Japanese Tales

by Royall Tyler

  Eventually Tadazane enshrined the tail in a hall on Mount Hiei, one already dedicated to a healing spirit. But for one reason or another (perhaps because this sharing of the hall was not a good idea) a special shrine was eventually built for the tail down in the city. The god was given the name Fukutenjin, or Celestial God of Good Fortune. The shrine is still there.

  The most curious of Fukutenjin’s many wonders occurred in 1229. It involved a man known as Saemon no Jō, the son of a former official in Echizen province.

  One evening at twilight Saemon no Jō had just left his master’s residence when at a nearby crossroads he stopped and exclaimed, “Oh, what beautiful koto music!” Then he just stood there listening. The man with him said he heard nothing. “What a pity!” said Saemon no Jō, rooted to the spot in fascination.

  As soon as Saemon no Jō got home, something went very wrong in his chest, and he became terribly ill. He also went completely mad and tried to rush off westward. It took six strong men to stop him. Then he leapt high in the air, came down head first, and hit the floor so hard with his shoulders that it looked as though he would dash himself to pieces.

  A gentleman named Takatoki was then renting part of a mansion just east of the sick man’s house. When Saemon no Jō now pointed in that direction and again strained to rush off, his father demanded to know where he wanted to go. “Is it Takatoki you want to see?” he asked. The sick man nodded yes. “Then why not just let me call him over?” The sick man looked pleased and again nodded yes.

  The father went over to Takatoki’s place, explained the strange situation to him, and brought him back. As soon as the sick man saw Takatoki, he left off raving. Very quiet now, he picked up a formal hat, put it on (he wanted to be properly dressed), and bowed deeply to Takatoki. Next, he glared meaningfully at the half-dozen men who were stationed around him. They took the hint and withdrew. The father made himself as inconspicuous as he could in a corner, but when the sick man glared at him in the same way, he left too. The sick man and Takatoki were alone together.

  The sick man looked perfectly happy and went on bowing to Takatoki. “Well?” said Takatoki. “What is this all about?”

  The sick man bowed even more deeply than before. “You’re a neighbor, you see, and I so much wanted your company!”

  “So here I am. Tell me frankly what I can do for you.”

  “I must hear you sing, and play the koto and biwa.”

  “Why, of course, I’ll be happy to make music for you as long as it’ll cheer you up!”

  Takatoki had a biwa brought over and began to play. The sick man nodded on and on as he listened, and rocked from side to side. He looked as blissful as when he had stood listening to the music at the crossroads. Takatoki went on to sing all sorts of songs as the sick man requested them, and the sick man was in ecstasy.

  “Well, now I’ve played or sung for you practically everything I know,” Takatoki finally declared. “Don’t hesitate to tell me when you’d like to hear me again, because I’ll happily oblige. There’s no need to carry on the way you did. Next time, just ask quietly!”

  The sick man started bowing again. “Oh, I wouldn’t presume to ask you over again till I’m better!” he protested.

  “Fine. Then I’ll be going. But first I’d like to see you eat something.”

  When the sick man agreed, Takatoki had him brought some rice and dried abalone. The sick man gobbled up the rice with a great clicking of teeth, then scraped the abalone into a pile which he swallowed easily in a couple of mouthfuls. His manners were not exactly normal. Next, Takatoki offered him wine. Normally Saemon no Jō barely drank at all, but now he downed two large cupfuls in quick succession, then disposed willingly of a third.

  “All right, I’ll be going now!” Takatoki announced. “Good-bye!”

  Near dawn the sick man’s father came for Takatoki again. “He went back to raving once you were gone,” he explained. “Could you possibly come?” Takatoki arrived to find the sick man in a terrifying frenzy.

  “All right,” he said firmly, “what’s this act you’re putting on? I did everything you asked, and I played you all my music. You should have been fine then. What do you mean by carrying on like this instead?”

  “Well, you see,” the sick man replied, “you didn’t do everything I wanted! There’s that wonderful te style on the biwa, and I wanted to hear that, too!”

