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[Illustration: THE MOON MAIDEN _Frontispiece._]
JAPANESE FAIRY TALES
by
GRACE JAMES
Illustrations by Warwick Goble
TO
MISS ETSUKO KATO
NOTE
These tales and legends have been collected from many sources. Some of
them have been selected from the _Ko-ji-ki_, or _Record of Ancient
Matters_, which contains the mythology of Japan. Many are told from
memory, being relics of childish days, originally heard from the lips of
a school-fellow or a nurse. Certain of them, again, form favourite
subjects for representation upon the Japanese stage. A number of the
stories now gathered together have been translated into English long ere
this, and have appeared in this country in one form or another; others
are probably new to an English public.
Thanks are due to Marcus B. Huish, Esq., who has allowed his story, "The
Espousal of the Rat's Daughter," to be included in this collection; and
to Mrs. T. H. James for permission to use her version of "The Matsuyama
Mirror."
CONTENTS
PAGE
1. GREEN WILLOW 1
2. THE FLUTE 10
3. THE TEA-KETTLE 17
4. THE PEONY LANTERN 25
5. THE SEA KING AND THE MAGIC JEWELS 37
6. THE GOOD THUNDER 50
7. THE BLACK BOWL 56
8. THE STAR LOVERS 65
9. HORAIZAN 71
10. REFLECTIONS 78
11. THE STORY OF SUSA, THE IMPETUOUS 89
12. THE WIND IN THE PINE TREE 101
13. FLOWER OF THE PEONY 108
14. THE MALLET 116
15. THE BELL OF DOJOJI 127
16. THE MAIDEN OF UNAI 134
17. THE ROBE OF FEATHERS 142
18. THE SINGING BIRD OF HEAVEN 148
19. THE COLD LADY 153
20. THE FIRE QUEST 161
21. A LEGEND OF KWANNON 165
22. THE ESPOUSAL OF THE RAT'S DAUGHTER 171
23. THE LAND OF YOMI 180
24. THE SPRING LOVER AND THE AUTUMN LOVER 185
25. THE STRANGE STORY OF THE GOLDEN COMB 191
26. THE JELLY-FISH TAKES A JOURNEY 204
27. URASHIMA 209
28. TAMAMO, THE FOX MAIDEN 215
29. MOMOTARO 223
30. THE MATSUYAMA MIRROR 228
31. BROKEN IMAGES 233
32. THE TONGUE-CUT SPARROW 238
33. THE NURSE 243
34. THE BEAUTIFUL DANCER OF YEDO 250
35. HANA-SAKA-JIJI 258
36. THE MOON MAIDEN 264
37. KARMA 270
38. THE SAD STORY OF THE YAOYA'S DAUGHTER 276
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
The Moon Maiden _Frontispiece_
FACE PAGE
The Flute 10
The Peony Lantern 25
The Sea King and the Magic Jewels 45
The Star Lovers 65
The Story of Susa, the Impetuous 99
The Bell of Dojoji 127
The Singing Bird of Heaven 148
A Legend of Kwannon 165
The Espousal of the Rat's Daughter 171
The Strange Story of the Golden Comb 191
The Matsuyama Mirror 228
The Nurse 243
The Beautiful Dancer of Yedo 250
Karma 270
I
GREEN WILLOW
Tomodata, the young _samurai_, owed allegiance to the Lord of Noto. He
was a soldier, a courtier, and a poet. He had a sweet voice and a
beautiful face, a noble form and a very winning address. He was a
graceful dancer, and excelled in every manly sport. He was wealthy and
generous and kind. He was beloved by rich and by poor.
Now his _daimyo_, the Lord of Noto, wanted a man to undertake a mission
of trust. He chose Tomodata, and called him to his presence.
"Are you loyal?" said the _daimyo_.
"My lord, you know it," answered Tomodata.
"Do you love me, then?" asked the _daimyo_.
"Ay, my good lord," said Tomodata, kneeling before him.
"Then carry my message," said the _daimyo_. "Ride and do not spare your
beast. Ride straight, and fear not the mountains nor the enemies'
country. Stay not for storm nor any other thing. Lose your life; but
betray not your trust. Above all, do not look any maid between the eyes.
Ride, and bring me word again quickly."
Thus spoke the Lord of Noto.
So Tomodata got him to horse, and away he rode upon his quest. Obedient
to his lord's commands, he spared not his good beast. He rode straight,
and was not afraid of the steep mountain passes nor of the enemies'
country. Ere he had been three days upon the road the autumn tempest
burst, for it was the ninth month. Down poured the rain in a torrent.
Tomodata bowed his head and rode on. The wind howled in the pine-tree
branches. It blew a typhoon. The good horse trembled and could scarcely
keep its feet, but Tomodata spoke to it and urged it on. His own cloak
he drew close about him and held it so that it might not blow away, and
in this wise he rode on.
The fierce storm swept away many a familiar landmark of the road, and
buffeted the _samurai_ so that he became weary almost to fainting.
Noontide was as dark as twilight, twilight was as dark as night, and
when night fell it was as black as the night of Yomi, where lost souls
wander and cry. By this time Tomodata had lost his way in a wild, lonely
place, where, as it seemed to him, no human soul inhabited. His horse
could carry him no longer, and he wandered on foot through bogs and
marshes, through rocky and thorny tracks, until he fell into deep
despair.
"Alack!" he cried, "must I die in this wilderness and the quest of the
Lord of Noto be unfulfilled?"
At this moment the great winds blew away the clouds of the sky, so that
the moon shone very brightly forth, and by the sudden light Tomodata saw
a little hill on his right hand. Upon the hill was a small thatched
cottage, and before the cottage grew three green weeping-willow trees.
