Part 14

"Woman, I have you now," shrieked the Lady Sadako, "and the sword of Idé as well!" And she leaped from the garden-house and ran at full speed. She stretched forth her hand to catch O Matsu by the sleeve, but did not have her or the sword either, for both of them were gone in a flash, and the lady beat the empty air. Swiftly she sped to the dark dungeon, and as she went she called her people to bring torches. There lay the body of poor O Matsu, cold and dead upon the dungeon floor.

"Send me the Wise Woman," said the Lady Sadako.

So they sent for the Wise Woman. And the Lady Sadako asked, "How long has she been dead?"

The Wise Woman said, "She was starved to death; she has been dead two days. It were well you gave her fit burial; she was a good soul."

As for the sword of Idé, it was not found.

Fugiwaka tossed to and fro upon his lowly bed in a wayside tavern. And it seemed to him that his nurse came to him and knelt by his side. Then he was soothed.

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

And he 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."

The sword was in its wrapping of gold and scarlet, and she laid it by Fugiwaka's side. The boy turned over to sleep, and his hand clasped the sword of Idé.

"Waking or sleeping," he said, "I will remember."

XXXIV

THE BEAUTIFUL DANCER OF YEDO

This is the tale of Sakura-ko, Flower of the Cherry, who was the beautiful dancer of Yedo. She was a _geisha_, born a _samurai's_ daughter, that sold herself into bondage after her father died, so that her mother might have food to eat. Ah, the pity of it! The money that bought her was called _Namida no Kané_, that is "the money of tears."

She dwelt in the narrow street of the _geisha_, where the red and white lanterns swing and the plum trees flourish by the low eves. The street of the _geisha_ is full of music, for they play the _samisen_ there all day long.

Sakura-ko played it too; indeed she was skilful in every lovely art. She played the _samisen_, the _kotto_, the _biwa_, and the small hand-drum. She could make songs and sing them. Her eyes were long, her hair was black, her hands were white. Her beauty was wonderful, and wonderful her power to please. From dawn to dusk, and from dusk to dawn she could go smiling and hide her heart. In the cool of the day she would stand upon the gallery of her mistress's house, and muse as she stood and looked down into the street of the _geisha_. And the folk that passed that way said to one another, "See, yonder stands Sakura-ko, Flower of the Cherry, the beautiful dancer of Yedo, the _geisha_ without peer."

But Sakura-ko looked down and mused and said, "Little narrow street of the _geisha_, paved with bitterness and broken hearts, your houses are full of vain hopes and vain regrets; youth and love and grief dwell here. The flowers in your gardens are watered with tears."

The gentlemen of Yedo must needs have their pleasure, so Sakura-ko served at feasts every night. They whitened her cheeks and her forehead, and gilded her lips with _beni_. She wore silk attires, gold and purple and grey and green and black, _obi_ of brocade magnificently tied. Her hair was pinned with coral and jade, fastened with combs of gold lacquer and tortoise-shell. She poured _saké_, she made merry with the good company. More than this, she danced.

Three poets sang of her dancing. One said, "She is lighter than the rainbow-tinted dragonfly."

And another said, "She moves like the mist of the morning when the bright sun shines."

And the third said, "She is like the shadow in the river of the waving willow-branch."

But it is time to tell of her three lovers.

The first lover was neither old nor young. He was passing rich, and a great man in Yedo. He sent his servant to the street of the _geisha_ with money in his girdle. Sakura-ko shut the door in his face.

"You are wrong, fellow," she said, "you have lost your way. You should have gone to the street of the toy-shops and bought your master a doll; let him know there are no dolls here."

After this the master came himself. "Come to me, O Flower of the Cherry," he said, "for I must have you."

"_Must?_" she said, and looked down with her long eyes.

"Aye," he said, "must is the word, O Flower of the Cherry."

"What will you give me?" she said.

"Fine attires, silk and brocade, a house, white mats and cool galleries; servants to wait on you, gold hairpins--what you will."

"What do I give you?" she said.

"Yourself, just that, O Flower of the Cherry."

"Body and soul?" she said.

And he answered her, "Body and soul."

