Part 12

When the two of them were about half-way over to Dragonland, the jelly-fish laughed.

"Now, jelly-fish, why do you laugh?"

"I laugh for joy," said the jelly-fish. "When you come to Dragonland, my master, the Dragon King, will get your liver, and give it to my mistress the Dragon Queen to eat, and then she will recover from her sickness."

"My liver?" said the monkey.

"Why, of course," said the jelly-fish.

"Alas and alack," cried the monkey, "I'm grieved indeed, but if it's my liver you're wanting I haven't it with me. To tell you the truth, it weighs pretty heavy, so I just took it out and hung it upon a branch of that persimmon tree where you found me. Quick, quick, let's go back for it."

Back they went, and the monkey was up in the persimmon tree in a twinkling.

"Mercy me, I don't see it at all," he said. "Where can I have mislaid it? I should not be surprised if some rascal has stolen it," he said.

Now if the jelly-fish had minded his books at school, would he have been hoodwinked by the monkey? You may believe not. But his grandmother always said he would come to a bad end.

"I shall be some time finding it," said the monkey. "You'd best be getting home to Dragonland. The King would be loath for you to be out after dark. You can call for me another day. _Sayonara._"

The monkey and the jelly-fish parted on the best of terms.

The minute the Dragon King set eyes on the jelly-fish, "Where's the monkey?" he said.

"I'm to call for him another day," said the jelly-fish. And he told all the tale.

The Dragon King flew into a towering rage. He called his executioners and bid them beat the jelly-fish.

"Break every bone in his body," he cried; "beat him to a jelly."

Alas for the sad fate of the jelly-fish! Jelly he remains to this very day.

As for the young Dragon Queen, she was fain to laugh when she heard the story.

"If I can't have a monkey's liver I must needs do without it," she said. "Give me my best brocade gown and I will get up, for I feel a good deal better."

XXVII

URASHIMA

Urashima was a fisherman of the Inland Sea.

Every night he plied his trade. He caught fishes both great and small, being upon the sea through the long hours of darkness. Thus he made his living.

Upon a certain night the moon shone brightly, making plain the paths of the sea. And Urashima kneeled in his boat and dabbled his right hand in the green water. Low he leaned, till his hair lay spread upon the waves, and he paid no heed to his boat that listed or to his trailing fishing-net. He drifted in his boat till he came to a haunted place. And he was neither waking nor sleeping, for the moon made him mad.

Then the Daughter of the Deep Sea arose, and she took the fisherman in her arms, and sank with him, down, down, to her cold sea cave. She laid him upon a sandy bed, and long did she look upon him. She cast her sea spell upon him, and sang her sea songs to him and held his eyes with hers.

He said, "Who are you, lady?"

She told him, "The Daughter of the Deep Sea."

"Let me go home," he said; "my little children wait and are tired."

"Nay, rather stay with me," she said:

"Urashima, Thou Fisherman of the Inland Sea, Thou art beautiful; Thy long hair is twisted round my heart; Go not from me, Only forget thy home."

"Ah, now," said the fisherman, "let be, for the dear gods' sake.... I would go to mine own."

But she said again:

"Urashima, Thou Fisherman of the Inland Sea, I'll set thy couch with pearl; I'll spread thy couch with seaweed and sea flowers; Thou shalt be King of the Deep Sea, And we will reign together."

"Let me go home," said Urashima; "my little children wait and are tired."

But she said:

"Urashima: Thou Fisherman of the Inland Sea, Never be afraid of the Deep Sea tempest; We will roll rocks about our cavern doors; Neither be afraid of the drowned dead; Thou shalt not die."

"Ah, now," said the fisherman, "let be, for the dear gods' sake.... I would go to mine own."

"Stay with me this one night."

"Nay, not one."

Then the Daughter of the Deep Sea wept, and Urashima saw her tears.

"I will stay with you this one night," he said.

So after the night was passed, she brought him up to the sand and the seashore.

"Are we near your home?" she said.

He told her, "Within a stone's throw."

"Take this," she said, "in memory of me." She gave him a casket of mother-of-pearl; it was rainbow-tinted and its clasps were of coral and of jade.

"Do not open it," she said; "O fisherman, do not open it." And with that she sank and was no more seen, the Daughter of the Deep Sea.

As for Urashima, he ran beneath the pine trees to come to his dear home. And as he went he laughed for joy. And he tossed up the casket to catch the sun.

