Japanese Dreams

by Sean Wallace (ed)

  Perhaps she merely wants it to be clear that she has died...but clear to whom?

  Jin approached the bridge and Mariko didn’t react. It was only when she stepped onto the wooden walkway that Mariko turned to look at her.

  “Saburo—” Mariko stopped. She sounded confused. “You’re not Saburo-sama,” she said, staring at her with the black holes where her eyes should be.

  Jin took another step. “No. My name is Jin.”

  Mariko took a step back. “What are you doing here? Did Saburo-sama send you?”

  “You’re waiting on Saburo, aren’t you?” Jin asked, dodging the question like a hurled stone. She took another step. So did Mariko, in the opposite direction.

  “Stay back!”

  Jin paused, her hand still on the railing. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Mariko shook her head slowly. “I know who you are. I won’t go.”

  “Go where?”

  The question seemed to confuse Mariko. “Where Saburo-sama isn’t,” she said finally.

  “It would seem to me,” Jin said dryly, “that this is a place where Saburo-sama isn’t. How long have you been waiting?”

  Silence, then Jin saw tears forming at the corners of Mariko’s fleshless eyes. The idea that this was an impossible thing to happen came and was dismissed in a moment; it happened, so obviously it was not impossible. Not at that place, at least.

  For a moment Mariko’s fear and suspicion deserted her. “I’m so tired,” she said. Tears glistened on the bones of her face. “Please go away.”

  “Who do you think I am, Mariko san?”

  “You are Blessed Kannon. You do not look as I expected, but it is you, I am certain.”

  Jin nodded. “You’re an interesting girl, Mariko-san. I don’t think you’re confused at all about where you are and who you are. Yet you tarry here wearing a face like death itself waiting for someone who is never going to come. What was this ‘Saburo-sama’ to you?”

  “Everything,” Mariko said. “And he will come. We could not marry, but he said we would be re-united and we will. When that happens, he will see that I kept faith with him!”

  Jin had a pretty good idea of what Mariko meant by that, but this was not the time for guesswork. She had to be sure. “Mariko, take my hand.”

  The ghost-girl took another step back. “I won’t!”

  “I’m trying to help you, Mariko, but I can’t unless you help me, too. I promise I will not drag you away from here if you really don’t want to go.”

  Expression was hard to read on the face of a skull, but Jin was sure Mariko was doubtful. “Well...”

  “Kannon does not lie,” Jin said.

  Reluctantly, Mariko extended her bony hand and Jin grasped it gently. She felt none of the revulsion she had half-way expected to feel.

  She saw what Mariko saw, felt what Mariko felt. In that instant she was Mariko as she had been a thousand years before. She stood on a small bridge in the garden of her father’s house. Her father emerged from a small tea hut father down the path, and he had a guest. Jin felt her heart beating faster at the sight of the handsome young man accompanying him. Her normally gruff father was in a surprisingly good mood and he smiled at her.

  “Daughter, come greet our guest.”

  As Mariko/Jin and Saburo bowed to each other, for a moment their eyes met. In that moment Jin finally knew what it was like to fall in love because, in the mind and spirit of a girl dead for a thousand years, for the first time and yet again she did fall in love. The sadness was almost more than she could bear. The details came flooding into her, filling in the small gaps that, to Jin, already seemed like a completed picture: Mariko was a girl of good family who fell in love with a scholar visiting her father’s house. They spent one blissful night together but he was promised to another and told her so. In a moment Jin knew all this and more beside, no more or less than what she needed to know. When the vision ended Jin knew it was still up to her to put the pieces into place because her previous view of the matter was askew in one very crucial area.

  Jin glanced at the ornate paper fan in her sash, its outer spokes of white bone. “That was Saburo-sama’s token to you, wasn’t it?”

  Mariko tugged her hand free and placed it protectively over the fan. “He will see that I have kept faith. I’ve waited for him here, he will see—”

  “The face you have chosen to show him. He will see your death. You didn’t always wear this face, even after you came here, did you?”

  “I-I don’t remember.”

  “Oh, yes you do. Death doesn’t come again to one already dead, but time still exists for all who cannot remove themselves from it, and you’ve waited a long time indeed. You became very angry with Saburo-sama over the years, didn’t you? It was then that you started to let the memory of flesh fall away and now you’re not waiting for him at all. You’re waiting to show Saburo-sama what he did to you!”

  Mariko didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. Jin smiled at her. “Break the fan, Mariko-chan. Let it go.”

  Mariko closed both skeletal hands around the precious fan and hugged it to her chest as if to protect it from Jin. “I won’t! I will wait...”

  Jin shook her head, slowly. “Did it never occur to you that maybe you misunderstood? You’re not waiting on Saburo—he’s waiting on you.”

  Mariko just stared at her for a moment. “What are you talking about?”

  “Saburo never understood what he meant to you. He didn’t get word of your suicide until he returned to his father’s house where his new bride was waiting for him. Because of his obedience to his father he tried to forget you but never managed, and that regret has followed him across the River of Souls numerous times since then.”

  “So why has he not come to me here?”

