 CHAPTER 46 of ANCIENT TAILS AND FOLKLORE OF JAPAN ANCIENT TAILS AND FOLKLORE OF JAPAN by Richard Gordon Smith, the Princess P&E. Many years ago at Gamogun, in the province of Omi, was a castle called Azuchi no Shiro. It was a magnificent old place, surrounded by walls and a moat filled with lotus lilies. The feudal lord was a very brave and wealthy man. Yuki Nizen no Joe. His wife had been dead for some years. He had no son, but he had a beautiful daughter aged 18, who, for some reason which is not quite clear to me, was given the title of Princess. For a considerable period there had been peace and quiet in the land. The feudal lords were on the best of terms, and everyone was happy. Amid these circumstances Lord Nizen no Joe perceived that there was a good opportunity to find a husband for his daughter Princess Aya, and after a time the second son of the Lord of Akko of Harima Province was selected, to the satisfaction of both fathers, the affair having little to do with the principles. Lord Akko's son had viewed his bride with approval, and she loved him. One may say that young people are bound to approve each other, when it is the parents wish that they be united. Many suicides result from this. Princess Aya made her mind up to try and love her prospective husband. She saw nothing of him, but she thought of him and talked of him. One evening when Princess Aya was walking in the magnificent gardens by the moonlight, accompanied by her maids in waiting, she wandered down through her favorite peony bed to the pond where she loved to gaze at her reflection, on the nights of the full moon, to listen to frogs and to watch the fireflies. When nearing the pond her foot slipped, and she would have fallen into the water had it not been that a young man appeared as if by magic and caught her. He disappeared as soon as he put her on her feet again. The maids of honor saw her slip. They saw a glimmer of light, and that was all. But Princess Aya had seen more. She had seen the handsomest young man, she could imagine. Twenty-one years old, she said to Osado Xan, her favorite maid. He must have been a samurai of the highest order. His dress was covered with my favorite peonies, and his swords were richly mounted. O, that I could have seen him a minute longer, to thank him for saving me from the water. Who can he be? And how could he have got into our garden through all the guards? So spoke the Princess to her maids, directing them at the same time that they were to say a word to no one, for fear that her father should hear, find the young man, and behead him for trespass. After this evening Princess Aya fell sick. She could not eat or sleep, and turned pale. The day for her marriage with the young lord of Akku came and went without the event. She was far too sick for that. The best of the doctors had been sent from Kyoto, which was then the capital, but none of them had been able to do anything, and the maid grew thinner and thinner. As a last resort the lord Nizen Nojo, her father, sent for her most confidential maid and friend, Osado, and demanded if she could give any reason for his daughter's mysterious sickness. Had she a secret lover, had she a particular dislike for her bitroth? Sir, said Osado, I do not like to tell secrets, but here it seems my duty to your lordship's daughter, as well as to your lordship. Some three weeks ago, when the moon was at its full, we were walking in the peony beds down near the pond where the princess loves to be. She stumbled and nearly fell into the water, when a strange thing happened. In an instant a most beautiful young samurai appeared, and held her up, thus preventing her from falling into the pond. We could all see the glimmer of him, but your daughter and I saw him most distinctly. Before your daughter could thank him, he had disappeared. None of us could understand how it was possible for a man to get into the gardens of the princess, for the gates of the castle are guarded on all sides. And the princess's garden is so much better guarded than the rest that it seems truly incredible that a man could get in. We maids were asked to say nothing for fear of your lordship's anger. Since that evening it is that our beloved princess Aya has been sick, sir. It is sickness of the heart. She is deeply in love with the young samurai she saw, for so brief a space. Indeed, my lord, there never was such a handsome man in the world before, and if we cannot find him, the young princess, I fear, will die. How is it possible for a man to get into the grounds, said Lord Yuki Nazunnojo? People say foxes and badgers assume the figures of men sometimes, but even so it is possible for such supernatural beings to enter my castle grounds guarded as it is at every opening. That evening the poor princess was more wearily unhappy than ever before, thinking to enliven her a little the maids sent for a celebrated player on the biwa called Yashika Kenjo. The weather being hot, they were sitting on the gallery in Gawa, and while the musician was playing Danarora, there appeared suddenly from behind the peonies the same handsome young samurai. He was visible to all this time, even to the peonies embroidered on his dress. There he is, there he is, they cried, at which he instantly disappeared again. The princess was highly excited and seen more lively than she had been for days. The old Daimo grew more puzzled than ever when he heard of it. Next night, while two of the maids were playing for their mistress, Oyi-san, the flute, and O-yakumo, the koto, the figure of the young man, appeared again. A thorough search, having been made during the day in the immense peony beds, was absolutely no result. Not even the sign of a footmark, the thing was increasingly strange. A consultation was held, and it was decided by the lord of the castle to invite a veteran officer of great strength and renown, Maki Higo, to capture the youth should he appear that evening. Maki Higo readily consented, and at the appointed time, dressed in black and consequently invisible, concealed himself among the peonies. Music seemed to have a fascination for the young samurai. It was while music was being played that he made his appearances. Consequently, Oyi and Yukumo resumed their concert, while all gazed eagerly towards the peony beds. As the ladies played a piece called Soferin, there, sure enough, arose a figure of a young samurai, dressed magnificently in clothes, which were covered with embroidered peonies. Everyone gazed at him, and wondered why Maki Higo did not jump up and catch him. The fact was that Maki Higo was so much astonished by the noble bearing of the youth that, at first, he did not like to touch him. Recovering himself and thinking of his duty to his lord, he stealthily approached the young man, and, seizing him round, the waist held him tight. After a few seconds, Maki Higo felt a kind of wet steam falling on his face. By degrees it made him faint, and he fell to the ground, still grasping the young samurai, for he had made up his mind that he would secure him. Everyone had seen the scuffle, and some of the guards came hurrying to the place. Just as they reached the spot, Maki Higo came to his senses, and shouted, Come, gentlemen, I have caught him, come and see. But on looking at what he held in his arms, he discovered it to be only a large peony. By this time the Lord Nassan Nojo had arrived at the spot, where Maki Higo lay, and so had the Princess Ewa and her maids. All were astonished and mystified except the Daimo himself, who said, Ah, it is as I said. No fox or badger spirit could pass her guards and get into this garden. It is the spirit of the peony flower that took the form of a prince. Turning to his daughter and her maids, he said, You must take this as a compliment, and pay great respect to the peony, and show the one caught by Maki Higo kindness, as well by taking care of it. The Princess Ewa carried the flower back to her room, where she put it in a vase of water, and placed it near her pillow. She felt as if she had her sweetheart with her. Day by day she got better. She tended the peony herself, and, strange to say, the flower seemed to get stronger and stronger instead of fading. At last the Princess recovered. She became radiantly beautiful, while the peony continued to remain in perfect bloom, showing no sign of dying. The Princess Ewa being now perfectly well, her father could no longer put off the wedding. Consequently, some days later, the Lord of Ako and his family arrived at the castle, and his second son was married to the Princess. As soon as the wedding was over, the peony was found still in its vase, but dead and withered. The villagers always after this, instead of speaking of the Princess Ewa, or Eahimi, called her Botan Himi, or peony princess. Chapter 47 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 Memorial Cherry Tree Footnote This story begins on the 17th of February in the second year of Kenkyu. As the first year of Kenkyu was in 1190 and the last in 1199, the precise date is February 17th, 1192. In the compound or enclosure of the temple, called Bukouji at Tadatsui High Cross Street, formerly called Yabugashita, which means under the bush in Kyoto, a curio dealer had his little shop. His name was Kihachi. Kihachi had not much to sell, but what little he had was usually good. Consequently, his was a place that the better people looked into when they came to pray, to see if not to buy, for they knew full well if there was a good thing to be bought. Kihachi bought it. It was a small and ancient kind of Christie's. In fact, except that