lamentation?"
And he answered, "Know, sir, that I am an earthly deity of renown, and I
was the father of eight fair daughters. But a horror broods over the
land, for every year at this time it is ravaged by a monster, the
eight-forked serpent of Koshi, that delights in the flesh of young
virgins. In seven years have my seven sweet children been devoured. And
now the time of my youngest-born is at hand. Therefore do we weep, O
Thine Augustness."
Then said Susa, the Impetuous, "What is the likeness of this monster?"
And the deities of the mountain made answer: "His eyes are fiery and red
as the _akakagachi_ (that is, the winter cherry). He has but one body,
with eight heads and eight scaly tails. Moreover, on his body grows
moss, together with the fir and the cryptomeria of the forest. In his
going he covers eight valleys and eight hills, and upon his under side
he is red and gory."
Then the Lord Susa, the Impetuous, cried, "My lord, give me thy
daughter."
And the earthly deity, seeing his strength and great beauty and the
brightness of his countenance, knew that he was a god, and answered,
"With all reverence do I offer her unto thee. Howbeit, I know not thine
august name."
And Susa said, "I am Susa, the Sea God, the exile of High Heaven."
[Illustration: The Story of Susa, the Impetuous.--_P. 99._]
And the mountain deity and also his fair wife spoke, saying, "So be it,
Thine Augustness, take the young maid."
And immediately Susa flung away the veil and saw the face of his bride,
pale as the moon in winter. And he touched her on the forehead, and
said, "Fair and beloved, fair and beloved...."
And the maid flushed faintly to stand thus barefaced. Howbeit, she had
little need, for the tears that stood in my lord Susa's eyes were veil
enough for her modesty. And he said again, "Dear and beautiful, our
pleasure shall be hereafter, now we may not tarry."
So he took the young maid at once, and changed her into a crown for his
head. And Susa wore the crown gallantly. And he instructed the earthly
deity, and together they brewed _saké_, refined eight-fold; and with the
_saké_ they filled eight vats and set them in readiness; and when all
was prepared they waited. And presently there was a mighty noise, like
the sound of an earthquake, and the hills and valleys shook. And the
serpent crawled in sight, huge and horrible, so that the earthly deities
hid their faces for fear. But Susa, the Impetuous, gazed upon the
serpent with his sword drawn.
Now the serpent had eight heads, and immediately he dipped a head into
each vat of _saké_ and drank long. Thereupon he became drunken with the
distilled liquor, and all the heads lay down and slept.
Then the Lord Susa brandished his ten-grasp sword, and leapt upon the
monster and cut off the eight heads with eight valiant strokes. So the
serpent was slain with a great slaying, and the river Hi flowed on, a
river of blood. And Susa cut the tails of the serpent also, and as he
struck the fourth tail the edge of his august sword was turned back. So
he probed with its point, and found a great jewelled sword with a blade
sharp as no known smith could temper it. And he took the sword and sent
it for an offering to the Sun Goddess, his august sister. This is the
herb-quelling sword.
And Susa, the Impetuous, built him a palace at the place called Suga,
and dwelt there with his bride. And the clouds of heaven hung like a
curtain round about the palace. Then the Lord Susa sang this song:
"Many clouds arise.
The manifold fence of the forth-issuing clouds
Makes a manifold fence,
For the spouses to be within.
Oh, the manifold fence...."
XII
THE WIND IN THE PINE TREE
It was a Deity from High Heaven that planted the Pine Tree.
So long ago that the crane cannot remember it, and the tortoise knows it
only by hearsay from his great-grandmother, the heavenly deity
descended. Lightly, lightly he came by way of the Floating Bridge,
bearing the tree in his right hand. Lightly, lightly his feet touched
the earth.
He said, "I have come to the Land of the Reed Plains. I have come to the
Land of Fresh Rice Ears. It is a good land; I am satisfied." And he
planted the Pine Tree within the sound of the sea at Takasaga, which is
in the Province of Harima. Then he went up again to High Heaven by way
of the Floating Bridge.
But the Pine Tree flourished. So great it grew, there was not a greater
in all the Land of the Reed Plains. Its trunk was rosy red, and beneath
it spread a brown carpet of fallen needles.
In the sweet nights of summer the Children of the Woods came hand in
hand to the Pine Tree by moonlight, slipping their slim dark feet upon
the moss, and tossing back their long green hair.