"Now, indeed, the gods be thanked!" said Tomodata, and he climbed the
hill in no time. Light shone from the chinks of the cottage door, and
smoke curled out of a hole in the roof. The three willow trees swayed
and flung out their green streamers in the wind. Tomodata threw his
horse's rein over a branch of one of them, and called for admittance to
the longed-for shelter.
At once the cottage door was opened by an old woman, very poorly but
neatly clad.
"Who rides abroad upon such a night?" she asked, "and what wills he
here?"
"I am a weary traveller, lost and benighted upon your lonely moor. My
name is Tomodata. I am a _samurai_ in the service of the Lord of Noto,
upon whose business I ride. Show me hospitality for the love of the
gods. I crave food and shelter for myself and my horse."
As the young man stood speaking the water streamed from his garments. He
reeled a little, and put out a hand to hold on by the side-post of the
door.
"Come in, come in, young sir!" cried the old woman, full of pity. "Come
in to the warm fire. You are very welcome. We have but coarse fare to
offer, but it shall be set before you with great good-will. As to your
horse, I see you have delivered him to my daughter; he is in good
hands."
At this Tomodata turned sharply round. Just behind him, in the dim
light, stood a very young girl with the horse's rein thrown over her
arm. Her garments were blown about and her long loose hair streamed out
upon the wind. The _samurai_ wondered how she had come there. Then the
old woman drew him into the cottage and shut the door. Before the fire
sat the good man of the house, and the two old people did the very best
they could for Tomodata. They gave him dry garments, comforted him with
hot rice wine, and quickly prepared a good supper for him.
Presently the daughter of the house came in, and retired behind a screen
to comb her hair and to dress afresh. Then she came forth to wait upon
him. She wore a blue robe of homespun cotton. Her feet were bare. Her
hair was not tied nor confined in any way, but lay along her smooth
cheeks, and hung, straight and long and black, to her very knees. She
was slender and graceful. Tomodata judged her to be about fifteen years
old, and knew well that she was the fairest maiden he had ever seen.
At length she knelt at his side to pour wine into his cup. She held the
wine-bottle in two hands and bent her head. Tomodata turned to look at
her. When she had made an end of pouring the wine and had set down the
bottle, their glances met, and Tomodata looked at her full between the
eyes, for he forgot altogether the warning of his _daimyo_, the Lord of
Noto.
"Maiden," he said, "what is your name?"
She answered: "They call me the Green Willow."
"The dearest name on earth," he said, and again he looked her between
the eyes. And because he looked so long her face grew rosy red, from
chin to forehead, and though she smiled her eyes filled with tears.
Ah me, for the Lord of Noto's quest!
Then Tomodata made this little song:
"Long-haired maiden, do you know
That with the red dawn I must go?
Do you wish me far away?
Cruel long-haired maiden, say--
Long-haired maiden, if you know
That with the red dawn I must go,
Why, oh why, do you blush so?"
And the maiden, the Green Willow, answered:
"The dawn comes if I will or no;
Never leave me, never go.
My sleeve shall hide the blush away.
The dawn comes if I will or no;
Never leave me, never go.
Lord, I lift my long sleeve so...."
"Oh, Green Willow, Green Willow ..." sighed Tomodata.
That night he lay before the fire--still, but with wide eyes, for no
sleep came to him though he was weary. He was sick for love of the Green
Willow. Yet by the rules of his service he was bound in honour to think
of no such thing. Moreover, he had the quest of the Lord of Noto that
lay heavy on his heart, and he longed to keep truth and loyalty.
At the first peep of day he rose up. He looked upon the kind old man who
had been his host, and left a purse of gold at his side as he slept. The
maiden and her mother lay behind the screen.
Tomodata saddled and bridled his horse, and mounting, rode slowly away
through the mist of the early morning. The storm was quite over and it
was as still as Paradise. The green grass and the leaves shone with the
wet. The sky was clear, and the path very bright with autumn flowers;
but Tomodata was sad.
When the sunlight streamed across his saddlebow, "Ah, Green Willow,
Green Willow," he sighed; and at noontide it was "Green Willow, Green
Willow"; and "Green Willow, Green Willow," when the twilight fell. That
night he lay in a deserted shrine, and the place was so holy that in
spite of all he slept from midnight till the dawn. Then he rose, having
it in his mind to wash himself in a cold stream that flowed near by, so
as to go refreshed upon his journey; but he was stopped upon the
shrine's threshold. There lay the Green Willow, prone upon the ground. A
slender thing she lay, face downwards, with her black hair flung about
her. She lifted a hand and held Tomodata by the sleeve. "My lord, my
lord," she said, and fell to sobbing piteously.
He took her in his arms without a word, and soon he set her on his horse
before him, and together they rode the livelong day. It was little they
recked of the road they went, for all the while they looked into each
other's eyes. The heat and the cold were nothing to them. They felt not
the sun nor the rain; of truth or falsehood they thought nothing at all;
nor of filial piety, nor of the Lord of Noto's quest, nor of honour nor
plighted word. They knew but the one thing. Alas, for the ways of love!
At last they came to an unknown city, where they stayed. Tomodata
carried gold and jewels in his girdle, so they found a house built of
white wood, spread with sweet white mats. In every dim room there could
be heard the sound of the garden waterfall, whilst the swallow flitted
across and across the paper lattice. Here they dwelt, knowing but the
one thing. Here they dwelt three years of happy days, and for Tomodata
and the Green Willow the years were like garlands of sweet flowers.
In the autumn of the third year it chanced that the two of them went
forth into the garden at dusk, for they had a wish to see the round moon
rise; and as they watched, the Green Willow began to shake and shiver.
