In his quest for knowledge, the Maharajah journeyed across the length and breadth of the territory over which his human self reigned. He soared from steppe to sea in his insatiable need to learn more of the mysteries that had so recently consumed him, all the while continuing to be swatted at with brooms or the swishing silk of undergarments still warm and fragrant from their wearers. One evening Vicram became so exhausted from the coarse words and gestures directed his way that he was forced to seek rest upon the branch of a sicakai tree. He felt most unwell. Out of hunger he had eaten the seeds of the tamarind, some of which had gotten lodged inside his tiny throat. Soon a fowler happened by and, seeing the colorful bird fast asleep on the branch, snared it inside a cage. Because of his misfortune with the seed, the Vicram-parrot was powerless to call out his true identity; the only sound to emerge from his throat was a choking croak. The following morning he discovered himself being offered for sale at the bazaar, his brilliant green plumage being remarked upon and haggled over by all. It appeared that in his never-ending search for intellectual enlightenment, the young Maharajah had unintentionally traded his palace for a cage.
While Vicram endured the chaotic clamor of the marketplace, his wife, Anarkali, was made to endure something of an entirely different nature. The beautiful Ranee was becoming increasingly puzzled about the changes that had recently come over her usually predictable husband. Suddenly the man known to his wife and his people as the Maharajah no longer concerned himself with the acquisition of wisdom, but rather with the acquisition of gold and the pleasure derived from merriment. Not even the construction of the temple for the goddess Saraswathi held any interest for him. Instead he ordered the workers to dig a pool so that he might cool himself on a hot afternoon, in the interim converting the half-completed temple into a distillery. He refused to partake of his favorite foods, insisting upon being served dishes of a highly unsavory nature most unlike the flavorful curries and honeyed fruits the palace cooks had always prepared for him. Yet strangest of all was the Maharajah’s abrupt dismissal of the old philosopher, whose scholarly presence he had cultivated with a near-religious devotion. Indeed, the only knowledge for which this once-inquisitive ruler now demonstrated any desire was that of the lovely Ranee’s physical self.
For whether morning, noon, or night, his hands were roaming busily about her person, poking and prodding in the rudest and crudest of fashions. “Open your sweet lips to me, my lovely queen,” the Maharajah-rakshas would order in a rasping voice most unlike the gentle timbre to which Anarkali had grown accustomed from her mild-mannered husband. “Unlock your thighs so that I may gaze with rapture upon your juicy pomegranate!” commanded this wicked impostor, only to trespass with far more than merely his eyes.
Confused and frightened—and, above all, made increasingly sore by her unremitting ravishment at the hands of the man she believed was her husband—Anarkali sequestered herself inside her private apartments, where she hoped to gain some peace. However, there could be no deterring the determined Maharajah, who took tremendous delight in breaking through the series of iron bolts his wife drew across the door. It seemed the Ranee had no choice except to relinquish herself to these perverse claims upon her person. And she did so with gritted teeth, wondering how her unassuming spouse had gotten such peculiar ideas into his head. For no more was the good Maharajah heard to speak of music and poetry and the plight of the poor, but only of matters pertaining to the pleasures of the flesh.
When not busy accommodating the Maharajah’s fleshly demands, Anarkali would take to her bed in exhaustion. Sorry for her mistress, a faithful attendant who had gone shopping in the marketplace happened upon a cage containing a brilliant green parrot. Although it required the entirety of her month’s wages, she purchased the bird from the fowler and brought it back with her to the palace, hoping it might bring cheer to the Ranee, who had come on rather wan and poorly of late.
