 Chapter 38 of Ancient Tales and Folklore of Japan. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda Ray Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Ancient Tales and Folklore of Japan by Richard Gordon Smith, White Saki. Two thousand or more years ago, Lake Biwa in Omi Province and Mount Fuji in Suruga Province came into being in one night. Though my story relates this as fact, you are fully entitled to say, should you feel so inclined, wonderful indeed are the ways of nature. But do so respectfully, if you please, and without levity, for otherwise you will grossly offend and will not understand the ethical ideas of Japanese folklore stories. Well, at the time of this extraordinary geographical event, there lived one urine, a man of poor means, even for those days. He loved Saki wine, and scarcely ever spent a day without drinking some of it. Urine lived near the place, which is now called Suzukawa, a little to the north of the river known as Fujikawa. In the day which followed Fuji-sen's appearance, urine became ill, and was in consequence unable to drink his cup of Saki. He became worse and worse, and, at last feeling that there could be no hope for him, decided to give himself the pleasure of drinking a cup before he died. Accordingly he called to himself his only son, Koryuri, a boy of fourteen years, and told him to go and fetch him a cup or two of the wine. Koryuri was sorely perplexed. He had no Saki in the house, and there was not a single coin left wherewith to buy. As he did not like to tell his father, fearing that the unpleasant state of affairs might make him worse, so he took his gourd and went wandering along the beach, wondering how he could get what his father wanted. While thus employed, Koryuri heard a voice calling him by name. As he looked up towards the pines which fringed the beach, he saw a man and a woman sitting beneath an immense tree. Their hair was a scarlet red, and so were their bodies. At first Koryuri was afraid. He had never seen their light before, but the voice was kindly, and the man was making signs to him to approach. Koryuri did so in fear and trembling, but with that coolness which characterizes the Japanese boy. As Koryuri approached the strange people he noticed that they were drinking Saki from large flat cups known as Saka de Zuki, and that on the sand beside them was an immense jar from which they took the liquor. Moreover he noticed that the Saki was whiter than any he had seen before. Thinking always of his father, Koryuri unslung his gourd, reported his father's illness and begged for Saki. The red man took the gourd and filled it. After expressing gratitude, Koryuri ran off delighted. Your father here, said he, as he reached his hut, I have got you the Saki, the best I have ever seen, and I am sure it tastes as good as it looks. Try it and tell me. The old man took the wine and drank greedily, expressing great satisfaction, and said was indeed the best he had ever tasted. This day he wanted more. The boy found his two red friends, and again they filled the gourd. In short, Koryuri had his gourd filled for five days in succession, and his father had regained spirits and was almost well in consequence. Now there lived in the next hut two urine, an unpleasant neighbor who was also fond of Saki, but too poor to procure it. His name was Mamikiko. On hearing that urine had been drinking Saki for the last five days, he became furiously jealous, and calling Koryuri asked where and how he had procured it. The boy explained that he had got it from the strange people with red hair who had been living near the big pine tree for some days past. Give me your gourd to taste, cried Mamikiko, snatching it roughly. Do you think that your father is the only man who was good enough for Saki? Putting the gourd to his lips he began to drink, but he threw it down in disgust a second later, and spat out what was in his mouth. Good filth is this, he cried. To your father you give the most excellent Saki, while to me you give fowl water. What is the meaning of it? He gave Koryuri a sound beating, and then told him to lead the way to the red people on the beach, saying, I will beat you again if I don't get some good Saki, so you had better see to it. Koryuri led the way, weeping the while at the loss of his Saki, which Mamikiko had thrown away, and fearing the anger of his red friends. In the usual place they found the strangers, who had both been drinking, and were still doing so. Mamikiko was surprised at their appearance. He had seen nothing quite like them before. Their bodies were of the pink of cherry blossom shining in the sun, while their long red hair almost frightened him. Both were naked except for a green girdle made of some curious seaweed. Well, boy Koryuri, what are you crying about, and why back so soon? Has your father drunk the Saki already? If so, he must be almost as fond of it as we. No no, my father has not drunk it, but Mamikiko here took it from me and drank some, spitting it out, and saying it was not Saki. The rest he threw away, and then made me bring him here. May I have some more for my father? The red man refilled the gourd, and told him not to mind, and seemed amused at Koryuri's account of Mamikiko spitting it out. I am as fond of Saki as anyone, cried Mamikiko. Will you give me some? Oh yes, help yourself, said the red man. Help yourself! Mamikiko filled the largest of the cups, and putting it to his nose smelt the fragrance, which was delicious, but as soon as he put it to his lips his face changed, and he had to spit again, for the taste was nauseating. What is the meaning of this, he cried angrily, and the red man answered still more angrily. You do not seem to be aware of who I am. Well, I will tell you that I am a shoujo of high degree, and I live deep in the bottom of the ocean near the Sea-Dragon's palace. Recently we heard that a sacred mountain had arisen on the edge of the sea, and as it is a lucky omen, and a sign that the Empire of Japan will exist in perpetuity, I have come here to see it. While enjoying the magnificent scene from Sir Ruga Coast, I met this good boy, Koryuri, who asked for Saki for his poor, sick old father, and I gave him some. While this Saki is not ordinary Saki, but sacred, and those who drink it live forever and retain their youth, moreover it cures all diseases even in the aged. But you must know that any medicine is sometimes a poison, and thus it is that this sweet sacred white Saki is good only in taste to the righteous, and bad tasting and poisonous to the wicked. Thus I know that, as it tastes evil to you, you are an evil and wicked man, selfish and greedy. And both the sojos laughed at Mamikiko, who, on hearing that the few drops which he must have swallowed would act as a poison and soon kill him, begged to cry with fear and to regret his conduct. He begged and implored forgiveness, and that his life might be spared, and vowed that he would reform if only given a chance. The sojo, drawing some powder from a case, gave it to Mamikiko and told him to swallow it in some Saki for, said he, it is better to repent and reform even in your old age than not at all. Mamikiko drank it down this time, finding the wine sweet and delicious. It strengthened him and made him feel well, and he reformed and became a good man. He made friends again with Yureen and treated Koyuri well. Some years later, Mamikiko and Yureen built a hut at the southern base of Fujisan, where they brewed white Saki from a recipe given them by the sojo, and they gave it to all who suffered from Saki poisoning. Both Mamikiko and Yureen lived for three hundred years. In the Middle Ages, a man who had heard this story brewed white Saki at the foot of Mount Fuji. He made it with rice yeast, and people became very fond of it. Even today, white Saki is brewed somewhere at the foot of the mountain, and is well known as a special liqueur belonging to Fiji. I myself drank it in 1907, without fear of living beyond my fifty-fifth year. End of Chapter thirty-eight, Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Chapter thirty-nine of Ancient Tales and Folklore of Japan. