At that very moment, the poor woman awoke. Day had already dawned, and she at once resolved to act in accordance with her dream.
She laboriously climbed the mountain. Everything was exactly as she had seen it in the night. The old woman received her kindly, and pointed out a chair on which she might sit.
“You must have met with a misfortune,” she said, “since you have sought out my lonely cottage.”
With tears, the woman related what had befallen her.
“Be comforted,” said the old woman. “I will help you. Here is a golden comb for you. Tarry till the full moon has risen, then go to the mill-pond, seat yourself on the shore, and comb your long black hair with this comb. When you have done, lay it down on the bank, and you will see what will happen.”
The woman returned home, but the time till the full moon came passed slowly. When at last the shining disk appeared in the heavens, she went out to the mill-pond, sat down and combed her long black hair with the golden comb. And when she had finished, she laid it down at the water’s edge. It was not long before there was a movement in the depths, a wave rose, rolled to the shore, and bore the comb away with it.
In not more than the time necessary for the comb to sink to the bottom, the surface of the water parted, and the head of the huntsman arose. He did not speak, but looked at his wife with sorrowful glances.
At the same instant, a second wave came rushing up, and covered the man’s head. All had vanished, the mill-pond lay peaceful as before, and nothing but the face of the full moon shone on it.
Full of sorrow, the woman went back. But again the dream showed her the cottage of the old woman.
Next morning she again set out and complained of her woes to the wise woman. The old woman gave her a golden flute, and said, “Tarry till the full moon comes again, then take this flute. Play a beautiful air on it, and when you have finished, lay it on the sand. Then you will see what will happen.”
The wife did as the old woman told her. No sooner was the flute lying on the sand than there was a stirring in the depths, and a wave rushed up and bore the flute away with it.
Immediately afterward the water parted, and not only the head of the man but half of his body also arose. He stretched out his arms longingly toward her, but a second wave came up, covered him, and drew him down again.
“Alas, what does it help me,” said the unhappy woman, “that I should see my beloved, only to lose him again?”
Despair filled her heart anew, but the dream led her a third time to the house of the old woman. She set out, and the wise woman gave her a golden spinning-wheel, consoled her and said, “All is not yet fulfilled. Tarry until the time of the full moon, then take the spinning-wheel, seat yourself on the shore, and spin the spool full. And when you have done that, place the spinning-wheel near the water, and you will see what will happen.”
The woman obeyed all she said exactly. As soon as the full moon showed itself, she carried the golden spinning-wheel to the shore, and spun industriously until the flax came to an end, and the spool was quite filled with the threads.
No sooner was the wheel standing on the shore than there was a more violent movement than before in the depths of the pond, and a mighty wave rushed up, and bore the wheel away with it.
Immediately the head and the whole body of the man rose into the air, in a water-spout. He quickly sprang to the shore, caught his wife by the hand and fled.
But they had scarcely gone a very little distance, when the whole pond rose with a frightful roar, and streamed out over the open country.
The fugitives already saw death before their eyes, when the woman in her terror implored the help of the old woman, and in an instant they were transformed, she into a toad, he into a frog. The flood which had overtaken them could not destroy them, but it tore them apart and carried them far away.
When the water had dispersed and they both touched dry land again, they regained their human form, but neither knew where the other was. They found themselves among strange people, who did not know their native land. High mountains and deep valleys lay between them.
In order to keep themselves alive, they were both obliged to tend sheep. For many long years they drove their flocks through field and forest and were full of sorrow and longing.
When spring had once more broken forth on the earth, they both went out one day with their flocks, and as chance would have it, they drew near each other. They met in a valley, but did not recognize each other.
Yet they rejoiced that they were no longer so lonely. Henceforth they each day drove their flocks to the same place. They did not speak much, but they felt comforted.
One evening when the full moon was shining in the sky, and the sheep were already at rest, the shepherd pulled the flute out of his pocket, and played on it a beautiful but sorrowful air. When he had finished he saw that the shepherdess was weeping bitterly.
“Why are you weeping?” he asked.
“Alas,” answered she, “thus shone the full moon when I played this air on the flute for the last time, and the head of my beloved rose out of the water.”
He looked at her, and it seemed as if a veil fell from his eyes, and he recognized his dear wife. And when she looked at him, and the moon shone in his face, she knew him also. They embraced and kissed each other, and no one need ask if they were happy.
The Silken Drum
REGGIE OLIVER
Fly, fiend! Over the Western Sea
Followed by cries of hate from the Afterworld
—Aya no Tsuzumi (The Silken Drum),
Japanese Noh play, origin and author unknown.
“She’s Japanese,” said Karen from the estate agent’s. I noticed a hint of apprehension in her voice, as if she had felt compelled to warn me.
“Fine,” I said. I had no particular prejudice. It was my father who had suffered at their hands in the war, not me, and my father was dead.
“So, shall I bring her round to view the property about ten tomorrow morning, Mr. Weston?” Karen sounded relieved. I agreed on the time and put down the phone. When I told my wife that we might have found a Japanese tenant for the cottage on our land, she seemed mildly interested.
“I suppose she’ll keep the place nice and clean,” she said.
