A Japanese Boy
that--and then it lies exhausted, working its jaw in anguish for water.
"Cast your fly and try your luck," says my excellent father. Of course I
obey him; and although I was not so successful every time as he, yet
could not always help observing privately that the location he had
selected was a good fishing hole.
The river I have in mind has a characteristic oriental appellation given
it--Dragon-fire. It is a small stream at a short distance from the town
of Imabari, having its fountain-heads in the valleys of the mountains
visible from the mouth. There is nothing remarkable about this
water-course, except a popular belief that, on the eve of a festal day
in honor of the temple situated on one of the mountains, a mysterious
fire rises from the enchanting "dragon-palace" in the depths of the
ocean, where a beautiful queen reigns supreme over her charming watery
world with its finny and scaly subjects of various species. The
mysterious light, casting an inverted image on the water, moves steadily
up the river, under the concentrated gaze of thousands who climb the
height partly as devotees but mostly as spectators, until it reaches a
massive stone lantern erected upon the ledge of an immense cliff. There
it vanishes as strangely as it appeared; and instead the lantern,
hitherto dark, lights up suddenly.
I dislike to question the reality of this astonishing phenomenon, or try
to explain it with my superficial knowledge of physics. A very pious,
gracious old lady in our neighborhood had always a ready listener in me
in her superstitious talks concerning the wonders and charitable doings
of the Goddess of Mercy, whom she had imposingly enshrined in her
apartment and adored unceasingly. Perhaps you would wish to know what
the goddess looked like. Well, it was a small bronze statuette in a
gilded miniature temple; she wore a scanty Hindoo costume, a halo around
her head and an expression gentle, sweet, serene, godly.--You have seen
a reproduction of the ideal Italian picture of Christ, with downcast
eyes and a look of meek submission, benign tenderness and forgiveness:
the Goddess of Mercy seemed quite like that but with slightly more
authority. Another conception of the pagan goddess, which I have seen
elsewhere, represents her as possessing countless arms, signifying, I
imagine, the countless deeds of mercy she achieves for mankind.
The good old lady did not feel satisfied with the home worship; she must
play the pilgrim, in spite of years and infirmities, and visit, at
least, the nearest public temples. So she set off with her company, a
circle of aged zealots like herself, on a journey to a sacred edifice
standing somewhere in the mountain which, in fair weather, shows faintly
against the sky west of Imabari, towering far above hills and heights of
nearer distances. The way is long and tedious and lies through rocky
regions. Difficult passes and precipitous declivities were left far
behind by assiduous traveling on foot; but the party lost the way,
wandered into mountain wilds, silent and sublime, far, far from home or
any human habitation; and there was nothing to be heard but the flocks
of rooks cawing inauspiciously among the tree-tops. The day advanced
rapidly; the sun wheeled down without tarrying, and in the trackless
forest the evening gloom gathered early. Mute admiration, commingled
with despair, seized the travelers as they surveyed the forest grandeur
in its twilight robe. The unpruned trees thrust out dry broken arms from
near the roots; the leaves sere and sodden covered the damp, black soil
ankle deep rustling under the tread.
The sunset, how glorious! Our travelers threw down their walking-sticks,
stretched out their tired limbs and, seated on rocks, spell-bound, gave
themselves up to the contemplation of the magnificent fire-painting in
the western firmament. Behold the mountains of living coal, the lakes of
molten gold, the islands of floating amber, all irregularly shaped as by
a wild genius, distributed not as on the earth's surface,--a mountainous
pile superimposed on a lake with a stratum of sapphire between! At
length, the whole melted into one grand universal conflagration; the
undulating tops of the distant mountain-chain appeared boldly against
the horizon; the needles and cones of a pine branch, pendant near by in
the line of vision, depicted themselves sharply on the canvas of crimson
splendor.
Insensibly to our musing friends, however, the red sinking disc finally
departed by the western portal, the after-glow died away slowly; and
when they awoke from reveries and heaved a sigh, the question of what to
be done came pressing upon them. Now the day being over, there was the
danger of wild animals in the woods. That could be averted by building a
bright fire, but what was to be done for hunger which began to assert
itself strongly? With energy gone and darkness and peril thickening
about them, yet trusting in the Goddess, the lonely pilgrims peered
around for a less exposed spot to nestle in. In this their search,
miraculously they came upon what to them looked like a cottage. It was
one of the hovels hastily put up with twigs and shrubs by hunters, where
they waylay the boar at night and in snow, and where they slice meat,
lie by the fire and smoke, and frequently hold a midnight revel over
their fat game. Our weary, almost famished tourists entered it,
wondering and looking around at each step; they were at once struck with
the snug appearance of the interior. There was a heap of ashes, which
when disturbed disclosed a few glowing embers; and in a corner was piled
on raw hide plenty of excellent venison. The hunters must have left not
long since.
The pious old lady goes on to tell that such a thing as this could not
have been otherwise than by the dispensation of her merciful Goddess,
and that she and her fellow believers fell immediately on their knees to
express their heart-felt gratitude for her munificence and protection.
