The Ghost in the Tokaido Inn

by Tom Hoobler

  Lord Hakuseki prodded one of them with his foot. “Bring me their tea.” As the woman took the three boxes, Father began to explain the different qualities of each one.

  The daimyo pointed a finger at him. “If that man speaks again, cut his tongue out,” he said to one of the guards. Father lowered his head humbly and bent forward on his hands and knees.

  Lord Hakuseki looked inside each box, smelling the contents. Then he licked his finger and poked it inside one of them. Drawing it out, he tasted the tea leaves that clung to it. Seikei was glad that Father could not see how crudely the daimyo was testing his wares.

  But the daimyo seemed pleased. He handed the box to the servant. “Make some tea with this,” he told her.

  As she left the room, Lord Hakuseki noticed Seikei watching him. Instantly, Seikei lowered his eyes, but the daimyo said, “You, boy! Come here!”

  Seikei obeyed, moving forward on his knees. The daimyo reached down and pulled his head up by the hair. “How much do you think I should pay your master for the tea?”

  Seikei struggled to think of a proper answer. When he spoke, his voice squeaked. “Whatever you think is fair, Lord.”

  Lord Hakuseki grunted and released his grip. “Stay here, then,” he said. “I’ll see how it tastes.”

  He looked at the innkeeper. ‘Take the merchant away. I don’t want to see him again. I thought you were going to bring me some paper.”

  “At once, Lord,” the innkeeper said. He and Father backed out of the room. Father glanced at Seikei for a second, but Seikei did not need the warning in his eyes. He moved back against one of the walls, hoping the daimyo wouldn’t question him further.

  In a few seconds, the door opened again. The innkeeper entered, followed by a girl carrying a box. Seikei blinked. He recognized the girl. She was the one who met his eyes when he opened the kago door on the road.

  She was beautiful, he thought. As she knelt and bowed to the daimyo, Seikei could see her neck, long and graceful. Her black hair was held in place with a simple polished brown stick.

  The daimyo commanded her to rise. Her face was heart-shaped and her eyes shone like pebbles at the bottom of a stream. She must be as afraid as I was, thought Seikei, but she shows no sign of it.

  Lord Hakuseki seemed amused. “You are the paper- maker?” he asked her.

  “My family has made paper for many generations,” she explained. “I am traveling to Edo with my father to sell our wares, but he is ill and in need of rest.”

  Lord Hakuseki frowned. “I need paper fine enough to write a message for the shogun,” he said. “You understand? The shogun himself. I am bringing him a gift, and I wish to enclose a suitable poem with it.”

  The girl nodded, saying nothing. She took several sheets of paper from her box and placed them on the platform in front of the daimyo. From where he sat, Seikei could see that each sheet was different. Most were white, though their textures ranged from very smooth to some that were as rough as pine bark. A few sheets were delicately colored, and the daimyo picked one of them up.

  It was pink, rosy as the first light in the sky at dawn. “Unusual,” Lord Hakuseki said, rubbing the paper between his fingers. Seikei saw the girl clench her fists, and then put them behind her back. She must feel the same way as he had when the daimyo tasted the tea.

  “Ink,” called out Lord Hakuseki. One of the servants knelt down and rubbed an ink-stick against a stone tray. She poured a little water into the tray, mixing it with the dry ink.

  A second servant brought a writing-brush to the daimyo, who took the cap off and swished the brush in the ink. Without pausing to test the darkness of the ink on a cloth, he dabbed it roughly onto the pink paper. He wrote too slowly, Seikei saw. Masters of the art always made swift, confident brushstrokes.

  The girl was watching him too. Seikei saw her purse her lips in silent disapproval.

  The daimyo stopped, and admired his work. He showed it to the girl. “Have you ever seen a poem written by a master?” he asked her.

  Seikei saw her hesitate. Finally she nodded. “Basho used paper made by my great-grandparents to write his poetry. We have one of his poems at home. It was a gift from him.”

  Basho! Japan’s greatest poet! Seikei felt envious.

