojii-san remains unruffled. “But it’s a good thing that men like me exist. I may seem to be good for nothing, but that’s not completely true. There is something that only I can do. I don’t know whether or not the opportunity to show my true worth will arise during my lifetime, but if it does I assure you I will expend every effort. Until such a time should come, however-well, until then it’s silence, exile, and reading.”

“You don’t say.” The sparrow cocks her head. “That’s the sort of empty, self-serving boast you expect to hear from men who are tyrants at home and cowards abroad. ‘The Venerable’-isn’t that what you call yourself? Trying to find comfort in dreams of a past that will never come again, rather than hope for the future. You’re pitiable, really. Your boasts don’t even amount to real boasts. They’re more like the grumblings of a disgruntled old crackpot. It’s not as if you’re involved in anything of any value to the world.”

“When you put it that way, I can see your point.” Ojii-san is, if anything, even less ruffled now. “But the fact is that I’m engaged in something laudable at this very moment: in a word, desirelessness. Easy to say, hard to do. Just look at that Obaa-san of ours. After ten-plus years at the side of a man like me you’d think she would have abandoned worldly desires, but apparently that’s not the case. She still seems to have some notions of romance. Hilarious.”

Obaa-san sticks her head in through the doorway.

“I do not have- Say! Who were you talking to? I heard a girl’s voice. Where did your visitor go?”

“Visitor?” Ojii-san mumbles unintelligibly, as usual.

“I beg your pardon. You were definitely speaking to someone just now. And speaking ill of me, at that. Well, well. Interesting! With me, you’re always mumbling as if it’s too much trouble to speak, but with your young visitor you’re like a different person, babbling happily away in that youthful voice. You’re the one who’s dreaming of romance, apparently. You’ve gone all goopy with it.”

“You think?” Ojii-san replies vacantly. “But there’s no one here.”

“Stop teasing me!” Obaa-san is genuinely angry now. She plops down on the veranda. “What in the world do you take me for? Heaven knows how much I’ve put up with all these years. You treat me like a complete fool. Well, I’m not from a wealthy family and have no education, so maybe I’m simply no match for you, but now you’ve gone too far. I was still young when I came to your home as a servant, to take care of you, and before I knew it, it turned into this. I knew that your parents were good and proper folks, so I thought that being matched with their son wouldn’t be such a-”

“Lies. All lies.”

“Oh? Name one. Name one thing I just said that’s a lie. This is exactly how it was. Back then, I understood you better than anyone. I felt that it had to be me, that no one but I could look after you properly. What part of that is a lie? Tell me,” she demands, her face darkening.

“The whole thing’s a lie. Back then you were all about base desires. Period.”

“What is that supposed to mean? I have no idea what you’re talking about. Quit trying to belittle me. I married you because I thought I could help you. It had nothing to do with ‘base desires.’ You say the most vulgar things sometimes! You have no idea how lonely I’ve been day and night since marrying you. Is it too much to ask you to toss me a kind word now and then? Look at other married couples! No matter how poor they might be, at least they still enjoy themselves chatting and laughing together over dinner. I’m not a greedy woman by any means. I could endure any hardship and still be satisfied if you would only say a gentle word to me once in a while.”

“Here we go again. I see what you’re doing. Still trying to put it all on me with that same old tale of woe. It won’t work. Everything you say is deceitful. You just spew any old thing, according to your mood. Who do you think made me such a taciturn man? ‘Chatting and laughing’ about what over dinner? I’ll tell you what-their neighbors. Criticizing. Tearing others down. Nothing but backbiting, malicious gossip, all based on the mood of the moment. You know, I’ve never, ever heard you praise anyone. I’m a weak-willed man myself. When I’m around judgmental people, I too start to grow judgmental. That’s what scares me. And that’s why I decided to stop talking. The only thing people like you can see is other people’s faults, and you’re oblivious to the horror in your own hearts. You people terrify me.”

