Part 13

It happened once, while the little girl was still a baby, that the father was obliged to go to the great city, the capital of Japan, upon some business. It was too far for the mother and her little baby to go, so he set out alone, after bidding them goodbye and promising to bring them home some pretty present.

The mother had never been farther from home than the next village, and she could not help being a little frightened at the thought of her husband taking such a long journey; and yet she was a little proud too, for he was the first man in all that country-side who had been to the big town where the king and his great lords lived, and where there were so many beautiful and curious things to be seen.

At last the time came when she might expect her husband back, so she dressed the baby in its best clothes, and herself put on a pretty blue dress which she knew her husband liked.

You may fancy how glad this good wife was to see him come home safe and sound, and how the little girl clapped her hands, and laughed with delight when she saw the pretty toys her father had brought for her. He had much to tell of all the wonderful things he had seen upon the journey, and in the town itself.

"I have brought you a very pretty thing," said he to his wife; "it is called a mirror. Look and tell me what you see inside." He gave to her a plain white wooden box, in which, when she had opened it, she found a round piece of metal. One side was white, like frosted silver, and ornamented with raised figures of birds and flowers; the other was bright as the clearest crystal. Into it the young mother looked with delight and astonishment, for, from its depths was looking at her with parted lips and bright eyes, a smiling happy face.

"What do you see?" again asked the husband, pleased at her astonishment and glad to show that he had learned something while he had been away.

"I see a pretty woman looking at me, and she moves her lips as if she was speaking, and--dear me, how odd, she has on a blue dress just like mine!"

"Why, you silly woman, it is your own face that you see!" said the husband, proud of knowing something that his wife didn't know. "That round piece of metal is called a mirror. In the town everybody has one, although we have not seen them in this country-place before."

The wife was charmed with her present, and for a few days could not look into the mirror often enough; for you must remember that as this was the first time she had seen a mirror, so, of course, it was the first time she had ever seen the reflection of her own pretty face. But she considered such a wonderful thing far too precious for everyday use, and soon shut it up in its box again and put it away carefully among her most valued treasures.

Years passed on, and the husband and wife still lived happily. The joy of their life was their little daughter, who grew up the very image of her mother, and who was so dutiful and affectionate that everybody loved her. Mindful of her own little passing vanity on finding herself so lovely, the mother kept the mirror carefully hidden away, fearing that the use of it might breed a spirit of pride in her little girl.

She never spoke of it, and as for the father he had forgotten all about it. So it happened that the daughter grew up as simple as the mother had been, and knew nothing of her own good looks, or of the mirror which would have reflected them.

But by-and-by a terrible misfortune happened to this happy little family. The good, kind mother fell sick; and, although her daughter waited upon her, day and night, with loving care, she got worse and worse, until at last there was no doubt but that she must die.

When she found that she must so soon leave her husband and child, the poor woman felt very sorrowful, grieving for those she was going to leave behind, and most of all for her little daughter.

She called the girl to her and said, "My darling child, you know that I am very sick; soon I must die and leave your dear father and you alone. When I am gone, promise me that you will look into this mirror every night and every morning; there you will see me, and know that I am still watching over you." With these words she took the mirror from its hiding-place and gave it to her daughter. The child promised, with many tears, and so the mother, seeming now calm and resigned, died a short time after.

Now this obedient and dutiful daughter never forgot her mother's last request, but each morning and evening took the mirror from its hiding-place, and looked in it long and earnestly. There she saw the bright and smiling vision of her lost mother. Not pale and sickly as in her last days, but the beautiful young mother of long ago. To her at night she told the story of the trials and difficulties of the day; to her in the morning she looked for sympathy and encouragement in whatever might be in store for her.

So day by day she lived as in her mother's sight, striving still to please her as she had done in her lifetime, and careful always to avoid whatever might pain or grieve her.

Her greatest joy was to be able to look in the mirror and say, "Mother, I have been to-day what you would have me to be."

