Because of this, old stories aren't taken terribly seriously; no matter how wonderful the stories are or how ancient the characters in it, younger generations often find it hard to relate to stories from hundreds of years ago. Stories sink into the past and are no longer relevant. But sometimes tales that have been lost to the past can resurface. When new history starts repeating old history, ancient tales suddenly hold new meaning. Suddenly, the old stories that grandfather told around the fire become true in real life and people have to refer back to the ancient stories to find out what is supposed to happen next. Our next Japanese legend is one such story.
Once upon a time in Japan, when the cherry blossoms were new and pink as a summer sunset, when the the wild ocean beat around Japan like a furious turquoise bird flapping its gorgeous wings, and when there were no great heroes to protect the land, there lived a man and his wife. This man and his wife had lived for many years, too many to count. They had watched the sun rise and set every morning and had seen centuries pass as slowly as the turtle. And now, in their old age, they too had become just as slow.
Day after day they went about the task of keeping their small home in order. The wife would bake the bread every morning and sweep the dust from the tatami mats; her husband would travel to the nearby village to trade and pass the time with old friends. The couple worked together to keep their home cozy and, hand in hand, they patched every leak and storm-torn hole that ever opened in their house. Every evening, the old couple would sit on their front step. Sometimes they brought work with them, like a tatami mat that needed mending or a pile of clothes that needed to be folded, but more often than not when they sat on the front step at night the old man and his wife would simply sit together and hold hands. They watched the endless sky move along its way and spied every silver falling star. For, no matter how many years they had lived, the love that had brought them together in the first place never left their hearts.
Theirs was a happy life and they would have been completely content if it weren't for their one great sadness. For years, the old man and his wife had wished for a child to call their own. In their youth, this had been their only hope - to birth a strong, heathy heir who could care for them in their old age. They had tried many times to bear a child; they offered sacrifices to the gods, praying that they wouldn't remain barren forever. The man and his wife had wished for nothing more, but it had not come to pass. Now in their old age they had no heir to care for them, no one to carry on their family name. Sometimes as the man and his wife sat on their font step to watch stars fly by, when they watched one season after another melt away, they spoke of their youthful wish. While it saddened them to remember their hope for a child, it was only a passing sadness that only came from time to time. So they let life continue; their happy world was at peace.
One morning in early spring, the old woman was preparing to do the day's washing. Having searched the house for every last piece of laundry, she had carried basket after basket down to the river to soak and clean. One piece of clothing after another came out of her baskets, pulled out swiftly and cleanly so no other clothes would come with it. The fabric was quickly submerged in the chilly, bubbling stream and scrubbed so vigorously that any dirt was quick to leave the clothing. Out of the basket, into the stream, scrubbed to a shine, and placed on the warm river rocks to dry in the mid-morning sun. One shirt after another, pairs of pants, and socks had their turn in the washing cycle. The old woman worked this way for hours, diligently cleaning everything she had carried down to the river.
She was so immersed in her work that she neglected to look up from it for whole minutes at a time; the world could have been falling in around her and she wouldn't have noticed. She had been washing for so many years, on the same river bank; she had watched the water bubble by for so many years, she was certain that nothing new or exciting was happening around her. So why should she bother to look up?
However, when she finally did take her mind off her washing and looked up from the stream, her eyes saw a most unusual sight. Bobbing back and forth in the roiling current, pink and rosy as the afternoon sun, as big as a bayberry bush, was a huge peach. The old woman couldn't believe her eyes; it must have been a trick of the light or her ancient eyes were finally failing. But it was not a trick or an illusion and with every moment the huge pink peach bobbed closer and closer to the old woman. Plucking it from the water with more than a little difficulty, the woman examined it closer. It was indeed a peach but what tree could have produced it? Placing it in her basket and forgetting the rest of her laundry, the old woman hurried home with her prize.
Her husband was just as shocked and puzzled by the giant peach when he discovered it sitting in their living room as he came home that evening. His wife told how she had found it and together they puzzled over how such a large fruit could have come to be. For hours, the old man and his wife racked their brains for a suitable explanation but when no answer presented itself. So the couple resigned themselves to the mystery and decided to eat the peach instead. Fetching a knife from the cupboard, the old man placed the sharp tip on the very top of the fruit and gently cut into it. A fragrant aroma rose from the peach like the smell of freshly cut bamboo mixed with honey tea and lavender, a pink mist rose into the air, and a tiny pink stream of juice ran down the peach's side. What a treat this was going to be, the old man thought to himself as he plunged the knife deeper into the fruit.
Suddenly, though, from inside the peach a tiny voice cried out as high pitched as a bird in a note just as sweet as a song, "Please don't hurt me; put away your knife."
Shocked, the old man and his life jumped back clutching each other in fear. Never before had they encountered such a large peach and now it appeared to be alive, or possessed by a spirit or demon.
For minutes on end, the couple did nothing beside watch the peach. For just a moment is was still, resting on the tatami mat in peace. Then with a start the peach began to jump. Up and down in its place, rocking back and forth when it came to earth, the pink mist above it intensified and from inside the little voice began to laugh. Not a sinister, demon laugh or that of a trickster spirit but, instead, the happy, jubilant giggles of a child. Then, just as the old man was leaning close to the peach to listen to the laughter, the giant fruit split open and busted apart.
The halves of the peach fell gently to the ground and, standing it its place, was a little baby boy. Pink as the peach with cheeks as rosy as sunrise, the chubby little boy giggled as the old man and his wife looked on in astonishment. Of all things to appear from a peach, this little peach boy was the last thing they expected. But, nonetheless, the peach boy had come to them, and the old woman believed that he had been sent to them to fulfill their wish for a child. At long last they would have a son to raise, a beautiful child who would make their days joyful, a precious boy who would grow into a strong man and take care of them in their old age. Yes, this little boy was meant to be their son.
Picking the baby up and wrapping him in her nearby laundry, the old woman cradled him in her arms, gazing down at his tiny face. She kissed his forehead softly. "You will be a fine man one day, Peach Boy," she whispered. Then, looking up at her husband, she said, "But what sort of a name is Peach Boy for a fine child like this? We shall call him Momotaro!"
Nodding in agreement, the old man took a place beside his wife and joined her in watching their new son. "Momotaro, a fine name indeed," he said.
To Be Continued...
While I was writing this post, I realized just how long and detailed the story of the peach boy is. What is typed above is only about half the story. I could have kept writing and finished, but I don't want my readers to get bored sifting through endless paragraphs. So I will make this story a two-parter; enjoy the first half above and be looking for part two very soon.
Photo Credit: Pinterest
Sources Sighted: Overly Sarcastic Productions
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