Momotaro, the Peach Boy

Long, long ago in Japan, in a little village by a river, there lived an old man and an old woman. They lived together happily, but they were often sad, because they had no children.

One morning the old man went up into the hills to gather firewood, and the old woman went down to the river to wash shirts. She was scrubbing and rinsing when all of a sudden she saw a peach floating down the stream. And what a peach! As big as a pumpkin, rosy and round, and it smelled so sweet that it tickled her nose.

“What a wonder!” cried the old woman, clapping her hands. “I’ll take it home to my old man. He can have a treat.”

She pulled the peach to the bank with a stick, wrapped both arms around it (oof, how heavy it was!) and carried it home.

In the evening the old man came back, tired and hungry. The old woman set the peach in front of him. The old man took a knife, and the moment it touched the skin—crack!—the peach split in two all by itself. And inside sat a boy. A tiny, chubby-cheeked boy, and he was laughing.

“Don’t be afraid!” he said. “Heaven saw how sad you were on your own and sent me to you.”

The old man and the old woman wept for joy.

“We’ll call you Momotaro,” said the old woman. “Because ‘momo’ means peach, and ‘taro’ means son.”

Momotaro grew fast. He ate enough for three, worked as hard as five, and laughed so merrily that even the sparrows on the roof fell quiet to listen. He helped the old man chop wood and carried water for the old woman. And he was so strong that he once pulled a neighbour’s cart out of the bog all by himself, with his bare hands.

When Momotaro turned fifteen, he went to the old man.

“Father,” he said, “have you heard of the demons' island?”

“Who hasn’t?” sighed the old man. “Out there in the sea live horned demons. They sail over to our shore and take people’s gold, silk, rice, everything they can find. And people are frightened and hide.”

“That’s just it,” said Momotaro. “I’ll sail there and bring back what belongs to the people.”

The old man and the old woman looked at each other. They were afraid to let their son go. But they could see it: his eyes were clear, his hand was steady. There was no holding him back.

All night long the old woman kneaded dough and shaped millet dumplings, round, yellow and warm. She put them in a little pouch and tied it to her son’s belt.

“These are the best dumplings in all Japan,” she said. “With these, you’ll come to no harm.”

In the morning Momotaro bowed to his parents and set off.

He was walking across a field when a spotted dog came running up to him.

“Woof! Where are you going, Momotaro?”

“To the demons' island, to bring the people’s treasures back.”

“And what’s in your pouch?”

“The best millet dumplings in all Japan.”

“Give me one, and I’ll come with you!”

Momotaro gave him one. The dog—gulp!—swallowed it down, his tail whirling round and round. And on they went, the two of them.

They were walking through a forest when—hop!—a monkey jumped down from a tree.

“Ooh-ooh! Where are you going, Momotaro?”

“To the demons' island, to bring the people’s treasures back.”

“And what’s in your pouch?”

“The best millet dumplings in all Japan.”

“Give me one, and I’ll come with you!”

Momotaro gave the monkey one too. But the dog bristled.

“Grrr! What do we need this fidget for?”

“And what do you need such a long tongue for?” snorted the monkey.

A moment more and there would have been a fight. But Momotaro stepped between them.

“We are off to do a great deed,” he said calmly. “Whoever quarrels on the road will never reach the end of it.”

The dog lowered his ears. The monkey scratched the back of her head. And on they went: the dog in front, the monkey behind, and Momotaro in the middle.

They came out onto a meadow, and there a pheasant was strutting about. His feathers were green and gold and red, so bright they almost hurt your eyes.

“Where are you going, Momotaro?” called the pheasant.

“To the demons' island, to bring the people’s treasures back.”

“And what’s in your pouch?”

“The best millet dumplings in all Japan.”

“Give me one, and I’ll fly with you!”

So the pheasant got his dumpling too. Now there were four of them. They walked side by side and shared everything equally: the road, the bread and the songs.

At last they reached the sea. They found a boat, raised the sail and—whoosh!—the wind carried them over the waves. They sailed all day, they sailed all night. The dog kept watch ahead, the monkey held the rudder, and the pheasant circled high above.

“I see it!” he cried in the morning. “An island! Grey cliffs, and on top of them a fortress with a black gate!”

They landed on the shore. The gate was tall and shut tight, and from behind it came boom-boom-boom!—drums, guffaws, stamping feet. The demons were feasting on other people’s riches.

“How will we ever get in?” whispered the dog.

“I know,” said the pheasant, and—flap-flap!—he flew over the wall.

Behind the gate sat the demons: red ones, blue ones, green ones, with little horns and striped trousers. Big and scary to look at. But as soon as the pheasant swooped down on them—tap-tap-tap with his beak on the tops of their heads!—they started yelping and scurrying about.

“Ow, who’s that? Ow, where is it?”

While they were gawping around, the monkey—scritch-scratch—clambered up the wall, jumped down on the other side and slid back the heavy bolt. The gate went creak!—and swung open.

“Forward!” shouted Momotaro.

The dog dashed under the demons' feet and nipped at their heels. The monkey tugged at their hair. The pheasant pecked at their noses. And Momotaro stood in the middle of the yard, calmly pushing away everyone who ran at him. The demons tripped, tumbled over one another and rolled about in a heap like sacks of rice.

Then out came the biggest demon of all, their chief. His horns were sharp and his eyes were as round as saucers. But when he saw his whole gang knocked head over heels, he sat down on the ground and burst into tears.

“Have mercy, Momotaro!” he sobbed. “We won’t do it again! Take everything, only tell your bird to stop pecking!”

“Give back everything you took from people,” said Momotaro. “And never hurt anyone again.”

“We promise! Demon’s honour!” the demons nodded.

They brought out everything: gold and silver, rolls of silk, coral necklaces, sacks of rice. And a magic hat as well, the kind that makes you invisible. They loaded it all onto a cart, helped haul it to the boat, and then stood on the shore waving for a long, long time.

Back home, Momotaro and his friends went round the whole village and gave people back their things. One got back a silver cup, another their silk, and one old granny got back grandad’s necklace, which she had mourned as lost long ago. People thanked them and bowed, and the children ran along behind the dog, the monkey and the pheasant.

Last of all, Momotaro opened the gate of his own home. The old man and the old woman ran out to meet him and hugged their son tight, tight, tight.

“You’re back!” whispered the old woman. “Safe and sound!”

That evening the little house by the river was noisier than it had ever been. The old woman made a whole mountain of millet dumplings, and there were enough for everyone. The old man listened to the tale of the demons' island and laughed till he cried when the monkey showed how the chief had sat down on the ground. The pheasant was telling for the third time how he had pecked the horned ones on the tops of their heads: tap-tap-tap! And the dog and the monkey sat side by side all evening, sharing the dumplings half and half, and never quarrelled once.