“I understand. You’ve grown tired of me. You’re sick of this old woman. I get it. So, where did your visitor go? She’s hiding somewhere? I know I heard the voice of a young woman. With someone like that to talk to it must be unbearable to have to discuss anything with an old woman like me. You can sit there looking enlightened and talking about desirelessness, but when it’s a young woman you’re talking to you start babbling like an excited little boy. Even your voice changes. You disgust me.”

“Fine, if that’s the way you feel.”

“It is not fine. Where is your guest? It would be rude for me not to greet her. I may not be much to look at, but I’m still the lady of the house here. Let me greet her. You mustn’t keep stepping all over me.”

Ojii-san jerks his chin toward the sparrow on his desk and says, “That’s her.”

“What? Stop your joking. Sparrows can’t talk.”

“This one does. Says some very perceptive things too.”

“You’re just mean enough to keep on teasing me like that, aren’t you? All right, then.” She reaches out abruptly and snatches the bird from the desk. “I’ll pluck out her tongue so she can’t say such witty things! You always have been a little too sweet on this bird. It’s sickening to watch, and this is the perfect chance to put an end to it! You’ve let your young visitor escape, and now the sparrow will pay with her tongue. Serves you right.” And with that she pries open the sparrow’s beak and plucks her little petal-like tongue right out. The sparrow flutters frantically and flies away, disappearing high into the pale blue sky.

Ojii-san stares silently after her.

And the following morning, as we all know, he begins combing the bamboo forest.

“Where dwells the sparrow who lost her tongue?

Where dwells the sparrow who lost her tongue?”

Snow falls day after day. But each day Ojii-san takes his search deeper into the bamboo forest. He’s like a man possessed. Thousands and tens of thousands of sparrows inhabit the forest. One would think it nearly impossible to find, among such numbers, one whose tongue is missing, but Ojii-san forges ahead with an extreme sort of fervor, day after day.

“Where dwells the sparrow who lost her tongue?

Where dwells the sparrow who lost her tongue?”

He has never before in his life acted with such reckless passion. Something that has lain dormant inside him would seem now, for the first time, to have raised its head, but what that something is, no one knows, not even the author (I, Dazai). A man who has always felt like a guest in his own home, constrained and ill-at-ease, suddenly finds the state of being that suits him best and chases after it. We could call that state “love” and have done with it, but the psychology expressed by the word “love” as it is commonly and casually used in daily life may perhaps be far from the wretched melancholy in this Ojii-san’s heart. He searches on relentlessly. For the first time in his life he’s taking decisive action and will not be deterred.

“Where dwells the sparrow who lost her tongue?

Where dwells the sparrow who lost her tongue?”

Not that he actually vocalizes these words as he wanders about in search of her, of course. But the wind seems to whisper in his ears, and at some point, as he tramps through the deep snow of the bamboo forest, this queer little ditty-not quite a song and not quite a chant-wells up in his heart in harmony with that whispering wind.

One night there descends a snowfall unusual in its scale even for the Sendai region. The following day the weather clears, and the sun rises upon a silver world of almost blinding brilliance. Ojii-san gets up before dawn, pulls his straw boots on, and makes his way to a new part of the snowy forest.

“Where dwells the sparrow who lost her tongue?

Where dwells the sparrow who lost her tongue?”

An enormous accumulation of snow that has settled on the canopy of bamboo suddenly breaks through, falling directly on top of Ojii-san. It catches him just right and he falls face down in the snow, unconscious. Crossing the borderline to a dream-like, phantasmal world, he hears a number of whispering voices.

“Poor man! Dead-after all that.”

“He’s not dead. He’s just been knocked for a loop.”

“He’ll freeze to death for sure, though, lying out here in the snow.”

“True. We’ll have to help him somehow. What a mess. If that child had just gone to meet him right from the start, this never would have happened. What’s wrong with her, anyway?”

“O-Teru-san?”

“Yes. I understand that she hurt her mouth, but she hasn’t shown herself since.”