  “Fine! Why didn’t you tell me in the first place?” Takatoki played a couple of pieces like that and the sick man listened attentively, nodding as usual.

  “All right, you’ve played the biwa for me,” he said. “How about some koto now?”

  “Certainly, if that’s what you want.” Takatoki played a couple of pieces while the sick man listened again in rapture.

  Finally day came and sunlight streamed in through a hole in the wall. When a dog’s nose suddenly appeared in the hole, sniffing vigorously, the sick man straightened up, paled, and showed every sign of terror. His father and Takatoki realized that the dog must have smelled a fox, and it dawned on them that the cause of all the trouble was Fukutenjin. They chased the dog away.

  “Well, I’m sure you feel fine now,” said Takatoki, speaking quite consciously to the god. “I think I’ll be going. Thank you very much for having had me to play for you! I promise you music at your shrine, too.”

  Saemon no Jō lay unconscious till late afternoon while Takatoki, very upset over what had happened, took his two sisters to the Fukutenjin Shrine and went on playing the koto and biwa with them, for the pleasure of the god.

  48.

  DIVINE APPLAUSE

  Three master dancers named Noritaka, Masasuke, and Tokisuke accompanied the new governor of Bitchū when he went down to his province to salute its gods. They danced the traditional offering dances at each shrine.

  When Noritaka performed Ryōō (always a favorite) at the Kibitsu Shrine, the sanctuary creaked and shook. The crowd was amazed. Masasuke and Tokisuke were equally startled, but glad, too, that the god was so pleased. Then the god threw open the sanctuary doors, though of course he still could not be seen, and the crowd was transported with joy and awe.

  Soon it would be Masasuke and Tokisuke’s turn to dance. How embarrassed they would be if the god gave them no such sign! Both turned toward the sanctuary and prayed, in tears, that their art should be just as enjoyable.

  When the time came, they began Rakuson. In a moment the sanctuary was shaking so violently that it was quite alarming!

  49.

  BRING BACK THAT FERRY!

  A little crowd of people waiting for the ferry at Kōraki in Echizen province were joined by a mountain ascetic named Keitōbō — a fellow who had done the pilgrimages to Golden Peak, to Kumano, and to every other sacred mountain of any importance in the land.

  When the ferry arrived, the people paid their fare and went aboard, but Keitōbō demanded to be taken across free. The ferryman refused and cast off. “How can you do this to me?” Keitōbō shouted, but the ferryman ignored him and rowed away.

  Keitōbō clenched his teeth and began rubbing the beads of his rosary intently together, making a buzzing sound. He was casting spells, as anyone could tell. The ferryman glanced back at him from a few hundred yards offshore, showing plainly enough by his look that he thought Keitōbō a pathetic fool.

  Keitōbō stared after him and stamped his feet into the sand halfway up his shins. Then, glaring red-eyed at the ferry and almost demolishing his rosary with the fury of his rubbing, he began to shout, “Bring it back! Bring it back!”

  The boat kept going. Keitōbō strode to the water’s edge. “Guardian spirit,” he thundered, “bring that ferry back! I’m through with the Buddha forever if you don’t!” Next, he threatened to throw his priestly stole into the sea. The bystanders turned pale when they saw what he was doing.

  The boat began gliding back toward the shore even though there was no wind. “That’s it, that’s it!” Keitōbō roared. “Hurry, hurry, bring it in!” The onlooke
rs turned paler still.

  “Fine!” he bellowed when the ferry was less than a hundred yards offshore. “Now, roll it over, capsize it!”

  This time the onlookers cried out in protest. “What a horrible thing to wish! You brute! Why can’t you leave them alone!”

  Keitōbō only rose to a still higher pitch of ferocity. “Turn that ferry over now!” he thundered. There was a huge splash as the ferry capsized and the two dozen passengers were pitched into the sea.

  Keitōbō wiped the sweat from his brow. “The idiots!” he muttered. “When will they ever learn?” And he stalked off.