"Ah, me," he said, "the sweet scent of the pines!" So he went calling to his children with a call that he had taught them, like a sea-bird's note. Soon he said, "Are they yet asleep? It is strange they do not answer me."

Now when he came to his house he found four lonely walls, moss-grown. Nightshade flourished on the threshold, death lilies by the hearth, dianthus and lady fern. No living soul was there.

"Now what is this?" cried Urashima. "Have I lost my wits? Have I left my eyes in the deep sea?"

He sat down upon the grassy floor and thought long. "The dear gods help me!" he said. "Where is my wife, and where are my little children?"

He went to the village, where he knew the stones in the way, and every tiled and tilted eave was to him most familiar; and here he found folk walking to and fro, going upon their business. But they were all strange to him.

"Good morrow," they said, "good morrow, wayfarer. Do you tarry in our town?"

He saw children at their play, and often he put his hand beneath their chins to turn their faces up. Alas! he did it all in vain.

"Where are my little children," he said, "O Lady Kwannon the Merciful? Peradventure the gods know the meaning of all this; it is too much for me."

When sunset came, his heart was heavy as stone, and he went and stood at the parting of the ways outside the town. As men passed by he pulled them by the sleeve:

"Friend," he said, "I ask your pardon, did you know a fisherman of this place called Urashima?"

And the men that passed by answered him, "We never heard of such an one."

There passed by the peasant people from the mountains. Some went a-foot, some rode on patient pack-horses. They went singing their country songs, and they carried baskets of wild strawberries or sheaves of lilies bound upon their backs. And the lilies nodded as they went. Pilgrims passed by, all clad in white, with staves and rice-straw hats, sandals fast bound and gourds of water. Swiftly they went, softly they went, thinking of holy things. And lords and ladies passed by, in brave attire and great array, borne in their gilded _kago_. The night fell.

"I lose sweet hope," said Urashima.

But there passed by an old, old man.

"Oh, old, old man," cried the fisherman, "you have seen many days; know you ought of Urashima? In this place was he born and bred."

Then the old man said, "There was one of that name, but, sir, that one was drowned long years ago. My grandfather could scarce remember him in the time that I was a little boy. Good stranger, it was many, many years ago."

Urashima said, "He is dead?"

"No man more dead than he. His sons are dead and their sons are dead. Good even to you, stranger."

Then Urashima was afraid. But he said, "I must go to the green valley where the dead sleep." And to the valley he took his way.

He said, "How chill the night wind blows through the grass! The trees shiver and the leaves turn their pale backs to me."

He said, "Hail, sad moon, that showest me all the quiet graves. Thou art nothing different from the moon of old."

He said, "Here are my sons' graves and their sons' graves. Poor Urashima, there is no man more dead than he. Yet am I lonely among the ghosts...."

"Who will comfort me?" said Urashima.

The night wind sighed and nothing more.

Then he went back to the seashore. "Who will comfort me?" cried Urashima. But the sky was unmoved, and the mountain waves of the sea rolled on.

Urashima said, "There is the casket." And he took it from his sleeve and opened it. There rose from it a faint white smoke that floated away and out to the far horizon.

"I grow very weary," said Urashima. In a moment his hair turned as white as snow. He trembled, his body shrank, his eyes grew dim. He that had been so young and lusty swayed and tottered where he stood.

"I am old," said Urashima.

He made to shut the casket lid, but dropped it, saying, "Nay, the vapour of smoke is gone for ever. What matters it?"

He laid down his length upon the sand and died.

XXVIII

TAMAMO, THE FOX MAIDEN

A pedlar journeyed with his pack upon the great high-road which leads to the city of Kioto. He found a child sitting all alone by the wayside.

"Well, my little girl," he said, "and what make you all alone by the wayside?"

"What do you," said the child, "with a staff and a pack, and sandals outworn?"

"I am bound for Kioto, and the Mikado's Palace, to sell my gauds to the ladies of the Court."

"Ah," said the child, "take me too."

"What is your name, my little girl?"

"I have no name."

"Whence come you?"

"I come from nowhere."

"You seem to be about seven years old."

"I have no age."

"Why are you here?"

"I have been waiting for you."

"How long have you waited?"

"For more than a hundred years."

The Pedlar laughed.

"Take me to Kioto," said the child.