things were not sold by auction. One day the day on which the story starts, Kihachi was sitting in his shop, ready either to gossip or sell, when in walked a young knight or court noble. Kujiji, the Japanese called him in those days, and very different was such and one from a knight of a feudal lord or of a daimo, who was usually a blusterer. This particular knight had been to the temple to pray. You have many pretty and interesting things here, said he. May I come in and look at them until the shower of rain has passed? My name is Sakata, and I belong to the court. Come in, come in, said Kihachi. By all means, some of my things are pretty, and all are undoubtedly good, but the gentry part with little at present. One wants to live two lives of a hundred years each in my trade, one hundred of distress, revolution, and trouble, wherein one may collect the things cheap, and the next hundred of peace wherein one may sell them and enjoy the proceeds. My business is rotten and unprofitable, yet in spite of that I love the things I buy, and often look at them long before I put them up for sale. Where, sir, are you bound for? I see that you are going to travel by the clothes you wear and carry. That's true, answered Sakata. You are very shrewd. I am going to travel as far as Toba in Yamato to see my dearest friend, who has been taken suddenly and mysteriously ill. It is feared he may not live until I get there. At Toba, answered the old Kiryo dealer, pardon me if I ask the name of your friend. Certainly, said Sakata, my friend's name is Matsui. Then, said the Kiryo dealer, he is the gentleman who is said to have killed the ghost or spirit of the old cherry tree near Toba, growing in the grounds of the temple in which he lives at present with the priests. The people say that this cherry tree is so old that the spirit left it. It appeared in the form of a beautiful woman, and Matsui, either fearing or not liking it, killed it with the result, they say, that from that very evening, which was about ten days ago, your friend Matsui has been sick, and I may add that when the spirit was killed, the tree withered and died. Sakata, thinking ki-achi for this information, went on his way and eventually found his friend Matsui being carefully nursed by the priest of the Shōen temple, Toba with whom he was closely connected. Soon after the young knight had left the old Kiryo dealer, ki-achi in his shop it began to snow, and so it continued and appeared likely to continue for some time. Ki-achi therefore put up his shutters and retired to bed, as is often very sensibly done in Japan, and he no doubt retired with many old wood carvings to rub and give an ancient appearance to during the period of darkness. Not very late in the evening there was a knock at the shutters. Ki-achi, not wishing to get out of his warm bed, shouted, who are you? Come back in the morning. I do not feel well enough to get up tonight. But you must, you must get up. I am sent to sell you a good kaki mono, called the voice of a young girl, so sweetly and intriguingly that the old Kiryo dealer got up and after much fumbling with his numbed fingers opened the door. Snow had fallen thickly, but now it was clear moonlight, and ki-achi saw standing before him a beautiful girl of fifteen barefooted and holding in her hands a kaki mono half unfolded. See, said she, I have been sent to sell you this. She was a daughter of Matsui of Toba, she said. The old man called her in and saw that the picture was that of a beautiful woman standing up. It was well done, and the old man took a fancy to it. I will give you one real for it, said he, and to his astonishment the young girl accepted his offer eagerly, so much so that he thought that perhaps she had stolen it. Being a Kiryo dealer he said nothing on the point, but paid her the money. She ran away with haste. Yes, she has stolen it, stolen it undoubtedly, mother the old man, but what am I supposed to know about that? The kaki mono is worth fully, fifty real, if it is worth a cent, and not often do such chances come to me. So delighted was Kihachi with his purchase. He lit his lamp, hung the picture in his kaki mono corner, and sat watching it. It was indeed a beautiful woman well painted, and worth more even than the fifty real he at first thought. But by all the saints it seems to change. Yes, it is no longer a beautiful woman. The face has changed to that of a fearful and horrible figure. The face of the woman has become haggard. It is covered with blood. The eyes open and shut, and the mouth gasps. Kihachi feels blood dropping on his head. It comes from a wound in the woman's shoulder. To shut out so horde a sight, he put his head under the bedclothes, and remained thus sleeplessly until dawn. When he opened his eyes the kaki mono was the same as when he had bought it, a beautiful woman. He supposed that his delight in having made a good bargain must have been made in dream, so he thought nothing more about the horror. Kihachi, however, was mistaken. The kaki mono again kept him awake all night, showing the same bloody face, and occasionally even shrieking. Kihachi got no sleep, and perceived that instead of a cheap bargain, he had got a very expensive one, for he felt that he must go to Toba and return it to Matsui, and he knew that he could claim no expenses. After fully two days of travel, Kihachi reached the Shouen Temple near Toba, where he asked to see Matsui. He was ushered ceremoniously into his room. The invalid was better, but on being handed the kaki mono with the figure of the lady painted on it, he turned pale, tore it to fragments, and threw it into the temple fire. Iori, footnote. The story says furnace, but unless cremation went on in those days, it must have been the Inori open-floor fire, or else, if a Shinto temple, an open-air bonfire, which is lit on certain days. In footnote, after which he jumped in with his daughter himself, and both were burned to death. Kihachi was sick for many days after this site. The story soon spread over the whole surrounding country. Prince Nijo, governor of Kyoto, had a thorough inquiry made into the circumstances of the case, and it was found beyond doubt that the trouble to Matsui and his family came through his having killed the spirit of the old cherry tree. The spirit to punish him and show that there was invisible life in old and dead things, and often of the best appeared to Matsui as a beautiful woman being killed. The spirit went into his beautiful picture and haunted him. Prince Nijo had a fine cherry tree planted on the spot of the old to commemorate the event, and it is called the memorial cherry tree to this day. End of Chapter 47 Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen Vancouver, B.C. Chapter 48 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 David McKay Ancient Tales and Folklore of Japan by Richard Gordon Smith The Jirohei Cherry Tree, Kyoto The Japanese say that ghosts in inanimate nature generally have more liveliness than ghosts of the dead. There is an old proverb which says something to the effect that the ghosts of trees love not the willow, by which I suppose is meant that they do not assimilate. In Japanese pictures of ghosts there is nearly always a willow tree. Whether Hokusai, the ancient painter, or Okio Maruyama, a famous painter of Kyoto of more recent date, was responsible for the pictures with ghosts and willow trees, I do not know. But certainly Maruyama painted many ghosts under willow trees, the first from his wife, who lay sick. Exactly what this has to do with the following story, I cannot see, but my storyteller began with it. In the northern part of Kyoto is a Shinto temple called Hirano. It is celebrated for the fine cherry trees that grow there. Among them is an old dead tree which is called Jirohei and is much cared for, but the story attached to it is little known and has not been told, I believe, to a European before. During the cherry blossom season many people go to view the trees, especially at night. Close to the Jirohei cherry tree many years ago was a large and prosperous tea house once owned by Jirohei who had started in quite a small way. So rapidly did he make money, he attributed his success to the virtue of the old cherry tree which he accordingly venerated. Jirohei paid the greatest respect to the tree attending to its wants. He prevented boys from climbing it and breaking its branches. The tree prospered and so did he. One morning a samurai of the blood and thunder kind walked up to the Hirano temple and sat down at Jirohei's tea house to take a long look at the cherry blossom. He was a powerful dark-skinned evil faced man about five feet eight in height. Are you the landlord of this tea house? asked he. Yes, sir. Jirohei answered meekly. I am. What can I bring you, sir? Nothing. I thank you, said the samurai. What a fine tree you have here opposite your tea house. Yes, sir, it is to the fineness of the tree that I owe my prosperity. Thank you, sir, for expressing your appreciation of it. I want a branch off the tree, quote the samurai, for Igesha. Deeply as I regret it I am obliged to refuse your request. I must refuse everybody. The temple priests gave orders to this effect before they let me erect this place. No matter who it may be that asks, I must refuse. Flowers may not even be picked off the tree, though they may be gathered when they fall. Please, sir, remember that there is an old proverb which tells us to cut the plum tree for our vases, but not the cherry. You seem to be an unpleasantly argumentative person for your station in life, said the