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Ancient Tales and Folklore of Japan by Richard Gordon Smith The Blind Beauty Nearly three hundred years ago, or according to my storyteller in the second year of Kawani, which would be 1626, the period of Kawani having begun in 1624, and ended in 1644, there lived at Maidaziru in the province of Tango, a youth named Kichijiro. Kichijiro had been born at the village of Tai, where his father had been a native, but on the death of the father, he had come with his elder brother, Kichisuki, to Maidaziru. The brother was his only living relation except an uncle, and had taken care of him for four years, educating him from the age of eleven until fifteen, and Kichijiro was very grateful and determined that now he had reached the age of fifteen, he must no longer be a drag on his brother, but must begin to make a way in the world for himself. After looking about for some weeks, Kichijiro found employment with Shiwaya Hachijimon, a merchant in Maidaziru. He worked very hard and soon gained his master's friendship, indeed Hachijimon thought very highly of his apprentice, he favored him in many ways over older clerks, and finally entrusted him with the key of his safes, which contained documents and much money. Now Hachijimon had a daughter of Kichijiro's age, of great beauty and promise, and she felt desperately in love with Kichijiro, who himself was at first unaware of this. The girl's name was Ima, oh Ima-san, and she was one of those delightfully ready happy-faced girls whom only Japan can produce, a mixture of yellow and red, with hair and eyebrows as black as a raven. Ima paid Kichijiro compliments now and then, but he was a boy who thought little of love. He intended to get on in the world, and marriage was a thing which had not yet entered into his mind. After Kichijiro had been some six months in the employment of Hachijimon, he stood higher than ever in the master's estimation, but the other clerks did not like him, they were jealous. One was specially so. This was Kanshichi, who hated him not only because he was favored by the merchant, but also because he himself loved Oh Ima, who had given him many a rebuff when he had attempted to make love to her. So great did this secret hate become, at last Kanshichi vowed that he would be revenged upon Kichijiro, and if necessary upon his master Hachijimon and his daughter Oh Ima as well, for he was a wicked and scheming man. One day an opportunity occurred. Kichijiro had so far secured confidence that the master had sent him off to Kasumi in Tajima province, there to negotiate the purchase of a junk. While he was away, Kanshichi broke into the room where the safe was kept, and took there from two bags containing money in gold up to the value of two hundred ryo. He effaced all signs of his action and went quietly back to his work. Two or three days later, Kichijiro returned, having successfully accomplished his mission, and after reporting this to the master, set to his routine work again, on examining the safe he found that the two hundred ryo of gold were missing, and he having reported this the office and the household were thrown into a state of excitement. After some hours of hunting for the money, it was found in a koro, incense burner, which belonged to Kichijiro, and no one was more surprised than he. It was Kanshichi who had found it, naturally after having put it there himself. He did not accuse Kichijiro of having stolen the money, his plans were more deeply laid. The money having been found there, he knew that Kichijiro himself would have to say something. Of course, Kichijiro said he was absolutely innocent, and that when he had left for Kasumi, the money was safe. He had seen it just before leaving. Hachi-i-mou was sorely distressed. He believed in the innocence of Kichijiro. But how was he to prove it? Seeing that his master did not believe Kichijiro guilty, Kanshichi decided that he must do something which would render it more or less impossible for Hachi-i-mou to do otherwise than to send his hated rival, Kichijiro, away. He went to the master and said, Sir, I, as your head clerk, must tell you that, though perhaps Kichijiro is innocent, things seem to prove that he is not. For how could the money have got into his coral? If he is not punished, the theft will reflect on all of us clerks, your faithful servants, and I myself should have to leave your service, for all the others would do so, and you would be unable to carry on your business. Therefore, I venture to tell you, Sir, that it would be advisable in your own interest to send poor Kichijiro for whose misfortune I deeply grieve away. Hachi-mou saw the force of this argument and agreed. He sent for Kichijiro, to whom he said, Kichijiro, deeply, as I regret it, I am obliged to send you away. I do not believe in your guilt, but I know that if I do not send you away, all my clerks will leave me, and I shall be ruined. To show you that I believe in your innocence, I will tell you that my daughter Ema loves you, and that if you are willing, and after you can prove your innocence, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to have you back as my son-in-law. Go now, try and think how you can prove your innocence. My best wishes go with you. Kichijiro was very sad. Now that he had to go, he found that he should more than miss the companionship of the sweet O'Eema. With tears in his eyes he vowed to the father that he would come back, prove his innocence and marry O'Eema, and with O'Eema herself he had his first love seen. They vowed that neither should rest until the scheming thief had been discovered, and they were both reunited in such a way that nothing could part them. Kichijiro went back to his brother, Kichisuki, at Tai Village to consult as to what it would be best for him to do to re-establish his reputation. After a few weeks he was employed through his brother's interest, and that of his only surviving uncle in Kayoto. There he worked hard and faithfully for four long years, bringing much credit to his firm and earning much admiration from his uncle, who made him heir to considerable landed property and gave him a share in his own business. Kichijiro found himself at the age of twenty, quite a rich man. In the meantime calamity had come on Preeti O'Eema. After Kichijiro had left Madazuku, Kansei Chi began to pester her with attentions. She would have none of him. She would not even speak to him, and so exasperated did he become, at last, that he used to wail at her. On one occasion he resorted to violence and tried to carry her away by force. Of this she complained to her father, who promptly dismissed him from his service. This made villain Kansei Chi angrier than ever. As the Japanese proverb says, Kawasia Amati Nikusa Ya Hayakubai, which means excessive love is hatred. So it was with Kansei Chi his love turned to hatred. He thought how he could be avenged on Hachiman and O'Eema. The most simple means he thought would be to burn down their house, the business offices, and the stores of merchandise. That must bring ruin. So one night Kansei Chi set about doing these things and accomplished them most successfully, with the exception that he himself was caught in the act and sentenced to a heavy punishment. That was the only satisfaction which was got by Hachiman, who was all but ruined. He sent away all his clerks and retired from business, for he was too old to begin again. But just enough to keep life and body together, Hachiman and his pretty daughter lived in a little cheap cottage on the banks of the river, where it was Hachiman's only pleasure to fish for carp and jackal. For three years he did this, and then fell ill and died. Poor O'Eema was left to herself as lovely as ever. But mournful, the few friends she had tried to prevail on her to marry somebody, anybody, they said, sooner than live alone. But to this advice the girl would not listen. It is better to live miserably alone, she said, than to marry one for whom you do not care. I can love none but Kichiru, though I shall not see him again. O'Eema spoke the truth on that occasion, without knowing it, for, too as it is that it never reigns but it pours, O'Eema was to have more trouble. An eye-sickness came to her, and in less than two months after her father's death the poor girl was blind, with no one to attend to her once, but an old nurse who was stuck to her through all her troubles, O'Eema had barely sufficient money to pay for rice. It was just at this time that Kichiru's success was assured. His uncle had given him a half interest in the business, and made a will in which he left him his whole property. Kichiru decided to go and report himself to his old master at Madeziro and to claim the hand of O'Eema, his daughter. Having learned the sad story of downfall and ruin, and also of O'Eema's blindness, Kichiru went to the girl's cottage. Our O'Eema came out, and flung herself into his arms, weeping bitterly and crying. Kichiru, my beloved, this is indeed almost the hardest blow of all. The loss of my sight was as nothing before, but now that you have come back I cannot see you, and how I long to do so. You can, but little, imagine. It is indeed the saddest blow of all. You cannot now marry me. Kichiru petted her, and said, Daarest O'Eema, you must not be too hasty in your thoughts. I have never ceased thinking of you, indeed. I have grown to love