Dream Ten Nights – English Translation

It was such a mild, pleasant day—hardly the kind one would associate with the depths of Minor Cold—that I, quite unusually, decided to take my youngest brother to the botanical garden. Hating the wind as I do—so much so that I’d always prefer pouring rain to a gusty day—it was impossible for me to express how grateful I felt to bask in today’s soft, still sunlight, which drifted silently around us without stirring even the faintest breeze. Whenever I think of the botanical garden, what usually comes to mind is the throng of painters lugging their easels, the children scattered everywhere, messy with scraps of paper or fruit peels, shrieking as they scurried about stuffing their mouths; and the equally rowdy adults who accompanied them. But today, with the winter’s desolation stripping every flower bare, not a single soul came to disturb the quiet. The entire expanse lay empty, so silent that no human presence could be seen anywhere. As we ascended the broad, gently sloping hill, my little brother wore a puzzled expression and asked, “Why is nobody here today?” It must have seemed strange to him—only the two of us strolling alone—so unlike the usual visits when I’m accompanied by my fleet-footed, playful older brothers or students, our little crowd of four or five shouting and laughing in high spirits. No wonder he felt a touch lonely, walking beside me—who was resignedly calm and, unlike my brothers, unruffled. “Let’s go sit by that old lady’s place again,” I suggested. Approaching the greenhouse, the faded lawn bore an indescribably soothing hue, and the evergreen trees stood steadily green beside it. Bare branches cast patterned shadows across the ground, their stripes calm and comforting. Having not visited here for quite a while, I was almost overwhelmed by how serenely pleasant the scene appeared to my eyes. My brother stopped, tugged by my hand, eyes wide as they roamed the quiet surroundings. He looked utterly amazed, as if unable to contain the novelty of such a stillness. “It’s so quiet, isn’t it? No naughty children either—that’s nice.” His face showed a kind of wonder I had never before seen—a raw amazement at the vast, unpopulated landscape laid out before us. He seemed to feel, vaguely, that having only me—his young, somewhat fragile older sister—as guardian in such an unfamiliar place might be a bit unsettling. Over and over, he repeated, “No naughty children—it’s nice.” It was as if saying it comforted him. Standing near the greenhouse, his gaze swept far and wide. When the garden was full, I hardly noticed how bare the tree tops were or how dry and withered the grasses looked. But now—alone, without a soul around—the landscape stretched broad and endless, making me feel an odd kind of tension myself. We had been looking forward to seeing the old lady who usually kept watch over the resting area. But when we arrived, she had closed up shop—explaining it was cold and the New Year had come—and even the wooden bench where we often enjoyed tea was folded up and hung away out of reach. Though disappointed, my brother’s curiosity was nevertheless piqued. The quiet, empty garden stirred his imagination. Here, in the absence of others, he seemed delighted. Watching him—his cheeks flushed happily with a smile—I thought of the dear old woman who, innocent and well-meaning, did not even know the number of the lot she lived in. My young brother, now a first-grader at Ōtsuka since April, was utterly captivated by fairy tales. Born with a robust imagination, he sometimes slipped fully into that other realm, dreaming and talking nonsense as if caught in a dream. Just then, apparently caught up in such a mood, he declared with sudden, proud conviction, “I’m going to use magic to make a human!” I watched him with amused interest, the unfamiliar surroundings stirring various emotions in the child. “Oh? Well, that sounds wonderful. What kind of human will you make?” “A pretty, lovely one. Like Mr. Yamashima.” (That was the name of the teacher who cared for him at school every day.) “But if you only make big people, that won’t do, will it?” “No. I’ll make little ones too. Then I’ll make lots of them by magic, and send them out to an island where we can build a wonderful country that everyone in the world will know.” “That sounds nice! Can I live there too, sister?” “And what kind of magic is it that lets you do all that?” “Eating a golden mandarin orange.” “That’s something from the West, right? Ripens in summer or spring?” “Yes. It’s very strange. It won’t grow anywhere but a place with all kinds of amazing animals. There are fat snakes and big crocodiles.” “How big?” “Some are small like this, and some as big as that.” He indicated sizes with his hands, both shrinking the space between thumb and forefinger to needle-point holes and then stretching his arms wide to show something enormous. “They’re not always the same size. But the bigger it is, the more magic it can do.” Though his expression flickered toward amusement, he was earnest. Carefully choosing his words, he answered every question as though mindful not to slip from sincerity. Together we wandered slowly over the grassy lawn, talking. “Will you give one to me, too?” I asked. “Well, this is something no one can be told. But since you’re my sister, I’ll tell you only that the golden mandarin orange exists… but you have to find it yourself.” “Anything else you have to do?” “Yes! The other day I looked at a map, and the middle of the Pacific Ocean was just too empty—it’s too vast. So I’m going to build lots of countries there. Won’t that be fun?” He bounced about, swinging his arms with glee. “Far away, I want two people wearing bright red hakama and blue kimonos to be walking.” Then, peering suddenly at the dry grass roots, he exclaimed, “Hey, there are dwarfs! They all wear bells and yellow kimonos.” No one else was to be seen, and I felt my spirits lighten along with his. When we came to patches of bare earth, I bent down, cupping my hands as if to lens the ground and said, “Oh, look here—it’s pitch dark. See that old man with a lantern walking?” “When will it get light again, I wonder?” Noticing a water spout standing by in a straw garment, I teased, “Oh, someone’s standing there—who do you think it is? Go ask!” As if hearing my cue, he ran off and returned with a half-terrified, comically stiff bow, saying, “Hello, who are you? A farmer? Oh, you don’t have a mouth? How’s that? Oh, your mouth’s made of bamboo? I see! Who are you? The water spout, you say?” Then, proudly, he added, “Sister, he said, ‘I am the water spout!’” The two had become fast friends, running back and forth beneath the low, neat rows of azaleas that lined the path I loved. To occupy such a vast expanse by themselves and to roam a realm so unlike their usual one—how could it fail to enchant? We laughed aloud watching the gardener drawing water into the greenhouse for the plants. “Look at that fat farmer drooling!” my brother chuckled. Spying tiny, bright red gooseberry-like fruits, he greeted them politely, “Good day, Princess,” in a mock flourish. I watched in amazement a child’s mind that never stayed still for a moment. Usually, he never talked so constantly of fairy tales as today. The surroundings must have given him special encouragement. The last time we came together, the garden had been full of voices and noise; then he was merely a boisterous kid, running madly about, trying to catch his brothers, calling out childish names like “Silly Santarō.” He had little thought for the grass or flowers, and by the time we left, he was utterly exhausted and ill-tempered. Never before had he stopped to pity a bare old tree, saying, “Poor old grandpa tree,” or noticed a sprout rising bravely from the ground. But today, for nearly two hours, he chattered on about the growth of seedlings and flying birds—very childlike talk, yet marked with a surprising cleverness. This landscape, which offered me only calm and joy, I cannot guess how deeply it stirred the sensitive heart of an almost eight-year-old boy so easily moved. I found myself recalling vaguely with a kind of dull wonder the first time I, too, at the age of seven, was taken by my uncle for a visit to Dōkangayama’s grassy slopes, where I saw houses, trains, and roads from above—the mingled fear and curiosity so bewildering I could not tell what to do with myself.