The fire was rekindled and fed with armfuls of the dried leaves and dead
branches that lay strewn plentifully around; the broad blaze cast an
illusive cheerfulness on objects standing near; each time a stick was
thrown in the cloven tongues of the fire emitted sparks, which died in
their flight among the masses of the overhanging foliage. Taken in
connection with the surrounding scene, there was something
inexpressibly wild and primitive about the open fire. The party appeased
their hunger and waited the return of the proprietors of the rude
cottage. They did not come, though the night advanced far; some of the
pilgrims were extremely fatigued and dropped to sleep in the warmth,
others sat up resolutely, repeating prayers and counting the beads
before a pocket image of the Goddess. The low night wind bore to their
ear, at intervals, the concert of wolves howling in dismal, forlorn
cadence; and they were now and then started by one of these savage
marauders appearing in their sight at a safe distance.
The night was passed in this way, and the dawn came; but how to find the
right path? While they were in despair and supplicating aid from the
Goddess, one of them descried a figure on the brow of an eminence not
far distant. It seemed, on nearer approach, to be a venerable mountain
sire; his long silver-white beard flowed down his breast; a pair of
clear beaming eyes twinkled beneath his great shaggy eyebrows. Being
asked in which point of the compass lay the road to the temple, he
slowly lifted his cane, a knotty stem of a shrub called akaza, and
indicated the west. Apropos of this, the akaza stick is believed to be
carried by an imaginary race of men hidden in China's pathless woods and
mountains, who are without exception very old but never overtaken by
disease or death and live in serene felicity, gathering medicinal herbs,
writing on scrolls and in company with cranes and tortoises. In
kakemonoes (wall hangings) they are sometimes depicted as taking a
literal "flying" visit on craneback, with the inevitable scroll in hand,
to their brother sennin's (sennin is the name this happy race goes by)
grotto in a neighboring hill or dale.
Our party of wanderers thanked the kind but dignified old man on their
hands and knees and raised their heads, when he seemed to dissolve away
from view in a most singular manner. This opportune guide, according to
my garrulous lady, is a messenger sent by her thousand-armed Goddess to
their help; in fine, not a thing occurs but is ordained by Kwannon the
Merciful. The story of the adventure was wound up with the safe arrival
in the Kwannon temple, and fervent piety kindled at the altar.
CHAPTER IX.
I am afraid I have told a long prosaic story in the previous chapter,
and betrayed a school-boy-like delight for the bombastic in the
description of the sunset, etc. No one detests more than I anything that
smacks of the young misses' poetry. Come, let us inquire, more relevant
to our purpose, what constituted my childish happiness, sorrow, fear and
other kindred feelings in Japan.
The greatest fear I can yet recall was the ordeal of the yaito. This is
a Japanese domestic art of healing and averting diseases, especially
those of children. The moxa, being made into numerous tiny cones and
placed on certain spots on the back, is lighted with the senko already
described. Imagine how you feel when the flesh is being burnt; I used to
hold out stoutly against the cruel operation--would you not sympathize
with me? If I had any presentiment of it, I would slip away and keep
from home till I became desirous of dinner. No sooner had I crossed the
paternal threshold than I was made a prisoner; and ailment or no
ailment, my severe father and mother insisted upon my having the yaito
once in so often. Great was my demonstration of agony when father held
me still and mother proceeded to burn my bare back a promise of
bonbons, which reconciled me to almost anything ordinarily, did not work
in this one in stance; I cried myself hoarse (keeping it up even while
there was no pain) and kicked frantically.
"The storm is over," mother used to say with considerable relief, when
the trial drew to a close; she hated the torture as much as anybody, but
she had the welfare of her child at heart. Ah, gentle mother, if I had
only understood you then as I do now I should certainly not have snapped
so terribly. I remember, after twenty-four to forty-eight hours the
blisters began to swell and chafed painfully against the clothing, and
had to be punctured to let out the serum. As a matter of fact, the yaito
did cure slight general and local ailments: once I had a blood-shot eye,
and mother sent me to a worthy old woman in town who knew how to cure it
by means of yaito. After much pressing with lingers, she hit at the
vital point in the back and marked it with a generous dip of india ink.
Upon returning home, it was burnt deeply with moxa; and miraculously
enough the eye got well immediately. I am inclined to think the cautery
acts through the nerves. Now for years have I been exempt from the
operation, yet to this day on my back are symmetrically branded the
star-like memorials of my mother's love.
Speaking of the old woman I am reminded of another whom I was in the
habit of looking upon as a sort of witch. Her eye, with the crow's foot
at the outer corner and, I fancied, with the pupil in a longitudinal
slit like that of grimalkin, the creature nearest to witches and
warlocks; her fetich, the image of a human monkey, to whom she was a
sort of vestal virgin; her place of abode remote from town and isolated
from other farm-houses, presenting a queer combination of a rustic home
and a sacred shrine; these made my childish imagination invest her with
an air of mystery. She was wont to come to town in trim, made-over