you desperately. I have property now in Kayoto. But should you prefer to do so, we will live here in this cottage. I am ready to do anything you wish. It is my desire to re-establish your father's old business, for the good of your family. But first and before even this, we will be married and never part again. We will do that tomorrow. Then we will go together to Kayoto and see my uncle and ask for his advice. He is always good and kind, and you will like him. He is sure to like you. Next day they started on their journey to Kayoto, and Kichiru saw his brother and his uncle, neither of whom had any objection to Kichiru's bride on account of her blindness. Indeed, the uncle was so much pleased at his nephew's fidelity that he gave him half of his capital there and then. Kichiru built a new house and offices in Madaziro, just where his first master, Hachiman's place, had been. He re-established the business completely, calling his firm, the second, Shiwara Hachiman, as is often done in Japan, which adds much to the confusion of Europeans who study Japanese art, for pupils often take the names of their clever masters, calling themselves the second or even the third or the fourth. In the garden of their Madaziro home was an artificial mountain, and on this Kichiru had erected a tombstone or memorial dedicated to Hachiman, his father-in-law. At the foot of the mountain he erected a memorial to Kan-si-chi, thus he rewarded the evil wickedness of Kan-si-chi by kindness, but showed at the same time that evil doers cannot expect high places. It is to be hoped that the spirits of the two dead men become reconciled. They say in Madaziro that the memorial tombs still stand. End of Chapter 39, Recording by Linda-Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Chapter 40 of Ancient Tales and Folklore of Japan, Ancient Tales and Folklore of Japan by Richard Gordon Smith, The Secret of Idamachi Pond. In the first year of Bunkiyu, 1861 to 1864, there lived a man called Yehada Keisuke in Kasomigaseki in the district of Kojimachi. He was a hatamoto, that is, a feudatory vassal of the shogun, and a man to whom some respect was due. But apart from that, Yehada was much liked for his kindness of heart and general fairness in dealing with people. In Idamachi lived another hatamoto, Hayashi Hayato. He had been married to Yehada's sister for five years. They were exceedingly happy. Their daughter, four years old now, was the delight of their hearts. Their cottage was rather dilapidated, but it was Hayashi's own, with the pond in front of it, and two farms, the whole property comprising some two hundred acres, of which nearly half was under cultivation. Thus Hayashi was able to live without working much. In the summer he fished for carp, in the winter he wrote much, and was considered a bit of a poet. At the time of this story, Hayashi, having planted his rice and sweet potatoes, Sato Imo, had but little to do, and spent most of his time with his wife, fishing in his ponds, one of which contained large supon, terrapin turtles, as well as koi, carp. Suddenly, things went wrong. Yehada was surprised one morning to receive a visit from his sister, Okume. I have come, dear brother, she said, to beg you to help me to obtain a divorce or separation from my husband. Divorce? Why should you want a divorce? Have you not always said you were happy with your husband, my dear friend Hayashi? For what sudden reason do you ask for a divorce? Remember you have been married for five years now, and that is sufficient to prove that your life has been happy, and that Hayashi has treated you well. At first Okume would not give any reason why she wished to be separated from her husband, but at last she said, brother, think not that Hayashi has been unkind. He is all that can be called kind, and we deeply love each other. But as you know, Hayashi's family have owned the land, the farms on one of which latter we live, for some three hundred years. Nothing would induce him to change his place of abode, and I should never have wished him to do so until some twelve days ago. What has happened within these twelve wonderful days? Asked Yehada. Dear brother, I can stand it no longer, was his sister's answer. Up to twelve days ago all went well, but then a terrible thing happened. It was very dark and warm, and I was sitting outside our house, looking at the clouds passing over the moon, and talking to my daughter. Suddenly there appeared, as if walking on the lilies of the pond, a white figure. Oh, so white, so wet, and so miserable to look at. It appeared to rise from the pond and float in the air, and then approached me slowly until it was within ten feet. As it came, my child cried, Why, mother, there comes Osumi. Do you know Osumi? I answered her that I did not, I think, but in truth I was so frightened I hardly know what I said. The figure was horrible to look at. It was that of a girl of eighteen or nineteen years, with hair dishevelled and hanging loose over white and wet shoulders. Help me! Help me! cried the figure, and I was so frightened that I covered my eyes and screamed for my husband who was inside. He came out and found me in a dead faint, with my child by my side, also in a state of terror. Ayashi had seen nothing. He carried us both in, shut the doors, and told me I must have been dreaming. Perhaps, he sarcastically added, you saw the kappa which is said to dwell in the pond, but which none of my family have seen for over one hundred years. That is all my husband said on the subject. Next night, however, when in bed, my child seized me suddenly, crying in terror-stricken tones. O Sumi! Here is O Sumi! How horrible she looks! Mother, mother, do you see her? I did see her. She stood dripping wet within three feet of my bed. The whiteness and the wetness and the dishevelled hair being what gave her the awful look which she bore. Help me! Help me! cried the figure, and then disappeared. After that, I could not sleep, nor could I get my child to do so. On every night until now, the ghost has come. O Sumi! As my child calls her. I should kill myself if I had to remain longer in that house, which has become a terror to myself and my child. My husband does not see the ghost, and only laughs at me, and that is why I see no way out of the difficulty, but a separation. Yehara told his sister that on the following day he would call on Hayashi, and sent his sister back to her husband that night. Next day, when Yehara called, Hayashi, after hearing what the visitor had to say, answered, It is very strange. I was born in this house over twenty years ago, but I have never seen the ghost which my wife refers to, and have never heard about it. Not the slightest allusion to it was ever made by my father or mother. I will make inquiries of all my neighbours and servants, and ascertain if they ever heard of the ghost, or even of any one coming to a sudden and untimely end. There must be something. It is impossible that my little child should know the name Sumi, she never having known any one bearing it. Mysteries were made, but nothing could be learned from the servants or from the neighbours. Hayashi reasoned that the ghost being always wet, the mystery might be solved by drying up the pond, perhaps to find the remains of some murdered person, whose bones required decent burial and prayers said over them. The pond was old and deep, covered with water-plants, and had never been emptied within his memory. It was said to contain a kappa, mythical beast, half-turtle, half-man. In any case there were many terrapin-turtle, the capture of which would well repay the cost of the emptying. The bank of the pond was cut, and next day there remained only a pool in the deepest part, Hayashi decided to clear even this and dig into the mud below. At this moment the grandmother of Hayashi arrived, an old woman of some eighty years, and said, You need go, no father. I can tell you all about the ghost. O Sumi does not rest, and it is quite true that her ghost appears. I am very sorry about it, now in my old age, for it is my fault. The sin is mine. Listen, and I will tell you all. Someone stood astonished at these words, feeling that some secret was about to be revealed. The old woman continued, When Hayashi Hayato, your grandfather, was alive, we had a beautiful servant girl, seventeen years of age, called O Sumi. Your grandfather became enamored of this girl, and she of him. I was about thirty at that time, and was jealous, for my better looks had passed away. One day, when your grandfather was out, I took Sumi to the pond, and gave her a severe beating. During the struggle she fell into the water and got entangled in the weeds. And there I left her, fully believing the water to be shallow and that she could get out. She did not