Karen brought her at the appointed time in her car. My wife, Danielle, was content to watch her arrival from her wheelchair through the window. She did not want to meet the lady just at the moment. Danielle was not shy, but increasing disability had enhanced her natural social reticence.
I went out to meet them. Karen introduced her to me as Mrs. Naga. Mrs. Naga said: “I am Yukie,” and so she became Yukie to us—or, more familiarly, Yuki.
She was tall, I thought, for a Japanese woman: about five foot eight, slim, with a narrow waist and an almost absurdly perfect figure. Her features were small and delicate, her lips were the color of raspberries, unaided by lipstick. I am not sure whether I would describe her as beautiful—we all have our personal criteria, which are far from objective—but she immediately gave an impression of charm and allure. When she smiled it was with her whole face, and her exquisite almond-shaped brown eyes shone.
Her only unattractive feature to me was her hair. It was jet-black and lustrous but somehow too fine, hanging limp over her forehead, so that the exact contours of her skull could be discerned beneath. The top of her head was somewhat flat, a black lake over which a single streak of white shivered like a water snake, swimming away from her left temple. It could have been the work of a hairstylist, but I thought not. She had the most perfect skin, magnolia-colored, smooth and unblemished as an unused bolt of silk.
Was I attracted to her? This is a subject that is still oddly painful. I can only say that when she was in the room with my wife I always avoided looking at her for too long. My wife, Danielle, was a very observant woman.
That first time I met her I noticed that she was very well dressed in tones of black but with a bright crimson shawl draped elegantly over on
e shoulder. I was not surprised when she told me that she was connected to the fashion business. She said she was a designer, but whether of fabrics, clothes or accessories was not made clear.
She had come to this country so that her nine-year-old son, Lee, could go to school here. According to her, education in Japan was a very rigid affair and she had decided that Lee needed a freer approach. She had heard of a school in Suffolk called Springfields which is only a few miles away from us. It was founded in the 1920s by an educationalist of extreme libertarian views and had acquired a worldwide reputation for its eccentric, antiauthoritarian ethos. Pupils could go to classes or stay away as they chose, rise and go to bed when they wanted, all that sort of thing. Needless to say, rumors of more scandalous happenings on its premises abounded.
At any rate, Yuki had decided to send Lee there. Evidently the father, whoever or wherever he might have been, had no say in the matter. Yukie Naga was someone who did nothing by halves.
I took Karen and Yuki down the drive to show them the cottage. It is a converted barn of brick and black weatherboarding, essentially a bungalow, but with a bedroom and bathroom in the roof space. I am not sure if it was particularly Japanese in aspect but its open planning, its use of wood and its plain white walls would perhaps appeal to the Japanese sensibility. Yuki seemed to approve, but she was particularly charmed by the fact that, adjoining the cottage, there was a small pond presided over by a weeping willow which trailed its long fronds in the mirror-still surface.
I suppose there was something Japanese about this, especially as there was also a flowering cherry nearby. Yuki observed it with pleasure, though she would not go very close to the water’s edge. Having made this inspection, Yuki smiled and nodded at Karen, the estate agent, and that, I gathered, was that. She had taken Manor Farm Cottage at the rent we were asking.
She and Lee moved in the following week and on their first night there I invited them up to supper with us. Danielle by this time had expressed some curiosity about our new neighbors.
It was the first time that I had met Lee and I was impressed. Danielle and I had no offspring of our own and I am not in the habit of rhapsodizing over children, but Lee was exceptional. He was extraordinarily like his mother, with a perfect oval face and unblemished silken skin. His hair was as fine as Yuki’s and he wore it rather long so that, at a distance, he might have been mistaken for a girl. He was exquisitely polite and obliging, and seemed almost unnaturally self-possessed for a nine-year-old. That was the only aspect of him that made me uneasy.
He said little because his English was even more rudimentary than Yuki’s, but one small exchange I do remember. I had been telling Yuki that I had been an actor, which she conveyed to her son. Through her, he asked me:
“Were you a waki or a shite?”
The Japanese theater, Noh drama in particular, is very formal, and you are, I understand, either a waki, or a shite, pronounced “shté.” They have certain prescribed traits, and the shite is generally thought to be the player of more important roles. I replied that I had in my time been both waki and shite. This puzzled Lee, but no more was said on the subject.
Though Yuki’s English was patchy she was very charming and, in her way, good company. She showed enormous interest in our house and pictures and was very good at quietly attending to Danielle’s needs when this was required. Both she and Lee were quite unselfconscious in the presence of her disabilities and for this I was grateful. I began to feel that I could invite her to dinner parties and introduce her to our small circle of friends.
Despite being of necessity left out of much of our conversation, Lee seemed at ease, particularly as our black and white cat, Laura, took a fancy to him. After supper they played together contentedly while Yuki, Danielle and I drank coffee in the sitting room.
Above the fireplace in the sitting room is a large Regency mirror, and though I had indicated a place for Yuki next to my wife’s wheelchair and opposite the looking glass, I noticed that she took a seat very deliberately with her back to it. It was no more than slightly puzzling, as was the fact that Laura the cat, though very much enamored of Lee, seemed to take pains not to come too close to Yuki.