Seeing her look into the mirror every night and morning without fail, and seem to hold converse with it, her father at length asked her the reason of her strange behaviour. "Father," she said, "I look in the mirror every day to see my dear mother and to talk with her." Then she told him of her mother's dying wish, and how she had never failed to fulfil it. Touched by so much simplicity, and such faithful, loving obedience, the father shed tears of pity and affection. Nor could he find it in his heart to tell the child that the image she saw in the mirror was but the reflection of her own sweet face, becoming by constant sympathy and association more and more like her dead mother's day by day.

XXXI

BROKEN IMAGES

Once there lived two brothers who were princes in the land.

The elder brother was a hunter. He loved the deep woods and the chase. He went from dawn to dark with his bow and his arrows. Swiftly he could run; he was strong and bright-eyed. The younger brother was a dreamer; his eyes were gentle. From dawn to dark he would sit with his book or with his thoughts. Sweetly could he sing of love, or of war, or of the green fields, and tell stories of the fairies and of the time of the gods.

Upon a fair day of summer the hunter betook himself very early to the woods, as was his wont. But the dreamer took his book in his hand, and, musing, he wandered by the stream's side, where grew the yellow mimulus.

"It is the fairies' money," he said; "it will buy all the joys of fairyland!" So he went on his way, smiling.

And when he had continued for some time, he came to a holy shrine. And there led to the shrine a hundred steps, moss-grown and grey. Beside the steps were guardian lions, carved in stone. Behind the shrine was Fugi, the Mystic Mountain, white and beautiful, and all the lesser hills rose softly up like prayers.

"O peerless Fugi," said the dreamer, "O passionless wonder mountain! To see thee is to hear sweet music without sound, the blessed harmony of silence."

Then he climbed the steps, moss-grown and grey. And the lions that were carved in stone rose up and followed him, and they came with him to the inner gates of the shrine and stayed there.

In the shrine there was a hush of noonday. The smoke of incense curled and hung upon the air. Dimly shone the gold and the bronze, the lights and the mystic mirrors.

There was a sound of singing in the shrine, and turning, the dreamer saw a man who stood at his right hand. The man was taller than any child of earth. Moreover, his face shone with the glory of a youth that cannot pass away. He held a year-old child upon his arm and hushed it to sleep, singing a strange melody. When the babe fell asleep he was well pleased, and smiled.

"What babe is that?" said the dreamer.

"O dreamer, it is no babe, but a spirit."

"Then, my lord, what are you?" said the dreamer.

"I am Jizo, who guards the souls of little children. It is most pitiful to hear their crying when they come to the sandy river-bed, the _Sai-no-kawara_. O dreamer, they come alone, as needs they must, wailing and wandering, stretching out their pretty hands. They have a task, which is to pile stones for a tower of prayer. But in the night come the _Oni_ to throw down the towers and to scatter all the stones. So the children are made afraid, and their labour is lost."

"What then, my lord Jizo?" said the dreamer.

"Why, then I come, for the Great One gives me leave. And I call 'Come hither, wandering souls.' And they fly to me that I may hide them in my long sleeves. I carry them in my arms and on my breast, where they lie light and cold,--as light and cold as the morning mist upon the mountains."

When he had spoken, the year-old child stirred and murmured: so he rocked it, and wandered to and fro in the quiet temple court and hushed it as he went.

So the swift moments flew and the noontide passed away.

Presently there came to the shrine a lady most gentle and beautiful. Grey was her robe, and she had silver sandals on her feet. She said, "I am called The Merciful. For mankind's dear sake, I have refused eternal peace. The Great One has given to me a thousand loving arms, arms of mercy. And my hands are full of gifts. O dreamer, when you dream your dreams you shall see me in my lotus boat when I sail upon the mystic mere."

"Lady, Lady Kwannon ..." said the dreamer.

Then came one clothed in blue, speaking with a sweet, deep, well-known voice.

"I am Benten, the Goddess of the Sea and the Goddess of Song. My dragons are about me and beneath my feet. See their green scales and their opal eyes. Greeting, O dreamer!"

After her there came a band of blooming boys, laughing and holding out their rosy arms. "We are the Sons of the Sea Goddess," they said. "Come, dreamer, come to our cool caves."