succeed, and was drowned. Your grandfather found her dead on his return. In those days the police were not very particular with their inquiries. The girl was buried, but nothing was said to me, and the matter soon blew over. Fourteen days ago was the fiftieth anniversary of this tragedy. Perhaps that is the reason of Sumi's ghost appearing. For appear she must, or your child could not have known of her name. It must be as your child says, and that the first time she appeared, Sumi communicated her name. The old woman was shaking with fear, and advised them all to say prayers at O Sumi's tomb. This was done, and the ghost has been seen no more. Hayashi said, Though I am a samurai, and have read many books, I never believed in ghosts, but now I do. CHAPTER 41 of Ancient Tales and Folklore of Japan This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda-Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Ancient Tales and Folklore of Japan, by Richard Gordon Smith. THE SPIRIT OF YANOKI FOOT NOTE FUJJA SEI said that this was an old story told him by his nurse, who was a native of the village of Okiyama. Also that a solid gold Buddha, eighteen inches in height, had been stolen from the temple three years ago. There is a mountain in the province of Itsumi called Okiyama, or Ojiyama. It is connected with the Mumaru Yama Mountains. I will not vouch that I am accurate in spelling either. Place it to say that the story was told to me by Fu Kuga Sei, and translated by Mr. Ando, the Japanese translator of our consulate, at Kobe. Both of these give the mountain's name as Okiyama, and say that on the top of it, from time immemorial, there has been a shrine dedicated to Fudo Mayo-O, Achala in Sanskrit, which means immovable, and is the God always represented as surrounded by fire and sitting uncomplainingly on as an example to others, and he carries a sword in one hand and a rope in the other, as a warning that punishment awaits those who are unable to overcome with honor the painful struggles of life. Well, at the top of Okiyama, Hai, or Big Mountain, is this very old temple to Fudo, and many are the pilgrimages which are made there annually. The mountain itself is covered with forest, and there are some remarkable cryptomerias, camphor, and pine trees. Many years ago, in the days of which I speak, there were only a few priests living up at this temple. Among them was a middle-aged man, half priest, half caretaker, called Yanoki. For twenty years had Yanoki lived at the temple, yet during that time he had never cast his eyes on the figure of Fudo, over which he was partly set to guard. It was kept shut in a shrine and never seen by any one but the head priest. One day Yanoki's curiosity got the better of him. Early in the morning the door of the shrine was not quite closed. Yanoki looked in, but saw nothing. On turning to the light again he found that he had lost the use of the eye that had looked. He was stone-blind in the right eye, feeling that the divine punishment served him well, and that the gods must be angry. He sat about purifying himself, and fasted for one hundred days. Yanoki was mistaken in his way of devotion and repentance, and did not pacify the gods. On the contrary, they turned him into a tengu, long-nosed devil who dwells in mountains, and is the great teacher of Jujitsu. But Yanoki continued to call himself a priest, Ichigan Hoshi, meaning the one-eyed priest, for a year, and then died, and it is said that his spirit passed into an enormous cryptomirya tree on the east side of the mountain. After that, when sailors passed the Chinu Sea, Asuka Bay, if there was a storm, they used to pray to the one-eyed priest for help, and if a light was seen on the top of Okiyama, they had a sure sign that, no matter how rough the sea their ship would not be lost. It may be said, in fact, that after death of the one-eyed priest, more importance was attached to his spirit, and to the tree into which it had taken refuge than to the temple itself. The tree was called the lodging of the one-eyed priest, and no one dared approach it, not even the woodcutters who were familiar with the mountains. It was a source of awe and an object of reverence. At the foot of Okiyama was a lonely village separated from others by fully two rea, five miles, and there were only one hundred and thirty houses in it. Every year the villages used to celebrate the bon by engaging, after it was over, in the dance called Bon Odori. Like most other things in Japan, the Bon and the Bon Odori were in extreme contrast. The Bon was a ceremony arranged for the spirits of the dead who were supposed to return to earth for three days annually, to visit their family shrines, something like our All Saints' Day, and in any case, quite a serious religious performance. The Bon Odori is a dance which varies considerably in different provinces. It is confined mostly to villages, for one cannot count the pretty gaishak dances in Kayoto, which are practically copies of it. It is a dance of boys and girls, one may say, and continues nearly all night on the village green. For the three or four nights that it lasts, opportunities for flirtations of the most violent kind are plentiful. There are no chaperones, so to speak, and, to put it vulgarly, everyone goes on the bust. Hitherto virtuous maidens spend the night out, as impromptu sweethearts, and in the village of which this story is told, not only is it they who let themselves go, but even young brides also. So it came to pass that the village at the foot of Okuyama Mountain, away so far from other villages, was a bad one morally. There was no restriction to what a girl might do, or what she might not do during the nights of the Bon Odori. Things went from bad to worse, until, at the time of which I write, anarchy reigned during the festive days. But last it came to pass that after a particularly festive Bon, on a beautiful moonlit night in August, the well-beloved and charming daughter of Kirahashi Yosahimon Okimi, age 18 years, who had promised her lover, Hirosuki, that she would meet him secretly that evening, was on her way to do so. After passing the last house in her mountain village, she came to a thick corpse, and standing at the edge of it was a man whom Okimi at first took to be her lover. On approaching she found that it was not Hirosuki, but a very handsome youth of twenty-three years. He did not speak to her. In fact, he kept a little away. She advanced, he receded. So handsome was the youth, Okimi felt, that she loved him. Oh, know my heart beats for him, said she. After all, why should I not give up, Hirosuki? He is not good-looking like this man, whom I love already before I have even spoken to him. I hate Hirosuki, now that I see this man. As she said this, she saw the figure smiling and beckoning, and being a wicked girl, loose in her morals, she followed him and was seen no more. Her family were much exercised in their minds, a week passed, and Okimi-san did not return. A few days later, Tamei, the sixteen-year-old daughter of Kinsaku, who was secretly in love with the son of the village headman, was awaiting him in the temple grounds, standing the while by the stone figure of Jezodu, Sanskrit, Shiti Garbaha, patron of women and children. Finally there stood near Tamei a handsome youth of twenty-three years, as in the case of Okimi. She was greatly struck by the youth's beauty, so much so that when he took her by the hand and let her off, she made no effort to resist, and she also disappeared. And thus it was that nine girls of amorous nature disappeared from this small village. Everywhere for thirty miles around, people talked and wondered, and said unkind things. In Okiyama village itself, the elder people said, Yes, it must be that our children's immodesty since the Bon Odori has angered Yanoki-san, perhaps it is he himself who appears in the form of this handsome youth and carries off our daughters. Nearly all agreed in a few days that they owed their losses to the spirit of Yanoki tree, and as soon as this notion had taken root, the whole of the villagers locked and barred themselves in their houses both day and night. Their farms became neglected, wood was not being cut in the mountain, business was at a standstill, the rumor of this state of affairs spread, and the lord of Keshiwada, Sammy Uneasy, summoned Sonobi Hayama, the most celebrated swordsman in that part of Japan. Sonobi, you are the bravest man I know of, and the best fighter. It is for you to go and inspect the tree where lodges of the spirit of Yanoki. You must use your own discretion. I cannot advise as to what it is best that you should do. I leave it to you to dispose of the mystery and the disappearances of the nine girls. My lord, said Sonobi, my life is at your lordship's