spoke to Wasobiowe, and told how the elect of the gods, who peopled
those remote shores, filled their days with music and laughter and
song.
Wasobiowe lived contentedly on the Island of Eternal Youth. He knew
nothing of the flight of years, for where there is no birth, no death,
time passes unheeded.
But, after many hundred years, the wise man of Nagasaki wearied of
this blissful existence. He longed for death, but the dark river does
not flow through Horaizan. He would wistfully follow the outward
flight of the birds, till they became mere specks in the sky. One day
he spoke to a pure white stork: "I know that the birds alone can leave
this island. Carry me, I pray you, to my home in Japan. I would see it
once more and die." Then he mounted upon the outstretched wings of the
stork, and was carried across the sea and through many strange lands,
peopled by giants and dwarfs and men with white faces. When he had
visited all the countries of the earth, he came to his beloved Japan.
In his hand he bore a branch of the orange which he planted. The tree
still flourishes in the Mikado's Empire.
Rai-Taro, the Son of the Thunder-God
[Illustration: _Rai-Taro the Son of the Thunder God_]
At the foot of the snowy mountain of Haku-san, in the province of
Echizen, lived a peasant and his wife. They were very poor, for their
little strip of barren mountain-land yielded but one scanty crop a
year, while their neighbours in the valley gathered two rich harvests.
With unceasing patience, Bimbo worked from cock-crow until the barking
of the foxes warned him that night had fallen. He laid out his plot of
ground in terraces, surrounded them with dams, and diverted the course
of the mountain stream that it might flood his fields. But when no
rain came to swell the brook, Bimbo's harvest failed. Often as he sat
in his hut with his wife, after a long day of hard work, he would
speak of their troubles. The peasants were filled with grief that a
child had not been given to them. They longed to adopt a son, but, as
they had barely enough for their own simple wants, the dream could not
be realised.
An evil day came when the land of Echizen was parched. No rain fell.
The brook was dried up. The young rice-sprouts withered. Bimbo sighed
heavily over his work. He looked up to the sky and entreated the gods
to take pity on him.
After many weeks of sunshine, the sky was overcast. Single clouds came
up rapidly from the west, and gathered in angry masses. A strange
silence filled the air. Even the voice of the cicalas, who had chirped
in the trees during the heat of the day, was stilled. Only the cry of
the mountain hawk was audible. A murmur passed over valley and hill, a
faint rustling of leaves, a whispering sigh in the needles of the fir.
Fu-ten, the Storm-Spirit, and Rai-den, the Thunder-God, were abroad.
Deeper and deeper sank the clouds under the weight of the thunder
dragon. The rain came at first in large cool drops, then in torrents.
Bimbo rejoiced, and worked steadily to strengthen the dams and open
the conduits of his farm.
A vivid flash of lightning, a mighty roar of thunder! Terrified,
almost blinded, Bimbo fell on his knees. He thought that the claws of
the thunder dragon were about him. But he was unharmed, and he offered
thanks to Kwan-non, the Goddess of Pity, who protects mortals from the
wrath of the Thunder-God. On the spot where the lightning struck the
ground, lay a little rosy boy full of life, who held out his arms and
lisped. Bimbo was greatly amazed, and his heart was glad, for he knew
that the gods had heard and answered his never-uttered prayer. The
happy peasant took the child up, and carried him under his rice-straw
coat to the hut. He called to his wife, "Rejoice, our wish is
fulfilled. The gods have sent us a child. We will call him Rai-taro,
the Son of the Thunder-God, and bring him up as our own."
The good woman fondly tended the boy. Rai-taro loved his
foster-parents, and grew up dutiful and obedient. He did not care to
play with other children, but was always happy to work in the fields
with Bimbo, where he would watch the flight of the birds, and listen
to the sound of the wind. Long-before Bimbo could discern any sign of
an approaching storm, Rai-taro knew that it was at hand. When it drew
near, he fixed his eyes intently on the gathering clouds, he listened
eagerly to the roll of the thunder, the rush of the rain, and he
greeted each flash of lightning with a shout of joy.
[Illustration: The birth of Rai-taro.]
Rai-taro had come as a ray of sunshine into the lives of the poor
peasants. Good fortune followed the farmer from the day that he
carried the little boy home in his raincoat. The mountain stream was
never dry. The land was fertile, and he gathered rich harvests of rice
and abundant crops of millet. Year by year, his prosperity increased,
until from Bimbo, 'the poor,' he became Kane-mochi, 'the prosperous.'