“She’s in bed. Her tongue was plucked out. She can’t speak, just weeps silently day and night.”

“They plucked out her tongue? That’s depraved.”

“I know. And it was this one’s wife who did it. She’s not a bad old girl normally, but she must’ve been in a nasty mood that day. Suddenly grabbed O-Teru-san and ripped her tongue right out.”

“Were you there?”

“Yes. It was horrible. Human beings are like that, though. They’ll do the most unbelievably cruel things when you least expect it.”

“I’ll bet it was jealousy. I know that house pretty well myself, and this old man is awfully hard on his wife-treats her with absolute contempt. Nobody likes to see a man fuss over his woman, but this fellow’s just too damn hard on his. And O-Teru, taking advantage of that antagonism, got much too friendly with the man. Hey, no one’s innocent here. Let it go.”

“Oh? Maybe you’re the one who’s jealous! You had a crush on O-Teru-san yourself, didn’t you? You can’t hide it from me. Didn’t I hear you sighing one day about how O-Teru-san had the most beautiful voice in the whole bamboo forest?”

“I’m not the vulgar sort of man who gets jealous of anybody. But she did have a good voice-better than yours, at least-and she’s good-looking to boot.”

“You’re mean.”

“Now, now, you two, don’t be fighting. Nobody needs that. What are we going to do about this man? If we leave the poor fellow here, he’ll die. Think how badly he wanted to see O-Teru-san! Tramping through the snowy forest looking for her day after day, and then, to have it end like this-you have to feel sorry for him. He has a sincere heart, at least. I can tell that much.”

“What? A damn fool, is what he is. A man his age chasing a sparrow around? Hopeless.”

“Don’t say such things. Let’s bring him to her. O-Teru-san seems to want to see him too. She can’t speak, of course, without her tongue, but when we told her he was looking for her she just lay there shedding tears. I feel sorry for both of them. What do you say we join forces and try to help them out?”

“Not me. I’m not one who has any sympathy for affairs of the heart.”

“It’s not an affair of the heart. You just don’t understand. We want to help them, don’t we, everyone? This sort of thing isn’t about logic or reasoning.”

“Precisely, precisely. Allow me to take charge of the operation. There’s nothing to it. We’ll just ask the gods. Whenever you’re desperate to help someone else, against all reason, it’s best to ask the gods. My own father taught me that. He said that in such a situation the gods will grant you any wish you make. So just wait here for a bit, everyone, and I’ll go ask the god of the forest shrine.”

When Ojii-san suddenly opens his eyes, he finds himself in a pretty little room with bamboo pillars. He sits up and looks around just as a door slides open and a doll the size of an adult walks in.

“Oh! You’re awake!”

“Ah.” Ojii-san smiles good-naturedly. “But where am I?”

“The Sparrows Inn,” says the pretty, doll-like girl, kneeling politely in front of Ojii-san and blinking up at him with big, round eyes.

“I see.” Ojii-san nods serenely. “And you, then, are the sparrow who lost her tongue?”

“No, O-Teru-san is in bed in the inner chamber. My name is O-Suzu. I’m O-Teru-san’s best friend.”

“Is that so? Then the sparrow who had her tongue plucked out is named O-Teru?”

“Yes. She’s a very sweet and gentle person. You must go in and see her. The poor thing. She can’t speak, and all she does is weep.”

“Take me to her.” Ojii-san stands up. “Where’s her room?”

“This way, please.” With a flutter of her long kimono sleeves, O-Suzu rises and glides to the veranda. Ojii-san follows, taking care not to slip on the narrow walkway of slick green bamboo.

“Here we are. Please go in.”

The inner chamber is well lit. The ground outside is covered with bamboo grass through which babbles a shallow, swift-moving stream.

O-Teru is lying in her futon beneath a small red silk quilt. She is an even more elegant and beautiful doll than O-Suzu, though her cheeks are somewhat pale. She gazes at Ojii-san with big round eyes from which tears promptly begin to flow.