call. I shall either clear the mystery or die. After this interview with his master, Sonobi went home. He put himself through a course of cleansing. He fasted and bathed for a week, and then repaired to Okiyama. This was in the month of October, when to me things always looked their best. Sonobi ascended the mountain, and went first to the temple, which he reached at three o'clock in the afternoon, after a hard climb. Here he said prayers before the god Fudo, for fully half an hour. Then he set out to cross the short valley which led up to the Okiyama mountain, and to the tree which held the spirit of the one-eyed priest, Yanoki. It was a long and steep climb, with no paths, for the mountain was avoided as much as possible by even the most adventurous of woodcutters, none of whom ever dreamed of going up as far as the Yanoki tree. Sonobi was in good training and a bold warrior. The woods were dense, there was a chilling damp which came from the spray of a high waterfall. The solitude was intense, and once or twice Sonobi put his hand on the hilt of his sword, thinking that he heard someone following in the gloom, but there was no one. And by five o'clock Sonobi had reached the tree, and addressed it thus, O honourable and aged tree, that has braved centuries of storm, thou hast become the home of Yanoki's spirit. In truth there is much honour in having so stately a lodging, and therefore he cannot have been so bad a man. I have come from the Lord of Keshiwada to upbreed him, however, and to ask what means it, that Yanoki's spirit should appear as a handsome youth for the purpose of robbing poor people of their daughters. This must not continue, else you, as the lodging of Yanoki's spirit, will be cut down, so that it may escape to another part of the country. At that moment a warm wind blew on the face of Sonobi, and dark clouds appeared overhead. Rendering the forest dark, rain began to fall, and the rumblings of earthquake were heard. See the figure of an old priest appeared in ghostly form, wrinkled and thin, transparent and clammy, nerve-shattering, but Sonobi had no fear. "'You have been sent by the Lord of Keshiwada,' said the ghost. "'I admire your courage for coming. So cowardly and sinful are most men. They fear to come near where my spirit has taken refuge. I can assure you that I do no evil to the good. So bad had morals become in the village. It was time to give a lesson. The villagers' customs defied the gods. It is true that I, hoping to improve these people and make them godly, assumed the form of a youth and carried away nine of the worst of them. They are quite well. They deeply regret their sins, and will reform their village. Every day I have given them lectures. You will find them on the mini-toes, or second summit of this mountain, tied to trees. Go there and release them, and afterwards tell the Lord of Keshiwada, what the spirit of Yanoke, the one-eyed priest, has done, and that it is always ready to help him to improve his people. Farewell!' No sooner had the last word been spoken than the spirit vanished. Sonobi, who felt somewhat dazed by what the spirit had said, started off, nevertheless, to the mini-toe, and there, sure enough, were the nine girls, tied each to a tree. As the spirit had said, he cut their bonds, gave them a lecture, took them back to the village, and reported to the Lord of Keshiwada. Since then the people have feared more than ever the spirit of the one-eyed priest. They have become completely reformed, an example to the surrounding villages. The nine houses or families whose daughters behaved so badly contribute annually the rice eaten by the priests of Fudo Myotemple. It is spoken of as the nine families' rice of Oki. End of Chapter 41, Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Chapter 42 of Ancient Tales and Folklore of Japan This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Ancient Tales and Folklore of Japan By Richard Gordon Smith The Spirit of the Lotus Lily For some time I have been hunting for a tale about the Lotus Lily. My friend Fugua has at last found one, which is said to date back some two hundred years. It applies to a castle that was then situated in what was known as Kenai, now incorporated into what may be known as the Kayoto District. Probably it refers to one of the castles in that neighborhood, though I myself know of only one, which is now called Nijo Castle. Fugua, who does not speak English, and my interpreter, made it very difficult for me to say that the story does not really belong to a castle in the province of Izumi, for after starting it in Kayoto, they suddenly brought me to Izumi, making the hero of it, the lord of Koryama. In any case, I was the first told that disease and sickness broke out in Kenai, Kayoto. Thousands of people died of it. It spread to Izumi, where the feudal lord of Koryama lived, and attacked him also. These were called from all parts, but it was no use. The disease spread, and, to the dismay of all, not only the lord of Koryama, but also his wife and child were stricken. There was a panic terror in the country, not that the people feared for themselves, but because they were in dread that they might lose their lord and his wife and child. The lord Koryama was much beloved. People flocked to the castle, they camped round its high walls, and in its empty motes, which were dry, there having been no war for some time. One day, during the illness of the great family, Kada Samon, the highest official in the castle, next to the lord Koryama himself, was sitting in his room, thinking what was best to be done on the various questions that were awaiting the daimou's recovery. Until he was thus engaged, a servant announced that there was a visitor at the outer gate, who requested an interview, saying that he thought he could cure the three sufferers. Kada Samon would see the caller, whom the servant shortly after fetched. The visitor turned out to be a Yama Bushi, mountain recluse, in appearance, and on entering the room bowed low to Samon, saying, Sir, it is an evil business, this illness of our lord and master, and it has been brought about by an evil spirit, who has entered the castle because you have put up no defense against impure and evil spirits. This castle is the center of administration for the whole of the surrounding country, and it was unwise to allow it to remain unfortified against impure and evil spirits. The saints of old, footnote, rakan, infootnote, have always told us to plant the lotus lily, not only in the one inner ditch surrounding a castle, but also in both ditches, or in as many as there be, and moreover, to plant them all around the ditches. Surely, sir, you know that the lotus, being the most emblematic flower of our religion, must be the most pure and sacred, for this reason it drives away uncleanness, which cannot cross it. Be assured, sir, that if your lord had not neglected the northern ditches of his castle, but had kept them filled with water, clean, and had planted the sacred lotus, no such evil spirit would have come, as the present sent by heaven, to warn him. If I am allowed to do so, I shall enter the castle to-day, and pray that the evil spirit of sickness leave, and I ask that I may be allowed to plant lotuses in the northern moats. Thus only can the lord of Koryama and his family be saved. Semen nodded in answer, for he now remembered that the northern moats had neither lotus nor water, and that this was partly his fault, a matter of economy in connection with the estates. He interviewed his master, who was more sick than ever. He called all the court officials. It was decided that the Yamabushi should have his way. He was told to carry out his ideas as he thought best. There was plenty of money, and there were hundreds of hands ready to help him. Everything to save the master. The Yamabushi washed his body, and prayed that the evil spirit of sickness should leave the castle. Subsequently he superintended the cleansing and repairing of the northern moats, directing the people to fill them with water and plant lotuses. Then he disappeared mysteriously, vanished almost before the men's eyes. Wonderingly, but with more energy than ever, the men worked to carry out the orders. In less than twenty-four hours the moats had been cleaned, repaired, filled, and planted. As was to be expected, the Lord Koryama, his wife and son, became rapidly better. In a week all were able to be up, and in a fortnight they were as well as ever they had been. Thanksgiving's were held, and there were great rejoicings, all over Izumi. Later people flocked to see the splendidly kept moats of lotuses, and the villagers went so far as to rename among themselves the castle, calling it the Lotus Castle. Some years passed before anything strange