  “Because he can’t! This is not a meeting place. It is only where you wait for what will never happen while Saburo lives out his lives without the potential of settling matters between you, because you hide in this place.”

  “That’s not true…” Mariko began, but Jin didn’t let her finish.

  “Kannon does not lie,” Jin repeated. “Either break the fan or I will. Your choice.”

  “No you won’t,” Mariko said in triumph. “You promised!”

  “I promised not to drag you from this place if you didn’t really want to go. You do want to go, Mariko.”

  “No I don’t! I will wait forever!”

  “You don’t have forever, Mariko. Sooner or later you will settle matters with Saburo, because you must. You’ve delayed that long enough. You’ve punished Saburo enough.”

  “No,” she said, and that was all.

  “You’ve got every right to be angry,” Jin said gently, “But do you really never want to see Saburo again? If you can honestly say so, Mariko, I will leave you here. Only, for your own sake, tell the truth.”

  “I…” Mariko’s voice trailed off. She seemed puzzled again, and in that moment Mariko’s manner changed, and for a moment, Jin saw the face in Mariko’s memory, her true face, and then it was gone again, replaced with something much colder and harder than bone

  “He can rot in whatever Hell comes to him,” Mariko said then. “I will not go — “

  Jin took the fan. She never took her gaze from the ruined face, but Jin’s right hand snaked out and snatched the fan from between Mariko’s bony fingers. Before Mariko could even react, Jin snapped the fan in half.

  “You will go, Mariko,” Jin said. “It’s time.”

  Mariko howled like an enraged animal and lunged. Jin grabbed Mariko’s wrists and held on as the girl snarled and tried to bite Jin with her skull full of teeth. Jin held her there with more calm than she felt. In a moment Mariko’s bones clothed themselves with the memory of flesh just long enough to smile a little wistfully at Jin.

  “I know,” she said. In a few more moments she was gone, along with the bridge and the river and everything that had to do with Mariko’s time and place.

  She was
hunkered down on the bank of the river of souls, her head resting on her knees, glaring at nothing, when O-Jizou found her again.

  “Why is the Goddess of Mercy so angry?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’m getting tired of destroying people’s dreams. Even if they are nightmares most of the time.”

  O-Jizou nodded slightly. “You’ll get used to it.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because you always do. For now and on Mariko’s behalf, I thank you.”

  “For doing my job?” Jin asked, a little shortly.

  “For helping her,” he said.

  Jin just sighed, and then she nodded. “I’ll try to remember that.”

  On her way back to Medias Jin passed through the central cavern know as “The Gateway to All the Hells.” On a central dais stood a gigantic golden statue of Kannon the Merciful, smiling faintly at her.

  “Your job sucks, you know,” Jin said.

  Across time from the Kannon that Was and the Kuan Yin that Is, Jin heard her own answer come back to her.

  I KNOW.

  The Tears of My Mother, the Shell of My Father

  Eugie Foster

  I did not dwell overmuch upon destiny, living among the priests in Oda, sweeping the steps of the jinja shrine, and meditating at the seashore. Until the morning the Heikegani crab with the face of a samurai etched in its sepia armor came ashore and spoke to me.

  As was my habit in those summer days, I had risen to greet the dawn. Hime, my white, four-legged shadow, tagged at my heels, more fascinated by the lapping waves than she ever was by a scampering mouse or the wings of a bird—a proclivity which ensured her welcome among the life- and peace-loving priests: a death-colored cat that never killed. Kneeling on the rocky beach that bordered the shrine, I faced the northeast expanse of endless waves. The first threads of silver brushed the horizon as fingers of water swept the shore. They curled into soft fists and retreated, leaving behind the crab.

  It was large for its kind, its carapace as wide as my outstretched palm. Hime curled her tail around her paws as it scuttled from the water, her golden eyes impassive. I envied her composure. The crab approached with far greater alacrity than the dawn’s warmth, and I scrambled from my posture of meditation.

  It did not menace me, but rather tilted its shell so I was treated to the visage of the scowling samurai on its back. I had never credited the stories that linked these creatures to the ghosts of the Taira who died in the Battle of Dan-no-ura—although I was scrupulous never to eat their meat—but never before had the shell formations seemed so lifelike.

  The flat eyes blinked open, transforming from the hard curve of burnished almond to the liquid and living orbs of a man. They fixed upon me, and the shell-sculpted lips rippled apart.

  “Boy, I did not die so you could languish among the priests, contemplating rocks and trees.”

  The crab used the high speech of the courts in the manner of a lord to an inferior. I was so astonished that I did not think to be offended.

  “Honorable, er, crab, I apologize if I have somehow wronged you—” I began.

  The carapace-face scowled. “To think my son would grow to be such a simpering weakling. It took a fearsome oni demon to finish me, and your mother fought like a tigress that you might live.”

  I gaped at the crab. “Son?”

  The face’s expression softened. “Perhaps it is the priests I should blame. Nevertheless, the time for indolence is over. In three days it will be the anniversary of our murders. If you would honor we who bore you, go to your mother and staunch her tears.”

