still and frosty. Konojo stood and waited at the garden gate. He waited
for their home-coming, as was meet. He drew his cloak about him and gave
ear to the noises of the evening. He heard the sound of the blind man's
whistle, and the blind man's staff upon the stones. Far off he heard a
child laugh twice; then he heard men singing in chorus, as men who sing
to cheer themselves in their labour, and in the pauses of song he heard
the creak, creak of swinging _kago_ that the men bore upon their
shoulders, and he said, "They come."
"I go to the house of the Beloved,
Her plum tree stands by the eaves;
It is full of blossom.
The dew lies in the heart of the flowers,
So they are the drinking-cups of the sparrows.
How do you go to your love's house?
Even upon the wings of the night wind.
Which road leads to your love's house?
All the roads in the world."
This was the song of the _kago_ men. First the _kago_ of Hasunuma the
_samurai_ turned in at the garden gate, then followed his lady; last
came Aiyamé of the South Wind. Upon the roof of her _kago_ there lay a
blossoming bough.
"Rest well, lady," said Konojo, as she passed, and had no answer back.
Howbeit it seemed that some light thing dropped from the _kago_, and
fell with a little noise to the ground. He stooped and picked up a
woman's comb. It was of gold lacquer, very fine work, adorned with
golden dragon-flies. Smooth and warm it lay in the hand of Konojo. And
he went his way to the garden house. At the hour of the rat the young
_samurai_ threw down his book of verse, laid himself upon his bed, and
blew out his light. And the selfsame moment he heard a wandering step
without.
"And who may it be that visits the garden house by night?" said Konojo,
and he wondered. About and about went the wandering feet till at length
they stayed, and the door was touched with an uncertain hand.
"Konojo! Konojo!"
"What is it?" said the _samurai_.
"Open, open; I am afraid."
"Who are you, and why are you afraid?"
"I am afraid of the night. I am the daughter of Hasunuma the
_samurai_.... Open to me for the love of the gods."
Konojo undid the latch and slid back the door of the garden house to
find a slender and drooping lady upon the threshold. He could not see
her face, for she held her long sleeve so as to hide it from him; but
she swayed and trembled, and her frail shoulders shook with sobbing.
"Let me in," she moaned, and forthwith entered the garden house.
Half smiling and much perplexed, Konojo asked her:
"Are you Aiyamé, whom they call the Lady of the South Wind?"
"I am she."
"Lady, you do me much honour."
"The comb!" she said, "the golden comb!"
As she said this, she threw the veil from her face, and taking the robe
of Konojo in both her little hands, she looked into his eyes as though
she would draw forth his very soul. The lady was brown and quick and
light. Her eyes and her lips were made for laughing, and passing strange
she looked in the guise that she wore then.
"The comb!" she said, "the golden comb!"
"I have it here," said Konojo; "only let go my robe, and I will fetch it
you."
At this the lady cast herself down upon the white mats in a passion of
bitter tears, and Konojo, poor unfortunate, pressed his hands together,
quite beside himself.
"What to do?" he said; "what to do?"
At last he raised the lady in his arms, and stroked her little hand to
comfort her.
"Lord," she said, as simply as a child, "lord, do you love me?"
And he answered her in a moment, "I love you more than many lives, O
Lady of the South Wind."
"Lord," she said, "will you come with me then?"
He answered her, "Even to the land of Yomi," and took her hand.
Forth they went into the night, and they took the road together. By
river-side they went, and over plains of flowers; they went by rocky
ways, or through the whispering pines, and when they had wandered far
enough, of the green bamboos they built them a little house to dwell in.
And they were there for a year of happy days and nights.
Now upon a morning of the third month Konojo beheld men with _kago_ come
swinging through the bamboo grove. And he said:
"What have they to do with us, these men and their _kago_?"
"Lord," said Aiyamé, "they come to bear us to my father's house."
He cried, "What is this foolishness? We will not go."
"Indeed, and we must go," said the lady.