happened. The Lord Koryama had died from natural causes, and had been succeeded by his son, who had neglected the lotus roots. A young samurai was passing along one of the moats. This was at the end of August, when the flowers of the lotus are strong and high. The samurai suddenly saw two beautiful boys, about six or seven years of age, playing at the edge of the moat. Boys, said he, it is not safe to play so near an edge of the moat. Come along with me. He was about to take them by the hand and lead them off to a safer place. When they sprang into the air a little way, smiling at him the while, and fell into the water, where they disappeared with a great splash that covered him with spray. So astonished was the samurai, he hardly knew what to think, for they did not reappear. He made sure they must be two kapas, mythical animals, and with this idea in his mind he ran to the castle and gave information. The high officials held a meeting, and arranged to have the moats dragged and cleaned. They felt that this should have been done when the young lord had succeeded his father. The moats were dragged accordingly from end to end, but no kappa was found. They came to the conclusion that the samurai had been indulging in fancies, and he was chaffed in consequence. Some few weeks later another samurai, Morata Ippie, was returning in the evening from visiting his sweetheart, and his road led along the outer moat. The lotus blossoms were luxuriant, and Ippie sauntered slowly on, admiring them and thinking of his lady love, when suddenly he espied a dozen or more of the beautiful little boys playing near the water's edge. They had no clothing on, and were splashing one another with water. Ah! reflected the samurai. These surely are the kapas, of which we were told before. Having taken the form of human beings, they think to deceive me. A samurai is not frightened by such as they, and they will find it difficult to escape the keen edge of my sword. Ippie cast off his clogs, and drawing his sword proceeded stealthily to approach the supposed kapas. He approached until he was within some twenty yards. Then he remained hidden behind a bush, and stood for a minute to observe. The children continued their play. They seemed to be perfectly natural children, except that they were all extremely beautiful, and from them was wafted a peculiar scent, almost powerful but sweet, and resembling that of the lotus lily. Ippie was puzzled, and was almost inclined to sheath his sword on seeing how innocent and unsuspecting the children looked. But he thought that he would not be acting up to the determination of a samurai if he changed his mind. Gripping his sword with renewed vigor, therefore he dashed out from his hiding place and slashed right and left among the supposed kapas. Ippie was convinced that he had done much slaughter, for he had felt his sword strike over and over again, and had heard the dull thuds of things falling. But when he looked about to see what he had killed, there arose a peculiar vapor of all colors which almost blinded him by its brilliance. It fell in a watery spray all around him. Ippie determined to wait until the morning, for he could not, as a samurai, leave such an adventure unfinished. Nor indeed would he have liked to recount it to his friends until he had seen the thing clean through. It was a long and dreary wait. But Ippie was equal to it, and never closed his eyes during the night. When morning dawn he found nothing but the stalks of lotus lilies sticking up out of the water in his vicinity. But my sword struck more than lotus stalks, thought he. If I have not killed the kapas which I saw myself in human form, they must have been the spirits of the lotus. What terrible sins have I committed! It was by the spirits of the lotus that our Lord of Koriyama and his family were saved from death. Alas, what have I done? I, a samurai, whose every drop of blood belongs to his master. I have drawn my sword on my master's most faithful friends. I must appease the spirits by disemboweling myself. Ippie said a prayer, and then, sitting on a stone by the side of the fallen lotus flowers, did Herakiri. The flowers continued to bloom, but after this no more lotus spirits were seen. Of Ancient Tales and Folklore of Japan This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Ancient Tales and Folklore of Japan by Richard Gordon Smith The Temple of Awabi In Noto Province, there is a small fishing village called Nanano. It is at the extreme northern end of the mainland. There is nothing opposite until one reaches either Koriya or the Siberian coast, except the small rocky islands which are everywhere in Japan, surrounding as it were by an outer fringe, the land proper of Japan itself. Nanano contains not more than five hundred souls. Many years ago the place was devastated by an earthquake and a terrific storm, which between them destroyed nearly the whole village and killed half of the people. On the morning after this terrible visitation, it was seen that the geographical situation had changed. Opposite Nanano, some two miles from the land, had arisen a rocky island about a mile in circumference. The sea was muddy and yellow. The people surviving were so overcome and odd that none ventured into a boat for nearly a month afterwards. Indeed, most of the boats had been destroyed. Being Japanese, they took things philosophically. Everyone helped some other, and within a month the village looked much as it had looked before. Smaller and less populated, perhaps, but managing itself unassisted by the outside world. Indeed, all the neighboring villages had suffered much in the same way, and after the manner of ants had put things right again. The fishermen of Nanano arranged that their first fishing expedition should be taken together, two days before the bond. They would first go and inspect the new island, and then continue out to sea for a few miles, to find if there were still as many Thai fish on their favorite ground as there used to be. It would be a day of intense interest, and the villages of some fifty miles of coast had all decided to make their ventures simultaneously, each village trying its own grounds, of course, but all starting at the same time, with a view of eventually reporting to each other the condition of things with regard to fish for mutual assistance in a strong characteristic in the Japanese when trouble overcomes them. At the appointed time, two days before the festival, the fishermen started from Nanano. There were thirteen boats. They visited first the new island, which proved to be simply a large rock. There were many rock fish, such as rassey and sea perch, about it, but beyond that there was nothing remarkable. It had not had time to gather many sea fish on its surface, and there was but little edible seaweed as yet. So the thirteen boats went farther to sea to discover what had occurred to their old and excellent Thai grounds. These were found to produce just about what they used to produce in the days before the earthquake, but the fishermen were not able to stay long enough to make a thorough test. They had meant to be away all night, but at dusk the sky gave every appearance of a storm, so they pulled up their anchors and made for home. As they came close to the new island, they were surprised to see, on one side of it, the water for the space of two hundred and forty feet, square, lit up with a strange light. The light seemed to come from the bottom of the sea, and in spite of the darkness the water was transparent. The fishermen, very much astonished, stopped to gaze down into the blue waters. They could see fish swimming about in thousands, but the depth was too great for them to see the bottom, and so they gave rain to all kinds of superstitious ideas as to the cause of the light and talked from one boat to the other about it. A few minutes afterwards they had shipped their immense paddling oars, and all was quiet. Then they heard rumbling noises at the bottom of the sea, and this filled them with concertation. They feared another eruption. The oars were put out again, and to say that they went fast would in no way convey an idea of the pace that the men made their boats travel over the two miles between the mainland and the island. Their homes were reached well before the storm came on, but the storm lasted for fully two days, and the fishermen were unable to leave the shore. As the sea calmed down, and the villagers were looking out, on the third day cause for astonishment came. Shooting out of the sea near the island rock were rays that seemed to come from a sun in the bottom of the sea. All the village congregated on the beach to see this extraordinary spectacle which was discussed far into the night. Not even the old priests could