In a quiet village of Musashi Province, there lived two woodcutters: Mosaku, an old man seasoned by many winters, and Minokichi, his eighteen-year-old apprentice. Every day, they traveled together to a forest about five miles from their village. Between the village and the forest, there lay a wide, untamable river. A ferry-boat was the only means to cross, for though bridges had been built, each one was swept away by floods that followed the fierce rains. No bridge could withstand the river’s wrath when it raged.
One bitterly cold evening, as they were returning home, a great snowstorm descended upon them. The wind howled like a wild beast, and the snow fell so thickly it obscured their path. They reached the ferry, only to find the boatman had abandoned his post, leaving the ferry stranded on the far side of the river. With no way to cross, they sought shelter in the ferryman’s hut nearby.
The hut was small, scarcely more than a two-mat space with a single door, no windows, and no brazier to provide warmth. Grateful for even this poor shelter, the two woodcutters fastened the door, laid their straw raincoats over themselves, and tried to rest. The storm showed no signs of abating, and though Minokichi lay awake for some time, listening to the wind’s wails and the river’s roar, he eventually succumbed to exhaustion. Mosaku, already aged, had fallen asleep almost immediately.
Minokichi’s sleep, however, was brief. He awoke suddenly, feeling the sting of snowflakes on his face. The door had somehow been forced open, and through the dim, ghostly light of the snow outside, he saw a figure. It was a woman, draped in white, her skin as pale as the snow itself. She was bent over Mosaku, and from her mouth, she breathed a strange, luminous mist onto the old man’s face.
Minokichi tried to cry out, but his voice seemed frozen in his throat. Fear gripped him, his body paralyzed by the sight before him. The woman, tall and beautiful yet eerily cold, now turned toward him. Her dark eyes bore into his, filled with an unearthly light that made his blood run colder than the storm outside. She stooped over him, her breath, visible in the freezing air, brushing against his face.
“You are young, Minokichi,” she whispered, her voice soft yet echoing as if carried on the wind itself. “So young… and beautiful. I had intended to treat you as I did the other, but I cannot. Something stays my hand. I will spare you tonight.” Her cold smile made his heart race with fear, though she seemed to gaze at him with something like pity. “But if you ever speak of what you have seen, to anyone—your mother, your closest friend—know that I will return. And when I do, I will kill you.”
With that, she stood, her form fading into the blizzard outside as though she had been part of it all along. Minokichi lay trembling for what felt like hours before he dared move. He scrambled to the door, shut it firmly, and stacked several logs of wood against it. Had the wind blown it open, or had she truly been there? His heart pounded with doubt and terror.
He called to Mosaku, his voice finally returning to him, but there was no answer. His hand found the old man’s face—it was like ice. Mosaku was dead, his body frozen stiff as though he had lain there for days.
By dawn, the storm had passed, leaving the world eerily still and quiet beneath a thick blanket of snow. When the ferryman returned, he found Minokichi collapsed beside the lifeless body of Mosaku. Minokichi was brought back to the village and, though cared for, he fell into a long illness from the cold and the horror of that night. Even when he recovered, he never spoke a word of the mysterious woman to anyone.
A year passed, and with it, the memory of that night grew distant, though it never fully left him. Minokichi continued his work, now traveling alone to the forest each day, his mother helping him sell the wood he gathered. One winter evening, on his way home, he met a girl walking the same path.
She was tall, slender, and strikingly beautiful. Her voice was as clear and sweet as a bird’s song when she greeted him. They walked together, talking easily, as if they had known each other for years. Her name, she said, was O-Yuki. She had recently lost her parents and was on her way to Yedo, hoping to find relatives who could help her find work.
Minokichi was immediately enchanted by her. Her beauty, her grace—it all felt strangely familiar, though he could not place why. As they walked, he asked her if she was betrothed, and she laughed lightly, saying she was not. Then, she asked him the same question, and he admitted that, though he was not pledged to anyone, his mother had hoped he would soon find a bride.
By the time they reached his village, the two had grown close, speaking without words through shared glances, as though fate itself had drawn them together. Minokichi invited her to rest at his home, and after a shy hesitation, O-Yuki agreed. His mother welcomed her warmly, and soon O-Yuki was no longer a guest but a member of their household. She never went to Yedo. Instead, she became Minokichi’s wife.
The years passed peacefully. O-Yuki bore Minokichi ten children, all fair and handsome like their mother. The villagers marveled at how youthful she remained, even after so many births. While the women of the village aged quickly, their faces weathered by the hard rural life, O-Yuki’s beauty seemed untouched by time. Yet something about her always felt distant, as though a part of her belonged to another world.
One winter night, years after their marriage, Minokichi sat by the fire, watching O-Yuki as she sewed. The lamplight fell on her face, casting her features into sharp relief, and something stirred in his memory.
“You know,” he said quietly, “you remind me of a strange thing that happened to me when I was young. I saw a woman once, beautiful and white, like you. It was a terrible night, during a snowstorm. I was just a boy, traveling with Mosaku, my old master. We were caught in a blizzard, and that night, I saw her—a woman like no other, her skin as white as snow…”
He trailed off, as O-Yuki continued her sewing, her hands steady, though her face grew paler.
“Tell me about her,” she said softly, not looking up from her work. “Where did you see her?”
Minokichi hesitated, then told her the whole story—of the hut, the blizzard, the death of Mosaku, and the White Woman who had spared his life. “I’ve never been sure whether it was a dream or real. But you, O-Yuki—you look so much like her. It’s as if…”
Before he could finish, O-Yuki dropped her sewing. She stood abruptly and leaned over him, her face contorted in anger, her voice rising to a shriek.
“It was I! I am the Woman of the Snow! And I told you that if you ever spoke of that night, I would kill you!” Her voice, once soft and kind, now cracked like ice. “But for our children, I would end your life here and now! You must care for them—because if ever they have cause to cry, or reason to complain, I will return, and I will destroy you!” As her words echoed in the room, O-Yuki’s form began to shimmer and waver. Her body dissolved into a bright white mist, rising toward the roof beams, before vanishing entirely into the cold night air. Minokichi sat frozen, staring at the spot where she had stood. She was gone, and never again did anyone see her in the village.