When they had gone I made some general remark to Danielle about Yuki, to the effect that we were lucky to have such a delightful tenant. Laura jumped onto Danielle’s wheelchair and began eagerly purring and nuzzling her as she was stroked.
“Yes, she’s charming,” said Danielle in that deliberately neutral tone of voice she adopted when she wanted to imply something but was in no mood for a discussion. I said nothing and took note.
My days, when I am not looking after Danielle, are relatively idle. Because I cannot leave my wife, I no longer work as an actor but do some PR work for a firm from home, so I was able to indulge my natural curiosity by watching Yuki.
During the week, while Lee boarded at Springfields, Yuki was mostly away, but she would appear at odd times. On one occasion I noticed that her door was open and so I strolled down to the cottage and knocked. My ostensible purpose was the traditional landlord’s excuse of asking if everything was all right. Yuki was hanging a picture and I offered to help. She smiled and invited me in.
I was surprised by the way in which she had transformed the cottage into something Japanese. The Turkish rugs had gone and the polished floorboards were now covered with Japanese matting. The padded furniture had been covered by plain white or off-white throws. All Western ornaments and pictures had been cleared away. It was not something to which I objected—she had asked my permission, even though she had taken the cottage furnished—but I was surprised by the extent of the transformation.
I hammered in the hook for her picture. It was a Japanese print depicting an old man sweeping leaves beside a pond fringed with laurel and other vegetation. The sky was dark and in it hung a large moon across which a bat flew. Despite this there were no shadows or darkness in the main part of the picture, which gave it a strange surreal effect, like one of Magritte’s paintings of bright skies and dark lamp-lit streets, only in reverse. The effect was rather beautiful, I thought, except for the face of the old man, which was riddled with wriggling lines. He looked like a soul in torment. In one of the trees beside the lake hung a flat, disk-like object, resembling a tambourine. Yuki thanked me when I had hung the picture, then said:
“How come your wife, Danielle, is in a wheelchair?”
The question took me aback. It came without preliminary or excuse. I explained as briefly and coolly as possible, knowing how much my wife (and I for that matter) detested expressions of sympathy, but she offered none. She merely smiled—rather inappropriately, I thought—and nodded her head, as if the cause (multiple sclerosis, as it happens) was the diagnosis she had expected.
“How soon will she die?”
I was so startled by the baldness of this second question that I did not think to be offended. I stuttered out a very vague answer, feeling somehow guilty that I had given any answer at all.
Then Yuki said: “Please, may I ask something else?”
“Carry on.” I braced myself for more personal probing.
“In your garden, there is a lake. May I walk beside it if I wish?”
“Of course.” Besides the small pond next to her cottage, there is also a lake, fed by springs, in our grounds.
“Thank you very much, Weston-san.” She bowed formally.
I took this to be the politest form of dismissal from her premises, so I went. I reflected for a while on the curious behavior in which she had unashamedly asked about my wife’s condition and yet had sought permission to walk by the lake in my grounds. Another instance of: “Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,” I suppose. The other odd thing I had noticed was that she had removed the large mirror in the main room and, in the wall space left vacant, had hung a number of Japanese theatrical masks, exquisitely modeled and painted. One of them seemed to me identical to Yuki’s face, just a little whiter in complexion. The
smile was hers to the last dimple, but the emptiness of the eyes gave it a disconcerting ambiguity.
I did not like myself for having her constantly on my mind. Whenever she came into my head I would drive her out, but there were so many unanswered questions about her. I even picked up a Japanese phrase book in a secondhand bookshop so that I could get the rudiments of her language. I hid this from Danielle, knowing that she would disapprove. I would often catch myself looking out of the window from which Yuki’s cottage could be seen, but most of the time her curtains were drawn.
The lake in our grounds lies at the bottom of a slope in our garden and is fringed by alders and willow. It is plainly visible from our house, though not from Yuki’s cottage. I have mown a pathway around it, along which, on fine days when the ground is dry, I wheel Danielle.
I often rise early so that I can find time to be with myself before I have to help Danielle. In these quiet moments I walk about the house, feed Laura the cat and open the curtains to let in the day. I can feel unconstrained by the limits of Danielle’s disability, as can she, in her own way, in sleep.
One morning I remember standing at the sitting room window, which has a fine view down to the lake. The sun was just up and had not yet burned the dew off the grass, which glistened grayly. A few tendrils of mist were suspended over the lake. A figure of a woman, her back to me, was standing by the water. She was naked and her skin in that morning glow was as white as a sheet of paper, so that for several moments I doubted my senses. A long fall of lustrous black hair with a thin white streak in it came straight down her back to the top of her buttocks, almost obscuring that absurdly narrow waist. It was Yuki.
With a steady, slow walk, like a priest performing a ritual immersion, she descended into the water. Barely a ripple flowed out from her wading thighs. Then the water touched her hair and began to splay it out in a black fan. When it was above her waist she launched herself gently into a swimming position and began to navigate the lake with a gentle breaststroke, still barely disturbing its surface, except with a few fine undulating rings of water.
Fearie Tales Page 24