throw any light on the subject. Consequently the fishermen became more and more scared, and a few of them were ready to venture to sea next day, though it was the time for the magnificent Sawara King Mackerel. Only one boat left the shore, and that belonged to Master Kansuki, a fisherman of some fifty years of age who, with his son Matakichi, a youth of eighteen, and a most faithful son, was always to the force. When anything out of the common had to be done, Kansuki had been the acknowledged bold fisherman of Nano, the leader in all things since most could remember, and his faithful and devoted son had followed him from the age of twelve through many perils, so that no one was astonished to see their boat leave alone. They went first to the tigrounds, and fished there during the night, catching some thirty odd tige between them, the average weight of which would be four pounds. Towards break of day another storm showed on the horizon. Kansuki pulled up his anchor and started for home, hoping to take in a hobo line, which he had dropped overboard near the rocky island, on his way out, a line holding some two hundred hooks. They had reached the island and hauled in nearly the whole line when the rising sea caused Kansuki to lose his balance and fall overboard. Usually the old man would soon have found it an easy matter to scramble back into the boat. On this occasion, however, his head did not appear above water, and so his son jumped in to rescue his father. He dived into water, which almost dazzled him, for bright rays were shooting through it. He could see nothing of his father, but felt that he could not leave him. As the mysterious rays rising from the bottom might have something to do with the accident, he made up his mind to follow them. They must, he thought, be reflections from the eye of some monster. It was a deep dive, and for many minutes Madakichi was under water. At last he reached the bottom, and here he found an enormous colony of the awabi, ear shells. The space covered by them was fully two hundred square feet, and in the middle of all was one of gigantic size, the light of which he had never heard of, from the holes at the top, through which the feelers pass, shot the bright rays which illuminated the sea, rays which are said by the Japanese divers to show the presence of a pearl. The pearl in this shell, thought Madakichi, the pearl in this shell, thought Madakichi must be one of enormous size, as large as a baby's head. From all the awabi shells on the patch he could see the lights. That lights were coming, which denoted that they contained pearls, but wherever he looked Madakichi could see nothing of his father. He thought his father must have been drowned, and if so, that the best thing for him to do would be to regain the surface and repair to the village to report his father's death, and also his wonderful discovery which would be of such value to the people of Nanoh. Having, after much difficulty, reached the surface, he, to his dismay, found the boat broken by the sea, which was now high. Madakichi was lucky, however, he saw a bit of floating wreckage, which he seized, and as sea wind and current helped him, strong swimmer as he was, it was not more than half an hour before he was ashore, relating to the villagers the adventures of the day, his discoveries and the loss of his dear father. The fishermen could hardly credit the news that what they had taken to be supernatural lights were caused by ear-shells, for the much-valued ear-shell was extremely rare about their district, but Madakichi was a youth of such trustworthiness that even the most skeptical believed him in the end, and had it not been for the loss of Kansuki there would have been great rejoicing in the village that evening. Having told the villagers the news, Madakichi repaired to the old priest's house at the end of the village, and told him also, and now that my beloved father is dead, said he, I myself beg that you will make me one of your disciples, so that I may pray daily for my father's spirit. The old priest followed Madakichi's wish, and said, not only shall I be glad to have so brave and filial a youth as yourself as a disciple, but also I myself would pray with you for your father's spirit, and on the twenty first day from his death we will take boats and pray over the spot at which he was drowned. Accordingly, on the morning of the twenty first day, after the drowning of poor Kansuki, his son and the priest were anchored over the place where he had been lost, and prayers for the spirit of the dead were said. That same night the priest awoke at midnight, he felt ill at ease, and thought much of the spiritual affairs of his flock. Suddenly he saw an old man standing near the head of his couch, who bowed courteously and said, I am the spirit of the great ear-shell lying on the bottom of the sea near Rocky Island. My age is over one thousand years. Some days ago a fisherman fell from his boat into the sea, and I killed and ate him. This morning I heard your reverence praying over the place where I lay. With the son of the man I ate, your sacred prayers have taught me shame, and I sorrow for the thing I have done. By way of atonement I have ordered my followers to scatter themselves, while I have determined to kill myself, so that the pearls that are in my shell may be given to Matakichi, the son of the man I ate. All I ask is that you should pray for my spirit's welfare, farewell. Saying which the ghost of the ear-shell vanished, early next morning when Matakichi opened his shutters to dust the front of his door, he found there at what he took at first to be a large rock covered with seaweed, and even with pink coral. On closer examination Matakichi found it to be the immense ear-shell which he had seen at the bottom of the sea off Rocky Island. He rushed off to the temple to tell the priest who told Matakichi of his visitation during the night. The shell and the body contained therein were carried to the temple with every respect and much ceremony. Prayers were said over it, and though the shell and the immense pearl were kept in the temple, the body was buried in a tomb next to Kansuki's, with a monument erected over it, and another over Kansuki's grave. Matakichi changed his name to that of Nichigi, and lived happily. There have been no ear-shell seen near Nano since, but on the Rocky Island is erected a shrine to the spirit of the ear-shell. Note, a three thousand yen pearl which I know of was sold for twelve cents by a fisherman from the west. It came from a temple, belongs now to Miko Motu, and is this size. In Funakami-Muda, Omi Province, lived an old farmer called Kanshiro. The like of him for honesty, charity, and piety had never been known, no, not even among the priesthood. Annually, Kanshiro made pilgrimages to various parts of the country to say his prayers and do his duty towards the various deities, never thinking of his old age or of his infirmities. He was not strong, and suffered almost always from dysentery during the hot weather. Consequently, he usually made his pilgrimages in cooler times. In the eighth year of Kwansei, however, Kanshiro felt that he could not live another year, and, feeling that he should not like to miss making another pilgrimage to the great shrines at Iset, he resolved to take all risks and go in August, the hottest month. The people in Funakami Village subscribed one hundred yen for the venerable man, so that he might have the honour and credit of presenting a decent sum to the great shrines. On a certain day, therefore, Kanshiro started alone, with the money hung in a bag about his neck. He had walked from sunrise to sunset for two days, when on the third, in great heat, he arrived at the village of Myojo, feeling nearly dead with weakness, for he had another attack of his old complaint. Kanshiro felt that he could not continue his journey while this lasted, especially as he considered himself in an unclean condition, unfit to carry the holy money which had been entrusted to him by his friends in Funakami. He went accordingly to the cheapest inn he could find, and confided both his story and the hundred yen to the landlord, saying, Sir, I am an old man, sick with dysentery. If you will take care of me for a day or two, I shall be better. Keep also until I am well this sacred money, for it would not do for me to defile it by carrying it with me while I am unwell. Timpachi, the innkeeper, bowed, and gave every assurance that Kanshiro's wish should be followed. Fear nothing, said he. I will place the money in its bag in a safe place, and myself attend upon you until you are well, for such good men as you are rare. For five days the poor old man was very sick indeed, but with his indomitable pluck he recovered, and on the sixth