  Lord Hakuseki merely grunted. “And how would you say mine compares to his?”

  The girl’s mouth tightened into a line. That was the only sign that she was trying to control herself. “It is different, Lord. Yours displays your character, as the brush-writing of a master should.”

  Seikei put his hand to his mouth to hide a smile. A Japanese saying was: “A man and his brush-writing are one and the same.” Even from where he sat, Seikei could see that the daimyo’s writing was clumsy and crude.

  But the daimyo seemed pleased by the girl’s answer. “Would you like me to read it to you?” he asked.

  The girl’s eyes flashed at him in surprise for a second. Then she lowered them and nodded.

  “The cherry blossoms cover the ground,” he read, “like the heads of my enemies.”

  She murmured softly, as if admiring it.

  “It just popped into my head,” Lord Hakuseki said. “I think I was inspired by you.”

  The girl sat motionless on her heels.

  “Because you are like a little cherry blossom yourself,” the daimyo added. He looked around the room, and his samurai laughed.

  The girl still did not move. Seikei felt sorry for her, but he admired her self-control.

  The daimyo leaned forward. “Would you like to see something even more beautiful?” he asked the girl.

  She nodded. Seikei could sense her embarrassment, but obviously the daimyo could not.

  The daimyo gestured to one of his samurai, who brought him a small hinged box. Seikei marveled at its beauty. Covered with shiny black lacquer, it was decorated with tiny golden leaves.

  Lord Hakuseki opened the box and held it out for the girl to see. Inside, on a bed of black silk, was a brilliant red stone, as dark as blood. The girl’s eyebrows rose.

  “What do you think of that?” the daimyo asked.

  She shook her head. “I have never seen anything like it.”

  “Of course you haven’t,” said the daimyo. “It comes from a place far away, farther than China. It’s called a ruby. I am bringing it to Edo as my gift to the shogun.” The girl said nothing, and Lord Hakuseki abruptly snapped shut the lid of the box. “Now the paper,” he said. “How many sheets do you have?”

  She blinked. “Of this paper?”

  “The pink writing paper,” the daimyo said impatiently. “I like it. How many sheets do you have?”

  “My mother colors it with berries that she gathers in the mountains in the fall,” she said. ‘They are hard to find.”

  Lord Hakuseki waved his hand. “I don’t care about that. How many sheets?”

  “We have twenty sheets,” she said.

  The daimyo opened a pouch that hung at his belt. He took two coins from it and handed them to the girl. Seikei saw a flash of gold as she closed her hand. “You are very generous, Lord,” she said.

  The daimyo pointed to one of his samurai. “Go with her and bring the paper,” he said. The girl backed out of the room, looking relieved.

  As she left, the servant woman returned with a pot of tea. Seikei tensed, remembering what he was waiting for. He watched as the woman poured the daimyo a cup.

  The daimyo didn’t pick it up. He was still examining the pink writing paper with his poem on it. Then he looked down, as if noticing the steaming tea for the first time. He raised it to his lips, and Seikei held his breath.

  Lord Hakuseki put the cup down and returned his attention to the paper. Seikei looked around and caught the eye of one of the samurai guards. The man shook his head slightly. Seikei waited.

  At last Lord Hakuseki looked around the room, and saw Seikei kneeling by the wall. “What are you here for?” he asked.

  Seikei bowed his head, trying to act the way the girl
had. “The tea, Lord,” he mumbled.

  “Oh, yes.” Lord Hakuseki beckoned to one of his guards. “Give him some coins,” he said.

  The samurai took a few silver pieces from his kimono and handed them to Seikei. Dismayed, Seikei bowed humbly and made his way out of the room.

  3: A Ghost Story

  Father was not as disappointed as Seikei thought he would be. “What can you expect?” he said, shrugging. “This is not so bad. At least he paid you, and we didn’t give him our best tea. Now, let’s go to bed.”

  “Father, I cannot sleep,” said Seikei. “I am too excited.”