"My dear," said Tomodata, "you shake and shiver; and it is no wonder,
the night wind is chill. Come in." And he put his arm around her.
At this she gave a long and pitiful cry, very loud and full of agony,
and when she had uttered the cry she failed, and dropped her head upon
her love's breast.
"Tomodata," she whispered, "say a prayer for me; I die."
"Oh, say not so, my sweet, my sweet! You are but weary; you are faint."
He carried her to the stream's side, where the iris grew like swords,
and the lotus-leaves like shields, and laved her forehead with water. He
said: "What is it, my dear? Look up and live."
"The tree," she moaned, "the tree ... they have cut down my tree.
Remember the Green Willow."
With that she slipped, as it seemed, from his arms to his feet; and he,
casting himself upon the ground, found only silken garments, bright
coloured, warm and sweet, and straw sandals, scarlet-thonged.
In after years, when Tomodata was a holy man, he travelled from shrine
to shrine, painfully upon his feet, and acquired much merit.
Once, at nightfall, he found himself upon a lonely moor. On his right
hand he beheld a little hill, and on it the sad ruins of a poor thatched
cottage. The door swung to and fro with broken latch and creaking hinge.
Before it stood three old stumps of willow trees that had long since
been cut down. Tomodata stood for a long time still and silent. Then he
sang gently to himself:
"Long-haired maiden, do you know
That with the red dawn I must go?
Do you wish me far away?
Cruel long-haired maiden, say--
Long-haired maiden, if you know
That with the red dawn I must go,
Why, oh why, do you blush so?"
"Ah, foolish song! The gods forgive me.... I should have recited the
Holy Sutra for the Dead," said Tomodata.
II
THE FLUTE
Long since, there lived in Yedo a gentleman of good lineage and very
honest conversation. His wife was a gentle and loving lady. To his
secret grief, she bore him no sons. But a daughter she did give him,
whom they called O'Yoné, which, being interpreted, is "Rice in the ear."
Each of them loved this child more than life, and guarded her as the
apple of their eye. And the child grew up red and white, and long-eyed,
straight and slender as the green bamboo.
When O'Yoné was twelve years old, her mother drooped with the fall of
the year, sickened, and pined, and ere the red had faded from the leaves
of the maples she was dead and shrouded and laid in the earth. The
husband was wild in his grief. He cried aloud, he beat his breast, he
lay upon the ground and refused comfort, and for days he neither broke
his fast nor slept. The child was quite silent.
[Illustration: The Flute.--_P. 10._]
Time passed by. The man perforce went about his business. The snows of
winter fell and covered his wife's grave. The beaten pathway from his
house to the dwelling of the dead was snow also, undisturbed save for
the faint prints of a child's sandalled feet. In the spring-time he
girded up his robe and went forth to see the cherry blossom, making
merry enough, and writing a poem upon gilded paper, which he hung to a
cherry-tree branch to flutter in the wind. The poem was in praise of the
spring and of _saké_. Later, he planted the orange lily of
forgetfulness, and thought of his wife no more. But the child
remembered.
Before the year was out he brought a new bride home, a woman with a fair
face and a black heart. But the man, poor fool, was happy, and commended
his child to her, and believed that all was well.
Now because her father loved O'Yoné, her stepmother hated her with a
jealous and deadly hatred, and every day she dealt cruelly by the child,
whose gentle ways and patience only angered her the more. But because of
her father's presence she did not dare to do O'Yoné any great ill;
therefore she waited, biding her time. The poor child passed her days
and her nights in torment and horrible fear. But of these things she
said not a word to her father. Such is the manner of children.
Now, after some time, it chanced that the man was called away by his
business to a distant city. Kioto was the name of the city, and from
Yedo it is many days' journey on foot or on horseback. Howbeit, go the
man needs must, and stay there three moons or more. Therefore he made
ready, and equipped himself, and his servants that were to go with him,
with all things needful; and so came to the last night before his
departure, which was to be very early in the morning.
He called O'Yoné to him and said: "Come here, then, my dear little
daughter." So O'Yoné went and knelt before him.
"What gift shall I bring you home from Kioto?" he said.
But she hung her head and did not answer.
"Answer, then, rude little one," he bade her. "Shall it be a golden fan,
or a roll of silk, or a new _obi_ of red brocade, or a great battledore
with images upon it and many light-feathered shuttlecocks?"
Then she burst into bitter weeping, and he took her upon his knees to
soothe her. But she hid her face with her sleeves and cried as if her
heart would break. And, "O father, father, father," she said, "do not go
away--do not go away!"
"But, my sweet, I needs must," he answered, "and soon I shall be
back--so soon, scarcely it will seem that I am gone, when I shall be
here again with fair gifts in my hand."
"Father, take me with you," she said.
"Alas, what a great way for a little girl! Will you walk on your feet,
my little pilgrim, or mount a pack-horse? And how would you fare in the
inns of Kioto? Nay, my dear, stay; it is but for a little time, and your
kind mother will be with you."
She shuddered in his arms.
"Father, if you go, you will never see me more."
Then the father felt a sudden chill about his heart, that gave him
pause. But he would not heed it. What! Must he, a strong man grown, be
swayed by a child's fancies? He put O'Yoné gently from him, and she
slipped away as silently as a shadow.
But in the morning she came to him before sunrise with a little flute in
her hand, fashioned of bamboo and smoothly polished. "I made it myself,"
she said, "from a bamboo in the grove that is behind our garden. I made
it for you. As you cannot take me with you, take the little flute,
honourable father. Play on it sometimes, if you will, and think of me."