"You may come if you will," said the Pedlar. So they went their ways together, and in time they came to Kioto and to the Mikado's Palace. Here the child danced in the august presence of the Son of Heaven. She was as light as the sea-bird upon a wave's crest. When she had made an end of dancing, the Mikado called her to him.

"Little maid," he said, "what guerdon shall I give you? Ask!"

"O Divinely Descended," said the child, "Son of the Gods ... I cannot ask.... I am afraid."

"Ask without fear," said the Mikado.

The child murmured, "Let me stay in the bright presence of your Augustness."

"So be it," said the Mikado, and he received the child into his household. And he called her Tamamo.

Very speedily she became mistress of every lovely art. She could sing, and she could play upon any instrument of music. She had more skill in painting than any painter in the land; she was a wonder with the needle and a wonder at the loom. The poetry that she made moved men to tears and to laughter. The many thousand characters were child's play to her, and all the hard philosophies she had at her fingers' ends. She knew Confucius well enough, the Scriptures of Buddha, and the lore of Cathay. She was called the Exquisite Perfection, the Gold Unalloyed, the Jewel without Flaw.

And the Mikado loved her.

Soon he clean forgot honour and duty and kingly state. Day and night he kept Tamamo by his side. He grew rough and fierce and passionate, so that his servants feared to approach him. He grew sick, listless, and languid, he pined, and his physicians could do nothing for him.

"Alas and alack," they cried, "what ails the Divinely Descended? Of a surety he is bewitched. Woe! woe! for he will die upon our hands."

"Out upon them, every one," cried the Mikado, "for a pack of tedious fools. As for me, I will do my own will and pleasure."

He was mad for love of Tamamo.

He took her to his Summer Palace, where he prepared a great feast in her honour. To the feast were bidden all the highest of the land, princes and lords and ladies of high estate; and, willy-nilly, to the Summer Palace they all repaired, where was the Mikado, wan and wild, and mad with love, and Tamamo by his side, attired in scarlet and cloth of gold. Radiantly fair she was, and she poured the Mikado's _saké_ out of a golden flagon.

He looked into her eyes.

"Other women are feeble toys beside you," he said. "There's not a woman here that's fit to touch the end of your sleeve. O Tamamo, how I love you...."

He spoke loudly so that all could hear him, and laughed bitterly when he had spoken.

"My lord ... my lord ..." said Tamamo.

Now as the high company sat and feasted, the sky became overcast with black clouds, and the moon and the stars were hid. Suddenly a fearful wind tore through the Summer Palace and put out every torch in the great Hall of Feasting. And the rain came down in torrents. In the pitchy darkness fear and horror fell upon the assembly. The courtiers ran to and fro in a panic, the air was full of cries, the tables were overturned. The dishes and drinking-vessels crashed together, the _saké_ spilled and soaked into the white mats. Then a radiance was made visible. It came from the place where Tamamo was, and it streamed in long flames of fire from her body.

The Mikado cried aloud in a terrible voice, "Tamamo! Tamamo! Tamamo!" three times. And when he had done this he fell in a deathly swoon upon the ground.

And for many days he was thus, and he seemed either asleep or dead, and no one could recover him from his swoon.

Then the Wise and Holy Men of the land met together, and when they had prayed to the gods, they called to them Abé Yasu, the Diviner. They said:

"O Abé Yasu, learned in dark things, find out for us the cause, and if it may be, the cure, of our Lord's strange sickness. Perform divination for us, O Abé Yasu."

Then Abé Yasu performed divination, and he came before the Wise Men and said:

"The wine is sweet, but the aftertaste is bitter. Set not your teeth in the golden persimmon, It is rotten at the core. Fair is the scarlet flower of the Death Lily, Pluck it not. What is beauty? What is wisdom? What is love? Be not deceived. They are threads in the fabric of illusion!"

Then the Wise Men said, "Speak out, Abé Yasu, for your saying is dark, and we cannot understand it."

"I will do more than speak," said Abé Yasu. And he spent three days in fasting and in prayer. Then he took the sacred _Gohei_ from its place in the Temple, and calling the Wise Men to him he waved the sacred _Gohei_ and with it touched each one of them. And together they went to Tamamo's bower, and Abé Yasu took the sacred _Gohei_ in his right hand.

Tamamo was in her bower adorning herself, and her maidens were with her.