Anarkali accepted the gift with sincere thanks, placing the cage and its feathered occupant alongside her bed. She spent many solitary hours talking to the parrot, which had apparently taken a liking to her, for it would raise its tufted head and splay its wings to show their spectacular reds and yellows, winking an eye in suggestion of something the Ranee could only have guessed at. Despite its outwardly healthful appearance, something seemed to be wrong with the bird. Every time it opened its beak, out came a terrible choking squawk. And it grew even worse whenever the Maharajah called upon his wife in her bed, which would often be several times within a single day. No sooner did the masquerading Prudhan order the trembling Ranee to offer up for his meticulous inspection her juicy pomegranate than the parrot staged a fit. It thrashed about in its cage and beat its red- and yellow-tipped wings, emitting a screeching and squawking the likes of which could not be heard in the wildest jungle. It came to be such a nuisance that the Maharajah-rakshas threatened to have the bird served up for that evening’s supper with a sauce of cherries and figs and a topping of shredded coconut. Obviously it never occurred to him that this vexing entity of feathers and mites was the very man he had taken it upon himself to impersonate. Had the demon rakshas known, matters would have turned out very differently, indeed.
To placate the agitated parrot and thereby gain for it a temporary reprieve from the supper table, the Ranee began feeding it by hand pieces of dried fruit and nuts and even some bits of peeled cucumber. Perhaps it might have been the latter that finally inspired the lodged seed of the tamarind tree to go sliding down the bird’s slender gullet. For one morning when they were alone, the parrot suddenly announced to the Ranee that he was her husband, the Maharajah. At first Anarkali refused to believe such a fanciful claim. But after hearing Vicram’s astonishing adventures as a winged creature of flight and all that he had seen and learned in his travels, she accepted his claim as fact. It would have been exactly like her inquisitive husband to venture forth on such an incredible mission in the guise of a parrot. Nevertheless, one mystery still remained unsolved: that of the true identity of the villainous impostor who now occupied the Maharajah’s throne and his wife’s bed. When queried by the bird as to whether anyone had gone missing of late, the Ranee replied without hesitation that the new Prudhan had done so—and, indeed, done so on the very day her husband, Vicram, had come to her so greatly changed. The pair then proceeded to hatch a plot that would soon set all to rights.
That evening the rakshas appeared as was his usual custom in Anarkali’s bed in the guise of her husband, his gait unsteady, his breath stinking of distilled spirits. He fell heavily onto the mattress alongside the frightened figure of the Ranee, unperturbed by her violent trembles or the expression of revulsion in her kohl-rimmed eyes. “I demand that you once again give up to me your pomegranate, for this afternoon I did not find it nearly so sweet and juicy as usual. In fact, I’d say it was extremely bitter,” he replied with a scowl, his hand scrabbling up Anarkali’s thigh.
At this the parrot flew out from its cage, the door of which had been left intentionally ajar by the Ranee, and landed atop the traitorous Prudhan’s chest. “You jackal! Give back to me my body!” screeched the bird, whose voice sounded oddly familiar to the drunken rakshas. Yet before he could identify it, the Vicram-parrot uttered the words of the magic muntr.
The demon rakshas, who had abandoned his body in the jungle without a thought toward ever making use of it again, found himself imprisoned within the bright green body of the parrot and, for that evening’s supper, was served up on a golden platter with a sauce of figs and sweet cherries and covered from beak to talon with tender shreds of coconut. And not a single feather would go to waste, for even his carefully plucked plumage later served as excellent writing quills.
However, the wicked curse that had been placed upon the Maharajah by the rakshas had not been lifted and, with that evil one’s death, never would be. Although Vicram once again wore the comfortable body of his old human self, he was greatly altered in mind. While he would be as inquisitive as ever before, his was a
n inquisitiveness that manifested itself in ways most dissimilar to the learning gained through lengthy philosophical discussions or solitary rumination. Surprisingly, the Maharajah no longer cared for such matters, but only for matters concerning that of his short-lived parrot self. Henceforth he spent his days peering into windows at the bathing figures of lovely young maidens, who, upon recognizing the flushed and ecstatic face of their ruler, dared not shoo him away with a broom as they might once have done.
As for Vicram’s nights…well, there was always the Ranee’s juicy pomegranate to consider.
THE GOBLIN OF ADACHIGAHARA
Japan is believed to have more folktales than any of the countries of the Western world. Yet its folk literature, although quite varied, gives the impression of being conspicuously sparse when placed alongside its tale-telling counterparts in the West. This is due to the fact that the scholarly collecting of Japanese folktales would not even get under way until a century later than that of Europe. Indeed, only in 1910 did someone finally take on the task of recording the tales of the people, thereby providing proof of Japan’s long storytelling tradition.
