Part 15

Then she spread her bright wings and the cohorts of Heaven closed about her. Together they passed up the highway to the moon, and were no more seen.

The Mikado took the elixir of life in his hand, and he went to the top of the highest mountain in that country. And he made a great fire to consume the elixir of life, for he said, "Of what profit shall it be to me to live for ever, being parted from the Lady Beaming Bright?"

So the elixir of life was consumed, and its blue vapour floated up to Heaven. And the Mikado said, "Let my message float up with the vapour and reach the ears of my Lady Beaming Bright."

XXXVII

KARMA

The young man, Ito Tatewaki, was returning homeward after a journey which he had taken to the city of Kioto. He made his way alone and on foot, and he went with his eyes bent upon the ground, for cares weighed him down and his mind was full of the business which had taken him to Kioto. Night found him upon a lonely road leading across a wild moor. Upon the moor were rocks and stones, with an abundance of flowers, for it was summer time, and here and there grew a dark pine tree, with gnarled trunk and crooked boughs.

Tatewaki looked up and beheld the figure of a woman before him in the way. It was a slender girl dressed in a simple gown of blue cotton. Lightly she went along the lonely road in the deepening twilight.

"I should say she was the serving-maid of some gentle lady," Tatewaki said to himself. "The way is solitary and the time is dreary for such a child as she."

So the young man quickened his pace and came up with the maiden. "Child," he said very gently, "since we tread the same lonely road let us be fellow-travellers, for now the twilight passes and it will soon be dark."

The pretty maiden turned to him with bright eyes and smiling lips.

"Sir," she said, "my mistress will be glad indeed."

"Your mistress?" said Tatewaki.

"Why, sir, of a surety she will be glad because you are come."

"Because I am come?"

"Indeed, and indeed the time has been long," said the serving-maid; "but now she will think no more of that."

"Will she not?" said Tatewaki. And on he went by the maiden's side, walking as one in a dream.

Presently the two of them came to a little house, not far from the roadside. Before the house was a small fair garden, with a stream running through it and a stone bridge. About the house and the garden there was a bamboo fence, and in the fence a wicket-gate.

"Here dwells my mistress," said the serving-maid. And they went into the garden through the wicket-gate.

Now Tatewaki came to the threshold of the house. He saw a lady standing upon the threshold waiting.

She said, "You have come at last, my lord, to give me comfort."

And he answered, "I have come."

When he had said this he knew that he loved the lady, and had loved her since love was.

"O love, love," he murmured, "time is not for such as we."

Then she took him by the hand, and they went into the house together and into a room with white mats and a round latticed window.

Before the window there stood a lily in a vessel of water.

Here the two held converse together.

And after some time there was an old ancient woman that came with _saké_ in a silver flagon; and she brought silver drinking-cups and all things needful. And Tatewaki and the lady drank the "Three Times Three" together. When they had done this the lady said, "Love, let us go out into the shine of the moon. See, the night is as green as an emerald...."

So they went and left the house and the small fair garden behind them. Or ever they had closed the wicket-gate the house and the garden and the wicket-gate itself all faded away, dissolving in a faint mist, and not a sign of them was left.

"Alas! what is this?" cried Tatewaki.

"Let be, dear love," said the lady, and smiled; "they pass, for we have no more need of them."

Then Tatewaki saw that he was alone with the lady upon the wild moor. And the tall lilies grew about them in a ring. So they stood the live-long night, not touching one another but looking into each other's eyes most steadfastly. When dawn came, the lady stirred and gave one deep sigh.

Tatewaki said, "Lady, why do you sigh?"

And when he asked her this, she unclasped her girdle, which was fashioned after the form of a golden scaled dragon with translucent eyes. And she took the girdle and wound it nine times about her love's arm, and she said, "O love, we part: these are the years until we meet again." So she touched the golden circles on his arm.

Then Tatewaki cried aloud, "O love, who are you? Tell me your name...."

She said, "O love, what have we to do with names, you and I?... I go to my people upon the plains. Do not seek for me there.... Wait for me."

And when the lady had spoken she faded slowly and grew ethereal, like a mist. And Tatewaki cast himself upon the ground and put out his hand to hold her sleeve. But he could not stay her. And his hand grew cold and he lay still as one dead, all in the grey dawn.

When the sun was up he arose.