"Now, fare you well," she said, "I have a fancy to remain a _geisha_. It is a merry life," she said, and she laughed.

So that was the end of the first lover.

The second lover was old. To be old and wise is very well, but he was old and foolish. "Sakura-ko," he cried, "ah, cruel one, I am mad for love of you!"

"My lord," she said, "I can easily believe it."

He said, "I am not so very old."

"By the divine compassion of the gods," she told him, "you may yet have time to prepare for your end. Go home and read the good law." But the old lover would hear nothing of her counsel. Instead, he bade her to his house by night to a great feast which he had prepared for her. And when they had made an end of the feast she danced before him wearing scarlet _hakama_ and a robe of gold brocade. After the dancing he made her sit beside him and he called for wine, that they might drink together. And the _geisha_ who poured the _saké_ was called Silver Wave.

When they had drunk together, Sakura-ko and her old lover, he drew her to him and cried:

"Come, my love, my bride, you are mine for the time of many existences; there was poison in the cup. Be not afraid, for we shall die together. Come with me to the Meido."

But Sakura-ko said, "My sister, the Silver Wave, and I are not children, neither are we old and foolish to be deceived. I drank no _saké_ and no poison. My sister, the Silver Wave, poured fresh tea in my cup. Howbeit I am sorry for you, and so I will stay with you till you die."

He died in her arms and was fain to take his way alone to the Meido.

"Alas! alas!" cried the Flower of the Cherry. But her sister, Silver Wave, gave her counsel thus: "Keep your tears, you will yet have cause for weeping. Waste not grief for such as he."

And that was the end of the second lover.

The third lover was young and brave and gay. Impetuous he was, and beautiful. He first set eyes on the Flower of the Cherry at a festival in his father's house. Afterwards he went to seek her out in the street of the _geisha_. He found her as she leaned against the gallery railing of her mistress's house.

She looked down into the street of the _geisha_ and sang this song:

"My mother bade me spin fine thread Out of the yellow sea sand-- A hard task, a hard task. May the dear gods speed me! My father gave me a basket of reeds; He said, 'Draw water from the spring And carry it a mile'-- A hard task, a hard task. May the dear gods speed me! My heart would remember, My heart must forget; Forget, my heart, forget-- A hard task, a hard task. May the dear gods speed me!"

When she had made an end of singing, the lover saw that her eyes were full of tears.

"Do you remember me," he said, "O Flower of the Cherry? I saw you last night at my father's house."

"Aye, my young lord," she answered him, "I remember you very well."

He said, "I am not so very young. And I love you, O Flower of the Cherry. Be gentle, hear me, be free, be my dear wife."

At this she flushed neck and chin, cheeks and forehead.

"My dear," said the young man, "now you are Flower of the Cherry indeed."

"Child," she said, "go home and think of me no more. I am too old for such as you."

"Old!" he said; "why, there lies not a year between us!"

"No, not a year--no year, but an eternity," said Flower of the Cherry. "Think no more of me," she said; but the lover thought of nothing else. His young blood was on fire. He could not eat, nor drink, nor sleep. He pined and grew pale, he wandered day and night, his heart heavy with longing. He lived in torment; weak he grew, and weaker. One night he fell fainting at the entrance of the street of the _geisha_. Sakura-ko came home at dawn from a festival in a great house. There she found him. She said no word, but she bore him to his house outside Yedo, and stayed with him there full three moons. And after that time he was nursed back to ruddy health. Swiftly, swiftly, the glad days sped by for both of them.

"This is the happy time of all my life. I thank the dear gods," said Flower of the Cherry one evening.

"My dear," the young man bade her, "fetch hither your _samisen_ and let me hear you sing."

So she did. She said, "I shall sing you a song you have heard already."

"My mother bade me spin fine thread Out of the yellow sea sand-- A hard task, a hard task. May the dear gods speed me! My father gave me a basket of reeds; He said, 'Draw water from the spring And carry it a mile'-- A hard task, a hard task. May the dear gods speed me! My heart would remember, My heart must forget; Forget, my heart, forget-- A hard task, a hard task. May the dear gods speed me!"

"Sweet," he said, "what does this song mean, and why do you sing it?"