The Children of the Water came by moonlight, all drenching wet their
sleeves, and the bright drops fell from their finger-tips. The Children
of the Air rested in the Pine Tree's branches, and made murmuring music
all the live-long night. The Children of the Sea Foam crept up the
yellow sands; and from the confines of Yomi came the Mysteries, the
Sounds and the Scents of the Dark--with faces veiled and thin grey
forms, they came, and they hung upon the air about the place where the
Pine Tree was, so that the place was holy and haunted.
Lovers wandering upon the beach at Takasaga would hear the great company
of Spirits singing together.
"Joy of my heart," they said to one another, "do you hear the wind in
the Pine Tree?"
Poor souls lying sick a-bed would listen, and fishermen far out at sea
would pause in their labour to whisper, "The wind, the wind in the Pine
Tree! How the sound carries over the water!"
As for the coming of the Maiden, the crane cannot remember it, but the
tortoise has it of his great-grandmother that she was born of poor
parents in Takasaga. The Maiden was brown and tall and slender; in face
and form most lovely. Her hair hung down to her knees. She rose at dawn
to help her mother; she found sticks for the fire, she drew water at the
well. She could spin and weave with the best; and for long, long hours
she sat and plied her wheel or her shuttle in the shade of the great
Pine Tree, whilst her ears heard the sound of the wind in its branches.
Sometimes her eyes looked out over the paths of the sea, as one who
waits and watches. She was calm, not restless, more grave than gay,
though she smiled not seldom. Her voice was the voice of a Heavenly
Being.
Now concerning the Youth from the far province, of him the crane knows
something, for the crane is a great traveller. She was flying over the
streams and the valleys of the far province, so she says, when she saw
the Youth at work in the green rice-fields. The crane lingered, circling
slowly in the bright air. The Youth stood up. He looked round upon the
valleys and streams; he looked into the sky.
"I hear the call," he said. "I may tarry no longer. Voice in my heart, I
hear and I obey."
With that he left the rice-field, and bade farewell to his mother and
his father and his sisters and his brothers and his friends. All
together, they came down to the seashore, weeping and clinging to each
other. The Youth took a boat and went away to sea, and the rest of them
stood upon the beach.
On sped the boat for many a day over the unknown paths of the sea. And
the white crane flew behind the boat. And when the wind failed, she
pushed the boat forward with the wind of her strong wings.
At last, one evening about the hour of sunset, the Youth heard the
sound of sweet singing. The sound came to him from the land, and it
travelled over the paths of the sea. He stood up in his boat, and the
crane beat her strong white wings and guided his boat to the shore till
its keel touched the yellow sand of the sea-beach of Takasaga.
When the Youth had come ashore he pushed the boat out again with the
waves, and watched it drift away. Then he turned his face inland. The
sound of music was still in his ears. The voice was like the voice of a
Heavenly Being, and strange and mystical were the words of the song:--
"The lover brought a love gift to his mistress,
Jewels of jade upon a silken string;
Well-carved jewels,
Well-rounded jewels,
Green as the grass,
Upon a silken string.
The jewels know not one another,
The string they know,
Oh, the strength of the silken string!"
The Youth went inland and came to the great Pine Tree and to the Maid
that sat beneath, weaving diligently and singing. The crane came flying
with her strong white wings, and perched upon the Tree's topmost
branches. The tortoise lay below on the brown carpet of needles. He
watched and saw much with his little eyes, but he said nothing, being
very silent by nature.
The Youth stood before the Maiden, waiting.
"Whence come you?" she said, lifting up her eyes.
"I have come across the sea path. I have come from afar."
"And wherefore came you?"
"That you must know best, seeing it was your voice that sang in my
heart."
"Do you bring me the gift?" she said.
"Indeed, I bring you the complete gift, jewels of jade upon a silken
string."
"Come," she said, and rose and took him by the hand. And they went to
her father's house.
So they drank the "Three Times Three," and were made man and wife, and
lived in sweet tranquillity many, many years.
All the time the crane dwelt in the Pine Tree's topmost branches, and
the tortoise on the brown carpet of needles below.
At last the Youth and Maiden, that once were, became white-haired, old,
and withered, by the swift, relentless passage of years.
"Fair love," said the old man, "how weary I grow! It is sad to be old."
"Say not so, dear delight of my heart," said the old woman; "say not so,
the best of all is to come."
"My dear," said the old man, "I have a desire to see the great Pine Tree
before I die, and to listen once more to the song of the wind in its
branches."
"Come, then," she said, and rose and took him by the hand.