"My lords," she said, "you come all unbidden. What would you have with me?"

"My lady Tamamo," said Abé Yasu the Diviner, "I have made a song after the fashion of the Chinese. You who are learned in poetry, I pray you hear and judge my song."

"I am in no mood for songs," she said, "with my dear lord lying sick to death."

"Nevertheless, my lady Tamamo, this song of mine you needs must hear."

"Why, then, if I must ..." she said.

Then spoke Abé Yasu:

"The wine is sweet, the aftertaste is bitter. Set not your teeth in the golden persimmon, It is rotten at the core. Fair is the scarlet flower of the Death Lily, Pluck it not. What is beauty? What is wisdom? What is love? Be not deceived. They are threads in the fabric of illusion!"

When Abé Yasu the Diviner had spoken, he came to Tamamo and he touched her with the sacred _Gohei_.

She gave a loud and terrible cry, and on the instant her form was changed into that of a great fox having nine long tails and hair like golden wire. The fox fled from Tamamo's bower, away and away, until it reached the far plain of Nasu, and it hid itself beneath a great black stone that was upon that plain.

But the Mikado was immediately recovered from his sickness.

Soon, strange and terrible things were told concerning the great stone of Nasu. A stream of poisonous water flowed from under it and withered the bright flowers of the plain. All who drank of the stream died, both man and beast. Moreover, nothing could go near the stone and live. The traveller who rested in its shadow arose no more, and the birds that perched upon it fell dead in a moment. People named it the Death Stone, and thus it was called for more than a hundred years.

Then it chanced that Genyo, the High Priest, who was a holy man indeed, took his staff and his begging bowl and went upon a pilgrimage.

When he came to Nasu, the dwellers upon the plain put rice into his bowl.

"O thou Holy Man," they said, "beware the Death Stone of Nasu. Rest not in its shade."

But Genyo, the High Priest, having remained a while in thought, made answer thus:

"Know, my children, what is written in the Book of the Good Law: 'Herbs, trees and rocks shall all enter into Nirvana.'"

With that he took his way to the Death Stone. He burnt incense, he struck the stone with his staff, and he cried, "Come forth, Spirit of the Death Stone; come forth, I conjure thee."

Then there was a great flame of fire and a rending noise, and the Stone burst and split in sunder. From the stone and from the fire there came a woman.

She stood before the Holy Man. She said:

"I am Tamamo, once called the Proud Perfection; I am the golden-haired Fox; I know the Sorceries of the East; I was worshipped by the Princes of Ind; I was great Cathay's undoing; I was wise and beautiful, Evil incarnate. The power of the Buddha has changed me; I have dwelt in grief for a hundred years; Tears have washed away my beauty and my sin. Shrive me, Genyo, shrive me, Holy Man; Let me have peace."

"Poor Spirit," said Genyo. "Take my staff and my priestly robe and my begging bowl and set forth upon the long journey of repentance."

Tamamo took the priestly robe and put it upon her; in one hand she took the staff, in the other the bowl. And when she had done this, she vanished for ever from the sight of earthly men.

"O thou, Tathagatha," said Genyo, "and thou, Kwannon, Merciful Lady, make it possible that one day even she may attain Nirvana."

XXIX

MOMOTARO

If you'll believe me there was a time when the fairies were none so shy as they are now. That was the time when beasts talked to men, when there were spells and enchantments and magic every day, when there was great store of hidden treasure to be dug up, and adventures for the asking.

At that time, you must know, an old man and an old woman lived alone by themselves. They were good and they were poor and they had no children at all.

One fine day, "What are you doing this morning, good man?" says the old woman.

"Oh," says the old man, "I'm off to the mountains with my billhook to gather a faggot of sticks for our fire. And what are you doing, good wife?"

"Oh," says the old woman, "I'm off to the stream to wash clothes. It's my washing day," she adds.

So the old man went to the mountains and the old woman went to the stream.

Now, while she was washing the clothes, what should she see but a fine ripe peach that came floating down the stream? The peach was big enough, and rosy red on both sides.

"I'm in luck this morning," said the dame, and she pulled the peach to shore with a split bamboo stick.

By-and-by, when her good man came home from the hills, she set the peach before him. "Eat, good man," she said; "this is a lucky peach I found in the stream and brought home for you."

But the old man never got a taste of the peach. And why did he not?