day decided to start again. It was a fine day. Kanshiro paid his bill, thanked the landlord for his kindness, and was handed over his money-bag at the door. He did not look into the bag, because there were many coolies and pilgrims about. He did not wish these strangers to see that he carried much money. Instead of hanging it about his neck, as he had done before, he put the bag into his sack of clothing and food, and started off. Towards midday Kanshiro stopped to rest and eat his cold rice under a pine tree. On examining his bag he found the hundred yen gone, and stones of the same weight placed in it instead. The poor man was greatly disconcerted. He did not even wait to eat his rice, but started back to the inn, which he reached at dusk. He explained as best he could the facts to Jimpachi, the innkeeper. At first this worthy listened to the story with some sympathy, but when Kanshiro begged him to return the money, he flew into a rage. You old rascal, said he. A nice story you're telling to try and blackmail me. I'll give you a lesson that you'll not forget. And with that he struck the old man a severe blow on the chest, and then, seizing a stick, beat him unmercifully. The coolies joined in, and thrashed him until he was nearly dead. Poor old fellow. What could he do? Alone as he was, he crawled away half dead, but he got to the sacred Iset Shrine three days later, and after saying his prayers, started back to Funakami. Here he arrived seriously ill. On telling his story, some believed him, but others did not. So overcome with grief was he, he sold his small property to refund the money, and with the rest he continued his pilgrimages to various temples and shrines. At last, all his money was gone. But even then he continued his pilgrimages, begging food as he went. Three years later he again visited Myojo Village on his way to Iset, and here he learned that his enemy had since made a good deal of money, and now lived in quite a good house. Kanshiro went and found him, and said, Three years ago you stole the money entrusted to me. I sold my property to refund the people what they had given me to take to Iset. I have been a beggar and a wanderer ever since. Think not that I shall not be avenged. I shall be. You are young. I am old. Vengeance will overtake you soon. Jimpachi still protested innocence, and began to get angry, saying, You disreputable old blaggard! If you want a meal of rice, say so, but do not dare to threaten me. At this moment the watchman on his rounds took Kanshiro for a real beggar, and, seizing him by the arm, dragged him to the end of the village, and ordered him not to re-enter it on pain of arrest. And there the poor old man died of anger and weakness. The good priest of the neighbouring temple took the body, and buried it with respect, saying prayers. Jimpachi, in the meantime, afflicted with a guilty conscience, became sick, until after a few days he was unable to leave his bed. After he had lost all power of movement, a curious thing occurred. Thousands and thousands of fireflies came out of Kanshiro's tomb, and flew to the bedroom of Jimpachi. They surrounded his mosquito curtain, and tried to force their way in. The top of the curtain was pressed down with them, the air was foul with them, the glimmer dazzled the sick man's eyes, no rest was possible. The villagers came in to try and kill them, but they could make no impression. For the string of flies from Kanshiro's tomb continued as fast as others were killed. The fireflies went nowhere else than to Jimpachi's room, and there they only surrounded his bed. One or two villagers, seeing this, said, It must be true that Jimpachi stole the money from the old man, and that this is his spirit's revenge. Then everyone feared to kill the flies. Thicker and thicker they grew, until they did at last make a hole in the mosquito net, and then they settled all over Jimpachi. They got in his mouth, his nose, his ears, and his eyes. He kicked and screamed, and lived thus in agony for twenty days, and after his death the flies disappeared completely. 5. ANCIENT TAILS AND FOLKLORE OF JAPAN This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Ancient Tales and Folklore of Japan, by Richard Gordon Smith The Chrysanthemum Hermit Many years ago they were lived at the foot of the mountains of Nambu. In Adachigan, Sayitama Prefecture, an old man named Kikuo, which means Chrysanthemum old man. Kikuo was a faithful retainer of Tsugaru. He was then called Sawada Hayato. Kikuo was a man of great bodily strength and fine appearance, and had much to do with the efficiency of the small fighting force which protected the feudal lord, the castle, and the estates. Nevertheless, an evil day came. The feudal lord's small force was overthrown. The estates and castle were lost. The lord and his faithful retainer, with the few survivors, escaped to the mountains where they continued to think that a day might come when they would be able to have their revenge. During the enforced idleness, Kikuo, knowing his lord's love of flowers, especially of the Chrysanthemum, made his mind up to devote all his spare time to making Chrysanthemum beds. This, he thought, would lessen the pain of defeat and exile. The feudal lord was greatly pleased, but his cares and anxieties were not abated. He sickened and died in great poverty, much to the sorrow of Kikuo and the rest of his followers. Kikuo wept night and day over the humble and lonely grave, but he busied himself again to please the spirit of his lord by planting Chrysanthemums round the tomb, intending them daily. By and by the border of the flowers was thirty yards broad to the wonder of all who saw. It was because of that Hayato got the name of Chrysanthemum Old Man. The Chrysanthemum is in China a holy flower. Ancient history tells of a man called Hoso, great grandson of the Emperor Juikai, who lived to the age of eight hundred years without showing the slightest sign of decay. This was attributed to his drinking the dew of the Chrysanthemum. Besides his devotion to flowers, Kikuo delighted in children. From the village he called them to his poor hut, and as there was no schoolmaster he taught them to write, to read, and jujitsu. The children loved him, and the good villages revered him as if he were a kind of a god. In about his eighty-second year, Kikuo caught cold, and the fever which came with it gave him great pain. During the daytime his pupils attended to his wants, but at night the old man was alone in his cottage. One autumn night he awoke and found standing about his veranda some beautiful children. They did not look quite like any children he knew. They were too beautiful and noble looking to be the poor of the village. Kikuo Osama cried two of them, Do not fear us, though we are not real children. We are the spirits of the Chrysanthemum which you love so much, and of which you have taken such care. We have come to tell you how sorry we are to see you ill, although we have heard that in China there once lived a man called Hoso who lived for eight hundred years by drinking the dew which falls from the flowers. We have tried all we can to prolong your life, but we find that the heavens do not allow that you should live to a much greater age than you have already reached. In thirty days more you will die. Make ready, therefore, to depart. Saying this they all wept bitterly. Good-bye then, said Kikuo. I have no further hopes of living. Let my death be easy. In the next world I may be able to serve my old lord and master. The only thing that makes me sad to leave this world is you. I must forever regret to leave my Chrysanthemums. Saying this he smiled at them in affection. You have been very kind to us, said the Kikuo spirits. And we love you for it. Man rejoices at birth and feels sad at death, yet now you shed no tears. You say you do not mind dying except for leaving us. If you die we shall not survive, for it would be useless misery. Believe us when we say that we shall die with you. As the spirits of the Chrysanthemums finished speaking a puff of wind came about the house and they disappeared. As the day dawned the old man grew worse. And strange to say all the Chrysanthemums began to fade. Even those which were just beginning to bloom the leaves crumbled up and dried. As the spirits had foretold at the end of the thirtieth day the old man died. The Kikuo flowers died then. Not one was left in the whole district. The villagers could not account for it. They buried the old man near his lord, and thinking to honor and please him, planted, time after time, Chrysanthemums near his grave. But all faded and died as soon as they were planted. The two little graves were at last given up and they remain in their solitude, with wild grasses only growing about them.