Ojii-san says nothing but sits on the floor beside her pillow and gazes out at the babbling stream. O-Suzu quietly retreats, leaving the two of them alone.

They don’t need to speak. Ojii-san sighs softly. But it’s not a melancholy sigh. He is experiencing peace of mind for the first time in his life, and this sigh is an expression of quiet happiness.

O-Suzu reappears to set out a tray of sake and snacks. “Enjoy,” she says, and withdraws once more.

Ojii-san pours himself a cup of sake and looks out at the garden stream again. Ojii-san is no drinker. One cup is enough to make him tipsy. He picks up the chopsticks and plucks a single bamboo shoot from the tray. It’s wonderfully delicious. But Ojii-san isn’t a big eater. He sets the chopsticks back down.

The door slides open again, and O-Suzu brings in more sake and a different dish. Kneeling before Ojii-san, she holds out the ceramic bottle and says, “Another cup?”

“No, thanks, I’ve had more than enough. Awfully good sake, though.” He isn’t just being polite. The words spill spontaneously from his lips.

“I’m glad you like it. We call it Dew of the Bamboo Grass.”

“It’s too good.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s too good.”

“Oh, look! O-Teru-san is smiling! She probably wants to say something, but…”

O-Teru shakes her head, and Ojii-san turns to address her directly for the first time.

“No need to say anything. Isn’t that so?”

O-Teru beams. She blinks her big eyes and nods repeatedly.

“Well, I really must be going now,” says Ojii-san. “I’ll be back.”

O-Suzu seems appalled by hiscasual attitude.

“My! You’re leaving already? You nearly freeze to death in the forest searching for O-Teru-san, and now that you’ve finally found her you leave without so much as a gentle word?”

“I’m not one for gentle words.” Ojii-san smiles wryly and climbs to his feet.

“O-Teru-san, he says he’s leaving. Is that all right with you?”

O-Teru smiles and nods.

“What a pair!” O-Suzu says, and laughs. “Well, please come again soon!”

“I will,” Ojii-san says solemnly. He begins to walk out but stops. “Where are we, anyway?”

“In the bamboo forest.”

“Oh? I don’t remember seeing a house like this in the forest.”

“It’s here,” O-Suzu says and exchanges a smile with O-Teru. “But it’s not visible to the average person. We’ll bring you here any time you like. You need only lie face down in the snow at that same entrance to the forest.”

“That’s good to know,” Ojii-san says, and he means it. He steps out on the green-bamboo veranda. O-Suzu leads him back to the pretty little room, and there, lined up in a row, are wicker baskets of various sizes.

“We’re ashamed not to have been able to entertain you after you’ve gone to so much trouble to visit,” O-Suzu says, resuming a more formal tone. “At least allow us to give you a souvenir as a memento of your visit. Please choose whichever of these baskets you’d like.”

“No, thanks. I don’t need anything like that,” Ojii-san mutters irritably, without so much as glancing at the baskets. “Where’s my footwear?”

“Please. I must ask you to take one!” O-Suzu says with a sob in her voice. “If not, O-Teru-san will be angry with me!”

“No she won’t. That child’s not one to get angry. I know. But where’s my footwear? I’m sure I was wearing a pair of dirty old straw boots.”

“Those things? We threw them away. You’ll have to go home barefoot.”

“That’s not very nice.”

“Then take one of these gift baskets with you. Please, I implore you.” O-Suzu presses her little hands together.

Ojii-san forces a grim smile and looks over at the baskets.

“They’re all so big. Too big. I hate carrying things when I walk. Don’t you have anything that would fit in my pocket?”

“Why must you be so difficult?”

“I’ll just leave as I am, then. I’m not going to carry anything.” Ojii-san prepares to hop down from the veranda in his bare feet.

“Wait. Please. I’ll go ask O-Teru-san.”

O-Suzu flies with flapping kimono sleeves back to the inner chamber. Moments later she returns with an ear of rice between her teeth.

“Here you are. This is O-Teru-san’s hairpin. Don’t forget about her. And please come back soon.”