  50.

  THE MAN-MADE FRIEND

  Saigyō, the poet and wandering monk, was living on Mount Kōya when he ran into an acquaintance of his, a fellow religious wanderer who was staying on the mountain too. They met on a bridge and paused there to chat and admire the brilliance of the moon. Saigyō’s friend remarked that he was off to the Capital.

  Saigyō was sad to lose this companion and found himself longing for someone else to share his pleasure in moonlight and flowers. Then he heard a man whose knowledge he respected describe how a demon can collect human bones and make them into a human being.

  He went straight to a wild moor where people left the dead, put bones together, and made a man himself. At least, it looked like a man, but it had poor color and no heart or spark of life. Its voice (for it had one) sounded like a musical instrument. It is the heart which is essential in man, however pleasing the voice may be. Having nothing more than a voice, the thing he had made was like a damaged flute.

  Still, it was astonishing that he had come so close, and he hardly knew what to do with his creation. He considered breaking it up again, but that might be murder. Of course it had no consciousness, and in that sense was just like a plant. Yet it did look human. He left it in a deserted spot. No doubt anyone who found it would be frightened and think it some sort of apparition.

  Perplexed as he was, Saigyō set off for the Capital too, to see Lord Tokudaiji, from whom he had learned many things in the past. Unfortunately, Lord Tokudaiji was away at the palace. Saigyō decided to visit Lord Moronaka instead.

  He explained how his experiment had turned out, and Lord Moronaka asked him exactly what he had done.

  “I went into the wilds where no one could see me,” Saigyō explained, “and put human bones together to make a complete skeleton. Then I painted the bones with arsenic, and crumbled snake-strawberry and chickweed leaves over them. Next I tied the bones together with thread and vines, and washed them in many waters. On the skull, where the hair would be growing, I rubbed ashes from the leaves of saikai and rose of Sharon. Finally I spread a mat on the ground, laid the bones on it, and wrapped them securely so the wind couldn’t get at them. Fourteen days later I came back. I burned musk and regular incense and did the Secret Rite of the Soul’s Recall.”

  “That was about right,” said Moronaka, “but you did the Rite of the Soul’s Recall a bit soon. For myself, it happens that I’ve made people by the Shijō major counselor’s method, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you the method because if I did, the people and other things I’ve made would all vanish. You do know a good deal, though, so I’ll help you. For one thing, don’t burn incense. It’s angelic beings, you see, not devilish ones who are attracted to incense. And since angelic beings have a deep horror of the round of birth and death, you aren’t going to get any life-spark into your creature that way. You’d do better to burn musk and milk. And then, anyone who does the Secret Rite of the Soul’s Recall should have fasted for seven days. If you follow those directions, I guarantee it’ll work. You’ll see.”

  But Saigyō thought better of the whole thing and decided to go no further.

  51.

  THE LAUGHING FIT

  When Takashina Shumpei was sent down on an official assignment to Kyushu, his younger brother, who had no government post, went with him. Shumpei’s brother soon met a newly arrived Chinese master of san magic. The method involved manipulating the hexagrams of the Book of Changed by means of six wooden sticks about three inches long and square in section. These were called san.

  Shumpei’s brother wanted to learn san magic too. At first the Chinese refused to teach him, but realized when he tried him out a little that he actually had a remarkable talent. “There’s no point in your staying here, though,” the Chinese warned. “Japan is hopeless for working the san. I’ll teach you if you’ll come back with me to China.”

  Shumpei’s brother agreed right away, promising that he would happily do anything to master the art. “I’ll be glad to go to China with you as long as I can serve you,” he assured the man. So the Chinese began giving him lessons.

  He learned with amazing speed, which pleased his teacher greatly. “There are many san masters in my country,” he said, “but none of them understand the san the way you do. Yes, you must come back with me to China!”

  “Of course I will,” his student answered. “Anything you say.”