  “We have another long day of travel tomorrow,” Father said.

  “I can sleep in the kago.”

  “Well, I cannot,” Father said. “I must get my rest.”

  “There is a terrace at the back of the inn,” said Seikei. “Could I go there to look at the view until I feel tired?”

  Father shrugged. “If you wish,” he said. “But do not leave the inn. The streets of this town are dangerous at night.”

  Seikei left, promising that he would not stay long. When he reached the terrace, he found that rain had started to fall softly. Though the stone floor was covered with mats, it felt cool through his cotton tabi, or socks.

  He walked to the railing that overlooked a small pond. The rain clouds had covered the moon and only a soft glow fell onto the water. He didn’t mind the rain falling on his head. He felt feverish from his experience in the daimyo’s quarters. I was afraid, he admitted to himself, just to be in his presence.

  He jumped at the sound of a footstep just behind him. He whirled and saw the girl.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Did I startle you?”

  “No,” he said hastily. “I mean, I didn’t expect to find someone here.”

  “Should I leave?” she asked.

  It was hard for Seikei to speak. The girl seemed even more beautiful than she had before. “No, please,” he said. “Stay.”

  “Was your master pleased with the paper?” she asked.

  Seikei was confused. “Who?”

  “The daimyo. I saw you in his room.”

  Now he understood. “No, no. I was there for the same reason you were. My father is a tea merchant. Excuse me. My name is Konoike Seikei.”

  She bowed. “I am called Michiko. My family name is Ogawa.”

  “Is it true that your family knew the poet Basho?”

  She smiled, and he realized that it was rude to question her honesty.

  “I ask,” he said, “only because I greatly admire Basho’s poetry.”

  Michiko put her hand over her mouth to hide her smile. Seikei knew why she was amused. Because he was a merchant’s son, and merchants care for nothing except money.

  He looked away from her, feeling ashamed. Then his eyes fell upon the pond, and he remembered one of Basho’s poems. Seikei took a deep breath, and began to recite:

  “Clouds come from time to time— and bring to men a chance to rest from looking at the moon.”

  The girl clapped her hands. “That was the same poem I was thinking of before you appeared.”

  Seikei turned back to see her smile. He realized that she was not mocking him. Without thinking, he blurted out his secret wish: “I would so much like to be a samurai like Basho, and devote my life to poetry.”

  Michiko nodded. “But you do not have to be a samurai for that,” she said. “Anyone can write poetry, if they wish.”

  “My father says it is not something a merchant should do. Only a samurai, and I can never be a samurai.”

  “I do not believe that,” Michiko said. “Did you hear the poem that the daimyo wrote?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you see his brush-writing?”

  Seikei nodded.

  “So you know,” Michiko said, “that although he is a samurai he does not have a noble spirit.”

  Seikei was surprised by the girl’s boldness. “He was rude to you,” he said. “I admired your courage.”

  “You thought I was courageous?” She shrugged. “I only reminded myself that my family needed to sell the paper.”

  Seikei nodded.

  “It is true that Basho was a samurai,” Michiko said. “But he discarded his swords. Isn’t it Basho’s spirit that we admire in his poetry? Though you are a merchant’s son, you can still develop a noble spirit—brave, honest, and faithful to your family. And if you do, who can stop you from writing poetry?”

  Seikei had no answer. He wondered how his father would reply.

  They stared across the pond for a while. The sound of laughter came across the water from the other side.

  “Some traveling kabuki are giving a play at the monastery,” Michiko said. “I wanted to see it, but my father has been feeling ill all day. I used some of the gold the daimyo gave me to buy herbal tea for his stomach.”

  “I have never seen a kabuki play,” Seikei said. “Father says they are improper.”

  “I think they are exciting,” Michiko said. “Some are very scary, with goblins and ghosts.”

  “I like ghost stories,” said Seikei.

  “Do you? I know one that Basho told to my grandmother when she was a child. Would you like to hear it?”

  “Very much,” he replied.

