THE following day Mrs. Kurukawa yielded to the coaxing of the children
and took them to hear one of the famous story-tellers of Tokio. There is
not a child, I believe, of any nationality, who does not love a “story.”
In Japan story-telling is an actual profession, possessing its own halls
and houses of entertainment. But the audience is not made up of
children. People of all ages attend, though the story-teller is not as
popular to-day as he once was. With eagerness, then, the little Kurukawa
children, after hanging their clogs among others, entered the hall. They
were led into a square little booth or box. In a few minutes a waitress
from an adjoining tea-house sold them refreshments.
The hall was dimly lighted by candles. As black cloths were draped about
the stage the place had a gloomy appearance. Presently the story-teller
entered and seated himself on the raised dais. So horrible and weird was
his aspect that the little girls involuntarily clung to one another’s
hands and looked at their mother apprehensively. His face and bald head
were chalky white. Seen from the distance of their box his eyes were
black chasms set into his white face. He appeared to have enormous teeth
which protruded as long fangs beyond his lips. As he seated himself on
the dais all the candles in the hall went out, seemingly of their own
accord. Only those upon the stage remained burning.
“Oh,” said Marion, grasping Taro’s hand in the darkness, “he looks like
some horrible ghost!”
“Sh!” whispered the little Japanese boy. “He’s going to tell a
ghost-story.”
“I thought,” broke in Billy, “they told war-stories.”
“Sh! I’ll tell you what he says, if you be quiet.”
“I don’t want to hear,” said Marion, covering her ears with her hands,
for at that moment the deep and hollow voice of the story-teller fell
upon the hushed audience. He was a pantomimist as well as a
story-teller. As both Billy and Marion understood some Japanese he made
his story clear even to them. As he proceeded with his tale the candles
on the stage gradually flickered out, until he was in darkness, save for
a weird yellow glow surrounding him. Then it was that the thrilled
audience thought saw strange white shapes fluttering about him, first
hovering over and covering the speaker, then wandering about the stage.
The tale he told was an old one known to all Japanese. It was the story
of the faithless husband who swore to his young and dying wife that he
would never marry again. Scarcely, however, had she been cold in her
grave before he married a young and beautiful girl. For many nights the
bride was visited by a wraith with warning to leave her husband. She
would wake screaming with fright, but always her husband, lying there
beside her, would reassure her. Finally the ghost set a day for the
bride’s departure, telling her that if she did not go on that day a
terrible fate would befall her. That night the husband set a guard of
twelve watchmen in their chamber. When the ghostly visitor entered the
room of armed men they fell dead at the feet of the spirit as it crossed
the threshold and went straight to the bed where the frightened bride
cowered close against her sleeping lord, for although he had sworn to
keep the watch with the guards he had yielded to irresistible slumber.
The following morning, waking early, he stretched his arms out to enfold
his bride. The form he held was stiff and cold. Something wet and slimy
touched him. As he put out a hand to caress her hair he saw the thing
beside him, a trunk from which the head had been torn away.
As the story-teller finished the recital there was a long interval of
absolute silence in the hall. Then out of the darkness of the stage a
white figure bore upon the vision. In the weird light that suddenly
enwrapped the spectre the audience saw that it held aloft the head of a
woman, the long, black hair floating away from the deathly face as
though a wind were blowing through the hall.
A stir, a shiver seemed to pass at once over the whole audience.
Then—almost an unknown thing in Japan—a child’s shrill voice startled
the silence. Mrs. Kurukawa reached out to catch Marion in her arms; the
little girl had become almost paralyzed with fear. A moment later the
candles were lighted. People looked at one another in the new
light—everywhere faces were pale and lined with fear.
“Oh, let’s go home,” pleaded Marion, at which the mother arose.
“No, no!” protested Taro. “He’ll tell war-tales now. _We_ want to stay.”
“Of course we do,” cried Billy. “That old cry-baby always spoils our
fun.”
A smiling waitress with candy beans assured them that the lights would
not be turned out again, and so Marion leaned against her mother
resignedly.
“_I_ wasn’t the only one afraid,” she said, plaintively. “All of you
were, even mother, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was,” she answered, truthfully. “I didn’t know I could feel
quite so shivery over a mere ghost-story.”
“Don’t they ever tell pretty fairy-stories?” asked Marion.
“No,” said Taro, disgustedly. “They would have no business then.”
“Story-tellers’ halls,” said Billy, didactically, “aren’t for girls.
Girls haven’t the sense to enjoy tragedy.”
They remained until five o’clock, listening to exaggerated accounts of
the war. Graphic details were recounted of the battles. Many Japanese
fed their imaginations at the story-teller’s table after the hunger left
by mere official accounts published in the newspapers.
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