"The plains," he said, "the low plains ... there will I find her." So, with the golden token wound about his arm, fleetly he sped down, down to the plains. He came to the broad river, where he saw folk standing on the green banks. And on the river there floated boats of fresh flowers, the red dianthus and the campanula, golden rod and meadow-sweet. And the people upon the river banks called to Tatewaki:

"Stay with us. Last night was the Night of Souls. They came to earth and wandered where they would, the kind wind carried them. To-day they return to Yomi. They go in their boats of flowers, the river bears them. Stay with us and bid the departing Souls good speed."

And Tatewaki cried, "May the Souls have sweet passage.... I cannot stay."

So he came to the plains at last, but did not find his lady. Nothing at all did he find, but a wilderness of ancient graves, with nettles overgrown and the waving green grass.

So Tatewaki went to his own place, and for nine long years he lived a lonely man. The happiness of home and little children he never knew.

"Ah, love," he said, "not patiently, not patiently, I wait for you.... Love, delay not your coming."

And when the nine years were past he was in his garden upon the Night of Souls. And looking up he saw a woman that came towards him, threading her way through the paths of the garden. Lightly she came; she was a slender girl, dressed in a simple gown of blue cotton. Tatewaki stood up and spoke:

"Child," he said very gently, "since we tread the same lonely road let us be fellow-travellers, for now the twilight passes and it will soon be dark."

The maid turned to him with bright eyes and smiling lips:

"Sir," she said, "my mistress will be glad indeed."

"Will she be glad?" said Tatewaki.

"The time has been long."

"Long and very weary," said Tatewaki.

"But now you will think no more of that...."

"Take me to your mistress," said Tatewaki. "Guide me, for I cannot see any more. Hold me, for my limbs fail. Do not leave go my hand, for I am afraid. Take me to your mistress," said Tatewaki.

In the morning his servants found him cold and dead, quietly lying in the shade of the garden trees.

XXXVIII

THE SAD STORY OF THE YAOYA'S DAUGHTER

There was a wandering ballad-singer who came to a great house in Yedo where they wished to be entertained.

"Will you have a dance or a song?" said the ballad-singer; "or shall I tell you a story?" The people of the house bade him tell a story.

"Shall it be a tale of love or a tale of war?" said the ballad-singer.

"Oh, a tale of love," they said.

"Will you have a sad tale or a merry?" asked the ballad-singer.

They were all agreed that they would hear a sad tale.

"Well, then," said the ballad-singer, "listen, and I will tell you the sad story of the Yaoya's daughter."

So he told this tale.

* * * * *

The Yaoya was a poor hard-working man, but his daughter was the sweetest thing in Yedo. You must know she was one of the five beauties of the city, that grew like five cherry-trees in the time of the spring blossoming.

In autumn the hunters lure the wild deer with the sound of the flute. The deer are deceived, for they believe that they hear the voices of their mates. So are they trapped and slain. For like calls to like. Youth calls to youth, beauty to beauty, love to love. This is law, and this law was the undoing of the Yaoya's daughter.

When there was a great fire in Yedo, so great that more than the half of the city was burned, the Yaoya's house was ruined also. And the Yaoya and his wife and his daughter had no roof over them, nor anywhere to lay their heads. So they went to a Buddhist temple for shelter and stayed there many days, till their house should be rebuilt. Ah me, for the Yaoya's daughter! Every morning at sunrise she bathed in the spring of clean water that was near the temple. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks ruddy. Then she would put on her blue gown and sit by the water-side to comb her long hair. She was a sweet and slender thing, scarce fifteen years old. Her name was O Schichi.

"Sweep the temple and the temple courts," her father bade her. "'Tis well we should do so much for the good priests who give us shelter." So O Schichi took the broom and swept. And as she laboured she sang merrily, and the grey precincts of the temple grew bright.

Now there was a young acolyte who served in the holy place. Gentle he was and beautiful. Not a day passed but he heard the singing of O Schichi; not a day passed but he set eyes upon her, going her ways, so light and slender, in the ancient courts of the temple.

It was not long before he loved her. Youth calls to youth, beauty to beauty, love to love. It was not long before she loved him.

Secretly they met together in the temple grove. Hand in hand they went, her head against his arm.

"Ah," she cried, "that such a thing should be! I am happy and unhappy. Why do I love you, my own?"

"Because of the power of Karma," said the acolyte. "Nevertheless, we sin, O heart's desire, grievously we sin, and I know not what may come of it."

