Kwaidan: Stories and Studies of Strange Things
the hermitage also disappeared at the same instant. And Musō Kokushi
found himself kneeling alone in the high grass, beside an ancient and
moss-grown tomb of the form called _go-rin-ishi_,[3] which seemed to be
the tomb of a priest.
MUJINA
On the Akasaka Road, in Tōkyō, there is a slope called
Kii-no-kuni-zaka,—which means the Slope of the Province of Kii. I do
not know why it is called the Slope of the Province of Kii. On one side
of this slope you see an ancient moat, deep and very wide, with high
green banks rising up to some place of gardens;—and on the other side
of the road extend the long and lofty walls of an imperial palace.
Before the era of street-lamps and jinrikishas, this neighborhood was
very lonesome after dark; and belated pedestrians would go miles out of
their way rather than mount the Kii-no-kuni-zaka, alone, after sunset.
All because of a Mujina that used to walk there. (1)
The last man who saw the Mujina was an old merchant of the Kyōbashi
quarter, who died about thirty years ago. This is the story, as he told
it:—
One night, at a late hour, he was hurrying up the Kii-no-kuni-zaka,
when he perceived a woman crouching by the moat, all alone, and weeping
bitterly. Fearing that she intended to drown herself, he stopped to
offer her any assistance or consolation in his power. She appeared to
be a slight and graceful person, handsomely dressed; and her hair was
arranged like that of a young girl of good family. “O-jochū,”[1] he
exclaimed, approaching her,—“O-jochū, do not cry like that!... Tell me
what the trouble is; and if there be any way to help you, I shall be
glad to help you.” (He really meant what he said; for he was a very
kind man.) But she continued to weep,—hiding her face from him with one
of her long sleeves. “O-jochū,” he said again, as gently as he
could,—“please, please listen to me!... This is no place for a young
lady at night! Do not cry, I implore you!—only tell me how I may be of
some help to you!” Slowly she rose up, but turned her back to him, and
continued to moan and sob behind her sleeve. He laid his hand lightly
upon her shoulder, and pleaded:—“O-jochū!—O-jochū!—O-jochū!... Listen
to me, just for one little moment!... O-jochū!—O-jochū!”... Then that
O-jochū turned around, and dropped her sleeve, and stroked her face
with her hand;—and the man saw that she had no eyes or nose or
mouth,—and he screamed and ran away. (2)
Up Kii-no-kuni-zaka he ran and ran; and all was black and empty before
him. On and on he ran, never daring to look back; and at last he saw a
lantern, so far away that it looked like the gleam of a firefly; and he
made for it. It proved to be only the lantern of an itinerant
_soba_-seller,[2] who had set down his stand by the road-side; but any
light and any human companionship was good after that experience; and
he flung himself down at the feet of the _soba_-seller, crying out,
“Ah!—aa!!—_aa!!!_”...
“_Koré! koré!_” (3) roughly exclaimed the soba-man. “Here! what is the
matter with you? Anybody hurt you?”
“No—nobody hurt me,” panted the other,—“only... _Ah!—aa!_”
“—Only scared you?” queried the peddler, unsympathetically. “Robbers?”
“Not robbers,—not robbers,” gasped the terrified man... “I saw... I saw
a woman—by the moat;—and she showed me... _Ah!_ I cannot tell you what
she showed me!”...
“_Hé!_ (4) Was it anything like THIS that she showed you?” cried the
soba-man, stroking his own face—which therewith became like unto an
Egg... And, simultaneously, the light went out.
ROKURO-KUBI
Nearly five hundred years ago there was a samurai, named Isogai
Héïdazaëmon Takétsura, in the service of the Lord Kikuji, of Kyūshū.
This Isogai had inherited, from many warlike ancestors, a natural
aptitude for military exercises, and extraordinary strength. While yet
a boy he had surpassed his teachers in the art of swordsmanship, in
archery, and in the use of the spear, and had displayed all the
capacities of a daring and skillful soldier. Afterwards, in the time of
the Eikyō[1] war, he so distinguished himself that high honors were
bestowed upon him. But when the house of Kikuji came to ruin, Isogai
found himself without a master. He might then easily have obtained
service under another daimyō; but as he had never sought distinction
for his own sake alone, and as his heart remained true to his former
lord, he preferred to give up the world. So he cut off his hair, and
became a traveling priest,—taking the Buddhist name of Kwairyō.
But always, under the _koromo_[2] of the priest, Kwairyō kept warm
within him the heart of the samurai. As in other years he had laughed
at peril, so now also he scorned danger; and in all weathers and all
seasons he journeyed to preach the good Law in places where no other
priest would have dared to go. For that age was an age of violence and
disorder; and upon the highways there was no security for the solitary
traveler, even if he happened to be a priest.
In the course of his first long journey, Kwairyō had occasion to visit
the province of Kai. (1) One evening, as he was traveling through the
mountains of that province, darkness overcame him in a very lonesome
district, leagues away from any village. So he resigned himself to pass
the night under the stars; and having found a suitable grassy spot, by
the roadside, he lay down there, and prepared to sleep. He had always
welcomed discomfort; and even a bare rock was for him a good bed, when
nothing better could be found, and the root of a pine-tree an excellent
pillow. His body was iron; and he never troubled himself about dews or
rain or frost or snow.