"Go you, then," said Konojo; "as for me, I stay here where I am happy."
"Ah, lord," she said, "ah, my dear, do you then love me less, who vowed
to go with me, even to the Land of Yomi?"
Then he did all that she would. And he broke a blossoming bough from a
tree that grew near by and laid it upon the roof of her _kago_.
Swiftly, swiftly they were borne, and the _kago_ men sang as they went,
a song to make labour light.
"I go to the house of the Beloved,
Her plum tree stands by the eaves;
It is full of blossom.
The dew lies in the heart of the flowers,
So they are the drinking-cups of the sparrows.
How do you go to your love's house?
Even upon the wings of the night wind.
Which road leads to your love's house?
All the roads in the world."
This was the song of the _kago_ men.
About nightfall they came to the house of Hasunuma the _samurai_.
"Go you in, my dear lord," said the Lady of the South Wind. "I will wait
without; if my father is very wroth with you, only show him the golden
comb." And with that she took it from her hair and gave it him. Smooth
and warm it lay in his hand. Then Konojo went into the house.
"Welcome, welcome home, Konojo, son of Saito!" cried Hasunuma. "How has
it fared with your knightly adventure?"
"Knightly adventure!" said Konojo, and blushed.
"It is a year since your sudden departure, and we supposed that you had
gone upon a quest, or in the expiation of some vow laid upon your soul."
"Alas, my good lord," said Konojo, "I have sinned against you and
against your house." And he told Hasunuma what he had done.
When he had made an end of his tale:
"Boy," said the _samurai_, "you jest, but your merry jest is ill-timed.
Know that my child lies even as one dead. For a year she has neither
risen nor spoken nor smiled. She is visited by a heavy sickness and none
can heal her."
"Sir," said Konojo, "your child, the Lady of the South Wind, waits in a
_kago_ without your garden wall. I will fetch her in presently."
Forth they went together, the young man and the _samurai_, but they
found no _kago_ without the garden wall, no _kago_-bearers and no lady.
Only a broken bough of withered blossom lay upon the ground.
"Indeed, indeed, she was here but now!" cried Konojo. "She gave me her
comb--her golden comb. See, my lord, here it is."
"What comb is this, Konojo? Where got you this comb that was set in a
dead maid's hair, and buried with her beneath the green grass? Where got
you the comb of Aiko, the Lady of the Moon, that died for love? Speak,
Konojo, son of Saito. This is a strange thing."
Now whilst Konojo stood amazed, and leaned silent and bewildered against
the garden wall, a lady came lightly through the trees. She moved as a
wave of the sea, or a cloud of the sky, or the wild bamboo grass in the
wind.
"Aiyamé," cried the _samurai_, "how are you able to leave your bed?"
The young man said nothing, but fell on his knees beside the garden
wall. There the lady came to him and bent so that her hair and her
garments overshadowed him, and her eyes held his.
"Lord," she said, "I am the spirit of Aiko your love. I went with a
broken heart to dwell with the shades of Yomi. The very dead took pity
on my tears. I was permitted to return, and for one short year to
inhabit the sweet body of my sister. And now my time is come. I go my
ways to the grey country. I shall be the happiest soul in Yomi--I have
known you, beloved. Now take me in your arms, for I grow very faint."
With that she sank to the ground, and Konojo put his arms about her and
laid her head against his heart. His tears fell upon her forehead.
"Promise me," she said, "that you will take to wife Aiyamé, my sister,
the Lady of the South Wind."
"Ah," he cried, "my lady and my love!"
"Promise, promise," she said.
Then he promised.
After a little she stirred in his arms.
"What is it?" he said.
So soft her voice that it did not break the silence but floated upon it.
"The comb," she murmured, "the golden comb."
And Konojo set it in her hair.