samurai. When I say that I want a thing, I mean to have it, so you had better go and cut it. However much you may be determined, I must refuse, said Jirohei, quietly and politely. And however much you may refuse, the more determined am I to have it. I, as a samurai, said I should have it. Do you think that you can turn me from my purpose? If you have not the politeness to get it, I will take it by force. Suiting his action to his words, the samurai drew a sword about three feet long and was about to cut off the best branch of all. Jirohei clung to the sleeve of his sword arm, crying, I have asked you to leave the tree alone, but you would not. Please, take my life instead. You are an insolent and annoying fool. I gladly follow your request. And saying this, the samurai stabbed Jirohei slightly to make him let go the sleeve. Jirohei did let go, but he ran to the tree, wherein a further struggle over the branch, which was cut in spite of Jirohei's defense, he was stabbed again, this time, fatally. The samurai, seeing that the man must die, got away as quickly as possible, leaving the cut branch in full bloom on the ground. Hearing the noise, the servants came out of the house, followed by Jirohei's poor old wife. It was seen that Jirohei himself was dead, but he clung to the tree as firmly as in life, and it was fully an hour before they were able to get him away. From this time, things went badly with the tea house. Very few people came, and such as did come were poor and spent but little money. Besides, from the day of the murder of Jirohei, the tree had begun to fade and die. In less than a year, it was absolutely dead. The tea house had to be closed for one to funds to keep it open. The old wife of Jirohei had hanged herself on the dead tree, a few days after her husband had been killed. People said that ghosts had been seen about the tree, and were afraid to go there at night. Even neighboring tea houses suffered, and so did the temple, which for a time became unpopular. The samurai, who had been the cause of all this, kept his secret, telling no one but his own father what he had done, and he expressed to his father his intention of going to the temple to verify the statements about the ghosts. Thus, on the third day of March, in the third year of Keio, that is 42 years ago, he started one night alone and well armed, in spite of his father's attempts to stop him. He went straight to the old dead tree, and hid himself behind a stone lantern. To his astonishment, at midnight the dead tree suddenly came out into full bloom, and looked just as it had been when he cut the branch and killed Jirohei. On seeing this, he fiercely attacked the tree with his keen-edged sword. He attacked it with mad fury, cutting and slashing, and he heard a fearful scream which seemed to him to come from inside the tree. After half an hour he became exhausted, but resolved to wait until daybreak to see what damage he had wrought. When day dawned, the samurai found his father, lying on the ground, hacked to pieces, and of course, dead. Doubtless the father had followed to try and see that no harm came to the son. The samurai was stricken with grief and shame. Nothing was left but to go and pray to the gods for forgiveness and to offer his life to them, which he did by disemboweling himself. From that day the ghost appeared no more, and people came as before to view the cherry bloom by night as well as by day, so they do even now. No one has ever been able to say whether the ghost which appeared was the ghost of Jirohei, or that of his wife, or that of the cherry tree which had died when its limb had been severed. For information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org, Ancient Tales and Folklore of Japan, by Richard Gordon Smith, The Snow Ghost. Perhaps there are not many, even in Japan, who have heard of the yuki-ona, Snow Ghost. It is little spoken of, except in the higher mountains which are continually snow-clad in the winter. Those who have read Leucario-Herne's books will remember a story of the yuki-ona made much of on account of its beautiful telling, but in reality, not better than the following. Up in the northern province of Echigo, opposite Sado Island on the Japan Sea, snow falls heavily. Sometimes there is as much as twenty feet of it on the ground, and many are the people who have been buried in the snows and never found until spring. Not many years ago, three companies of soldiers, with the exception of three or four men, were destroyed in Aeowamori, and it was many weeks before they were dug out, dead, of course. Mysterious disappearances naturally give rise to fancies in a fanciful people, and from time immemorial the Snow Ghost has been one with the people of the North, while those of the South say that those of the North take so much sake that they see snow-covered trees as women. Be that as it may, I must explain what a farmer called Kyosimon saw. In the village of Hoi, which consisted only of eleven houses, very poor ones at that, lived Kyosimon. He was poor, and doubly unfortunate in having lost both his son and his wife. He lived a lonely life. In the afternoon on the 19th of January of the third year of tempo, that is 1833, a tremendous snowstorm came on. Kyosimon closed the shutters and made himself as comfortable as he could. Towards eleven o'clock at night he was awakened by a wrapping at his door. It was a peculiar wrap, and came at regular intervals. Kyosimon sat up in bed, looked towards the door, and did not know what to think of this. The wrapping came again, and with it the gentle voice of a girl. Thinking that it might be one of his neighbor's children wanting help, Kyosimon jumped out of bed. But when he got to the door he feared to open it. Voice and wrapping coming again just as he reached it, he sprang back with a cry. Who are you? What do you want? Open the door! Open the door! came the voice from outside. Open the door! Is that likely until I know who you are and what you are doing out so late and on such a night? But you must let me in. How can I proceed farther in this deep snow? I do not ask for food, but only for shelter. I am very sorry, but I have no quilts or bedding. I can't possibly let you stay in my house. I don't want quilts or bedding, only shelter. pleaded the voice. I can't let you in any way, shouted Kyosimon. It was too late and against the rules and the law. Saying which, Kyosimon rebarred his door with a strong piece of wood, never once having ventured to open a crack in the shutters to see who his visitor might be. As he turned towards his bed, with a shutter he beheld the figure of a woman standing beside it, clad in white, with her hair down her back. She had not the appearance of a ghost. Her face was pretty and she seemed to be about twenty-five years of age. Kyosimon, taken by surprise and very much alarmed, called out. Who and what are you and how did you get in? Where did you leave your getter? I can come in anywhere when I choose, said the figure, and I am the woman who you would not let in. I require no clogs for I whirl along over the snow, sometimes even flying through the air. I am on my way to visit the next village, but the wind is against me. That is why I wanted you to let me rest here. If you will do so I shall start as soon as the wind goes down. In any case I shall be gone by morning. I should not so much mind letting you rest if you were an ordinary woman. I should in fact be glad, but I fear spirits greatly as my forefathers have done, said Kyosimon. Be not afraid. You have a Butsudon, said the figure. Yes, I have a Butsudon, said Kyosimon. But what can you want to do with that? You say you are afraid of the spirits, of the effect that I may have upon you. I wish to pay my respects to your ancestors' tablets and assure their spirits that no ill shall befall you through me. Will you open and light the Butsudon? Yes, said Kyosimon, with fear and trembling. I will open the Butsudon and light the lamp. Please pray for me as well, for I am an unfortunate and unlucky man. But you must tell me in return who and what spirit you are. You want to know much. But I will tell you, said the spirit. I believe you are a good man. My name is Oyasu. I am the daughter of Yasimon, who lives in the next village. My father, as perhaps you may have heard, is a farmer, and he adopted into his family, and as a husband for his daughter, Ishiburo. Ishiburo is a good man, but on the death of his wife last year he foresuck his father-in-law, and went back to his old home. It is principally for that reason that I am about to seek and remonstrate with him now. Am I to understand, said Kyosimon, that the daughter who was married to Ishiburo is the one who perished in the snow last year? If so, you must be the spirit of Oyasu, or Ishiburo's wife? Yes, that is right, said the spirit. I was Oyasu, a wife of Ishiburo, who perished now a year ago in the great snowstorm, of which tomorrow will be the anniversary. Kyosimon, with trembling hands, lit the lamp in the little Butsudan, mumbling Namo Amida Butsu, with a fervor which he had never felt before. When this was done he saw the figure of the yuki-ona, the snow spirit, advance, but there was no sound of footsteps as she glided to the altar. Kyosimon retired to bed, where he promptly fell asleep, but shortly afterwards he was disturbed by the voice of the woman bidding him farewell. Before he had time to sit up, she disappeared, leaving no sign. The fire still burned in the Butsudan. Kyosimon got up at daybreak, and went to the next village to see Ishiburo, whom he found living with