I happened to be at Yaidzu during the three days of the _Bon_ or
Festival of the Dead; and I hoped to see the beautiful farewell
ceremony of the third and last day. In many parts of Japan, the ghosts
are furnished with miniature ships for their voyage,—little models of
junks or fishing-craft, each containing offerings of food and water and
kindled incense; also a tiny lantern or lamp, if the ghost-ship be
despatched at night. But at Yaidzu lanterns only are set afloat; and I
was told that they would be launched after dark. Midnight being the
customary hour elsewhere, I supposed that it was the hour of farewell
at Yaidzu also, and I rashly indulged in a nap after supper, expecting
to wake up in time for the spectacle. But by ten o’clock, when I went
to the beach again, all was over, and everybody had gone home. Over the
water I saw something like a long swarm of fire-flies,—the lanterns
drifting out to sea in procession; but they were already too far to be
distinguished except as points of colored light. I was much
disappointed: I felt that I had lazily missed an opportunity which
might never again return,—for these old Bon-customs are dying rapidly.
But in another moment it occurred to me that I could very well venture
to swim out to the lights. They were moving slowly. I dropped my robe
on the beach, and plunged in. The sea was calm, and beautifully
phosphorescent. Every stroke kindled a stream of yellow fire. I swam
fast, and overtook the last of the lantern-fleet much sooner than I had
hoped. I felt that it would be unkind to interfere with the little
embarcations, or to divert them from their silent course: so I
contented myself with keeping close to one of them, and studying its
details.
[Illustration: The Lights of the Dead]
The structure was very simple. The bottom was a piece of thick plank,
perfectly square, and measuring about ten inches across. Each one of
its corners supported a slender slick about sixteen inches high; and
these four uprights, united above by cross-pieces, sustained the paper
sides. Upon the point of a long nail, driven up through the centre of
the bottom, was fixed a lighted candle. The top was left open. The four
sides presented five different colors,—blue, yellow, red, white, and
black; these five colors respectively symbolizing Ether, Wind, Fire,
Water, and Earth,—the five Buddhist elements which are metaphysically
identified with the Five Buddhas. One of the paper-panes was red, one
blue, one yellow; and the right half of the fourth pane was black,
while the left half, uncolored, represented white. No _kaimyō_ was
written upon any of the transparencies. Inside the lantern there was
only the flickering candle.
I watched those frail glowing shapes drifting through the night, and
ever as they drifted scattering, under impulse of wind and wave, more
and more widely apart. Each, with its quiver of color, seemed a life
afraid,—trembling on the blind current that was bearing it into the
outer blackness…. Are not we ourselves as lanterns launched upon a
deeper and a dimmer sea, and ever separating further and further one
from another as we drift to the inevitable dissolution? Soon the
thought-light in each burns itself out: then the poor frames, and all
that is left of their once fair colors, must melt forever into the
colorless Void.
Even in the moment of this musing I began to doubt whether I was really
alone,—to ask myself whether there might not be something more than a
mere shuddering of light in the thing that rocked beside me: some
presence that haunted the dying flame, and was watching the watcher. A
faint cold thrill passed over me,—perhaps some chill uprising from the
depths,—perhaps the creeping only of a ghostly fancy. Old superstitions
of the coast recurred to me,—old vague warnings of peril in the time of
the passage of Souls. I reflected that were any evil to befall me out
there in the night,—meddling, or seeming to meddle, with the lights of
the Dead,—I should myself furnish the subject of some future weird
legend…. I whispered the Buddhist formula of farewell—to the
lights,—and made speed for shore.
As I touched the stones again, I was startled by seeing two white
shadows before me; but a kindly voice, asking if the water was cold,
set me at ease. It was the voice of my old landlord, Otokichi the
fishseller, who had come to look for me, accompanied by his wife.
“Only pleasantly cool,” I made answer, as I threw on my robe to go home
with them.
“Ah,” said the wife, “it is not good to go out there on the night of
the Bon!”
“I did not go far,” I replied;—“I only wanted to look at the lanterns.”
“Even a Kappa gets drowned sometimes,”[1] protested Otokichi. “There
was a man of this village who swam home a distance of seven ri, in bad
weather, after his boat had been broken. But he was drowned
afterwards.”
[1] This is a common proverb:—_Kappa mo oboré-shini_. The Kappa is a
water-goblin, haunting rivers especially.
Seven _ri_ means a trifle less than eighteen miles. I asked if any of
the young men now in the settlement could do as much.
“Probably some might,” the old man replied. “There are many strong
swimmers. All swim here,—even the little children. But when fisher-folk
swim like that, it is only to save their lives.”
“Or to make love,” the wife added,—“like the Hashima girl.”
“Who?” queried I.
“A fisherman’s daughter,” said Otokichi. “She had a lover in Ajiro,
several _ri_ distant; and she used to swim to him at night, and swim
back in the morning. He kept a light burning to guide her. But one dark
night the light was neglected—or blown out; and she lost her way, and
was drowned…. The story is famous in Idzu.”
—“So,” I said to myself, “in the Far East, it is poor Hero that does
the swimming. And what, under such circumstances, would have been the
Western estimate of Leander?”