Long, long ago there
lived at the foot of the mountain a poor farmer and his aged, widowed
mother. They owned a bit of land which supplied them with food,
and their humble were peaceful and happy.
Shinano was governed by a despotic leader who though a warrior, had
a great and cowardly shrinking from anything suggestive of failing health
and strength. This caused him to send out a cruel proclamation. The entire
province was given strict orders to immediately put to death all aged people.
Those were barbarous days, and the custom of abandoning old people to
die was not common. The poor farmer loved his aged mother with tender
reverence, and the order filled his heart with sorrow. But no one ever thought
a second time about obeying the mandate of the governor, so with many deep
hopeless sighs, the youth prepared for what at that time was considered
the kindest mode of death.
Just at sundown, when
his day’s work was ended, he took a quantity of unwhitened rice which is principal
food for poor, cooked and dried it, and tying it in a square cloth, swung
and bundle around his neck along with a gourd filled with cool, sweet
water. Then he lifted his helpless old mother to his back and stated on
his painful journey up the mountain. The road was long and steep; the
narrowed road was crossed and recrossed by many paths made by the hunters and
woodcutters. In some place, they mingled in a confused puzzled, but he gave
no heed. One path or another, it mattered not. On he went, climbing
blindly upward – ever upward towards the high bare summit of what is
known as Obatsuyama, the mountain of the “abandoning of aged”.
The eyes of the
old mother were not so dim but that they noted the reckless hastening
from one path to another, and her loving heart grew anxious. Her son did not
know the mountain’s many paths and his return might be one of danger,
so she stretched forth her hand and snapping the twigs from brushes as
they passed, she quietly dropped a handful every few steps of the way so that
they climbed, the narrow path behind them was dotted at frequently intervals
with tiny piles of twigs. At last the summit was reached. Weary and
heart sick, the youth gently released his burden and silently prepared a place
of comfort as his last duty to the loved one. Gathering fallen pine needle,
he made a soft cushion and tenderly lifting his old mother therein, he
wrapped her padded coat more closely about the stooping shoulders and with
tearful eyes and an aching heart said farewell.
The trembling
mother’s voice was full of unselfish love as she gave her last injunction.
“Let not thine eyes be blinded, my son. A” She said. “The mountain road is
full of dangers. LOOK carefully and follow the path which holds the piles of
twigs. They will guide you to the familiar way farther down”. The son’s
surprised eyes looked back over the path, then at the poor old, shriveled
hands all scratched and soiled by their work of love. His heart smote him
and bowing to the grounds, he cried aloud: “oh, Honorable mother, thy kindness
thrusts my heart! I will not leave thee. Together we will follow the path
of twigs, and together we will die!”
Once more he shouldered
his burden (how light it seemed no) and hastened down the path, through the
shadows and the moonlight, to the little hut in the valley. Beneath
the kitchen floor was a walled closet for food, which was covered and
hidden from view. There the son his mother, supplying her with everything
needful and continually watching and fearing. Time passed, and he was beginning
to feel safe when again the governor sent forth heralds bearing an
unreasonable order, seemingly as a boast of his power. His demand was that his
subject should present him with a rope of ashes. The entire province
trembled with dread. The order must be obeyed yet who in all Shining could make
a rope of ashes?
One night, in
great distress, the son whispered the news to his hidden mother. “Wait!”
she said. “I will think. I will think” On the second day she told him
what to do. “Make rope twisted straw,” she said. “Then stretch it upon
a row of flat stones and burn it there on the windless night.
” He called the people together and did as she said and when the
blaze and died, behold upon the stones with every twist and fiber showing
perfectly. Lay a rope of whit head ashes.
The governor was pleased
at the wit of the youth and praised greatly, but he demanded to know where
he had obtained his wisdom. “Alas! Alas!” cried the farmer, “the truth
must be told!” and with deep bows he related his story. The governor
listened and then meditated in silence. Finally he lifted his head.
“Shinano needs more than strength of youth, ” he said gravely. “Ah,
that I should have forgotten the well-know saying, “with the crown of
snow, there cometh a wisdom!” That very hour the cruel law was
abolished, and custom drifted into as far a past that only legends remain.
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