his father-in-law, Ishiburo. Yes, said Ishiburo, it was wrong of me to leave my late wife's father when she died. I am not surprised that on cold nights, when it snows, I have been visited continually by my wife's spirit as a reproof. Early this morning I saw her again, and I resolved to return. I have only been here two hours as it is. On comparing the notes, Kyosimon and Ishiburo found that, directly, the spirit of Oyasu had left the house of Kyosimon. She appeared to Ishiburo, at about half an hour after midnight, and stayed with him, until he had promised to return to her father's house and help him to live in his old age. That is roughly my story of the Yukiona. All those who die by the snow and cold become spirits of snow, appearing when there is snow. Just as the spirits of those who are drowned in the sea only appear in stormy seas. Even to the present day, in the north, priests say prayers to appease the spirits of those who have died by snow, and to prevent them from haunting people who are connected with them. End of Chapter 49 Chapter 50 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 Maria Melodia Carey, Ancient Tales and Folklore of Japan, by Richard Gordon Smith. The Snow Tomb Footnote Told to Me by Fukuchi, in connection with the fire lights in the foxes, carefully translated by Mr Watanabe of the prefectural government. End of Footnote Many years ago, the little young man of the samurai class, who was much feigned for his skill in fencing in what was called the style of Yagyu. So adept was he, he earned by teaching, under his master, no less than 30 barrels of rice and two rations, which, I am told, vary from one to five show a month. As one show is .666 feet square, our young samurai, Rokugo Yakeji, was well off. The seat of his success was at Minamiwari Gesui Hongoyedo. His teacher was Sudo Jirozaemon, and the school was at Ishiwaraku. Rokugo was in no way proud of his skill. It was the modesty of the youth, coupled with cleverness, that had prompted the teacher to make his pupil an assistant master. The school was one of the best in Tokyo, and there were over 100 pupils. One January, the pupils were assembled to celebrate the new year. And on this, the seventh day of it, were drinking Nanakusa, a kind of sloppy rice in which seven grasses and green vegetables are mixed, said to keep off all diseases for the year. The pupils were engaged in ghost stories, each trying to tell a more alarming one than his neighbor, until the hair of many was practically on end, and it was late in the evening. It was the custom to keep the seventh of January in this way, and they took their turns by drawing numbers. 100 candles were placed in a shed at the end of the garden, and each teller of a story took his turn at bringing one away, until they had all told a story. This was too upset, if possible, the bragging of the pupil, who said he did not believe in ghosts and feared nothing. At last it came to the turn of Rokugo. After fetching his candle from the end of the garden, he spoke as follows. My friends, listen to my story. It is not very dreadful, but it is true. Some three years ago, when I was 17, my father sent me to Gifu in Mino Province. I reached on the way, a place called Nakimura, about 10 o'clock in the evening. Outside the village, on some wild, uncultivated land, I saw a curious fireball. It moved here and there without noise, came quite close to me, and then went away again, moving generally as if looking for something. It went round and round over the same ground time after time. It was generally five feet off the ground, but sometimes it went lower. I will not say that I was frightened, because subsequently I went to the Miyoshiya-in and to bed without mentioning what I had seen to anyone, but I can assure you all that I was very glad to be in the house. Next morning, my curiosity got the better of me. I told the landlord what I had seen, and he recounted to me a story, he said. About 200 years ago, a great battle was fought here, and the general who was defeated was himself killed. When his body was recovered early in the action, it was found to be headless. The soldiers thought that a head must have been stolen by the enemy, one more anxious than the rest to find his master's head, continued to search while the action went on. While searching, he himself was killed. Since that evening, 200 years ago, the fireball has been burning after 10 o'clock. The people from that time till now have called it, Kubi Sagashi no Hi, Footnote, the head-seeking fire. End of Footnote. As the master of the inn finished relating this story, my friends, I felt an unpleasant sensation in the heart. It was the first thing of a ghostly kind that I had seen. The pupils agreed that the story was strange. Rakugo pushed his toes into his get-out clogs, and started to fetch his candle from the end of the garden. He had not proceeded far into the garden, before he heard the voice of a woman. It was not very dark, as there was snow on the ground, but Rakugo could see no woman. He had got as far as the candles, when he heard the voice again, and, turning suddenly, saw a beautiful woman of some 18 summers. Her clothes were fine. The obi, belt, was tied in the Tateyanojiri, shape of the arrow standing erect, as an arrow in a quiver. The dress was all of the pine and bamboo pattern, and her hair was done in the Shimada style. Rakugo stood looking at her with wonder and admiration. A minute's reflection showed him that it could be no girl, and that her beauty had almost made him forget that he was a samurai. No, it is no real woman, it is a ghost. What an opportunity for me to distinguish myself before all my friends, saying which he drew his sword, tempered by the famous Morie Shinkai, and with one downward cut severed head, body, and all into halves. He ran, seized the candle, and took it back to the room where the pupils were awaiting him. There, he told the story, and begged them to come and see the ghost. All the young men looked at one another, none of them being partial to ghosts in what you may call real life. None cared to venture, but by and by, Yamamoto Jonasuke, with better courage than the rest, said, I will go and dashed off. As soon as the other pupils saw this, they, also gathering pluck, went forth into the garden. When they came to the spot where the dead ghost was supposed to lie, they found only the remains of a snowman, which they themselves had made during the day, and this was cut in half from head to foot just as Rokugo had described. They all laughed. Several of the young samurai were angry, but they thought that Rokugo had been making fools of them. But when they returned to the house, they soon saw that Rokugo had not been trifling. They found him sitting with an air of great haughtiness, and thinking that his pupils would now indeed see how able a swordsman he was. However, they looked at Rokugo scornfully, and addressed him thus, Indeed, we have received remarkable evidence of your ability. Even the small boy who throws a stone at a dog would have had the courage to do what you did. Rokugo became angry and called them insolent. He lost his temper to such an extent that for a moment, his hand flew to his sword hilt, and he even threatened to kill one or two of them. The samurai apologized for their rudeness, but added, Your ghost was only the snowman we made ourselves this morning. That is why we tell you that a child need not fear to attack it. Of this information, Rokugo was confounded, and he in his turn apologized for his temper. Nevertheless, he said he could not understand how it was possible for him to mistake a snowman for a female ghost. Puzzled and ashamed, he begged his friends not to say any more about the matter, but keep it to themselves. Thereupon, he bade them for well and left the house. It was no longer snowing, but the snow lay thick upon the ground. Rokugo had had a good deal of sake, and his gait was not oversteady, as he made his way home to Wari Gesui. When he passed near the gates of the Korinji Temple, he noticed a woman coming faster than he could understand through the temple grounds. He leaned against the fence to watch her. Her hair was disheveled, and she was all out of order. Soon a man came running behind her with a butch's knife in his hand, and shouted as he caught her, You wicked woman! You have been unfaithful to your poor husband, and I will kill you for it, for I am his friend. Stabbing her five or six times, he did so, and then moved away. Rokugo, resuming his way homewards, thought what a good friend must be the man who had killed the unfaithful wife. A bad woman, justly rewarded with death, thought he. Rokugo had not gone very far. However, when, to his utter astonishment, he met face to face the woman whom he had just seen killed. She was looking at him with angry eyes, and she said, How can a brave samurai watch so cruel a murder as you have just seen, enjoying the sight? Rokugo was much astonished. Do not talk to me as if I were your husband, said he, for I am not. I was pleased to see you killed for being unfaithful. Indeed, if you are the ghost of the woman, I shall kill you myself before he could draw his sword. The ghost had vanished. Rokugo continued his way, and on nearing his house, he met a woman who came up to him with horrible face and clenched teeth, as if in agony. He had had enough troubles with women that evening. They must be foxes who had assumed the forms of women, thought he, as he continued to gaze at this last one. At that moment, he recollected that he had heard of a fact about fox women. It