All of a sudden the peach burst in two and there was no stone to it, but a fine boy baby where the stone should have been.

"Mercy me!" says the old woman.

"Mercy me!" says the old man.

The boy baby first ate up one half of the peach and then he ate up the other half. When he had done this he was finer and stronger than ever.

"Momotaro! Momotaro!" cries the old man; "the eldest son of the peach."

"Truth it is indeed," says the old woman; "he was born in a peach."

Both of them took such good care of Momotaro that soon he was the stoutest and bravest boy of all that country-side. He was a credit to them, you may believe. The neighbours nodded their heads and they said, "Momotaro is the fine young man!"

"Mother," says Momotaro one day to the old woman, "make me a good store of _kimi-dango_" (which is the way that they call millet dumplings in those parts).

"What for do you want _kimi-dango_?" says his mother.

"Why," says Momotaro, "I'm going on a journey, or as you may say, an adventure, and I shall be needing the _kimi-dango_ on the way."

"Where are you going, Momotaro?" says his mother.

"I'm off to the Ogres' Island," says Momotaro, "to get their treasure, and I should be obliged if you'd let me have the _kimi-dango_ as soon as may be," he says.

So they made him the _kimi-dango_, and he put them in a wallet, and he tied the wallet to his girdle and off he set.

"_Sayonara_, and good luck to you, Momotaro!" cried the old man and the old woman.

"_Sayonara! Sayonara!_" cried Momotaro.

He hadn't gone far when he fell in with a monkey.

"Kia! Kia!" says the monkey. "Where are you off to, Momotaro?"

Says Momotaro, "I'm off to the Ogres' Island for an adventure."

"What have you got in the wallet hanging at your girdle?"

"Now you're asking me something," says Momotaro; "sure, I've some of the best millet dumplings in all Japan."

"Give me one," says the monkey, "and I will go with you."

So Momotaro gave a millet dumpling to the monkey, and the two of them jogged on together. They hadn't gone far when they fell in with a pheasant.

"Ken! Ken!" said the pheasant. "Where are you off to, Momotaro?"

Says Momotaro, "I'm off to the Ogres' Island for an adventure."

"What have you got in your wallet, Momotaro?"

"I've got some of the best millet dumplings in all Japan."

"Give me one," says the pheasant, "and I will go with you."

So Momotaro gave a millet dumpling to the pheasant, and the three of them jogged on together.

They hadn't gone far when they fell in with a dog.

"Bow! Wow! Wow!" says the dog. "Where are you off to, Momotaro?"

Says Momotaro, "I'm off to the Ogres' Island."

"What have you got in your wallet, Momotaro?"

"I've got some of the best millet dumplings in all Japan."

"Give me one," says the dog, "and I will go with you."

So Momotaro gave a millet dumpling to the dog, and the four of them jogged on together. By-and-by they came to the Ogres' Island.

"Now, brothers," says Momotaro, "listen to my plan. The pheasant must fly over the castle gate and peck the Ogres. The monkey must climb over the castle wall and pinch the Ogres. The dog and I will break the bolts and bars. He will bite the Ogres, and I will fight the Ogres."

Then there was the great battle.

The pheasant flew over the castle gate: "Ken! Ken! Ken!"

Momotaro broke the bolts and bars, and the dog leapt into the castle courtyard. "Bow! Wow! Wow!"

The brave companions fought till sundown and overcame the Ogres. Those that were left alive they took prisoners and bound with cords--a wicked lot they were.

"Now, brothers," says Momotaro, "bring out the Ogres' treasure."

So they did.

The treasure was worth having, indeed. There were magic jewels there, and caps and coats to make you invisible. There was gold and silver, and jade and coral, and amber and tortoise-shell and mother-of-pearl.

"Here's riches for all," says Momotaro. "Choose, brothers, and take your fill."

"Kia! Kia!" says the monkey. "Thanks, my Lord Momotaro."

"Ken! Ken!" says the pheasant. "Thanks, my Lord Momotaro."

"Bow! Wow! Wow!" says the dog. "Thanks, my dear Lord Momotaro."

XXX

THE MATSUYAMA MIRROR

A long, long time ago there lived in a quiet spot a young man and his wife. They had one child, a little daughter, whom they both loved with all their hearts. I cannot tell you their names, for they have long since been forgotten; but the name of the place where they lived was Matsuyama, in the Province of Echigo.