"Alas," she said, "will the gods be angry with us, and we so young?"

"I cannot tell," he said; "but I am afraid."

Then the two of them clung together, trembling and weeping. But they pledged themselves to each other for the space of many existences.

The Yaoya had his dwelling in the quarter of the city called Honjo, and presently his house was rebuilt which had been destroyed by the fire. He and his wife were glad, for they said, "Now we shall go home."

O Schichi hid her face with her sleeve and wept bitter tears.

"Child, what ails you?" said her mother.

O Schichi wept. "Oh! oh! oh!" she cried, and swayed herself to and fro.

"Why, maid, what is it?" said her father.

Still O Schichi wept. "Oh! oh! oh!" she cried, and swayed herself to and fro.

That night she went to the grove. There was the acolyte, very pale and sorrowful, beneath the trees.

"They will part us," she cried, "O my dear heart's desire. The dear gods are angry with us, and we so young."

"Ah," he said, "I was afraid.... Farewell, dear maid, O little maid, sweet and slender. Remember we are pledged to one another for the space of many existences."

Then the two of them clung together, trembling and weeping, and they bade farewell a thousand times.

The next day they bore O Schichi home to Honjo. She grew languid and listless. White she grew, white as the buckwheat flower. She drooped and she failed. No longer was she numbered with the five beauties of Yedo, nor likened to a cherry-tree in the time of the spring blossoming. All the day long she brooded silently. At night she lay awake in her low bed.

"Oh! oh!" she moaned, "the weary, weary night! Shall I never see him? Must I die of longing? Oh! oh! the weary, weary night...."

Her eyes grew large and burning bright.

"Alas! poor maid," said her father.

"I am afraid ..." said her mother. "She will lose her wits.... She does not weep any more."

At last O Schichi arose and took straw and made it into a bundle; and she put charcoal in the bundle and laid it beneath the gallery of her father's house. Then she set fire to the straw and the charcoal, and the whole burnt merrily. Furthermore the wood of her father's house took light and the house was burnt to the ground.

"I shall see him; I shall see him!" shrieked O Schichi, and fell in a swoon.

Howbeit all the city knew that she had set fire to her father's house. So she was taken before the judge to be tried for her wrong-doing.

"Child," said the judge, "what made you do this thing?"

"I was mad," she said, "I did it for love's sake. I said, 'I will burn the house, we shall have nowhere to lay our heads, then we shall take shelter at the temple; I will see my lover.' Lord, I have not seen him nor heard of him these many, many moons."

"Who is your lover?" said the judge.

Then she told him.

Now as for the law of the city, it was hard and could not be altered. Death was the penalty for the crime of the Yaoya's daughter. Only a child might escape.

"My little maid," the judge said, "are you perhaps twelve years old?"

"Nay, lord," she answered.

"Thirteen, then, or fourteen? The gods send you may be fourteen. You are little and slender."

"Lord," she said, "I am fifteen."

"Alas, my poor maid," said the judge, "you are all too old."

So they made her stand upon the bridge of Nihonbashi. And they told her story aloud; they called it from the house-tops so that all might hear. There she was for all the world to look upon.

Every day for seven days she stood upon the bridge of Nihonbashi, and drooped in the glare of the sun and of men's glances. Her face was white as the flower of the buckwheat. Her eyes were wide and burning bright. She was the most piteous thing under the sky. The tender-hearted wept to see her. They said, "Is this the Yaoya's daughter that was one of the five beauties of Yedo?"

After the seven days were passed they bound O Schichi to a stake, and they piled faggots of wood about her and set the faggots alight. Soon the thick smoke rose.

"It was all for love," she cried with a loud voice. And when she had said this, she died.

* * * * *

"The tale is told," said the ballad-singer. "Youth calls to youth, beauty to beauty, love to love. This is law, and this law was the undoing of the Yaoya's daughter."

* * * * *

Transcriber's note:

Inconsistent hyphenation (e.g. hair-pins vs. hairpins) and variant spellings (e.g. fulness vs. fullness) have not been changed.

Verse, and the words "Fairy Tales" on the title page, were italicized in the original book. This has not been represented in the plain-text versions. Also, macrons have been removed from the word "Dojoji" in the Latin-1 and ASCII versions.

Missing or misprinted punctuation has been corrected without note.

The following correction was also made:

p. 10: their to there (there lived in Yedo)