The God of Roads came, and his three messengers with him. Three apes were the three messengers. The first ape covered his eyes with his hands, for he could see no evil thing. The second ape covered his ears with his hands, for he could hear no evil thing. The third ape covered his mouth with his hands, for he could speak no evil thing. Then came She, the fearful woman who takes the clothes of the dead who are not able to pay their toll, so that they must stand shivering at the entrance of the mysterious Three Ways. They are unfortunate indeed.

And many and many a vision the dreamer saw in that enchanted shrine.

And dark night fell, with storm and tempest and the sound of rain upon the roof. Yet the dreamer never stirred. Suddenly there was a sound of hurrying feet without. A voice called loud, "My brother, my brother, my brother!..." In sprang the hunter through the golden temple doors.

"Where are you?" he cried, "my brother, my brother!" He had his swinging lantern in his hand and held it high, as he flung his long blown hair back over his shoulder. His face was bright with the rain upon it, his eyes were as keen as an eagle's.

"O brother ..." said the dreamer, and ran to meet him.

"Now the dear gods be thanked that I have you safe and sound," said the hunter. "Half the night I have sought you, wandering in the forest and by the stream's side. I was all to blame for leaving you ... my little brother." With that, he took his brother's face between his two warm hands.

But the dreamer sighed, "I have been with the gods all night," he said, "and I think I see them still. The place is holy."

Then the hunter flashed his light upon the temple walls, upon the gilding and the bronze.

"I see no gods," he said.

"What see you, brother?"

"I see a row of stones, broken images, grey, with moss-grown feet."

"They are grey because they are sad, they are sad because they are forgotten," said the dreamer.

But the hunter took him by the hand and led him into the night.

The dreamer said, "O brother, how sweet is the scent of the bean fields after the rain."

"Now bind your sandals on," said the hunter, "and I'll run you a race to our home."

XXXII

THE TONGUE-CUT SPARROW

Once upon a time there was an old man who lived all alone. And there was an old woman who lived all alone. The old man was merry and kind and gentle, with a good word and a smile for all the world. The old woman was sour and sad, as cross a patch as could be found in all the country-side. She grumbled and growled for ever, and would not so much as pass the time of day with respectable folk.

The old man had a pet sparrow that he kept as the apple of his eye. The sparrow could talk and sing and dance and do all manner of tricks, and was very good company. So the old man found when he came home from his work at night. There would be the sparrow twittering on the doorstep, and "Welcome home, master," he would say, his head on one side, as pert and pretty as you please.

One day the old man went off to cut wood in the mountains. The old woman, she stayed at home for it was her washing day. She made some good starch in a bowl and she put it outside her door to cool.

"It will be all ready when I want it," she said to herself. But that's just where she made a mistake. The little sparrow flew over the bamboo fence and lighted on the edge of the starch bowl. And he pecked at the starch with his little beak. He pecked and he pecked till all the starch was gone, and a good meal he made, to be sure.

Then out came the old woman for the starch to starch her clothes.

You may believe she was angry. She caught the little sparrow roughly in her hand, and, alas and alack! she took a sharp, sharp scissors and cut his little tongue. Then she let him go.

Away and away flew the little sparrow, over hill and over dale.

"And a good riddance, too!" said the cruel old woman.

When the old man came home from the mountains he found his pet sparrow gone. And before long he knew all the tale. He lost no time, the good old man; he set out at once on foot, calling "Sparrow, sparrow, where are you, my tongue-cut sparrow?"

Over hill and over dale he went, calling "Sparrow, sparrow, where are you, my tongue-cut sparrow?"

At last and at length he came to the sparrow's house, and the sparrow flew out to greet his master. Then there was a twittering, to be sure. The sparrow called his brothers and sisters and his children and his wife and his mother-in-law and his mother and his grandmother. And they all flew out to do the old man honour. They brought him into the house and they set him down upon mats of silk. Then they spread a great feast; red rice and _daikon_ and fish, and who knows what all besides, and the very best _saké_ to drink. The sparrow waited upon the good old man, and his brothers and sisters and his children and his wife and his mother-in-law and his mother and his grandmother with him.