Old and faint and worn, with feeble, tottering steps, and hand in hand
they came.
"How faint I grow," said the old man. "Ah, I am afraid! How dark it is!
Hold you my hand...."
"I have it fast in mine. There, lie down, lie down, dear love; be still
and listen to the wind in the Pine Tree."
He lay on the soft brown bed beneath the Pine Tree's boughs; and the
wind sang.
She who was his love and his wife bent over him and sheltered him. And
he suffered the great change.
Then he opened his eyes and looked at her. She was tall and straight and
slender, in face and form most lovely, and each of them was young as the
gods are young. He put out his hand and touched her. "Your long black
hair ..." he said.
Once more she bade him, "Come." Lightly they left the ground. To the
sound of the wind's music they swayed, they floated, they rose into the
air. Higher they rose and higher. The branches of the Pine Tree received
them, and they were no more seen.
Still, in the sweet nights of summer, the Children of the Woods come
hand in hand to the Pine Tree by moonlight, slipping their slim dark
feet upon the moss, and tossing back their long green hair.
The Children of the Water come by moonlight, all drenching wet their
sleeves, and the bright drops fall from their finger-tips. The Children
of the Air rest in the Pine Tree's branches, and make murmuring music
all the live-long night. The Children of the Sea Foam creep up the
yellow sands; and from the confines of Yomi come the Mysteries, the
Sounds and the Scents of the Dark--with faces veiled and thin grey
forms, they come, and they hang upon the air about the place where the
Pine Tree is, so that the place is holy and haunted.
Lovers wandering upon the beach at Takasaga hear the great company of
Spirits singing together.
"Joy of my heart," they say to one another, "do you hear the wind in the
Pine Tree?"
XIII
FLOWER OF THE PEONY
Aya, sweet maid, was the only child of a _daimyo_ of the Province of
Omi. Mother had she none, and her father was a noble lord and a warrior.
He was at the Court of the Shogun, or he had weighty affairs at the
capital, or he went here and there with armies and overcame his enemies.
Aya saw little of him.
Long years she dwelt with her nurse and her maidens within the walls of
her father's castle. High walls were they and well-guarded, and at their
foot was a deep moat which was rosy with lotus flowers all the seventh
month.
When the Lady Aya was some sixteen years old her father the _daimyo_
came home victorious from a foray, and she went with her maidens to meet
him in the gate. She was dressed in her bravest, and as became her rank.
"My lord and father," she said, "sweet is your honourable return."
"Child, how you have grown!" her father said, astonished. "How old are
you, Aya?"
"Sixteen years old, lord," she said.
"By all the gods, you are become a little great young lady, and I
thought you were a baby and brought you home a doll for a home-coming
gift."
He laughed, but presently afterwards grew grave, and in deep thought he
went into the castle.
Soon after this he began to look about him, to find a fitting husband
for his daughter.
"Best it should be done now," he said, "for a wonder has come to pass,
and I am at peace with every _daimyo_ in the land--and it will not
last."
The Lord of Ako, in Harima, had three tall sons, fine young men and
warriors all.
"The eldest is over old," said the Lord of Omi. "The youngest is a
boy--but what of the middle brother? It seems to me that the middle
brother should do well. They say that second thoughts are best," said
the Lord of Omi.
So after messengers had come and gone, the Lady Aya was betrothed to the
young Lord of Ako, and there was great rejoicing in all the
country-side, for all the man and the maiden had never set eyes on one
another.
The Lady Aya was very glad when she saw the presents that came from her
bridegroom's house. She sat with the seamstress of the castle and
fingered the soft stuffs of her fine new robes. For the rest, she played
with her maidens the live-long day, or took her broidery frame, plying
the needle and long silken thread. It was the month of May, and very
often they took the air in a garden gallery, where Aya and her maids
laughed together, and sometimes they spoke of the young Lord of Ako and
how brave and beautiful he was, how skilful in art and in war, and how
rich. When evening came they slipped down the gallery steps and into the
garden, where they went hither and thither, hand in hand, to enjoy the
cool air and the sweet scent of the flowers.
One night the Lady Aya walked in the garden according to her wont. The
moon rose, round and silver.
"Ah me," sighed one of the maidens, "the moon is a love-lorn lady. Look
how pale and wan she goes, and even now she will hide her eyes with her
long sleeve of cloud."
"You speak sooth," returned Aya, "the moon is a love-lorn lady; but have
you seen her faint sister who is sadder and fairer than she?"