She answered, "My lord, it means that I must leave you, and therefore do I sing it. I must forget you; you must forget me. That is my desire."

He said, "I will never forget you, not in a thousand existences."

She smiled, "Pray the gods you may wed a sweet wife and have children."

He cried, "No wife but you, and no children but yours, O Flower of the Cherry."

"The gods forbid, my dear, my dear. All the world lies between us."

The next day she was gone. High and low the lover wandered, weeping and lamenting and seeking her both near and far. It was all in vain, for he found her not. The city of Yedo knew her no more--Sakura-ko, the beautiful dancer.

And her lover mourned many many days. Howbeit at last he was comforted, and they found for him a very sweet fair lady whom he took to wife willingly enough, and soon she bore him a son. And he was glad, for time dries all tears.

Now when the boy was five years old he sat in the gate of his father's house. And it chanced that a wandering nun came that way begging for alms. The servants of the house brought rice and would have put it into her begging bowl, but the child said, "Let me give."

So he did as he would.

As he filled the begging bowl and patted down the rice with a wooden spoon and laughed, the nun caught him by the sleeve and held him and looked into his eyes.

"Holy nun, why do you look at me so?" cried the child.

She said, "Because I once had a little boy like you, and I went away and left him."

"Poor little boy!" said the child.

"It was better for him, my dear, my dear--far, far better."

And when she had said this, she went her way.

XXXV

HANA-SAKA-JIJI

In the early days there lived a good old couple. All their lives long they had been honest and hard-working, but they had always been poor. Now in their old age it was all they could do to make both ends meet, the poor old creatures.

But they did not complain, not a bit of it. They were merry as the day is long. If they ever went to bed cold or hungry they said nothing about it, and if they had bite or sup in the house you may be sure they shared it with their dog, for they were very fond of him. He was faithful, good, and clever. One evening the old man and the old woman went out to do a bit of digging in their garden, and the dog went with them.

While they were working the dog was sniffing the ground, and presently he began to scratch up the earth with his paws.

"What can the dog be about now?" says the old woman.

"Oh, just nothing at all," says the old man; "he's playing."

"It's more than playing," says the old woman. "It's my belief he's found something worth having."

So off she went to see what the dog would be at, and the old man followed her and leaned on his spade. Sure enough the dog had dug a pretty big hole by this time, and he went on scratching with his paws for dear life and barking short and sharp. The old man helped with his spade, and before long they came on a big box of hidden treasure, silver and gold and jewels and rich stuffs.

It is easy to believe that the good old couple were glad. They patted their clever dog, and he jumped up and licked their faces. After this they carried the treasure into the house. The dog ran to and fro and barked.

Now, next door to the good old couple lived another old couple, not so good as they, but envious and discontented. When the dog found the hidden treasure they looked through a hole in the bamboo hedge and saw the whole affair. Do you think they were pleased? Why, not a bit of it. They were so angry and envious that they could get no pleasure by day nor rest at night.

At last the bad old man came to the good old man.

"I've come to ask for the loan of your dog," he says.

"With all my heart," says the good old man; "take him and welcome."

So the bad old man took the dog and brought him to their best room. And the bad old man and his wife put a supper, of all manner of fine things to eat, before the dog, and bade him fall to.

"Honourable Dog," they said, "you are good and wise, eat and afterwards find us treasure."

But the dog would not eat.

"All the more left for us," said the greedy old couple, and they ate up the dog's supper in a twinkling. Then they tied a string round his neck and dragged him into the garden to find treasure. But never a morsel of treasure did he find, nor a glint of gold, nor a shred of rich stuff.

"The devil's in the beast," cries the bad old man, and he beat the dog with a big stick. Then the dog began to scratch up the earth with his paws.

"Oho! Oho!" says the bad old man to his wife, "now for the treasure."

But was it treasure that the dog dug up? Not a bit of it. It was a heap of loathly rubbish, too bad to tell of. But they say it smelt most vilely and the bad old couple were fain to run away, hiding their noses with their sleeves.

"Arah, arah!" they cried, "the dog has deceived us." And that very night they killed the poor dog and buried him at the foot of a tall pine tree.