* * * * *
A burden, pale but breathing, Konojo carried into the house of Hasunuma
and laid upon the white mats and silken cushions. And after three hours
a young maid sat up and rubbed her sleepy eyes. She was brown and quick
and light and laughing. Her hair was tumbled about her rosy cheeks,
unconfined by any braid or comb. She stared first at her father, and
then at the young man that was in her bower. She smiled, then flushed,
and put her little hands before her face.
"Greeting, O Lady of the South Wind," said Konojo.
XXVI
THE JELLY-FISH TAKES A JOURNEY
Once upon a time the jelly-fish was a very handsome fellow. His form was
beautiful, and round as the full moon. He had glittering scales and fins
and a tail as other fishes have, but he had more than these. He had
little feet as well, so that he could walk upon the land as well as swim
in the sea. He was merry and he was gay, he was beloved and trusted of
the Dragon King. In spite of all this, his grandmother always said he
would come to a bad end, because he would not mind his books at school.
She was right. It all came about in this wise.
The Dragon King was but lately wed when the young Lady Dragon his wife
fell very sick. She took to her bed and stayed there, and wise folk in
Dragonland shook their heads and said her last day was at hand. Doctors
came from far and near, and they dosed her and they bled her, but no
good at all could they do her, the poor young thing, nor recover her of
her sickness.
The Dragon King was beside himself.
"Heart's Desire," he said to his pale bride, "I would give my life for
you."
"Little good would it do me," she answered. "Howbeit, if you will fetch
me a monkey's liver I will eat it and live."
"A monkey's liver!" cried the Dragon King. "A monkey's liver! You talk
wildly, O light of mine eyes. How shall I find a monkey's liver? Know
you not, sweet one, that monkeys dwell in the trees of the forest,
whilst we are in the deep sea?"
Tears ran down the Dragon Queen's lovely countenance.
"If I do not have the monkey's liver, I shall die," she said.
Then the Dragon went forth and called to him the jelly-fish.
"The Queen must have a monkey's liver," he said, "to cure her of her
sickness."
"What will she do with the monkey's liver?" asked the jelly-fish.
"Why, she will eat it," said the Dragon King.
"Oh!" said the jelly-fish.
"Now," said the King, "you must go and fetch me a live monkey. I have
heard that they dwell in the tall trees of the forest. Therefore swim
quickly, O jelly-fish, and bring a monkey with you back again."
"How will I get the monkey to come back with me?" said the jelly-fish.
"Tell him of all the beauties and pleasures of Dragonland. Tell him he
will be happy here and that he may play with mermaids all the day
long."
"Well," said the jelly-fish, "I'll tell him that."
Off set the jelly-fish; and he swam and he swam, till at last he reached
the shore where grew the tall trees of the forest. And, sure enough,
there was a monkey sitting in the branches of a persimmon tree, eating
persimmons.
"The very thing," said the jelly-fish to himself; "I'm in luck."
"Noble monkey," he said, "will you come to Dragonland with me?"
"How should I get there?" said the monkey.
"Only sit on my back," said the jelly-fish, "and I'll take you there;
you'll have no trouble at all."
"Why should I go there, after all?" said the monkey. "I am very well off
as I am."
"Ah," said the jelly-fish, "it's plain that you know little of all the
beauties and pleasures of Dragonland. There you will be happy as the day
is long. You will win great riches and honour. Besides, you may play
with the mermaids from morn till eve."
"I'll come," said the monkey.
And he slipped down from the persimmon tree and jumped on the
jelly-fish's back.
When the two of them were about half-way over to Dragonland, the
jelly-fish laughed.
"Now, jelly-fish, why do you laugh?"
"I laugh for joy," said the jelly-fish. "When you come to Dragonland,
my master, the Dragon King, will get your liver, and give it to my
mistress the Dragon Queen to eat, and then she will recover from her
sickness."
"My liver?" said the monkey.
"Why, of course," said the jelly-fish.
"Alas and alack," cried the monkey, "I'm grieved indeed, but if it's my
liver you're wanting I haven't it with me. To tell you the truth, it
weighs pretty heavy, so I just took it out and hung it upon a branch of
that persimmon tree where you found me. Quick, quick, let's go back for
it."