"Who, then, is the moon's sister?" asked all the maidens at once.
Aya said, "Come and see--come."
With that she drew them along the paths of the garden to the still pond,
where were the dancing fireflies and the frogs that sang musically.
Holding each other's hands, the maidens looked down into the water, and
one and all they beheld the moon's sister, and they laughed softly
together. While they played by the water's brim, the Lady Aya's foot
slipped upon a smooth stone, and most assuredly she would have fallen
into the pond. But all of a sudden a youth leapt forward out of the
sweet secrecy of the night, and caught her in his arms. For a moment all
the maidens beheld the glimmer of his garments. Then he was gone. Aya
stood alone, trembling. Down gazed the moon, wide-eyed and sorrowful;
and still more sorrowful and sweet, upwards gazed the moon's pale
sister. They saw a band of silent maidens who stood in a wilderness of
blossoming peony flowers, that grew to the water's edge. It was the Lady
Aya who loved them and had them planted so.
Now the lady turned without a word and moved along the paths of the
garden very slowly, hanging her head. When she came to the garden
gallery she left all her maidens save one, and went silently to her
bower.
There she was for a long space, saying nothing. She sat and traced the
pattern on her robe with the point of her finger. And Sada, her maiden,
was over against her.
At length, "He was a great lord," said Aya.
"Truth, lady."
"He was young."
"He was passing well-favoured."
"Alas! he saved my life, and I had not time to thank him."
"The moon shone upon the jewelled mounting of his sword."
"And his robe that was broidered with peony flowers--my peony flowers."
"Lady, the hour grows very late."
"Well, then, untie my girdle."
"You look pale, lady."
"Small marvel, I am weary."
"Lady, what of the young Lord of Ako?"
"What of him? Why, I have not seen him. Enough, let be--no more of him.
Alas! I am drowsy, I know not what I say."
After this night the Lady Aya, that had been so fresh and fair and
dancing gay as a wave of the sea, fell into a pale melancholy. By day
she sighed, and by night she wept. She smiled no more as she beheld her
rich wedding-garments, and she would not play any more with her maidens
upon the garden gallery. She wandered like a shadow, or lay speechless
in her bower. And all the wise men and all the wise women of that
country-side were not able to heal her of her sickness.
Then the maid Sada, weeping and hiding her face with her sleeve, went to
the Lord of the House and told him of the moonlight adventure and the
fair youth of the peony bed.
"Ah me," she said, "my sweet mistress pines and dies for the love of
this beautiful young man."
"Child," said the _daimyo_, "how you talk! My daughter's garden is well
guarded by walls and by men-at-arms. It is not possible that any
stranger should enter it. What, then, is this tale of the moon and a
_samurai_ in peony garments and all manner of other foolishness, and how
will such a tale sound in the ears of the Lord of Ako?"
But Sada wept and said, "My mistress will die."
"To fight in the field, to flatter at Court and to speak in Council, all
these are easy," said the _daimyo_, "but preserve me from the affairs of
my women, for they are too hard for me."
With that he made a search of all the castle and the castle grounds, but
not a trace did he find of any stranger in hiding.
That night the Lady Aya called piteously for the cooler air, so they
bore her out on to her garden gallery, where she lay in O Sada's arms. A
minstrel of the household took his _biwa_, and to soothe her he made
this song:
"Music of my lute--
Is it born, does it die,
Is it truth or a lie?
Whence, whence and where,
Enchanted air?
Music of my lute
Is mute.
"Sweet scents in the night--
Do they float, do they seem,
Are they essence of dream,
Or thus are they said
The thoughts of the Dead?
Sweet scents in the night
Delight."
Now, while the minstrel sang and touched his instrument, a fair youth
stood up from the rosy sea of peonies by the pond. All there saw him
clearly, his bright eyes, his sword, and his dress broidered with
flowers. The Lady Aya gave a wild cry and ran to the edge of the garden
gallery, holding out her white arms. And immediately the vision passed
away. But the minstrel took up his _biwa_ once more and sang:
"Love more strange than death--
Is it longer than life,
Is it hotter than strife?
Strong, strong and blind,
Transcending kind--
Love more strange than death
Or breath."
At this the mysterious knight of the flowers stood once again straight
and tall, and his shining eyes were fixed upon the Lady Aya.
Then a gentleman of the company of the _daimyo_, who was a mighty man of
war, drew his sword forthwith and leapt down amongst the peonies to do
battle with the bold stranger that so gazed upon his master's daughter.
