Momotaro, the Peach Boy

Momotaro, the Peach Boy. If you were to stand on the banks of the Takahashi River in the ancient province of Okanya, you would hear the water singing a song it has sung for a thousand years. It is a song of high misty mountains, of green bamboo whispering in the afternoon breeze, and of a time when the world was still full of quiet wonders. This is a story from Japan, a land of islands and ancient forests where tales are passed down like precious family treasures. There are many ways to tell this story. Some say it happened in the spring, when the cherry blossoms were falling like pink snow, while others swear it was in the heat of midsummer. But all agree that it begins with a splash. Deep in the shadow of those mountains lived an old wood cutter and his wife. They were good, honest people who had worked hard all their lives, but their small wooden cottage was very quiet. They had no children, and though they never complained, a soft, lingering sadness lived in the corners of their home, like the dust that settles on unused shelves. Every morning, the old man would shoulder his axe and head up into the hills to gather firewood, and every morning, the old woman would take her washing tub down to the river. On this particular morning, the river was running fast and clear, swollen by the mountain rains. The old woman knelt on a flat smooth stone, dipping her wooden tub into the water. She scrubbed and rinsed, her hands moving in a rhythm she had known for decades. The air smelled of wet earth and wild mint. As she bent over the water, she noticed something unusual floating downstream. It was not a log, nor was it a bundle of reeds. It was massive, round, and blushed with a deep rosy pink that glowed even through the river spray. It bobbed up and down, spinning slowly in the current. The old woman stood up, shading her eyes. "My goodness," she whispered to herself. "What a strange thing." As the object drifted closer, she realized it was a peach, but it was a peach unlike any that had ever grown on earth. It was as large as a great wooden barrel, so heavy that it rode low in the water, yet it seemed to dance along the ripples as lightly as a leaf. Its sweet, rich perfume reached her nose before the peach itself did, a scent so warm and sugary that it made her mouth water and her tired joints feel suddenly light. "I must get it," she thought. "My husband will never believe his eyes, and it would make a wonderful supper after a long day in the forest." She reached out with her wooden washing pole, but the peach was just out of reach. She leaned further, her toes clinging to the slippery stone. "Come here, sweet water," she sang in a low rhythmic chant, an old song used to coax drifting things to the shore. "Come here, sweet water, go away, bitter water." As if it heard her voice, the giant peach nudged against a swirling eddy and drifted straight toward her stone. With a grunt of effort, the old woman scooped the enormous fruit into her arms. It was warm to the touch, almost like a living thing, and its skin was as soft as velvet. She cradled it against her chest, her knees shaking slightly under the weight, and carried it back up the winding path to her cottage. By the time she reached the kitchen, she was out of breath, but bubbling with excitement. She placed the peach carefully on the low wooden table in the center of the room, and waited. It was evening when the old wood cutter returned. He walked slowly, his back bent under a heavy bundle of firewood, his face lined with fatigue. He kicked off his straw sandals at the doorway and sighed. "Wife," he called out. "I am home. The hills were steep today, and the wood is damp." "Welcome home," she said, her voice trembling with hidden laughter. "Come into…

Continue with the full plain-text transcript.