KOZO MIYOSHI
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繭
桜花の時期も過ぎ、今年も春蚕の時期が巡って来た。近頃、彼の地の山懐の町村の養蚕の営みを覗き見に通っている。いつも思うのだが、少しわくわくの誘惑と、なのになんだか少し物思いになってしまう訪問なのだ。子供時分、毎年この季節になると裏の土手に１本だけ、大きめの葉がしげる木があった。その木は小さな実をつけ、熟したその実は堪らない秘密のおやつだった。熟したその実を口一杯に頬張り、その雫が白いシャツに滲みこんでいくことにすくみ、登り慣れたその木から降りる事になるのが常だった。そしてその傍らの枝に薄黄緑色のわた玉を数個見つけだすことも小さな喜びだった。勿論その当時、その子は、桑木と蚕と繭の関係を知る由もなかった。そして時が過ぎ、昔は狭い峠道を超えなければ行けなかった織り物が名産だった街に寄り道をした。その街外れで、両手で抱える大きさの篭一杯の繭を持つ少女に出会った。そしてその娘は、私の大きな写真機に気がつくと、ひととき興味の目でいたが、ふと我に帰り、小道の先の農家の庭に駆け帰っていった。その時一つの繭が篭から転げ落ちた。拾い上げたその繭は、真夏の昼下がり、峠の山並みの先の夏空に沸き立つ入道雲より、目映く白く輝いていた。
国道から右角にコンビニがある十字路を左折して窪地をしばらく行くと、三方は丘に閉ざされ行止りの土地にその繭農家はある。瓦屋根には卯建があり、軒の全ては雨戸で覆われ、等間隔に開けてある雨戸の間からは白い障子が見えている。小径の前の畑には桑木が春蚕、夏蚕、秋蚕で使われて半数以上が切り取られ、程よい加減に生い茂り、整然と畝を作っている。別棟の白壁の蔵の前にある分厚い板戸を心して引き開ける。そこには幾万の繭が、幾百のまぶし蔟に納まって淡い障子からの光に照らされて、晩秋の繭掻きを待っている。そしてその時、蚕部屋の陽射しが微かに騒めき、午後の静寂が打ち消され、裏の欅の梢でモズが鳴いた。私の再訪に家主が気付いたらしい、季節外れのダリアの花を仏壇に挙げるのだろう、片手で握りしめ、もう片方で姉さん被りの手ぬぐいを一払いして、板戸を背に眴せ顔で佇んでいる。

The cherry blossom season is now over, and next comes the time of spring rearing. These days, I have been visiting the towns and villages in the heart of mountains: peeking the act of sericulture, something that gives me mixed feelings of excitement and pensiveness. When I was a child, there was a tree behind the bank of a family property, which would leaf bowery leaves around this season. The tree would also produce berries and when ripened, they were irresistible secret treats of mine. I would stuff my whole mouth with the fruits and when the nectar starts to stain my white shirt, I would cringe and force myself down from the wont tree. At the same time, I would feel a small joy to discover a few fluffy and pale yellowish green pellets attached to the branches as I descend. Needless to say, this child had no idea about the connection of mulberry trees, silkworms and cocoons back then. Time past, I made a detour to a town famous for weaving, once upon a time a place where people had to go over a slap in order to reach there. On the edge of town, I saw a girl with a basket full of cocoons in her arms. She saw me too and noticed my big camera, her eyes showing a glimpse of interest. That did not last long though, as she snapped back to reality, she dashed back to the yard of her homestead, located ahead of a trail. As she ran, a cocoon rolled off from the basket; I picked it up, which was effulgently whiter than the soaring thunderheads on the tips of the mountains in the blue sky of midsummer afternoon.

Off the highway, turning left on the crossroad where there is a corner store on the right-hand side and then heading straight through a punch bowl, this silkworm farm locates at the dead end closed by three sided hills. The tiled roofs decorate gable parapets and the eaves are doubled with storm doors. The Storm doors are equally spaced and paper screens can be seen through those gaps. There is a mulberry field in front of the trail; more than half of the trees are trimmed for spring, summer and autumn rearing, yet some of them still growing thickly, giving the landscape a neat ridge. With caution, I pull open the heavy wooden door in front of the white-walled storehouse near the annex. There, tens of thousands of cocoons rest inside hundreds of cocooning frames waiting to be harvested in the late fall. The silence of the rearing room broke as the afternoon sunlight began to tilt and a shrike chirped on the zelkova treetop. The landlord must have noticed my revisit; probably to offer on the altar, holding unseasonable dahlias in one hand and brushing off her headscarf with another, she stood there, her back facing the wooden door with a knowing look on her face.