Back they went, and the monkey was up in the persimmon tree in a
twinkling.
"Mercy me, I don't see it at all," he said. "Where can I have mislaid
it? I should not be surprised if some rascal has stolen it," he said.
Now if the jelly-fish had minded his books at school, would he have been
hoodwinked by the monkey? You may believe not. But his grandmother
always said he would come to a bad end.
"I shall be some time finding it," said the monkey. "You'd best be
getting home to Dragonland. The King would be loath for you to be out
after dark. You can call for me another day. _Sayonara._"
The monkey and the jelly-fish parted on the best of terms.
The minute the Dragon King set eyes on the jelly-fish, "Where's the
monkey?" he said.
"I'm to call for him another day," said the jelly-fish. And he told all
the tale.
The Dragon King flew into a towering rage. He called his executioners
and bid them beat the jelly-fish.
"Break every bone in his body," he cried; "beat him to a jelly."
Alas for the sad fate of the jelly-fish! Jelly he remains to this very
day.
As for the young Dragon Queen, she was fain to laugh when she heard the
story.
"If I can't have a monkey's liver I must needs do without it," she said.
"Give me my best brocade gown and I will get up, for I feel a good deal
better."
XXVII
URASHIMA
Urashima was a fisherman of the Inland Sea.
Every night he plied his trade. He caught fishes both great and small,
being upon the sea through the long hours of darkness. Thus he made his
living.
Upon a certain night the moon shone brightly, making plain the paths of
the sea. And Urashima kneeled in his boat and dabbled his right hand in
the green water. Low he leaned, till his hair lay spread upon the waves,
and he paid no heed to his boat that listed or to his trailing
fishing-net. He drifted in his boat till he came to a haunted place. And
he was neither waking nor sleeping, for the moon made him mad.
Then the Daughter of the Deep Sea arose, and she took the fisherman in
her arms, and sank with him, down, down, to her cold sea cave. She laid
him upon a sandy bed, and long did she look upon him. She cast her sea
spell upon him, and sang her sea songs to him and held his eyes with
hers.
He said, "Who are you, lady?"
She told him, "The Daughter of the Deep Sea."
"Let me go home," he said; "my little children wait and are tired."
"Nay, rather stay with me," she said:
"Urashima,
Thou Fisherman of the Inland Sea,
Thou art beautiful;
Thy long hair is twisted round my heart;
Go not from me,
Only forget thy home."
"Ah, now," said the fisherman, "let be, for the dear gods' sake.... I
would go to mine own."
But she said again:
"Urashima,
Thou Fisherman of the Inland Sea,
I'll set thy couch with pearl;
I'll spread thy couch with seaweed and sea flowers;
Thou shalt be King of the Deep Sea,
And we will reign together."
"Let me go home," said Urashima; "my little children wait and are
tired."
But she said:
"Urashima:
Thou Fisherman of the Inland Sea,
Never be afraid of the Deep Sea tempest;
We will roll rocks about our cavern doors;
Neither be afraid of the drowned dead;
Thou shalt not die."
"Ah, now," said the fisherman, "let be, for the dear gods' sake.... I
would go to mine own."
"Stay with me this one night."
"Nay, not one."
Then the Daughter of the Deep Sea wept, and Urashima saw her tears.
"I will stay with you this one night," he said.
So after the night was passed, she brought him up to the sand and the
seashore.
"Are we near your home?" she said.
He told her, "Within a stone's throw."
"Take this," she said, "in memory of me." She gave him a casket of
mother-of-pearl; it was rainbow-tinted and its clasps were of coral and
of jade.
"Do not open it," she said; "O fisherman, do not open it." And with that
she sank and was no more seen, the Daughter of the Deep Sea.
As for Urashima, he ran beneath the pine trees to come to his dear home.
