Long, long ago there lived at the foot of a mountain a poor farmer and his aged, widowed mother. They owned a bit of land which supplied them with food, and their humble lives were peaceful and happy.
At that time Shinano was governed by a despotic ruler who, though a brave 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 uncommon. However it was not a law, and many of the helpless old lived as long as nature allowed in comfortable and welcoming homes. 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 a daimio, so with many deep and hopeless sights, 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 the unwhitened rice which is the principal food of the poor, cooked and dried it, and tying it in a square of cloth, swung the bundle around his neck along with a gourd filled with cool, sweet water. Then he lifted his helpless, old mother to his back and started on his painful journey up to the mountain.
The road was long and steep. He plodded steadily on, the shadows growing deeper, and deeper, until the moon, round and clear, rose above the mountaintop and peered pityingly through the branches upon the youth toiling onward, his head bent with weariness and his heart heavy with sorrow. The narrow road was crossed and recrossed by many path made by hunters and woodcutters. In some places, they mingled in a confused puzzle, but he gave no heed. One path or another, it mattered not. On he went, climbing blindly upward - ever upward - toward the high, bare summit of what is now known as Obatsuyama, the mountain of the "Abandoning of the Aged."
The eyes of the old mother were not so dim but 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 of one of danger, so she stretched forth her hand and, snapping the twigs from the bushes as they passed, she quietly dropped a handful every few steps of the way so that as they climbed the narrow path behind them was dotted at frequent 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 needles, 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 blind, my son," she said. "The mountain road is full of danger. Look carefully and follow the path which holds the piles of twigs. They will guide thee 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 ground, 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 now!) 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 hid his mother, supplying her with everything needful and continually watching and fearing.
Time passed, and he was beginning to feel safe when again the despot sent forth heralds bearing an unreasonable order, seemingly as a boast of his power. His demand was that his subjects should present him with a rope of ashes.
The entire province trembled with dread. The order must be obeyed; yet who in all Shinano 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 a rope of twisted straw," she said. "Then stretch it upon a row of flat stones and burn it there on a windless night."
He called the people together and did as she said, and when the blaze had died, behold, upon the stones, with every twist and fiber showing perfectly, lay a rope of whitened ashes.
The daimio was pleased at the wit of the youth and praised him greatly, but he demanded to know where he had obtained his wisdom.
"Alas! Alas!" cried the farmer, "the truth must be told!" And with many deep bows he related his story.
The daimio listened and then meditated in silence. Finally he lifted his head. "Shinano needs more than the strength of youth," he said gravely. "Ah, that I should have forgotten the well-known saying, 'With the crown of snow, there cometh wisdom!"
That very hour the cruel law was abolished, and custom drifted into as far a past that only the legend remains.
Source
Lapid, Milagros and Serrano, Josephine. English Communication Arts and Skills through Afro-Asian Literature 8. 9th ed, Phoenix Publishing House, Inc., 2022
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