About eighteen summers passed, and Rai-taro still lived with his
foster-parents. Suddenly, they knew not why, he became thoughtful and
sad. Nothing would rouse him. The peasants determined to hold a feast
in honour of his birthday. They called together the neighbours, and
there was much rejoicing. Bimbo told many tales of other days, and,
finally, of how Rai-taro came to him out of the storm. As he ceased, a
strange far-off look was in the eyes of the Son of the Thunder-God. He
stood before his foster-parents, and said: "You have loved me well.
You have been faithful and kind. But the time has come for me to leave
you. Farewell."
In a moment Rai-taro was gone. A white cloud floated upward towards
the heights of Haku-san. As it neared the summit of the mountain, it
took the form of a white dragon. Higher still the dragon soared,
until, at last, it vanished into a castle of clouds.
The peasants looked wistfully up to the sky. They hoped that Rai-taro
might return, but he had joined his father, Rai-den, the Thunder-God,
and was seen no more.
The Souls of the Children
[Illustration: _The Souls of the Children_]
Sai-no-Kawara, the Dry Bed of the River of Souls. Far below the roots
of the mountains, far below the bottom of the sea is the course of
this river. Ages ago its current bore the souls of the blessed dead to
the Land of Eternal Peace. The wicked _oni_ were angry when they saw
the good spirits pass out of their reach on the breast of the river.
They muttered curses in their throats as the stream flowed on day by
day, year by year. The snow-white soul of a tender child came to the
bank. A cup-shaped lotus bloom waited to carry the little one swiftly,
through the dark cavernous region, to the kingdom of joy. The _oni_
gnashed their teeth. The spirit of a kindly old man, whose heart was
young, would thread his way unharmed, through the horde of demons, and
float on the Heavenly-Bird-Boat to the unknown world. The _oni_ looked
on in wrath.
But the _oni_ stemmed the River of Souls at its source, and now the
spirits of the dead must wend their way, unaided, to the country that
lies far beyond.
Jizo, The Never-Slumbering, is the god who guards the souls of little
children. He is full of pity, his voice is gentle as the voice of the
doves on Mount Hasa, his love is infinite as the waters of the sea. To
him every child in the Land of the Gods calls for succour and
protection.
In Sai-no-Kawara, The Dry Bed of the River of Souls, are the spirits
of countless children. Babes of two and three years old, babes of four
and five, children of eight and ten. Their wailing is pitiful to hear.
They cry for the mother who bore them. They cry for the father who
cherished them. They cry for the brother and sister whom they love.
Their cry is heard throughout Sai-no-Kawara, a cry that rises and
falls, and falls and rises, rhythmic, unceasing. These are the words
that they cry--
"Chichi koishi! haha koishi!----"
Their voices grow hoarse as they cry, and still they cry on--
"Chichi koishi! haha koishi!----"
While day lasts, they cry and they gather stones from the bed of the
river, and heap them together as prayers.
A Tower of Prayer for the sweet mother, as they cry:
A Tower of Prayer for the father, as they cry:
A Tower of Prayer for brother and sister, as they cry:
From morning till evening they cry--
"Chichi koishi! haha koishi!----" and heap up the stones of prayer.
At nightfall come the _oni_, the demons, and say: "Why do you cry, why
do you pray? Your parents in the Shaba-World cannot hear you. Your
prayers are lost in the strife of tongues. The lamentation of your
parents on earth is the cause of all your sorrow." So saying, the
wicked _oni_ cast down the Towers of Prayer, every one, and dash the
stones into great caverns of the rocks.
But Jizo, with a great love in his eyes, comes and enfolds the little
ones in his robe. To the babes who cannot walk, he stretches forth his
_shakujo_. The children in Sai-no-Kawara gather round him, and he
speaks sweet words of comfort. He lifts them in his arms and caresses
them, for Jizo is father and mother to the little ones who dwell in
the Dry Bed of the River of Souls.
Then they cease from their crying: they cease to build the Towers of
Prayer. Night has come, and the souls of the children sleep
peacefully, while The Never-Slumbering Jizo watches over them.
The Moon-Maiden
[Illustration: _The Moon Maiden_]
It was early spring on the coast of Suruga. Tender green flushed the
bamboo thickets. A rose-tinged cloud from heaven had fallen softly on
the branches of the cherry tree. The pine forests were fragrant of the
spring. Save for the lap of the sea, there was silence on that remote
shore.