And as he went he laughed for joy. And he tossed up the casket to catch
the sun.
"Ah, me," he said, "the sweet scent of the pines!" So he went calling to
his children with a call that he had taught them, like a sea-bird's
note. Soon he said, "Are they yet asleep? It is strange they do not
answer me."
Now when he came to his house he found four lonely walls, moss-grown.
Nightshade flourished on the threshold, death lilies by the hearth,
dianthus and lady fern. No living soul was there.
"Now what is this?" cried Urashima. "Have I lost my wits? Have I left
my eyes in the deep sea?"
He sat down upon the grassy floor and thought long. "The dear gods help
me!" he said. "Where is my wife, and where are my little children?"
He went to the village, where he knew the stones in the way, and every
tiled and tilted eave was to him most familiar; and here he found folk
walking to and fro, going upon their business. But they were all strange
to him.
"Good morrow," they said, "good morrow, wayfarer. Do you tarry in our
town?"
He saw children at their play, and often he put his hand beneath their
chins to turn their faces up. Alas! he did it all in vain.
"Where are my little children," he said, "O Lady Kwannon the Merciful?
Peradventure the gods know the meaning of all this; it is too much for
me."
When sunset came, his heart was heavy as stone, and he went and stood at
the parting of the ways outside the town. As men passed by he pulled
them by the sleeve:
"Friend," he said, "I ask your pardon, did you know a fisherman of this
place called Urashima?"
And the men that passed by answered him, "We never heard of such an
one."
There passed by the peasant people from the mountains. Some went a-foot,
some rode on patient pack-horses. They went singing their country songs,
and they carried baskets of wild strawberries or sheaves of lilies
bound upon their backs. And the lilies nodded as they went. Pilgrims
passed by, all clad in white, with staves and rice-straw hats, sandals
fast bound and gourds of water. Swiftly they went, softly they went,
thinking of holy things. And lords and ladies passed by, in brave attire
and great array, borne in their gilded _kago_. The night fell.
"I lose sweet hope," said Urashima.
But there passed by an old, old man.
"Oh, old, old man," cried the fisherman, "you have seen many days; know
you ought of Urashima? In this place was he born and bred."
Then the old man said, "There was one of that name, but, sir, that one
was drowned long years ago. My grandfather could scarce remember him in
the time that I was a little boy. Good stranger, it was many, many years
ago."
Urashima said, "He is dead?"
"No man more dead than he. His sons are dead and their sons are dead.
Good even to you, stranger."
Then Urashima was afraid. But he said, "I must go to the green valley
where the dead sleep." And to the valley he took his way.
He said, "How chill the night wind blows through the grass! The trees
shiver and the leaves turn their pale backs to me."
He said, "Hail, sad moon, that showest me all the quiet graves. Thou art
nothing different from the moon of old."
He said, "Here are my sons' graves and their sons' graves. Poor
Urashima, there is no man more dead than he. Yet am I lonely among the
ghosts...."
"Who will comfort me?" said Urashima.
The night wind sighed and nothing more.
Then he went back to the seashore. "Who will comfort me?" cried
Urashima. But the sky was unmoved, and the mountain waves of the sea
rolled on.
Urashima said, "There is the casket." And he took it from his sleeve and
opened it. There rose from it a faint white smoke that floated away and
out to the far horizon.
"I grow very weary," said Urashima. In a moment his hair turned as white
as snow. He trembled, his body shrank, his eyes grew dim. He that had
been so young and lusty swayed and tottered where he stood.
"I am old," said Urashima.
He made to shut the casket lid, but dropped it, saying, "Nay, the vapour
of smoke is gone for ever. What matters it?"
He laid down his length upon the sand and died.
XXVIII
TAMAMO, THE FOX MAIDEN
A pedlar journeyed with his pack upon the great high-road which leads to
the city of Kioto. He found a child sitting all alone by the wayside.
"Well, my little girl," he said, "and what make you all alone by the
wayside?"
