[1] Lit., “a tale of _ingwa_.” _Ingwa_ is a Japanese Buddhist term for
evil karma, or the evil consequence of faults committed in a former
state of existence. Perhaps the curious title of the narrative is best
explained by the Buddhist teaching that the dead have power to injure
the living only in consequence of evil actions committed by their
victims in some former life. Both title and narrative may be found in
the collection of weird stories entitled _Hyaku-Monogatari_.
The daimyō’s wife was dying, and knew that she was dying. She had not
been able to leave her bed since the early autumn of the tenth Bunsei.
It was now the fourth month of the twelfth Bunsei,—the year 1829 by
Western counting; and the cherry-trees were blossoming. She thought of
the cherry-trees in her garden, and of the gladness of spring. She
thought of her children. She thought of her husband’s various
concubines,—especially the Lady Yukiko, nineteen years old.
“My dear wife,” said the daimyō, “you have suffered very much for three
long years. We have done all that we could to get you well,—watching
beside you night and day, praying for you, and often fasting for your
sake, But in spite of our loving care, and in spite of the skill of our
best physicians, it would now seen that the end of your life is not far
off. Probably we shall sorrow more than you will sorrow because of your
having to leave what the Buddha so truly termed ‘this burning-house of
the world. I shall order to be performed—no matter what the cost—every
religious rite that can serve you in regard to your next rebirth; and
all of us will pray without ceasing for you, that you may not have to
wander in the Black Space, but may quickly enter Paradise, and attain
to Buddha-hood.”
He spoke with the utmost tenderness, pressing her the while. Then, with
eyelids closed, she answered him in a voice thin as the voice of in
insect:—
“I am grateful—most grateful—for your kind words…. Yes, it is true, as
you say, that I have been sick for three long years, and that I have
been treated with all possible care and affection…. Why, indeed, should
I turn away from the one true Path at the very moment of my death?…
Perhaps to think of worldly matters at such a time is not right;—but I
have one last request to make,—only one…. Call here to me the Lady
Yukiko;—you know that I love her like a sister. I want to speak to her
about the affairs of this household.”
Yukiko came at the summons of the lord, and, in obedience to a sign
from him, knelt down beside the couch. The daimyō’s wife opened her
eyes, and looked at Yukiko, and spoke:—“Ah, here is Yukiko!… I am so
pleased to see you, Yukiko!… Come a little closer,—so that you can hear
me well: I am not able to speak loud…. Yukiko, I am going to die. I
hope that you will be faithful in all things to our dear lord;—for I
want you to take my place when I am gone…. I hope that you will always
be loved by him,—yes, even a hundred times more than I have been,—and
that you will very soon be promoted to a higher rank, and become his
honored wife…. And I beg of you always to cherish our dear lord: never
allow another woman to rob you of his affection…. This is what I wanted
to say to you, dear Yukiko…. Have you been able to understand?”
“Oh, my dear Lady,” protested Yukiko, “do not, I entreat you, say such
strange things to me! You well know that I am of poor and mean
condition:—how could I ever dare to aspire to become the wife of our
lord!”
“Nay, nay!” returned the wife, huskily,—“this is not a time for words
of ceremony: let us speak only the truth to each other. After my death,
you will certainly be promoted to a higher place; and I now assure you
again that I wish you to become the wife of our lord—yes, I wish this,
Yukiko, even more than I wish to become a Buddha!… Ah, I had almost
forgotten!—I want you to do something for me, Yukiko. You know that in
the garden there is a _yaë-zakura_,[2] which was brought here, the year
before last, from Mount Yoshino in Yamato. I have been told that it is
now in full bloom;—and I wanted so much to see it in flower! In a
little while I shall be dead;—I must see that tree before I die. Now I
wish you to carry me into the garden—at once, Yukiko,—so that I can see
it…. Yes, upon your back, Yukiko;—take me upon your back….”