was that fire coming from the bodies of foxes and badgers is always so bright, that even on the darkest night, you can tell the color of their hair, or even the figures woven in the stuff they wear, when assuming the forms of men or women. It is clearly visible at one can, six feet. Remembering this, Rokugo approached a little closer to the woman, and sure enough, he could see the pattern of her dress, shown up as if fire were underneath. The hair too seemed to have fire under it. Knowing now that it was a fox he had to do with, Rokugo drew his best sword, the famous one made by Morie, and proceeded to attack carefully, for he knew he should have to hit the fox, and not the spirit of the fox in the woman's form. It is said that whenever a fox or a badger transforms itself into human shape, the real presence stands behind the apparition. If the apparition appears on the left side, the presence of the animal himself is on the right. Rokugo made his attack accordingly, killing the fox and consequently the apparition. He ran to his house, and culled up his relations, who came flocking out with lanterns. Near a myrtle tree, which was almost 200 years old, they found the body, not a fox or badger, but of an otter. The animal was carried home. Next day, invitations were issued to all the pupils at the fencing school, to come and see it, and a great feast was given. Rokugo had wiped away a great disgrace. The pupils erected a tomb for the beast. It is known as Yukizuka, the snow tomb, and is still to be seen in the Korinji Temple at Warigesuihonjo in Tokyo. For information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by David McKay. Ancient Tales and Folklore of Japan by Richard Gordon Smith. The dragon-shaped plum tree. In the year 1716 of the Kiyoho Era, 191 years ago, there lived at Momoyama Fushimi, an old gardener, Hamei, who was loved and respected for his kindness of nature and his great honesty. Though a poor man, Hamei had saved enough to live on, and he had inherited a house and garden from his father. Consequently, he was happy. His favorite pastime was tending the garden, and an extraordinarily fine plum tree, known in Japan as of the furio kind, which means lying dragon. Such trees are of great value and much sought after for the arrangement of gardens. Curiously enough, though one may see many beautiful ones, trees growing on mountains or on wild islands, they are very rarely touched, except near the larger commercial centers. Indeed, the Japanese have almost a veneration for some of these fantastic furio-shaped trees, and leave them alone, whether they be pines or plums. The tree in question, Hamei loved so much that no offer people could make would induce him to part with it. So notoriously beautiful were the tints and curves of this old, stunted tree, large sums had many times been offered for it. Hamei loved it not only for its beauty, but also because it had belonged to his father and grandfather. Now, in his old age, with his wife and her dotage and his children gone, it was his chief companion. In the autumn, he tended it in its untidiness of dead and dying leaves. He felt sorry and sympathetic for it in its cold and bare state in November and December. But in January, he was happily employed in watching the buds which would blossom in February. When they did bloom, it was his custom to let the people come at certain hours daily to see the tree and listen to stories of historical facts, and also to stories of romance regarding the plum tree, of which the Japanese mind is ever full. When this again was over, Hamei pruned and tied the tree. In the hot season, he lingered under it, smoking his pipe, and was often rewarded for his care by two or three dozen delicious plums, which he valued and loved as much, almost, as if they had been his own offspring. Thus, year after year, the tree had become so much Hamei's companion that a king's ransom would not have bought it from him. Alas, no man is destined to be let alone in this world. Someone is sure sooner or later to covet his property. It came to pass that a high official at the Emperor's Court heard of Hamei's furio tree and wanted it for his own garden. This Dainagan sent his steward, Kotaro Naruse, to see Hamei with a view to purchase, never for a moment doubting that the old gardener would readily sell if the some offered were sufficient. Kotaro Naruse arrived at Momoyama Fushimi and was received with due ceremony. After drinking a cup of tea, he announced that he had been sent to inspect and make arrangements to take the furio plum tree for the Dainagan. Hamei was perplexed. What excuse for refusal should he make to so high a personage? He made a fumbling and rather stupid remark of which the clever steward soon took advantage. On no account, said Hamei, can I sell the old tree? I have refused many offers for it already. I never said that I was sent to buy the tree for money, said Kotaro. I said that I had come to make arrangements by which the Dainagan could have it conveyed carefully to his palace where he proposes to welcome it with ceremony and treat it with the greatest kindness. It is like taking a bride to the palace for the Dainagan. Oh, what an honor for the plum tree to be united by marriage with one of such illustrious lineage. You should indeed be proud of such a union for your tree. Please be counseled by me and grant the Dainagan's wish. What was Hamei now to say? Such a lowly-born person asked by a gallant samurai to grant a favor to no less a person than the Dainagan. Sir, he answered, your request in behalf of the Dainagan has been so courteously made that I am completely prevented from refusing. You must, however, tell the Dainagan that the tree is a present, for I cannot sell it. Kotaro was greatly pleased with the success of his maneuvers and, drawing from his clothes a bag, said, Please, as his customary on making a gift, accept this small one in return. To the gardener's great astonishment, the bag contained gold. He returned it to Kotaro, saying it was impossible to accept the gift. But on again being pressed by the smooth-tongued samurai, he retracted. The moment Kotaro had left, Hamei regretted this. He felt as if he had sold his own flesh and blood, as if he had sold his daughter to the Dainagan. That evening he could not sleep. Towards midnight his wife rushed into his room and, pulling him by the sleeve, shouted, You wicked old man! You villainous old rascal! At your age, too. Where did you get that girl? I have caught you! Don't tell me lies. You're going to beat me now. I see by your eyes. I am not surprised if you avenge yourself in this way. You must feel an old fool. Humbai thought his wife had gone off her head for good this time. He had seen no girl. What is the matter with you, Obasan? He asked. I have seen no girl, and do not know what you are talking about. Don't tell me lies. I saw her. I saw her myself when I went down to get a cup of water. Saw. Saw. What do you mean? Said Humbai. I think you've gone mad talking of seeing girls. I did see her. I did see her. I saw her weeping outside the door, and a beautiful girl she was, you old sinner, only seventeen or eighteen years of age. Humbai got out of bed to see for himself whether his wife had spoken the truth, or had gone truly mad. On reaching the door he heard sobbing, and on opening beheld a beautiful girl. Who are you, and why here? asked Humbai. I am the spirit of the plum tree, which for so many years you have tended and loved, as did your father before you. I have heard, and grieve greatly at it, that an arrangement has been made whereby I am to be removed to the Daenagans' gardens. It may seem good fortune to belong to a noble family, and an honour to be taken into it. I cannot complain. Yet I grieve at being moved from where I have been so long, and from you, who have so carefully tended to my wants. Can you not let me remain here a little longer, as long as I live? I pray you, do. I have made a promise to send you off on Saturday to the Daenagans and Kyoto, but I cannot refuse your plea, for I love to have you here. Be easy in your mind, and I will see what can be done, said Humbai. The spirit dried its tears, smiled at Humbai, and disappeared, as it were, into the stem of the tree. While Humbai's wife stood looking on in wonder, not at all reassured that there was not some trick on her husband's part. At last, the fatal Saturday on which the tree was to be removed, arrived, and Kotaro came with many men and a cart. Humbai told him what had happened, of the tree's spirit, and of what it had implored of him. Here, take the money, please, said the old man. Tell the story to the Daenagans as I tell it to you, and surely he will have mercy. Kotaro was angry, and said, How has this change come about? Have you been drinking too much sake, or are you trying to fool me? You must be careful, I warn you, else you shall find yourself headless. Even supposing the spirit of the tree did appear to you in the form of a girl, did it say that it would be sorry to leave your poor garden for a place of honor in that of the Daenagon? You are a fool, and an insulting fool. How dare you return the Daenagans present? How could I explain such an insult to him, and what would he think of me? As you are not keeping your word, I will take the tree by force, or kill you in place of it. Kotaro was greatly enraged. He kicked Humbai down the steps, and, drawing his sword, was about to cut off his head, when suddenly there was a little puff of wind, scented with plum blossom, and then there stood in front of Kotaro the beautiful