And at that a cloud drew across the moon's face as if by faery, and of a
sudden a great hot wind blew from the south. The lights died upon the
garden gallery, the maidens held their garments together while their
long gossamer sleeves floated out. All the peony bed was tossed about
like a troubled sea, and the pink and white petals flew like foam. A
mist, damp and over-sweet, hung upon the wind, so that all who were
there grew faint and clung to one another, trembling.
When they were recovered, they found the night still and the moon
undimmed. The soldier of the _daimyo's_ company stood panting and white
as death at the steps of the garden gallery. In his right hand he held
his unstained sword, in his left a perfect peony flower.
"I have him," he shouted; "he could not escape me. I have him fast."
Aya said, "Give me the flower"; and he gave it her without a word, as
one in a dream.
Then Aya went to her bower and slept with the peony upon her breast and
was satisfied.
For nine days she kept the flower. The sweet colour came to her face,
and the light to her eyes. She was perfectly healed of her sickness.
She set the peony in a bronze vase and it did not droop or fade, but
grew larger and more lovely all the nine days.
At the end of this time the young Lord of Ako came riding in great pomp
and state to claim his long-promised lady. So he and the Lady Aya were
wed in the midst of much feasting and rejoicing. Howbeit, they say she
made but a pale bride. And the same day the peony withered and was
thrown away.
XIV
THE MALLET
There were once two farmer men who were brothers. Both of them worked
hard in seed-time and in harvest-time. They stood knee-deep in water to
plant out the young rice, bending their backs a thousand times an hour;
they wielded the sickle when the hot sun shone; when the rain poured
down in torrents, there they were still at their digging or such like,
huddled up in their rice-straw rain coats, for in the sweat of their
brows did they eat their bread.
The elder of the two brothers was called Cho. For all he laboured so
hard he was passing rich. From a boy he had had a saving way with him,
and had put by a mint of money. He had a big farm, too, and not a year
but that he did well, what with his rice, and his silk-worms, and his
granaries and storehouses. But there was nothing to show for all this,
if it will be believed. He was a mean, sour man with not so much as a
"good day" and a cup of tea for a wayfarer, or a cake of cold rice for a
beggar man. His children whimpered when he came near them, and his wife
was much to be pitied.
The younger of the two brothers was called Kanè. For all he laboured so
hard he was as poor as a church mouse. Bad was his luck, his silk-worms
died, and his rice would not flourish. In spite of this he was a merry
fellow, a bachelor who loved a song and an honest cup of _saké_. His
roof, his pipe, his meagre supper, all these he would share, very
gladly, with the first-comer. He had the nimblest tongue for a comical
joke, and the kindest heart in the world. But it is a true thing, though
it is a pity all the same, that a man cannot live on love and laughter,
and presently Kanè was in a bad way.
"There's nothing for it," he says, "but to pocket my pride" (for he had
some) "and go and see what my brother Cho will do for me, and I'm
greatly mistaken if it will be much."
So he borrows some clothes from a friend for the visit, and sets off in
very neat _hakama_, looking quite the gentleman, and singing a song to
keep his heart up.
He sees his brother standing outside his house, and the first minute he
thinks he is seeing a boggart, Cho is in such ragged gear. But presently
he sings out, "You're early, Cho."
"You're early, Kanè," says Cho.
"May I come in and talk a bit?" asks Kanè.
"Yes," says Cho, "you can; but you won't find anything to eat at this
time of day, nor yet to drink, so let disappointments be avoided."
"Very well," says Kanè; "as it happens, it's not food I've come for."
When they were inside the house and sitting on the mats, Cho says,
"That's a fine suit of clothes you've got on you, Kanè. You must be
doing well. It's not me that can afford to go about the muddy roads
dressed up like a prince. Times are bad, very bad."
In spite of this not being a good beginning, Kanè plucks up his courage
and laughs. And presently he says:
"Look here, brother. These are borrowed clothes, my own will hardly hold
together. My rice crop was ruined, and my silk-worms are dead. I have
not a _rin_ to buy rice seed or new worms. I am at my wits' end, and I
have come to you begging, so now you have it. For the sake of the mother
that bore us both, give me a handful of seed and a few silk-worms'
eggs."
At this Cho made as if he would faint with astonishment and dismay.
"Alack! Alack!" he says. "I am a poor man, a very poor man. Must I rob
my wife and my miserable children?" And thus he bewailed himself and
talked for half an hour.