The Packhorse
by Ota Michiko
I am a packhorse. I am made to pull heavy loads.
I have not had much work lately. “Why was I born a packhorse?” I often ask myself. This question makes me sad.
Yesterday I was in Tennoji, in Osaka. There were many children present. All of a sudden, there arrived a horse who seemed to be the same age as myself. I was surprised to see it pulled no load. Instead, it carried a man on its back. The horse had the most beautiful face I had ever seen, and its coat glistened as though it had just been washed. It galloped with loud, clear steps, and when the children saw it, they all ran, crying, “Look! A horse!”
Now, none of the children had run for me, which made me upset, so I began to gallop, pulling my cart along. Only my steps were neither loud nor clear, for all I could hear was the muddy and indistinct clatter of the wheels of my cart.
“Hey,” shouted the Driver, pulling hard on the reins; “stop, you beast!”
“Look,” cried the children; “a wild horse!” and they all ran away.
“A wild horse is coming,” cried an onlooker. “Be careful, little children!”
Seeing that I had made everybody run, I slowed down, contended. But still, I wondered why they had all called me “a wild horse” when they ran.
Later on, after I had returned to my stall, I spoke to my friend about what had happened.
“Why does my coat not glisten?” I asked.
“There are all kinds of horses,” answered my friend. “Some pull carts, while others carry men on their backs. Then there are others who serve in the army, and carry soldiers into battle. But the best kind of horse pulls the Emperor’s carriage. They are well looked after.”
“Why was I not born one of those horses?”
“You will have to ask your mother about that. She pulled carts, so you must pull carts also. If you do not want to pull carts, you will have to be born the foal of a horse who carried an Emperor on her back.”
“But how can I do that?”
“You can’t, not unless you die and are reborn such a horse.”
My eyes opened wide. I don’t know why, but I began to weep.
“Don’t worry,” consoled my friend. “I am sure that the imperial horses don’t like their lot either. I bet they wish they had the simple life of a packhorse!”
Just then the nasty Driver came by the stall.
“Shut up!” he yelled.
So I forgot about the whole affair and resumed my miserable duties.
Written by Oda Michiko | Translated by Adam Kuplowsky
’La ĉevalo kiu tiras ĉaron’, Infanoj sur tutmondo, nos. 2-3, 1936
Ota Michiko (1926-?): Ota Michiko wrote the above story when she was ten years old. No other information about her is known.