An inspector for the Japanese Ministry of Agriculture, Kunio Yanagita started the movement to collect his country’s folktales by setting down some oral stories he heard from a farmer. However, this is not to say that no written form of the traditional folktale existed prior to this time, for folktales appeared in print as far back as the eighth century. In contrast with the West, the oral tradition remained popular in Japan long after it had diminished in Europe, with the hanashika (public storyteller) practicing into the early twentieth century.
Japanese tales consist of mukashi-banashi (fairy tales) and densetsu (legendary tales). While the former have always been considered fiction, many of these mukashi-banashi evolved over the years into densetsu, which belong to the living folk culture that even now continues to be supported by the cultural institutions of the people. In an environment consisting of little social change over long periods of time, these local legends were allowed to flourish, experiencing repeated tellings over many generations and taking on ever more fantastical elements as they went along—only to undergo further evolution via the various travelers, peddlers, performers, and itinerant monks who visited the villages, bringing with them their own tales and traditions. The three centuries of isolation imposed on Japan by imperial decree, together with an absence of colonialism, kept its stories uninfluenced by the outside world and therefore purely Japanese.
Because of its shortness of length and sketchiness of detail, “The Goblin of Adachigahara” may actually be a legend instead of a fairy tale. It contains the three important elements that comprise densetsu: an extraordinary event involving the presence of a supernatural being (the goblin), a reference to a particular locality (Adachigahara), and an attachment to a particular place (the ever-popular derelict dwelling). Yet unlike Western fairy tales and legends that tend to be relegated to the category of fictional and—thanks to the Brothers Grimm—pedagogical entertainment, the line between fact and fantasy is less pronounced in Japan. Even today densetsu are alive and thriving in the villages and cities, for the people believe them to be true.
Of the many Japanese folktales passed on down through the centuries, a substantial number of them have always been considered unsuitable for children. These stories tend to be filled with much lampooning of bodily functions, featuring copious references to scatology, flatulency, and sexual humor—particularly with regard to human genitalia. Happily coexisting alongside such bawdy subject matter are tales involving suicide, cannibalism, and the supernatural. Indeed, themes of demonology and spiritualism occur quite regularly in Japanese village tales. Like the religious pilgrim in “The Goblin of Adachigahara,” villagers fear a variety of demons, which are thought to be the degenerate corruptions of ancient divinities. The most popular demon is the kappa—a water monster that appears in boyish form. As one of the busier categories of demons, the kappa spends his time raping women and dragging his victims into the river so that he can pluck out their livers through their anuses. Another renowned demon known as the tengu haunts mountains and inhabits trees and can be identified by its wings and beaked nose. Demons such as these are still seen and talked about in Japanese villages today.
Although the type of demon featured in “The Goblin of Adachigahara” has not been clearly identified, it would appear that this goblin (especially in my version) possesses the characteristics one might expect to see in the kappa. For surely a more randy demon cannot be found.
THE SPRAWLING, WIND-SWEPT PLAIN OF Adachigahara was a place spoken of with great fear. All who knew of it believed it to be haunted by an evil goblin that donned the disguise of a feeble old granny. The locals told terrible tales of how unsuspecting folk had been lured into the hobgoblin’s derelict abode, where they found themselves being devoured from top to toe, with only a bloodied sandal left to indicate they had ever existed. Not surprisingly, no one dared venture anywhere near this ramshackle residence after dark, with those of a wiser nature avoiding it altogether, no matter how brightly the wholesome rays of the sun shone upon its decaying exterior. Yet every so often a traveler might pass through having no knowledge of the dwelling or its fiendish inhabitant—a traveler whose sudden disappearance further fueled the grisly stories circulating around the countryside.