  “In the art of the san,” the Chinese continued, “there are methods for healing the sick, as there are also methods for killing instantly anyone you may have cause to dislike. I’ll give you full knowledge of them all. Only swear that you’ll come back to my country with me.”

  Shumpei’s brother swore, but not quite wholeheartedly. This did not escape the Chinese, who taught him many things but withheld the technique for killing. “I’ll teach you how to kill people when we’re on the boat,” he said.

  One day Takashina Shumpei had to leave for the Capital on urgent business, and his brother prepared to go with him. The Chinese protested, but Shumpei’s brother refused to stay behind. “The idea!” he exclaimed. “I can’t just let him go by himself! But I’ll keep my promise, don’t worry!”

  “All right,” agreed the Chinese, “but come back! I’ve been planning to leave for China any day now. We’ll go together when you return.”

  With this understanding concluded, Shumpei’s brother left for Kyoto. He was thinking he might really go to China after all, but his relations, as one might well imagine, persuaded him to stay on in the Capital instead. Then Shumpei himself got wind of his brother’s plans and put a stop to the whole idea. His brother never went back to Kyushu.

  The Chinese waited, and when he heard nothing from his student began to send him accusing messages. All he got back were excuses about “my aged parents,” and about wanting to see them through to the end of their lives before undertaking so long a journey. The Chinese realized that his student had never meant to keep his promise, and he sailed to China alone.

  But before he left he laid a thorough curse on the miscreant. Shumpei’s brother had always been highly intelligent but now, under the influence of the curse, he grew vague, forgetful, and stupid. In the end he could only make himself into a sort of monk at a mountain temple, and he spent his life trudging back and forth between this temple and Shumpei’s residence. He had become a useless fool.

  He was once at Shumpei’s house on the night of the monthly Kōshin vigil, when everyone has to stay awake till dawn on pain of suffering some calamity. The young women of the household had gathered to while away the night together, and in the small hours, when they were beginning to feel awfully sleepy, they noticed their master’s brother over in a corner, looking as witless as ever. “How about him!” cried a particularly high-spirited lady. “Maybe he knows a good story or two! Come, sir,” she called to him, “tell us a story and make us laugh! Laughing will keep us awake!”

  “I can’t talk very well,” the poor fool answered, “and I don’t know any funny stories. But if you just want to laugh, yes, I can make you laugh, I certainly can!”

  “You won’t tell us a story but you’ll make us laugh anyway? What are you going to do? Dance, perhaps? Oh, that’ll be even better than a story!” The lady laughed at the very thought.

  “No, no, I’m just going to make you laugh.”

  “Well, how? Come then, show us!”

&nb
sp; The women watched eagerly as Shumpei’s brother moved up to the lamp, untied the bag that held his san, and emptied the sticks on the floor.

  “What’s funny about those things?” the women complained. “Why, nothing at all! Come, come, we want to laugh!”

  Shumpei’s brother ignored them. Instead, he began making passes with the sticks and arranging them in patterns.

  When he was finished, he had one left over, and he held it up before them. “Now, ladies,” he said, “you’re going to laugh, and let’s hope it doesn’t hurt too badly. Yes indeed, you’re going to laugh!”

  “How stupid can you be?” the women muttered. “How could laughing hurt?”

  Shumpei’s brother added the last stick to the pattern. A spasm of mirth abruptly seized all the women. They laughed and laughed and simply could not stop. Tears poured from their eyes, their sides felt as though they were literally splitting, and they thought they were going to die. Unable even to speak, they wrung their hands before the tormentor who just now had been their victim, begging him to desist.

  “I told you!” he said. “Have you had enough?”

  They nodded frantically, rolling around the floor and laughing hilariously even as they pleaded. When he thought they had suffered enough, he broke up the pattern. There was a sudden, dazed silence. “I’d have been dead if that had gone on much longer,” one woman finally gasped. “I’ve never had such an awful experience in my life!” They were all lying in a heap, practically ill with exhaustion.

  People said it was a good thing that Shumpei’s brother had never been taught how to kill people with the san. If he had, something really awful might have happened.