girl, the spirit of the plum tree. Get out of my way, or you'll get hurt, shouted Kotaro. No, I will not go away. You had better kill me, the spirit that has brought such trouble, instead of killing a poor innocent old man, said the spirit. I don't believe in the spirits of plum trees, said Kotaro. That you are a spirit is evident, but you are only that of an old fox, so I will comply with your request, and at all events kill you first. No sooner had he said this than he made a cut with his sword, and he distinctly felt that he cut through a body. The girl disappeared, and all that fell was a branch of the plum tree, and most of the flowers that were blooming. Kotaro now realized that what the gardener had told him was true, and made apologies accordingly. I will carry this branch to the Dainagan, said he, and see if he will listen to the story. Thus was Humbay's life saved by the spirit of the tree. The Dainagan heard the story, and was so moved that he sent the old gardener a kind message, and told him to keep the tree and the money, as an expression of his sorrow for the trouble which he had brought about. Alas, however, the tree withered and died, soon after Kotaro's cruel blow, and in spite of Humbay's care. The dead stump was venerated for many years. End of Chapter 51 Recording by David McKay Chapter 52 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 David McKay Ancient Tales and Folklore of Japan by Richard Gordon Smith The Chessboard Cherry Tree Begin Note This story, with the exception of the ghost, I believe to be true. For the seppuku of Saito-Ukan is just the kind of reasoning that would have been held out in the days of the story, and is even today possible in many cases. See a case quoted by Professor Chamberlain, of the servant to an Englishman at Yokohama, and note the number of cases in the recent war. End Note In olden times, long before the misfortunes of Europeanization came to Japan, they lived at Kazamatsu in Nakasatani near Shijikwai Murashinjigun Hitachi Province, a hot-headed old Daimyo, Oda Saemon. His castle stood at the top of a pine-clad hill about three miles from what is now known as Kamitachi Station on the Nippon Railway. Saemon was noted for his bravery as a soldier. For his abominable play at go, or go-ban, and for his bad temper and violence when he lost, which was invariably. His most intimate friends among his retainers had tried hard to reform his manners after losing at go, but it was hopeless. All those who won from him, he struck in the face with a heavy iron fan, such as was carried by warriors in those days. And he would just as readily have drawn his sword and cut his best friend's head off, as been interfered with on those occasions. To be invited to play go with their lord was what all his bold samurai dreaded most. At last it was agreed among them that sooner than suffer the gross indignity of being struck by him when they won, they would let him win. After all, it did not much matter there being no money on the game. Thus Saemon's game grew worse and worse, for he never learned anything. Yet in his conceit, he thought he was better than everybody. On the third of March, in honor of his little daughter, Ochiyo, he gave a dinner party to his retainers. The third of March is the Doll's Day, Hinanoseku, the day upon which girls bring out their dolls. People go from house to house to see them, and the little owners offer you sweet white sake in a doll's cup, with much ceremony. Saemon, no doubt, chose this day of feasting as a compliment to his daughter, for he gave sweet white sake after their food to be drunk to the health of the dolls, instead of men's sake, which the guests would have liked much better. Saemon himself absolutely disliked sweet sake. So as soon as the feast was over, he called Saito Ukon, one of his oldest and most faithful warriors, to come and play go with him, leaving the others to drink. Ukon, curiously enough, had not played with his lord before, and he was delighted that he had been chosen. He had made up his mind to die that evening. After giving his master a proper lesson. In a luxuriously decorated room there was placed a gobon, chessboard, with two gold cases containing the men, which are made of white and black stones. The white stones are usually taken by the superior player and the black by the inferior. Without any apology or explanation, Ukon took the case containing the white stones, and began to place them as if he were, without question, the superior player. Saemon's temper began to work up, but he did not show it. So many games of go had his retainers allowed him to win lately. He was fully confident that he should win again, and that Ukon would have, in addition, to apologize for presuming to take the white stones. The game ended in a win for Ukon. I must have another game, said Saemon. I was careless in that one. I will soon show you how I can beat you when I try. Again, Saemon was beaten. This time not without losing his temper, for his face turned red, his eyes looked devilish, and with a bullying voice full of passion, he roared for a third game. This also, Ukon won. Saemon's wrath knew no bounds. Seizing his iron fan, he was about to smite Ukon a violent blow in the face. His opponent caught him by the wrist and said, My lord, what ideas have you about games? Your lordship seems to think curiously about them. It is the better player who wins while the inferior must fail. If you fail to beat me at go, it is because you are the inferior player. Is this manner of your lordships in taking defeat from a superior up to the form of Bushido in a samurai as we are taught it? Be counseled by me, your faithful retainer, and be not so hasty with your anger. It ill befits one in your lordship's high position. And with a look full of reproof at Saemon, Ukon bowed almost to the ground. You insolent rascal, roared Saemon, how dare you speak to me like that. Don't move. Stand as you are with your head bowed, so that I may take it off. Your sword is to kill your enemies, not your retainers and friends, said Ukon. Sheath your sword, my lord. You need not trouble yourself to kill me, for I have already done seppuku. Disemboweled myself, in order to offer you the advice which I have given, and to save all others. See here, my lord. Ukon opened his clothes and exhibited an immense cut across his stomach. Saemon stood for a minute, taken aback. And while he thus stood, Ukon spoke to him once more, telling him how he must control his temper and treat his subjects better. On hearing this advice again, Saemon's passion returned. Seizing his sword, he rushed upon Ukon, and crying, Not even by your dying spirit will I allow myself to be advised. Made a furious cut at Ukon's head. He missed, and cut the go-board in two instead. Then, seeing that Ukon was dying rapidly, Saemon dropped beside him, crying bitterly, and saying, Much do I regret to see you thus die, O faithful Ukon. In losing you I lose my oldest and most faithful retainer. You have served me faithfully, and fought most gallantly in all my battles. Pardon me, I beg of you. I will take your advice. It was surely a sign by the gods that they were displeased at my conduct when they made me miss your head with my sword, and cut the go-board. Ukon was pleased to find his lord at last repentant. He said, I shall not even in death forget the relation between master and servant, and my spirit shall be with you and watch over your welfare as long as you live. Then Ukon breathed his last. Saemon was so much moved by the faithfulness of Ukon, that he caused him to be buried in his own garden, and he buried the broken go-board with him. From that time on, the lord Saemon's conduct was completely reformed. He was good and kind to all his subjects, and all his people were happy. A few months after Ukon's death, a cherry tree sprang out of his grave. In three years the tree grew to be a fine one, and bloomed luxuriously. On the third of March in the third year, the anniversary of Ukon's death, Saemon was surprised to find it suddenly in bloom. He was looking at it, and thinking of watering it himself as usual on that day, when he suddenly saw a faint figure standing by the stem of the tree. Just as he said, You are, I know, the spirit of faithful Saito Ukon. The figure disappeared. Saemon ran to the tree to pour water over the roots, when he noticed that the bark of some feet of the stem had all cracked up to the size and shape of the squares of a go-board. He was much impressed. For years afterwards, until, in fact, Saemon's death, the ghost of Ukon appeared on each third of March. A fence was built round the tree, which was held sacred, and even to the present, they say, the tree is to be seen. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit leaperbox.org. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Ancient Tales and Folk War of Japan by Richard Gordon Smith The Precious Sword Natari no Hoto Idi Kamomotsu was a vassal of the Lord of Nakura Town in Kishu. His ancestors had all been brave warriors, and he had greatly distinguished himself in a battle at Shizu Gataki, which took its name from a mountain in the province of Omi. The great Hideyoshi had successfully fought in the same place, so far back as in the eleventh year of the Tencho Era, 1573-1592. That is, 1584, with Shiba, Katsui, Idi, Kamotsu, ancestors were loyal men, one of them as a warrior had a reputation second to none. He had cut the heads off no fewer than forty-eight men with one sword. In due time this weapon came to Idi Kamotsu, and was capped by him as a most valuable family treasure. Rather early in life, Kamotsu found himself a widower. His young wife left a son called Fujiwaka. By and by Kamomotsu felt lonely, married a lady whose name was Sadako. Sadako later bore a son, who was called Goro. Twelve or fourteen years after that, Kamomotsu himself died, leaving the two sons in charge of Sadako. Fujiwaka was at that time nineteen years of age. Sadako became jealous of Fujiwaka, knowing him as the elder son to be the heir to Kamomotsu's property. She tried by every means to put her own son, Goro, first. In the meantime, a little romance was secretly going on between a beautiful girl called Sei, daughter of Iwasa, Shiro, and young Fujiwaka. They had fallen in love with each other, were holding secret meetings to their hearts content, and veiling promises of marriage. At last they were found out, and Sadako made their conduct a pretext for driving Fujiwaka out of the house, and depriving him of all rights in the family property. Attached to the establishment was a faithful old nurse, Matsui, who had brought up Fujiwaka from his infancy. She was grieved at the injustice which had been done. But little did she think of the loss of bunny or of property in comparison with the loss of the sword, the miraculous sword of which the outcast son was the proper owner. She thought night and day of how she might get the heirloom for young Fujiwaka. After many days she came to the conclusion that she must steal the sword from the Ihai shrine or rather a wooden tablet in the interior of the shrine, bearing the posthumous name of an ancestor, which represents the spirit of that ancestor. One day, when her mistress and the others were absent, Matsui stole the sword. No sooner had she done so than it became apparent that it would be some months, perhaps, before she should be able to put it into the hands of the rightful owner, for of Fujiwaka nothing had been heard since his stepmother had driven him out. Fearing that she might be accused, the faithful Matsui dug a hole in the garden near the Aiyuma, a little house, such as is kept in every Japanese gentleman's garden for performing the tea ceremony in, and there she put the sword, meaning to keep it hidden until such time as she should be able to present it to Fujiwaka. Sadako, having occasion to go to the Bootsudan the day after, missed the sword, and knowing o Matsui to have been the only servant left in the house at the time, taxed her with the theft of the sword. Matsui denied the theft, thinking that in the cause of justice it was right of her to do so, but it was not easy to persuade Sadako, who had Matsui confined in and out house, and gave orders that neither rice nor water was to be given her until she confessed. No one was allowed to go near Matsui except Sadako herself, who kept the key of the shed, which she visited only once every four or five days. About the tenth day poor Matsui died from starvation. She had stuck faithfully to her resolution that she would keep the sword and deliver it some day to her young master, the lawful heir. No one knew of Matsui's death. The evening on which she had died found Sadako seated in an old shed in remote part of the garden, and trying to cool herself, for it was very hot. After she had sat for about half an hour, she suddenly saw the figure of emaciated woman with disheveled hair. The figure appeared from behind a stone lantern, glided along towards the place where Sadako was seated, and looked full into Sadako's face. Sadako immediately recognized Matsui and upbraided her loudly for breaking out of her prison. Go back, you thieving woman, said she. I have not have finished with you yet. How dare you leave the place where you were locked up and come to confront me? The figure gave no answer, but glided slowly along to the spot where the sword had been buried, and dug it up. Sadako watched carefully, and, being no-coward, rushed at the figure of Matsui, intending to seize the sword. Figure and sword suddenly disappeared. Sadako then ran at top speed to the shed where Matsui had been imprisoned, and flung the door open with violence. Before her lay Matsui dead, evidently having been so for two or three days, her body was thin and emaciated. Sadako perceived that it must have been the ghost of Matsui that she had seen, and mumbled, Namu Amida Butsu. Namu Amida Butsu, the Buddhist prayer asking for protection or mercy. After having been driven from his family home, Iri Fujiwaka had wandered to many places, begging his food. At last he got some small employment, and was able to support himself at a very cheap inn at Umamachi Asakusa Temple. One midnight he awoke and found standing at the foot of his bed, the emaciated figure of his old nurse, bearing in her hands the precious sword, the heirloom-valued bullion, or others. It was wrapped in scarlet and gold brocade, as it had been before, and it was laid rever and chilly by the figure of Omatsu at Fujiwaka's feet. Oh, my dear nurse, said he, how glad am I! Before he had closed his sentence the figure had disappeared. My storyteller did not say what became of Sadako or of her son. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Ancient Hills and Folklore of Japan, by Richard Gordon Smith, Chapter 54. The White Serpent God Harada Kurando was one of the leading vassals of the Lord of Tosurugu. He was a remarkable swordsman and gave lessons in fencing. Next in seniority to Harada, among the vassals was one Gunayu, who also taught fencing, but he was no match for the famous Harada, and consequently was somewhat jealous. One day, to encourage the art of fencing amongst his vassals, the Daimo summoned all his people and ordered them to give an exhibition in his presence. After the younger vassals had performed, the Daimo gave an order that Harada, Kurando, and Hira, Gunayu, should have a match. To the winner, he said, he would present a gold image of the goddess of Kawananon. Both men fenced their best. There was great excitement. Gunayu had never done so well before, but Harada was too good. He won the match, receiving the gold image of Kawananon from the hands of the Daimo amid loud cheering. Gunayu left the scene of the encounter, boiling over with jealousy and vowing vengeance. Four of his most faithful companions left with him, and said they would help him to waylay and assault Harada that very evening. Having arranged his cowardly plan, they proceeded to hide on the road, which Harada must traverse on his return home. For three hours they lay there with evil intentions. At last in the moonlight they saw Harada come staggering along. For, as was natural on such an occasion, he had with friends been indulging in Saki freely. Gunayu and his four companions sprang out at him. Gunayu shouting, Now you will have to fight me to the death. Harada tried to draw his sword, but was slow. His head whirling. Gunayu did not wait, but cut him to the ground, killing him. The five villains, then hunted through his clothes, found the golden image of Kawanan and ran off, never again to appear on the domains of the Lord of Sugaru. When the body of Harada was found, there was great grief. Dono Suki, Harada's son, a boy of sixteen, vowed to avenge his father's death, and obtained from the Daimo special permission to kill Gunayu as and when he chose. The disappearance of Gunayu was sufficient evidence that he had been the murderer. Dono Suki set out that day on his hunt for Gunayu. He wandered about the country for five long years, without getting the slightest clue. But at the end of that time, by the guidance of Buddha, he located his enemy at Gifu, where he was acting as fencing master to the feudal lord of that place. Dono Suki found that it would be difficult to get at Gunayu in an ordinary way, for he hardly ever left the castle. He decided therefore to change his name to that of Ippai, and to apply for a place in Gunayu's house as a Shugen, a Samurai's private attendant. In this Ippai, as we shall now call him, was particularly lucky for, as Gunayu was in want of such an attendant, he got the place. On the 24th of June, a great celebration was held at the house of Gunayu, it being the fifth anniversary of his service to the clan. He put his stolen golden image of Kawanan on the Tokonoma. The part of a Japanese room raised five inches above the floor, where pictures and flowers are placed, and a dinner with Saki was set before it. A dinner was given by Gunayu to his friends, all of whom drank so deeply that they fell asleep. Next day the image of Kawanan had disappeared. It was not to be found. A few days later Ippai became ill, and owning to poverty was unable to buy proper medicine. He went from bad to worse. His fellow servants were kind to him, but they could do nothing that improved his condition. Ippai did not seem to care. He lay in his bed and seemed almost pleased to be getting weaker and weaker. All he asked was that a branch of his favorite omato, Rodea Japonica, should be kept in a vase before his bed, so that he might see it continually, and this simple request was naturally complied with. In the autumn Ippai passed quietly away and was buried. After the funeral, when the servants were cleaning out the room in which he had died, it was noticed with astonishment that a small white snake was curled round the vase containing the omato. They tried to remove it, but it coiled itself tighter. At last they threw the vase into the pond, not caring to have such a thing about them. To their astonishment the water had no effect on the snake, which continued to cling to the vase. Feeling that there was something uncanny about the