One young man on a pilgrimage to spread his message of faith to the people had been walking for many days with his religious pamphlets and his cup of coins when his footsteps led him to Adachigahara. He had been told by the last person whose door he had knocked upon before it got slammed in his face that many generous benefactors lived in the area, therefore this was where he should go if he expected to collect donations. Not one to be easily discouraged, the pilgrim’s persistence had resulted in little to fill his cup other than foul words and tobacco spittle. With a renewed sense of purpose, he counted the number of pamphlets he had remaining in his rucksack, hoping he would have enough to meet the demand. Indeed, he was most appreciative for the advice given him and intended to rattle his cup beneath the noses of all those he met until they sent him on his way with a coin or two.
Unfamiliar with the local lore, the religious traveler roamed the endless terrain without concern of mishap. As night moved in to cloak the land in its thick black curtain, he realized that he had lost his way. Having been on his sandaled feet since the rising of the sun, the pilgrim was weary and hungry, not to mention quite chilled. The air had grown cold, and a hint of snow threatened to spill from the darkening sky. If he could only locate some shelter, all would be well. However, this prospect looked less and less likely as the worn reed soles of his sandals tramped the dusty ground, for not so much as a friendly curl of wood smoke could be glimpsed along the monotonous plain. Just when the exhausted fellow began to lose heart, he spied a cluster of barren trees in the gloom-tinged distance—and through their sickly branches a welcoming glimmer of light.
Alas, the pilgrim’s relief would prove very short-lived. Despite a battered sign proclaiming “Inn for Travelers,” this light came from a dwelling so wretched and ill-kept that it gave him cause to wonder whether anyone lived beneath the rat-chewed straw of its roof. A worm-eaten front door stood wide open. Rather than having been positioned so in invitation, it accomplished the less-lofty function of allowing the fresh air from outside to flush out the insalubrious smells coming from within. Beyond this gaping threshold an old woman could be seen sitting on a mat as she sorted strips of hide into bowls filled with a yellowish-brown liquid, her bent figure illuminated by the jaundiced light of a lantern.
Swinging open the splintered bamboo of the gate, the pilgrim called out to her a tired greeting, barely managing to paste on the beatific smile he always kept ready when approaching strangers for donations. “Forgive the intrusion, Madam, only I have lost my way and am in need of shelter for the night.” Contrary to his usual practice, he stuffed the religious pamphlet he was holding back inside his rucksack,
since it did not appear particularly promising that any donations would be forthcoming from the inn’s owner.
The ancient figure raised her grizzled head and focused on her visitor with crinkled eyes that, beneath their milkiness, were as sharp and watchful as a hawk’s. “I am sorry for your plight, but as you can see, my establishment is small and I am fully booked for the night.”
Although this could have provided him with a graceful out, the pilgrim found himself in circumstances of some desperation and would have been happy for any accommodations—even those as disagreeable as what he now saw before him. With the temperature outside steadily dropping, he could ill afford to put his nose in the air. “I ask merely for a square of floor on which to make my bed,” he implored, “or I shall be forced to sleep out in the cold.”
The wizened granny nodded thoughtfully, at last indicating that she had relented by building a fire in the hearth. Once the flames had caught, she invited the weary pilgrim to warm himself before it, furthering his sense of sanctuary by bringing him a tray of supper, which consisted of a bowl of possum stew and some wilted greens. Her guest ate of it gratefully, all the while chattering blissfully away about his theological convictions with the aged woman, who—first impressions aside—had shown herself to possess much kindness and hospitality. How extremely fortunate he was to have happened upon her! Perhaps in the morning he might ask if she cared to make a modest donation in return for one of his inspirational pamphlets.
As the fire burned down to a smoldering ash, the old woman announced that she planned to gather up some additional sticks of wood before her guest got cold. Although deliciously lazy from the warmth and the contents of his belly, the pilgrim reluctantly volunteered to perform the task himself, reckoning that this would ingratiate him for later when he put forth his pitifully empty cup for her consideration. For despite the wretchedness of her establishment, its proprietress apparently augmented her income from the tanning of hide. Refusing his offer, the kindly woman proposed instead that her guest remain behind, since he would be of far greater use if he kept watch on the premises during her absence. However, she did not leave without first imparting a warning. “No matter what happens, do not go into that room,” she cautioned, indicating with a twisted finger a red door the garrulous religious traveler had earlier failed to notice.
In Sleeping Beauty's Bed Page 5