A far-off sound became audible: it might be the song of falling
waters, it might be the voice of the awakening wind, it might be the
melody of the clouds. The strange sweet music rose and fell: the
cadence was as the cadence of the sea. Slowly, imperceptibly, the
music came nearer.
Above the lofty heights of Fuji-yama a snow-white cloud floated
earthwards. Nearer and nearer came the music. A low clear voice could
be heard chanting a lay that breathed of the peace and tranquillity of
the moonlight. The fleecy cloud was borne towards the shore. For one
moment it seemed to rest upon the sand, and then it melted away.
By the sea stood a glistening maiden. In her hand she carried a
heart-shaped instrument, and, as her fingers touched the strings, she
sang a heavenly song. She wore a robe of feathers, white and spotless
as the breast of the wild swan. The maiden looked at the sea. Then she
moved towards the belt of pine trees that fringed the shore. Birds
flocked around her; they perched on her shoulder, and rubbed their
soft heads against her cheek. She stroked them gently and they flew
away full of joy. The maiden hung her robe of feathers on a pine
branch, and went to bathe in the sea.
It was mid-day. A fisher sat down among the pines to eat his dumpling.
Suddenly, his eye fell on the dazzling white robe. "Perhaps it is a
gift from the gods," said Hairukoo as he went up to it. The robe was
so fragile that he almost feared to touch it, but at last he took it
down. The feathers were wondrously woven together, and slender curved
wings sprang from above the shoulder. "I will take it home, and we
shall be happy," he thought.
Now the maiden came from the sea. Hairukoo heard no sound until she
stood before him. Then a soft voice spoke: "The robe is mine, good
fisher, pray give it to me." The man stood awestruck, for never had he
seen so lovely a being. She seemed to come from another world. He
said, "What is your name, beautiful maiden, and whence do you come?"
She answered, "I am one of the virgins who attend the moon. I come
with a message of peace to the ocean. I have whispered it into his
ear, and now I must fly heavenward." But Hairukoo replied, "I would
see you dance before you leave me." The moon-maiden answered: "Give me
my feather robe, and I will dance a celestial dance." The peasant
refused. "Dance and I will give you your robe." Then the glittering
virgin was angry: "The wicked _oni_ will take you for their own, if
you doubt the word of a goddess. I cannot dance without my robe. Each
feather has been given to me by the Heavenly Birds. Their love and
trust support me." As she thus spoke the fisher was ashamed, and said,
"I have done wrong, and I ask your forgiveness." Then he gave the robe
into her hands. The moon-maiden put it around her.
And now she rose from the ground. She touched the stringed instrument
and sang. Clear and infinitely sweet came the notes. It was her
farewell to the earth and the sea. It ceased. She broke into a merry
trilling song, and began to dance. At one moment she skimmed the
surface of the sea, the next her tiny feet touched the topmost
branches of the tall pine trees. Then she sped past the fisher and
smiled as the long grass rustled beneath her. She swept through the
air, in and out among the trees, over the bamboo thicket, and under
the branches of the blossoming cherry. Still the music went on. Still
the maiden danced. Hairukoo looked on in wonder: he thought it must
all be a beautiful dream.
[Illustration: At one moment she skimmed the surface of the sea, the
next her tiny feet touched the topmost branches of the tall pine
trees.]
But now the music changed. It was no longer merry. The dance ended.
The maiden sang of the moonlight, and of the quiet of evening.
She began to circle in the air. Slowly at first, then more swiftly,
she floated over the woods towards the distant mountain. The music and
the song rang in the ears of the fisher. The maiden was wafted farther
and farther away. Hairukoo watched until he could no longer discern
her snow-white form in the sky. But still the music reached him on the
breeze. At last it too died away. The fisher was left alone: alone
with the sound of the sea, and the fragrance of the pines.
The Great Fir Tree of Takasago
[Illustration: _The Great Fir Tree of Takasago_]
The cherry tree has blossomed many times since O-Matsue lived with her
father and mother on the sandy coast of the Inland Sea. The home at
Takasago was sheltered by a tall fir tree of great age; a god had
planted it as he passed that way. O-Matsue was beautiful, for her
mother had taught her to love the sea, and the birds, the trees, and
every living thing. Her eyes were like a clear deep ocean-pool on a
summer day. Her smile was as the sunshine on the surface of Lake Biwa.
The fallen needles of the fir made a soft couch on which O-Matsue sat
for hours at a time, plying her shuttle, weaving robes for the
peasants around. Sometimes, she would go to sea with the fishers, and
peer into the depths to try and catch a glimpse of the Palace of the
Ocean Bed; the fishers would tell her the story of the poor jelly-fish
who lost his shell, or of the Blessed Island of Eternal Youth, whose
tree could at times be discerned from the coast.