snake, they wanted to get it farther away, so they cast a net, brought the vase and snake to shore again, and threw them into a stream. Even that made but little difference. The snake slightly changing its position, so as to keep the branch of omato from falling out of the vase. By this time there was consternation among the servants, and a new spread to the different houses within the castle gates. Some samurai came down to the stream to see, and found the white snake still firmly coiled about the vase and branch. One of the samurai drew his sword, and made a slash at the snake, which let go and escaped. But the vase was broken, and to the alarm of all the image of the kawanon fell out into the stream, together with a stamped permit from the feudal lord of Sugaru to kill a certain man whose name was left blank. The samurai, who had broken the vase and found the lost treasure, seemed particularly pleased, and he sent to tell Gundaru the good news. But instead of being pleased, that person showed signs of fear. He became deadly pale when he heard the story of the death of Ipai, and of the extraordinary appearance of the mysterious white snake. He trembled. He realized that Ipai was no less a person than Yonosuke, son of Harada, whose appearance after the murder he had always feared. True to the spirit of a samurai, however, Gundaru pulled himself together and professed great pleasure to the person who had brought the image of kawanon. Moreover, to celebrate the occasion, he gave a great feast that evening. Curiously enough, the samurai, who had broken the vase and recovered the image, became suddenly ill, and was unable to attend. After he had dismissed his guess, at about ten p.m., Gundaru retired to his bed. In the middle of the night, he awoke with what he took to be a terrible nightmare. There was a choking sensation at his throat. He squirmed and twisted, gurgling noises proceeded from his mouth, to such an extent that he aroused his wife, who in terror struck a light. She saw a white snake coil tightly round her husband's throat. His face was purple, and his eyeballs stood out two inches from his face. She called for help, but it was too late. As the young samurai came rushing in, their fencing master was black in the face and dead. Next day, there was a close investigation. Messengers were dispatched to the Lord of Tsugu to inquire as to the history of the murdered Harada Kurando, father of Yonosuki or Ippai, and asked to that of Gundaru, who had been in his employ for five years. Having ascertained the truth, the Lord of Gifu, moved by the zeal of Yonosuki in discharging his vial duties, returned the golden image of Kawanon to the bereaved family of Harada, and in commemoration he worshiped the dead snake. At a shrine erected at the foot of Koduyama Mountain, the spirit is still known as Hajuka no Mayogen, the white serpent god. Chapter 55 of the 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. A Festival of the Awabi Fish Manazuru Minato is situated on a small promontory of the same name. It faces the Sagma Bay, framed for beauty. At its back are mountains rising gradually and overtopped in the distance by the majestic Fuji. To the north on clear days, the sandy shores of Kozu and Oiso. 25 miles off seem to be almost within arms reach. Some people have compared the beauties of Manazuru Zaki from Cape to River with the place in China called Siki Hiki by the celebrated poet of the country, Sotova, who wrote Siki Hiki No Fu, the ode to Siki Hiki. Many years ago, Minamoto know Yoritomo, after his defeat at the Battle of Ishibashi Yama, fled to Manazuru Minato and stayed there for a few days while waiting for favorable weather to cross to the opposite side, the province of Awa. One can still see, I am told, the cave in which he hid, which retains its old name, Shito Iwa. The scenery on the coast is magnificent. The rocks rise sheer out of the sea and enclose a perfect little bay on the inside of Manazuru Zaki Cape. There the fishermen erected a quiet little shrine, Kibuni Jinja, where they worship the goddess who guards the fishing of their coast. They had but little to complain of in the Bay of Manazuru. The waters were deep and always well stocked with fish such as Tai. In due season came the Sawara, giant mackerel, and all the smaller migratory fishes, including the sardine and anchovy. The fishermen had not to complain of until about 40 years ago when a strange thing happened. On the 24th of June, a person from some inland place arrived for a few days sea bathing. He was no swimmer, and he was drowned the first day. His body was never recovered, though the fishermen did all they could to find it. From this event onwards, for a full two years, the abundance of fish in the bay grew less and less, until it became difficult to catch enough to eat. The situation was serious in the extreme. Some of the elder fishermen attributed the change to the stranger who had been drowned. It is our unrecovered body, they said, that has made our sacred waters change. The uncleanness has offended Gugan Ohimi, our goddess. It will never do to go on as we are. We must hold a special festival at the temple of Kibuni Jinja. Accordingly, the head priest Iwata was approached. He was pleased with the idea, and a certain day was fixed upon. On the appointed evening, hundreds of fishermen gathered together, with torches in one hand and shia-ra'u, or gohi papers, footnote. Gohi papers are a shinto emblem representing gifts of cloth to the deity. Usually, the god Kami, some say gohi represent in their curious cutting the Kami beating Dora, a gong used in worship and footnote. Fastened on a bamboo in the other, they formed into procession and advanced towards the shrine from various directions, beating gongs at the temple the priest read from the sacred books, and prayed to the goddess that had watched over them and their fisheries not to desert them because their waters had been polluted by a dead body. They would search for it by every means in their power and cleanse the bay. Suddenly, while the priest was praying, a light, the brilliance of which nearly blinded the fishermen, flashed out of the water. The priest stopped for a moment, a rumbling noise was heard at the bottom of the sea, and then there arose to the surface a goddess of surpassing beauty, probably Kawanan Gyorin. She looked at the ceremony which was being held on shore for a full hour, and then disappeared with another flash, leaving the sound of roaring waves. The priest and the elder fisherman considered matters, and came to the conclusion that what they had seen was indeed their goddess, and that she had been pleased at their ceremony. Also, they thought the dead body must still be at the bottom of the bay, directly under the spot when the flashes of light and the goddess herself had appeared. It was arranged that two young virgins who could dive should be sent down at the spot to see, and two were accordingly chosen, Sayotone and Tamajo. Wrapped in white skirts, these maidens were taken in a boat to where the flashes and the goddess had appeared. The girls dived, reached the bottom, and searched for the body of the man drowned two years before. Instead of finding it, they saw only a small but dazzling light. Curiosity led them to the spot, and there they found hundreds upon hundreds of awabi, ear-shells, fastened upon a rock six feet in height and twenty-five or thirty in length. Whenever the fish moved, they were obliged to raise their shells, and it was the glitter, the pearls inside that had attracted the damsels. This rock must have been the tomb of the drowned, or else the home of the goddess. Sayotone and Tamajo returned to the surface, each having taken from the rock a large shell to show the priest. As they came to the shore, cheers were given in their honor, and the priest and the fisherman crowded round them. On learning about the awabi shells, which they had never before heard of as being in the bay, they came to the conclusion that it was not uncleanness that kept the fish away. The lights thrown from the brilliant necrious shells and pearls inside them must be the cause. Many times have we heard of the awabi flying. They must have flown here at some time within two years. The fishermen resolved to remove them. It was evident that the goddess had appeared in the light, so as to show what it was that kept the fish away. No time was lost. Many hundreds of men and women went down and cleared the place, and the fish began to return to Manaziro, Minato. At the suggestion of the priest, Iwata, there is held on every 24th of June a Matsuri festival. The fishermen light torches and go to the shrine for worship all the night through. This is called the Awabi Festival of Kabuni. Note, this story was told to me by a man who knows nothing of shellfish. He told the story as of the Osari, a kind of cocoa shell dug out of the sand at low tide. It is impossible that the story could have referred to other shellfish than Haleotus, the ear shell, or the awabi, or the regular pearl oaster. Diving women have seen the flight of Haleotus and described it to me. If one feels disposed to leave a rock, they all feel the same impulse and go. Thus it is the large old Haleotus sometimes appear on a rock, some 15 fathoms deep. When not one was there the day before, and they go with equal quickness. For a thousand years or more, the same rocks have been haunted, and divers keep their finds at the bottom of the sea, a great secret, at least, so I observe at Toshi. End of Chapter 55, Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C.