  “M-my mother?” I had never known the comfort of a mother. I had been surrendered as a squalling infant to the kindly, albeit reserved, care of the priests.

  “They hewed off her feet so she could not run. Now she stands on Mount Mori, telling her tale to all. Free her and avenge me before the sun dawns on the fourth day, or I will curse you as a faithless son.”

  The crab swiveled and marched back into the dappled waters. As we conversed, the dawn had transformed into morning. Adorned with glittering jewels of sunlight, the sea crested over the samurai’s helm, erasing dimension, color, and expression from the drab shell. In a spray of brine, the crab sank into the depths and was gone.

  I stared for long moments where I had last seen the animated visage of a father I had never known. Hime groomed a creamy paw as though nothing had transpired more momentous than sunrise. She miaoed, and it shook me from my stupor.

  I pelted back to the shrine, leaving Hime to complete her feline ablutions.

  Kannushi Akio was making offerings to the kami as I burst into the jinja’s heart. Although I all but danced with impatience, he continued pouring a trickle of omiki, ritually purified sake, into a pottery dish, before turning to acknowledge me.

  He bowed, and with belated decorum, I returned the courtesy.

  “Hiroki-kun,” he said, “I see from your sandals that you did not choose to wade in the tide pools this morning. Were they not as enticing as yesterday’s?”

  Remorse suffused my face. In my agitation, I had blundered into this sacred space without removing my footwear.

  “Sensei, forgive me.” I wobbled, balancing on one leg as I struggled to undo the laces of my waraji.

  He padded past me in immaculate socks, his feet silent over the shrine’s floor. I hopped after him, one sandal dangling from my hand and the other still affixed to my foot.

  “A crab spoke to me,” I blurted as he paused at the shoe cupboard to retrieve his own waraji.

  He seated himself on the entranceway’s raised ledge to better don his sandals. “What did it say?”

  Akio was my favorite priest. Although the eldest of the brotherhood—his face creased and seamed as ancient parchment—he was the only one who would tie up the hem of his robes to splash in the sea with a young boy and who always had time to hear me with a solemn face and boundless patience, whether I was complaining about the prevalence of pickled eel at dinnertime or musing about the nature of the infinite. But now I wished he would register disbelief to better match my turmoil.

  “It said it was my father’s spirit. It told me it would curse me if I did not comfort my mother who cries without feet on the mountain. But that’s ridiculous, isn’t it? It was a Heikegani crab, and surely I’m not descended from the Taira clan.”

  Waraji neatly affixed, Akio rose and strolled outside. I hobbled after him, admonishing myself for my single-shoed predicament—both for taking off the one and forgetting to replace it when I had the opportunity.

  In the shadowed canopy of a copse of elm trees, Akio settled into an attitude of serenity. I plunked myself beside him and hurriedly laced on my detached waraji.

  “Why are you so certain that you cannot be Taira?” he asked. “Have you had so many encounters with talking crabs that you have determined they are prone to uttering falsehoods?”

  “B-but, I can’t be nobly born. I’m nobody of consequence.”

  “You are as you have always been. The circumstances of your birth cannot grant or detract consequence.”

  “But—”

  “Your given name is Taira no Chikazane. Your father was Taira no Sukemori, the second son of Taira no Shigemori, who was the first son and heir of Taira no Kiyomori, directly descended from Emperor Kuammu himself.”

  Each of his words penetrated like icy raindrops. “Why have you never told me of my heritage?”

  “Would you have me send you into the world with only a single sandal?” Akio tapped my newly-donned waraji. “As you have demonstrated, all actions must occur in their proper sequence. Omitting or neglecting any of the prescribed elements results in shame, imbalance, and disharmony.” My sock, visible as it protruded over the straw toe, was begrimed from my clumsy pursuit from shrine to copse.

  “My family’s honor is more than a mishap of footwear!”

  “Exactly.”

  I waved my hand, seeking to dispel the cloud of confusion Akio’s word
s had created. “The crab said my mother wept on the mountainside. But it also said they were both murdered.”

  “A perplexing riddle. I have found that the best means of unraveling an enigma is by meditation. Truth typically reveals itself once one has achieved enough clarity to perceive it.”

  He closed his eyes.

  “Sensei, I can’t just sit here and meditate. I must go to Mount Mori.”

  “As you will, Hiroki-kun. But do bring along your book of sutras and a calligraphy brush so you may continue your studies. I also recommend you take a jar of omiki. Sake is so refreshing after a long trek.” His hand dipped into his sleeve and pulled out a slender, porcelain container. “How convenient that I poured an extra jar this morning.”

  I accepted the rice wine, bemused and exasperated. “Thank you, Sensei.”

  He cracked an eye open. “And put on clean socks before you go.”

  It seemed foolish to collect those things Akio had suggested, pointless delay. If I had not been in the habit of obeying him, I would have marched myself off without hesitation. In frenzied haste I retrieved brush and book and donned a clean pair of socks. As I pulled them on, Hime appeared.

  “I must go off to perform the duty my father commanded,” I told her. “But don’t worry. I’m sure the priests will fill your bowl with fish and rice every day.”