The steep shore of Sumi-no-ye is many leagues distant from Takasago,
but a youth who dwelt there took a long journey. Teoyo said, "I will
see what lies beyond the mountains. I will see the country to which
the heron wings his way across the plain." He travelled through many
provinces, and at last came to the land of Harima. One day he passed
by Takasago. O-Matsue sat in the shade of the fir tree. She was
weaving, and sang as she worked. These are the words of her song:--
"No man so callous but he heaves a sigh
When o'er his head the withered Cherry flowers
Come fluttering down. Who knows? the Spring's soft showers
May be but tears shed by the sorrowing sky."
Teoyo heard the sweet song, and said, "It is like the song of a
spirit,--and how beautiful the maiden is!" For some time he watched
her as she wove. Then her song ceased, he moved towards her, and
spoke: "I have travelled far. I have seen many fair maidens, but not
one so fair as you. Take me to your father and mother that I may speak
with them." Teoyo asked the peasants for the hand of their daughter,
and they gave their consent.
There was great rejoicing. O-Matsue received many presents, and, as
the wedding-day approached, a great feast was prepared. Bride and
bridegroom drank thrice of three cups of _saké_ which made them man
and wife, and the feast went on.
Now Teoyo said, "This country of Harima is a good land. Let us stay
here with your father and mother." O-Matsue was glad. So they dwelt
with the old people under the great fir tree. At last, the father and
mother died. O-Matsue and Teoyo still lived beneath the shelter of the
tree. They were very happy. Summer, autumn and winter passed over the
land of Harima many times. Their love was always in its spring. The
"waves of age" furrowed their brows, but their hearts remained young
and tender, green as the needles of the pine. Even when their eyes had
grown dim, they went to the shore to listen to the waters of the
Inland Sea, or together they gathered, with rakes of bamboo, the
fallen needles of the fir.
A crane came and built in the topmost branches of the tree, and for
many years they watched the birds rear their young. A tortoise also
dwelt beside them. O-Matsue said, "We are blessed with a fir tree, a
crane, and a tortoise. The God of Long Life has taken us under his
care."
When, at last, at the same moment, Teoyo and O-Matsue died, their
spirits withdrew into the tree which had for so long been the witness
of their happiness. To this day the pine tree is called "The Pine of
the Lovers."
On moonbright nights, when the coast wind whispers in the branches of
the tree, O-Matsue and Teoyo may sometimes be seen, with bamboo rakes
in their hands, gathering together the needles of the fir.
Despite the storms of time, the old tree stands to this hour eternally
green on the high shore of Takasago.
The Willow of Mukochima
[Illustration: _The Willow of Mukochima_]
Not far from Matsue, the great city of the Province of the Gods, there
once dwelt a widow and her son. Their wooden hut looked upon the
Shinji Lake set in a framework of mountain peaks. Ayame was true to
the old religion, the worship of the descendants of Izanagi and
Izanami. Long ere the sun rose above the chain of hills, she was up,
and, with Umewaki's hand clasped closely in her own, went down to the
verge of the lake. First they laved their faces in the cool water,
then, turning towards the east, they clapped their hands four times
and saluted the sun. "Konnichi Sama! All hail to thee, Day-Maker.
Shine and bring joy to the Place of the Issuing of Clouds." Then,
having turned towards the west, mother and son blessed the holy,
immemorial shrine of Kitzuki; towards the north and the south they
turned and prayed to the gods, unto each one, who dwell in the blue
Plain of High Heaven.
Umewaki's father had been dead many years, and the love of the mother
was centred upon her son. He was in the open air from sunrise to
nightfall; sometimes by Ayame's side, sometimes alone, watching the
heron or the crane, or listening to the sweet call of the _yamabato_.
The hut was in a remote spot, but Ayame felt that her son was safe in
the keeping of the good gods.
It was a beautiful summer morning. Ayame and Umewaki awakened soon
after dawn. Hand in hand they went to the shore of Lake Shinji. It
still slept beneath the faintly-tinged haze. The Lady of Fire had not
whispered of her approach to the soft mists that veiled the hills.
Mother and son waited patiently. As the Day-Maker appeared, they
cried, "Konnichi Sama! Great Goddess, shine upon thy land. Give it
beauty and peace and joy." Then mother and son returned to the hut.