"What do you," said the child, "with a staff and a pack, and sandals
outworn?"
"I am bound for Kioto, and the Mikado's Palace, to sell my gauds to the
ladies of the Court."
"Ah," said the child, "take me too."
"What is your name, my little girl?"
"I have no name."
"Whence come you?"
"I come from nowhere."
"You seem to be about seven years old."
"I have no age."
"Why are you here?"
"I have been waiting for you."
"How long have you waited?"
"For more than a hundred years."
The Pedlar laughed.
"Take me to Kioto," said the child.
"You may come if you will," said the Pedlar. So they went their ways
together, and in time they came to Kioto and to the Mikado's Palace.
Here the child danced in the august presence of the Son of Heaven. She
was as light as the sea-bird upon a wave's crest. When she had made an
end of dancing, the Mikado called her to him.
"Little maid," he said, "what guerdon shall I give you? Ask!"
"O Divinely Descended," said the child, "Son of the Gods ... I cannot
ask.... I am afraid."
"Ask without fear," said the Mikado.
The child murmured, "Let me stay in the bright presence of your
Augustness."
"So be it," said the Mikado, and he received the child into his
household. And he called her Tamamo.
Very speedily she became mistress of every lovely art. She could sing,
and she could play upon any instrument of music. She had more skill in
painting than any painter in the land; she was a wonder with the needle
and a wonder at the loom. The poetry that she made moved men to tears
and to laughter. The many thousand characters were child's play to her,
and all the hard philosophies she had at her fingers' ends. She knew
Confucius well enough, the Scriptures of Buddha, and the lore of Cathay.
She was called the Exquisite Perfection, the Gold Unalloyed, the Jewel
without Flaw.
And the Mikado loved her.
Soon he clean forgot honour and duty and kingly state. Day and night he
kept Tamamo by his side. He grew rough and fierce and passionate, so
that his servants feared to approach him. He grew sick, listless, and
languid, he pined, and his physicians could do nothing for him.
"Alas and alack," they cried, "what ails the Divinely Descended? Of a
surety he is bewitched. Woe! woe! for he will die upon our hands."
"Out upon them, every one," cried the Mikado, "for a pack of tedious
fools. As for me, I will do my own will and pleasure."
He was mad for love of Tamamo.
He took her to his Summer Palace, where he prepared a great feast in her
honour. To the feast were bidden all the highest of the land, princes
and lords and ladies of high estate; and, willy-nilly, to the Summer
Palace they all repaired, where was the Mikado, wan and wild, and mad
with love, and Tamamo by his side, attired in scarlet and cloth of gold.
Radiantly fair she was, and she poured the Mikado's _saké_ out of a
golden flagon.
He looked into her eyes.
"Other women are feeble toys beside you," he said. "There's not a woman
here that's fit to touch the end of your sleeve. O Tamamo, how I love
you...."
He spoke loudly so that all could hear him, and laughed bitterly when he
had spoken.
"My lord ... my lord ..." said Tamamo.
Now as the high company sat and feasted, the sky became overcast with
black clouds, and the moon and the stars were hid. Suddenly a fearful
wind tore through the Summer Palace and put out every torch in the great
Hall of Feasting. And the rain came down in torrents. In the pitchy
darkness fear and horror fell upon the assembly. The courtiers ran to
and fro in a panic, the air was full of cries, the tables were
overturned. The dishes and drinking-vessels crashed together, the _saké_
spilled and soaked into the white mats. Then a radiance was made
visible. It came from the place where Tamamo was, and it streamed in
long flames of fire from her body.
The Mikado cried aloud in a terrible voice, "Tamamo! Tamamo! Tamamo!"
three times. And when he had done this he fell in a deathly swoon upon
the ground.
And for many days he was thus, and he seemed either asleep or dead, and
no one could recover him from his swoon.
Then the Wise and Holy Men of the land met together, and when they had
prayed to the gods, they called to them Abé Yasu, the Diviner. They
said: