Long ago, in the Encho era, there was a monk named Kogi at Miidera in the province of Omi. He was a skilled painter, famous in the world. Rather than buddhas or landscapes, flowers and birds, he loved to paint carp. On days free from temple duties he would float a little boat on Lake Biwa, pay fishermen to release the carp caught in their nets back into the lake, and paint them as they swam. As the years went by, his pictures grew ever more exquisite.
One year Kogi fell ill and, after seven days, stopped breathing. But since his chest was still slightly warm, his disciples, hoping, did not bury him and kept watch. On the third day Kogi moved his hands and feet and came back to life.
Kogi said, "At the house of Lord Taira no Suke, one of our patrons, they should be holding a banquet right now. Go and call them here." When a messenger went, a banquet was indeed under way, and just as Kogi had said, they were about to prepare a carp as namasu, raw sliced fish.
Kogi told Lord Suke and the others who came a strange tale. "Unable to bear the pain of my illness, I leaned on my staff and went out the gate, and my body grew light and I came to the lake. As I went into the water and swam, a messenger of the lake god appeared and said, 'You have earned great merit by setting creatures free. Become a carp for a while and taste the pleasures of the water,' and gave me golden scales. As a carp I swam freely all over Lake Biwa.
"Before long I grew hungry and couldn't help biting the bait on the line of the fisherman Bunshi. I cried out, 'I am Kogi,' but no one could hear. Bunshi took me to Lord Suke's house, and the cook was about to cut me up on the chopping board. The moment his blade touched me, I woke." Everyone was astonished and released the remaining carp into the lake.
Kogi afterward lived out his natural span. It is said that at his death he released his paintings of carp into the lake, and the carp slipped out of the paper and swam away into the water. That is why none of Kogi's paintings have come down to us.