Nearly five hundred years ago there was a samurai, named Isogai
Héïdazaëmon Takétsura, in the service of the Lord Kikuji, of Kyūshū.
This Isogai had inherited, from many warlike ancestors, a natural
aptitude for military exercises, and extraordinary strength. While yet
a boy he had surpassed his teachers in the art of swordsmanship, in
archery, and in the use of the spear, and had displayed all the
capacities of a daring and skillful soldier. Afterwards, in the time of
the Eikyō[1] war, he so distinguished himself that high honors were
bestowed upon him. But when the house of Kikuji came to ruin, Isogai
found himself without a master. He might then easily have obtained
service under another daimyō; but as he had never sought distinction
for his own sake alone, and as his heart remained true to his former
lord, he preferred to give up the world. So he cut off his hair, and
became a traveling priest,—taking the Buddhist name of Kwairyō.
But always, under the _koromo_[2] of the priest, Kwairyō kept warm
within him the heart of the samurai. As in other years he had laughed
at peril, so now also he scorned danger; and in all weathers and all
seasons he journeyed to preach the good Law in places where no other
priest would have dared to go. For that age was an age of violence and
disorder; and upon the highways there was no security for the solitary
traveler, even if he happened to be a priest.
In the course of his first long journey, Kwairyō had occasion to visit
the province of Kai. (1) One evening, as he was traveling through the
mountains of that province, darkness overcame him in a very lonesome
district, leagues away from any village. So he resigned himself to pass
the night under the stars; and having found a suitable grassy spot, by
the roadside, he lay down there, and prepared to sleep. He had always
welcomed discomfort; and even a bare rock was for him a good bed, when
nothing better could be found, and the root of a pine-tree an excellent
pillow. His body was iron; and he never troubled himself about dews or
rain or frost or snow.
Scarcely had he lain down when a man came along the road, carrying an
axe and a great bundle of chopped wood. This woodcutter halted on
seeing Kwairyō lying down, and, after a moment of silent observation,
said to him in a tone of great surprise:—
“What kind of a man can you be, good Sir, that you dare to lie down
alone in such a place as this?... There are haunters about here,—many
of them. Are you not afraid of Hairy Things?”
“My friend,” cheerfully answered Kwairyō, “I am only a wandering
priest,—a ‘Cloud-and-Water-Guest,’ as folks call it:
_Unsui-no-ryokaku_. (2) And I am not in the least afraid of Hairy
Things,—if you mean goblin-foxes, or goblin-badgers, or any creatures
of that kind. As for lonesome places, I like them: they are suitable
for meditation. I am accustomed to sleeping in the open air: and I have
learned never to be anxious about my life.”
“You must be indeed a brave man, Sir Priest,” the peasant responded,
“to lie down here! This place has a bad name,—a very bad name. But, as
the proverb has it, _Kunshi ayayuki ni chikayorazu_ [‘The superior man
does not needlessly expose himself to peril’]; and I must assure you,
Sir, that it is very dangerous to sleep here. Therefore, although my
house is only a wretched thatched hut, let me beg of you to come home
with me at once. In the way of food, I have nothing to offer you; but
there is a roof at least, and you can sleep under it without risk.”
He spoke earnestly; and Kwairyō, liking the kindly tone of the man,
accepted this modest offer. The woodcutter guided him along a narrow
path, leading up from the main road through mountain-forest. It was a
rough and dangerous path,—sometimes skirting precipices,—sometimes
offering nothing but a network of slippery roots for the foot to rest
upon,—sometimes winding over or between masses of jagged rock. But at
last Kwairyō found himself upon a cleared space at the top of a hill,
with a full moon shining overhead; and he saw before him a small
thatched cottage, cheerfully lighted from within. The woodcutter led
him to a shed at the back of the house, whither water had been
conducted, through bamboo-pipes, from some neighboring stream; and the
two men washed their feet. Beyond the shed was a vegetable garden, and
a grove of cedars and bamboos; and beyond the trees appeared the
glimmer of a cascade, pouring from some loftier height, and swaying in
the moonshine like a long white robe.
As Kwairyō entered the cottage with his guide, he perceived four
persons—men and women—warming their hands at a little fire kindled in
the _ro_[3] of the principle apartment. They bowed low to the priest,
and greeted him in the most respectful manner. Kwairyō wondered that
persons so poor, and dwelling in such a solitude, should be aware of
the polite forms of greeting. “These are good people,” he thought to
himself; “and they must have been taught by some one well acquainted
with the rules of propriety.” Then turning to his host,—the _aruji_, or
house-master, as the others called him,—Kwairyō said:—
“From the kindness of your speech, and from the very polite welcome
given me by your household, I imagine that you have not always been a
woodcutter. Perhaps you formerly belonged to one of the upper classes?”