[2] _Yaë-zakura, yaë-no-sakura_, a variety of Japanese cherry-tree
that bears double-blossoms.
While thus asking, her voice had gradually become clear and strong,—as
if the intensity of the wish had given her new force: then she suddenly
burst into tears. Yukiko knelt motionless, not knowing what to do; but
the lord nodded assent.
“It is her last wish in this world,” he said. “She always loved
cherry-flowers; and I know that she wanted very much to see that
Yamato-tree in blossom. Come, my dear Yukiko, let her have her will.”
As a nurse turns her back to a child, that the child may cling to it,
Yukiko offered her shoulders to the wife, and said:—
“Lady, I am ready: please tell me how I best can help you.”
“Why, this way!”—responded the dying woman, lifting herself with an
almost superhuman effort by clinging to Yukiko’s shoulders. But as she
stood erect, she quickly slipped her thin hands down over the
shoulders, under the robe, and clutched the breasts of the girl,, and
burst into a wicked laugh.
“I have my wish!” she cried—“I have my wish for the
cherry-bloom,[3]—but not the cherry-bloom of the garden!… I could not
die before I got my wish. Now I have it!—oh, what a delight!”
[3] In Japanese poetry and proverbial phraseology, the physical beauty
of a woman is compared to the cherry-flower; while feminine moral
beauty is compared to the plum-flower.
And with these words she fell forward upon the crouching girl, and
died.
The attendants at once attempted to lift the body from Yukiko’s
shoulders, and to lay it upon the bed. But—strange to say!—this
seemingly easy thing could not be done. The cold hands had attached
themselves in some unaccountable way to the breasts of the
girl,—appeared to have grown into the quick flesh. Yukiko became
senseless with fear and pain.
Physicians were called. They could not understand what had taken place.
By no ordinary methods could the hands of the dead woman be unfastened
from the body of her victim;—they so clung that any effort to remove
them brought blood. This was not because the fingers held: it was
because the flesh of the palms had united itself in some inexplicable
manner to the flesh of the breasts!
At that time the most skilful physician in Yedo was a foreigner,—a
Dutch surgeon. It was decided to summon him. After a careful
examination he said that he could not understand the case, and that for
the immediate relief of Yukiko there was nothing to be done except to
cut the hands from the corpse. He declared that it would be dangerous
to attempt to detach them from the breasts. His advice was accepted;
and the hands’ were amputated at the wrists. But they remained clinging
to the breasts; and there they soon darkened and dried up,—like the
hands of a person long dead.
Yet this was only the beginning of the horror.
Withered and bloodless though they seemed, those hands were not dead.
At intervals they would stir—stealthily, like great grey spiders. And
nightly thereafter,—beginning always at the Hour of the Ox,[4]—they
would clutch and compress and torture. Only at the Hour of the Tiger
the pain would cease.
[4] In ancient Japanese time, the Hour of the Ox was the special hour
of ghosts. It began at 2 A.M., and lasted until 4 A.M.—for the old
Japanese hour was double the length of the modern hour. The Hour of
the Tiger began at 4 A.M.
Yukiko cut off her hair, and became a mendicant-nun,—taking the
religious name of Dassetsu. She had an _ihai_ (mortuary tablet) made,
bearing the _kaimyō_ of her dead mistress,—“_Myō-Kō-In-Den
Chizan-Ryō-Fu Daishi_”;—and this she carried about with her in all her
wanderings; and every day before it she humbly besought the dead for
pardon, and performed a Buddhist service in order that the jealous
spirit might find rest. But the evil karma that had rendered such an
affliction possible could not soon be exhausted. Every night at the
Hour of the Ox, the hands never failed to torture her, during more than
seventeen years,—according to the testimony of those persons to whom
she last told her story, when she stopped for one evening at the house
of Noguchi Dengozayémon, in the village of Tanaka in the district of
Kawachi in the province of Shimotsuké. This was in the third year of
Kōkwa (1846). Thereafter nothing more was ever heard of her.