Princess Kaguya, the Bamboo Cutter's Daughter

If you were to walk deep into the valleys of ancient Japan, far beyond the bustling streets of the old capital, where the wooden temples smell of fresh cedar, you would find yourself in a world of silence. There, the mountains rise like sleeping green dragons, their shoulders wrapped in cloaks of mist. And if you listened closely, past the rush of the mountain streams, you would hear a sound like no other. The dry, hollow whisper of a bamboo grove. It is a sound of rustling leaves, of tall green stocks swaying and knocking together in the wind, like quiet wooden bells. In one of these valleys, more than a thousand years ago, lived an old man named Sanuki Nomiyatsuko. The people of his village simply called him the bamboo cutter. Every morning, before the sun had even warmed the peaks, the old man would shoulder his sharp iron axe and walk into the forest. He would select the strongest, most flexible stocks of bamboo, cut them down, split them into thin supple strips, and weave them into baskets, trays, and hats. It was a simple, quiet life. He and his wife were poor, and their small wooden hut with its thatched roof was often cold in the winter. They had no children to help them or to fill their home with laughter. And as the years crept up on them like the evening shadows, a gentle sadness settled over their hearth. But old stories have a way of turning in unexpected directions. This tale, which is called the Tale of the Bamboo Cutter, is the oldest written story in the history of Japan. For 10 centuries, grandmothers and grandfathers have told it to children on nights when the moon is round and bright. There are many ways to tell it, because a story that lives for a thousand years grows new leaves with every generation. But this is the way it has traveled down to us through the long halls of time. On a morning that seemed no different from any other, the old bamboo cutter walked deeper into the grove than he usually did. The air was cool and smelled of damp earth and moss. As he moved through the towering green stocks, he noticed a strange light reflecting off the wet leaves. It was not the golden light of the morning sun, nor was it the gray light of the mist. It was a soft, pale green radiance, like the glow of a firefly on a summer night. Intrigued, the old man pushed aside the ferns and followed the light. He found that it was coming from a single, slender stock of bamboo. The stock was shining from within, its green skin translucent, as if someone had placed a warm candle inside its hollow center. The bamboo cutter stood still, his heart beating a little faster. "I have cut bamboo since I was a boy," he whispered to himself. "But I have never seen a stock that carried its own lantern." He approached the shining plant with great reverence. Kneeling on the damp earth, he raised his axe. With a hand that trembled only slightly, he made a clean, gentle cut just above the root. The stock fell away, and the old man gasped. Inside the hollow chamber of the bamboo, resting on a bed of soft, glowing fibers, was a tiny girl. She was no taller than three inches, about the length of a grown man's thumb, but she was perfectly formed. Her hair was as black and fine as silk thread. Her skin was as pale as a plum blossom, and she wore a tiny, exquisite robe that seemed to be woven from the light itself. She was fast asleep, her breathing so quiet, it was barely a sigh. The old man felt a warmth bloom in his chest that he had not felt in all his long years. He reached out his rough, calloused hand, and very gently, the tiny girl opened her eyes. They were dark and bright, and when she saw him, she did not cry. Instead, she reached up her tiny arms and smiled. "You are a gift," the old…

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