Ojii-san suddenly comes to his senses. He’s lying face down in the snow at the entrance to the bamboo forest. Was it just a dream? But in his right fist is the ear of rice. A ripe ear of rice in midwinter is a rare thing. It emits a rose-like fragrance too-a very nice fragrance. Ojii-san carries the ear home and plops it in his brush holder.

“My! What’s this?” Gimlet-eyed Obaa-san looks up from her sewing.

“Ear of rice,” Ojii-san says in the usual mumble.

“An ear of rice? At this time of year? Where did you find it?”

“I didn’t find it,” he says in a low undertone. He opens a book and begins to read silently.

“There’s something funny going on. All you do these days is walk about in the bamboo forest and then come home with your head in the clouds, and why are you acting so smug today? Bringing that thing back with you and making such a fuss over it, sticking it in your brush stand-you’re hiding something from me, aren’t you? If you didn’t find it, where did it come from? Why not just tell me the truth?”

“I got it at the Sparrows Inn,” Ojii-san snaps.

But the pragmatic Obaa-san is not about to be satisfied with an answer like that. She continues to grill her husband with question after question. Ojii-san, incapable of lying, has no choice but to tell her all about his wondrous experience.

“Good heavens. Are you serious?” Obaa-san says with a disparaging laugh when her husband has finished the story.

Ojii-san isn’t answering any more. He rests his cheek on his hand and pores over the book on his desk.

“Do you really expect me to believe that nonsense? It’s obvious that you’re lying. Recently-yes, ever since around the time your young lady friend came to visit-you’re a different person, always fidgeting and sighing like a lovesick mooncalf. It’s disgraceful-a man your age-and there’s no sense trying to hide it. I can tell! Where does she live? Not in the middle of the bamboo forest, I’m sure of that much. ‘There’s a house deep in the forest inhabited by little ladies who look like life-size dolls’-oh, sure! I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. If it’s true, why don’t you bring back a gift basket next time? You can’t, can you? After all, you made it all up. I might not doubt you if you came home from this ‘marvelous inn’ with one of those big baskets on your shoulders, but to take an old ear of rice and say it’s the doll girl’s hairpin-how do you come up with this rubbish? Confess like a man. I’m not a narrow-minded person. What do I care about a mistress or two?”

“I hate carrying things.”

“Oh, I see. Well, shall I go in your place, then? How would that be? All I have to do is lie face down at the entrance to the forest, correct? I’ll go right now. Or are you afraid it won’t work?”

“You should go.”

“What nerve you have. Telling me I should go, when it’s all a big, transparent lie! All right, then, I’m really going to do it. You’re sure it’s all right with you?”

“Well, you do seem to want that basket…”

“Yes, yes, that’s right-all I care about is the gift. I’m such a greedy person, after all. Ha! I know it’s ridiculous, but here I go! I can’t bear the sight of you sitting there looking so smug. I’ll wipe that holier-than-thou expression from your face. Just wait and see. Lie face down in the snow and you get to go to the Sparrows Inn-ah, ha, ha, ha! It’s ridiculous, but, oh well-I’ll just follow your exact instructions. Don’t try to tell me later that you were only kidding!”

There’s no backing down now. Obaa-san puts away her sewing and wades off into the deep snow of the bamboo forest.

As to what happens next, not even the author knows exactly. At dusk, Obaa-san’s cold body is found face down in the snow with an enormous wicker basket strapped to her back. Apparently the basket was too heavy to get out from under when she awoke, and she froze to death. The basket turns out to be chock-full of sparkling gold coins.

Whether or not it’s because of all that gold, Ojii-san soon enters government service and is eventually promoted to Minister of State. The public refer to him as the “Sparrow Minister” and attribute his success to his long-standing affection for those birds. But whenever Ojii-san is subjected to such flattery, he is said to reply, with only a hint of his famous wry smile, “No, no. I owe it all to my late wife. I put that poor woman through hell.”