Ayame plied her shuttle, and Umewaki left her to wander in the woods.
Noon came. "My boy has met some woodcutter; he talks with him in the
shade of the pine trees," she thought. As the evening drew on, she
said, "He is with little Kime, his playmate, but I shall soon hear his
soft footstep." Night fell. "Once only has he been so late; when he
went to Matsue with the good Shijo." She looked through the paper
window, and then stepped out. The hills cast a mysterious shadow on
the surface of the lake. Still there was no sign of Umewaki. The
mother called his name. No response came save the echo of her own
voice. Now she searched far and near. To every peasant she put the
question, "Have you seen my Umewaki?" But she always received the same
answer. At last she returned home weary: "He may be there waiting for
me," she thought. It was midnight: the hut was empty. Ayame was heavy
at heart, and as she lay upon her mat she wept bitterly, and cried to
the gods to give her back her son. So the night passed. In the morning
she learned that a band of robbers had been seen among the mountains.
Poor Umewaki had, in truth, been stolen by the robbers. He was watched
night and day, and had no chance of escape. From town to town they
travelled. Through strange villages where the name of Buddha was upon
the lips of the people, across great plains unsheltered by mountains.
The summer passed, and autumn came. Still the men would not let
Umewaki go. They treated him cruelly, and he began to pine away. Then
the robbers knew that he was of no use to them. As they neared Yedo,
they left him, faint and weary, on the roadside. A kind man of
Mukochima found the poor little fellow and carried him to his home.
But Umewaki had not long to live. On the fifteenth day of the third
month, the day sacred to the awakening of the Spring, he opened his
eyes, and called to the good woman who tended him, "Tell my dear
mother that I love her, and would stay with her, but the Lady of the
Great Light calls me, and I must obey."
Ayame had left her quiet hut by the lake of Shinji to follow the men
who had stolen her son. The autumn and the winter had gone by, and
still she persevered. As she passed through Mukochima, she heard that
a poor boy was dead, and soon found that it was her son. She went to
the house where he had been cared for, and the woman gave her
Umewaki's message.
In the evening, when all was quiet, Ayame crept to the graveside of
her child. Near it a sacred willow was planted. The slender tree moved
in the wind. There was a whispered sound: the voice of Umewaki
speaking softly to the mother from his place of rest. She was happy.
Every evening she came to listen to the sighing of the willow. Every
evening she lay down happy to have spoken to her son.
On the fifteenth day of the third month, the day of the awakening of
the Spring, many pilgrims visit the resting-place of Umewaki. If it
rains on that day, the people say, "Umewaki weeps."
The willow is under the protection of the gods. Storm and rain can do
it no hurt.
The Child of the Forest
[Illustration: _The Child of the Forest_]
Sakato-no-toki-yuki was a brave warrior at the court of Kyōto. He
fought for the Minamoto against the Taira, but the Minamoto were
defeated, and Sakato's last days were spent as a wandering exile. He
died of a broken heart. His widow, the daughter of a noble house,
escaped from Kyōto, and fled eastward to the rugged Ashigara
mountains. No one knew of her hiding-place, and she had no enemies to
fear save the wild beasts who lived in the forest. At night she found
shelter in a rocky cave.
A son was born to her whom she named Kintaro, the Golden Boy. He was a
sturdy little fellow, with ruddy cheeks and merry laughing eyes. Even
as he lay crowing in his bed among the fern, the birds that alighted
on his shoulder peeped trustfully into his eyes, and he smiled. Thus
early the child and the birds were comrades. The butterfly and the
downy moth would settle upon his breast, and tread softly over his
little brown body.
Kintaro was not as other children--there was something strange about
him. When he fell, he would laugh cheerily; if he wandered far into
the wood, he could always find his way home; and, when little more
than a chubby babe, he could swing a heavy axe in circles round his
head. In the remote hills he had no human companions, but the animals
were his constant playfellows. He was gentle and kind-hearted, and
would not willingly hurt any living creature; therefore it was that
the birds and all the forest people looked upon Kintaro as one of
themselves.
Among Kintaro's truest friends were the bears who dwelt in the woods.
A mother bear often carried him on her back to her home. The cubs ran
out and greeted him joyfully, and they romped and played together for
hours. They wrestled and strove in friendly rivalry. Sometimes Kintaro
would clamber up the smooth-barked monkey tree, sit on the topmost
branch, and laugh at the vain attempts of the shaggy little fellows to
follow him. Then came supper-time and the feast of liquid honey.