Then she wrapped it in a handkerchief of white silk, lined with scarlet,
and wound a scarlet cord about it, and gave it to her father, who put it
in his sleeve. After this he departed and went his way, taking the road
to Kioto. As he went he looked back thrice, and beheld his child,
standing at the gate, looking after him. Then the road turned and he saw
her no more.
The city of Kioto was passing great and beautiful, and so the father of
O'Yoné found it. And what with his business during the day, which sped
very well, and his pleasure in the evening, and his sound sleep at
night, the time passed merrily, and small thought he gave to Yedo, to
his home, or to his child. Two moons passed, and three, and he made no
plans for return.
One evening he was making ready to go forth to a great supper of his
friends, and as he searched in his chest for certain brave silken
_hakama_ which he intended to wear as an honour to the feast, he came
upon the little flute, which had lain hidden all this time in the sleeve
of his travelling dress. He drew it forth from its red and white
handkerchief, and as he did so, felt strangely cold with an icy chill
that crept about his heart. He hung over the live charcoal of the
_hibachi_ as one in a dream. He put the flute to his lips, when there
came from it a long-drawn wail.
He dropped it hastily upon the mats and clapped his hands for his
servant, and told him he would not go forth that night. He was not well,
he would be alone. After a long time he reached out his hand for the
flute. Again that long, melancholy cry. He shook from head to foot, but
he blew into the flute. "Come back to Yedo ... come back to Yedo....
Father! Father!" The quavering childish voice rose to a shriek and then
broke.
A horrible foreboding now took possession of the man, and he was as one
beside himself. He flung himself from the house and from the city, and
journeyed day and night, denying himself sleep and food. So pale was he
and wild that the people deemed him a madman and fled from him, or
pitied him as the afflicted of the gods. At last he came to his
journey's end, travel-stained from head to heel, with bleeding feet and
half-dead of weariness.
His wife met him in the gate.
He said: "Where is the child?"
"The child...?" she answered.
"Ay, the child--my child ... where is she?" he cried in an agony.
The woman laughed: "Nay, my lord, how should I know? She is within at
her books, or she is in the garden, or she is asleep, or mayhap she has
gone forth with her playmates, or ..."
He said: "Enough; no more of this. Come, where is my child?"
Then she was afraid. And, "In the Bamboo Grove," she said, looking at
him with wide eyes.
There the man ran, and sought O'Yoné among the green stems of the
bamboos. But he did not find her. He called, "Yoné! Yoné!" and again,
"Yoné! Yoné!" But he had no answer; only the wind sighed in the dry
bamboo leaves. Then he felt in his sleeve and brought forth the little
flute, and very tenderly put it to his lips. There was a faint sighing
sound. Then a voice spoke, thin and pitiful:
"Father, dear father, my wicked stepmother killed me. Three moons since
she killed me. She buried me in the clearing of the Bamboo Grove. You
may find my bones. As for me, you will never see me any more--you will
never see me more...."
* * * * *
With his own two-handed sword the man did justice, and slew his wicked
wife, avenging the death of his innocent child. Then he dressed himself
in coarse white raiment, with a great rice-straw hat that shadowed his
face. And he took a staff and a straw rain-coat and bound sandals on
his feet, and thus he set forth upon a pilgrimage to the holy places of
Japan.
And he carried the little flute with him, in a fold of his garment, upon
his breast.
III
THE TEA-KETTLE
Long ago, as I've heard tell, there dwelt at the temple of Morinji, in
the Province of Kotsuke, a holy priest.
Now there were three things about this reverend man. First, he was
wrapped up in meditations and observances and forms and doctrines. He
was a great one for the Sacred Sutras, and knew strange and mystical
things. Then he had a fine exquisite taste of his own, and nothing
pleased him so much as the ancient tea ceremony of the _Cha-no-yu_; and
for the third thing about him, he knew both sides of a copper coin well
enough and loved a bargain.
None so pleased as he when he happened upon an ancient tea-kettle, lying
rusty and dirty and half-forgotten in a corner of a poor shop in a back
street of his town.
"An ugly bit of old metal," says the holy man to the shopkeeper; "but it
will do well enough to boil my humble drop of water of an evening. I'll
give you three _rin_ for it." This he did and took the kettle home,
rejoicing; for it was of bronze, fine work, the very thing for the
_Cha-no-yu_.
A novice cleaned and scoured the tea-kettle, and it came out as pretty
as you please. The priest turned it this way and that, and upside down,
looked into it, tapped it with his finger-nail. He smiled. "A bargain,"
he cried, "a bargain!" and rubbed his hands. He set the kettle upon a
box covered over with a purple cloth, and looked at it so long that
first he was fain to rub his eyes many times, and then to close them
altogether. His head dropped forward and he slept.
And then, believe me, the wonderful thing happened. The tea-kettle
moved, though no hand was near it. A hairy head, with two bright eyes,
looked out of the spout. The lid jumped up and down. Four brown and
hairy paws appeared, and a fine bushy tail. In a minute the kettle was
down from the box and going round and round looking at things.
"A very comfortable room, to be sure," says the tea-kettle.
Pleased enough to find itself so well lodged, it soon began to dance and
to caper nimbly and to sing at the top of its voice. Three or four
novices were studying in the next room. "The old man is lively," they
said; "only hark to him. What can he be at?" And they laughed in their
sleeves.
Heaven's mercy, the noise that the tea-kettle made! Bang! bang! Thud!
thud! thud!
The novices soon stopped laughing. One of them slid aside the
_kara-kami_ and peeped through.
"Arah, the devil and all's in it!" he cried. "Here's the master's old
tea-kettle turned into a sort of a badger. The gods protect us from
witchcraft, or for certain we shall be lost!"
"And I scoured it not an hour since," said another novice, and he fell
to reciting the Holy Sutras on his knees.
A third laughed. "I'm for a nearer view of the hobgoblin," he said.
So the lot of them left their books in a twinkling, and gave chase to
the tea-kettle to catch it. But could they come up with the tea-kettle?
Not a bit of it. It danced and it leapt and it flew up into the air. The
novices rushed here and there, slipping upon the mats. They grew hot.
They grew breathless.
"Ha, ha! Ha, ha!" laughed the tea-kettle; and "Catch me if you can!"
laughed the wonderful tea-kettle.
Presently the priest awoke, all rosy, the holy man.
"And what's the meaning of this racket," he says, "disturbing me at my
holy meditations and all?"
"Master, master," cry the novices, panting and mopping their brows,
"your tea-kettle is bewitched. It was a badger, no less. And the dance
it has been giving us, you'd never believe!"
"Stuff and nonsense," says the priest; "bewitched? Not a bit of it.
There it rests on its box, good quiet thing, just where I put it."
Sure enough, so it did, looking as hard and cold and innocent as you
please. There was not a hair of a badger near it. It was the novices
that looked foolish.
"A likely story indeed," says the priest. "I have heard of the pestle
that took wings to itself and flew away, parting company with the
mortar. That is easily to be understood by any man. But a kettle that
turned into a badger--no, no! To your books, my sons, and pray to be
preserved from the perils of illusion."
That very night the holy man filled the kettle with water from the
spring and set it on the _hibachi_ to boil for his cup of tea. When the
water began to boil--
"Ai! Ai!" the kettle cried; "Ai! Ai! The heat of the Great Hell!" And it
lost no time at all, but hopped off the fire as quick as you please.
"Sorcery!" cried the priest. "Black magic! A devil! A devil! A devil!
Mercy on me! Help! Help! Help!" He was frightened out of his wits, the
dear good man. All the novices came running to see what was the matter.
"The tea-kettle is bewitched," he gasped; "it was a badger, assuredly it
was a badger ... it both speaks and leaps about the room."
"Nay, master," said a novice, "see where it rests upon its box, good
quiet thing."
And sure enough, so it did.
"Most reverend sir," said the novice, "let us all pray to be preserved
from the perils of illusion."
The priest sold the tea-kettle to a tinker and got for it twenty copper
coins.
"It's a mighty fine bit of bronze," says the priest. "Mind, I'm giving
it away to you, I'm sure I cannot tell what for." Ah, he was the one for
a bargain! The tinker was a happy man and carried home the kettle. He
turned it this way and that, and upside down, and looked into it.
"A pretty piece," says the tinker; "a very good bargain." And when he
went to bed that night he put the kettle by him, to see it first thing
in the morning.
He awoke at midnight and fell to looking at the kettle by the bright
light of the moon.
Presently it moved, though there was no hand near it.
"Strange," said the tinker; but he was a man who took things as they
came.
A hairy head, with two bright eyes, looked out of the kettle's spout.
The lid jumped up and down. Four brown and hairy paws appeared, and a
fine bushy tail. It came quite close to the tinker and laid a paw upon
him.
"Well?" says the tinker.
"I am not wicked," says the tea-kettle.
"No," says the tinker.
"But I like to be well treated. I am a badger tea-kettle."
"So it seems," says the tinker.
"At the temple they called me names, and beat me and set me on the fire.
I couldn't stand it, you know."
"I like your spirit," says the tinker.
"I think I shall settle down with you."
"Shall I keep you in a lacquer box?" says the tinker.
"Not a bit of it, keep me with you; let us have a talk now and again. I
am very fond of a pipe. I like rice to eat, and beans and sweet things."
"A cup of _saké_ sometimes?" says the tinker.
"Well, yes, now you mention it."
"I'm willing," says the tinker.
"Thank you kindly," says the tea-kettle; "and, as a beginning, would you
object to my sharing your bed? The night has turned a little chilly."
"Not the least in the world," says the tinker.
The tinker and the tea-kettle became the best of friends. They ate and
talked together. The kettle knew a thing or two and was very good
company.
One day: "Are you poor?" says the kettle.
"Yes," says the tinker, "middling poor."
"Well, I have a happy thought. For a tea-kettle, I am
out-of-the-way--really very accomplished."
"I believe you," says the tinker.
"My name is _Bumbuku-Chagama_; I am the very prince of Badger
Tea-Kettles."
"Your servant, my lord," says the tinker.
"If you'll take my advice," says the tea-kettle, "you'll carry me round
as a show; I really am out-of-the-way, and it's my opinion you'd make a
mint of money."
"That would be hard work for you, my dear _Bumbuku_," says the tinker.
"Not at all; let us start forthwith," says the tea-kettle.
So they did. The tinker bought hangings for a theatre, and he called the
show _Bumbuku-Chagama_. How the people flocked to see the fun! For the
wonderful and most accomplished tea-kettle danced and sang, and walked
the tight rope as to the manner born. It played such tricks and had such
droll ways that the people laughed till their sides ached. It was a
treat to see the tea-kettle bow as gracefully as a lord and thank the
people for their patience.
The _Bumbuku-Chagama_ was the talk of the country-side, and all the
gentry came to see it as well as the commonalty. As for the tinker, he
waved a fan and took the money. You may believe that he grew fat and
rich. He even went to Court, where the great ladies and the royal
princesses made much of the wonderful tea-kettle.
At last the tinker retired from business, and to him the tea-kettle came
with tears in its bright eyes.
"I'm much afraid it's time to leave you," it says.
"Now, don't say that, _Bumbuku_, dear," says the tinker. "We'll be so
happy together now we are rich."