Scarcely had he lain down when a man came along the road, carrying an
axe and a great bundle of chopped wood. This woodcutter halted on
seeing Kwairyō lying down, and, after a moment of silent observation,
said to him in a tone of great surprise:—
“What kind of a man can you be, good Sir, that you dare to lie down
alone in such a place as this?... There are haunters about here,—many
of them. Are you not afraid of Hairy Things?”
“My friend,” cheerfully answered Kwairyō, “I am only a wandering
priest,—a ‘Cloud-and-Water-Guest,’ as folks call it:
_Unsui-no-ryokaku_. (2) And I am not in the least afraid of Hairy
Things,—if you mean goblin-foxes, or goblin-badgers, or any creatures
of that kind. As for lonesome places, I like them: they are suitable
for meditation. I am accustomed to sleeping in the open air: and I have
learned never to be anxious about my life.”
“You must be indeed a brave man, Sir Priest,” the peasant responded,
“to lie down here! This place has a bad name,—a very bad name. But, as
the proverb has it, _Kunshi ayayuki ni chikayorazu_ [‘The superior man
does not needlessly expose himself to peril’]; and I must assure you,
Sir, that it is very dangerous to sleep here. Therefore, although my
house is only a wretched thatched hut, let me beg of you to come home
with me at once. In the way of food, I have nothing to offer you; but
there is a roof at least, and you can sleep under it without risk.”
He spoke earnestly; and Kwairyō, liking the kindly tone of the man,
accepted this modest offer. The woodcutter guided him along a narrow
path, leading up from the main road through mountain-forest. It was a
rough and dangerous path,—sometimes skirting precipices,—sometimes
offering nothing but a network of slippery roots for the foot to rest
upon,—sometimes winding over or between masses of jagged rock. But at
last Kwairyō found himself upon a cleared space at the top of a hill,
with a full moon shining overhead; and he saw before him a small
thatched cottage, cheerfully lighted from within. The woodcutter led
him to a shed at the back of the house, whither water had been
conducted, through bamboo-pipes, from some neighboring stream; and the
two men washed their feet. Beyond the shed was a vegetable garden, and
a grove of cedars and bamboos; and beyond the trees appeared the
glimmer of a cascade, pouring from some loftier height, and swaying in
the moonshine like a long white robe.
As Kwairyō entered the cottage with his guide, he perceived four
persons—men and women—warming their hands at a little fire kindled in
the _ro_[3] of the principle apartment. They bowed low to the priest,
and greeted him in the most respectful manner. Kwairyō wondered that
persons so poor, and dwelling in such a solitude, should be aware of
the polite forms of greeting. “These are good people,” he thought to
himself; “and they must have been taught by some one well acquainted
with the rules of propriety.” Then turning to his host,—the _aruji_, or
house-master, as the others called him,—Kwairyō said:—
“From the kindness of your speech, and from the very polite welcome
given me by your household, I imagine that you have not always been a
woodcutter. Perhaps you formerly belonged to one of the upper classes?”
Smiling, the woodcutter answered:—
“Sir, you are not mistaken. Though now living as you find me, I was
once a person of some distinction. My story is the story of a ruined
life—ruined by my own fault. I used to be in the service of a daimyō;
and my rank in that service was not inconsiderable. But I loved women
and wine too well; and under the influence of passion I acted wickedly.
My selfishness brought about the ruin of our house, and caused the
death of many persons. Retribution followed me; and I long remained a
fugitive in the land. Now I often pray that I may be able to make some
atonement for the evil which I did, and to reestablish the ancestral
home. But I fear that I shall never find any way of so doing.
Nevertheless, I try to overcome the karma of my errors by sincere
repentance, and by helping, as far as I can, those who are
unfortunate.”
Kwairyō was pleased by this announcement of good resolve; and he said
to the _aruji:_—
“My friend, I have had occasion to observe that men, prone to folly in
their youth, may in after years become very earnest in right living. In
the holy sûtras it is written that those strongest in wrong-doing can
become, by power of good resolve, the strongest in right-doing. I do
not doubt that you have a good heart; and I hope that better fortune
will come to you. To-night I shall recite the sûtras for your sake, and
pray that you may obtain the force to overcome the karma of any past
errors.”
With these assurances, Kwairyō bade the _aruji_ good-night; and his
host showed him to a very small side-room, where a bed had been made
ready. Then all went to sleep except the priest, who began to read the
sûtras by the light of a paper lantern. Until a late hour he continued
to read and pray: then he opened a little window in his little
sleeping-room, to take a last look at the landscape before lying down.
The night was beautiful: there was no cloud in the sky: there was no
wind; and the strong moonlight threw down sharp black shadows of
foliage, and glittered on the dews of the garden. Shrillings of
crickets and bell-insects (3) made a musical tumult; and the sound of
the neighboring cascade deepened with the night. Kwairyō felt thirsty
as he listened to the noise of the water; and, remembering the bamboo
aqueduct at the rear of the house, he thought that he could go there
and get a drink without disturbing the sleeping household. Very gently
he pushed apart the sliding-screens that separated his room from the
main apartment; and he saw, by the light of the lantern, five recumbent
bodies—without heads!
For one instant he stood bewildered,—imagining a crime. But in another
moment he perceived that there was no blood, and that the headless
necks did not look as if they had been cut. Then he thought to
himself:—“Either this is an illusion made by goblins, or I have been
lured into the dwelling of a Rokuro-Kubi... (4) In the book _Sōshinki_