After supper the sparrow danced, whilst his grandmother played the _samisen_ and the good old man beat time.

It was a merry evening.

At last, "All good things come to an end," says the old man; "I fear 'tis late and high time I was getting home."

"Not without a little present," says the sparrow.

"Ah, sparrow dear," says the old man, "I'd sooner have yourself than any present."

But the sparrow shook his head.

Presently they brought in two wicker baskets.

"One of them is heavy," says the sparrow, "and the other is light. Say, master, will you take the heavy basket or the light?"

"I'm not so young as I once was," says the good old man. "Thanking you kindly, I'd sooner have the light basket; it will suit me better to carry--that is, if it's the same to you," he says.

So he went home with the light basket. When he opened it, wonderful to tell, it was full of gold and silver and tortoise-shell and coral and jade and fine rolls of silk. So the good old man was rich for life.

Now, when the bad old woman heard tell of all this, she tied on her sandals and kilted her skirts and took a stout stick in her hand. Over hill and over dale she went, and took the straight road to the sparrow's house. There was the sparrow, and there were his brothers and sisters and children and his wife and his mother and his mother-in-law and his grandmother. They were not too pleased to see the bad old woman, but they couldn't do less than ask her in as she'd come so far. They gave her red rice and white rice and _daikon_ and fish, and who knows what besides, and she gobbled it up in a twinkling, and drank a good cup of _saké_. Then up she got. "I can't waste any more time here," she says, "so you'd best bring out your presents."

They brought in two wicker baskets.

"One of them is heavy," says the sparrow, "and the other is light. Say, mistress, will you take the heavy basket or the light?"

"I'll take the heavy one," says the old woman, quick as a thought. So she heaved it up on her back and off she set. Sure enough it was as heavy as lead.

When she was gone, Lord! how the sparrows did laugh!

No sooner did she reach home than she undid the cords of the basket.

"Now for the gold and silver," she said, and smiled--though she hadn't smiled for a twelve-month. And she lifted up the lid.

"_Ai! Ai! Kowai! Obaké da! Obaké!_" she screeched.

The basket was full of ugly imps and elves and pixies and demons and devils. Out they came to tease the old woman, to pull her and to poke her, to push her and to pinch her. She had the fine fright of her life, I warrant you.

XXXIII

THE NURSE

Idé the _samurai_ was wedded to a fair wife and had an only child, a boy called Fugiwaka. Idé was a mighty man of war, and as often as not he was away from home upon the business of his liege lord. So the child Fugiwaka was reared by his mother and by the faithful woman, his nurse. Matsu was her name, which is, in the speech of the country, the Pine Tree. And even as the pine tree, strong and evergreen, was she, unchanging and enduring.

In the house of Idé there was a very precious sword. Aforetime a hero of Idé's clan slew eight-and-forty of his enemies with this sword in one battle. The sword was Idé's most sacred treasure. He kept it laid away in a safe place with his household gods.

Morning and evening the child Fugiwaka came to make salutations before the household gods, and to reverence the glorious memory of his ancestors. And Matsu, the nurse, knelt by his side.

Morning and evening, "Show me the sword, O Matsu, my nurse," said Fugiwaka.

And O Matsu made answer, "Of a surety, my lord, I will show it to you."

Then she brought the sword from its place, wrapped in a covering of red and gold brocade. And she drew off the covering and she took the sword from its golden sheath and displayed the bright steel to Fugiwaka. And the child made obeisance till his forehead touched the mats.

At bedtime O Matsu sang songs and lullabies. She sang this song:

"Sleep, my little child, sweetly sleep-- Would you know the secret, The secret of the hare o Nennin Yama? Sleep, my little child, sweetly sleep-- You shall know the secret. Oh, the august hare of Nennin Yama, How augustly long are his ears! Why should this be, oh, best beloved? You shall know the secret. His mother ate the bamboo seed. Hush! Hush! His mother ate the loquat seed. Hush! Hush! Sleep, my little child, sweetly sleep-- Now you know the secret."