Alack for the good old man and the good old woman when they heard the dog was gone! It was they that wept the bitter tears. They pulled flowers and strewed them on the poor dog's grave. They burned incense and they spread out good things to eat, and the vapour that rose from them comforted the poor dog's spirit.

Then the good old man cut down the pine tree, and made a mortar of its wood. He put rice in the mortar and pounded the rice with a pestle.

"Wonder of wonders," cried the old woman, who was looking on, "wonder of wonders, good man, our rice is all turned into broad gold pieces!"

So it was sure enough.

Presently, in comes the bad old man to ask for the loan of the mortar.

"For I'm needing a mortar something very special," says he.

"Take it," says the good old man; "I'm sure you're welcome."

So the bad old man took away the mortar under his arm, and when he had got it home he filled it with rice in a twinkling. And he pounded away at it for dear life's sake.

"Do you see any gold coming?" he says to his wife, who was looking on.

"Never a bit," she says, "but the rice looks queer."

Queer enough it was, mildewed and rotten, no use to man or beast.

"Arah, arah!" they cried, "the mortar has deceived us." And they didn't let the grass grow under their feet, but lit a fire and burnt the mortar.

Now the good old couple had lost their fairy mortar. But they never said a word, the patient old folk. The good old man took some of the ashes of the mortar and went his way.

Now it was mid-winter time, and all the trees were bare. There was not a flower to be seen, nor yet a little green leaf.

What does the good old man do but climb into a cherry tree and scatter a handful of his ashes over the branches? In a moment the tree was covered with blossoms.

"It will do," says the good old man, and down he gets from the tree and off he sets for the Prince's palace, where he knocks at the gate as bold as brass.

"Who are you?" they ask him.

"I am _Hana-saka-jiji_," says the old man, "the man who makes dead trees to blossom; my business is with the Prince."

Mighty pleased the Prince was when he saw his cherry trees and his peach trees and his plum trees rush into blossom.

"Why," he said, "it is mid-winter, and we have the joys of spring." And he called forth his lady wife and her maidens and all his own retainers to see the work of _Hana-saka-jiji_. At last he sent the old man home with a passing rich reward.

Now what of the bad old couple? Were they content to let well alone? Oh no.

They gathered together all the ashes that were left, and when they had put them in a basket they went about the town crying:

"We are the _Hana-saka-jiji_. We can make dead trees blossom."

Presently out comes the Prince and all his company to see the show. And the bad old man climbs up into a tree forthwith and scatters his ashes.

But the tree never blossomed, never a bit. The ashes flew into the Prince's eyes, and the Prince flew into a rage. There was a pretty to-do. The bad old couple were caught and well beaten. Sad and sorry they crept home at night. It is to be hoped that they mended their ways. Howbeit the good people, their neighbours, grew rich and lived happy all their days.

XXXVI

THE MOON MAIDEN

There was an old bamboo cutter called Také Tori. He was an honest old man, very poor and hard-working, and he lived with his good old wife in a cottage on the hills. Children they had none, and little comfort in their old age, poor souls.

Také Tori rose early upon a summer morning, and went forth to cut bamboos as was his wont, for he sold them for a fair price in the town, and thus he gained his humble living.

Up the steep hillside he went, and came to the bamboo grove quite wearied out. He took his blue _tenegui_ and wiped his forehead, "Alack for my old bones!" he said. "I am not so young as I once was, nor the good wife either, and there's no chick nor child to help us in our old age, more's the pity." He sighed as he got to work, poor Také Tori.

Soon he saw a bright light shining among the green stems of the bamboos.

"What is this?" said Také Tori, for as a rule it was dim and shady enough in the bamboo grove. "Is it the sun?" said Také Tori. "No, that cannot well be, for it comes from the ground." Very soon he pushed his way through the bamboo stems to see what the bright light came from. Sure enough it came from the root of a great big green bamboo. Také Tori took his axe and cut down the great big green bamboo, and there was a fine shining green jewel, the size of his two fists.