"I've come to the end of my time," says the tea-kettle. "You'll not see
old _Bumbuku_ any more; henceforth I shall be an ordinary kettle,
nothing more or less."
"Oh, my dear _Bumbuku_, what shall I do?" cried the poor tinker in
tears.
"I think I should like to be given to the temple of Morinji, as a very
sacred treasure," says the tea-kettle.
It never spoke or moved again. So the tinker presented it as a very
sacred treasure to the temple, and the half of his wealth with it.
And the tea-kettle was held in wondrous fame for many a long year. Some
persons even worshipped it as a saint.
IV
THE PEONY LANTERN
[Illustration: The Peony Lantern.--_P. 25._]
In Yedo there dwelt a _samurai_ called Hagiwara. He was a _samurai_ of
the _hatamoto_, which is of all the ranks of _samurai_ the most
honourable. He possessed a noble figure and a very beautiful face, and
was beloved of many a lady of Yedo, both openly and in secret. For
himself, being yet very young, his thoughts turned to pleasure rather
than to love, and morning, noon and night he was wont to disport himself
with the gay youth of the city. He was the prince and leader of joyous
revels within doors and without, and would often parade the streets for
long together with bands of his boon companions.
One bright and wintry day during the Festival of the New Year he found
himself with a company of laughing youths and maidens playing at
battledore and shuttlecock. He had wandered far away from his own
quarter of the city, and was now in a suburb quite the other side of
Yedo, where the streets were empty, more or less, and the quiet houses
stood in gardens. Hagiwara wielded his heavy battledore with great skill
and grace, catching the gilded shuttlecock and tossing it lightly into
the air; but at length with a careless or an ill-judged stroke, he sent
it flying over the heads of the players, and over the bamboo fence of a
garden near by. Immediately he started after it. Then his companions
cried, "Stay, Hagiwara; here we have more than a dozen shuttlecocks."
"Nay," he said, "but this was dove-coloured and gilded."
"Foolish one!" answered his friends; "here we have six shuttlecocks all
dove-coloured and gilded."
But he paid them no heed, for he had become full of a very strange
desire for the shuttlecock he had lost. He scaled the bamboo fence and
dropped into the garden which was upon the farther side. Now he had
marked the very spot where the shuttlecock should have fallen, but it
was not there; so he searched along the foot of the bamboo fence--but
no, he could not find it. Up and down he went, beating the bushes with
his battledore, his eyes on the ground, drawing breath heavily as if he
had lost his dearest treasure. His friends called him, but he did not
come, and they grew tired and went to their own homes. The light of day
began to fail. Hagiwara, the _samurai_, looked up and saw a girl
standing a few yards away from him. She beckoned him with her right
hand, and in her left she held a gilded shuttlecock with dove-coloured
feathers.
The _samurai_ shouted joyfully and ran forward. Then the girl drew away
from him, still beckoning him with the right hand. The shuttlecock
lured him, and he followed. So they went, the two of them, till they
came to the house that was in the garden, and three stone steps that led
up to it. Beside the lowest step there grew a plum tree in blossom, and
upon the highest step there stood a fair and very young lady. She was
most splendidly attired in robes of high festival. Her _kimono_ was of
water-blue silk, with sleeves of ceremony so long that they touched the
ground; her under-dress was scarlet, and her great girdle of brocade was
stiff and heavy with gold. In her hair were pins of gold and
tortoiseshell and coral.
When Hagiwara saw the lady, he knelt down forthwith and made her due
obeisance, till his forehead touched the ground.
Then the lady spoke, smiling with pleasure like a child. "Come into my
house, Hagiwara Sama, _samurai_ of the _hatamoto_. I am O'Tsuyu, the
Lady of the Morning Dew. My dear handmaiden, O'Yoné, has brought you to
me. Come in, Hagiwara Sama, _samurai_ of the _hatamoto_; for indeed I am
glad to see you, and happy is this hour."
So the _samurai_ went in, and they brought him to a room of ten mats,
where they entertained him; for the Lady of the Morning Dew danced
before him in the ancient manner, whilst O'Yoné, the handmaiden, beat
upon a small scarlet-tasselled drum.
Afterwards they set food before him, the red rice of the festival and
sweet warm wine, and he ate and drank of the food they gave him.
It was dark night when Hagiwara took his leave. "Come again, honourable
lord, come again," said O'Yoné the handmaiden.
"Yea, lord, you needs must come," whispered the Lady of the Morning Dew.
The _samurai_ laughed. "And if I do not come?" he said mockingly. "What
if I do not come?"
The lady stiffened, and her child's face grew grey, but she laid her
hand upon Hagiwara's shoulder.
"Then," she said, "it will be death, lord. Death it will be for you and
for me. There is no other way." O'Yoné shuddered and hid her eyes with
her sleeve.
The _samurai_ went out into the night, being very much afraid.
Long, long he sought for his home and could not find it, wandering in
the black darkness from end to end of the sleeping city. When at last he
reached his familiar door the late dawn was almost come, and wearily he
threw himself upon his bed. Then he laughed. "After all, I have left
behind me my shuttlecock," said Hagiwara the _samurai_.
The next day Hagiwara sat alone in his house from morning till evening.
He had his hands before him; and he thought, but did nothing more. At
the end of the time he said, "It is a joke that a couple of _geisha_
have sought to play on me. Excellent, in faith, but they shall not have
me!" So he dressed himself in his best and went forth to join his
friends. For five or six days he was at joustings and junketings, the
gayest of the gay. His wit was ready, his spirits were wild.
Then he said, "By the gods, I am deathly sick of this," and took to
walking the streets of Yedo alone. From end to end of the great city he
went. He wandered by day and he wandered by night, by street and alley
he went, by hill and moat and castle wall, but he found not what he
sought. He could not come upon the garden where his shuttlecock was
lost, nor yet upon the Lady of the Morning Dew. His spirit had no rest.