Then O Matsu said, "Will you sleep now, my lord Fugiwaka?"

And the child answered, "I will sleep now, O Matsu."

"Listen, my lord," she said, "and, sleeping or waking, remember. The sword is your treasure. The sword is your trust. The sword is your fortune. Cherish it, guard it, keep it."

"Sleeping or waking, I will remember," said Fugiwaka.

Now in an evil day the mother of Fugiwaka fell sick and died. And there was mourning in the house of Idé. Howbeit, when years were past, the _samurai_ took another bride, and he had a son by her and called him Goro. And after this Idé himself was slain in an ambush, and his retainers brought his body home and laid him with his fathers.

Fugiwaka was chief of the House of Idé. But the Lady Sadako, his stepmother, was ill-pleased. Black mischief stirred in her heart; she bent her brows and she brooded as she went her ways, bearing her babe in her arms. At night she tossed upon her bed.

"My child is a beggar," she said. "Fugiwaka is chief of the House of Idé. Evil fortune betide him! It is too much," said the proud lady. "I will not brook it; my child a beggar! I would rather strangle him with my hands...." Thus she spoke and tossed upon her bed, thinking of a plan.

When Fugiwaka was fifteen years old she turned him out of the house with a poor garment upon his back, barefooted, with never a bite nor a sup nor a gold piece to see him on his way.

"Ah, lady mother," he said, "you use me ill. Why do you take my birthright?"

"I know nought of birthrights," she said. "Go, make your own fortune if you can. Your brother Goro is chief of the House of Idé."

With that she bade them shut the door in his face.

Fugiwaka departed sorrowfully, and at the cross-roads O Matsu, his nurse, met him. She had made herself ready for a journey: her robe was kilted, she had a staff in her hand and sandals on her feet.

"My lord," she said, "I am come to follow you to the world's end."

Then Fugiwaka wept and laid his head upon the woman's breast.

"Ah," he said, "my nurse, my nurse! And," he said, "what of my father's sword? I have lost the precious sword of Idé. The sword is my treasure, the sword is my trust, the sword is my fortune. I am bound to cherish it, to guard it, to keep it. But now I have lost it. Woe is me! I am undone, and so is all the House of Idé!"

"Oh, say not so, my lord," said O Matsu. "Here is gold; go you your way and I will return and guard the sword of Idé."

So Fugiwaka went his way with the gold that his nurse gave him.

As for O Matsu, she went straightway and took the sword from its place where it lay with the household gods, and she buried it deep in the ground until such time as she might bear it in safety to her young lord.

But soon the Lady Sadako became aware that the sacred sword was gone.

"It is the nurse!" she cried. "The nurse has stolen it.... Some of you bring her to me."

Then the Lady Sadako's people laid their hands roughly upon O Matsu and brought her before their mistress. But for all they could do O Matsu's lips were sealed. She spoke never a word, neither could the Lady Sadako find out where the sword was. She pressed her thin lips together.

"The woman is obstinate," she said. "No matter; for such a fault I know the sovereign cure."

So she locked O Matsu in a dark dungeon and gave her neither food nor drink. Every day the Lady Sadako went to the door of the dark dungeon.

"Well," she said, "where is the sword of Idé? Will you say?"

But O Matsu answered not a word.

Howbeit she wept and sighed to herself in the darkness--"Alas! Alas! never alive may I come to my young lord. Yet he must have the sword of Idé, and I shall find a way."

Now after seven days the Lady Sadako sat in the garden-house to cool herself, for it was summer. The time was evening. Presently she saw a woman that came towards her through the garden flowers and trees. Frail and slender was the woman; as she came her body swayed and her slow steps faltered.

"Why, this is strange!" said the Lady Sadako. "Here is O Matsu, that was locked in the dark dungeon." And she sat still, watching.

But O Matsu went to the place where she had buried the sword and scratched at the ground with her fingers. There she was, weeping and moaning and dragging at the earth. The stones cut her hands and they bled. Still she tore away the earth and found the sword at last. It was in its wrapping of gold and scarlet, and she clasped it to her bosom with a loud cry.