  “I will see if I can frighten you,” she teased. “Let us go under the roof, so that the rain won’t fall on us.”

  Seikei had forgotten about the rain. He would gladly have stood there all night to listen to this girl.

  They sat down where the overhanging roof gave shelter. It was darker here, and the girl’s face disappeared in the shadows. Seikei could hear only her voice.

  “Well, then,” she began. “Long ago, a Buddhist priest named Kokushi was traveling alone through the mountains. It was getting dark, and he had lost his way. He came upon a little hut, like the ones hermits sometimes live in to meditate on the Buddhist teachings.

  “An old man opened the door when Kokushi knocked. He wore the orange robe of a Buddhist monk, but it was faded and worn. The monk refused to let Kokushi stay with him, but said there was a village on the other side of the hill. There, Kokushi could find food and lodging.

  “Kokushi found this to be true. But in the village, no one answered his knock. All the houses seemed to be empty. Finally, he found the people gathered in one house, weeping and praying.

  “The head of the village had died that day. His body lay in this house, and everyone had brought offerings of food to see him into the next life.

  “The village had no priest, and Kokushi offered to perform the Buddhist rites for the man’s soul. But the dead man’s son said that no one could remain in the village on the night after a death. ‘Strange things happen on that night,’ he said, ‘and it would be better if you came with us to the next village.’

  “Kokushi replied that he had no fear. He would be glad to keep watch over the old man’s body. The others tried to persuade him to leave, but he would not.

  “At last, they departed, leaving him alone with the body. Kokushi said the Buddhist prayers and blew out all the lamps except one next to the body. He sat quietly meditating, but he was curious about what strange things might happen.

  “Hours passed, and Kokushi began to doze. Suddenly, he realized that something else had entered the house. A mist gathered around the dead body. Kokushi saw the face of a horrible demon emerge from the mist. It was a horned beast, with ferocious teeth flashing in the mist. The demon lifted the body with its claws and began to devour it.

  “As quickly as a cat swallows a mouse, the demon ate everything—hair, bones, even the shroud. And this monstrous creature, after consuming the body, turned to the food offerings and ate them also. Then it went away as silently as it had come.

  “In the morning, the villagers returned. They did not seem surprised to find that the body had disappeared. The dead man’s son told Kokushi, ‘Now you know why it is a law in our village that everyone must leave on the night after a death. But
you are unharmed, and so must be a holy man.’

  “Kokushi asked, ‘Why do you not have the monk on the hill perform the funeral service for your dead?’

  “The villagers did not understand him. ‘There is no monk living near our village.’ they said. ‘For many years now, we have had no priest, for all fled when they saw what you have seen.’

  “Kokushi took his leave, and walked back the way he had come. He found the little hut, and again knocked on the door. When it opened, the monk covered his eyes and said, ‘Ah! I am so ashamed.’

  “ ‘You need not be ashamed for refusing me shelter,’ Kokushi said. ‘I was very kindly treated in the village.’

  “The monk replied, ‘I am ashamed because you saw me in my true form. It was I who devoured the corpse and the offerings last night before your eyes. For I am a jikininki—an eater of human flesh.’

  “The monk explained that he once had been a priest, the only one for miles around. ‘The people would bring me their dead so that I might pray over them. But I greedily ate the offerings that they had brought for the dead to enjoy. And when I died, as punishment I was sent back to earth as a jikininki.’ He hung his head. ‘Now all men must flee from the sight of me, or they will die.’

  “ ‘Yet I saw you,’ said Kokushi, ‘and I did not die.’

  “ ‘You must be a holy man,’ the jikininki said. ‘I beg you, pray for me so that I may be released from this hideous state of existence.’

  “Kokushi began to say the proper Buddhist prayers, and when he looked up, the monk had vanished, along with the little hut in which he lived. Kokushi found himself alone in the grass, next to a tombstone covered with moss. It was a go-rin-ishi, the stone that marks the grave of a priest.”

  Michiko paused. “Did you ever hear this story before?” she asked Seikei.