He fell sick and took to his bed, where he neither ate nor slept, but
grew spectre-thin. This was about the third month. In the sixth month,
at the time of _niubai_, the hot and rainy season, he rose up, and, in
spite of all his faithful servant could say or do to dissuade him, he
wrapped a loose summer robe about him and at once went forth.
"Alack! Alack!" cried the servant, "the youth has the fever, or he is
perchance mad."
Hagiwara faltered not at all. He looked neither to the right nor to the
left. Straight forward he went, for he said to himself, "All roads lead
past my love's house." Soon he came to a quiet suburb, and to a certain
house whose garden had a split bamboo fence. Hagiwara laughed softly and
scaled the fence.
"The same, the very same shall be the manner of our meeting," he said.
He found the garden wild and overgrown. Moss covered the three stone
steps. The plum tree that grew there fluttered its green leaves
disconsolate. The house was still, its shutters were all closed, it was
forlorn and deserted.
The _samurai_ grew cold as he stood and wondered. A soaking rain fell.
There came an old man into the garden. He said to Hagiwara:
"Sir, what do you do here?"
"The white flower has fallen from the plum tree," said the _samurai_.
"Where is the Lady of the Morning Dew?"
"She is dead," answered the old man; "dead these five or six moons, of a
strange and sudden sickness. She lies in the graveyard on the hill, and
O'Yoné, her handmaid, lies by her side. She could not suffer her
mistress to wander alone through the long night of Yomi. For their sweet
spirits' sake I would still tend this garden, but I am old and it is
little that I can do. Oh, sir, they are dead indeed. The grass grows on
their graves."
Hagiwara went to his own home. He took a slip of pure white wood and he
wrote upon it, in large fair characters, the dear name of his lady. This
he set up, and burned before it incense and sweet odours, and made every
offering that was meet, and did due observance, and all for the welfare
of her departed spirit.
Then drew near the Festival of _Bon_, the time of returning souls. The
good folk of Yedo took lanterns and visited their graves. Bringing food
and flowers, they cared for their beloved dead. On the thirteenth day
of the seventh month, which, in the _Bon_, is the day of days, Hagiwara
the _samurai_ walked in his garden by night for the sake of the
coolness. It was windless and dark. A cicala hidden in the heart of a
pomegranate flower sang shrilly now and again. Now and again a carp
leaped in the round pond. For the rest it was still, and never a leaf
stirred.
About the hour of the Ox, Hagiwara heard the sound of footsteps in the
lane that lay beyond his garden hedge. Nearer and nearer they came.
"Women's _geta_," said the _samurai_. He knew them by the hollow echoing
noise. Looking over his rose hedge, he saw two slender women come out of
the dimness hand in hand. One of them carried a lantern with a bunch of
peony flowers tied to the handle. It was such a lantern as is used at
the time of the _Bon_ in the service of the dead. It swung as the two
women walked, casting an uncertain light. As they came abreast of the
_samurai_ upon the other side of the hedge, they turned their faces to
him. He knew them at once, and gave one great cry.
The girl with the peony lantern held it up so that the light fell upon
him.
"Hagiwara Sama," she cried, "by all that is most wonderful! Why, lord,
we were told that you were dead. We have daily recited the _Nembutsu_
for your soul these many moons!"
"Come in, come in, O'Yoné," he said; "and is it indeed your mistress
that you hold by the hand? Can it be my lady?... Oh, my love!"
O'Yoné answered, "Who else should it be?" and the two came in at the
garden gate.
But the Lady of the Morning Dew held up her sleeve to hide her face.
"How was it I lost you?" said the _samurai_; "how was it I lost you,
O'Yoné?"
"Lord," she said, "we have moved to a little house, a very little house,
in the quarter of the city which is called the Green Hill. We were
suffered to take nothing with us there, and we are grown very poor. With
grief and want my mistress is become pale."
Then Hagiwara took his lady's sleeve to draw it gently from her face.
"Lord," she sobbed, "you will not love me, I am not fair."
But when he looked upon her his love flamed up within him like a
consuming fire, and shook him from head to foot. He said never a word.
She drooped. "Lord," she murmured, "shall I go or stay?"
And he said, "Stay."
A little before daybreak the _samurai_ fell into a deep sleep, and awoke
to find himself alone in the clear light of the morning. He lost not an
instant, but rose and went forth, and immediately made his way through
Yedo to the quarter of the city which is called the Green Hill. Here he
inquired for the house of the Lady of the Morning Dew, but no one could
direct him. High and low he searched fruitlessly. It seemed to him that
for the second time he had lost his dear lady, and he turned homewards
in bitter despair. His way led him through the grounds of a certain
temple, and as he went he marked two graves that were side by side. One
was little and obscure, but the other was marked by a fair monument,
like the tomb of some great one. Before the monument there hung a
lantern with a bunch of peony flowers tied to its handle. It was such a
lantern as is used at the time of _Bon_ in the service of the dead.
Long, long did the _samurai_ stand as one in a dream. Then he smiled a
little and said:
"'_We have moved to a little house ... a very little house ... upon the
Green Hill ... we were suffered to take nothing with us there and we are
grown very poor ... with grief and want my mistress is become pale...._'
A little house, a dark house, yet you will make room for me, oh, my
beloved, pale one of my desires. We have loved for the space of ten
existences, leave me not now ... my dear." Then he went home.
His faithful servant met him and cried:
"Now what ails you, master?"
He said, "Why, nothing at all.... I was never merrier."