"Wonder of wonders!" cried Také Tori. "Wonder of wonders! For five-and-thirty years I've cut bamboo. This is the very first time I've found a great big green jewel at the root of one of them." With that he takes up the jewel in his hands, and as soon as he does that, it bursts in two with a loud noise, if you'll believe it, and out of it came a young person and stood on Také Tori's hand.

You must understand the young person was small but very beautiful. She was dressed all in green silk.

"Greetings to you, Také Tori," she says, as easy as you please.

"Mercy me!" says Také Tori. "Thank you kindly. I suppose, now, you'll be a fairy," he says, "if I'm not making too bold in asking?"

"You're right," she says, "it's a fairy I am, and I'm come to live with you and your good wife for a little."

"Well, now," says Také Tori, "begging your pardon, we're very poor. Our cottage is good enough, but I'm afraid there'd be no comforts for a lady like you."

"Where's the big green jewel?" says the fairy.

Take Tori picks up the two halves. "Why, it's full of gold pieces," he says.

"That will do to go on with," says the fairy; "and now, Také Tori, let us make for home."

Home they went. "Wife! wife!" cried Také Tori, "here's a fairy come to live with us, and she has brought us a shining jewel as big as a persimmon, full of gold pieces."

The good wife came running to the door. She could hardly believe her eyes.

"What is this," she said, "about a persimmon and gold pieces? Persimmons I have seen often enough--moreover, it is the season--but gold pieces are hard to come by."

"Let be, woman," said Také Tori, "you are dull." And he brought the fairy into the house.

Wondrous fast the fairy grew. Before many days were gone she was a fine tall maiden, as fresh and as fair as the morning, as bright as the noonday, as sweet and still as the evening, and as deep as the night. Také Tori called her the Lady Beaming Bright, because she had come out of the shining jewel.

Take Tori had the gold pieces out of the jewel every day. He grew rich, and spent his money like a man, but there was always plenty and to spare. He built him a fine house, he had servants to wait on him. The Lady Beaming Bright was lodged like an empress. Her beauty was famed both near and far, and scores of lovers came to seek her hand.

But she would have none of them. "Také Tori and the dear good wife are my true lovers," she said; "I will live with them and be their daughter."

So three happy years went by; and in the third year the Mikado himself came to woo the Lady Beaming Bright. He was the brave lover, indeed.

"Lady," he said, "I bow before you, my soul salutes you. Sweet lady, be my Queen."

Then the Lady Beaming Bright sighed and great tears stood in her eyes, and she hid her face with her sleeve.

"Lord, I cannot," she said.

"Cannot?" said the Mikado; "and why not, O dear Lady Beaming Bright?"

"Wait and see, lord," she said.

Now about the seventh month she grew very sorrowful, and would go abroad no more, but was for long upon the garden gallery of Také Tori's house. There she sat in the daytime and brooded. There she sat at night and gazed upon the moon and the stars. There she was one fine night when the moon was at its full. Her maidens were with her, and Také Tori and the good wife, and the Mikado, her brave lover.

"How bright the moon shines!" said Také Tori.

"Truly," said the good wife, "it is like a brass saucepan well scoured."

"See how pale and wan it is," said the Mikado; "it is like a sad despairing lover."

"How long and bright a beam!" quoth Také Tori. "It is like a highway from the moon reaching to this garden gallery."

"O dear foster-father," cried the Lady Beaming Bright. "You speak truth, it is a highway indeed. And along the highway come countless heavenly beings swiftly, swiftly, to bear me home. My father is the King of the Moon. I disobeyed his behest. He sent me to earth three years to dwell in exile. The three years are past and I go to mine own country. Ah, I am sad at parting."

"The mist descends," said Také Tori.

"Nay," said the Mikado, "it is the cohorts of the King of the Moon."

Down they came in their hundreds and their thousands, bearing torches. Silently they came, and lighted round about the garden gallery. The chief among them brought a heavenly feather robe. Up rose the Lady Beaming Bright and put the robe upon her.

"Farewell, Také Tori," she said, "farewell, dear foster-mother, I leave you my jewel for a remembrance.... As for you, my lord, I would you might come with me--but there is no feather robe for you. I leave you a phial of the pure elixir of life. Drink, my lord, and be even as the Immortals."