Yama-uba

My voice is the rustle of ancient cedar leaves and the howl of the wind through sharp mountain passes. I am the shadow that flits between the trees just at the edge of your vision, the strange cry you hear in the dead of night. For centuries, travelers have spoken of me in hushed tones around their campfires, their eyes wide with fear and wonder, and this is the story they tell of me, the myth of Yama-uba. They call me a witch, an ogress, a monster with a gaping mouth and tangled white hair. Some of what they say is true. But like the mountains I inhabit, I have many faces—some are stormy and dangerous, others are quiet and full of life. I am as old as the stones and as patient as the trees, and from my home in the wild, untamed mountains of Japan, I see everything. I watched as people struggled along the few treacherous paths, carrying heavy loads of silk, salt, or fish, their weary footsteps echoing in my quiet domain. I saw the kindness in a merchant who shared his last rice ball with a hungry fox, and I saw the greed in a samurai who trampled the wildflowers without a thought. It is my purpose to decide who is worthy of my help and who deserves to learn a lesson about respecting the immense power of the wilderness. My stories are both a warning and a promise: the mountains provide for those who are humble, but they can swallow the arrogant whole. So when you feel a sudden chill on a mountain path or hear a branch snap behind you, know that I am watching, and I am waiting to see the truth of your heart.