But the servant departed weeping, and saying, "The mark of death is on
his face ... and I, whither shall I go that bore him as a child in these
arms?"
Every night, for seven nights, the maidens with the peony lantern came
to Hagiwara's dwelling. Fair weather or foul was the same to them. They
came at the hour of the Ox. There was mystic wooing. By the strong bond
of illusion the living and the dead were bound together.
On the seventh night the servant of the _samurai_, wakeful with fear and
sorrow, made bold to peer into his lord's room through a crack in the
wooden shutters. His hair stood on end and his blood ran cold to see
Hagiwara in the arms of a fearful thing, smiling up at the horror that
was its face, stroking its dank green robe with languid fingers. With
daylight the servant made his way to a holy man of his acquaintance.
When he had told his tale he asked, "Is there any hope for Hagiwara
Sama?"
"Alack," said the holy man, "who can withstand the power of Karma?
Nevertheless, there is a little hope." So he told the servant what he
must do. Before nightfall, this one had set a sacred text above every
door and window-place of his master's house, and he had rolled in the
silk of his master's girdle a golden emblem of the Tathagata. When these
things were done, Hagiwara being drawn two ways became himself as weak
as water. And his servant took him in his arms, laid him upon his bed
and covered him lightly, and saw him fall into a deep sleep.
At the hour of the Ox there was heard the sound of footsteps in the
lane, without the garden hedge. Nearer and nearer they came. They grew
slow and stopped.
"What means this, O'Yoné, O'Yoné?" said a piteous voice. "The house is
asleep, and I do not see my lord."
"Come home, sweet lady, Hagiwara's heart is changed."
"That I will not, O'Yoné, O'Yoné ... you must find a way to bring me to
my lord."
"Lady, we cannot enter here. See the Holy Writing over every door and
window-place ... we may not enter here."
There was a sound of bitter weeping and a long wail.
"Lord, I have loved thee through the space of ten existences." Then the
footsteps retreated and their echo died away.
The next night it was quite the same. Hagiwara slept in his weakness;
his servant watched; the wraiths came and departed in sobbing despair.
The third day, when Hagiwara went to the bath, a thief stole the emblem,
the golden emblem of the Tathagata, from his girdle. Hagiwara did not
mark it. But that night he lay awake. It was his servant that slept,
worn out with watching. Presently a great rain fell and Hagiwara,
waking, heard the sound of it upon the roof. The heavens were opened and
for hours the rain fell. And it tore the holy text from over the round
window in Hagiwara's chamber.
At the hour of the Ox there was heard the sound of footsteps in the lane
without the garden hedge. Nearer and nearer they came. They grew slow
and stopped.
"This is the last time, O'Yoné, O'Yoné, therefore bring me to my lord.
Think of the love of ten existences. Great is the power of Karma. There
must be a way...."
"Come, my beloved," called Hagiwara with a great voice.
"Open, lord ... open and I come."
But Hagiwara could not move from his couch.
"Come, my beloved," he called for the second time.
"I cannot come, though the separation wounds me like a sharp sword. Thus
we suffer for the sins of a former life." So the lady spoke and moaned
like the lost soul that she was. But O'Yoné took her hand.
"See the round window," she said.
Hand in hand the two rose lightly from the earth. Like vapour they
passed through the unguarded window. The _samurai_ called, "Come to me,
beloved," for the third time.
He was answered, "Lord, I come."
In the grey morning Hagiwara's servant found his master cold and dead.
At his feet stood the peony lantern burning with a weird yellow flame.
The servant shivered, took up the lantern and blew out the light; for "I
cannot bear it," he said.
V
THE SEA KING AND THE MAGIC JEWELS
This is a tale beloved by the children of Japan, and by the old folk--a
tale of magical jewels and a visit to the Sea King's palace.
Prince Rice-Ear-Ruddy-Plenty loved a beautiful and royal maiden,
and made her his bride. And the lady was called Princess
Blossoming-Brightly-as-the-Flowers-of-the-Trees, so sweetly fair was
she. But her father was augustly wrath at her betrothal, for his
Augustness, Prince Rice-Ear-Ruddy-Plenty, had put aside her elder
sister, the Princess of the Rocks (and, indeed, this lady was not fair),
for he loved only Princess Blossoming-Brightly. So the old King said,
"Because of this, the offspring of these heavenly deities shall be
frail, fading and falling like the flowers of the trees." So it is. At
this day, the lives of their Augustnesses, the Heavenly Sovereigns, are
not long.
Howbeit, in the fullness of time, the lady,
Blossoming-Brightly-as-the-Flowers-of-the-Trees, bore two lovely men
children, and called the elder Fire Flash and the younger Fire Fade.
Prince Fire Flash was a fisherman, who got his luck upon the wide sea,
and ran upon the shore with his august garments girded. And again, he
tarried all the night in his boat, upon the high wave-crests. And he
caught things broad of fin and things narrow of fin, and he was a deity
of the water weeds and of the waters and of the fishes of the sea.
But Prince Fire Fade was a hunter, who got his luck upon the mountains
and in the forest, who bound sandals fast upon his feet, and bore a bow
and heavenly-feathered arrows. And he caught things rough of hair and
things soft of hair, and he knew the trail of the badger and the wild
cherry's time of flowering. For he was a deity of the woods.
Now Prince Fire Fade spoke to his elder brother, Prince Fire Flash, and
said, "Brother, I am aweary of the green hills. Therefore let us now
exchange our luck. Give me thy rod and I will go to the cool waters.
Thou mayest take my great bow and all my heavenly-feathered arrows and
try the mountains, where, trust me, thou shalt see many strange and
beautiful things, unknown to thee before."
But Prince Fire Flash answered, "Not so ... not so."